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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 1 month

Note

OMG no way are you going to write an AU of Daemon's visions at Harrenhal??? I know its AAAAAGES away from where you are in the current story but desperate hos wanna kno ;)

Ask, and ye shall receive!

until i bleed myself dry

Note: This is technically using the characters/characterisation I have established in my terms of endearment series, but really you only need to know that the Reader is Rhaenyra's younger sister and that, instead of marrying Laena, he spent a decade ho-ing it up in Pentos before coming home and getting dazzled by his niece before deciding to wife dat gurl.

WARNING: Please note this is dark, dark stuff. Discretion is advised. Please use your judgement wisely before engaging.

Triggers: graphic depictions of violence, violence against children, character d*ath, MAJOR hallucinations, sexual scenes including visibly underaged character/s.

There is something fucking wrong with this place.

Daemon feels like a skittish child as he withdraws to his chambers, covers drawn up to his neck like the fabric will keep away the very worst of midnight evils. He does not know if the steady drip, drip, drip he hears is in his head or if the stone ceiling is cracked enough to let through the rain. Knowing Harrenhal, he would hardly be surprised by the latter. Still, the noise only serves to speed the racing of his thoughts, turning them fearful as he has not felt since the weakness of his youth.

In this moment, he curses his own doings. If he had stayed his hand—if he had held his tongue—the boy would not be dead, and mayhaps you would not be so wroth with him. He would not be alone in this shithole of a keep a world away, chilled to the bone and miserable as he thinks of you warm and safe in your bed with the children. Without him.

When he finally falls asleep, he dreams.

He knows it is a dream, for he can hear your humming. Soft, sweet, the kind of tune you sing to Daeryx after one of his tantrums. His head lifts from the pillow and he finds himself back in your shared rooms on Dragonstone, eyes finding you in the chair by the hearth. Your hair, unbound, shines like molten amber in the firelight, swaying softly as you tend to business that is concealed from his gaze. Enthralled, he rises, making his way to you.

Drip, drip, drip.

He pauses. That sound… it doesn’t belong here. He calls your name. You ignore him. He moves closer, tentative.

“Come look,” you murmur suddenly, startling him. “Come, kepus.”

His feet move unbidden, out of his control.

Bile pools at the back of his throat, gut curdling at the sight of the boy—the boy—cradled in your lap. You and he are wet with blood, and it drip, drip, drips to the floor, echoing eerily. His eyes are open, face petrified, and Daemon realises that the dark at his neck is not in fact a shadow but a gaping wound, made jagged by the weapon used.

You look up at him, skin shining with sweat and expression exultant. “Look at him, kepus. Look at what you made.”

Memory flashes—he brings his son back down to rest beside his daughter on your lap, two moonshine miracles side by side. “Look at them, kepus,” you whisper, spellbound. “Look at what we made”—and his lungs constrict. You make to lift the child up, but the movement jostles his head off its perch, and it rolls to the ground to stop by his feet. He cannot move. He is frozen, horrified.

You smile, tucking the headless corpse under your chin. Gore pulses against your throat as your chin settles to the yawning maw of the child’s open neck. You rock in your seat, a faint squelch each time your shifting weight disturbs the sodden cushion beneath you.

“I love him,” you whisper, lips pressing to where flesh meets innards. Your mouth comes away red. “I love him so much.”

Daemon awakens with a yell. He swallows once, twice, and then—

He leans over the side of the bed, retching violently. When it is over, he curls up on his side, shaking, staring at his hands. They are wet with blood.

It does not take long for terror to settle in his bones like a longtime companion. It follows him each day, in every waking moment, manifesting in strange visions that he knows—he knows—must be untrue, cannot possibly be real, and yet… And yet. There is a sort of verity in them.

Dark Sister feels like a leaden weight at his hip as he stalks the keep, a reminder of his earlier encounter with Rhaenyra. Only she was not the Rhaenyra he knows, and instead a strange sort of blend of child-queen, the face of the girl peering out accusingly from under her father’s too-large crown, exclaiming all manner of hurt as she stepped from the Iron Throne upon which she perched.

“You put me on that throne. And you love me, and you hate me for it. You created me, Daemon. Yet you are now set on destroying me. All because your brother loved me more than he did you.”

And, without warning, he had taken his blade up in arms and struck off her head, a puppet on strings pulled by another. As her body fell, it morphed into the boy again. Jaehaerys. The child he had murdered. He heard your humming even while Simon Strong’s voice filtered through his unconscious mind, alerting him of the raven that just arrived.

The healer woman’s concoctions have helped little. He still wakes to strange noises, still finds himself stalking after his monstrous one-eyed nephew down the halls, only to find that it is himself he is pursuing. He hears the words you yelled at him in that last great quarrel— “get away, leave before you turn on us and murder us like you murdered that boy”—interspersed with the sound of your screams, and perhaps they are the screams you let out when birthing his children, or perhaps they are screams of a different kind, a version of himself making good on the implication of your words, steel in hand and pursuing his love, his life, his blood—

These figments blur with reality to the point that he becomes unsure of what is before him and what exists only in his head to haunt him. He comes to dread the resting hours, only to find their horrors bleeding into daylight. Whatever strange power has come to roost in his mind serves only to bring him torment.

Perhaps this is why he is not immediately suspicious when he comes face-to-face with you once more.

You stand by the window, the dim light filtering weakly over your bare form. Your back is to him, curls spilling to brush the tops of your buttocks. Their gentle sway—the barest kiss to your skin—is tantalising, and his mouth dries even as he watches your neck crane, sly smile tossed back over your shoulder at him.

“Daemon,” you beckon. Like a cuntstruck fool, he is helpless to resist the call.

His hands settle to the familiar divots of your waist, up and up and up to cup the fullness of your tits. You lean into him, a quiet huff of pleasure escaping as his fingers squeeze and his lips fall unbidden to the slope of your jaw. He inhales deeply, stirred even now by the simplicity of your scent, a throbbing line straight to his groin. You turn in his hold, nose nuzzling against his chin.

“You were right,” you say, eyes shining. “You were always right.”

He is under some enchantment, surely, for he is incapable of coherent speech. All he can do is feel the satisfaction heat his veins, allow it to tug at the corner of his mouth. I knew it, he thinks. I knew her will would bend eventually.

You speak still, even as he backs you toward the bed. “Papa was weak. Rhaenyra is weak. Only you are the true blood of the dragon.”

You shift backward onto the mattress, legs parting invitingly. The split of you opens, revealing flushed folds and the teasing glimmer of want, shining slick for his hungered gaze.

“Fearless”—your hand trails down your belly, fingers tracing around your pearl—“brave”—you venture lower, pressing teasingly at your cunt, your lip caught between your teeth—“strong.”

Daemon drops to his knees before you, tongue licking through the spill and catching on your finger. He bullies it out of the way, arms locking around your thighs as he gluts himself on the sweet tang of you, senses clouding and narrowing to a singular point of existence. You grip his hair, the arches of your feet digging against his back.

“It is not my place to question you,” you breathe, twisting and writhing with his ministrations. He watches your face, enraptured by the toss of your head and the shape of your lips as they form moan after moan. Your release is quick, a final sobbing yelp followed by a flood of slick warmth. When your eyes reopen, they are blazing with reverence. Reverence for him. Your knees flex up, your lower half folded almost to your chest. Your cunt contracts, fluttering like the wings of a butterfly. “I live to serve you, my king.”

His head feels heavy as he rises just barely to crawl over you. He frowns. When he lifts his hand to extricate yours from his hair, he finds not flesh, but cool metal. A crown.

“My king,” you coo below him.

Your surroundings are changed. It is not the meagre offerings of Harrenhal that frame you now, but the sumptuous trimmings of the king’s chambers in the Red Keep, only brighter, more lavish than they ever have been. Jewels sparkle at your throat, in your hair, at your wrists. The sheets are molten gold against your silver-pale, and you wind your hips up at him provocatively, catching his cockhead against your opening.

“You belong on the throne, husband,” you say, fist closing around his shaft and pumping once, twice. You lead him back to the core of you, nudging him just inside. “Uncle. My love. And I belong at your side—at your feet—under your body.”

“My queen,” he gasps, driving forward with a grunt, and oh, he has missed you, missed this, missed the clutch of your walls like a mother’s embrace and the sound of your breathy cries as he plunges deep. Plunges home.

“My king,” you call out, rising into him with unrestrained abandon, precious gems clinking frantically with each fevered hitch of his hips against yours. “My lord. My master. I was made for you.”

“Yes…”

“Chain me to this bed, my king.” Your spine arches toward him, hands grabbing for his own and leading them above your head. He takes this for the encouragement it is, pinning your wrists to the pillow and rutting harder. You shout, elbows flexing to no avail. “Give to me my purpose. Give me your heirs.”

He is helpless to stop the noises escaping his mouth, feral and uninhibited, fucking with near painful intent. You take it all, curving yourself deeper, holding yourself more open so that he may lay claim to his conquest. As only a king can.

“And when I have birthed one,” you say, though now it is more a prolonged keening sound, “give me another. Never stop. Oh! Make me—make me take it—”

He does not know if he is imagining it or if it is happening before his eyes, but he can see it: ruling the Seven Kingdoms, sitting the Iron Throne the way his brother never could, striding down the halls of the keep as the commons bow and scrape to their sovereign, bursting into his chambers after small council to find his queen, to find you where you always are, naked in his bed and belly round and leaking milky white between your thighs, for it is his kingly law that the only part you play here is this, waiting for him to find you and fuck you and fill you and keep you, his little niecewifequeenpet—

He snarls, pulsing and burning. You squeal as he pushes past onslaught and straight to violence, bodies colliding so forcefully that his bones ache and his brain feels like jelly wobbling in his skull. What leaves his mouth can only be bestial in nature now. “I’ll make you—”

“Yes, make me take it until I cannot. Until my cunt is ruined by you.” He feels his end rushing up with every word you wail, his joints locking and grinding and gut roiling with the anticipation of it. “Until my womb is destroyed. Until I bleed myself dry, my king. Only for you.”

“Wha—”

The horror of it escapes him, for it is too late: the release crashes on him like a tidal wave, shoving him below its surface and imprisoning him in its current. He makes a noise like a wounded boar, chasing through the high despite the alarm in his mind, so at odds with the soaring rhythm in his loins.

You laugh, tilting welcomingly to receive him. “Make me bleed, my king. Make me bleed like my mother.”

It is enough to chill the heat in his blood to ice, destroying any semblance of enjoyment. But he cannot stop the unsteady eking out of what remains of his peak. He tries, but he cannot stop.

“No,” he says, a contradiction to the enthusiasm of his flesh prison. “No, no, I cannot. No—”

“What do you mean?” you ask, a strange quality to it. A duality. It crystallises into something comprehensible with every word that comes from your lips. All at once, it is not your voice he hears, but something much higher, younger, blending and overlapping with the cadence he recognises. “You already have.”

He looks down as he makes his final groaning thrusts, only to feel his stomach drop through the floor. Your thighs are soaked in blood, his cock sluicing a path through it all the while. All that flesh covered in red, and he glances up, only to see that you are gone, you are replaced by someone so small, so frightfully small, and he realises you are not replaced, it is you, but it is a you he has not seen for well over ten years, eyes wide and frightened and gleaming like game stuck through by an arrow and taking its final breath.

Daemon rears back, but it is too late. You begin to cry. A dark patch spreads out from underneath your broken body, from where he had torn your fragile opening apart. What have I done? he thinks.

“It hurts, kepus,” you say. “It hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, fixed to stillness by revulsion. “I’m sorry. I never meant to—”

“But you did,” you insist, childish pout despite your obvious agony.

Your hands reach out, and he leans away, too horrified to touch you—and he doesn’t know if it is you or he that he is more afraid of in this moment—but you are not searching through the air for him, no. Instead, a bundled weight is settled in them, and you bring it into the crook of your arms, gripping it as though it is the most precious of objects. You smooth the fabric from the top of it to reveal a tiny head of silver hair. The babe gurgles and roots at your flat chest, absurd and awful.

“This is what you wanted,” you say, eyes filled with betrayal. “Am I going to die now, kepus?”

Your Grace…

He shakes his head, but he is no fool. You are too little to withstand the sheer volume of blood you have lost if the bedding is anything to go by. He feels it stain his legs. He feels it drying on his cock.

“Your Grace?”

