#lith throne

[jacesvelaryons]

Can you write something about Jacaerys velaryon x targaryen wife reader

Where she gives birth to a baby that looks like jace and it bothered alicent but they don't care? :3

Saving Face (Jacaerys Velaryon x Targtower!Reader)

(a/n): i’m sorry this request took over a year but my, what a great idea! i hope you like it

word count: 3.0k

summary: with what was supposed to be a happy moment in the new chapter of your family with jacaerys, only wounds linger when your mother is unhappy with your child's appearance.

warnings: slight angst, family tensions, complicated family relationships, implied incest (the targaryen way), not alicent hightower friendly

request status: OPEN

The joy of his newborn child is nearly eclipsed by the fear that his beloved would be called to face the same humiliation his mother endured upon his birth.

Even in distress, his beautiful wife still looked otherworldly silver hair spun in gold, and with her pale lavender eyes, he would not have that ginger sucker of joy to rob him from this life changing celebration. His relief that his beloved survived the precarious birth, worried about her lithe frame and the prostration it weighed on her during the pregnancy.

His little boy, his beloved son, a fragment of the other half of soul and his own. He is perfect, with his ten little toes and fingers, and he is all his.

Jacaerys is thankful his mother was in the birthing room with him and his wife, breaking protocol (as always) to be with the mother as she went into labour. Without her, he thinks he would’ve been hysterical and lost his mind without her guiding hand and comforting presence in seeing Y/N in distress.

“Where is my mother?” Y/N cradles the babe to her breast, as he suckled in his mother’s warmth and he feels his heart drop to his stomach as her face contorted in disappointment.

The child yearned for nourishment, and the midwives guided the young mother so she could feed the child with her milk.

The Dowager Queen remained unyielding even as her step-daughter arose as Queen, and she was still given some privileges even with her dispute with his mother. The marriage of Jacaerys and Y/N, her youngest daughter, was made as a desperate attempt to patch the two sides together and make peace as his mother sat on the Iron Throne.

Her mother attended the wedding, wearing a dark muted forest green that still appeared obsidian in certain angles, but the flame patterns could not be missed on her gown.

A mockery indeed as if she did not accept his mother’s ascendance to the throne and wanted her small rebellions in forms of cloth, he would not grant her the satisfaction of his reaction, for the sake of the realm and his wife, her daughter. It would be too scandalous to do so.

When his beloved was called abed, all pretense of dignity and calm collapsed underneath him. Whatever confident front he had broke apart as fear consumed him, sweat dripping from his forehead, hands shaking, heart beating wildly as he realized his wife was to cross the barrier between life and death to birth their child.

Seeing Y/N’s clean white robes stained the bed in scarlet as she quickens and the pain increases as the babe nears reminds him of the chills whenever he walks the path from the princess’ chambers to the queen’s, the same path forged in blood when his mother then Princess Rhaenyra, the crown princess and heir to the Throne, had to face the humiliation called upon by her stepmother, now Queen Dowager Alicent.

His blood boils when he sees the auburn former queen walk that path meekly nowadays on her way to see her daughter, as if it was all an act when she had pulled rank and caused so much suffering to his beloved mother. Jacaerys fears his wife, now the Princess of Dragonstone will have to walk those same halls, perform the same walk of shame and mummery with all the courtiers of the Keep to bear witness.

There is no possibility he will allow her to endure the same, he would bring fire and blood to all of Westeros shall she have to face that, yet it brings him relief when he reminds himself that woman is no longer Queen but his mother is, Queen of her own right and first of her name, and yet all the same, that woman is also his mother-in-law, mother to his darling. And grandmother to the child that shares his blood.

Jacaerys never left the side of his wife even when her birth continued onto the hour of the wolf, his hands intertwined with her own, assuring kisses on her temple and cheek and encouraging her when she would cry she wanted to relent. Across from him stood his mother, whose locks resembled her half sister and his wife, an experienced mother who has felt such joy and such sorrow too, with a maternal comfort gained with experience.

He would not allow a woman filled with hate to the brim in her heart to rob him of the joys of fatherhood and the relief of his wife safe and sound after such birth to their babe. Jace felt relief like no other when he began to see the dark haired head of the child crowning, and the guttural, final scream she exerted as the child exited her womb.

Jacaerys comforted and whispered assurances of gratitude and encouragement to his lady wife, that she be reminded how grateful he was of her efforts to grow their family, of her devotion and love for him, and fulfilling her duty with nothing but grace, peppering kisses all over her flushed face.

As he caressed the fine hair of his child much like own while he fed from his mother’s breast, his elated expression dropped as if in a chilling reminder when she asked for her mother. As despicable as that woman was, he could not deny her wishes if it brought her reprieve. Jace smiled and promised her that she would be coming and has been informed of the birth of her new grandchild.

When Y/N was beyond earshot, he approached the young midwife with a hardened gait, grinding through his teeth. “If the Dowager Queen wishes to see the prince, she will make her way here herself. She can walk, can she not?!"

While his wife was preoccupied and in isolation during the last few months of the pregnancy, Jace had made efforts to convince his mother to move the Lady Alicent to the second floor below the palace where the current royal family lived. “To remind her of what she’s done to us and may feel the pain we have endured.” He told Queen Rhaenyra, who was hesitant but accepted afterwards.

Jacaerys marched his way outside the ornate doors where his wife and their babe rested, raising his chin and standing with his chest puffed out, a cold indifferent expression, back straightened and fists clenched white as his wife’s mother made her way up the stairs with difficulty.

In the years since her queenship, the then young queen had begun to develop striking pain all over her body, especially down her spine and legs no matter what the maesters or foreign healers would advise. Jacaerys thought it was fitting for when he would make his mother walk up with him and his newborn siblings, bleeding across the hallways and staircases due to the green queen’s attempt to humiliate them.

Perhaps he is his mother’s son, as diplomatic, gracious, intelligent and cunning as he may be, grudges linger.

He could hear a pin drop as the auburn haired woman nearly stumbled down the final stairs and tripped over her gown, with a few septas rushing over to assist her but he showed no commiseration.

The doors swung open as Alicent limped towards her daughter’s bedside, slightly softening in consolation her daughter was safe in childbirth and the child was kicking like a goat.

“Praise the Mother, my girl.” She brushed her blood-smeared fingers over her silver hair shakily, whispering. He did not miss the glimpse of disappointment when she noticed the dark brown hair of the child, even when the boy had her pale lavender eyes.

Alicent cleared her throat, avoiding the gaze of those around her. “I see that the prince strongly resembles his father.”

Jacaerys’ eyes narrowed in suspicion, instinctively reaching towards the pommel of his Valyrian steel sword. “Is that supposed to be a problem, Dowager?” He stomped forward, hovering above his wife and child.

“Not at all, my prince. He is a handsome boy-”

Queen Rhaenyra noticed the tension beginning to develop and interrupted with a smile. “She means no ill, Jacaerys. Merely an observation.”

“An observation?! She wished to have us named as bastards to replace you as heir with one of her spawns and humiliate you.” He raised his voice, accusatory at his mother’s former adversary, and he could feel Lucerys next to him, pulling him away to calm him.

His wife Y/N, exhausted and delirious from the birth, began to grow pale and overwhelmed from the commotion around her, just as her babe broke out in tears and wailed. The Queen ordered everyone but Jacaerys to exit the room and give the family their space. The door shut with a thunderous thud.

