#Silver's lily garden

[lilyofthevalleycaughtintherain]

two sides of the same coin

[jess-cookierun-art]

White Lily Cookie Clones

I first thought of this idea last year on the same month aka January and I was heavily inspired by the Grimwalkers from The Owl House cause I thought it would be neat

But throughout last year, I procrastinated on the designs and only did it if I wanted to. Now with White Lily Cookie in the game, I finished all the designs of the clones with finishing Lily Garden yesterday.

Instead of putting them in separate posts, I’ll put them all together with names and order they were created under the cut. Later, I put them in separate posts to save you time

Lily Orchid Cookie

Vanilla Lily Cookie

Silver Lily Cookie

Lily Bouquet Cookie

Lily Pad Cookie

Lily Pond Cookie

Lily Bud Cookie

Lily Garden Cookie

Flower Garden Cookie

[pureanonofficial]

"Lily's Eyes" from The Secret Garden at the Ahmanson Theatre as sung by Derrick Davis and Aaron Lazar during after-show special event. Originally posted by MrPricklepantsA113 on r/Broadway on reddit.

[academyoftheheartandmind]

Water Lilies and Other Photographs

By Michael Shoemaker Michael Shoemaker is a poet, writer, and photographer. His photography has appeared in Front Porch Review, Writers on the Range, Yahoo.com. and elsewhere. He lives in Utah near the Great Salt Lake with his wife and son. Michael enjoys pickleball and gardening.

[mothpawbs]

I now have ten plants in my room, can I safely say this is getting out of hand? someone needs to stop me haha

[amyylinchen]

a lily from my own garden 💚

[alysrivrs]

❛ ♡. gif credit. ⎯⎯ 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍. ❜

★ ⎯⎯ prince aemond and his betrothed take a stroll together in the royal gardens, though a bit more happens on this ‘stroll’ than he had previously anticipated.

𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾: i don’t really know what this is, but i was heavily caffeinated & wanted to write something with mostly fluff in it, so… happy reading & enjoy ! ♡

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: mdni, suggestive themes, slightly dark!aemond, profanity, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, first kiss (reader), period-typical sexism, misogyny (women are more than breeding machines, aemond!), innocence kink, breeding kink, possessive & obsessive behavior, pet names, romance, fluff—any grammatical errors are my own -- in advance, i sincerely apologize.

𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍: 1.7k

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐖𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒.

aemond could recall the way you smelled by memory—like freshly ripened strawberries, white roses, sweetened vanilla, your hair was always luscious and soft, like the white satin dress you chose to wear today due to the summer heat in king’s landing.

or maybe, you wished to seek him out and gain more of his attention?

if aemond were to be honest with himself, it worked—oh, how it worked.

“tell me, darling—is the color of your lily-white dress an indication of your virtue?” he mused, causing your cheeks to flush and become dewy from the early afternoon sun, blooming flowers surrounding the two of you.

you couldn’t speak, too embarrassed by your betrothed’s sudden teasing—besides… how scandalous would it be if someone were to eavesdrop on your conversation with the one-eyed prince?

aemond smirked, amused by your shy reaction.

‘twas not as if you were in private, no—the prince demanded your presence once he had finished with his morning training, wishing to take you on a stroll in the royal gardens of the red keep, knowing how much you adored the sight of flowers.

still, no matter how scandalous your dress seemed to others, the heat in king’s landing was quite stifling—even more so with aemond carefully observing you, his amethyst eye sharp and intense as he walked alongside you, not paying any attention to the flowers around you both.

aemond was content to just simply gaze down at you, his own pretty, little flower—soon to blossom into a woman grown, as soon as he would take you under his protection as his lady wife, as far as traditions go.

he made you incredibly nervous—with his long strands of silver hair, his sharp yet handsome features, his prominent nose, his lithe but strong frame, his tall height (which towered over you), those soft, naturally curved lips of his… seven above, you could go on and on!

unbelievably, you seemed to have his full, undivided attention, which made your heart flutter—having the prince all to yourself?

you felt as if you were in some sort of dream—perhaps, you were.

especially with the way aemond treated you—respectful and kind, though you could always see a darkened gleam in his one-eye, as if he were holding himself back from something.

it made your soft, inner thighs slick with arousal—it also had you praying to the seven above each and every evening before bed, begging for forgiveness for your depraved thoughts of your betrothed.

in any case, aemond was much, much worse than you.

aemond could not seem to control himself around you, his cock hardening by the second the more he spent his time with you—alone.

“my sweet lady,” he murmured, interrupting your compliments of the colorful flowers, as he allowed you to do most of the talking as you two walked together, side by side.

aemond was never big on conversation, he never had been, preferring to stay silent and keep his thoughts concealed to himself, in fear of being mocked as he was when he was just a child.

you paused, looking up at the prince—his one natural eye was amethyst in color, the other a sparkling sapphire gem he’d stuffed into his left eye socket when he was just a boy, after his eye had been stolen by his bastard nephew.

however, as you looked up at aemond, there was only one word in your mind—beautiful.

still, he was touched that you didn’t seem afraid of him—in fact, you seemed greatly insulted when he would wear his leather eyepatch around you, claiming it unnecessary and that you wished to see your betrothed whole—every single inch of him.

perhaps, that was the moment aemond one-eye fell irrevocably in love with you.

a moment of silence passed—not uncomfortable, just two soon-to-be lovers gazing at each other.

“may i kiss you, my lady?” he questioned, watching your doe eyes widen, your pink, plump lips parting open slightly in surprise.

“k-kiss me?” you stammered, so sweet and innocent and his.

you didn’t have it in your heart to deny him—in fact, you wanted nothing more than to feel his plush, curved mouth upon yours—desperately.

you nodded, eagerly giving him your consent.

aemond chuckled, quiet and breathy, amused by your sudden eagerness—his shy girl no longer.

immediately, without waiting another second, the prince moved to cup the sides of your flushed face with both of his big, calloused hands, before bending his knees slightly and capturing your lips in a needy, passionate kiss—hearing you release a soft, breathy moan of bliss.

aemond hummed, pleased.

unexpectedly, you kissed him back with just as much enthusiasm, though a bit clumsy, making him think to himself that perhaps this was your first kiss—your first kiss with a man.

the thought excited aemond, which also caused his cock to ache with need—to feel your wet, tight little cunt wrapped around his cock, squeezing him like a vise, right before he would start fucking into your warmth at a frenzied pace, mad with lust for you.

you were a soft, sensitive little thing, with a heart made of glass, meant to be protected, loved, spoiled… and aemond was the perfect man for the role.

he’d cherish you like his queen, love you with every breath he took and beat of his heart—the kind of love that would be told for centuries to come—legendary.

after several seconds of growing accustomed to the way your lips molded together—so perfectly—aemond easily slipped his tongue into your mouth—exploring its delicious sweetness.

strawberries, white roses, and sweetened vanilla.

your scent, your taste—it all filled his senses, making his cock strain even more inside of his leather breeches, while he continuously kissed you more and more, like a man starved until he thought he could never stop.

clearly, you did not wish to stop either.

your soft hands clawed at his back, tugging on his long strands of silver hair, clinging to his lithe form with desperation—a need so strong, aemond had half the mind to bend you over the nearest bench, lift up your pretty, satin skirts and fuck you from behind like a wild beast in his rut.

after several longer moments, you pulled away, gasping for air, though your lips still continued to gently brush against his, both of you panting and sharing the same breath—lips kiss-swollen and desperate for more from one another.

aemond’s eyes were heavy lidded and filled with lust—his amethyst eye practically dilated black and his sparkling sapphire eye shining dangerously with the need to touch you, to fuck you, to spill his seed deep inside of your womb—so deep, you’d be carrying his son by morning.

nevertheless, aemond was a gentleman—he could be patient, though that didn’t stop his depraved thoughts of taking your maidenhead on your wedding night, which was quickly approaching by the days—thank the gods.

soon, you’d be his wife—his lady targaryen.

his and only his.

“perhaps, we s-should return b-back inside, my prince? ‘tis nearly lunchtime… the queen mother requested my presence—she wishes to go over the flower arrangements for our wedding,” you spoke breathlessly, your voice slightly shaky from the intensity of the kiss you both shared.

aemond hummed, nodding his head once in agreement, his face returning back to its usual stoic expression—though his cheeks were still tinted pink and his cock was surely leaking inside of his breeches now… as if he were a little boy once again!

how fucking ridiculous, that he had gotten hard after just simple kissing—however, technically it wasn’t just ‘simple kissing’, not when he was so hopelessly in love.

instantly, aemond offered you one of his lean arms, a silent offer to escort you to his dearest mother’s private solar… and maybe even indulge in some of the ladies newest gossip about your upcoming nuptials—if only to spend more time in your presence.

aemond could not give less of a fuck about what any of the simpering, aggravating noblewomen had to say or gossip about—he only cared for you and what you had to say.

therefore, he would endure the torturous boredom of the ladies of the court, even if he thought each and every single one of them were poisonous, nasty creatures.

be that as it may, aemond would only do such a thing to remain by your side for the rest of the day… and to harshly glare threateningly at any lady who even looked at you the wrong way.

it seemed, the longer aemond spent his time in your gentle presence, the more he grew obsessed—your beautiful and relaxing voice, your sweet smiles, your gentle touch, your naïveté.

seven hells, you were the most breathtaking creature he’s ever had the pleasure of seeing, even with only his one-eye.

when aemond did observe you, which was quite often now as he couldn’t bear to tear his eye away from you, he’d notice the little things about you—causing his world to stop and revolve only around you.

you, you, you.

snapping out of his lovesick thoughts, aemond glanced down at you as you looped your own arm around his offered one, making his blackened heart give a tiny flutter as you smiled so prettily up at him.

“shall we, my sweet lady?” he questioned, his voice a low rasp, controlled and steady, but he did try his best effort with being soft with you, not wanting to scare you off and have you believe the vile rumors spread about him from the court gossipers.

he knew he had quite the temper, the targaryen madness, they called it.

you giggled, “of course, my prince.”

fuck, aemond was quite certainly fucking doomed by having you as his future lady wife—so sweet, caring and loving, the way you seemed so docile and yearned for children of your own… you’d make a lovely mother to his sons, that he was certain.

just as a lovely mother to his future heirs, you’d also make the most perfect wife, he decided.

obedient, doting, gentle, tender and loving—aemond could not wait to make you his little wife, and have his firstborn son swelling inside of your womb.

until then, aemond would portray himself as the perfect gentleman (as usual)—that is, until your wedding night arrives.

fin

[beansprean]

My fav thing about the classic flowershop / tattoo parlor au is assigning the objectively wrong roles for no reason other than my own enjoyment. ID under cut!

[ID: 1. Full body of a modern flowershop / tattoo parlor au with Stede and Ed. They are standing together in the wall space between their shops, meeting for the first time. Stede’s shop on the left says “tattoo” in large red letters on the window as well as a sign with their hours. Inside there is a small piercing display. Ed’s shop on the right has “flowers” in blue lettering on the window as well as the beginnings of a phone number with area code 246. Inside there is a tiered display of various types of flowers including sunflowers, roses, lilies, and carnations. Stede has three studs in his ear and snake bite hoops in his lip and is wearing a dark gray blouse with frilly sleeves, a purple waistcoat with silver detailings, a silver pocket square, a cravat pinned with a large purple jewel, and black trousers. He has several rings on each hand and black nails and is holding a cardboard box labeled “gauges.” He turns with pleasant surprise to look at Ed, smiles, and says “Oh!! Hello!” Ed, on a smoke break, just stares at him with pink-cheeked surprise in response. He has his long hair up in a bun and is wearing blue jeans and a pink tee shirt over a pale green apron with “Queen Anne’s” stitched on the breast. In his left hand is a lit cigarette, and the right is in his apron pocket fumbling with a red cloth. All his usual tattoos (save for the eagle on his chest and the marae on his wrist) are now floral designs, including a long leafy vine winding down his right arm, several pink carnations and falling petals, palm leaves on his left bicep, and a patch of sunflowers on his left shoulder and neck.