“I will, though. I’m too young. You’ve killed me.” The babe begins to suckle, and you cry harder. Your body isn’t built for this task, not yet, not like this. He wants to protest, to tell you that this is not his work, cannot be, for he has and would never do something so foul, so wholly inhuman, that the you he has gotten with child has only ever been a woman grown, but it is like you know his thoughts for you scoff and say, “You’re lying to yourself. I was always too young. You just refused to see it.”

He stares down at you, immobile, unable to even think. The metallic scent of your life leaving you fills the air, floods his nostrils with stinging heat.

“… Your Grace?”

Daemon jolts, blinking. Ser Simon Strong looks back at him. “Is the duck not to your liking, Your Grace?”

All at once, you are gone. The king’s chambers are gone. He is not even within his dank chambers at Harrenhal. Instead, he sits at the table in what passes for the dining hall here, a plate full of food steaming before him. The smell makes him ill.

“There’s also goose, if you’d prefer…”

He swallows, trying to ground himself in the present. Voices waft all around him, but he finds it difficult to pay attention.

“I’m not hungry,” he says shortly. It sounds stronger than he feels.

A pause, and then—

Simon clears his throat, turning to his companions. “I was saying, given the rather dire news…”

Daemon tries to concentrate. He does. He knows the others are speaking of matters of utmost importance. Of Rook’s Rest, of his nephew, of the war. But his mind can only turn over his encounter—his vision? His nightmare? Or is it merely truth finally unveiled to unworthy eyes?—with you, the last of your words haunting him near to madness.

“I was always too young. You just refused to see it.”

He has grown restless here, revolving between the frustration of securing an army from those who see naught in him but the very worst and the torment of these terrible visions that seek him out at their pleasure, heedless of his duty or desire. Tedium or terror—when he is entrenched in one, he wishes for the other, and there is always a sick sort of irony in the granting of said wishes. In truth, he is able enough to tolerate the resistance of these riverlanders, insulting as it is. The phantasms that pursue him have almost become too much to bear.

What is worse? The accusations from the mouth of a juvenile Rhaenyra, full of admonishments for the way he’d so thoroughly undermined her claim before she ever got the right to exercise it? The condemnations from Viserys, a retracing of steps trod so long ago, brought to life once more and forcing Daemon to relive the very worst of his brother? The boy’s laughter darting through the stone halls, an ominous prelude to the sickening sound of steel sawing through skin and the rolling of his head, landing always at the feet of the one responsible for his fate?

They are all bad enough as they are, but for the simple fact that they do not surprise him. Monster, they call him, and he wears the name well. In most all aspects, he is a monster. But never has he thought himself monstrous to you.

He has come to despise the sight of you here, sometimes docile and worshipful, sometimes angered and raving. Sometimes you appear as a siren come to lure him to iniquity, and like a fool he always falls into the trap. Other times, you are battered, caged, a shell of yourself. No matter how it begins, the end is always the same: bloodied, beaten, fading from the world, and it is always his hands he finds the cause of it in. A new reminder every time of all the ways he has thought of taking you, owning you, keeping you. Always, he thinks to save you—to protect you. Always, he destroys you.

Just as he thinks himself finally driven to the edge of all reason, the Rivers woman beckons him to the godswood.

“When you came here,” she says, “you were a closed fist. You wished to bend the world to your will. But you’ve discovered, I think, that… this world will not be governed. There are omens here for those who seek them.”

She pauses. The air seems to whisper, to creak in the dark. Daemon suppresses the urge to shiver. Her eyes move to him, an odd little quirk to her mouth. Amusement, he thinks. Or pity.

“You do not scoff?” she asks.

How can he, after all he has seen here? He has been brought to the very edge of sanity by these omens. What irony, it is, after the great complaints he has made of superstition in past weeks (and months, and years).

“I’m no longer inclined to,” is his short reply.

She laughs. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

She stops before the heart tree and turns to him, expression solemn.

“Do you wish, then, to learn what is given to you?” The answer must lie in his face, for he cannot do anything but stare, silent, tense. “All your life, you have sought to command your own fate”—she takes his hand—“but today, you are ready.”

Gentle pressure at his wrist, and something in him knows to move past her, to take those final few steps so that he is close enough to make out the details of the face carved into the wood. His arm raises by itself, acting on its own power, or perhaps some higher power, his fingers brushing bark and the hot pulse of… blood? But he has no time to truly question it for—

He is flying—

No—

He is a raven, staring at the face of a pale-haired man with a wine-dark stain on his face and he flies into the forest, towards an army, only there is something wrong with the soldiers, they are blue and their eyes glow ice-cold and their breath is frosted with death and their bodies carry the look of corpses stood upright once more—

And then the dragons are dead, all of them, the ground wet not with water but with blood and he walks through it, falls straight into the ground and he is drowning, steel plate armour dragging him down into the depths and he looks up at the sky—

A red comet bursts through the air, hot like fire, and he sees eggs embroiled in flame, a girl sat in ash cradling the bodies of three newly-hatched dragons, a whisper of a memory on the air, “we are the only ones able to bring the fire to life… It is the secret”—

And he is before the Iron Throne, suddenly silent.

Rhaenyra stands before the seat. Viserys’s crown is in his hands. She moves toward him, down the stairs of the throne. He hears her speak.

“From my blood…”

But she does not finish. A roaring conflagration engulfs her and she screams, twisting and warping before him, burning, only not, because you step from the flames, unburnt, voice mingling with that of your sister’s, a haunting echo.

“… come the Prince Who Was Promised…”

You are before him, taking the crown from his grasp and retracing the steps your sister took, and then you are stepping over a charred body, Rhaenyra, oh gods, and ascending the steps. You sit. You lift the crown. You place it on your head.

“… and his shall be the song of ice and fire.”

He is on his knees now, right on that final step at your feet. He feels the warmth of you as you bend forward, your palm caressing his jaw. You look otherworldly in the shadow, backlit silver and gold and wearing a king’s accoutrements far better than any of your predecessors.

“You know what must happen now, Uncle,” you say gently, kindly. “You know what you must do.”

He bows his head to kiss your ring—the seal of the king—no, the queen—and then wind is whistling in his ears, chilling him to the bone and spraying his hair about wildly, so much so that he can barely hear the words yelled at him by the boy sitting astride Vhagar.

“You have lived too long, nuncle.”

—and he wrenches away, panting, body collapsing before the heart tree like a puppet with its strings cut. The world comes back to him in fragments: the scent of dirt and woodlands, the sharp sting of cold, the ache in his muscles that has since settled like sludge at the bottom of a river, ever-present and persisting. Finally, finally, he withdraws with hands washed clean, free of his many sins.

At last, he has come to the crux of it. At last, he understands.

He sits at the base of the tree, stunned and overcome, as faint words slither on the breeze, a final knell from the liminal space of prophecy. Your name. A cheer.

“Long live the queen! Long live the queen!”

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2-dsimp · 6 months

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Aaaaah Judas is too cute and horny i just want to pamper him until the very end <3

Yandere company Bros

☆*:.｡. .｡.:*☆ ☆*:.｡. .｡.:*☆ ☆*:.｡. .｡.

Cw: NSFW MDNI fem reader creampie, gaslighting, possessive/obsessive tendencies, slight praise, overstimulation, Judas being touch starved for your affection, mentions of marathon sex, office sex, exhibition, Judas being a simp,

☆*:.｡. .｡.:*☆ ☆*:.｡. .｡.:*☆ ☆*:.｡. .｡.:*☆ ☆*:.｡.

Synopsis: 【From Seeing your Boss and lover going through a dire case of burn out, you decided to offer your services via pampering him and treating him like royalty. But it looks like you bit off more than you can chew. As he’s going absolutely feral from you allowing him to work out his frustrations on your pliant body.】

☆*:.｡. .｡.:*☆ ☆*:.｡. .｡.:*☆ ☆*:.｡. .｡.:*☆ ☆*:.｡. .｡.:*

“You said you’d pamper me for the entire day… Was that a lie love?”

Judas rasped softly into your ear as he coiled an arm around your middle in gentle but firm hold. He had you bent over his office desk with a hand pressed against your mouth to conceal the melodious sounds of you going on a downwards spiral of depravity. He was practically glued to your ass letting out soft pants as he felt his balls twitch from the way your love canal spasmed on his long hard length that was buried so deep that you thought your guts were getting rearranged.

“You promised me, your everything. Are you trying to go back on your word darling? Please don’t let that be the case. I think I’d cry if it was.”

The Eldest Kinen murmured lowly. As he buried his face in the crook of your neck pressing heated kisses at your pluse.

“Do you want that? To see me cry? To see me go mad from how much I need you? To see how much I crave to imprint my dick deep inside of you, so that I know you’re finally all mine?”

His voice was so needy and yet gentle, While he fluidly rocked his hips against yours into a grinding motion. Making you give a muffled keen into his palm from how his throbbing shaft rammed into that spongey spot nestled within your molten core.

“Judas—please!”

You mewled softly against his hand that you lightly clawed at. So you could make him hear what you had to say. Noticing your efforts Judas slid his palm down slightly from your mouth so he could get a clear response from you. He was desperate to know what possessed you to try and weasel out of his messy office. After being such a temptress.

“Juu…We can’t go a 4th time there’s a meeting to be held in 30min—“

Not even letting you finish he abruptly pulled out allowing some goop of his seed to leak out of your abused pussy only to plunge back savagely into your wet heat. Stifling a cry of pleasure at the delicious sensation of being buried inside you once more.

“Do you think I care about that meeting right now when I’ve got my beloved looking so precious on my cock right now?”

Judas said breathily, letting his stoic persona crack whenever he was in close quarters with you. His eye brows were tightly knitted as he bared his weight down against you pressing your front flat against the desk.

"Nng! You're so tight, so warm, so welcoming. From the moment I saw you I knew that you were the one that I was made for."

His hands gripped your hips tightly, anchoring his rod to penetrate your gushing cunt as much as he could. Before he began to move, his hips pounding into you with a relentless rhythm. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure coursing through his body.

“God, how I've wanted this, needed this for so long. I've dreamt of making love to you whenever I close my eyes at night. Marking you as mine. And Becoming all yours in the process.”

The workaholic confessed, his voice filled with raw need. His need to apply all his pent up urges of loving you wholly with his entire being. Overpowering any sense of restraint he had previously. As He reveled in the way your body responded to his touch, the way you moaned and writhed beneath him.

“So please pamper me until the end just like you said. I promise to be good for you, all I need in exchange is you.”

The Eldest whimpered pathetically, tears welling up from his thick lashes from the self induced overstimulation. As he frantically mapped the expanse of your lushious body greedily grabbing ahold of whatever piece of you he could get to hoard for himself. He was cheesing from his ears getting blessed by your adorable squeals and moans from getting railed against his desk.

“Mmn I’m so close, I’m gonna cum again inside you. Fuck you’re so fucking beautiful when you make those cute sounds for me”

He rambled dumbly, with his jaw slackened from relishing in the feeling of his member getting strangled by your pulpy walls that enticed him to drive his heavy cock into you fully. Making his mushroom tip kiss your cervix as his balls continued to tighten immensely from the impending release threatening to escape his body.

With one final, powerful slam of his pelvis against the meat of your ass. Judas released a torrent of his hot, thick cum inside you. The feeling of his seed filling your womb sent waves of pleasure coursing through your body, triggering your own release. As your legs quivered while your quim gushed around his pulsating meat for the last time drenching his happy trail with your slick and juices.

“I love you so fucking much, Accepting everything that I have to give to you. I love being yours. I’m so happy you chose me…”

He pressed a series of kisses trailing from your neck to your jaw. Until he tilt your head slightly to give you a smoldering kiss as his chest let out a deep, guttural rumble of pure happiness. While he continued to hump your pussy just to make sure he’s given all of his pure love to his darling. Making you whine in embarrassment from the sound of his seed mixing with your fluids filling the room. You just knew that the whole workplace was gonna be talking about you two.

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trashogram · 4 months

Text

He Chose You (Pt. 13)

Lucifer/Reader: Lucifer chooses you to be the mother of his child. Rated E for Explicit.

“This is just a dream.” Your words came out in a tangled string, altogether as air being forced out of a balloon. You partially sagged as well, instinctively locked muscles loosening again after you’d realize there was another person next to you on the beach.

She was beautiful, as always, with long silver-blonde hair and violet eyes cut into a soft face. You froze for the briefest instant at the fact that her tall, Amazonian body was clothed, but dreams never followed the rules.

With your arms out wide, you reached for the woman that had appeared beside you on the beach. “Right? Is it just a dream? L… like the ones before?”

