#I drank wine from a chalice

[leynaeithnea]

These cut songs in Epic have no right to be such bangers

[elfy-elf-imagines]

Tolerate It | Thranduil

▹ Pairing: Thranduil x Human!Reader

▹ Genre: Angst

▹ Words: ~2k

▹ Summary: A political alliance makes you the new wife of the elven king Thranduil, trapping you in a gilded cage of elven craft.

▹ Notes: I couldn't get this idea out of my head.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The banquet hall of Eryn Galen was buzzing with high energy. 

The lights were bright, the drinks flowing. Each guest was too deep in their cups as the band played jaunty tunes that kept spirits high. You sat at the end of the table, to the direct right of Thranduil, Legolas seated directly across from you to the king's left. 

Everything was beautiful, similar to what you imagined heaven may look like. The celebration had been highly anticipated, the steward meticulously planning for months to ensure the night would be perfect. 

Each guest had dressed to the nines, and you had been no exception. Silks that flowed like a languid river, braids woven throughout your hair, and glittering jewels that rivaled the stars in the sky. You’d felt quite pretty after your handmaidens finished, taking in your appearance with rapt attention. 

Yet as the king - your husband - met with you, he barely paid you more than a glance. Not a single compliment or acknowledgment slipped from his lips, just the stiff offering of his arm and a cold demeanor you’d never been able to break through.

Not even the bitterness of the red wine you drank could ease the pain festering inside you. You glanced at Thranduil, his attention on his steward whispering something in his ear. Regal and commanding, you’d thought marriage to the elven king would be something out of a fairytale. Yet your story became twisted, and instead of a happy ending, you were trapped in a doomed marriage. It was like a wall separated you from him; you’d tirelessly beat against it with a hammer; Thranduil was on the other end, reinforcing the stone. 

You glanced down at your dress, the pale green fabric, Thranduil’s favorite shade. Even still, you were desperate for his validation and approval, like a child tugging at their father’s sleeves. A stray hair fell in front of your face, and you pushed it behind your ear, hands ghosting over your rounded ears. Maybe if you’d been an elf and not a human, he might view you as an equal and not a consolation prize. 

One hand below the table closed into a tight fist while you downed the rest of your wine in one gulp. 

Legolas met your eye from across the table with an almost apologetic grin. You returned it with a tight smile you tried to make pleasant. Legolas knew all too well the neglect his father could inflict, so he often preferred the forests over the palace. There was an understanding that made your pain more bearable. 

The handmaidens you brought from home and your stepson, who was older than your eldest living relatives, were all that kept you from falling into true despair. 

Like clockwork, a servant filled your chalice, and you gladly drank. This wine was sweeter and less sharp than the red you were expecting. Once again, you looked towards Thranduil, no longer speaking with his steward but quietly watching the party play out. You reached out, delicately placing your hand over his, only for his to push it away, not bothering to pay you a glance. 

The blatant rejection stung, always taking up too much space and time. Would Thranduil even notice if you’d stolen away into the night? If you pulled the dagger your marriage embedded in you, breaking free and leaving this miserable life behind. What might it be like to shed the weight of Thranduil’s cold disposition and an overly suspicious, judgmental, elvish kingdom? You’d be free and weightless for the first time in years. 

Yet, just as soon as the fantasies came, they fizzled out with the weight of reality. You had no money of your own, no survival skills, and nowhere to go. If you returned home, your father would ship you back to Thranduil. The dark forests and the creatures that lurked within would kill you. There was nowhere to go. No freedom to be found. 

You didn’t bother hiding the frown on your lips; no one in the room paid you much mind. They looked through you as if you were a phantom that clung to the residence of its former life. How was it possible to be in such a crowded room and yet still be so alone?

"How much longer do you believe this will go on for?"

At some point, Legolas had moved from across the table and was now seated to your left, watching the crowded room with thinly veiled discomfort.

" I hope for not much longer. I've never been amendable to crowds so large as this one."

Legolas laughed, the noise swallowed by the noise of the room. "And yet you are queen; should you not be used to such raucous parties?"

You tilted your glass towards him, a slight quirk on your lips.

"I could say the same about you, prince."

He nodded in silent agreement, quickly drinking from his glass, which you noticed was filled with water and not wine.

"I get to run off to the forest. How do you deal with all of this?" The smile on your face fell as your eyes dimmed, a reminder of your current standing.

"No one pays me mind. A blessing, I suppose." You attempted to laugh it off, but you couldn't keep the somberness from your tone. You were trapped in a gilded cage, a prisoner in your own home.

"Then I suppose I'll need to take more respites in the castle."

"You don't need--"

"I insist; what kind of friend would I be if I didn't check on your wellbeing."

So warm and inviting, it made you wonder how Legolas could be the son of Thranduil; he must take after his mother. You wondered, if only for a moment, how different your life might be if you'd been married to Legolas instead of his father. He was the more age appropriate option and if he didn't love you he'd at least respect you. But those thoughts were pointless; you'd been married to Thranduil and not Legolas.

"I think I'm technically your stepmother."

"But you feel more like a friend."

You didn't bother to argue, placing down your wine chalice to take a cool water drink. It was refreshing, soothing the burn the wine had created.

"Then I am glad we are friends."

Before he could respond, a member of his guard called his name. The elf enthusiastically waved him over, yelling something in elvish too slurred for you to understand.

Legolas shook his head, refusing the call, but you placed a single hand on his shoulder.

"Go, enjoy the night. I'll be fine over here."

He tried to discern if you were being dishonest but found nothing but sincerity. Just because you were miserable didn't mean he should be. With a single nod, Legolas left the table to join the group forming in the corner of the room.

Left in the chaos with no one to speak with, you picked up the chalice with wine. At some point during your conversation, Thranduil wandered off, talking with some of the higher-ranking nobles.

Thickly, you swallowed, hiding your face as you slowly drank from your glass.

When would this torment end?

---

The night dragged on at an impossibly slow speed. Your sorrow brought time to a near halt. By the time the crowd began to thin and Thranduil had escorted you back to your shared chambers, you’d forgotten how many glasses of wine you consumed. You managed to keep your composure and pride, not letting you show how light and lethargic the alcohol made you. 

Now, you sat before your vanity, preparing for bed as did Thranduil. There were so many pins placed in your hair that you struggled to pull them out without ripping your hair. Your head throbbed, and your frustration was building; you just wanted sleep. A cold hand pushed yours away, tangling in your hair. With practiced and fluid movements, Thranduil began to take down your hair. He was quick and efficient, his hands in your hair almost soothing.

The action was oddly domestic, and it caused a pang of pain in your chest. If the gods had been fair enough to bless you with a husband who loved you, this would be a nightly occurrence, not a rare show of care. 

“There’s too many pins in your hair.” Always critical; nothing would ever be good enough. 

A beat of silence passed; did he even want you to speak?

“It was a special occasion; I wanted something different done to my hair.” 

Clink. He placed the last pin on the table and stepped away from you.

“It was a bit gauche.”

Expression tight, you stared at your reflection, focused on your dark hair that tangled too quickly and your nearly pallid complexion. Gauche and graceless, the elves would never view you as their own. 

“I thought it looked nice.” 

His answer was to silently turn his back to you, moving to the other end of the room. The silence was maddening. Your attention never moved from your reflection, lips downturned as your eyes hardened. Pain turned to rage, pity becoming an all-consuming fire that threatened to turn all in your wake to ash. 

“Why marry me?” Your tone was harsh, firmer than you could remember speaking.

Thranduil let out a sigh, seemingly annoyed at your mere presence. Normally, his disregard made you shrink, and maybe it was the wine, but it only made you straighten your back, meeting his eyes through his reflection in your mirror. 

“To seal an alliance with your kingdom, you know this.” He was always condescending; he was so much older and wiser. 

“I understand political marriages, but why marry me? You’ve managed political alliances without offering your hand in marriage; you even have a son to marry off. So why--” You slowly stood from your chair, turning to face him directly. “-marry me?”

“Would you have preferred to marry Legolas?” 

“I’d prefer you answer my question. So I’ll ask once more: why marry me?” You strode towards him, eyes narrowed.

“To ensure an alliance with your family.”

“That is it? For no reason other than that.”

Thranduil looked down at you, his lips tight.

“Did you hope to hear differently?” He tilted his head, eyes ice cold and bitter. “Ours was a marriage of convenience, not love.”

You clenched your jaw, swallowing thickly. All of it for nothing, a marriage he knew would never succeed. He may have been content with a loveless life after the passing of his wife, but he knowingly dragged you into it. To turn your life into a void--

You wanted to scream, to yell obscenities at him, to spit all the vile venom his careless behavior filled you with. But it would do no good. An emotional breakdown wouldn’t mend your rift; there was no foundation of respect to rebuild. It was just endless nothingness. Standing at the precipice, you would simply fall into a never-ending pit. 

“I see.”

A hint of shock made his eyes widen a fraction, expecting an outburst like the one you fantasized about. Humans weren’t known for patience, yet it wasn’t patience that kept you silent. It was dejection; you'd given up hope of anything better than what you had.

You dared not move, not even blink until Thranduil turned towards the door.

“I think I will ensure the keep is secured. Goodnight.” 

Head turned, yet your eyes remained where he once stood; you remained silent. The door opened and quietly shut behind his retreating form. Only then did you exhale the breath you’d been holding. 

The bed was plush under your body, and the comforter was like a cloud, yet you’d never felt more miserable. You turned your back to the side Thranduil would take when he returned to the chambers. Eyes shut, soothed by the darkness, you dreamed of something more.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Tags: @jmablurry | @lunatichaotiche | @aearonnin | @emiliessketches | @vibratingbones | @moony-artnstuff | @ranhanabi777 | @kenobiguacamole | @ceinelee | @thranduil | @samnblack | @abbiesthings | @Strangebananabatranch | @bitter--fruit | @keijibum | @lifestylesleep | @themerriweathermage | @im-a-muggleborn | @sweetheart-syndrome | @boyruins | @AwkwardBecomesYou | @delyeceamaitare

[iamyourdailydoseofbi]

IN THE DARK OF THE NIGHT. ( House of the Dragon x Reader )

AUTHOR NOTE! I said fuck it and did all three. <3 pairing: CHUBBY! Aegon ii Targaryen x WIFE! Reader prompt: After noticing Aegon sneaking out of your chambers at night, you fear he had taken up hold habits. Only they weren't the one's that you were expecting. word count: 1, 000+ words

For a fortnight now it has been going on. You knew this for a fact, you keep count in your head. It was like a schedule or routine of sorts. You’d wake up, reach out for Aegon’s side of the bed, only for it to be empty and cold. At first you had assumed that he had gone to the bathroom or outside onto the balcony for some fresh air. It was the most logical explanation. 

Sometimes he was restless at night. Years of having a horrid sleep schedule, overindulging in wine that made him sick, and all of the secret trips to Flea Bottom in the cover of darkness made it hard for him to sleep. No matter how many times you two had tried to get him on a proper sleep schedule. It just never seemed to work. So this started to make you weary.

He hadn’t gone to brothels or Flea Bottom in two months now. He still drank Arbor red, but not as much as he used to before your marriage. He was getting better. Truly, and you adored how much he was willing to go just to show his devotion to you. But, there was a tiny voice. Just the smallest one in the back of your head that sounded a lot like the gossip in Court.

“You’re not enough. He’s finally lost that ‘Honeymoon High’ for you. He’s gone back to them, to the whores in Flea Bottom. To the taverns and bottles of strongwine.” It whispered.

But, tonight. Tonight, you were going to figure it out. Even if it leads to an answer that you did not like. Why was your husband leaving your bed at night? Where was he going? What was he doing?

And could you get Aemond’s help in getting rid of Aegon’s body should it come down to it?

Narrowing your eyes softly as Aegon walks down the corridor, the paranoid voice in the back of your head whispers into your ear, telling you he was going to see some mistress. He did not change nor look like he was leaving the Red Keep, still dressed in his night clothes and barefoot. So why else was he leaving your chambers? Clearly there was something or someone more important than you. This was not a mix of jealousy! Not in the slightest! No. No. Well, maybe a little. 

Waiting until he was far enough away, you slowly tip-toed after him, a thin robe wrapped around you to hide your chemise. You would get answers. One way or another. Furrowing your brows in confusion as he turns left to the where the kitchen’s are, you follow, confused. Okay, mayhaps you were being a tad dramatic. But, still, why was he going to the kitchens?

“Mayhaps he is visiting that pretty new servant girl, the one from the Reach. With her pretty golden hair and disgustingly pretty face that looked like one from a painting.” The voice in your head whispers.

Walking down the steps to the kitchen, you stop at the doorway, instantly flushing a bright pink as embarrassment fills you. Instead of finding Aegon embracing some girl. He was embracing a pastry and chalice of wine. Letting out a soft laugh of disbelief, you wish the ground would swallow you whole and never spit you out. 

He wasn’t cheating. He was gorging on food and wine. You truly were a fool to let stupid courtly gossip influence your mind. Hearing the sound of your shocked laughter, Aegon turns to look at you, eyes wide and full of horror. Shaking your head softly, his cheeks were stuffed full with the pastry he had just inhaled like air, the sugary custard smeared on his lips. 

“It is not what it looks like.” He blurts out, looking like a spooked animal. 

“Oh?” You raise a brow, “So, you're gorging yourself on sweets, right now? This is all a dream of mine?”

He pauses for a good second, almost as if he was contemplating on what to say next.

“Yes..?” He asks, unsure.

“I…I do not know whether to scold you, laugh at the ridiculousness of this, or go back to bed.” You breathe out, pinching the tip of your nose. 

“Can I get a kiss if you are going back to bed?” He asks, innocently. 

Oh, sweet seven hells. He was the most lovable and irritating man you had ever met. 

Struggling to hold any grudge against him for his sneaking around, you walk over to him, shaking your head with a chuckle of disbelief and amusement. The both of you probably looked like fools. You all disheveled and dressed only in a chemise and robe. Him, chubby cheeks smeared with custard, dressed in a tunic and loose pants. It was all so stupid. 