…

Hours later, the midwives finished cleaning up the afterbirth, bathed and cleaned the lady and the child before they both fell asleep in new linen sheets and fed.

Jacaerys never left his young family’s side, despondent he had lost his cool, distressing his family during a vulnerable moment, turning what should have been a celebration into an altercation.

He cringed as he could only imagine what the murmurs and whispers about his behaviour and the events that followed with his wife’s mother would share about him. He had brought this upon himself and his family.

AS Y/N began waking from her first rest since the labours, he turned to her as soon as he could hear her rise from her sheets, reaching for her hands in his.

“I have failed you, wife. I should have protected you but I have only raised in anger over old wounds and created altercations when I should have.” Jacaerys felt his tears brim, cheeks red with ignominy and shame.

Her eyes fluttered awake, still weary from the long delivery but visibly more rested already. She shook her head in understanding with an enervated sigh.

“I understand your relationship with my mother has been tense, for what she had done to Her Grace and your family. But I can assure her she has changed, if she is not with me, she is on the knees at the Sept begging for forgiveness and giving alms-”

“She looked at our son the same way she used to look at me and my brothers as children, when she would use her tongue to call us bastards! I fear she will do the same to you and the boy. What good will alms do if she still wishes to see me and our son six feet under ground for the colour of our hair!?” Jacaerys exclaimed, lips quivering in fear as he felt tears brim in his eyes.

Y/N brought their son closer to her arms, only comforted by the sight of her child and her beloved.

“I will handle her, trust me. She thinks I do not pay attention to these things, but I do.” She reaches her free hand to his, unmoving to not wake the babe and squeezes his larger palms into her own.

Jacaerys sniffles, wiping his tears with his sleeve. “I do not wish to drive you apart from your mother, my love. I only worry about you and our family’s safety, and the throne. That you and our son may not suffer on my behalf.”

Their son had just begun to fall asleep in her arms, and she began bouncing him instinctively, quickly gaining the ropes of what it took to be a good mother. Jacaerys knew she would be nothing like her own mother, eagerly learning from his mother Queen Rhaenyra, speaking with other royal and noble mothers and even listening to wet nurses and nannies on how to rear children best.

“Are you sure you can handle this conversation? Would you like me outside or in the room with you?” He asks with uncertainty, not entirely confident with his wife even with her own mother.

The wife of the heir to the Iron Throne and Princess of Dragonstone nods fiercely. “You forget I am a dragon too. We do not bow to these snakes that suck from their prey.”

…

In the overmorrow on the first day of spring, Y/N had just put her son in his cradle, handcrafted in limestone and marble with seahorses and dragons, lined with sheets of silk with pearls and aquamarines, befitting the future King, and the scion of Houses Targaryen and Velaryon.

She hummed as she watched him sleep, having gone through feeding him herself to the surprise of the wet nurses she had followed through, unlike most royalty. She swore she would leave nursing and care to others if she had no other choice.

Underneath sat the hearth of the magenta and mauve swirled dragon egg surrounded by pieces of coal, emitting whirls of smoke that signified the life alive in those eggs. The egg was special as it was the first from her young ride, a nervous flighty thing who only managed to hatch when she found out she was expecting herself, rarely only having one dragon when most on Dragonstone laid many.

As she hums old Valyrian nursery hymns from the crypts of ancient Valyrian text retrieved from the tombs of the Keep’s libraries, she recognizes the steps of her mother without a glimpse.

In her jade hued robes, Lady Alicent was quaint yet undaunted to remind the court of her former standing as once the queen who ruled these halls. A black veil hid part of her auburn hair that turned to flames in certain lighting.

Her mother grimaces with a smile that does not reach her eyes, but relief is painted all over her being. “You are well, daughter? I presume so is the babe.”

Y/N curtly interrupts her. “The babe is your grandson, my child when I am your flesh and blood, mother. Most importantly, he is the future heir to the throne, second in line to my husband.”

Alicent frantically fidgets with her fingers, tugging at her old emerald rings in consternation.

“Of course, yes. His name, Aemon, is fitting for a future monarch.” She could hear the strain in her mother’s words, laced with lies. All her life she had learned those sealed with malice and deceit.

“You forget yourself, mother. My husband and my children are of the blood of the dragon, as do I. You do not understand the ways of the dragon, in your jealousy of wanting to unseat my sister and put Aegon on the throne. Your attempts to disgrace and dispossess my future husband and his brothers has brought the Stranger hanging over mine and my own son’s head!” Y/N chides in betrayal, voice tinged with disbelief her mother would do such a thing.

“Y/N-”

“I could not believe you, mother, that you still harbour such ill will after many years. My marriage with Jacaerys should have buried whatever disagreements you may have had with Queen Rhaenyra, but you value imbuing hate and division on this house more than choosing the peace and stability of this kingdom!”

“Your husband and your son are unbecoming of what Targaryen princes are supposed to look like-” The Dowager attempted to reason, but was impeded as her daughter held an imposing hand towards her.

“Unbecoming? Have you not glimpsed into a mirror? You are nothing of what a Targaryen queen should be, a mere second son’s daughter who brought nothing of value to the throne, and only sought discord to advance her family. Who replaced the Targaryen tapestries with ones of the Seven in hopes of bringing your radicalism to the rest of the kingdom!”

Guards barge in the doors of the babe’s nursery, their armour and swords clattering loudly in the quiet hall.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Y/N coldly turns away from her mother, even as she frowned the same way she would. “By order of the Princess of Dragonstone with the seal of approval of the Prince of Dragonstone and the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,

I order your arrest for treason, and insubordination not only for your past grievances but your efforts to call my son a bastard. You will be stripped of your privileges of Queen Dowager, and turned into a septa who will serve the Seven for all her days.”

The former queen is astonished, struggling among the grips of the soldiers who surround her. “Daughter, you are mistaken, please do not do this to me. For all I have sacrificed for this realm and for your father, you must understand why I am the way I am.” She pleaded on her knees, hands clasped as she cried for mercy.

“No, you have served your ambitions and my late grandsire’s treacherous longing for power and the throne, that you would put the Hightower banners and replace Targaryen customs with the Seven and southern ways, that you would tear the kingdom apart for it. I have given you too many chances, forgiving you and turning the cheek in hopes you have accepted it and at least been happy for me, but I am a fool. I am not as forgiving as my father was to your digressions!”

Y/N paced slowly around her mother, sorrow on her face, but no regret or forgiveness.

“You are lucky I will not be putting you in a cell, because for better or for worse, you are still the mother who birthed me. But you would understand, there is nothing a mother would do to grant protection to her children.”

The princess dazed into the window, grasping onto the rails as she heard her mother being dragged out the halls and stripped of her royal ordinances. She could feel herself biting into her nails nervously after years of no longer doing so.

Jacaerys sauntered carefully, approaching his wife with comfort, rubbing her shoulders and bringing her into his arms, looking down at their son as he slept.

“Was I not too cruel, Jace?” She whimpered, weeping into his arms as she was devastated at whether treating her own kin in such a way was a fatal mistake.

He rests his chin on the top of her head before pressing kisses on her temple. “I understand why this troubles you, wife. As abominable and misguided she was, you still are her blood, her daughter.”

She glimpsed at her son, cooing at him as he quietly sleeps. “As a mother, I want to be nothing like her. My son will never be safe while she is around.”

[planetsage]

contains. dom!choso, f!reader, “slut,” spit, “daddy.”