You wanted it to be true. The swell of hope rose within you like the tide at your feet, but it was tainted by something that shook you and made your heart race.

The truth was like oil leaking through and into your bloodstream, sticking to your veins until it couldn’t be ignored any longer. Until it made you feel sick and trapped inside your own skin.

“Right?”

The serene expression on Eve’s face gave way and rendered her heartache. She looked at you with violet eyes gone glassy for a long, long moment.

Eve shook her head slowly. “No.”

—

The realm-traversing portal opened up amidst rolling clouds without much fanfare. Lucifer’s eyes snapped shut as he was accosted by piercing white light on all sides when he stepped out of it.

“Ugh.” The blond blinked rapidly, trying in vain to adjust to the shift from dark red to blinding light. “It’s like crashing into the sun...”

Heaven’s gates came into focus.

“… while it’s going supernova.” Lucifer finished, muttering as he took a moment to shake out his sleeves.

He stayed in place, readjusting his clothes while his wings folded back behind him. Heaven loomed on the horizon, only a short walk away. A fact that was eroding the King’s resolve with each passing moment.

Lucifer swallowed, straightening his bow tie.

He wanted to turn back.

It had been many millennia since he’d stepped foot anywhere near what was once his home; and in spite of the time and the distance, Lucifer could feel dread creeping up on him. The memory of being pushed and plummeting down, down, down into fire and brimstone came to him as if it had happened yesterday.

Lucifer glanced down, anticipating the rise of molten rock and plumes of smoke as he headed straight into the Earth’s core.

He was still standing, hands shaking so hard that his apple cane was tapping against the slow yet merrily rolling clouds.

The former angel closed his eyes again, inhaling deeply to steel himself.

This was for you. He needed to know that you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

This was for you.

He’d do anything for you.

Another breath. Lucifer stepped out from behind the clouds and onto the golden path that led to you. Just a few feet away and the blond tried to keep his eyes level with the gate itself, purposefully avoiding the all-knowing symbol above.

A very bored-looking angel was flicking through the pages of what Lucifer assumed to be a reservation list. He couldn’t quite put a name to the face, as unless St. Peter had dyed his hair and grown a good deal of scruff on his chin, this was someone totally new to the gig.

Lucifer grimaced, wondering if this was a boon or not.

“Excuse me!” Lucifer called up.

“Ah!” The angel squawked. “Oh! Shi-I mean—!”

He fumbled with the book, accidentally crumpling a page mid-flick. Lucifer waited, tapping his foot nervously while the gatekeeper pulled himself together.

Finally, he smacked both hands against the book, using it as leverage to lean over and get a better look at the new arrival.

“My apologies! Welcome to He-Hâ€¦” Pupils shrunk to mere pinpricks within the angel’s eyes upon catching sight of the newest ‘arrival’.

‘Oh fuck, okay.’ Lucifer lamented, posture sinking as he readied himself for a shitstorm.

His wings stretched out once more, and Lucifer glided up as stealthily as possible. The angel reeled back upon his approach, horror-struck, while the blond met him face-to-face.

“Yes! Hello there Mmmm—”” Lucifer squinted at the name tag pinned to the angel’s chest. “Matthias! Wonderful to meet you! Unless we’ve met before, in which case I apologize! It’s been quite a while since I’ve been up rather than down. Heh.”

Matthias continued to stare, jaw practically hanging off his face. “Y-you—you’re-!”

Lucifer’s smile waned like a melting candle. He drummed his fingers against the table top and cleared his throat.

“Right.” Lucifer continued. “So, anyway, I’m here just to say ‘hi’ to a very special someone, and I would be eternally grateful if you could help me out with that.”

He waited a full minute, watching Matthias shake like a leaf. It left Lucifer torn between irritation and anxiety.

“Look, I’m not here to make waves.” He tried again. “I’ve done that enough for an immortal lifetime! And you know that, clearly.”

He chuckled, pulling at his collar. “I’m not asking for much. If anything, I’m actually doing my due diligence as far as Heaven is concerned and what’s that you got there? Is that a flip phone? Didn’t know they made those anymore. Who’re you dialin-”

“PETER!” Matthias screeched into the dated device. Lucifer’s whole body flinched at the sheer volume.

“Wait, no, no, no!” Lucifer panicked, arms flapping to regain Matthias’s attention.

Matthias continued to rear back until he’d fallen off the podium, and he barely managed to remember his own wings before hitting the ground.

“Peter!” He cried. “Come back! We have a situation here!”

“No we don’t!” Lucifer tried to butt in. “He’s being ridiculous Peter. Don’t listen to him!”

“You need to get back here now! No, now!” Matthias snapped the phone shut and kept aloft a good distance from the King of Hell.

He then made the sign of the cross, of all things.

“Stay back!” The angel yelped. “I’m warning you I-I-I’ve been abstinent for over a hundred years and it didn’t break me! Neither will you, foul Tempter!”

Lucifer stopped, lips peeling back as if he’d just sucked a lemon.

“Okay, I didn’t need to know that.” Lucifer said, floating closer. “Look, maybe you didn’t get what I was saying, I’m just—”

“I said stay back!”

Lucifer groaned, running a hand down his face. “Fuck me for thinking Heaven learned to listen.”

—

You felt lighter as you made your way back into the cityscape of Heaven, although your heart was truly aching.

There was no use in staying hidden in the trees, but as you crossed back into the modernized version of paradise, you vowed to return. Unless Eve herself decided to make another reappearance and join the rest of her angelic peers.

Speaking of which…

Wandering had led you back to the center of the town, and you noticed that it lacked an angel or two… hundred.

“Where is everyone?” You asked the empty air. Not a soul stirred at your inquiry, but you stared at the cafe on your left.

The majority of cafe tables hadn’t been bussed. You peered at the plates of half-eaten pastries and teacups, noting that more than one was still full and steaming.

“There you are!”

The unmistakable voice of Emily put a stopper in your confusion. “Where have you been? I was so worried!”

The holy woman hovered before you, unable to stay still as her wings beat against the air frantically. You frowned.

“Hey Emily.” You responded slowly, your brain still picking up the inconsistencies. “Do you know where everyone is?”

The angel shook her head, staggering you as she instantly took your arm and plucked you from the ground like a flower.

“Woah! Hold on, wait a second!” You choked on your own saliva in surprise. You struggled to pry her delicate hands off of you as you were dragged through the air. “Emily! What’re you doing?”

“You have to come quickly!” Emily exclaimed.

“Let me go!” You demanded.

You gawked when she just sped up. Emily raced through the empty town center with you dangling behind her, until she had taken you out into the open air. The gate into Heaven rose above all else as you fast approached it.

—

A crowd had amassed from the city pavilion to stand and watch, aghast at the scene before them. Some cowered in their places while others edged closer to whatever was happening on the other side of the gate.

People were still floating in as Emily rocketed toward the front. You had no choice but to follow her lead, windswept hair falling in your eyes and mouth. You spat as you were planted on solid foundation again, and jostled forward by a no less overwrought Emily.

You parted your hair like curtains, expression already screwed up and twisted in anger. You looked up and over your shoulder at the angel nervously chewing on her lower lip.

“Excuse my language but what the hell is going on?” You bit out. Ugh, hair still caught on your tongue.

Emily didn’t deign to give you any answers beyond a hand raised, finger pointing ahead. Her gesture made you scoff, though you let your curiosity get the better of you.

The last thing you expected to see was a squad of angels in pastel blues and whites, brandishing technological spears at Lucifer fucking Morningstar.

“Please, everyone, there’s absolutely no need for any of this!” Lucifer’s tone was an odd mix of disarming and pacifying.

He was bowed over, arms held out in a bid for calm. It was only met with more hostility, as several of the spears pointed at him sizzled with visible electricity.

“Spare us your lies, Serpent. And be gone.” One of the aggressors spoke, sporting a remarkably deep voice despite his youthful appearance. A chorus sounded behind the creature, shouts of ‘be gone’ and ‘back to hell’ resounding until the pounding of your heart drowned it all out.

Your breath came up fast and shallow, the capacity to rationalize long gone at the sight of the Devil.

You’d just accepted the loss of him, had exposed the wound he had left behind in your soul to the open air and grieved the lesson it taught you. Death had parted you both and you had been preparing to accept it, no alternative left to contemplate.

“Lou...”

Mouth open, you tried to formulate your thoughts into words. You were coming up short, voice cracking and striped like a dying animal.

“Lucifer.”

You went ramrod straight, electricity enveloping your sight. He staggered.

“LUCIFER!”

Pain lanced through him, but Lucifer only had eyes for you. You, calling his name and racing forward to grapple with the bars of Heaven’s gate. You, beautiful and glowing and real again.

The King stood up, gripping the spear that had made contact with him only moment’s ago and throwing it off. Gabriel fell to the wayside like a swatted fly, his squad of soldiers swarming around to try and right him.

They might as well have ceased to exist as Lucifer moved toward you. Heaven ceased to exist altogether, as soon he was close enough to take your outstretched hands.

“You’re here.”

***

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#hazbin hotel #lucifer morningstar #lucifer x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel lucifer

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poetslastdeath · 7 months

Text

john and higher ranking reader (i don’t specify the current day rank but it’s very much implied to be higher than his)

heavy hints of dom reader, fem leaning reader this time (couldn’t choose so i flipped a coin and went with fem), cute and short

—————————

reader and john who have known each other since you were just recruits, both grown from hyper soldiers with stars in your eyes to stoic war hardened soliders with more scars than freckles, have known the deafening sound of gunshots longer than you knew compassion.

his youth died years after yours did, you were already a lieutenant then being looked up at by a fumbling yet smooth sergeant price. always a step behind you, always filling the silent air between you too, unrelenting and bright as a dying sun. you wanted to protect that, hold it close, hold and cradle that fire for a little longer until the winds picked up and blew it all away.

it did either way, you watched then left.

better to let him sit alone then look far too close at you, at everything you’ve done, at how you could so easily hurt him but didn’t it every time. look at that stupid thing foolishly named love.

the twin old decaying thing is your chests, some may call it innocence but one far wiser than anyone should be would call it humanity. so you drifted, climbed the ranks, making it farther than a younger you could have guessed. you and john met sparsely after that.

however something always lingered, something else between you two though it only actually played out a few times when it boiled over, usually his poor knees took the brunt of those encounters. some could call it love or lust or they could call it two far too damaged people who cave into each other like waves crashing against rocks. calloused hand in calloused hand.

john, who gets himself into trouble— on the way over you can only sigh without surprise, he was hotheaded in his twenties but now he’s as slow and burning as molten lava— and has to call in a favor to bail him and his team out.

and when you walk in, you’re the only one that notices his slight stutter of breath, chest aching with heavy lingering smoke. it’s like the gravity around you pulls, the world twisting to meet your every step, and eyes are snapped over to you and held like they can do nothing else.

then that’s when the 141 boys know the now slightly deflated shepherd and graves stand no chance.

and they don’t, they fold because they can do nothing against the raspy honey of your voice, it’s allure sounding like a spiders web, thinly veiled poison dripping from cracked lips.

it doesn’t take long, not when you tilt your head as shepherd freezes so still he looks like a statue when you start naming dates and times. insignificant to anyone else, but you know. he knows. anyone could see the threats laid like bear traps behind your words.

and with a fake barely there smile, shepherd and his mutt leave with the slamming of the door.

it’s tense, not quite as tense as when shepherd was in the room, but it’s still like the rest of them don’t quite know what to do with you now, turning to look at their captain then at their lieutenant when john’s eyes are locked on the side of your head.

you look over, meeting his gaze with heavy unreadable eyes, knowing far too well now that keeping emotions in your eyes is the fastest way to having someone kill the light in them.

“thank you, love.” he rasps, you raise an eyebrow and he pauses. glancing away to consider his next steps from here.

“ma’am. thank you, ma’am” he corrects smoothly like he had never said anything else, so naturally that it makes you want to hear his low rough tone whisper it on repeat until he can’t speak.

you nod, eyes flickering over to his team. “hm, pleasure to help.”

they shift, uncomfortable and clearing untrusting of your heavy calculating stare. though you hardly mean to, by now it’s hard to help yourself from making observations almost idly, like how the one you know is “ghost” stands far closer with one of the men then the other one.

you look away from them and back over at john, you shift your weight from one foot to the other and turn in his direction. he follows every movement carefully with shadowed deep eyes.