“I love you..?” He mumbles unsure. 

“I love you too, Aegon. I..I just..” You let out a chuckle of disbelief. 

“What? Tis’ not anything bad, just eating a few sweets.” He argues innocently. 

“For a fortnight now, you’ve snuck out of our bed, making my mind spiral to the worse.” You point to the plate in front of him, “For this?”

“Yes.” He nods, wiping his face clean with the back of his hand. 

Standing in front of him with a soft smile, you tenderly clean the last of the custard on the corner of his lips with your thumb. A tab bit grateful that it was only just his sweet tooth that had kept leading him away from your bed than some other woman. You didn’t know what you would do if it had been that. Staring back at you with a confused look on his face, he doesn’t pull back from the affection, leaning into your touch. A mix of confusion and a lovesick glimmer in his eyes. 

“What? Did I truly worry you?” He asks, “Tis’ just sweets.”

“A bit. But, the way you snuck out. Tis’ just, well, you..” You stop yourself, not daring to mention his past out loud. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. That was a bad idea. Why did you have to say that?

“I know what you're referring to. I..I have just found myself trading in old habits for something more..” He rambles on, “Pleasant.”

“I rather you tell me of this, than keep it a secret.”

“I did not wish to wake you.” He whispers, “Tis’ shameful to have awakened you and tell you that I wish to eat at such an hour.”

Stroking his chin with your thumb, you pull away from him for a moment, turning to the plate of sugary tarts and custard fill rolls. Hearing him grumble as you pull away, you playfully bump your hip against your own, cracking a smile at him. Sitting down on one of the counters, he scoots closer to you, his chubby body practically engulfing you as soon as you are in arm’s reach. 

“Now, what have you been eating, hm? Tell me all of it.” You tease, picking up a tart from the plate.

----

@lovelykhaleesiii

@fragileheartbeats

@danytar

@nightvers

[julietsbody]

CALIGULA — luke castellan + reader : luke castellan, in all his reign, has a love for sexual pleasure, more importantly with you. 

tags: mdni, inspired by ancient roman stories, luke is a pervert, dark!luke, p in v sex, jealousy, possessiveness, assistant!reader, captain!luke, luke is an awful man in this sawry

a/n: ive been binge watching the roman empire show

LONG LIVE THE EMPEROR. 

41 AD. 

luke castellan can’t deny how harsh of a captain he was on the princess andromeda. 

he wanted to be the best captain on the sea, wanted to get his revenge on camp halfblood and the gods, wanted to live the lavish life he had always dreamed of. he thought of a life where he would drink red wine out of chalices, be fed grapes from the hands of beautiful women, or men, he wanted to be treated like a god— because in his mind, he would be the best god to ever exist. 

you started out as his assistant, writing papers for him on a simple typewriter that he gave to you, a fucking typewriter. you tried to remind him it was no longer the 1950s, he scoffed like you were stupid. “you know people used them in the 1800s, right?” 

your lips press together, looking at him, then the typewriter, then back to him. you offer a small smile, and he doesn’t return it, he never does, and he never will. luke took things very seriously, maybe too seriously, so he never let himself smile, let alone laugh, a bitter scoff was all you’d get from him at most. 

you were pliant, luke noticed, and he liked that. you did everything he asked, every time he asked. he’d call your name, and hear your heels clicking against the wooden floorboards no less than a second later. speaking of heels, luke was strict about dress codes, too. 

to call him a pervert.. well, you wouldn’t be far off. 

he wanted you to wear things like tight pencil skirts, short or long, thin tights, maybe even solely stockings, stiletto heels that he’d purchased for you the second he saw you show up in mary janes, and a simple shirt or blouse. he liked glasses, too, thin, square framed ones, like bayonetta’s. 

you had to wear dark red lipstick, regardless. 

you hated your boss, more than anything, the way he’d walk into a room and easily command it, the way his body language reeked of cockiness, the way that despite all evilness, he still thought he was doing something for the greater good. 

what you hated the most, is how much you fantasized about him. 

that’s why you always ran to him so quick when he called out for you, why you endured the loud clacking of the typewriter keys even when you had to do a paper at night and he opened your door to yell at you to ‘shut the fuck up or get thrown off the damn boat.’ 

he was never a good man, nor a good boss, but he looked good. 

you liked when he was angry, when he yelled at you, when he held your jaw so tight you were sure he’d shatter it and spit degrading words at you like you were vile. it should be such a shame that you enjoy it, but you don’t pity yourself one bit. he was meaner with you, he always cracked awful jokes with the rest of the crew, drank beers with them, lit their cigarettes, but you, you were the person he took all his anger out on. 

well, at first it was anger. 

then he began to ever so slowly show his desires for sexual connections. he was able to hold it in at first, act like he wasn’t missing having sex, like he wasn’t missing the simple touch of a woman or man. masturbating wasn’t keeping him sane for long, not when he didn’t have anything to masturbate to. then he began to focus his attention onto you. 

you were attractive, and luke couldn’t hold back how his short glances turned to stares. his jaw ticks, lips parting, “i want you to wear shorter skirts.” 

“mini skirts?” you blink at him, he had called you to his office, and his eyes were traveling over your body every second he got. 

“yeah,” he pauses, “and lower cut shirts.” 

before your lips can even part, he dismisses you, and bluntly stares at your ass when you walk away. it was so ironic, luke used to be such a virgin, a complete loser, but now he was nothing short of the opposite. he was cocky, he knew he was handsome, he knew people were attracted to him easily, mostly sexually. 

if luke was lucky, at some stops, he might be able to bring back a few women or men home with him, they always gawked at the ship, told him how cool it is that he has a boat, that he’s a captain, and has a crew, that everyone does everything for him. 

they thought it was hot, so they wanted to do things for him to, he’d take them to his quarters, and provide them with red wine before moaning could be heard all throughout the ship. 

but his boat was in the middle of the sea, and has been for a month or so now, and he felt like he was going insane. 

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ‧₊˚ 🍷

luke was struggling to sleep, insomnia was getting the best of him, he thought that if he drank more and more wine, he would eventually wind down. he never did. he only got slopper, and aroused. the worst mix on nights like these was the bubbling frustration that he didn’t have anything to fuck, and the fact that he wanted to fuck something so bad. 

his dick strains in his boxers, and his teeth grit together, mentally cursing himself for continuously offering himself one more drink, after the third glass, knowing he’d have a fourth, and a fifth. he’d drank the whole bottle, and he wasn’t even close to tired. 

his body feels warm, so warm. you come to his mind almost immediately, making his his hands draw closer to the hem of his boxers. the way your ass looks in those skirts, the stockings that meet at the middle of your thigh, the sheer shirts that barely showed the color of your bra, the slight cleavage you show when leaning over to place paperwork on his desk. 

he recalls the one time he had came into your room in the dead of night in search of a document, but he was immediately met with the floral of your perfume, and the way your blanket barely covered your naked form. he shouldn’t look, really, he should shy away and close the door, but he swallows thick seeing your breast, the slight parting of your legs, the way your cunt barely peeks out the messily moved blanket. 

he wouldn’t have actually done it, of course, because he’s a respectable man who puts consent above all else— but he wonders what it would look like if he pushed your legs apart, moved the blanket, and spread your pussy open for him. to be sleeping naked, how scandalous. he’d never know that you purposefully put the document in your room when you knew you wanted it, you purposefully slept naked, you purposefully moved the blanket in those ‘messy’ ways. 

he inhales sharply, fingers moving underneath the fabric of his boxers to graze over his cock. it’s so perverted, to think of you like this, to imagine pulling you onto his lap the next time you come into his office, fingers gripping your skin the same way they grip his cock now. you’d probably melt into his touch, so innocent, so pliant, your doe eyes staring at him like he’s the only man who had ever existed, like he’s a god. and that’s what he is, a captain, an emperor, a god. 

he thinks of himself, and is immediately reminded of caligula. 

the roman emperor in 31 AD, he was described by some as a tyrant, but in the beginning, he was one of the best leaders in ancient rome. he was just like luke, addicted to sexual acts, wanting all the finest things in life, and the worst part— luke was just as paranoid as him. 

but that was of no worry now, he was too focused on the pleasure that coursed underneath his flesh, or the simple thought of pushing his dick into your cunt, making your eyes roll back with pleasure you’d only ever dreamed of. luke knew he could make you feel good, and eventually he would. he imagined all the positions he would push you into, on your back, on your stomach with your ass up, having you ride him— gods. 

he wondered if whenever you tried to make excuses for being far too late at typing up a paper in time, he could just simply have you on your knees for him, fucking your mouth so you’d shut up. bruising your lips, ruining your lipstick, making you cry, all of those thoughts sends luke over the edge in no less than a minute or two. 

his skin is sticky with sweat, fingers coated in his own cum, but all he wants is more. 

𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ‧₊˚ 🍷

like mentioned before, luke had a madness problem. 

ever since he had been cast out, he had this odd paranoia problem, he thought the gods would strike him down at any second, that they were watching his every move, or that percy jackson would find his way to his ship and kill him himself for all the damage he’s caused. 

the lack of sex wasn’t the only thing driving luke mad, it was the cage of his own mind. the fact that he’s surrounded by the very thing that the man who’s responsible for percy’s existence owns, the sea. it all makes him sick, often times there will be crashing from his quarters in the late of night, but it always stopped as soon as it started. 

this night was different, it just kept going. first something being pushed over, then the breaking of glass, more crashing, more shatters, yelling, some screaming— it was a nightmare. some of the crew woke up, but you were the only one who dared to take a step out onto the deck that night, let alone approach his quarters. 

knock. knock. knock. 

no response, a deafening silence underneath the crashing waves and the crackling of the candle in your hand. 

knock. knock. 

the lack of response is worrying. he almost always responds, either it’s to tell you to fuck off, or to come in. but now, nothing. he couldn’t have hurt himself, could he? you test the waters, fingers curling around the doorknob and turning it with the expectation for it to be locked as it always is. 

it was unlocked. you push the door open, glancing in to see the mess that he had made of his own room, and him just simply sitting on his bed with his head in his hands. “luke?” 

“captain,” he immediately mumbles out, a correction. 

“captain,” you repeat, taking a step further inside, he has offered nothing against you being inside of his quarters. you are typically never allowed in here. you move to close the door behind you, placing the candle into the nearest holder that wasn’t completely destroyed. 

you turn back to him, his head was raised to look at you, arms now lazily splayed onto his spread legs in his sitting position. he was a chronic manspreader, something you noticed, but seeing him faintly hunched over pathetically like this, tired eyes staring at you, sweat beading at his temple— he was so hot. 

“are you okay?” you offer, voice as sweet as ever. 

“am i okay?” he scoffs, a chuckle following after, he’s never chuckled in front of you before, “am i okay, am i okay—“ he hums, “what do you think, hm? you think i’m okay?” 

his voice is confronting and harsh, like he wants to see you cower down, like he wants to break you like all the other things in his room. your brows furrow together for a second, “no..?” 

“no, no, atta girl— you’re catchin’ on,” he smiles at you for the first time, “why don’t you help me feel better, yeah?” 

you stare at him for a second, wondering if he meant what you thought he meant, “yeah.” 

“yeah.” his voice is hushed, almost mocking, “c’mere.” 

you immediately walk over to him in the ambient lighting, marking out your silhouette, stepping over all the things he’s knocked over. a grin tugs at his lips, cruel and cocky, he loves how easy you do anything he asks. his hand is gentle on your waist, pulling you closer, “so good for me.” 

you nod at him, letting his hand guide you down to your knees, pupils dilated up at him so perfectly. his tongue swipes along the backside of his teeth, moving his hand to hold your jaw, tilting your head to properly look up at him. maybe it was wrong to fuck his assistant, someone working for him, but it just felt so right, all of this felt like it was in the prophecy. 

his thumb swipes along your bottom lip, smearing the red lipstick there, of course you put that on before coming to his room. “so pretty,” he mumbles under his breath, dipping his finger between your lips and into your mouth. your lips curve up ever so slightly, leaning into his touch, lips closing around his flesh. 

he takes it away from your mouth just as quick as it was slotted between your lips, moving to undo his belt, the veins in his hands shifted with each movement of his hands, first it was his belt, then his pants, then his boxers. 

you always thought luke would have a big dick, he just has that certain cockiness that makes you think he couldn’t have a small dick and be acting the way he is, but this felt like it would hardly fit in your mouth.  

you glance up at him, his amused stare which immediately turns to faux concern when you say, “i don’t think it’ll fit—“ 

“it will,” he immediately cuts in, prying your mouth open with his thumb whilst his free hand eases your head closer, “i’ll make it fit.” 

your tongue runs along the vein at the bottom of his dick, already feeling the heaviness of it against the muscle in your mouth. you had sucked a few dicks before, sure, but this one was the biggest, and the cleanest. his hand holds your jaw when you start taking him into your mouth properly, tongue flat against the bottom of his cock, eyes peering up at him through heavy lids. 

his lashes flutter pathetically, mouth falling open with your every movement, the way the saliva from your mouth coats him perfectly— he needed this. it felt like a dream coming right after a nightmare, he was exhausted, sweating from his breakdown, and you were sent to him right when he needed it, an angel on his shoulder. 

but you’re going too slow, and luke’s growing restless from sitting so still. he can feel the ache of your jaw, but he wishes to make it worse somehow, as cruel as it sounds. his hand moves to the back of your head, hips ever so slowly bucking into your mouth, it was barely noticeable at first, until the sound of you sputtering and gagging around him fueled him more. 

his thrusts quickly turned harsh, bruising, merciless. 

he only paused when you slapped at his thigh pathetically, moving off to pant heavily, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his cock. you looked so messy, so pathetic, lipstick smeared, eyes puffy from falling tears. “always wanted this, huh? i notice how you look at me, always running to my office any chance you get, such a slut.” 

you nod at him, and that only makes him want to say more, “do you believe in god?” 

“yes, yes,” the response is immediate. 