“this what you want, huh?” choso growls, grabbing at the fat bulge straining against his dark jeans. the blacks in his eyes grow, branding heart-shaped holes into yours, a sinful hunger so carnal the devil himself shakes on his bloodied throne.

he roughly palms himself over the fabric, looking down at how your eyes follow his every move, plump lips wet from licking, curling into a wicked smirk, “lemme use that mouth,” and lithe fingers settle into your hair to grab and press your cheeks against him, smearing your warmed face on his hard cock, “fuck that throat juuusstt how you like it. know you love being used like the pretty little slut you are”

you nod eagerly, his zipper nipping and pinching the side of your temples. “yeah? stick that tongue out”

with a teasy ‘aahhh’ your tongue falls out, resting against the plump of your lower lip, while you look up at him so prettily with big doe eyes. without breaking that contact, he leans closer to spit in your mouth loudly, with a ‘ptooh’ and it mingles with yours on the flat of your tongue before sliding down your throat, “use your teeth, baby. take me out”

catching the metallic zipper of his jeans between your teeth, you draw it down, slowly. the sound of the material parting in a hiss that fills the air. you whine, struggling to get the denim around his button, your hands moving to assist you, but he grunts out a “teeth only” making your thighs press together at the warming ache.

“can’t .. please help me cho. i can’t ”

he coos down at you softly, “awwe’s okay my needy baby .. know you’re just sooo cock-hungry. i’ll help you out this time” pushing down both his jeans and boxers to let his leaky cock spring free before grabbing at the thick base to slap it against your face.

“what do you say, baby. hm?” he runs his wet tip against your lips, smearing salty precum that sneaks past them and drips onto your tongue.

“thank you, daddy”

© planetsage 2024 all rights reserved. no part of this may be reproduced in any form.

[necstasy]

what are your thoughts feelings emotions about paul atreides having a breeding kink...... wanting so badly to knock his girl up......

creampie; soft paul; husband!paul & PAUL ATREIDES MDNI 18+

it comes to him naturally.

he’s always had the desire to reproduce settled in the back of his mind. he’s always wanted a family; a wife he truly loved, kids who he could see himself in. it was simple to him at first—base instincts of a man, especially the heir to the throne.

and then you two married, and it became something more primal. something more debauched, and therefore deeper into the base instincts. he couldn’t sleep as his mind was plagued with images of you, to the point where he needed to thrust these visions into reality. they were all within reach, all he needed to do was spread your legs and settle between them with the same determination he tended to push down in fear of scaring you off.

but he doesn’t think he could ever scare you off. not with how receptive and eager you are.

your legs opened to accommodate paul’s lithe hips in between them. your hands in his curls and pressed into the muscles of his back. really, your hands are everywhere. sliding down his torso, pinching his hips, pressing into the dimples in his lower back. you’re insatiable, trying to get more of him even as you drink in all of his air as you kiss him.

he’s just as bad if not worse.

his hands roaming your body. from your hair, to cupping your jugular, to pinching your nipples, all the way to teasing your cunt. he wants you, but he doesn’t want to make it quick. he wants it to last.

so he takes his time. each thrust into you is purposeful and artistically crafted. it’s not just a means to an end, it’s a rehearsed dance that he gets better at each time. sure, he has a goal—to shoot his cum as far into you as possible—but he wants it to be as enjoyable as it always is. he sucks hickies into your neck, he peppers loving kisses all along your body while he tells you how appreciative he is of you. it pains him, but he dismisses your cries to go faster and give you more. he wants it to be slow and romantic, his still blossoming mind only associating the two with each other and never with any other fashion of fucking you. love making, as he would call it.

until you hook a leg around his waist and beg. “will you cum in me, paul? so i can make you a father?”

god, you want to make him a father, the same way he wants to make you a mother. it’s so simple, nothing profound, but just that admission and your begging has paul’s hips snapping into yours. you have inadvertently gotten exactly what you wanted, and you’re vocal about how thankful you are. this is a different form of love making. it's addictive.

paul’s green eyes stare down at you the entire time, switching between taking in the way your face morphs into pure pleasure and how his cock easily slides in and out of you. he doesn’t know which view he enjoys more: the way your lips part and your eyebrows pinch together, or the way you’re literally creaming around his cock before you’ve even reached an orgasm. he tries to pay equal attention to both views, but he ends up focusing solely on the work he's doing below, his eyes attentive even through the weight of them.

he watches his cock drive in and out of you, so focused that he doesn't notice the speed that his mouth moves.

"yeah? you want me to?" he asks in relation to your begging. you nod, but he doesn't notice. he continues either way. "i'll put a baby in here, my star. i think you'd look so pretty. you always look so pretty 'f me."

he has a distant thought to focus on your pleasure, but it doesn't make it to the forefront. instead, he focuses on one thing: knocking you up. and he makes sure he gets his wish when he cums into you forcefully, his head buried in your neck while he keeps his hips flush against yours, his cock twitching inside of you as warm spurt after warm spurt flies out of him and settles into you. and even when he's done, he sits there for a while, refusing to leave in fear that the tiniest amount trickling out of you could damage the possibilities.

just to be extra sure, he fucks the cum back into you once he's pulled out, bringing you to an orgasm just by his fingers covered in his cum alone.

[pin-k-ink]

Ryomen Sukuna X Reader

CW: mention of death and violence, extremely fluffy, soft sukuna

summary: instances where sukuna realized he was in love with you

a/n: hehehehe >:)

Sukuna realized he loved you when he stopped by a dandelion field on his way to massacre a village, just because you wanted to make a wish on one. He made sure to wait patiently until you finished weaving the delicate yellow flowers into an intricate wreath that soon ended up on top of his head. Imagine how ridiculous he looked, killing people in cold blood with a flimsy flower crown on his head. He didn’t care, though. Because it was you who made it. It was you who kissed his nose while praising him for being patient (for you, he’d wait for all eternity if he had to).

Sukuna realized he loved you when you both were ambushed. Immediately lunging down and cradling your tiny body against his as he shielded you from the attack, almost instinctively. He felt your dainty fingers grasping the front of his kimono, shaking. All he felt was pure, unadulterated rage that boiled over in waves as he felt your tears soaking his cloths. He couldn’t feel anything, not the rough gravel that was scraping his knees, not the myriad of arrows piercing his back, not the shouts of his enemies as they closed in on him. No, all he could see was your teary eyed gaze as they looked up at him with worry. He ended up ripping the foolish sorcerers apart, shielding the brutal display from your eyes. He ended up carrying your shaking form home.

Sukuna realized he loved you when you kneeled down at his feet with a colorful display of fruits that you planned on feeding him. He had promptly got up from his throne and gripped your waist to hoist you up on it instead. As uncharacteristic as it was, he was the one that took the platter from you, settling down by your feet to pick up a cube of watermelon, bringing it up to your lips to feed you. He said he wasn’t in the mood for fruits, and stuffed your face with it until the entire platter was empty. You didn’t notice the small smile he had on his face whenever he felt your plump lips brush against the rough callous of his finger.

Sukuna realized he loved you when he had accidentally caught you smearing charcoal on your face, recreating the exact tattoos Sukuna had on his face, down to the last detail. When you finally saw him standing behind you with a bemused look in his eyes, you sputtered and lunged to wipe the marks off your face. He had caught you just in time, gently prying your fingers away from your face. He sat down beside you and hoisted you on top of his lap. The both of you spent the next couple of hours perfecting the design - he even made Uraume bring a spare kimono of his. He would never admit it, but he thinks he fell a little more in love with you when he saw that his cloths entirely engulfed your body. But when you started imitating him with a highly exaggerated, nasally voice, he was quick to shut you up with a kiss.