“i’m done here. you can clear up your own mess, can’t you?” you hear one of his boys shuffle before a hand is placed on his arm in a tight grip, like he was seconds away yelling. you pay no mind to it, far to busy for a puppy’s biting at your ankle.

“i’ll send you a gift.” you pause, watching john again. “a little something about shepherd so his leash should shorten.”

he exhales, careful and slow. you don’t quite know what he’s thinking, no matter how good you’ve gotten he’s also improved.

“thank you, ma’am” he repeats, tilting his head forward. you smile, walking forward, glancing at the clock behind him.

you mumble, “hm, call me if you need me further.”

and when you pass him, you lean over to whisper in his ear, words carefully crafted just for him. “oh and if you want something, then ask for it, baby.”

his shaky exhale tells you everyone you need to know. the door shutting behind you is perfectly timed with his mind sliding back into captain mode.

it’s a pity, he’s far prettier when he isn’t in control.

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evilminji · 10 months

Text

:O !!! Wait a second... GHOST DINOSAURS!!!

They died. There are ghost animals. You CAN NOT tell me getting fuckin nuked from space by a GIANT rock that blasted you and everything you've ever known into near instantaneous oblivion, wouldn't leave some Unfinished Business and a shit ton of Ectoplasm.

BILLIONS of things died all at once.

Did most move on? Probably. We're any of them sentient? We have no idea! Maybe! Unlikely, but maybe! Still a MASSIVE, countries wide, molten earth lined, crater of instant death. World shaking and history making. Death in the blink of an eye.

If you're lucky.

But! I hear the arguments now. That was one event. The X or Y dinosaur lived before that! What I'm interested in came AFTER! Good points! But not RELAVENT!!! Because you know what ELSE that giant fuck-off meteor is good for? Aside for Death(tm)?

Television.

Makes for some damn good documentaries. Exciting graphics and neato visual effects. Ooooh~ look at our dramatic recreation! The cute baby animals, unsuspecting of their Doomed Fate~! Tense music! And now, a world from our advertisers!

You know who LIKES Space Documentaries? Danny. He's all ABOUT that Science Channel. Granted, they've been pulling more and more of these mid-tear "aliens built the pyramids" and "look at these swords!" Shows... but! Still! He grew up on this channel! He doesn't WANT to give up on it!

And, yeah, this is... kinda hammy... but it's still watchable!

He's enjoying the live tweeting from paleontologists who are ROASTING the thing to a lovely golden brown. Has choked on his noodles like three times already. It's great! But now? They are arguing over what the dinosaurs actually looked like again... and??

And, look, maybe it's the good mood and boredom. Maybe it's having the house to himself. Maybe it's his parents finally encouraging him to use his "ghostiness" for SCIENCE(tm)(!) the other day. Could even be his bad idea impulse acting up again, buuuuut.....

Teeeeechnically?

Nothing? Is STOPPING him? From finding out? He DOES have Zone compatible cameras. And can probably back trace where they should-ish be? He can find out. The colors might be off, but it's a starting point? Right? And heck, he's pretty sure inverse coloration in standard unless someone's shape-shifting, so he'd just have to inverse it AGAIN to get an approximately correct coloration for them!

....eh, as long as he leaves a "not exact, this was the best I could get" note, it should be fine.

Road Trip time! Better call Dani and see if she wants to ride a few giant mammals and some lizards!

(Needless to say? Some researchers get VERY exciting emails. And only accept they are POSSIBLE, because this is a DC crossover. So there is aliens and magic regularly popping up in their field of expertise, so WHY NOT? Just the other day, a whole ass TOWN that has been wiped out... got UN-wiped out! 23 years later! It's made headlines. Weird shit happens.

So gib. Release to them the Dinosaurs, mystery email man. Fork them over before they begin biting. You think this corduroy jacket means they won't hunt you down? HA! You know NOTHING of academics! WHERE ARE THE EXTINCT ANIMALS? Where are you hiding them!?!?)

@the-witchhunter @hypewinter @nerdpoe @ailithnight @hdgnj @mutable-manifestation

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dc x dp #dcxdp #dc x dp prompt #danny phantom

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mediumgayitalian · 7 months

Text

“Oh, come on, there’s just —” Will blows an errant curl from out of his eyes, cheeks red with exertion, balancing nimbly on his feet to put both hands on his hips. “There’s no way, Nico.”

Nico, not blessed with such balance, has to hold all footholds with all limbs, staring warily at the lava wall’s snake holes.

“What? I’m just not as good as you.”

Will flops his right arm outwards, narrowly avoiding smacking it against the rock. “But you are!”

Nico shifts his wary gaze from the snake holes to Will’s rope harness. Is it tight enough? It better be tight enough. Will is putting a lot of faith in it, right now.

“You scaled those cliffs in — in the place —” he trips, still, over the pit, on the odd time he mentions it, and it always makes Nico wince — “like it was nothing! And whenever Percy visits and challenges you you’re suddenly the lava wall expert!” He turns stern blue eyes to face Nico’s head-on. “Not buying it, di Angelo!”

A gush of lava forces him to resume climbing, but there’s an aggression to his movements — a specific, stiff, curated aggression, that Nico has learned means anxiety in people known as William Andrew Solace. That, and coupled with the rapid muttering which, in between the roar of molten stone, Nico believes is a a repetition of “dumbass” “always tryna act a goddamn fool” and “I’m gonna kill him before he sends me into cardiac arrest again”, interspersed with random swears in English, Latin, Ancient Greek, and also — gods — Klingon.

“Will.”

Will ignores him, scampering the last few feet up the wall and slapping the top before relaying down. Nico sighs, following him (albeit significantly slower).

“Will.”

“You’re hiding something from me.” He practically rips the harness off his body — do not think about that do not think about that do not think about that — and shoves it on the hook so hard it damn near snaps off. The look he levels in Nico’s direction practically turns him to stone, it’s so frigid, and he has to resist a shiver. “I can tell.”

It takes a good amount of pushing to make Will all testy like this. Sure, his buttons are easy to push, but most of that is for show. He likes to be dramatic. (Especially because he knows Nico will indulge him, more than anyone else ever has. He relishes in it, Nico thinks; he likes that Nico will watch his productions. An Apollo kid through and through.) He’s not usually one to show his genuine frustration.

But, hoo, boy, when he is frustrated.

Nico has a bad, bad habit of making it worse.

(As if it’s his fault that Will’s hot when he’s mad.)

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nico says, forcibly lightly. He sticks his hand out defiantly. “Check me, why don’t you? Not hiding anything.”

He really isn’t. No injuries, no illness, hell, he’s not even tired. Had a full three meals and everything. Even his perpetually achey joints aren’t bad today.

All of this, obviously, is communicated when Will touches him, squinting suspiciously at their joined hands.

“You’re heart rate is high,” he mutters petulantly.

Nico looks at him patiently. “That’s ‘cause my smokeshow boyfriend is holding my hand.”

Grumpy as he’s trying to be, his ears redden. A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth.

“Shut up.”

Nico grins, pulling his hand up to his mouth and pressing a kiss to the knuckles.

“No.”

“Whatever,” Will says, snatching his hand back. His smile spreads widely across his face, now, and he looks away, as pleased as he is exasperated. “You’re still being a weirdo. I should not be so far ahead of you on the wall, Neeks.”

Success — back to nicknames. Crisis averted.

“Have you considered that you’re the camp-wide record holder for a reason, you spider monkey?”

“Still!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Nico gets up on his tiptoes, pressing a lingering kiss to the bridge of his freckled nose. “Stop worrying about me, Solace. I’m fine. Burn off some steam, I’ll watch.”

Will huffs. “Fine. But I’ll find out, y’hear me? Truth can’t hide from me for long.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He watches as Will suits back up, helping him with his more complicated straps (because Nico was raised to be a gentleman, obviously, why else) and shooing him away when he opens his mouth for more interrogations. He switches to sticking out his tongue, and after a moment of hesitation, bounds back over to his first true love — being a big nerdy jock dork.

Nico settles on the grass several feet away from the wall, pretending to clean his sword. After a few minutes, he hears footsteps, and two people sit next to him on either side.

“So,” says Lou Ellen, ignoring Nico’s suspicious look as she tosses a glowing ball of something around, “how come you’re not climbing?”

Nico shrugs. “Only so many times you can climb before it gets boring.”

On his other side, Cecil makes a loud buzzer sound.

“Nope! Wrong answer. Try again.”

Nico is a dignified grownup who refuses to stoop down to Cecil’s level by responding. Instead, he reaches over and pokes him in his ridiculously sensitive ribs, hard, sending him sprawling with a screech.

“Shut up,” he says mildly, as his friend flails. “I’m trying to be a supportive boyfriend, and I can’t do that with all your whining.”

Will has, in the ten minutes since he started, made it halfway up the wall. He seems to have it programmed to the Super Extra Mega Evil Insane mode that the Athena and Ares kids invented just for him, since he smoked all the other levels. He dodges a shot of lava with a laugh, throwing himself to the side and hanging on with three fingers and one scuffed sneaker poised on the tiniest sliver of rock. His attention is broken when Lou Ellen sticks her face right in Nico’s field of vision, tracing Nico’s eyeline with narrowed eyes.

“Ah,” she nods knowingly. “You’re staring at his ass.”

Nico falters, damn near slicing his own fingers off. “No idea what you’re talking about,” he says blithely. He gestures without looking at his sword. “I’m busy, see?”

She scoffs. “Real busy. That’s why you almost just did emergency surgery on yourself.”

“Exactly.”

Will pushes up a foot, shifting his hips and launching himself upwards. He makes a little shout of victory, plastering himself to the wall to keep balance, every muscle tensed.

From his place on the floor, Cecil makes an appreciative noise. “He does have a nice ass. Can’t blame you for looking.”

Nico frowns. “Hey. Stop objectifying my boyfriend.” He reaches out and smacks a hand over Cecil’s eyes. “That’s my job.”

“You guys are ridiculous.”

Nico reaches over and puts a hand over her eyes, too, ‘cause there’s no missing where they’re pointed.

“Shut up or I’ll literally put shadows into your retinae and blind you forever,” Nico threatens. (Is this a thing he can do? No. Do his friends know this? Also no.)

“You’re a dictator!” Cecil protests.

“Depriving us of basic human rights!” Lou Ellen agrees.

Nico shrugs. He glances back up the the climbing wall, where he has a very perfect view — and a great reason to never even try to climb faster than Will does. He grins.

“Too bad for you guys.”

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novaursa · 9 days

Text

The Dragon's Right (11)

- Summary: It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.

- Paring: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 5 800+

- Previous part: 10

- Next part: 12

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The Sept near Casterly Rock was a grand structure, its towering spires reaching high into the sky, casting long shadows over the golden hills surrounding the Lannister stronghold. The sun was bright in the sky, its warm rays cutting through the otherwise somber mood that lingered inside the Sept itself. The vast interior was filled with the nobility of Westeros, all gathered to witness the union of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Lord Jason Lannister. It was an event that had drawn powerful lords and ladies from every corner of the realm, eager to see one of the most important political marriages of the age.

The Sept was decorated lavishly, with red and gold banners hanging from the high arches, the Lannister colors boldly displayed alongside the dragon sigils of House Targaryen. Flowers were strewn along the aisles, filling the air with their fragrance, a stark contrast to the heaviness of the occasion. Seated in the front rows were the most prominent figures of the realm, their faces a mixture of anticipation and curiosity, but there was an undercurrent of tension beneath the gilded ceremony.

Jason Lannister stood at the altar, dressed in the finest silks and gold, his lion sigil prominently displayed on his chest. His posture was proud, his expression smug, as though this marriage were another jewel in the Lannister crown. His twin brother, Tyland, stood beside him, his face more composed, though his eyes gleamed with quiet satisfaction. Jason’s gaze, however, frequently flickered toward the entrance, waiting for the arrival of his bride. It was clear he took great pride in having won the Targaryen princess, even if she had not come willingly.

Whispers echoed through the Sept as the ceremony was about to begin, the lords and ladies murmuring to one another, casting curious glances toward the entrance. They had heard the rumors, of course—rumors of Rhaenyra’s defiance, of her refusal to bow to the will of the Crown and be married off like a prize. But here they were, all gathered to see it happen, to see if the wild princess could truly be tamed.

Suddenly, the great doors at the far end of the Sept swung open, and all eyes turned as Rhaenyra Targaryen entered.