“am i your god?” 

you pause at him, processing, what would the best answer be? 

yes, of course, that would be the best answer. in luke’s own mind, all this misery, all this destruction, all this betrayal, it was only the start of his story to reach the top. when caligula was next in line for the throne and his father was on his deathbed, he killed his own father with hardly any hesitation, then became one of the most memorable roman emperors alongside julius caesar. 

luke had been planning the murder of hermes for a long, long time, ever since the first book about caligula he read. killing percy jackson was a failure, all several times, so he had no other choice than to just shoot for the stars. 

luke’s eyes refocus onto the situation at hand rather than being stuck in his own mind, he had you pushed on your stomach with your ass up, the position he always wished to put you in, the position he’s put multiple other women and men in. 

his hands smooth over your ass, memorizing the canvas that he wants to splatter paint over. there’s something so intimate about this whole ordeal, the dim lighting of sole candles in all the destruction around his room, the crashing of waves on the sides of the boat as it moves through the sea, the red wine that luke drinks from the bottle he had just picked up. 

he hums at the taste, rich, perfect. “want some?” 

you shake your head, and he tuts in faux disappointment, “no fun, aren’t you? just want me to fuck you? needy, needy.” 

albeit his degrations, his tip presses to your entrance, lips pressing together when he pushes in— holy fuck, you were tight. luke’s breathing is ragged, he feels as though your pussy is desperately trying to squeeze an orgasm out of him in seconds. it only worsens when you accidentally glench, making his teeth grit together, he coughs out a bitter chuckle, “you did that on purpose, didn’t you?” 

“no, nono—“ it was too late for the begging for forgiveness, his thrusts were already brutal, slamming into you without a single regard for how much pain it would leave you in, in the morning. caligula was a possessive lover, a harsh fucker, a man ruled by jealousy and madness— luke castellan was born from the same map of caligula. 

his hands grip your hips harshly, punching out sweet moans from your bitten lips with every thrust, “fuck, fuck! luke!” 

luke’s tongue prods at the inside of his cheek for a mere second before his hand suddenly moves to the back of your head, harshly tugging your hair back, “captain.” 

another correction. 

as soon as your back hits his chest, his hand moves from your hair to your neck, gripping the delicate skin there tight. he ignores your attempts to get his attention by placing sloppy, open mouthed kisses to his jaw, leaving his skin stained with your lipstick. his eyes were too focused on the mirror placed in front of him, of course he had one there, it was cracked, but he was still able to make out the way your skin trembled underneath him, the way his thrusts sent shivers up your spine, the way he easily made you cock drunk. 

it didn’t take long for him to have you cumming on him as well, in which he followed soon after with a gritted out fuck. 

luke’s eyes may be glazed over when he looks back in the mirror, but he doesn’t see himself in his position, he sees caligula. 

[dilemmaontwolegs]

For the love of god(dess) || CL16 {1}

A/N & Summary: Greek God/dess AU. This was a draft I had wasting away with reincarnation trope. Reader is the goddess of love. I don't even know what I am doing anymore lol Warnings: reader injury, blood WC: 2.2k Part One || Two

“Do you ever stop working?”

You leered across the scrying bowl to the unwelcome guest waltzing into your sanctum. “Unlike some, my work never ends.”

“Come now, I remember a time when you used to love my little soirées,” Dionysus whispered in your ear as he dipped his finger in the bowl, disturbing the still waters. The god of debauchery had never held just a little party, there was a reason hedonism and excess had been celebrated for millennia. “Take one night off. It will be one to remember.”

“Liar,” you said with a smile despite yourself. “I still don’t have any memory of the last one.”

He winked and flicked the droplet of water from his finger at you playfully, “Then I am doing my job right. It’s on earth…”

Damn, the god knew how to pique your interest. Thousands of years watching through the haze of the scrying bowl did little to capture their humanity. Whenever you could, you used to walk among them to see the fruits of your labour. 

“Love, you are eternal - yet you waste away in this…” he drifted off as he looked around the empty stone room, carvings depicting your greatest champions along the walls, “place.”

While the other gods had their golden palaces you were content in the temple that had once been filled with priestesses who served the deity you once were. A shell of who you used to be reflected back in the still water. What was the Goddess of Love with a broken heart? Cold and empty like this temple.

Your thoughts darkened and shadows crept along the walls before you took a deep breath. It had been a few decades since you had some fresh air, maybe it was for the best to get out. “Fine. One night.”

Dio grinned and swept an arm around your waist before leading you to the door. The sunlight hit your face and you cursed Apollo until your eyes adjusted to the brightness. The drunken god took one look at the white robe you wore, a silver sash tied at the waist, and tutted.

“I know beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but this won’t do.”

“Any other insults?” you dared as you cast a hand over yourself, the white cotton bleeding to a deep red leather skin that hugged your body and accentuated your assets. A black corset snapped at the contours of your waist and pressed your breasts up, the armour unnecessary but as familiar as breathing. The others may have forgotten the great war but your heart remembered the loss and you swore you would not leave yourself vulnerable again. 

He let out a low whistle and shook his head. 

“Oh, one more thing.” Your bow and quiver snapped into place across your back and drew a groan from Dio. “What?” Your eyes darted to the chalice that was forever held in his left hand. “You have your attachments, I have mine.”

He held his cupped hand up, wine sloshing over the rim, and pointed a finger at you. “Firstly, this is a curse - not a choice. And secondly, this is useful to drink out of.”

“Maybe you should have been more careful where you stuck your dick.”

“I didn’t know the nymph was one of Zeus’ favourites, obviously,” Dio grumbled before setting off down the path that would lead to the mortal realm.

–

Las Vegas, Mortal Realm, 2023 PIW (Post-Immortal-Wars)

You already knew the party would be a large one, but this was big even by Dionysus’ standards. Thousands of people imbibed in the free flowing alcohol and danced under strobe lights in Sin City, his favourite playground. Dio sent a mischievous wink before he touched the champagne tower and his power imbued with the liquor to increase the effect and ensure everyone was on the same level as him.

“Drink, Love,” he ordered as he tipped the rim of his glass to your lips. Sweet wine warmed your throat as much as his power did and you drank it down knowing that for at least a few minutes your cares would be diminished - but they always came back too soon. “Now dance.”

Your hips swayed and your hands found themselves moving above your head as the lights mesmerised you. Human scents came and went as they moved around you, their pheromones calling to your power as they found lovers, if only for the night. One particular scent caught your attention and you followed it to find Dio talking to the human. He had been god touched and the mark glowed on his brow - not that the mortals could see it.

“Love, this is the man of the hour,” Dio gushed, casting a hand to the party as if it were all for him. “Max here won the race.”

You didn’t know what race he was referring to, nor did you care. “Of course he did,” you stated dryly. Max was Nike’s champion and Nike was the Goddess of Victory in everything except what mattered. “Congratulations.”

You grabbed Dio’s hand and drank your fill from his cursed chalice in the hopes it would douse the fire that ignited in your veins. If Nike had fought alongside you in the war instead of wasting her time with her Olympians and their silly sports then maybe Károlos would have survived. Maybe you would do more than just survive eternity alone.

“Sorry, she doesn’t get out much,” Dio joked, clapping the victor on the arm. “Drink, my friend. The night is young and life is short.”

You slipped away into the sea of bodies, drifting through until a cool breeze called from the balcony and you escaped to the quiet. Your breath exhaled with a heaviness only an immortal could carry and a chuckle startled you.

“Fuck, not another one. Can’t I have one moment of peace?” you groaned as his scent found you before the handsome man stepped out of the shadows of the corner he had been hiding in.

“Sorry,” he apologised. “This was my hiding place first.”

The mark of the Adonis glowed beneath the dark hair that fell over his forehead and you internally scoffed at the god’s vanity. The man standing before you would have been stuck down if he showed his face in Olympus, he was far too good looking it would be considered an offence to the petty gods. And those eyes, green eyes just like...You had to look away before you could finish that thought.

“What do you have to hide from?” you asked, leaning against the rail as you watched fireworks explode among the stars. “You’re a champion.”

“You must have me confused with someone else,” he laughed bitterly.

“I know a champion when I see one.” You felt Dionysus breeze onto the balcony before you heard his drunken laugh behind you, the bitter smell of blackthorn root on his breath from the drug he had smoked.

“Love, eternal Love, I found you,” he slurred as hugged your back, the feathered fletches from the quiver of arrows irritating him. “Must you wear these prickly things?”

Before you could stop him, he ripped an arrow out, the sharpened point catching the side of your neck. A hiss of pain escaped your lips as blood trickled down your throat and the power that kept the weapons hidden from mortal sight broke with the bead of blood on the tip. 

Adonis’ champion gasped as his mind raced to piece together what he was seeing. A woman bleeding and a man holding the weapon. His eyes narrowed and he leapt at Dio, trying to wretch the bloodied arrow from him before he could attack you again. You could have laughed at how futile the attempt was for a mortal to attack a god but said god was higher than Zeus’ perch in his palace and rotten drunk off his wine. 

The fates must have been laughing their asses off as the mortal and god collided, both tumbling to the floor before the mortal screamed in pain.

A hand reached into your chest, at least that was how it felt when the fire exploded inside you. “No, no, no, no,” you cried as Dio fell away from the mortal and you saw the arrow buried in the champion's chest. “What have you done?”

The fire faded as the bond snapped into place and you hated how you suddenly feared for the mortal. That fear had you rushing to his side and falling to your knees as Dio stared at his hands. “I, I didn’t mean to,” he stammered. 

Even the mortals knew the power those arrows held, the stories were told throughout the ages of how just a nick from one could make strangers, enemies even, fall for each other in an instant. The greatest weapon of all was love and it had the power to destroy even the immortals. And Dio had just stabbed the mortal with one, coated in your blood. Blood that bonded.

You gripped the shaft and tugged the arrow out of his chest before slamming your hand over the wound and pouring your energy into it, sealing it closed. He reached for your hand that was slick with his blood and you let him hold it, unable to fight the love that came from your own power. 

“You’ll be okay,” you promised him before narrowing your eyes at Dio. “You, not so much.”

“It was an accident, I swear, it was like I couldn’t control myself. Charles just jumped-”

Your eyes flared silver as you looked back at the unearthly green shade of his eyes. Same eyes, same name, Adonis’ champion. You had foolishly thought Adonis had chosen the mortal for his beauty, but if the mortal was reincarnated then he would also bear the mark on his brow.

“Károlos,” you whispered as a feeling of rightness settled across the universe.

Charles frowned at the name but understood the tenderness in the tone, such a sweet sound. His chest no longer burned and smooth skin met his palm as he felt for the wound that had healed, but the blood on his shirt was proof he had not imagined it all. 

“Who are you?” he asked as he rose to his feet, tasting his blood on his tongue.

You flinched at the question and looked to the stars. “I go by many names, but you may call me Y/N.”

“You called me Károlos.”

“That was your name the first time you walked the earth,” Adonis said, appearing on the balcony in a flash of light. “Károlos, Karlaz, Carl, Charles - it’s always the same. A hundred lifetimes lived, always searching, always waiting. All for this moment.”

When Károlos had been killed you had stormed to the Underworld ready to bargain with Hades, but he had said Károlos wasn’t in the Elysian Fields. You hadn’t believed him in your anger. All this time, Adonis had kept his soul safe. 

You reached behind to your quiver and drew an arrow, grabbing your bow and notching it. “You had two thousand years to tell me he was alive.”

Adonis held his hands up, shifting closer to Dio ready to sacrifice him as a shield. “You think the fates would let me tell you! I did what I could but you were happy to grovel alone in your temple.”

“Can someone please tell me what’s going on?” Charles asked, wondering why no one had come to see what was going on, except when he looked at the party everyone was frozen like the time had come to a stop.

“I was grieving! And now I will have to mourn him anew, because he’s fucking mortal!”

Adonis grinned and you debated releasing the arrow. “Are you sure about that? Is that not your blood that runs in his veins now? I can smell it on him.”

You paused. Your blood had been on the arrow, immortal blood. You and Charles had gravitated to each other without realising it and you inhaled as you leaned a little closer. There was still a hint of that fresh mortal scent but it was an undercurrent to the aether that grew stronger with each breath. 

“What the fuck is going on?” Charles snapped as you dissected him with your eyes like an experiment. “And why is no one else moving?”

You unnotched the arrow and waved the feathered end at Adonis. “We are going to have words about this later.” The beautiful god nodded before disappearing in a flash of light.

“So I'm forgiven, right?” Dio asked with a shy smile. “Told you it would be one to remember.”

You held a hand up to silence him and looked at Charles. “I don’t know how to answer your questions without making more. It might be easier if I show you.”

He accepted your hand without hesitation and you wondered how much of that was the force of the bond or because on some unconscious level his soul recognised yours. Either way, you smiled at the warmth between your skin before leaving the mortal realm behind.

“Where are we going?” he asked as the stars faded with the lights of Sin City.

“Home.”

–

For Reference: Dionysus - God of Wine and Pleasure Nike - Goddess of Victory Adonis - God of Beauty, Desire and Rebirth Károlos - (Old derivative for Charles) A warrior who was fated to be your soulmate before being killed protecting you in the Immortal Wars. Reincarnated as Charles Leclerc by Adonis. Olympus - Immortal Realm

Click here for part two.

[carolmunson]

blood machine.

emperor geta x senator's daughter!reader songspiration: in keeping secrets of the silent earth 3 | coheed & cambria

did not once plan to write for this guy but here we are. also like, is it historically accurate? no. like, not even a little. (hell is mentioned and technically hell wasn't 'a place' until 400 BC but like WHATEVER.) am i making a semi effort? sorta kinda. have i been a little stoned every time i've worked on this? well, yes.

summary: when what was supposed to be a diplomatic dinner before a much bigger and lively feast becomes a marriage offer, all of the wine you drank turns to ash in your mouth. haters to haters, bay-bee. tw: 18+, drinking but like -- idk it's ancient rome, tension, fighting, some mild body shaming (??), a literal threat of domestic violence but again it's ancient rome so like i don't think they cared, two stupid little bitches who hate each other. mentions of war and ultimate distaste for the poor. reader kind of has lady macbeth vibes. my little evil queen.