2. A new day, Stede now in a blue waistcoat with embroidered fleur-de-lis and light blue blouse and cravat and Ed with his hair half up in a bun, wearing a red tee shirt, apron, and brown gardening gloves. Stede is leaning toward him looking excited, declaring, “Lilac?? I would love to design that for you!” Ed, leaning back and looking flustered as he blushes and avoids eye contact, flexes his hands at his side and laughs nervously. “Uh, haha, really? Idk if my artist would like that.” To the side, we see a small drawing of a sullen Izzy with large gauges and a vee neck shirt, holding a buzzing tattoo pen. Text next to him in parentheses reads “current artist.”

3a. The same day; Ed sitting on a tattoo chair with his left arm extended while Stede, wearing nitrile gloves, doodles a lilac branch onto the blank spot on his forearm with a tattoo pen. Ed, staring at Stede shyly but warmly from the corner of his eye, offers a small smile and says, “You’re always so covered up, I’ve never even seen any of your tattoos.” Stede, smiling absently as he works on Ed’s tattoo, responds, “Oh! I don’t have any.”

3b. Ed whips his head toward Stede in shock, forgetting his shy attempt at flirting in favor of gaping openly at him. Stede, none the wiser, continues to draw and hum to himself.

3c. Close up of Ed’s face from the previous panel zoomed in, hearts popping up in his eyes and cheeks going a dark red. Text next to him reads “you are so fucking fascinating”

/end ID]

[thedreamlessnights]

Someone to shed some light - pt. 1

Astarion x gn!reader (Upcoming NSFW)

{series masterlist}

Synopsis: After being raised as a commoner, you find yourself as the last in a royal bloodline, forced into a marriage with someone you've never met. He's more than he seems. AKA: An arranged marriage AU with everyone's favorite vampire.

Warnings: Brief mentions of blood, death, and minor injuries. Mentions of sex, but nothing particularly graphic. Very brief, not graphic suicidal ideation.

Word Count: 6k

A/N: This idea possessed me and did not let me go. I don't know where it came from, or how on earth it's already 6k. I'm feral for Astarion, and it just... happened. Anyway. The royalty aspects are not remotely lore-accurate to the Baldur's Gate games, for which I apologize. Sometimes you just have to make shit up.

If reality is meant to be believable, then you must be in a dream. 

No one ever said what kind of dream, though. Not a dream you’d wanted, that’s for sure. Most days, this all feels like some horrible nightmare. But maybe, just maybe - if you close your eyes and stay exactly where you are, thinking about nothing at all - it could be a nice one. 

The palace gardens are beautiful, after all. Even this place can’t ruin that. 

Silver moonlight shines on the earth below, giving everything a ghostly cast. Soft, silky wind brushes against your skin, and the faint aroma of flowers fills the air. Honeysuckle. Roses. Lilies. 

Yes. If you shut your eyes tight and pretended everything else away, it would be a nice dream. But you know better. Beyond the lovely gardens and the ornamented walls, this place is a prison. And never, not in a thousand years, could you have pictured anything like this happening to you. 

Not even in a dream.

You’ve never been one to fantasize about being royalty. Riches and power simply don’t appeal to you that way, especially not when comfortable clothes and the freedom to be yourself are traded in for the sake of discomfort and diplomacy. 

Still, the reality of it is somehow even worse than you’d thought. The clothes pinch at your sides and itch at your neck, and you can’t move in them the way you want to. Everything you’ve worn is stiff and tight and ridiculously heavy, as if all your outfits were made for a doll, not for someone alive. Then again, maybe that was the intention. You certainly feel like a puppet. 

If only none of it was real. 

You still haven’t accepted any of it, not really. It’s as if you’re waiting for someone in the shadows to jump out at you and laugh, telling you it was all pretend. Of course you aren’t royalty, they’d say. Of course you don’t belong here. And you’d go back to your home, where everything is right, where you belong. 

You can still see it all in your mind, so real that it’s practically touchable. The thought of it never fully fades. Just as soon as you’ve closed your eyes, you find yourself reliving that day once more.

The smell of baking bread floods a warm room. The heat of the fire sears the air. Customers bustle in and out, laughing and drinking and picking fights. Home. The way you’ve always known it. The way you’ve always loved it.

Then the room slowly goes silent. Wary. Palace guards lurk in the doorway, their eyes sweeping over the crowd, and your fingers immediately itch for your knife. The crown hasn’t any business in this place - what could they want?

When one of them steps inside, gazing at the crowd like they’re dirt beneath his feet, it takes everything you’ve got in you to stay calm. You can practically hear Cal’s voice in your head, telling you to take some deep breaths.

As the guard stalls in front of you, he stares. His gaze runs over you slowly, like you were less than he’d expected - a disappointment to him without even trying. “You,” he says. “You’re coming with us. Queen’s orders.”

Every pair of eyes in the inn land on you. Your heart starts beating so fast and rough that you’re sure it’ll burst straight through your ribs and fall out of you. The room spins. You’re biting your tongue, resisting the urge to pick a fight, because Cal is shaking his head and tugging at your sleeve. The single voice of reason in this place. Blood slowly fills your mouth with the taste of iron. 

And you go with them. For some godsdamned reason, you go.

As soon as you’ve left, you know it was a mistake. There’s a whole troop here - enough men to tell you that you’re considered a threat, somehow. Enough men to keep your arms folded into you, wondering what in the hells you could have done to warrant this attention. 

Despite everything, you force yourself to maintain some dignity, keeping your shoulders squared until you get to the palace. You suck in deep breaths and try to hide your shaking hands. This place… it won’t get the better of you, if you can help it. But it’ll all depend on why you’re here, and furthermore - what they want.

As you approach the throne room, they stand back to let you in. When you hesitate, the leader shoves you through the open door, and it slams shut behind you with a sound that echoes throughout the room. You’re left in a large, empty place with two shadowy figures that become clearer as you step further in. You recognize only one of them.

The queen is entrancing in the flesh, all dark hair and flashing eyes. She says nothing, but her gaze analyzes you from her throne as the man - who, from the look of things, must be her court sorcerer - approaches you. A needle pricks your finger and leaves a dull throbbing in its place. 

Silence. A nod. 

“It’s true, then,” the queen says. Her voice is like wine, dark and smooth in your ears. “You’re a child of Calthir. Royal blood flows in your veins.”

You’re standing in front of her, squinting in the bright light. Her words seem a million words away. Some other dimension. Some other reality.

“I - I don’t…”

“You poor thing. You didn’t know?” she asks. “Well. Perhaps they were clever to keep it from you. Or perhaps not.” 

“It isn’t possible,” you blurt out. “What you’re saying. I can’t be… that.”

She raises a brow. “But you are.”

This time, your nails draw blood when they curve into your palms. Stinging pain floods your senses. “Then what do you want from me?” you ask, unable to mask the frustration brimming your words. “Calthir fell when I was a child. I don’t even remember it.”

“Where are your parents?” she asks.

You swallow hard. “Dead. Just after I was born.”

For a long moment, she stares down at you, her dark, intelligent eyes gleaming in the light. “Calthir has fallen, yes. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t alive.” Her words are measured, carefully chosen for the most impact. “Every day, more of my soldiers are lost to Calthirian dreamers. They want their kingdom back, their so-called rightful ruler placed on the throne. You. They’ve been searching for you. Do you understand?”

You do. “You’re going to kill me.”

She clicks her tongue. “And make the problem worse?” With a graceful movement, she gets to her feet, towering over you from her throne. “No. Their search is thorough, aided by magic. They’d discover your fate, sooner or later.” She pauses, lifting two fingers to her temples as if sensing an oncoming headache. “You’d become a martyr. Mass kindling for the zealots. I won’t have that.

“Then what?” you ask weakly. “Prison?”

She laughs hollowly. “And what good would that do?”

You can’t think of an answer.

“No,” she sighs. “Prison would be pointless. A waste. I still have use for you.”

Fear floods your gut, thick and dark. When you speak, your mouth feels like it’s full of sand. “Which is?”

She tilts her head. “I’m sure you’ll find it simple enough. You’re going to marry my son.”

In the gardens, the crickets are singing. It’s the first thing you notice when you come back to yourself, ears ringing. You’ve gone through that memory a hundred times, but it seems more real now, sharper, somehow. Your stomach churns with the urge to be sick, but the feeling fades quickly. 

It’s starting to settle in. That this is your life now. You’ll likely never see your home again. Your friends. All of your ambition, gone - thrown away for some petty diplomacy. You’re engaged to a man you’ve never met, and for the rest of your life, he’ll be tied to you.

More than anything else in this place, the prince doesn’t seem real. Even his name feels foreign in your thoughts, a muddy figure you can never put a face on. Strangely enough, the palace doesn’t have any portraits of him - which doesn’t put you any more at ease - and none of the servants will talk to you about him. You’ve been here over a week and still haven’t seen him, not even for a moment. Not even a glimpse.

Maybe you’ll never meet him. That’d be nice.

You doubt you’ll get so lucky.

The rest of the night passes by slowly, oozing along like syrup. You’re more than happy to sit in relative silence and enjoy the peace while it lasts. After all, this kind of freedom will be a rare thing, soon. Your eyes start to grow heavy, but you have no desire to head back inside. Not yet. 

When it’s long past midnight, the sound of a snapping branch behind you startles you to your feet. Your knife is gone, taken by the guards, but you reach for it all the same, cursing when you come up empty . But there’s nothing when you turn - nothing dangerous, at least. Just a squirrel, scurrying up a tree. 

Just as you’re about to return to your seat, a man comes stumbling out of the woods, scaring you half to death. He halts in his tracks as he sees you, eyes widening as he looks at you. He must not have expected anyone to be out this late at night, and you can’t blame him. It is absurdly late. And yet, here you are, and there’s nothing stopping you from taking in every inch of his clearly guilty appearance. 

The first thing you see, because it would be impossible to miss, is the blood. It’s all over him, splattered across his face and tattered clothes, staining his hands. His silky white hair curls around his pointed ears, dirtied with dirt and leaves. His dark eyes that you can’t quite make out the color of lock onto your every move.

He’s handsome. And, from the look of things, he’s probably going to kill you. 

You aren’t quite sure whether or not you want him to, considering everything. You wouldn’t have to go through with the sham of a marriage if you’re dead. Then again… are you really ready to let go?

For a moment, neither of you move. Your heart is thrumming under your ribs, and your feet are frozen where you stand. His fear turns into something else - puzzlement. His head tilts ever so slightly. Then, slowly, he takes a step back. You don’t move, because what could you do? Chase him? You’re not that much of a fool.

He chances another step away, and when you still don’t react, a third. And just like that, the man vanishes into the night, and you’re left alive and unscathed, staring out into the darkness of the woods he’d come from. 

You can’t help but feel a little disappointed he hadn’t killed you, or at least tried. It would have been exciting, at least.