She was resplendent in a gown of deep red and black, the colors of her house, the fabric embroidered with intricate dragons that seemed to swirl around her as she moved. Her hair, pale as silver, was pulled back into an elaborate braid, adorned with small gems that caught the light. The gown flowed around her like molten fire, her figure regal, but it did nothing to soften the sharpness in her expression.

Her face was set in a mask of cold defiance, her violet eyes scanning the crowd with thinly veiled contempt. She walked slowly down the aisle, her steps steady, but each movement carried a weight of rebellion. She was not walking toward her future; she was walking toward her doom, and everyone present knew it. Her gaze flickered toward her father, King Viserys, who sat near the front, his expression one of barely concealed disappointment. Rhaenyra shot him a sharp look, filled with anger and betrayal, the tension between them palpable even from a distance.

The whispers grew louder as she approached the altar, her displeasure clear for all to see. It was no secret that she had been forced into this marriage, and her rebellion was written in every step she took. She refused to look at Jason Lannister, whose smirk remained firmly in place, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. To him, this was victory.

As Rhaenyra reached the altar and stood before the Septon, her hands clenched tightly around the bouquet of flowers she held. Her chest rose and fell with the weight of her fury, but she kept her composure, her face set in stone. The Septon stood before them, draped in the white and gold robes of his office, the Seven-Pointed Star gleaming on his chest. He raised his hands, his voice loud and booming as he began the ceremonial rites.

“Before the eyes of gods and men, we gather to join this man and this woman in marriage, to bring together the houses of Targaryen and Lannister,” the Septon intoned, his voice echoing through the great hall.

But even as the words filled the Sept, Rhaenyra’s mind was elsewhere. She barely heard the Septon, barely registered the murmurs of the crowd, the weight of her situation pressing down on her like a boulder. Her eyes flicked toward her father again, her heart burning with resentment. How could he have done this to her? How could he have forced her into this farce?

Jason glanced at her, his smirk widening as if he could feel her resistance, and Rhaenyra clenched her teeth, her grip tightening on the flowers until the stems dug into her skin.

Suddenly, there was a loud thud from above, and the entire Sept seemed to shudder. The ground beneath their feet vibrated, and dust began to fall from the high ceiling as the massive structure groaned under the sudden impact. Gasps of shock and alarm rippled through the crowd, lords and ladies looking around in confusion.

“What was that?” someone whispered, their voice filled with fear.

The Septon paused, his eyes widening as he looked up toward the ceiling, where more dust and debris began to trickle down. The Sept shuddered again, the sound of stone grinding against stone filling the air. The once orderly crowd began to stir, whispers growing louder as panic started to take hold.

“Something’s on the roof!” a man shouted from the back, his voice trembling.

Jason Lannister’s smirk vanished, replaced with a look of confusion as he glanced at his brother, Tyland. “What in the Seven Hells is happening?”

Rhaenyra’s eyes snapped upward, her heart pounding as she felt the familiar rumble in her chest. The ground beneath her feet trembled again, and this time, the shaking was stronger, sending more debris falling from the ceiling. The crowd, sensing the danger, began to rise from their seats, voices rising in panic.

Another thunderous impact rocked the Sept, and now it was clear—something massive had landed on the roof, and whatever it was, it was not gentle. The ancient stone groaned under the weight, cracks beginning to form along the arches of the ceiling, and the once majestic hall began to crumble.

The Septon backed away from the altar, his voice trembling. “This… this is an omen…”

But before he could finish, a loud, piercing roar echoed through the air, shaking the very foundations of the Sept. Panic erupted, people screaming and scrambling toward the exits as the ceiling above began to crack and crumble, chunks of stone falling to the floor.

Rhaenyra stood frozen for a moment, her eyes wide, her heart racing. She knew that roar.

And she knew exactly what—or rather, who—had just arrived.

The piercing shriek of a dragon cut through the panicked cries inside the Sept, echoing off the stone walls as if the very gods themselves had arrived. Rhaenyra’s heart leaped in her chest at the sound—it was unmistakable. Silverwing. You had come, just as you had promised all those moons ago. The ground beneath her feet trembled with each movement of the great dragon above, the stone walls groaning under the immense pressure. Chaos erupted around her as lords and ladies screamed, scrambling for the exits, their finely embroidered cloaks and gowns tangling as they tried to flee.

Rhaenyra's eyes darted around, searching for a way to escape the suffocating madness. She had to reach you. The ceremony was forgotten, the image of Jason Lannister and the Septon dissolving into the chaos. Without hesitation, she pushed past the panicking nobles, her heart racing as she ducked through the panicked crowd. She could hear her father’s voice shouting her name over the din, “Rhaenyra!” but she didn’t stop.

She had no time for explanations. All that mattered was getting to you.

Behind her, Jason Lannister shouted as well, his voice rising in anger, “Where do you think you’re going, Princess?” He lunged forward to follow her, but the crowd surged between them, cutting off his path.

The Kingsguard, stationed near the aisle, saw her running and immediately gave chase. But Daemon, standing casually near the edge of the Sept with his arms crossed, watched the chaos unfold with amusement. As the guards ran past him, Daemon shifted subtly, stepping in just the right way to trip them. One guard stumbled into a pillar, his armor clattering against the stone, while the other fell flat on the floor, his sword sliding across the polished marble. Daemon smirked and gave Rhaenyra a small nod, knowing she would understand. He wasn’t letting anyone stop her today.

Rhaenyra pushed through the grand doors of the Sept, her breath coming in short gasps, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. The sunlight hit her face like a slap, the chaos of the Sept replaced by the sight of Silverwing descending, her massive wings outstretched, stirring up the dust and dirt around her as she landed just outside. You were atop her, your silver armor gleaming in the sunlight, and the sight of you filled her with a sense of relief so strong she almost forgot to breathe.

You locked eyes with her as Silverwing let out another fierce roar, sending waves of heat into the air as her claws scraped the ground.

"Brother!" Rhaenyra gasped, running toward you as if her life depended on it. The wind from Silverwing’s wings whipped through her hair, but she didn’t stop. She had been waiting for this moment for what felt like an eternity.

“Rhaenyra!” you called down, your voice filled with urgency as you extended a hand to help her up onto Silverwing’s saddle.

Without a second thought, she took your hand, her fingers gripping yours tightly as you hauled her up, pulling her onto the saddle behind you. Her gown tangled beneath her as she climbed, but she didn’t care. The feel of the leather beneath her and the solid presence of Silverwing’s powerful body beneath her legs was enough to make her forget the world below.

“Hold on!” you shouted over the sound of Silverwing’s wings beginning to flap, preparing to take flight once more.

Before Silverwing could ascend, a roar echoed from the skies above. Syrax. Rhaenyra turned her head just in time to see her golden dragon soaring overhead, her wings outstretched as she circled, waiting for her rider to follow. A bond between dragon and rider that could never be severed.

From the doors of the Sept, Viserys stumbled out, breathless, his hand clutching his chest as he tried to call after his daughter. “Rhaenyra!” he shouted again, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and anger. His health had been deteriorating, and the strain of running out of the Sept left him gasping for breath, but he pushed forward, determined to stop her.

The king halted abruptly as he saw you, his son, for the first time in two long years. His face was a mixture of shock and disbelief as he stared up at you, sitting tall atop Silverwing. The reunion he had imagined was not like this. His eyes, wide with emotion, met yours for a brief moment, and in that glance, you saw everything—relief, sorrow, and the knowledge that things had changed far more than either of you had expected.

Alicent rushed to his side, her gown sweeping the ground as she took her place next to the king. Her breath hitched as her gaze shifted from Viserys to you, her eyes widening with realization. You had returned—but not for her. No, you had come for Rhaenyra. For your sister, for the woman you had always protected. She knew then, in that instant, that whatever hope she had harbored of your affection, whatever foolish dreams she had let linger, were gone.

Her face twisted in a mixture of shock and resentment, though she hid it well, standing dutifully at Viserys’s side. She had been left to endure her fate in silence, to bear the weight of the crown’s decisions without complaint. But Rhaenyra, as always, had found a way out.

Silverwing’s wings beat heavily as she lifted into the air, the powerful gusts of wind scattering dust and leaves across the courtyard. The people from the Sept, now spilling outside, watched in awe and terror as the great dragon ascended into the sky. Syrax let out another piercing roar as she followed closely behind, her golden form cutting through the clouds.

You turned to look at Rhaenyra as the two of you soared higher, away from the madness below. Her arms were wrapped tightly around your waist, her face buried against your back, but you could feel the tension in her body begin to ease. She was free now, at least for a moment.

“You came,” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind. “I knew you would come.”

“I made you a promise,” you replied, your voice steady as you guided Silverwing higher into the sky, away from Casterly Rock, away from the Sept. “I’ll always come for you.”

Rhaenyra tightened her grip on you, her heart racing, but for the first time in months, it wasn’t from fear or anger—it was from relief. Together, you and Rhaenyra flew, with Syrax trailing close behind, the roar of the dragons echoing through the skies as the people below watched in awe.

The Sept of Casterly Rock, once filled with nobles and royalty, now stood silent and stunned as the two Targaryens flew away, leaving nothing but whispers of rebellion in their wake.

The winds howled around Dragonstone as Silverwing descended onto the rocky terrain near the ancient Valyrian chapel, her massive wings folding with grace as she landed softly on the ground. The air was thick with the scent of the sea, and the sky above was a deep shade of crimson as the last rays of sunlight dipped below the horizon. The island felt almost otherworldly, shrouded in mist and history, a place of old magic and forgotten traditions.

Syrax followed shortly, her golden form cutting through the sky before she landed on a high perch, her piercing eyes watching over her riders with a protective gaze. The dragons, majestic and powerful, seemed to sense the gravity of the moment, their usual restlessness subdued as if in reverence to the events about to unfold.

You dismounted Silverwing first, your boots sinking into the loose gravel as you turned to help Rhaenyra down. The flight had been long, and the winds had battered her appearance, her once-perfect braids now unraveling, her gown wrinkled and slightly torn. But to you, she was still as radiant as ever. She looked up at you, her violet eyes filled with emotion, a mixture of relief, hope, and love. It was the first time you had truly looked at one another in two long years, and in that moment, the world seemed to stop.

Your hand reached out, fingers brushing gently against her cheek, caressing the soft skin as if to reassure yourself that she was real, that this moment was not a dream. Rhaenyra leaned into your touch, her breath catching in her throat as your eyes locked, the intensity of your shared bond clear in the silence between you.

“I’m here,” you whispered, your voice low but firm, as if the words held all the promises you had made and kept. “I’m always here for you.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but she quickly composed herself, her lips curling into a soft smile. “I knew you’d come.”

You held her gaze for a moment longer before you gently took her hand in yours, guiding her toward the ancient chapel that stood on the cliffside, overlooking the churning sea below. The chapel was old, far older than any other building on Dragonstone, its architecture a testament to Valyria’s glory, carved from black stone with intricate designs depicting dragons and flames. It had been abandoned for centuries, used only for the rarest and most sacred of Valyrian rites.

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of incense and saltwater. The flickering light of torches illuminated the stone walls, casting long shadows that danced like ancient spirits. At the far end of the chapel stood the Dragonkeeper, an elderly man whose skin was weathered by time, his long silver hair tied back in a neat knot. He wore the traditional robes of old Valyria, a deep shade of crimson and black, with a silver dragon embroidered across his chest.

He greeted you both with a solemn nod, his eyes filled with the weight of tradition and duty. “Prince Y/N, Princess Rhaenyra,” he said, his voice gravelly but reverent. “You have come to be wed in the ancient rites of our ancestors.”

Rhaenyra stood beside you, her hand still firmly in yours, her heart pounding in her chest. This was what she had dreamed of—the only marriage she had ever wanted. Not to Jason Lannister, not to any of the suitors her father had paraded before her, but to you, the brother who had always stood by her, protected her, loved her.

The Dragonkeeper gestured for you both to step forward, toward the altar, which was adorned with ancient Valyrian relics—dragons carved from obsidian, vials of dragonfire, and a single silver chalice filled with wine. The flames of the torches reflected in the obsidian, creating an almost ethereal glow that bathed the entire chamber in an otherworldly light.

“By the old customs of Valyria, where dragonlord and dragonrider were bound not only by blood but by fire, you stand here today to unite your lives,” the Dragonkeeper began, his voice echoing through the empty chapel. “Fire and blood, as it has always been, will seal your bond before the gods and dragons.”