Wine is poured, golden chalices exalted. You are a vision and he is a toad looking creature of a man that only his mother could love. Not quite his brother, never quite measuring up the same way -- always trying to puff his chest. It was easy to tease him, ego easy to bruise -- little brother. You’d spent time in your childhood tagging along with your brother and the other kids to taunt him, pathetic and whimpering. 'Tale teller!' you'd jeer, every time he'd run off to his mother to blubber over how mean you all were. And you were mean.

But people grow, as they do. And so did you -- still mean, but in a different way. Listening to meetings, reading maps, keeping tabs on new republics, on potential uprising. The poor -- the fucking poor. Finding new ways to keep them occupied so that they'd stop trying to find ways to be powerful. Powerful like you. Powerful like the man at the head of the table with a plum to his lips. And as it has been said, a man in possession of a good fortune and power, must be in need of a wife. It became clear when you arrived that this was not a business dinner before a grand feast, your parents simply forgot to mention what this was really about. Your best linens, your hair coiffed, your best jewelry, you should have known it had been a ruse the moment you got there. His home on Palatine just sparkling the way the gold on your fingers did, candles in the halls and stairways glittering when they hit the rubies and pearls on your chest and ears. When your father veers the conversation from politics and business to marriage you both choke, stern eyes glued to your mother's painted face. A business dinner where you are currency -- more than worthy. Just a few months shy of being eligible when Caracalla was, regrettably, forced to marry Flavia at the last moment. It would've been nice to have the gang together again in some capacity. Could've bullied the toad to assasinating himself if you were lucky enough. Total power. Complete upheaval. The more you thought about it, the more of it your craved. The pit in your stomach grew, if it wasn't with his brother -- even though you bore no attraction -- there was not a point at all. Geta didn't think nearly as critically, didn't hit hard enough, didn't strategize correctly. You'd never even seen him pick up a sword -- but then again, that made sense. You very rarely spent time in his palace, much prefering the festivities of Caracalla's close by.

You listen while your mother goes on and on about his grace, tongue dipped in honey while she blabbers. She mentions how handsome he is, his valiance in leadership, how honorable he's become as he's taken the place of his late father -- you can't help yourself but laugh. The giggle echos and bounces through the high ceilings, floating against the archways, getting caught in the drapery by the open hall. His eyes flick to you over his goblet, catching in the candle light, an aggravated sneer plaguing his face. He looks like a pig when he does that, you think to yourself.

You know that business, for the most part, is a man's game. But it does not deter you from doing your best to try and wager yourself out of this. Ideas drip into your mind while the drone of the conversation turns to fuzz in the background. How can you sell that this is a bad idea? It will bring less publicity, less of a threat, less resposibility if married to someone with equal nobility. Certainly not an emperor. Especially not one like this. So petulant, so competitive, so eager for a war he does not know how to plan, so temperamental, so weak, so conniving, so consumed with the colosseum that he doesn't think of what should be done around him. It's his voice that brings you back to attention.

"And why is it she hasn't been taken for a wife then, at this age?" he asks, brow quirking in your direction. You let out of huff of offense while he sips his wine, metal clinking as he places it back down. A smirk flits across his features at the remark, "Is something wrong with her?"

Your father, sweating with embarrassment, looks over at you and back at the emperor, "Well she, she's of course beautiful." Geta winces, cocking his head to the side with a shrug. Your father sighs, desperate to try to find a better angle, "She um, she -- she has great wits, Ceasar, unmatched. She knows her duties as a wife, but -- a great thinker. She could -- she could be helpful!" "Wits," he mumbles sourly under his breath before leaning back leisurely in his chair, "Great thinker? Very surprising." "August--" your father starts. "Co--" you correct over a sip of wine, "Co-Augustus."

Geta tosses you another sour look, tongue running over his teeth before clicking it behind his lips. You shrug while swallowing. "Semantics, Publius," you wave a hand at him. A hush falls over the room as his gaze snaps up at you, blanching at the disrespect of being called by his first name. Your mother hides her face in her napkin with a groan. Your father leans his temple against his fingers, eyes closed in frustration. "Mind how you address me," Geta corrects with a stern pull to his lips, eyes glittering with rage. Your eyes catch over the mountains of food before you, holding your glass out as one of his servants pours you another glass of wine. "Is that not what your mother calls you?" your voice feathery, but certain. A vein begins to raise and pulse in his neck while his shoulders round forward.

"Please apologize, dear," your mother mutters, putting the napkin back on the table, "Tell -- tell the emperor what it would mean, to be -- to be wed to someone of such calibur."

Your eyes stay on his, challenging him while your mother begs you to say something to make amends. Another sip of wine passes your lips, "No, shan't."

Your mother scolds you, your full name escaping her with embarrassment tainting her tongue. Sweat beads at your father's forehead while he changes the subject, doing aything to try to keep his good favor with both sides of the imperatorship.

You grin into your goblet at the sight of Geta's face -- reddened with anger and frustration at the brazen disrespect. But it was fine to continue to be an enemy if it meant you would leave these regal walls and never have to step foot in them again. And if you did, it would be as another senator's wife, visiting his brother in another house where you'll laugh and drink wine and cheer when he's killed.

Even his posture is revolting, hunched over while he listens to your father speak. Now going on and on about paper work that doesn't interest you if it doesn't have a say on who is next on the list to conquer. Your eyes glaze over in boredom while pomergranate, honey pudding, and dates are placed on the table. Rose wine replaces the red to sweeten the tongue -- you're sure your parents wished it were true.

It's not very long after dessert is served that your parents start again.

"As you know, she does come from a family of very fertile women," your father encourages. You quickly swallow the bite of date you'd taken to interrupt, nearly choking, "Excuse me, I'm not sure this is appropriate dinner conversation."

Geta looks at you while you speak, scanning you and then lingering on the dessert in your hand, "Her hips are quite sizeable -- big enough to bear multiple childen, that's certain. Is that her only sell?"

Anger bubbles under your chest, but warning looks from both of your parents keeps your sharp tongue between your lips. The grip on your goblet tightens, jaw clenching while your pass another sip through gritted teeth. You let a seething breath out through your nose. "As I tried to explain before," your father continues, "She is very on the pulse in terms of the political climate and, and, and great with strategy." "I'm not looking for a wife who tries to strategize for me--" he responds coolly. "From how the empire has not expanded since your father's death I would guess that perhaps you should be," you snap back smartly. His posture straightens, chains and medallions across his chest glinting in the candle light. The room quiets itself again, only the sound of untensils and cups being put down or collected filling the dead air. The soft scrape of metal, the rustle of linens while servants and guards alike avert their gaze downward.

"Leave us," he states, voice pungent with authority. You stretch your neck on both sides while the servants depart, already bored with the back and forth. Already moved on from the eventual scolding and potential exile that won't get put into motion because you are simply too friendly with the rest of the upcoming generals and politicians. One rogue idiot who barely has the power his brother has, that his father never trained into him, could not dole a punishment that is worth your genuine fear.

You sigh, hearing the staff make their way down the long stone corridors into the grand halls to prepare for a more formal party with other higher status families. More likely a collection of offerings for him to choose from, other parents trying to arrange a marriage with the empire's most powerful and eligible bachelor. It would be one of the few times the brothers would have to engage with each other, which you're sure put Geta more on edge than normal.

"Senator, please take your wife to the grand hall to be seated," he commands, his voice lower, delving darker. The vein in his neck continues to pulse, forearms straining against the golden cuffs over his wrists, "The guards will accompany you."

You watch as your parents rise, bowing their heads before following the guards out of the room and through the blood red drapery hung from gilded valances. Geta's eyes stay hardened on you, and yours him, while you rise as well, taking a few steps around the large wooden table toward the exit. "Not you," he says, not turning to face you, "You will stay." "It is not appropriate for me to be unaccopanied in the pres--" "Do not speak," he huffs, hand coming up to silence you, "Your voice grates on me." "Then you can imagine what your own voice does, Augustus," you say without thinking, letting the insults flow out of you like the fountain water in the courtyards. He pushes away from the table, steadily walking towards you with enough vigor that the bottom of his cape starts to billow behind him. On his way, he pulls a sword from a guard's holster, dragging it so the tip grinds against the stone, making your jaw clench at the shrill sound.

"What happens to those who speak against me?" he asks, steps clicking against the floor from the studs on the bottom of his sandals. He begins to stalk around you, circling while he waits for an answer. "Execution," you respond, keeping your eyes on the drapery just twenty feet ahead of you. "What else?" he asks, you can feel his breath behind you, the whining grind of the sword against the stone making your shoulders tense. "Exile," you answer, a laugh bubbling out of you, "But I can't imagine your brother agreeing to either of those. You'd really banish me, Publius? Because I was a little mean to you?" When he appears in front of you again, your lips stretch into a sickeningly sweet smile, sarcasm staining your tone, "But we're such old friends."

He cocks his head to the side, taking a step closer with the sword between you, "Oh, I wouldn't do that to you."

He leans forward, enough that you can smell the rose wine on his breath. His voice quiet and menacing, "Though -- it could be that the senator said something to offend me tonight at dinner. It could be that perhaps he -- spoke poorly of my dear brother or my late father. Something just dastardly enough to sour my brother's respect for him." "And you expect Caracalla to believe that?" "In what way does it benefit me to lie about it?" he challenges, "And even more so -- with your father exiled, where does that leave you?"

You swallow thickly, not giving him the satisfaction of replying while your look into his now wild brown eyes. Flashing with mania and endless possibility.

"A peasant," he spits.

"If it keeps me out of these halls I should be lucky, no?" you fire back, looking at him from under furrow brows. He continues to circle you, dragging the sword again. The click, click, click of his shoes keeping time in your head. "I'm sure my brother would be happy to keep you as a pet in the meantime," he laughs to himself, "Or we could put you in the colosseum, you think you'd fare well?" "Better than you could, that's certain," you cross your arms over your chest, "Could never stand up and fight like a man, even as a kid. Your father would be embarrassed."

The grinding gets louder as he presses harder down, causing small sparks to fly from the edge of the sword.

"If you were to be chosen, would ever even attempt to learn respect?" he asks sharply, "Or would it have to be beaten into you?" You snort, "At least you're the funnier brother, you have that going for you." You can see him out of your periphery, the way he pulls his cheeks in, the roll of his shoulders -- he's losing patience. "What, would you prefer I called you Geta? Augustus? Ceasar?" your eyes roll. A soft cackle comes from his through, canines showing in a gleeful smile, "No, no -- from you? I'd much prefer something more respectful." Click, click, click. The grind of the sword. The rose on his breath. "Dominus," he nods with the threat, "Dominus et Deus."

"You disgust me," you respond quickly. "As a husband and as emperor is that not my title, already?" he shrugs, looking at you like it's obvious.

"You are nobodies Lord and God, you are a petulant -- sniveling -- repulsive little brother who is only where he is by being lucky to be born," you glower.

"You still see me as a child, femina," he tuts, "I promise you, what ever Caracalla has told you is a tapestry of made up stories. You could hang it on the tallest arch and it would hit the floor ten times over."

"I do see just a whining child before me," you hiss, "I'm sure you'll run to your mother after this, too."

His chuckle turns to a low, dark laugh from deep in his chest. It crawls up your spine and rings in your ears, mixing with the grating 'shhhhhhinnnngggg' of the sword on the ground.

"If it were fate that there was union between us," he asks from behind you, "What would you say to that?"

You look straight ahead, hearing the click of his shoes. The heat of the torches on the walls billowing onto your face while you keep your eyes on the drapery, still closed -- still keeping you here.

"It would be a fate worse than the hottest hell," you confess, your voice not wavering.

The whine of the sword stops, sheathed into his belt. The click of his shoes halts.

Quiet.

Rose wine on his breath, you feel it on your skin now, his chest against your back while he closes the space between you. A hand reaches up to push the hair from your neck, the other gripping the fat of your hip to pull you ruthlessly against him in a thud. Your eyes shut, bile crawling up your throat in disgust. His nose coasts against the shell of your ear, making you tilt your head away while goosebumps rise on your arms. Through a knowing grin he whispers, the words burrowing deep in your chest in loathing and a glimmer of fear: "I pray every moment of it burns you."

[druidrot]

so i was looking at the other parts of the ways to show emotion prompt list and part 3 has some great lists so i was hoping you could do “opening mouth slightly” pupils dilating” and “licking lips” with Gale from the how to show desire prompts 👀👀 no worries if not, congrats on the new blog!

thanks so much! and thanks for being my first requester! i’m happy to oblige. now i’m posting on mobile so i apologize if the formatting is wonky. with that being said, enjoy!

just a short little drabble, unsure of word count

pairing: gale dekarios x reader

rating: mature - more suggestive than anything else;)

he’s allowed to have fun at the tiefling party okay?? just let me have this. i get it’s canon divergent just shut up and let me be horny

It was here Gale felt his resolve crumble.

He prides himself on his self-control. In fact, he thinks he’s been a saint since he joined your adventuring party, since this painfully slow dance started between you both.

But he feels his patience waring thin. The tiefling party at the camp has no doubt been a success. He waited patiently as you did your rounds accepting their gifts and thanks so very graciously. He bid his time as you danced and sung and drank with everybody else, working your sweet charm on them.

He knows better, though. He thinks you are a different person under the cover of moonlight, here where you stare up at him with half-lidded, glassy eyes, lips pulled up in the sweetest little smile. You still hold your chalice of wine but your free hand has taken to his, twirling your fingers around his long, narrow digits. He feels his mouth drop open as you take a step closer, your pupils dilating until the beautiful color of your iris is all but hidden.

Around you, the little celebration rages on. In the distance, you can hear Karlach whooping over some drinking game the rowdier of the bunch had taken to playing. Just down the camp from you, Alfira sings a lovely ballad of lover’s lost, Lakrissa bobbing her head from a few paces down.