Sukuna realized he was in love with you when he saw you wake up next to him for the first time. Unbeknownst to you, he had woken up a couple of hours before you, and had spent those hours admiring your beautiful face while you slept. He realized that he didn’t care if he was a monster in other peoples eyes. If this sweet person felt safe enough to sleep next to someone like him, then maybe he wasn’t so bad. When you’d finally woken up, you smiled up at him, and Sukuna felt a pang inside his chest. You gently reached up and brushed your lithe fingers against his jaw. You brought him down for a tender kiss. The moment was short lived when you caught your disheveled appearance in the mirror, promptly cocooning yourself in the blankets. Sukuna wouldn’t admit it outloud, but he thought you were the most heavenly thing he ever saw.

Sukuna realized he was in love with you when he cradled your cold, lifeless body in his arms. Your eyes, once full of mirth, were now dull and bleak. He couldn’t bring himself to curse this world, to curse the cruel people that took you from him. His mind was blank, as he hugged your body close to his, rocking back and forth while he slowly accepted the fact that he’ll never feel your warmth again. The tears didn’t stop, running a steady stream down his face. He brushed your hair away from your face one last time before he laid you to rest. Even in death, you were truly the most angelic being he’s ever had the privilege of seeing.

Sukuna realized he loved you when he spent the next few centuries incessantly praying to whatever deity out there, to please grant him the opportunity to see you again. Whether it was in death or reincarnation, he didn’t care. He knew his soul would never be able to rest in peace without feeling your touch again. He wanted to be able to see you smile at him, to kiss him, to reassure him that he’s done enough and that he’s earned the right to rest now. Until then, he’d spend his time making the sorcerers who took you away from him, pay.

Yūji realized Sukuna felt something for you when his nagging voice in the back of his mind quieted down to a halt when you appeared in front of him for the first time. You looked as beautiful as he remembered, maybe even more. He willed his body to move, wanting to hold you close. But you stepped back in alarm, your arms outstretched to shield Megumi from him as you activated your technique. Before, his chest would hurt at the mere thought of someone hurting you. Now, it felt as if someone had plunged their hand straight inside his chest and ripped his heart out when he realized you don’t remember him. Before he could say a word, Yūji regained control over his body.

[thisblogisaboutabook]

Based on this amazing ask.

Dark Thraller - Part 1

Azriel x HewnCity!Reader, Arranged Marriage

Something darker than the night itself lurks within the Hewn City. Something dark and lovely and his. Azriel suddenly finds himself with a bride that he never wanted but when their marriage may be the one thing that saves their world as they know it, duty trumps all.

The female watched from shadows behind the archway connecting a granite corridor to the throne room of the Hewn City, peering into the busy room. She could smell the fear simmering within the room, it stoked at her own power, building as it fueled her senses. She shouldn’t be here, to be caught could mean death, perhaps worse, but this was her only chance to find the Seer.

Azriel stood cross-armed, hazel eyes honed in on Elain Archeron as she gracefully meandered through the throne room of the Hewn City. Its lecherous denizens ogling her as if she were nothing more than a whore in a pleasure house. Her dress was modest, a whispy train of tulle falling from her shoulders and trailing behind her, the perfect decoy for hiding his shadows as they listened in for tonight’s intended target. The gown hugged her slim figure just enough to give a tease of the lithe female form beneath.

He rolled his eyes as he took her in, reminded of Cassian’s insistence that black wasn’t her color but he was wrong - she was the ethereal moon to the Night Court’s midnight skies.

———

Elain knew she did not belong here. Not within the stone walls of this forsaken city. Not because she was too fragile. No, despite the fact that her sisters coddled her and the rest of the Inner Circle treated her like a delicate flower that would wither at the slightest touch, it was often overlooked that she had slain the King of Hybern. Sure, Nesta received credit for the final blow, but it was Elain who had been vital that day.

She didn’t belong here because of its own inherent darkness that mingled so well with the darkness within her own soul. She’d always tried to make the best of life, but years of poverty, being forced into the cauldron, losing Graysen, an unrequited mating bond, their fathers death, being held captive in Hybern’s camp, nearly losing Feyre during Nyx’s birth, the strife didn’t hold a candle to the pain she felt from being granted the so-called “gift” of sight and having no way to decipher it. Her visions were not light and airy, they were dark and inky, ominous at best.

The few times she’d visited this sect of the Night Court, her visions plagued her. Glimpses of gods and shadows, sacrificed maidens, life and death. And then, there was last time. The collision of an outside force greeting her own power, something fearsome and yet- gentle.

Azriel’s shadows gave a tug on the cape of Elain’s gown, working of their own accord. To Azriel’s chagrin, the last time they’d been here his shadows pushed boundaries, ignoring commands to stand down as they searched the space. They’d trailed Elain who had a particularly concerning vision of shadows upon water and whispers of death.

With the concerns of Koschei following the events with the Queens on the continent, it was enough to garner another visit. So, here they were. Azriel watching Elain like a hawk as she and his shadows searched the place.

Eyes diverted away from Elain as the main act arrived, Rhys and Feyre loosening the grip on their power as the doors flew open- their steps echoing throughout the now silent chamber as the High Lord and High Lady approached the dais. The crowd, having learned from previous reprimand, fell to their knees before their rulers.

It was then that Azriel’s shadows completely shrouded Elain, granting her cover as she dipped down a corridor that Azriel had very clearly lectured them NOT to go down. He wasn’t about to risk Elain’s safety, even if it meant failing the mission at hand of garnering more sight into these possible Koschei visions.

Elain took no more than ten steps down the corridor when a voice startled her from the shadows. “You.”

Elain gasped as Azriel’s shadows created a wall of shadow before her.

Not to protect her - but to conceal the source of the voice.

How very strange.

A lump formed in Elain’s throat as she mustered her courage for a moment, composing herself before squaring her shoulders and holding her head high.

“Yes?” She asked.

“You’re the Seer.” The voice spoke again. Feminine. Young, likely twenty or thirty but it was hard to tell with the fae.

“I am.” Elain spoke firmly. “And you are?”

The voice started before turning into a strangled gasp. The shadows cleared for Elain to find Azriel, holding the female from behind with Truth-Teller against her throat.

“I know what you are.” His deep voice spoke into her ear, his heated breath sending chills through the female.

“Azriel.” Elain spoke. “She was only curious. She didn’t harm me.”

Azriel didn’t move a muscle, only lifting his hazel eyes from behind the female to meet Elain’s gaze. “You don’t know what she is. The danger you were in.”

The cool blade pressed against the female’s throat and if it wasn’t for the obvious threat she posed, Azriel would have had a hard time missing the way her body fit so enticingly against his, the way her ass-

He growled. “Quit it.”

“Quit what?” The female puzzled.

Through gritted teeth, Azriel warned, “Your powers will not affect me, Dark Thraller.”

Elain kept quiet but she didn’t miss the smirk that rose on the female’s face at that. There was something about this female that resonated with her. She had a gentle presence, soft in all the right places to enhance her feminine appearance in a way that would leave most underestimating her, yet Elain knew there was more to this female, something deeper, something darker than her bright eyes let on.

Someone who could understand her.

———————————

Keir burst through the dungeon door first, followed by the general of his Dark Bringer forces and his second in command, Lord Thanatos.

“Keir, how nice of you to join us.” Rhys mused. Arrogant smirk plastered on his face.