He extended his hands toward you, and from a hidden compartment within his robes, he produced a small dagger—the blade was Valyrian steel, its edge sharp and gleaming in the firelight. He handed the blade to you, his eyes locking with yours. “As is tradition, your blood will bind you.”

You took the dagger in your hand, its weight familiar and ancient, and turned toward Rhaenyra. She met your gaze with unwavering trust, her eyes never leaving yours. Without hesitation, you gently took her hand, holding it steady as you pressed the blade to her palm. The sharp steel cut through her skin with a precision that was both swift and ceremonial, a single drop of blood welling up from the wound.

Rhaenyra didn’t flinch, her eyes burning with determination as she watched you. You handed her the dagger, and she did the same for you, the blade gliding across your palm, a mirror of the mark you had made on her.

The Dragonkeeper stepped forward, holding the silver chalice beneath your hands. “Blood of the dragon,” he intoned, his voice low and reverent, “from the same bloodline, from the same fire.”

Together, you pressed your hands over the chalice, letting the blood drip into the wine, mixing with the ancient liquid as the flames around you flickered and danced. The Dragonkeeper took the chalice and raised it above his head.

“From this union of fire and blood, let no man tear you asunder. By the will of the gods and dragons, you are now one.”

He lowered the chalice and handed it to you. You took it in your hands and brought it to your lips, tasting the metallic tang of the blood mixed with the wine. Then, you handed it to Rhaenyra, who drank deeply, her eyes never leaving yours.

The Dragonkeeper stepped back, his hands raised in final blessing. “You are wed. Let the dragons bear witness, and may your union be strong, unbroken by time, as Valyria once was.”

As the final words were spoken, the air in the chapel seemed to hum with an ancient power, a presence that filled the space around you, binding you and Rhaenyra together in a way that no other ceremony could.

You turned to her, your hand still clasped tightly in hers, your hearts beating as one. Her face, despite the disheveled state caused by the flight, was radiant, her violet eyes gleaming with a mixture of triumph and love. Without a word, you leaned forward, pressing your forehead against hers, a gesture more intimate than any kiss. In this moment, words were unnecessary.

“I love you,” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice barely audible, as if the very walls of the chapel were not worthy of hearing such a declaration.

“And I love you,” you replied, your voice thick with emotion.

The ancient flames flickered as you pulled her closer, your hands still intertwined, the bond of fire and blood sealing your union as husband and wife.

Outside, Silverwing and Syrax roared in unison, their mighty cries echoing across the cliffs of Dragonstone, the sound carrying on the wind like a herald to the gods.

The Valyrian wedding had been completed. The blood of the dragon was bound once more.

The grand courtyard outside the Sept was a flurry of stunned and panicked nobles. The once-anticipated wedding of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Lord Jason Lannister had dissolved into chaos in a matter of moments. Eyes lifted to the sky, where Silverwing, with Rhaenyra and you on her back, flew higher and higher, disappearing into the distance toward Dragonstone, Syrax trailing close behind. The sound of Silverwing's powerful wings still echoed faintly in the air, but the shock remained heavy in the courtyard.

King Viserys stood rooted in place, his hand resting on his chest as his breath came in labored gasps. His gaze was fixed in the direction of his children’s departure, his eyes distant as if already resigned to the inevitable. He had watched you fly away with his daughter, both of you slipping from his grasp like sand in an hourglass. His children—both of them, so intertwined by blood and fate—had rebelled together, and now they were gone.

Jason Lannister emerged from the Sept, his face red with fury, his hand clenched so tightly around the hilt of his sword that his knuckles turned white. His twin, Tyland, stumbled out behind him, still dazed from the sudden turn of events, his usually calm demeanor shattered by the sight of you taking Rhaenyra away. Jason's eyes blazed as he stormed toward Viserys, his voice loud and full of indignation.

“Your Grace!” Jason spat, his voice carrying across the courtyard. “I demand that my bride be returned to me! This is an insult to House Lannister. I will not stand for it!”

Tyland, his composure slowly returning, reached out a hand to his brother, trying to calm him. “Jason…” he began, but Jason shrugged him off, his fury unchecked.

Before Viserys could respond, Daemon Targaryen, who had been standing off to the side with Lady Laena Velaryon at his arm, let out a scoff loud enough to draw the attention of those around him. His silver hair gleamed in the sunlight, and his smirk was as sharp as ever as he stepped forward, his arm loosely draped around Laena’s shoulders.

“Your bride?” Daemon drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It seems, Lannister, that my nephew came for what was his and took it. He did what any dragon would—he claimed what belongs to him.” His violet eyes gleamed with amusement as he surveyed the angry Lord Jason. “You should be thankful this farce is finally over.”

Jason's face turned even redder, veins bulging in his neck as he glared at Daemon. “I will not tolerate this mockery! Rhaenyra was promised to me!”

Daemon chuckled, the sound low and mocking. “Promised? By whom? Your coins and titles? Dragons do not care for gold, Lannister. My nephew and niece have decided their own fate, it seems.”

Laena stood beside Daemon, watching the exchange with a cool expression. She was poised and composed, clearly more intrigued than surprised by what had unfolded. Her dark eyes flickered toward the sky where the dragons had disappeared. “It seems the dragons have chosen their own path,” she murmured, almost to herself, her lips curving into a faint smile.

Otto Hightower stepped forward, his face tense, his mind already calculating the ramifications of what had just occurred. He turned toward King Viserys, his tone carefully measured but insistent. “Your Grace, this... act of rebellion by your children cannot go unanswered. If we do not act swiftly, the realm will begin to question your authority. House Lannister will not be the only one demanding answers.”

Viserys remained silent, his gaze still fixed on the distant horizon. The weight of his crown and the crumbling control over his family weighed heavily on him, the burden etched into the lines of his face. He could feel the eyes of his council on him, waiting for his decree. Waiting for him to bring order to this chaos.

“Your Grace,” Otto pressed, his voice more urgent now. “If there is any chance of changing Rhaenyra’s mind, of preventing her and your son from... doing something that could destabilize the realm, we must act. Now. We cannot allow this defiance to go unanswered.”

Jason, still seething, nodded in agreement. “The crown must uphold the promises it has made, Your Grace. House Lannister demands retribution for this insult.”

But before Otto could continue, Viserys lifted a hand, silencing the crowd around him. His face was pale, his hand trembling slightly as he took in a slow, deep breath. His eyes, weary and filled with sorrow, finally turned toward Otto and the assembled nobles.

“No,” Viserys said quietly, but with finality. His voice, though soft, echoed in the stunned silence that followed. “I will not stop them.”

The nobles exchanged shocked glances, whispers immediately breaking out among the gathered lords and ladies. Otto’s mouth fell open slightly, and Jason’s expression turned to one of disbelief.

“Your Grace,” Otto began, trying to keep his voice level, “this is not—”

Viserys cut him off, his voice firmer this time. “I will not chase my children down like criminals. My daughter… and my son… have chosen their path. And I will not stop them.”

Jason stepped forward, his voice rising in frustration. “This is madness, Your Grace! You’re allowing your heir to defy your will and to steal away with the woman promised to me!”

But Viserys didn’t respond to Jason. His gaze remained distant, filled with a deep sadness, as though a part of him had already accepted what had transpired. His hand, still trembling, fell back to his side, and he turned away from the gathered nobles, the weight of the crown heavier than ever.

Otto’s face tightened with frustration, but he didn’t dare press further. The king’s decision had been made, and despite the chaos it would surely cause, Viserys was unyielding. The silence that followed was deafening, save for the whispers of the lords and ladies who could scarcely believe what they had just witnessed.

Daemon, standing off to the side, let out a low chuckle, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Well,” he said, his smirk widening as he turned to Laena. “It seems the crown is more flexible than we thought, my love.”

Laena raised an eyebrow but said nothing, her amusement mirroring Daemon’s.

As the crowd began to disperse, the tension still thick in the air, Otto stepped closer to Viserys, his voice lowered so that only the king could hear him. “Your Grace, this will have consequences.”

Viserys glanced at him, his expression one of quiet resignation. “It always does, Otto.”

But for the first time in a long while, Viserys had chosen to side with his heart rather than his crown. And the realm, for better or worse, would have to live with the consequences of that decision.

The air in your chambers at Dragonstone is filled with the scent of fire and salt from the sea that laps at the fortress’s shores. A soft, golden glow flickers from the hearth. The chill of the evening is driven away by the warmth of your body, of her body, and the moment you've both craved for so long stretches before you, heavy with anticipation.

Rhaenyra stands before you, still adorned in the remnants of her Valyrian wedding attire. The delicate fabric clings to her figure, and you can’t help but marvel at her beauty, your wife now, in every sense. Her pale hair cascades like molten silver over her shoulders, loose and wild, a stark contrast to her earlier regal appearance. Her violet eyes, so much like your own, burn with intensity as they meet yours.

It has been a long road to this moment — years of stolen touches, whispered confessions in darkened corridors, and glances that lingered far too long for any brother and sister. You’ve always known, though. From the moment you both understood what it meant to be Targaryen, to be dragonkind. Bound by fire and blood.

Yet, it was tonight — after the ceremony, after the sacred words spoken in High Valyrian — that the weight of the bond truly settled upon you both. You are husband and wife now, joined in the eyes of the gods of Old Valyria.

And now, finally, here you stand, ready to consummate that bond in the most intimate of ways.

Rhaenyra steps closer to you, her fingers trembling slightly as they reach for the clasps of your tunic. You catch her hands gently, your thumb brushing over her knuckles.

"You need not rush, Rhaenyra," you say, your voice low, thick with the emotion of the moment. "We have all night. We have forever."

She smiles at that, a rare softness gracing her lips, though there’s a hint of something else in her gaze — something vulnerable.

"I know," she whispers, stepping closer still, so close that the warmth of her body reaches you. "But I’ve waited long enough to have you like this, truly. I don’t wish to wait any longer."

Her hands slip free of yours, and with careful, deliberate motions, she begins to undo your tunic. The fabric slips from your shoulders, revealing the hard planes of your chest, the scars that mar your otherwise flawless skin, souvenirs of the battles and skirmishes at the border of Dorne. Rhaenyra’s eyes trace them, her fingers following the paths of old wounds.

Her touch is reverent, and she says nothing for a long while as she explores your body. Her fingers linger on the deepest of scars, the one that runs across your abdomen, the memory of an enemy's blade.

"This one," she murmurs, her hand pressing lightly against the raised flesh. "Does it still pain you?"

"Not anymore," you reply, your hand coming up to cup her face, lifting her gaze to meet yours. "Not when you touch it."

Rhaenyra’s breath hitches at your words, and you see the desire in her eyes deepen. She leans into your touch, her lips parting as she exhales a shaky breath.

"I am sorry," she whispers, her voice trembling with the weight of the confession. "Before you left for Dorne, we argued. And I regret it."

"I know," you say, brushing your thumb over her lower lip. "But it doesn't matter now. This is where we were meant to be from the start."

She nods, a tear escaping her lashes, though it’s not one of sorrow. You kiss it away, tasting the salt on her skin as your lips move to her cheek, her jaw, and then finally her mouth. The kiss is slow, languid, a promise of what is to come. Her hands are in your hair, tugging gently as she pulls you closer, her body pressing against yours, warm and soft.

You can feel her heart racing beneath your touch, and yours beats in time with hers as you guide her back toward the bed, the silken sheets cool beneath your fingers as you lower her onto them. Rhaenyra watches you with half-lidded eyes, her chest rising and falling with anticipation as you strip away the last of your clothes.

When you turn your attention to her, you take your time, untying the intricate knots that hold her gown in place, layer by layer. She shifts beneath your touch, her body trembling with each brush of your fingers, until finally, she is bare before you, the soft glow of the fire casting her skin in a golden hue.

"Beautiful," you murmur, your voice reverent as you kneel before her.

She reaches for you, her fingers curling around your wrist as she pulls you down to her, and you follow willingly, pressing your body against hers, the heat of her skin igniting something primal within you.

For a moment, neither of you move. You simply lie there, holding each other, breathing in the scent of each other’s skin, feeling the steady thrum of life between you.

"You’re mine," Rhaenyra breathes, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. "And I am yours."

You answer her with a kiss, deeper this time, more urgent, your hand sliding down her body, feeling the curve of her waist, the softness of her hips, until you reach the place where she is already warm and wet for you.

She gasps into your mouth, her nails digging into your back as your fingers slip inside her, her body arching beneath you.

"Please," she whispers, her voice strained. "I need you."