Gale should be excited about the festivities, elated with the things your party accomplished, ready to drink his troubles away for the night. Instead, he finds himself totally enamored with you., eyes locked on your every movement. He doesn’t know when you became so intoxicating to him, but in this moment, he finds he can’t complain.

“You look like the tressym got your tongue,” you whisper, sidling even closer. “My my, have you been brooding here because I’ve not paid you any attention? Or is saving poor helpless refugees not really your speed?”

You bump your nose against his as your tongue wets your lips. His eyes are immediately drawn to the action and he has to physically fight the urge to rush forward and kiss you. Instead, he grins roguishly at you.

“Quite the rotten little minx, you are,” he teases. taking a step back to cool his body. “Go enjoy yourself, darling. Besides, I’m sure there’s quite the line to get a dance with you tonight. You’ll have plenty of time to harass me later.”

“What if I want to harass you right now? What if I want to spend all night harassing you?”

Gale feels like he’s on fire. Before either of you can really process, he pulls you into a slow, heady kiss.

“You will be the death of me,” he pants between desperate kisses. “You will be the death of us all.”

He is quick to escalate, despite his warning and his lips grow frenetic as he chases your tongue with his, pushing into your mouth with a sense of urgency you didn’t think him capable of. He pulls your body close, impossibly so, and you can do nothing but moan as he continues to kiss you.

“The orb,” Gale tries, whimpering between consuming kisses.

“Don’t blow up on me,” is your only retort, happily losing yourself to the weight of his kiss.

[consultinghuntertimelord]

Died to say: I see a song of past romance, I see the sacrifice of man. I see portrayals of betrayal and a brother's final stand.

Forced to say: I drank wine, from a chalice, on top of Circe's palace

[atrwriting]

aemond x fem!highborn!reader one shot

this man makes me think such unholy thoughts that i needed to get this out

as always, warnings: SMUT!, foreplay (f receiving), aemond is the king of consent, dom!aemond, dirty talk, dubcon because drinking

you never drank.

no. never.

it was considered unbecoming of a lady of status, especially yours. you were lucky to have obtained a position as one of lady helaena’s handmaidens, and your family never let you forget it. you weren’t of the commonfolk variety, but your family name would never hold as much weight as “lannister” or “stark.” you had to play your cards right, and you usually did.

but not this night, no.

tonight was a night of celebration for the greens against the blacks and you were expected to sit for it. wine was flowing, laughter could be heard all around the banquet room, and people had yet to stop dancing. as one of helaena’s more trusted ladies, you stayed by her side as she chose to sit away from the pleasantries that most people were taking part in. she let her husband dance with any lady he wished, but everyone close to her knew she was more relieved than jealous. you chose to sit on one side of her to keep her company, and hee dutiful brother, the one-eyed prince, aemond targaryen, sat on her other side.

“you must drink more, lady y/n,” helaena insisted, pouring wine into your glass. “you mustn’t let me fill your joy.”

you scoffed. “your company is most enjoyable, my queen.”

“mmm,” the prince next to her mumbled. “we are glad you decided to join us tonight, sister. you as well, lady y/n.”

oh, by the old gods and the new, that fucking silky voice of his could drive every woman in his vicinity wild, and you were no exception. heat immediately rose to your cheeks as you bowed your head in graciousness and smiled at the prince. your shyness would not allow you to meet his gaze as you took another sip from your chalice, smirking into the wine.

“i’m afraid i must retire,” the queen announced, rising from her seat. “lady y/n, i must order you to remain here and keep my brother’s spirits high. whether he will admit it or not, he’s about as unaccustomed to ‘fun’ as i am.”

you could’ve spat out your drink.

you? alone with the prince? keeping him company? leaving your duties? leaving your queen?

“should we walk with you, my queen?” you sputtered. “shall i call the other ladies?”

she shook her head. “i order both of you to show the other a delightful evening as i am incapable of it. i bid you both a good night.”

and with that, she left.

the feeling of being buzzed was creeping on you, battling the anxiety you also felt. you cleared your throat, and turned to the prince.

you smiled softly as he rested his one eye on you. that did nothing to subside the blush on the tips of your cheeks as it was proving very difficult to remain confident in front of a man with features like the prince. his voice was intoxicating, but coupled with his strong jawline, his sharp features, and the mischievousness that played within his purple iris… he was dangerous in the best sense.

“so,” you began, attempting to break the tension. “i suppose dancing is off the table. what is it that will bring you joy this evening, my prince, as the queen has ordered?”

he smirked. “ever dutiful to your queen, you are.”

you laughed as the alcohol coursed through your veins. boldly, you remarked, “who am i to deny an order?”

he hummed in response, tracing the rim of his wine with his long finger. his gaze fixated on the chalice’s contents before it rested on your face. “i’ve also grown tired of tonight’s festivities.”

you nodded in understanding. you heart fell slightly as you felt dismissed by the prince, but at least you would not make a fool of yourself in front of him.

“then i bid you a good night as well, my prince,” you replied, bowing your head.

he shook his head. “it would please me if you joined me for a walk.”

your eyes widened slightly as his words hit you. in response, you smiled. “of course. where to, my prince?”

and that’s how you found yourself in one of the many forgotten and unused rooms in the castle.

finery adorned every wall and crevice in the palace, and aemond had introduced you to his favorite private area with a large window and seating area. he had more wine brought for the two of you, which you both were drinking generously.

“there’s nothing like flying,” he spoke, a bright smile on his face as he told stories of his favorite missions. drunkenness had found him as well, and kept him within its grasp. “there’s nothing like that heat from the dragon’s fire. it causes fire to well within your own belly.”

you laughed. “you are a very skilled rider, my prince. helaena and i love watching you from her window.”

“i am glad my sister has found companionship,” he admitted, taking another sip of his wine. he was silent for some time as he stared off into the distance. “has she found a suitable match for you yet?”

drunkenness had you by the restraints as well, but so did your anxiety. you bit your lip. “no, my prince, but the queen has many other important matters to attend to. i am very content in my position by her side.”

“the ever dutiful lady,” he chuckles, setting his chalice down. “tell me, lady y/n, i must now if you’ve ever shed the chains of formality just once.”

it was your turn to laugh. “my prince, the most unbecoming thing i’ve done is spend time with you tonight without a chaperone and enjoy far too much wine.”

“and have you enjoyed my company as much as you have enjoyed the wine?” he asked suddenly.

you were taken aback by his boldness, but it would not serve you to be shy now. you smiled softly. “i have, my prince. very much so. if we’re playing a game of truth, then i suspect it is my turn to ask you the same question.”

he chuckled. “i have had my fair share of the pleasantries that young men find themselves in, but i do not have the appetite of my brother. tell me, lady y/n, has my brother ever tried to get into your bed?”

you almost choked on your wine. “n-no, my prince. i’ve never… the king has never done that.”

the prince sat up then and place his goblet down. you followed in suit, but also to keep it from spilling. aemond say maybe a foot from you as he stared at your face, causing the temperate in the room to rise.

“and what would the ever dutiful lady say if i asked to join her in her bed?” he asked barely above a whisper.

your lips parted in response as you stared back at the prince. “m-my prince… i’ve never been with a man in that way.”

“and what if i were to… lift your skirts?”

you felt his fingers began to trace circles on the bare skin of your thigh, underneath your dress.

“and what if my fingers were to find themselves on your soft skin?”

his voice was hoarse with wine and lust as it fanned across your face. every passing moment, his fingers raised in height and began to inch closer and closer towards your hips. his lips were only a few inches from your own, practically begging for a kiss.

“i want to uncover what secrets you hold, my sweet,” he whispered. “would you let me?”

“yes, my prince,” you breathed, biting your lip.

“have you ever touched yourself?”

you shook your head.

“so you’ve never known pleasure.”

“no, my prince,” you answered shakily as his fingers toyed with the fabric of your undergarments.

“would you let me show you?” he asked.

“please, my prince,” you nodded.

you leaned in closer, ready to kiss him, but the prince pulled back. “i won’t kiss you yet, no. i want to see your beautiful face for the next few moments. would you give that to me?”

you nodded, eyes wide with a mixture of fear, lust, and excitement.

his fingers found their way beneath your undergarments, and you jumped closer to the prince in fright. he held you tightly against him as he grabbed you by the back of the head and weaved your long hair in between his fingers.

“be a good girl for me, sweet,” he ordered. “you are to tell me what feels good.”

you nodded. “yes, my prince.”

you felt a singular finger glide up and down your folds. he did it so easily that you immediately felt like a whore for how wet you were for the prince. having never been touched before, you gasped at the sensitivity. the prince immediately found the most sensitive part of you: your pink, swollen bud.

“oh, my prince-“ you gasped, screwing your eyes shut as he drew circles on it. “it’s-it’s—“

“tell me, beautiful, tell me how it feels.”

“no, my prince, a lady—“

“a lady will do as her prince commands,” his tone was rough with you. “you’ve never been more of a lady than in this moment, lady y/n. let your prince show you how much he adores you.”

you moaned at his words. “you feel — your fingers feel so good. they shouldn’t feel this good…”

his thumb found its place working his magic on your clit, and one his fingers travelled lower to trace along your entrance. your teeth sank deeper into the already ripped skin of your lip as you tried to fight how good it felt to have him in such an intimate way.

“i’ve never felt this way before,” you cooed. “this is wrong…”

“tell me to stop then,” he ordered as he pushed his finger through your entrance. “tell me you want me to leave your dripping cunt unsatisfied.”

you cast your gaze down in your lap, where his hand was nestled between your thighs.

he picked your chin up to face him. “is that what you want? for me to stop?”

“no, my prince,” you spoke with hazy eyes. “but…”

“do you want me to be cruel and leave you empty, here, with no one around?”

you shook your head. “no, prince aemond, please don’t.”

“then tell me you want me to ravish this sweet cunt,” he ordered.

heat rose to your cheeks. “please, my prince.”

“say it.” his movements grew more aggressive as he fucked his fingers in your tight, gummy walls. “now.”

“take me, my prince,” you cried.

his grip on your hair did not falter as the circles he drew on your clit became harsher and faster. you tried to muffle your cries the best you could, but nothing could silence you from his assault on your cunt. your pelvis began to grow warm, and suddenly you were bucking your hips into his hand.

“all for me, my sweet?” he taunted with a smirk. “is this sweet cunt all for me?”

“yes,” you breathed. “yes, my prince, it’s all for you.”

“you are so right around my fingers, my dear, you’ve been such a good girl for your prince,” he spoke. “making such a mess on this couch for me. i’m so pleased with you.”

the heat, the tension, and the pleasure all began to build up too much. it was building, building, and building in your hips, your stomach, you shoulders, your lips — fucking everywhere, and you felt like you were about to explode. you were bucking your hips wildly into your prince’s hand, and you didn’t understand where all the pleasure would go when he stopped.

“my prince, i don’t know what’s happening…” you rambled. “i feel as though… i might explode…”

“let it take you, my sweet,” he ordered. “let it wash over you and feel everything i’m giving to you. i want to give you your first orgasm, my beautiful girl.”

you were whining in his hold, tears threatening to spill over your cheeks as aemond fucked you relentlessly with his hand. your hands were gripped at your skirts, the couch, anything as you feared touching him and keeping him from making you feel the way you were.

“‘s too much,” you cried.

“do this for me,” he ignored you.

“my prince—“

“do this for your prince.”

a strangled cry left your lips as you felt like a string was being wound so tightly in your lower abdomen you felt as though it might pop. aemond refused to let you out of his hold, keeping you upright so he could witness your expressions for himself.

“please don’t stop,” you whined. “it feels so good…”

“right there, my dear?” he asked, pushing his finger deeper and coaxing your inner walls. “is that where my lady needs it most?”

“yes, yes, yes—“ you basically cried. “oh my gods…”

“that’s it, my sweet, let it go.”

“i can’t—“

“let it go,” he ordered, rubbing your clit harder. “finish all over my fingers. it’s what i want most.”

you couldn’t fight him any longer. your hand raised to grab the fabric on his arm as you came. heat spread all throughout your body as you struggled to keep your voice low, but all the while you felt like you were bursting. every nerve ending in your body was screaming as aemond continued to use his fingers between your thighs throughout your orgasm. your breathing was strangled, and you wanted nothing more than to kiss him, but he kept you in his hold.

“now that i’ve seen the wonder that is my lady experience pleasure, i don’t think i’ll ever be able to leave this moment with you.”

[stressed-and-queer]

Reasons why Merlins s1 ep4 "The Poisoned Chalice" is one of my favorite episodes (spoilers)

Gaius giving Merlin a fake proverb and Merlin calling him out on it

Merlin: "Someone has to keep the place running"

Gaius: 🤨

Merlin gets so excited he gets to go to the ball and it's adorable

The iconic outfit Arthur picks out for him

Gwen teasing him about the hat

Arthur looking back at Merlin clearly amused

The moment "Clara" confirms that Arthur's cup is poisoned he immediately leaves to save Arthur

Arthur keeps on trying to take a sip of the cup thinking the speech is over only to be interrupted again 🤣

Merlin: *Takes Arthur's cup*

Arthur: #annoyed

Uther asks Merlin for proof about his claims about the cup being poisoned and Arthur immediately goes into protective boyfriend mode

Arthur got so worried when Uther decided he would drink the wine

To the point that he tried to drink it himself knowing there was a possibility it was poisoned.