Rhys and Azriel had spent the past two hours with the female, named Y/N, in the dungeons of the Hewn City. She was a Dark Thraller. An incredibly rare power of ancient fae, until today, it had been thought of as myth. She could not only wield darkness and shadow on her own accord but she could steal it, borrowing directly from the source, hence Azriel‘s shadows obscuring her from Elain. It was fortunate that he’d taken her by surprise when he’d snuck up on her, able to pull his shadows from her thrall and regain them as his own. Though they weren’t particularly eager to return to his side. He was still pissed about that.

The fact that Keir had kept this female a secret was enough to chap Azriel’s ass too. Mor’s father should have reported the female the moment her powers manifested, yet, he’d hoarded her. And much like with Mor, Keir and Lord Thanatos planned to breed her, using her as a bargaining chip in an arranged marriage to some noble on the continent that she had never laid eyes on.

“Release my daughter, immediately.” Lord Thanatos boomed.

The female remained silent, still, but Azriel didn’t miss the way her skin paled at his command. Rhys let out a dangerous laugh, not the warm laugh of the brother Azriel knew so well, but the bitter laugh of a High Lord about to put a subordinate into his place, or the ground, depending on how generous he was feeling.

Both males froze in place, faces turning cherry red as they fought against invisible restraints. Rhys placed an errant hand into his left pocket, a cruel smirk plastered across his face. “It seems I have not given enough attention to the seat of my court in recent years if this is how its people choose to greet their High Lord.”

His violet eyes narrowed as he took a tone befitting of the most powerful High Lord in Prythian’s history. “Kneel”

And before they had a chance to do so on their own accord, Rhys forced them into a submission. A gentle - considering the force he was capable of - reminder that they were indeed the lesser males in the room.

Rhys released his hold on the males as they gasped for air, remaining knelt until their High Lord dismissed the formal stance.

“It seems, Keir, that you and Lord Thanatos have been keeping this little gem a secret.” Nodding his head toward the restrained female, who easily could have broken the shadows to her submission. A test, then. To see how impulsive she was with her power, what manner of control she practiced over it.

Azriel didn’t trust her. Thralling? Yes, a Dark Thraller typically attracted darkness and shadow with their thralling abilities but how far did her capabilities go? Could she work on the minds of those wielding darkness as well?

Azriel broke from his inner thoughts to find the female staring at him with wide eyes. She was nervous. He stepped closer to her, keeping his gaze firm and narrowed but to his surprise, the nervous energy surrounding her did not increase. In fact, she seemed to relax slightly.

That was certainly a first for him in these dungeons.

Azriel had been so focused on her that he missed the last bit of groveling from Keir and Lord Thanatos. His attention once again fixed on the males and his High Lord as Rhys summoned a large table and five chairs.

Keir scoffed. “This is a conversation for males, she-“ he spoke the pronoun with venom, “has no business in these affairs.”

Rhys waved a dismissive hand at the male. “I always forget what antiquated views you harbor. At this table, she has a place. In fact, she has more of a place here than you do, since you so rudely interrupted our-” interrogation “conversation.”

“Azriel.” Rhys nodded toward the bound female.

Begrudgingly, Azriel released his restraints on the female. She stood, slowly, maintaining eye contact with him as she smoothed her satin gown, the fabric clung deliciously to her curves but Azriel was most taken by those mesmerizing eyes of hers as they held his cold stare. No malice, or hatred lay in her own eyes, the emotion was something that made his heart lurch. The same look a snared creature would give a hunter that held its fate in their hands, the same look a young boy once gave his cruel half-brothers as fuel soaked his hands while they held the flaming match.

Y/N broke her eye contact and approached the table, holding her head high. To her- and everyone in the room not named Rhysand’s - shock, he pulled the chair at the table’s head out and motioned for her to sit. He kept the arrogant mask plastered on and waited until she accepted that he was serious, shifting uncomfortably for a moment, before seating herself. That nervousness once again returning as she looked to the two Court of Nightmares males to her right.

Truly, Azriel didn’t trust her but he couldn’t bear to see that look on her face. He’d met her two hours ago and already knew she was too good to be intimidated by these pricks.

Azriel stepped to Keir, seated directly to next to her, Rhys seated to her left - and flatly commanded “move.”

Keir huffed an insidious laugh. “I don’t take orders from dogs.”

Azriel remained stoic, refusing to deign the pompous male with even a breath of irritation. He’d been called far worse

Rhys didn’t bat an eye at the command from his Spymaster, knowing Mor’s history, of course he would feel inclined to keep him distanced from a female stuck in a nearly identical situation as the one she was faced with all those centuries ago. “Keir, you truly are going out of your way to play the fool today. Keep it up and maybe we can reenact what happened to your arm the last time you disregarded the station of one of my Inner Circle?”

Keir bristled slightly before tucking his shoulders in a show of submission, pushing himself up, and swapping places with the Shadowsinger.

Azriel didn’t miss the slight ease of tension in Y/N’s jaw as he sat, though her heartbeat remained racing as indicated by the visible thrumming of her pulse in her neck and quickened breathing. His shadows gravitated toward her, intertwining with her ankles and then scurried away when she looked to them in a reprimanding manner.

By the rather adorable scowl furrowing across her brow, he had a feeling she hadn’t used her thralling abilities on them either. Interesting.

For all that they were excellent for spying, the things were incurably nosey to a fault.

Clearing his throat, Rhys began “It has been brought to my attention that lady Y/N is to be married to a male on the continent, not as a marriage of love but as one of title. Given her unique powers I propose that we arrange a marriage within our own court that will be both advantageous to the Night Court and to her in terms of power. Do you wish to elaborate on who you intend to marry her off to?”

Azriel noted the bead of sweat on Lord Thanatos’ brow as he glanced to Keir, vaguely-concealed concern flitting between the two.

Keir cleared his throat. “The male is simply a lesser-noble from a wealthy family on the continent. She is not worth the attention, your grace. Her power will be of no use to your court. They’re nothing more than an amusing party trick.”

Leaning back in his chair, Rhys held his chin between his thumb and forefinger in a show of consideration, before giving a grin. “I do enjoy parties. And it seems as if I could find a suitor that would be far more advantageous considering this unnamed lesser-noble is not even worth noting. Don’t you agree?”

Y/N seemed to shrink in her seat but what Azriel read on her face looked almost like “hope.”

What had she been put through for her future to be discussed as if she were nothing more than loose marks to be spent frivolously and still feel hope? He grit his teeth at the way Rhys carried on with the act, though he knew it was simply that- an act.

Silence filled the space and Azriel didn’t miss the way his High Lord’s gaze went vacant, communicating with someone. A small hitch in the breath of Y/N clued him in to exactly who he was communicating with.

“I’ve decided.” Rhys purred. “Lord Thanatos, your lovely daughter will wed my Shadowsinger.”

Outrage filled the room as the males let out shouts of disapproval before Rhys let his darkness fill the room. “Am I not High Lord? Do I not have final say in the affairs of my denizens?”

The males were silent. Rhys loosened his power further, a rumble sending loose dirt falling from the ceiling of the room onto the table before them. “I expect an answer.”

Lowering their gazes in submission, it was Keir who spoke first, “Yes, High Lord.”

Lord Thanatos let out a growl, shooting a violent glare in Keir’s direction.

“I expect an answer, Lord Thanatos.” Rhysand challenged.

After another moment, he finally caved in to the show of power. “Yes, High Lord.” The male growled.