And so you give her what she asks for, positioning yourself between her legs, your heart hammering in your chest as you finally press inside her, slow and steady, until you are fully seated within her warmth.

Rhaenyra lets out a soft cry, her hands clinging to your shoulders, and for a moment, you both simply hold still, lost in the sensation of being joined, of finally being one.

Then you move, gently at first, then with increasing urgency as the need to feel all of her overtakes you. Rhaenyra meets your movements with equal fervor, her body rising to meet yours with every thrust, her cries growing louder with every passing moment.

The room is filled with the sound of your bodies, the crackle of the fire, the soft whisper of your names on each other’s lips.

When you finally reach the edge, you bury your face in her neck, your teeth grazing her skin as you spill yourself inside her, her body trembling beneath yours as she follows you into bliss.

You stay like that for a long while, wrapped in each other’s arms, your bodies still connected, your breathing slowly returning to normal.

"I never want this to end," Rhaenyra murmurs, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back.

"It won’t," you promise, pressing a kiss to her temple. "This is just the beginning."

And as you hold her close, the two of you tangled together beneath the warm embrace of the dragonlord's legacy, you know that you will keep that promise. You are bound by fire and blood, and nothing, not even the gods, will tear you apart.

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd #hotd x y/n #hotd x you #rhaenyra x y/n #rhaenyra x reader #rhaenyra x you #rhaenyra x male reader #hotd rhaenyra #rhaenyra targaryen #silverwing #syrax

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hans-wh0re · 2 months

Text

Thinking about Boyfriend Changbin who loves it when you cling to him, your fingers digging into his muscular arms as he holds you close. He relishes the feeling of your soft curves pressed against his hard body, your needy whimpers filling his ears. Changbin drinks in your wonder and awe as you explore the ridges and planes of his physique. Your wide eyes and parted lips stroke his ego as much as your tender hands stroking his skin. He flexes and preens under your adoring gaze, feeling powerful and masculine and so damn lucky to have you.

Boyfriend Changbin who can never get enough of your touch, constantly pulling you into his lap or pinning you against the nearest wall. His large hands span your waist, sliding under your shirt to caress your bare skin. He nuzzles into your neck, his hot breath fanning across your throat as he inhales your scent. "Mine," he growls possessively, fingers digging into your hips. "All mine." You can't help it but melt into his strong embrace, submitting to his claim on your body and heart. Changbin is the kind of lover that won't be satisfied until he's thoroughly mapped every inch of you with his hands and mouth.

Boyfriend Changbin who gets off on manhandling you, tossing you onto the bed or hoisting you up with your legs wrapped around his waist. His bulging biceps and washboard abs ripple as he effortlessly moves you, making you feel small and delicate in comparison. You've never felt so feminine and protected than when you're enveloped in Changbin's raw strength and masculinity. He's so solid and firm everywhere. The weight of his body on top of yours makes you feel anchored, cherished, safe. You could happily drown in his overwhelming presence, in the heady mix of his earthy musk and spicy cologne, in the intoxicating sensation of all those rock-hard muscles pressing against your softer, pliant flesh...

Boyfriend Changbin who worships your body like a pagan altar, layering sucking kisses and reverent caresses over every dip and curve. His dark eyes burn with hunger as he drinks in the sight of you splayed out beneath him, yearning and ready. He traces the plump swells of your breasts, the quivering plane of your stomach, the tempting flare of your hips. "Look at you," he rasps, voice low and gravelly with lust. "Laid out like a feast just for me." He licks his lips before diving down to taste your honeyed skin. You arch into his ardent mouth as he suckles and nips a fiery path down your body. Each graze of teeth and flick of tongue only stokes the molten ache building in your core. "Changbin, please," you moan, mindless with need. Your desperate begging only spurs him on, those sinful lips curling in a smug smirk against your fevered flesh...

Boyfriend Changbin who takes you with deep, powerful thrusts, stretching and filling you so perfectly. The blunt head of his manhood kisses your womb with every pump of his hips. His pelvis grinds against your sensitive pearl, pushing you closer to the edge. You cling to his sweat-slicked shoulders, blunt nails scoring his golden skin. He pistons faster, harder, his straining muscles flexing and bunching as he chases your pleasure. The headboard slams against the wall and the bed frame creaks in time with your wanton cries. Your thighs quiver and your walls flutter around his driving length. "That's it, baby," Changbin groans, his voice strung tight with impending release. "Come for me. Let me feel you." One, two, three more deep strokes and you shatter, sensation exploding through your nerve endings like white lightning. And Changbin follows you over, spilling his seed deep inside you with a guttural moan...

I Have been so much of a binie whore lately, god help me

#stray kids #skz smut #skz imagines #skz hard thoughts #skz hard hours #skz changbin #stray kids changbin #stray kids imagines #stray kids smut #changbin x reader #changbin smut #changbin imagines #changbin hard thoughts #changbin hard hours

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sarahscribbles · 9 months

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I humbly submit the following request for The Black Suit™️ drabbles:

Crawling onto Loki’s lap (hello, thighs) and using that infuriatingly taunting tie as leverage while you ride him.

𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐒𝐮𝐢𝐭 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐬𝐮𝐢𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: 𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟏.𝟖𝐤

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐧𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲, 𝐚 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐚𝐠, 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐃𝐨𝐦!𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢

𝐀𝐍: 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝, 𝐊, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐨 ;)

𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Unsurprisingly, you hear the familiar smooth drawl of Loki’s voice before you’ve fully crossed the threshold of Tony’s study.

“My, my, darling, I can feel the frustration rolling off you from here. Has something happened?” he asks innocently, not lifting his eyes from whatever book he’s got splayed across those firm thighs.

For a second - only a second - any lingering annoyance that it’s taken you forty five minutes to find this menace that is the love of your life is forgotten.

Loki is reclined back against the soft brown leather of the sofa with an almost empty glass of scotch held loosely in his hand. He’s still wearing that damn black suit, only now the jacket lies discarded over an ottoman and he’s rolled the sleeves up to his elbows.

Even in the dim half light cast by the array of lamps, you can still see the veins protruding along his forearms.

It’s nothing short of decadent filth, tasteful indecency, and it’s all for you.

You cross your arms over your chest, fighting valiantly to stay composed given the sight before you. “What’s happened is that my boyfriend is a tease!” you reply, trying desperately to mask your arousal with irritation.

There’s a soft thump as Loki snaps the book in his lap shut, followed by another as he tosses it carelessly to the other side of the sofa. “Oh? How dreadful. You have my sympathies, of course.”

He sets his glass to the side with a quiet clink of glass on mahogany and turns those devastating eyes back to you. They’re alive and dancing with mischief and unspoken debauchery, and when he spreads his thighs just that little bit wider, you feel any lingering resolve crumble to dust at your feet.

“Perhaps you’d like to come over here and talk about it?” he offers with a sly grin.

You roll your eyes with affectionate exasperation. “Menace.”

Slipping your shoes off along the way, you pad across Tony’s expensive bear skin rug to take your seat on Loki’s lap, but two firm hands on your hips prevent you from doing so.

“No,” Loki says simply and twirls you around easily so you’re facing him. He nudges one thigh between your legs and looks up at you, still wearing that wolfish smile. “Now sit.”

Molten heat blossoms like a spring flower beneath your cheeks and stirs to life like a storm between your thighs. Such is the bewitching power of your lover that three simple words are enough to unravel you like a spool of thread.

Ignoring the steady, rhythmic thump of Tony’s sound system and the distant chatter of a hundred conversations taking place at once, you seat yourself obediently on Loki’s thigh. Through the skimpy lace of your underwear you can feel the material that covers his firm muscles; it’s soft and expensive and would likely feel heavenly as you…

“Darling, if you wish to relieve your frustrations, you only need ask.” Loki’s smooth voice breaks through the pink haze of your arousal at the same time his hands curl around your hips.

You hadn’t realised how you’d been rocking them against his thigh.

“Loki, come on!” you huff, locking your own hands around his wrists. “This isn’t fair!”

“Isn’t it?” He teases, smirking at you while pressing his thigh more snugly against your aching cunt. “I’m giving you exactly what you want. All you have to do is ask, dove.”

He’s maddening when he’s like this. He knows there’s little to nothing you’ll deny him, even if it’s asking permission to ride his thigh.

For a silent moment you do nothing but hold his gaze, but when he rocks his thigh against you once more, you feel the last of your resolve crumble to dust at your feet.

Damn this menace!

Mischief glitters like stars in those pretty green eyes. You know that he loves moments like this, loves hearing you beg for his body. It would be easy to dismiss it as nothing more than an ego boost, but you’ve known him for long enough to know it’s just as much a search for reassurance that you love him and will only ever crave him.

As if there has ever been any competition.

You peer at him through your lashes with feigned demureness, running your hands along his thigh for added effect. “Please can I ride your thigh, Loki?” you ask softly, feeling his fingers twitch around your hip as you do.

“You may,” he replies, but his hands remain locked infuriatingly around your hips. “On one condition,” he adds, smirking even wider when you groan.

“Come, now, darling, what did you expect?” he teases, lifting one hand from your hip to tweak a nipple through the thin material of your dress. You breathe out a curse and watch the familiar green shimmer of his seidr dance in the palm of his hand.

You know it means mischief - as it so often does - but you can’t help but be struck dumb watching his magic at work. It’s soft yet powerful, beautiful yet dangerous.

It’s Loki.

“The condition is that you wear this,” he says, and holds up a deep black ring gag. “I’d rather enjoy seeing how messy you can get for me.”

Searing arousal burns through your veins, so much so that you can’t stop the shiver that shakes your spine. You’ve had this man more times than you can count, in more positions than you can count, yet he never fails to find some new way to make you ache for him.

“Con…condition accepted,” you tell him, already feeling the hoarseness creep into your voice.

“Wonderful,” Loki answers.

He works the gag into your mouth until it’s comfortably behind your teeth and fastens the strap behind your head. Almost instantly, you feel drool begin to collect on your bottom lip. Loki collects it on the pad of his thumb to smear it around your open lips, saying nothing as he admires you.

“Mmm, darling, I already know what I’ll be using this gag for next,” he purrs, gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You remember your safe word when you can’t speak?”

Quickly, you raise your hand to snap your fingers.

“Good girl,” he says and kisses your forehead. “I’m all yours, my love.”

As you begin to grind on his thigh, you feel a familiar gentle warmth tingle between your thighs, and suddenly the soft material of his dress trousers is blissfully against your bare cunt. He raises his hand and you see your underwear dangling from his fingertips. The grin he gives you is wolfish as he then pushes them into his pocket.

“ ‘uck!” you groan out, feeling your eyes roll in your head as you grind furiously against his thigh.

The friction against your cunt is divine to the point that you briefly forget about the gag holding your mouth open. Until you suddenly become very aware of the drool dripping off your chin and down your neck.

“Oh.” You look quickly to Loki without slowing down. “ ‘i ess.”

“It is too beautiful to be ruined, darling, I agree,” Loki taunts and reaches for the thin straps at your shoulders. Easily, he pushes them off until the top half of your dress falls to pool below your stomach, leaving your breasts fully exposed to him.

“There we go,” he then says, and the mischievous glint in his eyes dares you to complain.

“ ‘uck ake!” you say through laughter, but it melts to a moan when his fingers begin to tease your nipples.

They twist and taunt, flick and squeeze, and his teasing touch almost sends you into orbit. You bear down on his thigh, chasing your release with renewed force when Loki collects a fingertip of escaped drool to smear it over your nipples.

“Good girl,” he praises you, gripping your chin again to force your eyes on his. “Keep those lovely eyes on me, dove. I want to see every second of you falling apart.”

There’s a roughness beginning to lace his own words and it only fuels the flames licking furiously at your core. To know that this man desires you so deeply and so fully. You could get off on that fact alone.

As the first tiny waves of your release begin to ripple through you, you reach for Loki’s tie, gripping it like a vice to help propel you towards the edge. You hear his sharp intake of breath, hear the deep, guttural curse that tumbles from his lips, and feel his fingers dig into your hips so hard you know they’ll leave a bruise.

You know you must look a mess - panting and grooming with your dress pooled on Loki’s lap, all while your own saliva trickles down your chest - but each curse and praise that falls like spring rain from his lips assures you that he’s enjoying every second of it.

To you, that’s all that ever matters.

With each roll of your hips over Loki’s firm thigh, the coil in your stomach twists tighter and tighter. Your climax is building within you like a storm, each rocky wave of pleasure washing down on you with purpose as you grip Loki’s tie like a life raft.