He was literally willing to do that for a servant he met 4 EP ago

Continuing with the point that they met 4 EP ago, they've known each other for like what, a month at the most and Merlin was already willing to die for Arthur

"but if it's poisoned, he'll die :('

Arthur was so fucking worried when Merlin drank the wine, you could tell just by the way he stood

*Dramatic music playing after Merlin drank the wine for a dramatic pause* Merlin: ...It's fine

The fact that the poison took a few moments to kick in. Idk it made it seem more realistic

You cannot convince me Arthur wasn't planning on somehow getting Merlin back from Bayard

When Merlin starts to choke, Arthur's face immediately drops. There's just a look of pure worry and dread

When Merlin falls to the ground unconscious, Arthur is there by his side in a matter of seconds

Arthur didn't even think twice when he picked Merlin up to carry him to Gaius's physician chambers

Arthur asking if Merlin was going to be ok

Gaius explains how to save Merlin, and how dangerous a journey it would be and Arthur is still willing to go to save Merlin

Gaius: A single drip of venom from the Cockatrice would mean certain death

Arthur: Sounds like fun!

Morgana has so much faith that Arthur would save Merlin she wasn't even worried

She relieved Gwen from her duties for the rest of the night so she could take care of Merlin!!!

"I can't stand by and watch him die!"

" Then don't watch"

The ways those lines are delivered are sooooo good omg

The way Arthur leans against the fireplace

Morgana is the one that convinced Arthur to defy his father and save Merlin

Merlin saying a spell in his sleep

And Gaius having to cover for him because Gwen was literally right there

Gaius immediately knows it's Nimue that poisoned the cup when he finds out the poison has been magically enhanced

"He's just a boy"

"Have you seen your son recently?"

Merlin literally moans Arthur's name in his sleep

"Art-Arthur, Arthur...ngh" -Merlin s1 ep4

Even when Merlin is literally dying and unconscious he's still trying to save Arthur

The whole act that Nimue puts on that Arthur falls for instantly

When Arthur flights the Cockatrice with his sword. I love all the fancy movements Bradley had to learn for the role of Arthur

Merlin moaning Arthur's name pt2

Merlin tries to warn Arthur that it's a trap in his sleep

"Who are you!"

"The last face you'll ever see"

Merlin moans Arthurs name pt3

THE BALL OF LIGHT MERLIN CREATES TO HELP ARTHUR

"Do not let Merlin die because of something I did"

Arthur is willing to be put into the stocks for a month if it means Merlin gets the antidote

Arthur reaching for the flower through the bars of his cell

The way they snuck the flower out of the cell

"That's disgusting, you would be ashamed of yourself you're old enough to be her grandfather"

"I'm proud of you Arthur, never forget that"

Arthur went to check in on Merlin to make sure he was doing ok

"Arthur....thank you"

"You too, get some rest"

[cainvstheworld]

Sign of the Cross by Cain Birch

[Text ID: Sign of the Cross by Cain Birch. When you pick up your phone, you perform the sign of the cross, genuflect to unlock. When I am desperate, seeking, I still pray to Saint Anthony. We both were raised as lambs, as daughters under the crook. We consumed body and blood each Sunday, hoping that they would consume us, that they would turn us into something closer to Sons of God rather than Daughters. But the Eucharist is only a wafer; the wine is watered down. Our limbs stayed soft until they drank from glass chalices, from the palms of pharmacists. Love, let me suture up the holes in your palms, my needle sterilized with hellfire. /End ID]

[venusrising91]

Prince of Hearts

Pairing: Wonho x Male reader

Genre: Fantasy/Royal bodyguard (light smut & a small bit of yearning+a smidge of thin plot lol)

Summary: The head of your royal garrison works to uncover crimes against the crown. You fall for him in the process. But will he succumb to your advances?

Word count: 3,057 (about 4.5 pgs)

An attempt had been made on your life but you were only vaguely aware of this as the haziness in your head cleared. The aftertaste of the poisoned wine overpowered rational thought. But you didn’t need to use your mind, not with Lieutenant Lee standing watch. He was somewhere near, hovering in the margins of your vision. You couldn’t yet see him but you’d recognize his scent under any circumstance, even semi-conscious you could make out the soft notes of jasmine and hyacinth. 

Among all your royal guards, he prided himself on hygiene and appearance the most. While others of your high garrison wasted their coin on gambling and drink, Lieutenant Lee preferred spending his stipend on finer things: the most luxurious imported silks, perfumed oils, cultural enrichment lessons.

    “My lord, you must take water, and quickly. These foreign poisons are known to cripple if not properly flushed out of one’s system.” Lee had whispered these words to you in hushed tones, spoken in the Knight's Tongue—the formal language of those devoted in service to you. It was wise of him to speak it in the presence of so many foreigners, all of them now potential enemies, assailants. It was wiser still of Lieutenant Lee to have been so wary of this gala. Wary enough to have insisted you take an Immunity Tonic before leaving the palace. He had slipped it into your hands whilst dressing you, despite your protests. You had fussed and whined for you knew it to be bitter and unnecessary but he said nothing, merely stood resolute, brow quirked in that stoic, insufferable way of his. He’d aimed one of his cold glares at you until you’d forced it all down, wincing at the strong medicinal taste. You had cursed him then but gods you were grateful for it now. His paranoia had saved your life. 

He stared down at you, cool and collected despite the chaos in the dining hall. Wide-eyed dignitaries and princes were scrambling in panic but Lieutenant Lee was unfazed as he tended to you, gently pressing the rim of a chalice to your lips, urging you to sip. You drank, and the water went to work at once, clearing your head, bringing you back to yourself. When the cup had been drained, you rose to your feet, somewhat unsteady as you gazed upon the sea of stunned faces.

“The prince is alive! Oh thank the—” you put your hand up to silence the baron, the sound of his voice was high and grating. Your ears couldn’t handle it. Nor could your eyes endure the pompous sight of him—dressed in loud, clashing colors of every print imaginable.You shut them, pinching the bridge of your nose as you leaned against Lieutenant Lee for support.

“Ready the horses,” commanded Lieutenant Lee, taking you by the arm and leading you away from the loud baron, who insisted upon shouting apologies at your back. It had been his gala, and you’d attended only at the bequest of your title. As crown prince and next in line for the throne, you could not dismiss the invitation of courtiers, no matter how lowly you deemed them.

Back at the palace, in your quarters, Lieutenant Lee tended to you, drawing your bath and laying out your night clothes. You had servants for this but he had not trusted you to be alone with anyone but him given your state, and had sent them away. A show of his fealty. 

He peeled off your clothing with gentle hands. You stood naked and trembling before him. Shy, for he was fully dressed and resplendent in the gold and crimson uniform of a high ranking vassal. But he kept his eyes on yours, they did not dip any lower as he led you to the bath.

“I have compiled a list of possible assailants,” he said as he smoothed cleansing oils across your chest.

“Oh? Already?”

“Mmm.” You fought to keep from shuddering at this reply, it was a low rumble in his throat. A grunt really. There was something sinful about it and you felt a searing heat rush to your lower extremities. The water was opaque with suds from the cleansing oils, bless the gods. What rose underneath it could be seen by none, and felt only by you.

    “Is the baron among your suspects?” you asked, shrinking from his soft touches, they were beginning to drive you mad.

    “Of course. I’m calling a formal inquisition at first light. Your royal guard will be battle ready from here until the end of it—until whoever is responsible for this is caught.”

    “Full armor? Really Lieutenant, is that necessary? I’m fine, I’m alright, not even a scratch on me.” You meant this as a joke but he merely glared at you as he lifted your arm, rubbing circles under it—you felt the heat of him even through the washcloth.

    “I am the head of your garrison. I do not take assassination attempts lightly.”

    “What of jokes? Can you take them lightly, or at all?”

    He responded with another of his lewd grunts, licking his lips this time, dark eyes fixed on his task. Gods you were going to lose a load and soil the water. It was a small mercy that he was fully clothed, that you could not see his bare and chiseled form as he saw yours, here and now. Why did he have to be this way? So gods damned alluring and unattainable and—

    No. No, no, no, no,no. You mustn't do this.

    “Are you alright my lord?”

    “What?”

    “You look like you’re in pain.” 

    “Oh, I’m—fine, I’m—”

    “Come, you must rest now. The night has worn on you.”

    You did not protest, and were in fact grateful to have been given an out.

****

The following morning you rose early, before the servants even. You had not slept well and headed for the temple to pray to the goddess for strength. You made a modest offering at her alter and left, nearly colliding with Lieutenant Lee as you stepped over the threshold. Of course he had followed you, why in heavens did you think you could escape his notice? He was something to behold in his armor. All of the skin and carved muscle you couldn’t see the night before was now on full display. Silver plates adorned his ivory skin and his dark hair gleamed like a lake at midnight reflecting the moon. He bowed, sword dangling from his hip—a warrior.

    At the morning meal he had tasters sample your food for poisons before allowing you to eat. The baron’s son had journeyed overnight and joined you for the meal, bearing gifts of honeyed wine and laurels in apology. He was called Evander and had at one time, wanted your hand in marriage. But you had little in common and the union would have benefited him more than you. There was also the case of his dull personality and appearance—he wasn’t at all your type. Despite this, you still gave him your audience. After having eaten, the two of you strolled through the court gardens, the afternoon sun lending its summer warmth.

    “I must once more apologize for what transpired at Father’s gala,” said Evander as the pair of you waded through a winding path of lilies.

    “You needn’t. I’m alright.”

    “That lieutenant of yours,” Evander paused and threw a sidelong glance over his shoulder at Lee as he trailed behind you, “such quick thinking to have saved you like that.”

    “Mm, I’m lucky to have him.”

    “Indeed,” muttered Evander.

    “Luckier still that of all the nobility present that night, mine was the only meal to have been tampered with.” You regretted saying this, but much as you'd tried, you couldn’t help feeling jaded and indignant. Evander stiffened at this speculative slight.

    “You’re angry. And rightfully so. But you don’t know how embarrassing this is for us, our family. Falling out of favor like this, it’s worse honestly than swallowing poison.”

    “Is that so?” you quipped, barely suppressing a scoff.

    “We’ve lost the trust of every nobility in the province.”

    You rolled your eyes. “Some might say that is what you deserve.” Evander made a choked sound and stopped walking. More regret—it seemed a dearest companion of yours this day. “Listen,” you continued, “I’ve no ill will towards you. You’ve requested an audience and I’ve obliged. Surely this will be enough to lend back some of your credibility once word spreads of your being here.”

    “I—I suppose but—”

    “My lord, you are expected in the drawing room for the oversight and signature of imported goods.” This was Lieutenant Lee. He stood beckoning you with that quirked brow of his—an expression he put on when trying to be authoritative. It worked and you went to him at once, offering a half-hearted farewell to Evander.

    “You’re welcome to the east wing, stay as long as you need,” you called to him over your shoulder as you walked off.

    The remainder of the day was filled with the usual tedium of princely duties. You performed dull tasks, one after another until night crept upon you. After a supper surrounded by Evander and his consorts in waiting, you found yourself alone again, undressing before Lieutenant Lee.

“Why do you insist on this? My servants will start a riot. They will think they are being displaced of their duties, turned out of the palace,” you huffed. Lieutenant Lee ignored you, stripping off your undergarment with the indifference of one changing a bedsheet. You wished you could do the same thing to him, and stood imagining yourself freeing him of his armor, running your hands along his stiff and bulging...

    “In nudity you are most vulnerable. I don’t trust you under the watch of anyone but me. They are not as thorough as I am. They cannot protect you in an ambush.”

    “Gods you’re overestimating my enemies. Whoever they may be, they’re cowards. They had to employ wines and posions to do the work of ending me. Couldn't even put steel to flesh like real men.” Lieutenant Lee chuckled at this and your heart quickened. That sound. Fuck, that beautiful sound. It did things to you, and when you were out of your clothes, you rushed to the bath, concealing yourself in the water. 

He cleaned you with the same tenderness he had the night prior, sliding his large hands up and down the length of your torso, across the span of your chest. He did you the courtesy of letting you cleanse your privates on your own, but this did little to ease you—his presence alone was enough to send the blood pumping to your head—the one that didn’t do your thinking.

    When you were clean, he fetched a cloth. You rose, shielding your steadily growing length from him. If he had noticed a change in you, he said nothing, merely covered you and led you back to your quarters. Then left you to stand guard outside your door.

    There was a vial of oil stowed in your bedside table. You seized it and lay on your back. He was all you could think of as you worked to quell the aching throb between your legs.

The following day went much the same as the previous, and the next, and the next, and the one after. As did the nights. Each bath with him drove you a touch madder than the last. Not only for being so near to him, for breathing in the sultry scent of his perfumed sweat, but for the way he was so utterly unmoved by you, as if you were but a fixture on the wall, or a piece of furniture strewn about the palace. Something there and nothing more. You were certain he felt no throbbing, no ache or raging want to press his skin against yours. 

Every one of your guards had a rumor or more about their escapades. They were all of them highly desirable men and women, selected for their skill, their charm, their devotion. Sarafine had seduced every maiden in the court with her sweet tongue and flowing braids. She had even tempted you. Maxim had wooed both men and women, sometimes even stealing away married nobles from their wives or husbands. There was sordid talk of almost all your garrison, save for Lieutenant Lee. It was as if he was made of stone.

****

Nearly a fortnight had passed and Evander had still not left the palace. Lieutenant Lee was deep in the inquisition all the while. He had ruled out many of his suspects and you were growing weary of seeing Evander sulk about the courtyards. You had resolved to confront him in private, and managed to sneak away from Lieutenant Lee’s prying eyes long enough to practice what you’d say to Evander aloud. You sequestered yourself in the great palace library, where no ears could overhear you. It was quiet, and carried the soothing smell of old pages. It was everything you needed. So silent and familiar it was, that you did not even notice the figure that crept behind you until their hands were wrapped around your throat. You felt the blade against your neck and panic overcame you.

    “The baron sends his regards, and his sympathy for not ensuring your demise at the gala, it would have been a cleaner death than this.”

    There was nothing you could do but pray to the goddess for a swift end. Whoever this was, had caught you completely off guard. You clamped your eyes shut, and braced for the pain. 

But it did not come. 

There was a loud shriek and the harsh sounds of fists against flesh, against jaws. You turned and saw Lieutenant Lee, panting over your attacker, sword drawn and already at his neck. You recognized the man as one of Evander’s consorts—a lord in waiting. 