After a few more minutes of nothing but silence, you turn on your heel and head back inside. The next time you see him is three weeks later, and until then, there’s not a moment he’s not in your thoughts.

As the days pass, you soon come to realize that the worst thing about this place is the boredom. It should be a thousand other things - the pinching clothes, the ache of your old life that never stops throbbing in your chest, the soon-to-be husband you haven’t even seen - but it isn’t. It’s the never-ending, constant boredom.

Gods, is it ever boring. You read every decent book in the library. You walk around the gardens at least five times a day, looking for something new. You linger around the courtyards, hoping for a bit of gossip. And every day, it’s all the same, and there’s nothing. And every day, you think of the strange man in the woods and wonder who or what he possibly could have killed. You’d checked the woods the next morning but came up completely empty.

As the wedding approaches, the air around the castle grows thick and tense. Arguments ring out from the halls about this or that - flowers, invitations, food. You’re shoved into at least twenty different potential outfits to see how they look, pinched and prodded. Servants scrub your skin raw despite your protests, even though it’s still a week away. 

The queen is almost as rare a sight as her son is, though you do catch her slipping through the main hall once. She hasn’t spoken to you since that first day. Perhaps isolation runs in the family.

Which is why it’s so surprising when, three nights before the wedding, you hear her voice coming from a passage down the hall. It’s late. You should be sleeping, but your thoughts have kept you awake, and you’re roaming the halls like an aimless ghost. Your feet stall when you hear the echoing of words - something shouted not far from you. 

From the sound of it, she’s in the east wing, an off-limit portion of the castle you’d been told was dangerous and in dire need of repair. You’d only listened at the time because no one else went in there, not even the servants. But now… 

You chance edging in a little closer, keeping your steps quiet and your body in shadow. When you manage to sneak a look, Queen Erelin is standing in the midst of floors so clean that they shine, shouting at one of the closed doors.

“Every time I do anything for you, you fight with me,” she snarls, pacing up and down the hall. “I am doing what is best for you! Making you better! Why can’t you understand that?”

When no answer comes, she stalls in front of the door, lets out a long, heavy sigh, then throws her hands into the air and mutters something final under her breath. She leaves without so much as a glance toward your hiding spot. Your breath comes out in a whoosh of relief, tension flooding out of your shoulders.

When the fear is finally gone, curiosity takes its place. The east wing is silent and open, practically begging you to take a look, and you’re not in a place to resist. When you move closer, you can see warm light flooding out from underneath a door - the one she’d been shouting at. It’s not difficult to guess who must be in there, considering the facts. Would he answer, if you knocked? Would he talk to you? 

A long moment passes in silence as flickers of movement spill their way under the door. Well, if you’re going to spend your life with him, you might as well find out what he’s like in advance. But just as you’re about to take a step forward, something stops you - a sensation you don’t recognize. The feeling trickles down your neck, plants itself deep into your chest as if it’d sunk straight through your skin - icy and dark and making you shudder as you wrap your arms around yourself for warmth.

After one final look toward the hall, you head to bed. The feeling fades. And, for the next few days, every time you look at the east wing, it’s shut tight.

Part of you is glad for it.

Despite your best efforts, the wedding rolls closer and closer, and as a horrible result, you get hardly any time to yourself. You’re escorted around, forced into fittings and rehearsals and who knows what else. The prince still never shows, but the queen is absolutely everywhere. She floats from room to room, dark circles under her eyes as she approves or denies things entry. She glances at you when she notices you, then shakes her head. 

“I’d be the happiest woman in the world if I never had to plan a wedding again,” she says. 

You resist the urge to point out that she was the one who’d wanted this.

On the day of, you’re ripped out of bed at a miserable hour, scrubbed clean, slathered in creams and fragrances, forced into yet another torturous outfit, and shoved out into the halls. People filter around you, carrying flowers and pastries and various trinkets. You stand there feeling like you can’t breathe until an arm loops around yours and starts pulling you through the crowd.

“Come,” the queen says. You don’t argue with her. She’s looking much better than before, well-rested and her cheeks rosy, porcelain skin glowing in the light. Her dress, light-blue, weightlessly flutters around her. “Given these last few weeks,” she starts, her eyes fixed in front of her. “Well. You must be curious about your husband-to-be.”

You are curious, yes. But you keep your lips shut tight. 

She shoots you a piercing look. “I expect you to be polite,” she says. “He is your prince, after all. And one day, your king.”

Only then do you realize she’s leading you straight into the east wing - but not to the door she’d shouted at before. Further down the hall, into a giant room filled with books and servants and a tailor, fussing over some clothes. A man stands in the corner, and when he turns to look at you, you stop dead in your tracks.

It’s him. The one you’d seen that night, covered in blood. His eyes widen when he sees you, and all you can do is stare at him like a fool. You don't know how you hadn’t put that together - the mysterious prince, never showing his face, and the stranger in the woods, covered in blood. But then…

The way you’d seen him then is the complete opposite of everything he is now. The opposite of everything in this place, every spotless, perfect little thing that makes you feel so wrong being here. He’d been dirty, clothes simple and torn, hair mussed and covered in leaves. Here, he’s clean, dressed in extravagant clothes, so pristine and put together that not an inch of him looks out of place. 

Of course you hadn’t considered it. Just like you, he hadn’t seemed like he belonged here. But you were wrong. He fits in the same as everyone else. 

His eyes, as it turns out, are a dark, gleaming red.

“Astarion,” the queen says, letting go of your arm and stepping away. “I trust you remember your manners?”

His gaze doesn’t leave your face, even for a moment. “But of course,” he says, his tone sultry and smooth. He steps closer, taking your hand in his, keeping his eyes locked on yours as he presses a kiss to the skin. Your stomach flutters at the action even though you should know better. 

His touch is ice-cold. 

In his eyes, you see exactly what you are: a threat. Maybe he’ll kill you after all. Then again - he can’t. They need you alive. That’s why they’re doing all of this in the first place. 

“Prince Astarion,” you greet. That touch has put some danger into you, a spark that won’t settle in your veins. You can’t help yourself, can’t hold your tongue. “It’s nice to see you again,” you find yourself saying. “I hope you’ve recovered from the incident in the gardens?”

For the barest moment, his eyes narrow. But just as quickly as his distaste is there, it’s gone, tucked under a pasted-on smile. “Why yes, I have,” he says, tilting his head. “Healthy and clean as ever.” He takes another step toward you, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear before he leans in close, so near that you can feel his breath on your cheek. 

“Not another word,” he murmurs, his voice dark and low. He smells clean and herbal - you catch notes of bergamot and rosemary, enticing and dizzying. A light hint of something else: wine, perhaps. He’s stepped away before you can fully place it.

“I didn’t realize you’d met,” the queen says, her eyes flickering between you and Astarion. 

“It was rather brief,” he answers. 

She looks like she’s about to ask something else, but a loud crash from the main hall distracts her. “Shit,” she curses, squeezing her eyes shut. “I’d better go see what that was.” Then she turns her gaze to you, nodding for you to join her. “Come along, now. It’ll be starting soon.”

You look back at Astarion. “Well, then. Goodbye, Your Majesty,” you tell him. “I suppose I’ll see you soon.”

The corner of his mouth flicks into a smile. “That you will,” he replies.

Everything else turns into a blur. 

You’re rushed from place to place, forced to recite the stupid vows over and over again until they’re convinced you’ve got them down, preened over and prodded until you’re raw. Your feet start to ache along with your head, and all you can think about is wanting to be home and… well, as much as you hate to admit it, you think about Astarion. He might as well be a plague for how much he’s infected your thoughts. 

You think of him, covered in blood, then spotlessly clean. You think of his voice, low in your ear, and his touch, and the smell of him that still lingers somewhere on your skin. Had he planned this, somehow? A ruse to get into your head? No. You’re being ridiculous. He hadn’t known you were the one who’d seen him - of course he hadn’t planned it.

If only it had been anyone else.

“Quick!” someone says. “It’s starting!”

Your heart drops straight down to your stomach as the drone of an organ hits the air. Nearby hands scrabble around for various items, clawing like animals. A stranger grabs your arm and drags you around like a doll, throwing instructions at you.

And just like that, you find yourself in front of the prince again. 

This time, instead of a dozen people or so, there are hundreds of people in the room. You needn’t have worried about being here with him. Nothing has ever felt less intimate. 

Your vows are rehearsed and devoid of any emotion, even though you really are trying. His are more convincing, perhaps, but they’re coached all the same. Still, when he takes your hand and slides on the ring, your stomach flutters. You slide his ring on with shaking fingers and just like that - you’re married.

“You may kiss,” the priest says, and your soul instantly exits your body. Gods, this can’t be real. None of this. 

But it is. Astarion leans in, his hand settling on your cheek, and kisses you. 

It’s clearly meant to be a quick, chaste kiss, but his lips are soft, and he smells so very nice, and the chill of his touch on your cheek is both soothing and strangely intoxicating. It’s as instinctive as breathing when the kiss deepens, when you find your fingers fisted into his shirt and his hand curls a little tighter around your jaw.

That is to say, the kiss is neither quick nor chaste, and when you pull away, there’s no small amount of cheering from the crowd. You want to melt into the floor.

When you finally muster up the ability to look at him again, Astarion tilts his head and raises his brows - a question you don’t at all want to decipher. You simply shake your head in response.

He loops his arm through yours, takes you down into the crowds, and escorts you through the room, effortlessly witty, devilishly charming. You don’t know how he does it. When people start talking to you, you can hardly get the words out of your mouth. You’re still half in shock, and Astarion’s presence isn’t helping.

The smell of him you couldn’t place earlier reveals itself to be brandy. 

How incredibly pretentious.

After what seems like hours of forced conversation, Astarion leads you over to the tables of food and drink, placing a glass of wine in your hand that you gratefully start to gulp down.

He sips at his wine, pasting on a smile when people wave at him, then turns his gaze to you. “You know, darling,” he murmurs, quirking a brow, “it wouldn’t hurt to make an effort.”

You grip your wine tighter, shooting him a scowl. “I am making an effort,” you hiss. 

He gives you another one of his false smiles. “As passionate as that kiss was, I’m afraid that doesn’t count.”

Shutting your eyes, you take in a deep breath. “That’s not what I meant. Not all of us are good at this like you are. Talking to people.”

“Well, my sweet,” he replies tightly, and for the first time, you can hear frustration lining his words. “I appreciate the compliment, but we still need to convince everyone here that we are madly in love. And that takes more than a kiss.” He takes the glass from your hands - much to your dismay - and places it on a servant’s tray, interlocking his arm with yours again. “So try a bit harder, won’t you?”

Gods, you can’t stand him.

When you go back to speaking, you try your best to be charismatic - but only because you can feel Erelin’s eyes on you, and you don’t dare upset her. Not that your best efforts make you succeed, unfortunately. Astarion has to swoop in several times to save you from the awkward turn of things.

When you finally get another moment to breathe, he guides you to a silent corner, puts an arm around you, and leans in close. “For the love of the gods,” he says. “You’re driving us both into the dirt with your horrid conversational skills.” He inhales deeply and sighs, collecting himself for a moment. “How about this - I will take on the heavier conversations, and you can just… pay compliments.”

“Pay compliments?” you ask incredulously, taking care not to be too loud. “How in the hells am I supposed to do that? I don’t know any of these people!”