The darkness faded as Rhys clapped his hands together. “Excellent. This evening just became far more interesting. We shall wed the two tonight!”

To his credit, Azriel said nothing, not one single show of disapproval or questioning.

“You two may be dismissed. We will coordinate the details of the wedding.”

As the two males, completely dumbfounded, exited the cell. The female looked to the floor, avoiding Azriel’s stony gaze- the gaze of her soon-to-be husband. Which was for the best as Azriel sent her a glare reserved for the worst of traitors. He did not want this, he wanted nothing to do with the female. His heart was destined to belong to the middle Archeron sister. He was to share his life with HER, not this strange enigma from the Hewn City.

Moments later, Elain and Feyre entered the room. Elain’s expression unreadable as they retrieved the female, Cassian and Nesta flanking them protectively as they led her off to prepare for the ceremony.

————

Rhysand knew he was a bastard. He took the corresponding show of rage from Azriel in stride, unable to disagree with the cold words and show of opposition to his order to marry the female.

What Azriel hadn’t seen was the terror Rhysand had gleaned in her mind. Her power was not a party trick, in fact she’d been hidden away beneath the Hewn City and put through rigorous training from the first moment her powers emerged. This female was trained to be used as a weapon and treated as such, there was nothing humane or loving about the environment she’d grown up in. But far more concerning than even the abhorrent conditions she had been brought up in was the undiluted panic regarding her impending nuptials. She indeed did not know who she was to be married to but she had suspicions.

Not to be wed to an unknown lord from the continent, not even to the highest ranking of nobility, but to a supreme being of death and decay, to Koschei himself.

And if her suspicions were correct, a power like hers in his hands would bring immeasurable suffering, an end to the world as they knew it. She was the token Keir needed to barter for his own rise to power. Ruling just the Court of Nightmares was never enough for a greedy bastard like him.

“The only way we can get her out of here is by wedding her to you tonight. If she’s wed, they have no contest to-” Rhys bristled as he spoke of the female as anything less than her own entity “They cannot claim ownership of her if she is wed. We cannot risk another moment of her being in their hands, Az. This marriage does not have to last forever, just long enough to ensure she is out of their hands and that we are in her good graces. Your duty is to keep her happy and protect her, if she ends up in the wrong hands, Azriel- more than just our own rule is at stake, Prythian, the world, could be doomed.

Guilt pressed in on the High Lord. If there were any other way, he would take it, but for now this was the most humane route.

And as Rhys shared the female’s suspicions of Koschei with Azriel, he understood. He hated every moment of this but he understood. He didn’t have to love her, he didn’t have to like her even, but he could stomach her as he did with any other undesirable duty.

_________

Azriel stood on the dais before a crowd of sneering Hewn City denizens. For this, his leathers would do. He was to send a message of power to the Court of Nightmares and removing his siphons would not do. Rhys and Feyre remained seated on their thrones appearing bored as they took in the quickly thrown together wedding, little more than wine and night-blooming jasmine marked the occasion. Though Rhys would have loved watching Lord Thanatos have to hand his daughter over to the Shadowsinger, he didn’t want him anywhere near her. She had dealt with enough coldness from the male in her twenty-five years of life, never again would she have to suffer through her father’s unkind hands upon her.

So, Azriel waited, his eyes focused solely on Elain as the doors opened and music began to play. Cassian would escort her to the dais. Azriel spared no glance to his bride as the audience turned in her direction. Even Elain who had caught his gaze briefly, and Lord Thanatos and his equally hateful wife who stood behind her, turned to marvel at the bride striding up the aisle. Azriel’s heart raced. He wanted Elain. His shadows pulled on him. Coaxing him to divert his gaze from the Archeron sister. No. He wanted Elain. His heart beat wildly as a tug pulled at him. He would not look. This female was not who his heart belonged to. He belonged to Elain. Azriel’s shadows hissed in his ears to look as his heart urged him to spare a glance in her direction.

Finally, he shifted his gaze and time stood still. Before him was the most beautiful female he’d ever seen. No longer did she appear meek, or nervous- she stood taller with her head held high. A cobalt blue gown hugged her curves, dipping down to reveal her ample cleavage, the fabric clung to the curve of her hips, caressing her upper thighs before flaring out toward the bottom. Her knuckles tightly gripped a bouquet of morningstar flowers and delphinium. Where the dress had been conjured from, Azriel had no idea. The flowers were likely Elain’s doing. He tried to turn his head back to Elain but he couldn’t bring himself to avert his gaze away from the beauty before him.

His shadows left his side, flowing down the aisle and swirling around the bottom of her gown, giving the appearance that they were carrying her to him. The crowd gasped at the illusion and Azriel noticed the surprise on her face. Either she was an excellent actress or she truly didn’t have the control over her powers.

But Rhys had said that she’d been trained from the time they manifested. Surely they weren’t going to her on their own accord. Was her thrall that powerful?

Azriel nearly felt his shoulders slump in disappointment as her gaze shifted to Elain who awaited at the foot of the dais to retrieve the bouquet.

As Elain stepped forward, a tear was heard followed by a gasp. Azriel looked to see that the bottom half of Elain’s dress had torn. Her cheeks flushed, eyes wide with shock. Before Azriel could react, he felt loss of control over his shadows as Y/N flung her arms out commanding them in Elain’s direction. Azriel’s heart lurched, fury clouding him at this attack on Elain, he stepped forward only to halt in his tracks as two shadows darted out to restrain Y/N’s mother, and the remaining shadows shrouded Elain completely.

Y/N hurried toward Elain, stepping into the confines of the shadows, now shrouding the both of them. Azriel almost smirked as Y/N’s voice loudly echoed from the shadows “Don’t mind her. She’s even uglier inside than that sneer she wears on her face, which says a lot.” A soft giggle from Elain reached Azriel’s ears. “Come on, let’s get you something else to wear. Can your sister bring some wine?”

The crowd parted as the shadowed females made their way out of the crowd, Nesta and Cassian following suit.

This female stopped her own wedding to come to the aid of a female she didn’t even know. Azriel didn’t know what to think of that but he did know that he couldn’t let himself fall for her. He wouldn’t let himself fall for her.

——————————————————

A/N: this will be a 2 or 3 part series! I am too tired to proofread so if there were a bunch of typos, no there weren’t.

Tags:

ACOTAR general: @lilah-asteria @thecollegecowgirl @mochibabycakes @nickishadow139

Requested tags based on previous excerpt posted: @erikan809 @thalia-as-blog

[ninibeingdelulu]

Crawling back to you

synopsis-> His new concubine start to slowly become an obsession for him

The dimly lit chamber is thick with the heady aroma of sandalwood and smoldering embers casting their flickering amber glows across ornately gilded walls.

You kneel demurely before the towering entity that is the indominable King of Curses with a tray of succulent fruits balanced precariously in your lap.

Despite the dozens of lithe, scantily-clad courtesans draped across plush cushions surrounding Sukuna's imposing throne, not a single one possesses the capability to enrapture his full, unadulterated interest like you.

He attempts schooling his expression into one of practiced aloofness yet finds his scrutiny involuntarily drinking you in from the corner of his periphery.

The modest way loose tendrils of obsidian tresses fall around your delicately sculpted features...How those full lips part just enough to reveal a glimpse of glistening teeth worrying your lower pout while plucking a ripe persimmon free...

Even the flutter of those thick, sooty lashes framing those eyes as you peek up through them with an achingly sweet naivete.