His cheeks are stained pink from watching you, and there’s a new, almost feral, light in his eyes. It’s you that’s exciting him, and it’s you he’s all too likely thinking of ravishing. It’s that alone that sends you right to the edge.

“ ‘ease, ‘oki! ‘uck! ‘ease!” you beg him, knowing there’s no chance you can fight off the pleasure that’s bubbling to a crescendo inside you.

“Yes, darling.” He answers immediately, gripping your hips with renewed strength to guide you through your release. “You have my permission. Be a good girl and cum for me.”

It’s blinding. It’s a release so earth shattering that stars dance at the edge of your vision and tiny bells ring out a melody in your ears. Loki’s hands never leave your hips as you howl his name as best you can. You thank him, you curse and moan, you chant his name like a prayer until your orgasm fades to nothing but a pleasant tingle between your thighs.

And then you fall forward onto Loki’s chest, exhausted.

Those familiar strong arms quickly wrap around you and deft fingers undo the gag. With care, he eases it from between your lips, swiftly running his finger along your jaw to ease the ache and to clean you up.

“Beautiful, my darling,” he murmurs softly into your hair as you rest against his shoulder. “I’m so very proud of you.”

You feel his lips against the crown of your head and nuzzle further into his neck. His arms are heavy and comforting across your back, and the silk of his shirt is soft and cool beneath your cheek. It would be all too easy to fall over to sleep and Loki seems to be in no rush to break the spell.

“Love you,” you say quietly against his neck.

He squeezes you in reply. “As I love you. I wouldn’t sleep for too long, dove. The night is still young, afterall.”

He doesn’t see the excited smile that crosses your lips.

#loki #loki smut #loki x reader #loki fanfiction

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lovebugism · 9 months

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SAYING UGLY THINGS ON CHRISTMAS EVE WITH STEBE PLEASEEEEEEE

let's just pretend it's still christmas ok? hope you like it angel! — steve gets cruel when he's anxious, and with his parents coming to town, he's practically a timebomb (ditzy!fem!reader, angst, hurt/comfort tw for toxic parents, 2.1k)

blurbcember ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

You were only trying to help.

Really, you were.

Steve’s been stressing himself sick about his parents coming over, and you’ve been following him around with your heart in your throat, trying to help him before he totally implodes.

He’s always a ticking time bomb when his parents are in town. He doesn’t know how to be anything else when it comes to them. He doesn’t know how to be anything other than perfect because he’s terrified of his mom’s backhanded compliments and his dad’s sneering replies.

He always turns into his teenage self when he’s scared — and there’s nothing more terrifying than being a teenager again.

You know all this, so you try your best to be supportive when he gets in moods like these. When he’s on edge and fussing over every little thing. You help him dust the top of the fridge and organize the spice cabinet and wipe down all the windows — even though you know his parents won’t notice, or otherwise care, about any of it.

And then, when you finally get the buzzing ball of anxiety to cuddle up with you on the couch, you manage to screw everything up all over again.

His head is on your chest, wild hair still drying from his shower. You hear him sniff once, then twice. “What’s that smell?” he wonders, not entirely apprehensive ‘cause the TV’s got most of his attention.

“What smell?” you ask, more distracted than he is.

His weight on you is a comforting one. You pet him like a cat accordingly — one palm rubbing up and down the length of his back and the other curling in his hair. With your nose among the chestnut strands, you don’t smell anything other than his floral shampoo.

“It smells like something’s burning.”

You pull back from him and sniff hard once. It smells a bit smoky, like cooking something over a campfire. Because something is burning. Your heart plummets to your stomach at the realization.

“Oh…” you hum under your breath, blood running ice-cold.

Steve only tenses up because you do. Your warm hands on his body go suddenly rigid. His scruffy chin rubs against the chest of your sweater when he turns to look at you. His honey eyes twinkle with confusion and concern. “Oh, what?”

“I think that might be the turkey…” you answer in a tiny voice because you know what’s coming.

“The what?”

“I put it in while you were in the shower, ‘cause you were so worried it wouldn’t get done in time—”

“Shit, babe!” he blurts and pushes himself off the couch. He rushes towards the kitchen without another look your way. You follow behind him like a puppy and hopelessly try to explain yourself.

“—And then you wanted to cuddle after, so I laid down and totally forgot about it!”

“So you’re saying it’s my fault?” he scoffs and swings the door of the stove down. He flinches at the billowing gray smoke. He rises again and rummages through an adjacent drawer, in search of oven mitts.

Your face swirls with confusion. “No!”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I forgot!”

“That’s not an excuse, babe!” He grimaces as he reaches into the hot oven. The tray clatters to the stove with a smoking turkey on top. It’s not totally burnt, but it’s hard as a rock and charred all over. Neither of you are chefs, but you could probably guess it’s less than edible.

“Shit…” Steve huffs under his breath. His hands fall to his waist and he cocks a hip to the side, blinking at the molten turkey before him because he’s at a loss for what to do now.

You stand just behind him, cowering as you wring your hands together. You feel small, like a child moments away from getting scolded. “I’m sorry, Steve,” you murmur, voice wavering. “I just wanted to help—”

He laughs loud. A bitter scoff, at most. “Well, you did a great job of that, didn’t you?” he says with a sour smile on his plush pink lips.

Tears burn the backs of your eyes. You decide to blame it on the lingering smoke.

“I said I was sorry,” you insist in a tiny voice, trying your best to stand up for yourself. You fucked up. Both of you know it. Rubbing salt in the wound doesn’t help anything.

“That doesn’t fix it, baby!” he argues, hands gesticulating wildly when he turns to you. His chiseled features are sharp with anger, but you decide to count your blessings ‘cause he’s still calling you baby. He only uses your real name when he’s really upset.

“I’m gonna have to go all the way to the store and make it all over again!”

“I’ll pay for it, Stevie, it’s okay—”

“That’s not the point!”

“Then what is the point?”

“My parents are coming over tonight! And if everything’s not perfect, I will never hear the end of it,” he agonizes, voice fragile and close to breaking. His honey eyes go glassy when the red emotion slowly turns blue. “About how I can’t make it on my own, how I moved out too early— how I never should’ve moved in with you.”

His words sting a little bit, in the most literal sense. The very center of your chest starts to ache, like he’s shoved a red-hot knife into your sternum.

You try to shrug it off as best you can. “Well, who cares what your parents say?”

“I do! I have to, ‘cause I’m the one that’ll have to hear about it every goddamn day!”

His misplaced anger begins to build, like the looming shadow of a boogeyman. The weight of it starts to suffocate you. At a loss of how to make any of it better (because you’ve got a record of doing the exact opposite) you try to bring your high-strung boy down again.

“It’s just a turkey, Steve. We can make another.”

You prepare yourself for an argument, but Steve only huffs — so deep it makes his chest rise and fall. His head tips back as he rubs two wide palms over his face, down to his chin and back up again. He swipes his fingers through the still-drying strands of his unstyled hair and doesn’t say a single word.

His teeth are clenched tight. You can tell by the sudden sharpness of his jaw and the way his temples are slightly shifted. His eyes are still shut as he breathes in deep, rhythmic patterns. You can almost hear him counting to ten inside his head in attempts to calm back down again.

Steve is painfully self-aware of how hotheaded he gets when he’s anxious. Every little thing feels like the end of the world when he’s cranked up to one hundred. Problem is, he only realizes how cruel he’s being after he’s hurt someone with it.

That someone in question is you now. The sweeter-than-sugar you, the brighter-than-sunshine you, the well-meaning-but-sometimes-totally-careless you.

And Steve, on the other hand, is utterly troubled. He’s harsh, and he’s hopeless, and he loves you so much he’s not totally sure what to do with it all. Sometimes it scratches him like barbs. Maybe that’s why he confuses love and anger so often.

He thinks of his parents — how they were supposed to love him, how maybe they do, how they have a terrible way of showing it, and how he isn’t at all deserving of the way they treat him — and something inside him seethes. It burns somewhere deep within his ribcage and squirms like a feral animal trying to break free.

He feels trapped and he turns violent, like some kind of hurt dog. ‘Cause if he can’t be loved, then he might as well be feared. And sometimes he bites you, the warmhearted stranger willing to love something that doesn’t know how to love itself. And maybe that’s why he snaps at you when he’s so high-strung.

You love him the most, out of everybody in the whole entire world, and no one could understand all this quite like you do.

“You’re right,” he sighs when he comes down to earth again, arms falling to his sides when his shoulders are no longer tense.

The shades of red give way to something more golden when he looks at you. It makes his heart twist because you’re still looking at him the same way you were ten minutes ago — like you’re looking at the rest of your life in the flesh.

One more breath, and the worry slips away.

“Yeah, you’re right— it’s just a turkey— everything’s fine.”

You want to comfort him. Your wringing hands ache with the longing to hold him like you were before all this, with his cheek to your chest so your heartbeat can keep him grounded. You’re just not sure if he wants that yet.

So you linger in place and try not to implode with your yearning.

“I can get a storebought one before they come over if you want,” you offer meekly, peering at him beneath your lashes. “I don’t think they’ll know the difference if we just lie and say we made it.”

He laughs again. One snorted breath, but much more genuine this time. A grin blossoms like a pretty flower on his rose-petaled mouth. It’s impossible not to smile back at him.

“Or we can just, like, not say anything, and watch my parents pretend to like it,” he jokes.

“That’s evil,” you say, hiding your giggle behind your palm. “But then we’d probably have to eat it, too— to make it believable and everything, you know? And I don’t think I can put that in my mouth without gagging.” You snort a laugh at yourself, then grow strangely serious as you mumble, “That’s what she said.”

Steve laughs, loud and boyish. It paints the kitchen golden and makes your chest feel all sparkly. “C’mere,” he hums with a grin, throwing his arms out for you.

You gravitate towards him instantly, like he’s the sun and you’ve just suffered a terribly long winter. You hug him tight accordingly — suffocating, warm, and tender. He holds you back the same.

His arms curl around your back, wide palms spreading along the length of it. He noses at your hair and presses a gentle kiss there. “Sorry for yelling,” he apologizes, mostly muffled from where he’s holding you so intently. “You forgot. It’s okay. I overreacted.”

It’s still hard for him to apologize sometimes. Even when he’s in the wrong. Especially when he’s in the wrong. He grew up with parents who fought and then acted like nothing happened the next day. There was never any closure. Just bottled up feelings.

It feels good to be wrong — to acknowledge it and to still be loved after.

“I really was trying to help,” you mutter, burying the words into his chest.

Steve nods against you. “I know.”

“I didn’t mean to make it worse—”

“You didn’t make it worse, don’t say that,” Steve interjects before the words can properly leave your mouth. He squeezes you tighter, in hopes it’ll make his words stick more. “You know I’d stress myself to death if you weren’t here.”

“Yeah. And if your parents came home to a corpse, that’d be really morbid,” you murmur gently.

Steve chuckles when he pulls away from you. He unwraps his arms from around you, just to hold your face in his hands. His palms are warm and softly calloused against your cheeks. He swipes his thumbs over the warm apple of them.

“It would be,” he concurs with a nod and a big, dumb grin. His honey eyes sparkle as they melt for you. “I’ll tell them that when they come over— that you singlehandedly saved their son. They’ll have to love you, then.”

He says it like it’s a joke, but it isn’t really. It’s true in a lot of ways. Way more than you know.

“Think they’ll still like me even if you don’t say all that?” you wonder meekly and with your nose scruched, peering up at him with a hopeful gaze.

“Oh. Yeah. Totally,” Steve scoffs without thinking twice. He shrugs like it’s obvious with his face twisted like he’s confused why you’d even ask. “They’ll fall in love with you the second they see you.”

“Well, that’s just dramatic,” you mumble, laughing under your breath.

You’re not nearly as confident as he is because you have no idea you’re made of flower petals, sunsets, and winter skies — all things delicate, tender, and impossibly loveable.

“I’m pretty sure it’s impossible not to be in love with you,” Steve insists, still cradling your face in his palms. It’s easier than saying that he loves you so much that he’d follow you anywhere — or that the rest of the world could fall apart, and he wouldn’t care as long as you were standing with him.

“I think you’re biased,” you tease with a quiet smile.

“I know from firsthand experience, babe,” he argues with a rosy smile. “I’m pretty sure I’m an expert on the matter, actually.”

#published by bug #steve harrington x reader #stranger things x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington x you #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington angst #st drabbles #stevie drabble #event: blurbcember

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