“Oh, it’s easy,” he says, waving his free hand dismissively. “Tell the women you like the dress they’re wearing, or their necklace, or… I don’t know - their perfume. They’ll go on about it for ages, and you won’t have to do anything but smile and nod.”

This sounds much too easy to be true. “You’re sure that it’ll work?” 

“Trust me,” he replies. “The more we keep that pretty mouth of yours shut, the better off we’ll be.”

Anger flares in your chest at his words, red-hot. “Quite the charmer, aren’t you?” you ask.

“That I am,” he says, pulling you closer. “I’m so glad you noticed.”

Anywhere else, you’d have elbowed him in the stomach. Hard. Unfortunately, you’re in front of hundreds of people, and it would lead to a large number of very awkward conversations. So, instead, you paste on a smile and think of home.

You aren’t in a palace. You’re in your tavern, talking to customers. This is easy, and you definitely don’t hate it. At all. 

When the next couple approaches you, Astarion takes the lead, and you smile wordlessly and nod. When a null in the conversation arrives, you tell the woman you like her dress. Which, luckily, you do. It’s masterfully made, gold embroidery along a shimmering turquoise fabric.

Her face lights up. “Isn’t it just gorgeous?” she asks. “I searched for days when I heard about the wedding. Only the best for me, I always say. Anyway, there was this girl who ran a shop I went to - Martha, her name was - and she told me she had just the thing. And I tried it on, and it was perfect, only, well… it didn’t quite fit. But I knew I’d never want anything else now that I’d seen it, and I thought to myself, oh gods, I can’t turn up like this to the wedding! So I told my mum about it, and she said, ‘Don’t you worry! I’ll take care of it!’ And then, when I went to get it, clumsy me, I spilled half a glass of wine on it! I was just thinking it was lost forever when my neighbor came, and…”

And… what her neighbor did, you’ll never know. It’s completely lost to you, because when you look over to Astarion, he looks ridiculously smug. You can practically hear his voice in your head, saying ‘I told you so.’ You resist the urge to elbow him once again and turn your attention back to the girl, who is just now finishing her story.

“...and then, we arrived here, and saw you! And the wedding! My gods, what a sight. You two really do suit each other, you know. But Thom and I really should be going. There’s a lot of people for you to meet, and we wouldn’t want to keep you from tonight, if you know what I mean.”

She winks at you, and your cheeks go as hot as Avernus. 

“Well,” Astarion says quickly, “thank you both for coming!”

“Oh, of course,” she replies. “Enjoy yourselves, you two!” She gives a sly grin and then she’s off, leaving you feeling like you’re about to shatter into a million pieces.

Tonight. How could you forget?

It isn’t that you hadn’t thought about the fact that sex would be expected of you - it’s just that… well, it’d seemed so far away before. Back when you’d been thinking about it, you hadn’t known who it would be with, and it had all seemed like it was going to be a dream. Something that would never actually happen.

But here you are. 

You can’t say Astarion isn’t handsome, because he very much is. You can’t say you aren’t terribly attracted to him, because, infuriatingly, you are - no matter how much you hate the fact. But whether or not you’re comfortable with him touching you that way is a completely different matter, and, honestly? You have absolutely no clue how you’re going to tell him that you’ve never been with anyone. Or how he’ll handle it. 

Gods help you.

“You see?” Astarion tells you, slowly walking you over to the next group. “I told you it would work. Just keep that up, and all of this will soon be over.”

And over it soon is, much quicker than you’d like. You’d stay out chatting all night if you could avoid what comes next, but there aren’t many others to greet, and eventually there’s no one left to talk to. There’s hardly any food remaining either, which makes you want to cry. You’re starving. Your feet hurt. You want to crawl into bed and sleep for an eternity. 

Astarion, as if he can read your mind, finally leads you out of the room and heads straight to the kitchens, releasing your arm when you arrive. “Here we are,” he says. “We wouldn’t want you going to bed hungry, now would we?”

You try not to think about the implications of that statement as you eat. You try not to think about the way he leans against the wall next to you, seemingly not interested in the food. In fact, you try not to think about anything at all. 

It doesn’t work.

The food is a welcome distraction, at least. That’s one good thing about this place. The gardens are nice, the beds are soft, and the food is delicious. You never have to go to sleep without eating, which is a new feeling. You just wish it didn’t all come with a cost.

When you’re finished up, Astarion raises a brow at you and straightens up. “Well,” he says, “we’d better go find my mother.”

Erelin looks exhausted after the celebrations. She doesn’t bother with any formalities, just nods for you to follow. 

“I’ll show you to your new room,” she sighs. “Don’t forget - tomorrow, the two of you are off for the honeymoon. I’m trusting you both to keep up appearances, yes?” She gives you a pointed look. 

“Right,” you reply.

She sighs again. “This way.”

She leads you back into the east wing, this time to a large room around the corner - one you haven’t seen before. It’s gigantic. You’d thought your bed was huge when you arrived, but this? It practically takes up half the room. Bookshelves line the walls, the windows glisten in the moonlight, and there’s a large vanity in the corner, presumably for you. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Erelin says, leaning against the doorway. “Just remember: you’ve done a great service for this kingdom.”

The door closes, and for the first time today, you and Astarion are completely alone. There are no servants, no guards posted along the walls, no crowds of adoring citizens. Just you, and him. And you have no idea what comes next.

In truth, all you want to do is to jump into the huge, fluffy-looking bed and sleep. But, of course, it isn’t that simple. For one, your clothes are intricately laced. There’s a privacy curtain in the corner, but you can’t remove the lacing by yourself. Then there’s the matter of what’s expected of you. What you’re dreading. And that’ll have to come before sleep, too.

Astarion isn’t exactly paying attention to you, though. He’s mulling around the room, examining the books, looking over the vanity. You’re relieved, but you know it won’t last. And, honestly? If it comes down to it, you’d rather just get it over with.

“Would you mind giving me a hand with this?” you ask.

He finally looks at you, gaze focusing on the lacing you’re helplessly trying to undo. “I thought you’d never ask,” he says. 

By the hells, he’s irritating. Still, he comes over to help you without complaint, deftly pulling apart the lacing until the ribbons finally come free. You’re expecting him to go further - to start undressing you, or touching you, or… anything, but he just steps away. 

“There you are,” he says.

Your throat goes thick. “I… Thank you,” you say softly.

He hums in response. “I’d make for a poor husband if I didn’t help undress you, wouldn’t I?”

The word husband sends electricity through your veins. He really is your husband, isn’t he? It feels incredibly strange. 

When you turn to scowl at him, Astarion is already gone, returned to his place by the books. You suck in a deep breath to compose yourself, then grab the change of clothes they’ve left for you and slip into it, folding up your old outfit as neatly as you can. 

As soon as you take a seat on the bed, your heart starts beating thickly against your ribs. It’s an unsteady pattern, the thump of it. It gets faster when Astarion moves, then goes quiet when he simply grabs his sleep clothes and changes behind the curtain. It drums hard and rough when he emerges, but settles down when he crosses over to his side of the bed and blows out the candle.

The room goes pitch dark.

“You’d better get your rest while you can,” he tells you. “I’m sure they’ll wake us at a horrendous hour tomorrow.”

You stay motionless in the dark for a moment or two before what he’s saying hits you. As if his words have broken a dam inside you, all the tension floods out of your body. You climb into the sheets, weightless in sheer relief, and find the bed incredibly soft. You can hear him tucking himself into the space near you, shifting around to get comfortable, and it’s strangely intimate. Still, with the size of the bed, there’s not much danger of accidentally kicking him in the night.

The room is peaceful and the crickets chirp outside, and it doesn’t take long before your eyelids are closing and the pull of sleep comes. Just as you’re drifting off, you realize one thing: 

You’d forgotten to ask him about the blood.

[scramblescrew]

Request by: 🌱(seed) Anon!

Self-Aware Yandere Ancients and Beasts with male Y/N

Background:

It was a normal Thursday evening and Y/N was out for a walk when they got a notification on their phone. They check it and there was a new update to Cookie Run Kingdom that came out, The Silver kingdom/Beast-Yeast update. The boy was very excited to download the update and get to see all of the new characters, lands, and other features to play with. Y/N hadn’t been this excited since “The Heroes of Dark Cacao” update! Y/N had to admit, The Ancients as well as The Cookies of Darkness were awesome! Y/N thought as he happily jogged home and booted up the game!

After downloading, Y/N saw the beautiful new menu screen, with soft greens and silvers, the new faerie guardians and Pure Vanilla Cookie along the bottoms corners of the screen. But finally, Y/N noticed her, White Lily Cookie! It seemed like forever that he wished that WLC would be added to the game as more than quick appearances and today was the day she probably would!

Ancient Cookies:

Y/N loaded into his kingdom and scrolled around, getting Gems and other things before he finally got White lily Cookie- HE HAD ALL OF THE ANCIENTS! it took awhile but Y/N did it. though... after WLC appeared in his kingdom, he noticed: All of the Ancients suddenly stop moving and look up at him, a normal animation, if it wasn’t for them refusing to move, look away, or the fact that they all started smiling sadistically. Y/N tried to pick them all up and move them so they’d move on but the Ancients weren’t able to be picked up like the rest? Suddenly, Y/N's phone got really cold, like- FRIGID cold! when Y/N tried to put his phone down out of slight fear and concern, five pairs of arms pulled Y/N into the screen, Y/N passing through it and landing on soft ground. Y/N rubbed his head as he tried to get up, his eyes seeing the Lily Garden he had made for PVC and WLC, as well as 5 towering beings surrounding him- The Five Ancient Cookies.... "Our precious baker..." The bond yet motherly voice of HollyBerry Cookie spoke before pulling Y/N up into a strong, safe embrace as the other four started either hugging or carressing your hair and face. "We finally have you here at last, love!" the other spoke, seeming trying to be in unison as Y/N, Now...Y/N Cookie, relaxed into the loving embrace and closed his eye, "You're safe here, Y/N Cookie. and if anyone tries to take you from us..." GCC started, "We'll do whatever it takes to get you back, even if it means crumbling the whelps that get in our way..." Dark Cacao Cookie finished

The Five Beasts:

Y/N logged into his kingdom and started playing through Beast-Yeast, stopping at some points to watch videos on the story (You spoil-sport). After weeks of on-and-off playing, you got to the part where you meet Shadow Milk Cookie and the rest of the Beasts. Though it was strange, while the beasts appeared on screen when talking, their eyes were on you…..this wasn’t normal, so you turned off the game and restarted the level-…same thing. Then- the screen went black and a familiar blue diamond shaped eye, an upside down heart, an ivory diamond, red diamond, and what seemed to be a purple arrowhead appeared on screen. You were freaked out a bit as you tried to shut off the game to no avail.

Out of nowhere, blue text appeared on screen below the blue eye,

“We’ve heard so much about you, Our little baker, and we agree that you need to be with us forever!~”

“Don’t even try to escape, it’ll be futile in the end…”

It was undeniably freaky that this was happening. ‘Little baker? Excuse me, OUR?’ Thoughts spun around your head before a black and blue shepherds hook (cane used to pull people off stage in theatre) hooked around your neck and pulled you into and through the screen.

“Don’t worry, love, we’ll take such good care of you~ you won’t have to worry about ANYONE taking you away from us~”

[akanesheep]

What pet would they give MC:

Lucifer:

Lucifer wouldn’t just gift them a pet, but that pet requires the ability of homing and caring. He would gift them an aviary. Attached to this aviary would be a large enclosed area with a pair of peacocks. He selected them personally, ensuring that not only were they physically beautiful, but also that their personalities meshed well together. After all, he wants to ensure that this gift, as all other gifts he gives you, are as perfect as possible.