Something viscerally primal stirs low in Sukuna's abdomen each instance your gazes accidentally lock - simultaneously thrilling yet inexplicably vexing him to the core.

He shouldn't find any fascination or particular novelty in your obvious purity and fragility, should he? After all, you pose no formidable threat to one who has mercilessly throttled nations with nary a conscious thought.

Yet he cannot prevent those four obsidian-tipped limbs from imperceptibly tightening with the overwhelming compulsion to simply...take you right there.

To lash out and possess every scant inch until the searing brand of his essence remains molten and permanently etched into your very marrow.

Maybe then you'd no longer exude such blinding radiance capable of rooting him in place like some pathetic, feeble-willed human wretch.

Every sinew instinctively coils rigid when your delicate fingertips drift upwards to present that glistening persimmon temptingly close.

Except your feather-light caress doesn't retreat once his lips part to accept your offering.

Instead, the pad of your thumb ghosts across his bottom lip with a tenderness and reverence he finds utterly transfixing.

And just like that, the last thread of rigid control over his carnal urges combusts instantaneously.

Sukuna's vision fractures into a million shards of ruby as your hopelessly innocent proximity suddenly consumes his restraint whole.

"Get out..." The abdominal maw snarls in a guttural rasp now utterly stripped of his usual controlled veneer.

Every talon-like fingernail hollows razor-deep grooves into the armrests flanking his throne when you instinctively flinch back with those dewy irises rounded in terror.

"Now."

The massive chamber remains utterly frozen until you scramble backwards on hands and knees finally fleeing his presence.

Only then does Sukuna finally permit himself to surrender - lifting a single beckoning digit to numbly brush across the very spot your captive touch seared straight through his exterior not a moment prior.

What sacrilegious witchcraft have you entangled him within?

This unfathomable compulsion to simultaneously profane and protect?

He's the almighty King of Curses - feared and reviled across every realm. Yet a solitary brush of your chaste fingertips against his mouth threatens to dismantle every staunch defense he's meticulously crafted over centuries of brutality and indiscriminate annihilation...

Head bowing forward until his pallid death mask cracks in a bitter sneer, Sukuna releases a blustering huff of mirthless derision directed solely at his own lamentable weakness.

Loathing how you've wormed your way beneath his armor so effortlessly with scarcely any intent whatsoever.

He vows to purge this infuriatingly inexplicable yearning to possess your radiance before it blossoms into something...darker. Something treacherous...

For both your sakes...

[queers-gambit]

Not All That Glitters is Gold

prompt: during your engagement dinner, you learn from your fiancé's niece that he holds choice words about you. or finding out he calls you clingy behind your back.

pairing: Daemon Targaryen x female!reader

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

collection masterlist: Clingy Baby

word count: 3.1k+

warnings: cursing, draaaama, mild angst, AU timeline technically, hurt and comfort (reader don't play those games i guess), relationship angst, half edited.

His cloak was a shimmering beacon of golden glimmer even in the dark of night. It promoted an air of confidence and swagger, something independent from his usual cockiness. No, with that gold cloak, he walked as if the very air you all breathed was produced by him; being silent and domineering in his presence. It had been something you were initially attracted to, his alluring mystery and overwhelming stoic self-awareness.

He moved around the Throne Room like wings were gifted to his feet, carrying him with lithe movements to look as if gliding. All eyes were on him, whether out of admiration, jealousy, confusion, or lust - eyes followed him no matter where he went, no matter what he did, who he interacted with. You lifted the heavy gold goblet to your lips, taking a careful mouthful of wine before setting it down, swallowing, and standing from your seat at the banquet table.

You wanted your lover, so, you got up to satisfy your craving.

You approached him as he spoke to a pair of noblemen, slowing your gait to ease your arrival and not cause a surprise. Your dress was something a little more alluring, more revealing than you'd usually wear, and as you approached the men, the eyes not belonging to your new fiancé nearly bulged from their skulls.

Daemon turned his head and saw you, smirking as his arm opened and he welcomed you into his side. "I was beginning to wonder where you got off to," you told him softly, one arm around his hips as the other planted your hand against his chest. "The Aunties have descended and are becoming insufferable, I fear I needed reprieve."

Daemon grinned, sounding amused, "It was a matter of time before they found you. Stick with us, darling, the Aunties will stay away."

"They're about to serve dinner," you told him, "perhaps we should find our seats?"

He nodded, looking at the men he had been speaking to before you showed up. Daemon bid politely, offering no other explanation besides, "Excuse us, gentlemen."

They bowed out of their Prince's way, letting Daemon lead you toward the head banquet table (again) where his brother, King Viserys, was sitting with other prominent members of court. The night had been pleasant, everyone rejoicing in the upcoming nuptials between you and the Rogue Prince. For years, he'd been something chaotic and shunned; and after the passing of his first wife, Rhea Royce, he was like a kite cut from string. Loose and set adrift. Wild and out-of-reach. And then you came back into Daemon's life after not seeing one another since you were ten-and-six, and all of a sudden, the Rogue Prince was something more domesticated.

It was a refreshing change, albeit totally uncharacteristic for Daemon.

Viserys was the most shocked of them all, constantly praising you for whatever you had done to his brother to reel him into a controllable pace. He thought you and Daemon were perfect for one another, likened you two to fit-together puzzle pieces. The King had been more than happy to host the celebrations, starting with tonight, an engagement party! You had to play part of dutiful fiancé and upstanding citizen since you were to inherit a royal title; being poised and collected at all times with either a calm, passive expression or one of bright entertainment.

"Here, love," Daemon whispered, pulling your chair out for you. He waited until you were sat before taking his own seat, sighing when he glanced around the table only to settle his gaze on you.

"What's wrong, my Dragon?" You asked softly, leaning in to place your hand over his on his lap; pressed into his side despite the wooden chair arms between you.

"Just amusing," he mused, "most of these Lords and Ladies had much to say about my first marriage, and now, they break our bread to celebrate us."

"Cannot be the first time someone's tried to suck up to you," you chuckled, moving your conjoined hands in your lap. "The dragon does not concern himself with the opinion of the sheep," you advised smartly, "they only tolerate the sheep because one day, the dragon will need to feast - hmm?"

Daemon smirked, "When did you become so insightful, darling?"

"I've always been, you're just pussy-whipped now that I make a lot more sense."

He laughed, letting a servant pour your wine. In your ear, he mused, "Jest all you want, but you were meant to be a Targaryen. Once we are wed, I will plant my seed, and bind us together for eternity."

"Our marriage wouldn't doing exactly that already?"

"A child is more tangible - it's a bloodline."

You shrugged as a plate of blood-red lobster was set in front of you. Viserys truly went all out - giving a wide variety of foods to taste. "A marriage is for life, though," you countered.

"So is a child."

"Until they are married off."

Conversation continued, flowing easily between the family members and patrons of court. Viserys looked pleased, enjoying the celebration as his ailment often caused him grave pain and he could not attend events. He hardly had reason to smile, but when he watched you feed a bite to Daemon, he let his lips spread without thought. Queen Alicent clocked the King's expression, glancing at you and Daemon, then smiled fondly before reaching for her husband's hand.

Throughout the dinner, Rhaenyra watched you and Daemon with a bitter glare on her face; jaw locked and lips pursed. You ignored her obvious displeasure in favor of your husband, both too enraptured with one another to ever pay attention to the Princess' distain. When the meal was over, the dancing, mingling, drinking, and musical portion of the evening commenced.