Lieutenant Lee did not relent his assault, even when the man was bloodied and beaten delirious. The rest of your royal garrison came in and carried him off so that you did not have to look upon him. 

A short while later, Evander was jailed and a warrant of arrest was dispatched for his father, the baron. If you had been killed, your sister would be next in line for the throne—next in line to be courted by another of the baron's power hungry sons. The nerve of them, of Evander, after all the courtesy you had shown.

    You could think of nothing but the injustice, and the fact that Lieutenant Lee had not said a word to you for the remainder of the day. He must have been angry with you for trying to shirk him. Even so, he had still sent the servants away, despite the fact that he had vanquished the threat upon your life. He bathed you in his normal, stoic fashion, but you flinched from him as he brought the cloth to your neck. A flashback of the attack had taken over you.

    “You are still shaken,” he said, lowering the cloth.

    “I’m alright. Or I will be, in time.”

    He said nothing more and carried on in his usual way. 

In your chamber he lingered, drying your hair with a cloth and checking the small cut on your neck where the blade had dug in. He spread a healing, herbal balm on it. Your eyes met, and held as the pad of his finger worked it in. 

    “Th-thank you, for saving my—my—”

    “You are my prince. It is my duty, my honor. I need no thanks.”

    Something possessed you in that moment—perhaps it was the memory of him fighting so valiantly to save your life. Or the conviction in his declaration. Whatever it was stirred you to action and you did not think, you did not hesitate. Your lips were on his in an instant, eager hands slipping under the armor that kept him from you. 

He did not stop you from this, he simply stood still, and let you do as you wanted. You took liberty with this allowance, and a grunt escaped him as you palmed his length. It doubled in size with a few hard circles rubbed against it and this is when he stopped you. Swatting your hand away and lifting you—lifting you! 

You nearly gasped as he carried you to the bed, as his hands worked to shed you of your robes. Those hands which had grazed you so many times. Touching you without feeling you. Now they aimed to please you. He reached, and took you in his large palm, stroking until you were hard as stone in his grasp—it took mere seconds.

    “Oil, is there any here?” he whispered, breathing the words into your mouth between kisses. You snatched it from your bedside table and pressed it into his palm. He took his time sliding into your entrance with his rigid length. There was so much of him to take. 

You had never imagined he would be such a gentle lover.

    “You will tell me if it hurts my lord?” he cooed as he eased himself inside you. You nodded, already lying to him. It hurt but you wanted the pain, you wanted it because he was giving it to you.

    “Don’t stop,” you said, breathless. He did not stop. Pleasure danced across his features as he buried himself inside you. He was so handsome under its influence. His strokes were long, deep. He told you of your beauty with each one, of your tightness, of the way you clenched around him, of how he longed to be the only one to feel the depths of you each night. Was this the same man who had guarded you day after day? Cold and unyielding as a marble sculpture. He was nothing like that now, as the heat of him filled you, as he pumped your stiff cock and fed you his length until you met your release. Warm ropes painted your abdomen. More painted your stretched and pulsing entrance as he spilled his warmth inside you. You went on this way for hours, and lost count of how many loads you lost to his oil-slick pulls, his ardent pumps. Until finally he collapsed on top of you, grunting with the vestiges of his high. You kissed him, holding his face with both hands.

    “I did not think you desired me,” you said.

    A chuckle, breathy and spent.

    “Of course I do. I am sworn to you. You are my prince—my heart.”

[astermagne]

Adamsapple Vampire Au Comfort mini fic

Adam was panting heavily in bed. A recent fight had left him with a concerning amount of blood loss, and honestly, his makeup hid the changes to his features pretty well. Lightheaded, dizzy, he could barely keep his head up. Fuuuuuuck.

It wouldn’t last more than what, 3, 4, 5 hours tops but u g h . This feeling sucked!

The door to his room opened, and Adam let out a snarl. “Go away! I ordered you all to just, fuck, let me be! Can’t you take an order, fucking- “ The brunette stopped when he saw who was at the door. No one in uniform, that’s for sure. The pure white certainly was a different sight to see form the usual greys and blacks people for here.

“Is that any way to say hello to a guest?”

“Lucifer- fuck- what -“ He pushed himself up to sit , but winced. His back hurt, his neck hurt, ugh , everything in his upper body hurt. He could swear there were two Lucifers at some point.

The blonde had a chalice with him, apparently, as Adam found out when it touched his hips. He leaned back only slightly, and as soon as the golden yellow liquid touched his lips, he began to swallow, to drink ravenously. It was cold. But the taste, exquisite. And when it was done, the aftertaste still lingered in his mouth like wine. His head fell back against the frame and he stared at the other.

“Where’d you get it.”

Lucifer chuckled. “Does it matter where I got it? You certainly didn’t seem to care when you drank it like the desert drinks water.”

An unsatisfied stare from Adam made the other clear his throat. “I have my ways. “ he continued with a hand gesture. “ None of yours , I can assure you. “ Lucifer sat on the bed next to Adam. Adam grabbed Lucifer’s wrist almost immediately, and brought it up to his face. Turning it. Free from any wound…it only made his brows furrow and his curiosity grow.

Slowly his headache started to leave..not completely, though. But if was more bearable at least..

But the one main question remained.

Where did he get such blood..?

This was supposed to be a comfort thing but now it’s a mystery thing

Where do you think that blood came from 👀?

[leynaeithnea]

Got a song stuck in my mind, now its your turn:

ELPEEENOOOR

I died but nobody noticed :< I died but nobody cared :<

Elpeeenor, how did this happen? When did you meet your despair??

I DRANK WINE FROM A CHALICE ON TOP OF CIRCES PALACE AND FELL AND BROKE MY NECK IN SHAME, BUT WHAT DO YOU CARE??? >:[ SO MANY DEATHS HAPPEN UNDER YOUUR REIGNN ~

[atomic--peach]

Her Grace's Handmaiden Pt 20

(Sandor Clegane x Fem Reader x Cersei Lannister HEAVY SPOILER TW: pregnancy loss)

AO3 version: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48276340

News of Lord Renly's death swept the court and you were genuinely sorry to hear of it.

You had only met Renly a few times, but each time he had been kind to you.

But with Renly now dead, Stannis had claimed his remaining forces and tripled the size of his army.

It did not take a genius to understand that King's Landing was under threat.

According to The Master of War, they were only a few weeks away by ship.

As the fleet drew closer, you received a surprising invitation.

It had been 2 months since you had stood in the presence of Queen Cersei. You hadn't looked at each other, you hadn't spoken to or about one another.

You refused to be the first to crack.

You weren't the same scared girl who had followed the Lion Queen across the continent nearly a year ago, now you were a lady, the wife of one of the fiercest men in Westeros, and soon to be a mother.

You would not crack.

"The Queen wished to see you, My Lady."

Lancel looked pale and skittish. You figured the knowledge that his first real war was looming just beyond the water's edge was wearing on him.

"You should get some rest." you counseled him. "You look tired."

Sandor wanted to come with you, lest you return with fresh cuts and bruises, but you would only allow him to escort you to the royal quarters.

Even with the crutch Pycelle provided, walking proved to be a challenge.

Your ankle had healed enough to bear a little weight, but your pregnant belly made it hard to keep your balance.

Cersei was waiting for you with a jug of red and two chalices laid out with cakes and cheeses. She kept no handmaids about for your visit.

"You're looking better." Was the first thing she said. "Please sit."

"Many thanks, Your Grace." you nodded, moving to sit carefully grunting a little as you did.

"My love." Cersei sighed, "I wanted to say I'm sorry."

You smiled a little, relieved.

"It's all but forgotten, my queen."

"No" Cersei shook her head. "I was angry, frustrated with my brother and the council, and his grace. And I took it out on you. That wasn't right of me."

This show of accountability left you speechless in the best of ways. You almost wanted to pull Sandor in and say "Look, see. I told you."

"You must be famished." Cersei moved to pour the wine, "I know I was in my final days."

"My Queen. Forgive me, I am so happy we're speaking again," you confessed, accepting the chalice gladly. "I love my husband, but...I missed you so much. It was like someone had punched a hole out of my chest and left an empty space."

Cersei smiled a little, taking a deep drink of the wine and motioning for you to do the same.

You obeyed.

"Pycelle says I shouldn't drink too much wine or ale" You filled the air with your words, not noticing the queen had gone silent.

"He says it might hurt the baby, but it's so late in. Only two more months now. Surely just a glass or two wouldn't hurt."

"Of course not" Cersei brushed off the Grandmaester as if he were nothing more than a sideshow magician. "Drink as much as you like my pet." Cersei took your hand, squeezing it and you felt as if she was squeezing your heart.

"I am so glad you're back where you belong."

You drank and laughed together into the evening.

You ventured another glass of wine. It tasted different this time, less sweet.

The drink had an herby, earthy taste to it, different from the Reds and Golds you usually drank.

Glancing into the cup and you found the liquid to be dark, almost black.

"What vintage is this? I don't know that I've ever tasted it before."

Cersei paused and smiled, "Oh just, something I have been working on. We have land in the Arbor, as you know. With the King nearly grown, soon he won't need his mother's help, so I've taken up a new hobby."

You nodded, struck suddenly by how heavy your head was on your neck. you must have drunk too much.

Setting the chalice aside, you tried to focus your vision.

"I beg your pardon," you swallowed, finding your throat dry and acidic, "But I think I'm a little drunk, I should-"

Your body grew intolerably hot, but no sweat came to cool you. You tried to stand, reaching for your crutch but your fingers fumbled against the wood's grain and it fell to the floor.

You looked to the queen and found your vision doubling, the world around you swaying and tilting as the sound of yourr own panting filled your head.

"My Queen-"

"Sh, sh, sh, sh" Cersei watched you with stony eyes, calm as can be.

"Hush now, love."

"Please."

"This needed to happen, pet" Cersei explained. "I would have told you if I thought you'd understand. But that's fine because I'm handling it. Just relax and let it happen."

Your body was on fire, and if you had the strength, you would have been desperately trying to peel your gown and small clothes off for some relief.

A pain was growing in your belly, which made your heart race as you frantically tried to will it away.

No, you begged the gods for help. No please, please help me. Please don't let this happen.

The Queen was trying to kill me.

Varys' word to you rang in your ears.

"There's more than one way to be rid of the troublesome wife."

No.

You would have sobbed if it hadn't felt like every drop of water had been sucked from your body, leaving you stiff and burning.

You tried to rise once again, pushing yourself from the chair only to crash onto the carpet. your ankle screamed with pain as you tried to crawl across the floor, desperate to make it to the door.

Cersei rose as this, grabbing your arm and flinging you limply onto your back.

To your horror, Cersei knelt between your legs and lifted your skirts critically.

What was she looking for?

"Not yet" she grumbled, looking down on her lover pitilessly.

You lay on the ground for what felt like hours.

The blurred edges of your vision crept inward until the whole world was a blur. No hard or defined lines, only masses, and shapes.

Your ears felt as if they were plugged with cotton, every sound was muffled save for your own breathing.

You felt like a dry dead tree thrown on the fire, the heat never letting up for even a moment as the pain that started in your belly spread up to your spine and down through every muscle in your legs.

You wanted to rise. To run.

But when you tried, your body began to shake uncontrollably.

Your movements were no longer your own and you felt the muscles of your throat being to seize and shake along with every other particle in your body.

You could vaguely hear Cersei begin to call for aid.

You were momentarily aware of hands gripping you because their touch only made the fire burn hotter. You must still be thrashing because the hands held tighter.

People were talking, yelling even, but you would not make out the words.

You were moving, and the slight breeze that blew across your brow felt like heaven.

I'm dying, you wanted to say, there's no saving me.

I should have let Sandor come.

I shouldn't have gone at all.

I never should have gone to the docks.

We never should have agreed to wait 3 more months before leaving.

Wherever you were, it was dark.

Or had your vision gone completely?

You could hear the frantic sounds of movement.

You felt hands gripping your body to move it around as needed.

After a while tou were completely unaware of your body outside of the heat.

Where were your arms?

Were your legs still there?

Was your head simply floating around, unattached?

It was hard to tell.

Then came the pain.

The real pain.

Pain you had no concept of until right at this moment, and even now it was so overwhelming you couldn't comprehend it.

It was as though your body was being slowly torn apart at the seams.

Your very being was forced to condense and expand on the whim of some unseen and unknowable force, and you were powerless to stop it.

You had no concept of how long the pain had racked your body. It could have been 10 hours just as easily as it could have been 10 minutes.

And all at once, the pain was over.

You weren't sure if you had blacked out, or if you had died, but your body had altogether gone slack, and you had never been so grateful for anything in your life.

Your skin still burned, but some angel from heaven had begun to lay cool clothes soaked in cold water over your body.

Someone was speaking to you.

Or was that just your own mind?

It didn't matter.

You could only pick up one word.

Sleep.

You obeyed gratefully.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

By the time you had awakened, arrangements for your funeral were being made.

You lay on a small cot, close to a window. It was daylight.

Your body ached as if you had gone to war.

The sheet that covered you clung to your body with sweat and you struggled to raise your arms to stretch.

You felt as if you were made of wood, joints immovable and creaking from lack of use.

Yiu sat up slowly and froze. Hands traveled down your body, over breast, ribs, and down

to your stomach.

It was gone.

Where had it gone?

pulse racing as you tried to stand, crying out at the shot of pain that bolted through your leg.

the sound of clattering glass and shuffling feet answered your cry as Pycelle rushed to find you leaning against his workbench, disoriented and panicked.

"My Lady" He cried, "Please sit back down, please."

"Where is he?" you stared at him with wild eyes, hair falling loose from a braid someone else had done. "Where is he?"

"Your husband is on his way, My Lady. Please!" Pycelle took your wrist and motioned back to the cot, "Please sit. You will tear your stitching."

"Not my husband, my son! Where is my son?"

Pycelle blanched but succeeded in getting you to sit back down by the time others began to enter the Grandmaester's quarters.

Sandor came first, followed quickly by Queen Cersei, and Lady Sansa.