Mammon:

Mammon would pick a pair of his young crows and assign them to you. As they are his familiars, he can keep a watch on you no matter where you are. Crows are also resourceful and able to work out how to live no matter where they are… they do like to stay in the aviary a lot, but most often they stay in the tree within your room.

Levi:

Levi know without being told that a snake is a bad idea, look what happened with Henry 1.0… so he will get you a goldfish also. And if you want, he would get you an aquarium set up for your room.

‘What? You want Lily to be in the same tank as Henry??’

Cue happy Levi noises.

Many an evening are spent watching the two goldfish swim happily together as you hold hands and cuddle.

Satan:

Come on… do I even need to say it?

You open the box to find an adorably fluffy silver furred kitten inside with a green collar. A small heart tag hangs from her neck.

‘Diana’ you read and then giggle softly. ‘You remembered?’

You had told him about your favorite show to watch as a child, which had started as a manga. He read them all with you when he managed to get a full set for your birthday.

‘Of course I did… when the owner of the cat cafe told me he had a surprise litter he offered me first choice. When I saw her I knew.’

I mean, it could have been a unicorn, technically, but unicorns are for war. (Guy Kay fans ftw) Satan wants no part of you near a battlefield, so he hasn’t even allowed you to see his own unicorn.

Asmodeus, Beel, & Belphie:

Ok, you guys don’t hate me… but these three just aren’t animal people. Like they don’t hate animals at all… but they’re the least able to truly care for animals.

For Asmo, his priorities just aren’t there. And that’s ok. He knows his limits and is responsible enough to stay in them. He’s ok with other people’s pets as long as they stay off of him. He puts a lot into every aspect of his appearance and doesn’t want to give that up. (No hate at all for him. He know what he does and doesn’t want, and not everyone wants a pet). If you asked him for a pet, he would get you one, but he has no self-interest.

Also, his ‘animal’ is a scorpion, which horrifies him, he wouldn’t give one as a pet.

For Beel, he loves animals, especially dogs… but also has a tendency to eat animals if he goes on a rampage…he would never want to put you in a situation where he would accidentally hurt your pet.

His ‘animal’ being a fly isn’t really the kind of pet anyone wants…

For Belphie: I mean, while he’d love to get you a cow to rampage through the HoL gardens and piss Lucifer off, the truth is, he just isn’t willing/able to put that kind of effort into a pet. Instead, he’ll get you a cow plushie.

Diavolo:

Our sweet demon would get you a phoenix. He finds them absolutely fascinating, and you remind him of one, the way you always rise through any troubles in your wake.

(Dragons are not pets, but they will befriend you)

Barbatos:

He has enough on his plate without adding another pet. He’ll just assign you a Little D to take care of whatever you need while he is away.

Simeon & Luke:

This angel would gift you a pair of white doves.

They don’t get along with Mammon’s crows, so don’t let them in the aviary at the same time! Luckily they tend to avoid each other. That said, these doves are super sweet, just like the angels who gave them to you

Solomon:

No. Keep this man away from the pets. His penchant for experimenting on others is already problematic at best. Lucifer banned him from the aviary after he turned one of the peacocks into an owl and turned a crow into a mouse… it got really crazy for a few minutes.

This man is the pet, good luck us.

Hope you liked it, I wanted to keep this one light hearted.

I’m thinking of doing some more song vids, let me know what you think?

[lilyofthevalleycaughtintherain]

An angel and a demon are on my fingertips

Making me write lyrics, whether I’m smiling or crying

Even when the paper gets all wet

I can’t stop

Sometimes, I exaggerate my sadness when I write

[jess-cookierun-art]

I have an idea and it’s that there were previous clones before Flower Garden Cookie and I’m getting inspired by the Grimwalkers from TOH

There were eight clones before her made by Dark Enchantress Cookie

Each time they fail, they get crumbled and a new one is created so Flower Garden Cookie is the current one

I’ll make a separate post about them and what was their fate before the next clone is created

Also I haven’t thought of a reason why Dark Enchantress Cookie would make them

[jangofctts]

Ungrateful Heart (Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader)

Rated: Mature, Explicit 18+

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: smut, explicit language, unprotected sex, fingering, biting, Daemon being a little bitch, a hint of dubcon, degradation, hair pulling, doggy style, finger sucking, rough sex, creampies, (lmk if I missed something!)

a/n: hi yall good to be back after three months lmfaO 

Kings Landing.

A vast city hugging the coast, buzzing with activity and painted in swatches of red roofs and golden banisters. You have been here once when you were a child. Though back then the glory and magic of it still persisted. Nowadays your days are shaded with doubt and a battle to stay afloat in the tumultuous sea of politics. You are not here for leisure—you are here as collateral. There is no mistaking the nature of you and your older brother’s stay at King’s Landing. 

There has always been unrest in the Northlands—the distaste for the South all too common amongst your people. While it has quelled since your grandfather knelt before the Targaryen King, there will always be whispers, threats and rumors of usurpers. Your father did his best to silence this, but the Crown takes no chances. Letters were sent, requesting you and your brother to represent House Stark. Thinly veiled threats, is what you father made of these. And so you were sent off—offered on a silver platter to the beasts that roam the capital. It’s been nearly a year since then.     

Your brother’s adjustment to the South has gone swimmingly. It’s easy to distract one’s self from burdens of sorrow with swordplay and jousting. You? You suppose reading a book could do, but it’s not the same. All that you’re allowed to do is prattle on about the state of the Realm and dispelling rumors of the North. A pretty little figurehead who no one gives a damn about listening to. You sigh. The world is far more accommodating to men than it is to women.

Uhg—and all the damn marriage proposals. An endless stream of papers that grow in number each day—half of the Houses you’ve never even heard of. You toss the majority of them into the fireplace, much at the behest of your brother. Whatever. 

At least the Targaryen’s court is somewhat amusing. A lifetime of petty arguments that you observe from the shadows. Rhaenyra is kind and while you’re impartial to the King, there is one you wouldn’t mind seeing fall off a cliff. You detest Daemon Targaryen. Nothing but a short-tempered fool in search for personal glory and the weight of a crown. Always a thorn in your side 

No matter the reason, he will always be a nagging pest. Always picking at your arguments, and yapping at your heels. There is nothing you are not at odds with when it concerns Prince Daemon. Despite your hatred, your mind seems to always drift to images of him in the wee hours of night. Dark armor, tall stature and sneering face. You frown. Disgusting. You hope he falls off his dragon and breaks his spine.  

Your hateful wishes still do not protect you. Just the same as every night, the Rogue Prince drifts into your thoughts like wet ink spilling onto parchment. You toss and turn in your bed, silk sheets constricting your legs. Fuck this.

You can’t pinpoint the nagging feeling for leaving the safety of rooms this late at night. Oh, but it is beautiful like this—the castle swathed in the soft glow of the torches, the scent of burning wood and the sweet lilies populating the gardens. Not a soul walks these halls at night save for the occasional maester or King’s Guard. They pay you no mind. 

Your footsteps echo on the cold stone, wandering through vast halls and winding corridors until you’re met with open air. Trees rustle in the dark—your feet have lead you to the Godswood. A twinge of homesickness pierces your heart for the cold and vast lands of white. For Winterfell’s homely walls, your younger siblings, your mother and father—

You clasp your hands together and rub at your knuckles. You sigh and drift to the heartwood, its weeping features a strange, basal comfort. Though your peace is quickly tarnished—

You are not alone in this courtyard. 

Dark leather boots appear from the shadows as the hair on the back of your neck rises. The rest of the man’s body slowly reveals itself as he strolls into the flickering torchlight. Daemon Targaryen stands before you, his height towering in the darkness. Ice coagulates in your veins. You take a step back. He inclines his head, strands of pale silver flowing off his shoulder, predatory eyes raking over your figure. “Sleep evading you, Lady Stark?”

“Prince Daemon,” you reply curtly. “What a surprise."  

You don’t attempt to curb your annoyance. Daemon’s shoulder bounce with a huff. “What brings you to the heartwood at this hour? Praying to your Gods for forgiveness? Or, perhaps a tryst in the dirt with a member of the Guard.”

You sniff, steeling your nerves as he approaches. His boots flatten the grass under his weight. “I could ask you the same, my lord.” 

Daemon exhales through his nose and plants himself before you, toe to toe. A common ploy to intimidate you. He raises his hand and pinches a strand of your unbound hair and twirls it around his fingers. You scoff and jerk your chin—he drops his hand. “I only wished to see the Lady Stark safe—she has an awful habit of wandering where she ought not to.”   

Your lips flatten into a thin line, dread clawing at your chest. You take a step away, he follows. “So you thought to follow me?” 

This could end poorly, you are treading on eggshells. Your gaze drops to his hands that rest at his sides. There is old blood crusting under his nails, like rusting metal on a blade. You wonder who it belongs too, if it were just one poor soul or that of many Daemon has cut down. Remnants of his conquests—justice he deems fitting in the name of the Crown. 

Two of those long, battle-worn fingers whisper under your jawline and slot beneath your chin. He tilts your head and your breath hitches. The ends of his mouth quirk into an impish smirk. 

“Tell me something,” Daemon coaxes, thumb sweeping over the divot beneath your bottom lip. “Do I frighten you, little shadow?”

His words are mocking, not a hint of true compassion. He enjoys the foul sport of intimidation far too much.

This alone should disgust you.  

But the air is humid and the night is thick with buzzing possibilities. Honeyed wine coats your tongue, spinning insults you wish to say, into molasses and ash. Your brows furrow. Setting aside the asinine manners and the questionable decisions—Daemon Targaryen intrigues you. He knows this—he is no fool to the sideways glances, the lingering focus on his mouth cradling the rims of golden chalices and his sharp smiles. You trusted in dark corners and the long shadows of the afternoon to hide you away, to keep your curiosities under wraps—a pity it never worked.  

His free hand slithers around your bare arm, his fingers scalding over your already heated flesh. The pads of his fingers dig into your skin, indenting the muscle. Not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough that faint marks will linger.   

“Tell me,” he prompts again, jostling your chin.  

The warm glow of the torchlight carves his sharp features into something akin to sinister. To him, you are something to be devoured—conquered. A true warrior—wildfire thrums through his veins and each breath that puffs over your flushed skin is invitingly toxic. Lips made of glass and a voice cut from steel. A grin made for war and eyes flecked with embers—

You swallow and forget about the sins threaded in the fibers of his soul. It’s best you do. You do not wish to falter and lose your slippery foothold you have against Daemon. True—you are no fearsome warrior, deft with a blade, but what you lack in a sword, you make up in full with your whip-tongue. All these months you’ve held your head high, nipping back at every wayward insult he’s thrown at you. Every battle of wit and test of will, you’ve bested and shrugged aside. It is a reflection of the North—that your House is unwavering, to tread lightly amongst the wolves. 

The Rogue Prince deemed you easy prey—a poor writhing creature that turns belly up and submits under the barest of pressure. But you are no dove. 

This is a dance of ice and fire. You have no intentions of losing.        

“No,” you finally answer, straightening your spine and your resolve. “You do not frighten me.”

A hum rumbles through his chest. “Is that so?” 

You sigh, “What is there to fear, Daemon? A spoiled princeling, begging for scraps of the Realm’s affection—”     

Daemon lashes out, hand clamping over your jaw like an iron bear trap. You swallow your yelp of pain as your teeth cut into the insides of your cheeks. The tip of his nose bumps yours, his voice a dangerous growl. “Do not think I won’t send your head back to your father on a pike.”

“And risk war with the North?” You bite back, words muddled. Daemon understands you nonetheless. “Don’t be so mindless.”  

Daemon’s teeth clench, pale brows furrowed into a deep crease. His nostrils flare, his irate gaze unwavering. Within it you find only ruin. Fire in the darkness, raging against the void, raising his sword against the Gods. A snake swallowing its tail, sharp edged steel—all that he is, is ripped edges and cracked glass. You haven’t the heart to be afraid of him—promises of tomorrow spark and pop in his mouth, but you will steal them one by one for each time you see the sun set and the darkness take his place. 

Hey squints. His hands roughly drop, but remain close enough to touch you. You wince as you roll your jaw and rub at the sore nerves pulsating under the skin. “Your knavish tongue will be your undoing, Lady Stark.”

And just when you think you’ve got him figured out, the wind shifts and his temperament smooths out. The bemused, coy smirk slips back into place. His hands lift, you flinch and his jackal grin grows. All he does is smooth out the rumbled fringe of your dress, indulging himself in a coquettish swipe of his fingers along the length of your collarbones. To a passerby it would appear as if he were adjusting your neckless—you both know better.    

You chew your lip. Fuck it. You’ll take the risk of insulting him further. There’s nothing to lose here. You square your shoulders and swat at his lingering touch. “It is unbecoming for a prince to take such pleasure in his power.”

Daemon rubs at his chin. Your frown deepens. “My—you are venomous this evening.” 

Daemon places his hands on your shoulders, the warmth and weight of them seeping through the light fabric of your dress. You fingernails dig into the flesh of your clenched fists. He nudges his palm into your shoulder joint, guiding you to face the weeping heart tree that lies within arms reach. You allow him to. “I take pleasure in my power, because…”

His words trail off. Your breath catches in your lungs as the Prince slots his lean body to yours. “Regardless of my actions, I will be vilified for it. These ungrateful sheep of the Realm will fancy themselves judge, jury, and executioner, but I am above them.”

It’s hot—layers of leather stick to your flushed skin, humid breaths scald your ear and throat. “Beneath me, everyone will burn.” 

Everything is too damn close to you—you itch to peel every layer of cloth and skin from yourself if it offers even a shred of relief. Daemon mistakes the subtle arch in your spine as resistance and circles a weighty arm around your middle to deter your squirming. Daemon indulges in a lecherous squeeze of your midriff—you curse yourself for jumping. 

“So twitchy,” he tuts. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip as Daemon’s free hand sweeps back your unbound hair. Each spidery brush of his fingertips over the base of your spine leaves goosebumps in their wake. Your head swims, alarm bells clanging through your mind the moment Daemon curls his long, calloused fingers around your throat. Daemon grins and rests his chin over your shoulder, sharp nose burying into the crook of your of neck and shoulder. You know he can feel your fluttering, thrashing heart, pounding against the porcelain bars of your ribcage. Yet the more you struggle, the tighter his claws hook into you. “I wonder…” 

You wade through the hazy, panicked blur that has settled over your mind. Your tongue wets your parched lips. You don’t understand the beginning of this question, nor do you really want to see how it ends. Regardless, you indulge him. “My lord?” 

His low chuckle vibrates through his chest, porcelain teeth scraping along the column of your throat. “You tremble as if you are a maiden pure…” Daemon nips at ear, warm breath curling like a lick of fire alongside your cheek. “But I have trouble believing this narrative.”    

Daemon’s fingers inch up your throat. His middle and forefinger touch your chin and then your bottom lip. He smooths the pads of his digits over your lip and drags the pliant flesh down, exposing your bottom row of teeth. “How many ingrates have these lips touched?”

His grip cinches tighter, eager to hear your answer. You clench your jaw. “I don’t see how that is any of your concern.” 

“Oh, why don’t you give it up already?” Daemon sneers, “I see through your fucking front—how your pretty little eyes follow me down every corridor, through every room.”

Sharp pain erupts through your jaw as Daemon digs his thumb and middle finger into the joints of your jaw. Your yelp fades to a muffled squeal as Daemon shoves his fingers into your mouth without care. Your nails dig into the tough leather that cradles his arm, but no matter how much you squirm or attempt to shove the digits out with your tongue, there is no escape. Daemon’s teeth latch onto your throat, marring the fragile skin. “You can trick these dogmatic fools with your puritanical Northern ways—but I know the truth.”

You blubber around his fingers, saliva dripping down the sides of your stretched mouth and down his knuckles. Alarm bells continue to rattle inside your head, but that flailing panic drifts and blends into a dark current of gnashing teeth and a vortex of flame. Fervor and fear concoct a blend of sweet desire best left untouched. 

But when has the Rogue Prince ever listened to reason? Instead he takes this love like poison and slathers it onto rusted daggers in search of a home between the vertebrae of your spine. You think of your hands, threading through platinum white hair and the red of his  laughter. A barbed thing, a taunting thing, and a smile that leans to the left and sharp as a scythe. You crave him like hemlock. 

Daemon snickers as his fingers sink deeper into your mouth, pressing down on your soft tongue, the taste of him and salt flooding your tongue. He then pulls them nearly free from your lips, only to drive them back in, then out. A devious lick of arousal pools in your tummy as Daemon Targaryen finger fucks your mouth. He ceases the sick torture the second you gag and claw at his forearm. “There now,” he coos. You shiver despite the heat, his whisper a wicked scrape in your ear. “You desire me just as much as I crave you.”      

You whimper as he drags his fingers completely free from your lips, leaving a trail of sticky saliva over your chin. Daemon jostles your face with a prompting hum. Your voice is hoarse. “Yes.”

“Yes what?” He goads, slithering his sinful hands down the plain of your waist. You writhe under his touch, choking on embers and acidic oaths you hate to dispel off your tongue. 

“Yes,” you grit out, “I desire you, Prince Daemon.” 

Daemon clicks his tongue. “What fine manners,” he replaces his hand over your throat and pushes your head back until it meets the line of his shoulder. “A shame you only use them to persuade me into fucking you.” 

Stretched out like this, bearing your vulnerable neck to his hungry mouth, you meet his eyes. “Your arrogance protects you from coercion—so I believed, my lord.”

Sure, you already know the answer and yes, you’re toying with the untamed viciousness that flickers within his irises. You’re only playing coy to wheedle in a catty insult. It’s one of the simple pleasures in life—making a mockery of Daemon Targaryen. 

“Wretched shadow—I should cut out your tongue for your insolence.”

Before you have a chance to reply, Daemon’s mouth descends onto yours. A kiss full of teeth and iron—nothing about his lips are forgiving. Its blooms like a cut—hard, hungry and victorious. You are the spoils of an enduring, uphill battle, and so he claws at your arms, your clothes, your hair—

He rips himself away when the discomfort of your positioning grows too tedious. Daemon’s chest heaves, lips making a home in the crux of your neck and shoulder. You’re equally short of breath, knees buckling as Daemon’s brash hand cups your breast through your poor excuse of a dress. More of a robe really—

You yelp as he pinches your nipple, rolling it harshly between his fingers. You feel his grin curl up his narrow face, delighted in the results he’s cultivated. Irritation flares in your chest—you’ve slipped seamlessly into his dastardly scheme. Though, right as he moves to your other breast, kneading the pillowy skin, your mind conjures kindling. Your lips tickle his throat, words hushed. “You have a wife, princeling. What would she think of this?”          

The muscles in Daemon’s jaw jump as his jaw clenches. His touches cease as a growl rumbles through his chest. The oncoming silence is terse—swelling with raw nerves you’ve poked and prodded at. You don’t care. 

Daemon’s lip curls, canines flashing in the torchlight. “Not a damn thing. I take what I please.” His fingers leap to the crux of your thighs, securing his hold around your neck and cupping your cunt through your dress. You gasp and arch your spine. “When I please.”

The heel of his palm rocks into your cunt, sparking your arousal tenfold. Wetness has seeped through your underclothes some time ago, yet now you’re at risk for discovery. Not that this poses a real issue—your hips roll into his hand as your lips part in a gasp—you’re long past any sense propriety. He squeezes your throat, thumb making a home over your pulse point, pounding like a war drum. “You will do well to remember this—the world is mine to conquer, foolish girl.”     

A strangled cry breeches your lips as Daemon hikes the skirts of your dress up your thighs. He grabs at your inner thigh, kneading the flesh for a moment before his hand finds your center once more. A stuttered sigh escapes him, feeling your heat through the thin layer of your underclothes. It sticks to your cunt, your wetness amplified by the gentle breeze that whispers through the Godswood, rattling the wine-red leaves as if the Gods themselves sigh in disappointment. Thoughts of sacrilege melt from your mind as Daemon curses, calloused fingers rubbing your slit through the fabric. Your knees buckle, waves of pleasure cascading through every nerve.

Daemon trails his fingers from the top of your cunt, circling your clit then down to rub over your dripping entrance. Despite his touches being blunted, the effect is all the same. “Dae—”  

The hand on your throat slaps over your mouth, quieting your mewls. “Hush, wretched thing.”

The moment his teeth imbed themselves into your neck is the very same moment in which Daemon’s patience snaps. Your underclothes are forcibly removed, ripped seams and soaked cotton pooling around your ankles. His feverish panting scorches your skin, stuttered and edging madness—the world cracks and splits as his fingers finally meet your burning cunt. Your moan breaks against the lines of his palm, unraveling beneath the pads of his fingers that glide through your wet lips. Back and forth they tease, doing nothing to satiate. You thrash—it’s not enough.  

And then, when you think it can’t get any worse, Daemon stops moving entirely. He laughs as you wine and wriggle. He pulls his hand off your mouth, a thin string of saliva connecting you for a quick moment, fingers hovering right over your throbbing clit. “Dae—Prince Daemon, please.”

“Desperate little shadow,” he coos, “Wetting my fingers like a common whore.”

You should feel more conflicted—aghast even—but his insults are kindling to a burning house. You murmur prayers of forgiveness to the rustling leaves above you, hushed words tumbling into a whiney pleas as Daemon circles your clit. Your fingernails scrabble over his knuckles, hoping that your efforts will result in gratification. All it does is make him pause.

“I should leave you like this,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear. Your heart seizes. “Unsatisfied and dripping.” Daemon’s forehead drops onto your shoulder, his hand dipping further between your pussy. His fingers spread over your cunt, doing the best he can at this angle and teasing out a little moan. You jolt as Daemon abruptly plunges the tip of his middle finger into your entrance. “But you would never learn.” 

Your cry echos through the Godswood as Daemon’s slots his fingers to your swollen clit. Your legs shake—his pace starts off mellow, pressing fleeting little circles to the bundle of nerves. The pleasure is raw, but there’s no place you can run to. You’re pinned to his chest, destined for torture—to witness his black-hearted delight. You curse and Daemon cuts to the quick, fast and rough, toying with your body like a marionette and her puppeteer—tugging on invisible strings until you dance for him. You squeeze your eyes shut and claw and his forearm, unsure if you’re trying to pull him closer or away from you. 

It’s too much and too quickly. Daemon gives no time to build up the pleasure. It all descends upon you in a vicious wave. Searing heat courses through you from the centre of your core and lashes out to your lower spine and beyond. You arch as the pleasure begins to scald, but his touch follows, his hold unyielding. Your mind folds as your orgasm cracks, a string of senseless babbling and cries of his name all that you can make sense of. 