You looked at them all with wide, confused eyes.

"Sandor." You breathed, reaching for your husband for reassurance. "Where is he? Where is our son?"

Sandor didn't answer at first. He wanted to run to you, to embrace you tightly.

But he couldn't, not in front of them.

"My Lady." Pycelle began again, "Please listen to me."

He pulled your full attention as he moved to sit next to you, taking your hand in his.

"My Lady, you had a terrible fit. Do you remember that?"

"No?" You shook your head, "I don't remember anything, I- I think Her Grace summoned me, and after that, I don't-"

"It was during your visit with the queen that you took ill. You fell into a terrible state, and while it was quite the fight, we were able to bring you back. But..."

He looked to Sandor, suddenly at a loss for words.

"My Lord, I think it best you go from here."

Sandor swallowed hard but took Pycelle's place next to you.

Your eyes were so pleading and desperate, he couldn't look at them.

"After a few hours, they told me they would only be able to save one of you, and I had to choose between you and our son.....Darling, I'm so sorry."

Your soul froze and dropped to the deepest pit of your stomach.

"That's a lie." You shook your head, "That's a lie, you're lying, it didn't-they never- No! No, No, No!"

He held you. You screamed your rage to the heavens and beat your fists on his arms, but he held you.

"How did it happen?" You demanded, "I don't understand! I don't!"

"There is no way to tell, I am afraid." Pycelle remained calm, as was his duty in these particularly hard situations. "Sometimes these things happen."

"I want to see him!" You wailed, "I don't believe you! I want to see him!"

"No, my love." Sandor gripped you tightly, pinning your arms to your sides as you tried to claw yourself up from the cot, "He's been buried."

"So soon?" You blinked.

"My dear," Cersei said delicately. "You've been asleep for almost 2 weeks; we feared you would never wake up."

It was as if the world had come crashing down around you.

There was no future, no past, there was only this moment.

Only this debilitating pain that knew no end.

"I think it would be best if Lady Clegane take some time to process." Pycelle insisted.

"Yes, of course." Cersei took Sansa's arm. The teen had begun to silently weep for her friend.

"Come, little dove. Clegane, take a few days. I will explain it to the King."

Sandor nodded and his wife melted into him silently.

"I need to see it" you begged, "please, I need to see his grave."

-------------------------------------------------------------------

It was supposed to be a high honor to be buried in the crypts of King's Landing.

And honor reserved for kings and their families.

The tiny grave was set aside, away from the hulking stone monuments to great men.

"There's no name." You observed, leaning on your husband, "I- I suppose we never actually discussed one."

Sandor was silent, eyes trained on the small stone monument to a life that had not lasted more than a day.

At first, he hoped against hope that the child would live.

He was so small. So small Sandor was at a loss what to do with him when they placed his son in his arms.

His face was red and squished, but he never cried. Not once.

After the first few hours, when he hadn't died, The Hound thought maybe, just maybe they had beaten the odds.

He was his son after all.

He came from a line of strong men.

His mother was the strongest woman Sandor had ever met.

Sandor never prayed but that night he had.

He prayed to the Mother to have mercy on his wife and child, the Smith to aid the Maesters in their work, and the Father for the strength to care for his son if you didn't make it.

His son passed silently the day after he was down. It was peaceful, and he hoped it had been without pain.

The Silent Sisters took his tiny body away to prepare it for burial, and Sandor never saw him again.

He hadn't realized he was crying until you pulled him tightly to you, reaching up to touch his face.

"Oh, my love." You breathed, "I should have been there with you."

"He was so small." Sandor's voice caught, "I hoped maybe he would- but he went quietly. He didn't suffer."

You stood there in the darkness of the crypt, the torchlight licking at your skin and sending your shadows dancing across the stone walls.

You both cried bitter tears for your child, saying a million goodbyes to the stone memorial but neither was willing to leave.

"Lady Clegane."

A light voice cut through the darkness and you pulled from your husband's embrace, squinting in the darkness.

"Varys?"

"We haven't the time for your nonsense, Spider." Sandor growled, "Have some decency."

"Decency, my friend, is what brings me here." Varys come dressed in black, out of respect for his friend's mourning. "I brought someone I believe you are both familiar with. Come, son."

Lancel stepped out of the shadows, his head bent low as he approached the two of you.

"Lancel?" You blinked in confusion, "What is this?"

"Tell them what you told me." Varys insisted.

"Ser, My Lady" Lancel began, "I know you have no memory of what happened, but I beg of both of you to believe me when I say my words are the truth."

"Go on" Sandor was interested now. The Lannister boy had made it a point to stay out of The Hound's line of sight since that night in the King's Wood. He had a lot of balls to present himself mere weeks after his son's death.

"Your son's death was no accident." Lancel insisted, "I know how it sounds, but please listen. The Queen knew that once you had given birth, you would leave for the Westerlands. She was desperate to make you stay, and one day she returned from Pycelle's with a potion. I asked her what it was for and she said I wasn't...." he paused there swallowing his embarrassment for the sake of the truth.

"She said she didn't want to risk getting pregnant by me, so she was taking it every night to make sure it didn't happen. But I never saw her take them. "

Your eyes widened in horror, "The night I went to see her. I remember the wine. It tasted different; I couldn't put my finger on it."

Your face twisted, "No. No, Her Grace...she wouldn't do something like that. She knew what this baby meant to me."

"I'm so sorry." Lancel looked at you distraught, "If I had known, I would have come straight away. I swear that on my life. I never would have sent you to her."

"Boy, I need you to look me in the eyes and tell me you are certain what you just said is the truth."

Sandor moved in front of you and met the young knight face to face.

"I'd swear it before The Seven themselves."

"Swear it to me."

"I swear."

Lancel made his face serious as the grave as Sandor studied him before nodding.

"We must go." Varys said, "Before we are found out. You two go up the way you came, Lancel you follow me. My Dear-"

Vary's caught your hand and you found his eyes uncommonly sincere.

"I know I didn't always look out for your best interests, but I hardly have the words to express my sorrow. I mourn with you."

You felt tears in your eyes again and wiped them away quickly.

"Thank you, Varys, and you Lancel, for the truth."

"Use it wisely" he advised you before disappearing once again into the darkness. Lancel hung back for a moment until Sandor nodded to him.

"You know what must be done," you swallowed coldly, not looking at your husband and instead staring at the nameless grave before you. "She get away with this. I won't let her "

"She won't, my love." Sandor's grip on your shoulder was strong, "I promise you."

You nodded slowly, approaching the grave and kneeling. You ran your fingers over the blank stone and breathed a hard and almost painful sigh.

"I know what name should go here."

"What?"

"Aello" you breathed, the name becoming a vow as it passed your lips.

"Aello" Sandor echoed. He'd heard that name before. He'd forgotten where. "Why that name?"

You looked back at him, the torch light casting a gleam in your eyes that he had never seen before.

"It means Storm."

[heartsickelf]

Your Mother Loved You (Chapter 2)

Summary:

Suffering from the loss of the Queen many decades later, Thranduil and Legolas still search for ways to cope with the loss while Thranduil struggles to take on the role of both parents while protecting his kingdom and raising his son. Legolas realises there may be a way to see his mother again.

Chapter 2

Many decades had passed since that horrific day that still laid heavily on young Legolas’ heart, mind, and soul. His father who had previously not been as active in his upbringing and usually left the affection and emotional development to his mother, became present and involved in all aspects of his son's upbringing. Thranduil took upon himself the role of two parents as best he could and gave as much time to his now motherless son as his position allowed. Many nights the King would find himself rushing to Legolas’ room to calm his sleeping child who was reliving the loss of his mother in his dreams. Legolas’ screams could be heard throughout the royal hallways and each time his father secured him in the safety of his arms and gently rocked him back and forth, whispering words of comfort that would penetrate the horrific dreams until they faded away and allowed his son to rest.

These nights were becoming fewer and fewer as time passed, however, the emotional and physical toll they were having on the King was starting to show. As he promised his son and the spirit of his wife that he would be there for their child, to help Legolas heal from the trauma of losing her in such a violent way, Thranduil pushed his own emotional needs to the side. He never really took the time his heart needed to begin it’s own healing journey as he prioritised his son above himself. The nights when Legolas was able to rest peacefully and dream of better days were the nights that hit Thranduil hardest, as his own memories of that night would flood his mind since his son was not providing a distraction. The sensation of her cold, lifeless body against his warm skin as he held her against him, trying to will the life back into her. The sight of her blood which had soaked the front and back of her mauve-coloured dress from where the sword had penetrated her body from behind and pierced through to the front. The fear of momentarily believing that his son had also been killed before finding him alive and safe within the embrace of his forest. These memories plagued the King more deeply than he realised and it wasn’t until he was alone that he allowed them to take over.

Grabbing a pitcher of wine, Thranduil started to pour himself a drink into a chalice. As the wine was flowing from the pitcher into the chalice, Thranduil realised that this particular cup was the one he drank from on the night of his wedding. His mind had wandered briefly to that time, remembering how he embraced his new wife as they slowly swayed to the sound of elvish music, listening to words and melodies wishing them a long, happy life together. The wine spilled over the top of the chalice bringing Thranduil’s attention back to the present. He was a widow, left behind to face the ages of this world alone. He threw the pitcher against a wall, shattering it causing shards of glass and drops of wine to scatter across his chambers. Looking back down to the chalice, he picked up the over-full cup and hurled it at the mirror which also shattered, pieces falling to the floor and fragmenting upon impact, making his chambers even more unsafe to be in.

Falling to the floor, Thranduil placed his hands over his face and let out a blood-curdling scream whilst leaning over until his forehead touched the ground. Upon hearing the shattering glass and scream from his King, Feren rushed through the door of the King’s chambers.

“My Lord! Is everything alr….”. Feren’s voice faltered as he took in the sight of his broken King and friend. Tears forming in his eyes which he quickly brushed away as this was not the time for his own emotions to surface. “My Lord, I am sorry. Do you wish me to leave?”.

Thranduil’s breath was shaking in his chest as he sat up on the heels of his feet and looked at his captain before staring into the fireplace. “Why was she taken from me, from our son, Feren? How could Valar have allowed her to suffer as she did during her end? Did she not serve her people, her Kingdom well enough to earn her path to the Undying Lands? Why am I here while she is not? And Legolas, my precious boy, endured and continues to harbor so much trauma from that day while I can do nothing but offer reassurance and comfort while craving such support myself. How do I go on, knowing that the wrong parent was taken that day? She would have protected Mirkwood just as well as I while raising Legolas far better than I ever could. She was our sun, our strength, and our healer. How does life continue without a sun?”. Thranduil’s words struck Feren in his heart and he could not find the words nor the will to respond. Instead, he walked towards his King who was still kneeling on the glass-covered floor, and placed a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder.

“My Lord, our sun has faded. Your people have felt it every day since the loss of our Queen. But, with your undying love for Legolas, a new sun shall rise within him, and with that, warmth will once again spread through this kingdom as he embraces his mother’s spirit more and more with time. The Queen lives, my King. She is felt within each word you impart on your people; with each embrace you give the prince. Her body is gone but her spirit has never left yours nor your son’s sides and her strength remains within the hearts of your people. Do not falter, my Lord, for she would not have allowed that. To see you like this would surely have broken her heart.” Upon speaking those words, rain could be heard gently falling outside, almost as if they were the tears of the Valar itself. Feren felt the touch of a hand reach up to clasp the top of his own that was still resting on his King’s shoulder. Letting out a sigh, Thranduil stood up and faced his captain.

“Feren, I never thanked you for what you did for my wife that evening. It did not occur to me how difficult bringing her back home in that manner would have been for both you and the guards. You did so with the utmost respect and loyalty to your Queen. I can feel in your words how this loss has affected you, even after all this time. You share this emptiness with myself, my son, and all who loved her.” Thranduil brought Feren into his space, holding one of his captain’s forearms with one of his hands and the back of Feren’s head with the other. The King touched his forehead to his captains as a sign of understanding and respect.

“My Lord, it was my duty and my honor.” Feren said as they moved back from one another, taking in the exhausted appearance of the King’s eyes. “With your permission, I will watch over Legolas this evening so you can sleep. Your son and your kingdom need you and you must be rested in order to continue performing admirably.” Thranduil closed his eyes and gently nodded his head, acknowledging Feren’s request and taking on board his words. “That would be appreciated, Feren. Thank you. It seems perhaps that this night is one of the better ones for Legolas as he continues to sleep soundly. I shall assist my rest this evening with medicinal tea. Perhaps she will appear to me during my deep sleep and fill me with words of encouragement.”

“In that case, my Lord, I shall take my leave. Rest peacefully, for the sun shall rise again” Feren turned around to leave the King’s chambers. As he headed for the doors to make his exit, he failed to hear the gentle steps of a young elf running away down the hall. Legolas had heard and seen everything that had transpired within his father’s chambers, after being woken up from the sounds of glass shattering. Reaching his bed, the prince quickly jumped in and pulled the covers up over his head out of fear that Feren had heard him scurry away and would be coming to check on him. When he heard no one approaching, Legolas pulled down the covers to his shoulders and turned over so he was looking up at the ceiling. His mind replayed all that was said between his father and the captain. Then he remembered the words his father uttered on the night of his mother's passing: “…we shall meet again in the halls of Mandos. Rest now and await my arrival”. Those words his father had spoken whirled through the young prince’s mind every day since that moment and now tonight, his father once again noted that he would see her in his sleep after taking a medicinal tea, a tea that elves of Legolas’ age were not permitted to ingest as their young forms would not be able to break down the properties effectively.

In that moment, Legolas knew what he needed to do. Like the King, he also needed his mother’s comfort and if it were possible to reach her again as his father kept implying, he would find her by any means necessary. The prince closed his eyes in the hopes of being able to drift off to a peaceful sleep while in his mind, he set out a plan to gather what he needed for the following evening. Tomorrow, while his father was busy with his council, Legolas would find this medicinal tea so he could look upon his mother and hopefully fall into her arms once more.