His fingers press firmly against your clit, your core clenching so hard around nothing that it aches. Your ears ring, the ecstasy bursting through your trembling body. Your knees buckle and he lets you fall. The moss coating the thick heartwood roots absorbs the shock of your fall, but the dirt still stains your knees and palms, still shaking with aftershocks. You squeeze your eyes just to rid your vision of the blurriness and sluggishly move to stand. 

Leather creaks and the snap of a belt sounds behind you. A second later Daemon tosses his sword to your left, the silvery hilt glowing pale in the moonlight. You swing your head over your shoulder as Daemon kneels. He shoots you a sharp, toothy smile. Your heart lurches. This is far from over.  

The sound of rustling fabric and low cursing cuts through some of the anticipation. You look back and bite your lip to curb your snicker. Daemon is hunched over, pawing at the drawstrings of his tented trousers, dexterous as a drunk. “Having trouble with your laces, m’lord?”

Daemon snarls and tears through the flimsy string with sheer force. You yelp as Daemon grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks. His lean body curls over yours, nose brushing along your neck. “Speaking is a privilege. Quiet yourself before I silence your mouth with my cock.”

He shoves your head to the soft earth, his other hand pushing up your skirts to expose your bare ass. Daemon murmurs a curse or perhaps a lick of praise as he runs his roughened palm over the globes of your ass. You shiver as his fingers sweep inward, collecting the wetness that has coated the soft skin there. His palm trades in his hold on your throbbing scalp to instead drag his thumbs through your slit. You dare not move from this position. His thumbs part your swollen lips, sliding through the velveteen flesh until he finds your weeping entrance.      

Daemon purrs as he sinks his middle finger inside of you, all the way to the base and without resistance. You keen and fist the grass under you. Your walls stretch around the second finger he stabs into you, lazily thrusting the digits in and out. Heat burns your cheeks at the wet sounds your body makes. Though there’s not much time to enjoy Daemon’s fingers—he’s impatient as they come. 

He kneels up straight and shuffles closer. You gasp as you feel him, hot and straining against your thigh. Daemon strokes his cock, knuckles scraping against your pussy as if to tease you. You wine and push your hips back, your self respecting dwindling to ash. 

Daemon brings the blunt tip of himself to your cunt and rocks his hips coating his cock in your slick. “Tell me you need it.”

His hand is back in your hair, pulling at the strands. You don’t need much encouragement. You force your tongue into coherency. “Please—I…I need it, my Prince. N-need you.”

Daemon snickers and rubs a comforting hand over the base of your spine. And then, with little warning, he sheaths the entirety of his length inside of your aching center. You screech, gouging your fingers through the damp earth and scrabbling for some sort of stability. He’s big—bigger than what you’ve taken in the past and your cunt pulses and struggles to accommodate him. Daemon only laughs, a breathless taunt, as his fingers leave behind bruises in the shape of him. “Fuck, you’re tight. Does it hurt, little shadow?”

“No,” you squeak. And for the most part it’s true—your walls burn, and a dull ache settles deep inside of you as Daemon’s cock touches the end of you. But your wetness aids the glide and sets the burning nerves alight with crackling ecstasy. You bow your head, resting your forehead on your forearm as Daemon rocks his narrow hips. The experimental pace trips into something harsher, encouraged by the breathless squeaks he pushes out of you. His hands anchor over your hips, aiding the brutal rhythm of his cock slamming into your tight heat.     

You lose yourself to this pleasure—washed out to sea to drown in the waves. For the first time since meeting Daemon, he speaks your name to the heavens, but you don’t even recognize it. Can’t recognize it—the syllables are to foreign and grating to your eardrums. These frenzied moments are a blur of white-hot embers, smoke and ash and hard fingertips littering your skin with crescent moon indents. Bites, laden with heavy kisses leech out the sting as you moan and whimper. You roll your hips and arch your back in a way you’d find positively deplorable if you were coherent enough to form proper thoughts.

“Greedy fucking shadow—”

You like that better than your name—that’s who you are—who you always will be to him. It all makes sense with that name tumbling against the ridges of your spine with the cutting lips that follow it. Damp skin and sticky fingers wind around your legs spread legs, fingers slipping over you cunt before the resettle and touch your clit. Daemon presses down on your clit, bucks his hips, swollen cock inside you twitching as your walls squeeze him. He pants against your ear, fingers slipping round and round over your clit. You’re so full, so fucking full that your legs tremble and your toes curl. Everything tightens like a vice, stars scattering behind your eyelids. All that you are is some writhing sweaty mess, biting at your forearm. It’s a gargantuan task, struggling to your elbows, and rocking back as much as you can. Fuck—all you can think about is Daemon—

“Stop wriggling and just fucking take it,” Daemon bites. Saliva or maybe blood, dribbles down your shoulder, your collarbone, and wets the moss below.  

You cry as the edge beckons and explodes. He catches you up whilst you’re faced with the precipice of orgasm. Daemon grabs at your hair, wrenching your head to face the gnarled face of the heartwood. “Scream my name to your Old Gods.” 

You do. Oh, you do, Gods forgive this as you implode and split at the seams. The hard heat of his belly presses through his tunic and sits flush against your back, the line of your spine curved into the pounding echo of his heartbeat. He hasn’t stopped—he still thrusts into your cunt in search for his own end. Your stomach flips as Daemon hooks his elbow under your knee flips you onto your back. 

His length slips free, only to be guided back inside of you once he drapes your thighs around his waist. You throw your head back and claw at his tunic, wheezing when his hand ensnares your neck and restricts your air. He is a mass of burning stardust, a winged fragment of space that burns bright as the sun. People will never be able to understand the true form of him. Yet they still fear the catalogue of coalesced volcanic ash and anger. The wildness. His many black-tinted hungers. You will always tenderly tell yourself that he nothing to be afraid, as if his mouth were not filled with blood. 

You are not made to burn like this, you are a creature of ice and snow, yet you still risk dragon fire. Holding you like a moth to a flame—you let him blind you, igniting your heart and allowing his heat to incinerate all he cares to take. “Look at me,” he commands.    

The inferno rages around you, his hips swinging freely in a stuttered rhythm only meant to service him. There is no concern for you in these fleeting moments, you’re only a means to end, but fuck—it still feels good. Still rubs against nerves that spark and ignite with each thrust. His cock pounds into you, the Godswood filled with sounds of your rough joining, abdomen scraping over your clit. A knowing smirk splits across his face as you cum once more—convulsing and jittery. You reach for him and twist your fingers into his hair—Daemon allows it. With one last wheezy sputter of his name from your lips, he’s done for. 

You choke as the full weight of him collapses onto you—his hips shoving his twitching cock as deep as it will go into your cunt. Warmth floods your insides as he cums, his fragile moaning a delight to your ringing ears. Soon, he settles, panting into the column of your throat, pulse racing. 

Right when its feels as though he will crush your ribcage, Daemon lifts himself and cups your jaw. You blink, eyes hazy with exhaustion and lust. 

“Open,” he orders. You do so without a fight and open your mouth. Perverse joy flickers in his eyes. “Good.” 

Your eyes bulge as he spits into your mouth. You don’t have time to feel conflicted over the way your body roars with a new wave of arousal, because he’s kissing you. Devouring your bruised mouth with tongue and teeth—it leaves you breathless. You don’t like the way your heart yearns for more when Daemon pulls away. He skates his thumb up your jawline, admiring the way your softness catches on his calloused skin. There’s no fuss, nor any words spoken as he pulls his cock free from you, only a hiss through clenched teeth. His spend dribbles out of your cunt and paints your inner thighs—a beautiful canvass of sin and debauchery. 

He stands, readjusts his trousers and reaches for his abandoned sword. He ties the scabbard to his belt and turns on his heel. “Do be careful on your way back to your rooms, Lady Stark,” he tosses over his shoulder. “Who knows what filth lurks in the dark.” 

You bite your lip and watch him pace away, melding into the dark. You lift your eyes to the canopy of leaves overhead and sigh. They shiver and twist in the gentle breeze. “Gods above—forgive me.”  

[maraudersmyloves]

｡☆ : . Garden Party . :☆｡ﾟ. ───

•̩̩*˚James Potter's birthday party ── 750 Follower event

⊹✿・・────────────・・✦・・────────────・・✿ ⊹

YOU'VE BEEN OFFERED A BOUQUET!!!

as thanks for getting me to almost 750 Followers, you have been offered a bouquet of flowers!! All you need to do is select a type of flower, the main color, a filler flower and a type of greenery!! Requests end on the seventh of April and first requests will be written first please read everything before requesting!!!

── request rules, masterlist

type of flower/ character

⊹˚₊˚꒰🌹・꒱ THORNLESS ROSES ; James Potter (the birthday boy) Their usage began not just as a decorative touch to one’s home, but they were also used for medicinal purposes and to make perfumes, and their petals were even used as confetti for festive occasions such as James' birthday.

⊹˚₊˚꒰🌻・꒱ SUNFLOWER ; Remus Lupin They generally symbolize adoration, loyalty, and longevity in the language of flowers. Native Americans view sunflowers as a symbol of harvest and bounty since the flower provides seeds and pigments, in addition to being visually beautiful.

⊹˚₊˚꒰🏵️・꒱ HYDRANGEA ; Sirius Black You know summer is here when big, showy hydrangea bushes begin gracing gardens across the country. Some hydrangea flowers can turn a pretty pink or blue depending on the acidity or alkalinity of the soil, while others will remain white.

⊹˚₊˚꒰🌼・꒱ DAISY ; Peter Pettigrew Daisies are a very popular flower that can be found on every continent other than Antarctica. They belong to one of the largest known plant families and symbolize innocence, a connotation that comes from the Victorian era.

⊹˚₊˚꒰🌷・꒱ TULIP ; Luke Castellan There are over 150 species and 3,000 varieties of tulips, which are part of the lily family. At one point, tulips were more valuable than gold in Holland during a period called “Tulip Mania,” and their popularity has only spread with time.

⊹˚₊˚꒰🌸・꒱ DAHLIA ; Mattheo Riddle These attractive blooms come in a wide range of colors and can be easily incorporated into any existing or new garden. They also flower extremely long, first blooming midsummer and lasting through the first frost.

⊹˚₊˚꒰🌸・꒱ BEGONIA ; Lorenzo Berkshire With over 1,800 species native to tropical and subtropical regions around the world, begonias are one of the easiest-to-grow and best-loved plants we have in our gardens and homes.

type of greenery/ prompt

✦˚₊ ‧ ꒰🌿・꒱LEATHER FERN ; "Can you hug me?" The way the stem branches out creates a triangular shape and is great for adding body to floral decor. It can stand alone in a vase as a centerpiece or add a tropical flair to a floral arrangement.

✦˚₊ ‧ ꒰🌿・꒱MYRTLE ; Looking at each other, knowing it will never be the same Myrtle is one of the most popular types of greenery because of the variety of ways that it can be used. It has long stems that are lined with glossy leaves. The thick foliage that this creates looks best in floral centerpieces.

✦˚₊ ‧ ꒰🌿・꒱DUSTY MILLER ; "Can we have a date night tonight?" Because of its unique frosted foliage, the dusty miller has a wintry vibe. It is often used in winter weddings or in fall tablescapes.

✦˚₊ ‧ ꒰🌿・꒱LEMON LEAF ; "Can you wash my hair for me?" The lemon leaf has round, thick leaves that resemble the shape of lemons. Like the leather fern, it has a long-lasting vase life. Its shiny leaves work well with all flower types and are most fitting in vases as table centerpieces.

✦˚₊ ‧ ꒰🌿・꒱IVY ; Whether it was a mistake or not, he couldn't seem to find the strength to care Ivy is perfect for accessorizing and can be added to anything from floral headdresses to table centerpieces. The leaves cascade down its branches, making it ideal for wrapping around wreaths and adding flow to floral baskets.

✦˚₊ ‧ ꒰🌿・꒱SILVER DOLLAR EUCALYPTUS ; "Can I borrow your hat, please?" The silver dollar eucalyptus has one to two-inch circular leaves that resemble silver dollars. Its thin, bendable branches mirror that of the ivy, making it ideal for decorative wreaths and displays.

✦˚₊ ‧ ꒰🌿・꒱HONEY BRACELET ; "You promised me!!" The honey bracelet has long stems that are decorated with soft, thin leaves. Its thin stem is easily molded into any shape and can be used for just about anything.

✦˚₊ ‧ ꒰🌿・꒱GREVILLEA ; Realizing some things they know about each other haven’t changed and feeling comforted by that The grevillea is a unique type of decorative greenery with red stems that branch out into multiple green leaves. The branches vary in their length causing them to add depth to floral decor.

✦˚₊ ‧ ꒰🌿・꒱TREE FERN ; your own prompt idea The epithet name for the tree fern is virgatus, which means twiggy. Unlike its namesake, the tree fern has thin, wispy branches and leaves that are often used in corsages and boutonnieres.

✦˚₊ ‧ ꒰🌿・꒱OLIVE BRANCH ; song prompt Olive branch greenery adds a sage hue and a wild, windswept look. Incorporate it into your bridal bouquets, boutonnieres, bridesmaid bouquets and centerpieces.

filler flower/ character dynamic

๑❞・꒰💐・꒱ STATICE ; golden retriever x black cat The statice flower, also known as the sea lavender, is a beautiful purple flower that grows even smaller blooms than the stock.

๑❞・꒰💐・꒱ SNAP DRAGONS ; somehow gets good grades and has no idea the other hates them x studies incredibly hard and hates the other for having it easy The snapdragon is arguably one of the most unique flowers. Its bizarre name represents the face of the flower that opens and closes like the mouth of a dragon.

๑❞・꒰💐・꒱ STOCK FLOWERS ; celebrity x secret lover Stock flowers bloom from spring to fall and come in a multitude of colors ranging from soft white to bright purple. They develop small blooms that are perfect for adding a pop of color to any bouquet.

๑❞・꒰💐・꒱ POMS ; always gets hurt x personal nurse Poms are identified as spray flowers, which means they have more than one flower head on each stem. This makes them easy to include in any arrangement to enhance the look.

๑❞・꒰💐・꒱ DELPHINIUM ; insecure but beautiful x YOU'RE LITERALLY SO GPRGEOUS AND PRETTY!!! Delphinium gets its name from the Greek word “delphis,” which means dolphin. This refers to their beautiful purple and blue hues and closed flower buds that are shaped similar to the nose of a dolphin.

๑❞・꒰💐・꒱ GYP ; your own dynamic idea Gyps are also known as baby’s breath and are members of the carnation family. They are cute, tiny flowers that look finest when grouped in bunches.

main color/vibe

๑❞・꒰👒・꒱ YELLOW ; Platonic The color yellow is primarily associated with spreading happiness and joy; however, it is also the ideal color for symbolizing friendship. With their bright hue and cheery personality

๑❞・꒰👒・꒱ PINK ; Fluff Similar to red flowers, pink flowers have also grown to be a symbol of love, though they can also mean happiness, gentleness, and femininity 

๑❞・꒰👒・꒱ WHITE ; Angst White is universally recognised to represent mourning as it symbolises peace, purity and love.

⊹✿・・────────────・・✦・・────────────・・✿ ⊹

╰┈➤ love, me!

[abridgerton]

My Duty, My Honor {Reader x Anthony}

Part 1/?

Word Count: 1.5k+

Triggers: Kissing, suggestive talk, forced marriage

Summary: Lily Wickham was caught with Anthony in a secret rondevouz in the garden, leaving her and the rakinsh Viscount no choice but to get married - even if she detests him.

A/N: Hello! I adore writing for Anthony, and I particularly like where this story is going - so please, if you enjoy reading this, please let me know that it would be worth writing a part two!

~ Sometimes, when I close my eyes I can imagine myself in a world where I am free; someplace where I am not bound to my duty or my family. To love freely with whom I choose - to find happiness in my other half. Oh, I long for the day I find romance and acceptance; for the first time in my life I shall know joy ~

My hopeful dreams of a love match have disappeared entirely as of last night. The Viscount Bridgerton asked for my hand in marriage two twilights ago, and upon the insistence of my mother, I accepted.

When I was a young girl I entertained myself with fantasies of my prince charming - a gallant man who would sweep me off my feet and carry me into the sunset; a man who was decorated with manners and grace, a man who I would be proud to father my children. Viscount Bridgerton is far from what I had in mind. Perhaps my disdain for him stems from the wild cowlick hair that stands up off the back of his head, or that annoying purr in his voice when he speaks.

"Lydia," he panted in agony, "we should not be here..." His shimmering green eyes momentarially connected with mine, as he ran his devilishly dark irises along the length of my body - up and down before landing on my lips, and planting a soft kiss. I have never known such bliss, or such rebellion. Something about the impertinence made him so .. exciting. Anthony was the forbidden fruit, and I could not help but take a bite.

"Something about his arrogant countenance displeases me," I thought as I sat near the foot of my bed, staring at the gold trimmed white wall in front of me. To my right, on the nearby wall sat my families tapistry, woven from the finest gold, green, and red threads my ancient family could source. It displayed my families crest - an ornate display of leopards and snakes intertwining a large shield engraved with the family name, Wickham.

This tapestry was purposefully placed in my chambers as a permanent reminder of my duty to the family. No matter the circumstance, it is my duty to populate my family line - and I must do so by marrying well. As far as Viscount Bridgerton goes, he is head of the wealthiest estate in the county. Though I disapprove of him, I cannot deny the advantages of giving him my hand - a sizeable dowry for my future daughters, a place in society, an esate to own; oh, this life would be any womans dream.

Sometimes , late at night when I'm alone , I envision myself as Viscountess and head woman of the Bridgerton house; I will not jest, the idea of such prestige is a pleasant one. The union would bring me a new wardrobe, fine carriages, and luxury beyond anything I have ever known.

Marriage to this rakish man is my one chance of living in such splendor. Why must it he him that I marry? Why could Colin have not been first born? Or Benedict? Why Anthony?

I would rather resign my life away to an artist or a nomad than a man of such disgusting hubris. Nonetheless, I am the first born daughter of my family, and thus I must secure my position. After all, I will be the one responsible for paying their dowries and assimilating them into society.

What a terrible burden.

"Madam?" My ladies maid loudly called out from behind my chamber room door, "it is time to be dressed."

"Already?" panic resounded through my head, "I'm not ready..."

Despite my internal doubts, I beckoned my ladies maid to join me. As she entered the room, I noticed an emerald green silk gown with silver embellishments sprawled across her arms. I had never seen this gown before, a genuine suprise to me.

"Where did you get this?" I asked the ladies maid in an accusatory tone.

She waited to respond, continuing to lay the wrinkles out on the dress - but after a few beats she met my eyes for a moment, "It was picked up today from the modiste," she answered in a flat tone, "I'm told it was a rush order."

This response was shocking at first, for I did not know my mother was already arranging my marriage wardrobe. It is true - the Viscount and I had a whirlwind romance; it had not even been two weeks after we met that we were declared to be married. It had all happened so quickly that night in the garden ...

I remember the way his fair skin shone in the ambient starlight - his radience illuminating the vines around the garden wall - and the way the flowers around us smelled after the fresh rain that evening. He bewitched me with just one flash of that charming smile, just one glance with him was enough to break down my walls and give myself to him. "You are utterly breathtaking," he whispered into my ear, the heat of his breath warming the full of my lips, "I cannot control myself ..." Even the memory was intoxicating - ruining my head all over again.

It was only a kiss. Just one.

Thats all it took.

Now I will be Viscountess Bridgerton - what a terrifying thought.

I wish so terribly that Mrs. Featherington had not been out for a promenade that night. I wish we would have chosen the library, or the closet, or anywhere more discreet ... but the garden? What were we, animals?

My daydreaming was swiftly interrupted once again by a hughty womans voice, "Ma'am" my maid beckoned, "we really must begin.."

I loudly huffed, forced to remember that my time is never truly my own. "Right," I replied, "we must be going soon." She nodded with me in agreement.

With a heavy sigh, I positioned myself in front of my bed post, and grabbed hold-

"Breathe out!" my maid shouted, "Suck in!" she barked, and I did as I was told. She pulled the laces tighter, and tighter around my chest until I was sure my ribs would snap. What would society say then? Would they say I was unfit to marry due to injury? Perhaps I could befall some tradgedy, so I may spare Anthony and I the impending disaster of this match ...

-she began to work on my hair. I watched as she pinned my long stands of platinum blonde hair into an updo upon the crown of my head. She separated thin locks of my hair into tight spirals, exposing the back of my neck and freeing my shoulders from the weight of my hair. As I looked at myself in the mirror, I could see the uncertainty written across my features as plain as day. What if he changed his mind and left me jilted? What if we truly were miserable together? Would I be able to love him?

Ouch! I gasped as my maid mistakingly nicked my scalp with a starp hairpin. She immediately recoiled and appologized, "Oh, I'm so sorry! I did not mean to be so careless-"

I met her eyes in the mirror and cut her off, "It's fine, Mary," I let out a small exhale and looked down at the wooden floor below by vanity, "just continue, please." Mary nodded and swifty began pinning my hair again.

I hate the fuss and the frills and the dancing that is expected of a lady. Its all so ... dramatic! Why should I be forced to ready myself for hours to be considered presentable to society? Why should I not be given the privilege of skipping out on events of the ton like my brothers?

As much as these questions bothered me, I could not focus on them for too long. Mary had finished my hair and powder, which meant I was officially ready to be transported. Mary placed her hand gently on my right shoulder - just next to the lace trimming of my dress, and spoke, "M'lady, its time." I rose from my chair with a grim expression and began straigntening out the front of my dress.

I could not let the Viscount see me in such a distressed state.

"One. Two. Three," I counted slowly, "inhale, exhale .."

"Okay," I said to Mary, "I think I'm ready."

She turned to me and smiled with her dark lips curled into a delicate smirk and her eyebrows tightly drawn. Perhaps she saw the desprate look on my face, or the small bead of sweat forming on my brow, because she felt the need to remind me of my duty.

"You know what you must do," Mary whispered as she grabbed my hands, "you know what must be done."

Her words awoke something in me - something dutiful and ancient. Like my mother, and her mother, and back and back and back, I would marry well and secure my position for my future children.

Though these things were true, I might as well have been walking to the gallows. This was the end of my feedom; my secret horseback rides at dawn, lonesome walks into town, silent nights - these would all be stolen from me within the confines of marriage. My life would never be my own.

One stolen moment in the garden left me bound to a man I could not detest more. The heavens must be frowning upon be in this moment.