And cake. Cake was to be served.

Daemon's golden cloak swept around guests as you both played dutiful host for your party, and mingled with those who arrived tonight to celebrate your upcoming nuptials. You did your best to keep up with the plethora of Lords and Ladies, like Daemon did so effortlessly, but it was a lot. You still held your own, but by Gods, there was a lot of people in attendance tonight and there was noway you could remember any names.

Thankfully, while Daemon was caught in a conversation with Ser Gerold Royce, you eventually made it to a small group of familiar faces: Princess Rhaenyra, Ser Harwin Strong, his brother, Larys, Lady Laena Velaryon, and her twin, Ser Laenor.

You graciously received the compliments, well-wishes, and joyful greetings of them all, but acutely noted the Princess did not offer even so much as a polite greeting. "This dress was made for you, it's just darling," Laena complimented, petting the bodice. "It must've cost a fortune."

"It was a gift from Daemon," you told her with a soft smile. "And the necklace, too! See?" You showed her, "He had it custom made, it's Valyrian Steel with embedded jewels."

"The perfect combination of your Houses, and a gorgeous piece of art to hang on such a gorgeous neck," she praised, but it was Princess Rhaenyra's scoff of annoyance that peaked your interest.

You thanked Laena Velaryon before eyeing Rhaenyra. "Princess?" You questioned. "If I may ask you something, plainly?"

"By all means."

"Have I... Upset you in anyway?"

"You mean beside my uncle spending the Crown's coin to buy you something exquisitely made; being a fleeting, lady interest of the Princes'? No, no, nothing's wrong," she scoffed, rolling her eyes.

"What is this distain you hold towards me - towards my relationship with Daemon?" You demanded, the alcohol in your system spurring you on despite knowing the looming consequences of offering a member of the Royal family sharpened words.

"Truly? You wish to know why I do not fawn over you as others?"

"They do not fawn, oh - " You stopped yourself, sighing deeply and correcting yourself, "Of course I wish to know what the issue at hand here is, Princess, I do not wish for ill-will between us. I wish to resolve this."

"In truth, I simply do not understand it, this - this sham of a wedding," she snapped. "Daemon might buy you pretty things, but it's only out of guilt."

"What guilt could he possibly - "

"He finds you overwhelming, overbearing, suffocatingly clingy. So, with his distain, he, too, felt fleeting guilt - being why he showers you with gifts, it's for his own conscious. But if you ask me why I host such distain towards this union, it is because I know my uncle is not happy with your overwhelmingly clingy behavior. He's voiced his displeasure many-a-time. Not just to me, but to the King and Queen, as well."

You felt shell-shocked, acutely aware of the lingering eyes of the audience around you. You worried: how many of them had heard this rumor, how many secretly pitied you? Finding your voice, you managed to squeak out, "I beg your pardon?"

Rhaenyra only shrugged, "You asked, I answered."

"I see," you cleared your throat. "And your answer is that my betrothed has, what, started to slander my name behind my back?"

"Indeed. His chief complaint is how you seem to cling to him more and more, and he doesn't have the heart to push you away more than he already has. You're the one daft enough to not take a hint."

"And where do you get your information from?"

"Daemon, himself."

Your mind raced with all the little things: how Daemon would release your person during public events, avoid physical touch, ignore you sometimes, shut down your woes (call that gaslighting), how he stiffened at times you took his arm, how he seemed to shut down and only offer bored 'mmhms' when you spoke to him about your life. Your heart sank to your feet as you realized there were some truths to Rhaenyra's words.

You nodded slowly as Daemon chose that moment to approach your awkward group. His arm slithered around your waist, but you were silent as the grave and stiff as the corpse in said grave. Your mind raced with the idea that Rhaenyra could just be fucking with you, but the also with the idea that all she said was true.

"I'm going to retire for the evening, I've a headache," you told Daemon, finding an easy way out of his grip, "but you stay, enjoy the celebration. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am just tired."

He agreed and gently kissed you - sure to remain modest but still affectionate. "I'll visit you tonight," he muttered in your ear.

"No, I am truly tired," you told him softly but sternly. "We'll see each other tomorrow."

He hummed, "Then I shall walk you out - "

"No, you're needed here to save face. Go, mingle, play nice," you dismissed him. "I'll see you tomorrow."

You bid whoever you came across a good and safe night; thanking them for their attendance tonight. After thanking the King for hosting the party, you disappeared, taking a few secret passages to avoid the main hustle-and-bustle of the feast. When you arrived in your room, you slammed the door, bolted it, and leaned against it for a good long moment. Your mind was reeling with all kinds of thoughts regarding your intended, his niece, all of it suddenly feeling very overwhelming.

You were exhausted, so, you swiftly stripped, unpinned your hair, refused your maid's help, and soaked in a long, hot bath. After, you settled into bed with a book, and tried not to overwhelm yourself with the anxiety tomorrow would bring.

About an hour later, you heard Daemon knocking at your passage door. You paused, not making a sound, hearing his muffled voice, "Love? My love, are you awake?"

You didn't answer.

"Please, sweet girl, let me in," he begged quietly.

When you wrenched the door open, you seethed, "NO!"

"What - ?"

"I heard plenty tonight from your niece. In your moments of frustration, you know what? Sure, complain about your woes - but to find out you call me clingy when in regard to my affection - that's not something I'm going to be happy hearing, Daemon!"

"I know, but let me explain - "

"What? What will you say? That you just needed someone to talk to? To vent your feelings? I get that - I really do. But you fully offered slander to my name, to our relationship; to who I am as a partner. Your poisoned words of your irritation is soaked into your family, in the courts. And now, I must endure the pity those will offer knowing my husband truly holds distain for me!"

"No, you've got it wrong, I don't - "

"Then why!?" You demanded, voice cracking. "Why say those things? Why not come to me and communicate you're not comfortable with this and that behavior!? I won't know unless you tell me, so, instead of talking your shit to the courts and your family, why not just speak to me!?"

"I should have!" He admitted quickly. "I should have, I know that, and it was my mistake, my love. But I regret it, I regret feeling so, so - I don't know! Sure, let's call it frustrated, irritated, I don't care, I just needed it off my chest!"

"I understand that fully, but being as we're to marry one another, I should be the one listening to you when you need something off your chest. You should talk to me. And if I'm the one you need to speak about, choose more trustworthy confidants that do not need further reason to despise me!"

"What're you...? What? What does that mean?"

"Rhaenyra, Daemon! Your niece, Rhaenyra! Every-fucking-thing you've said to her, she remembers, and holds it against me! You forget, when you speak to family about the woes of your relationship, that's all they remember. You get to make up with me, we get to move on, but because you needed t'vent to them, that's what they can hold against me. Do you even wish to marry me, still!?"

"Of course, I do!"

"Then something needs to change," you deadpanned, exhausted by this. "I refuse to be belittled, spat on, and disrespected by your niece any longer."

"I will speak to her."

"Yes, you will! This is far too out of hand! She has weaponized your frustration to drive a wedge between us, and she chose a public event with an audience to lob it all at me!"

"What truly happened with Rhaenyra? What was so bad?"

"Daemon, she called me out for 'being clingy' in front of an audience! At our engagement celebration! Do you know how humiliating that was!? I'm more embarrassed than angry!"

He nodded, "I'll handle this. I swear, my darling, this will be resolved."

"You know what?" You breathed. "Do whatever you please because I've realized something. Not only did Rhaenyra spew our business to others, but you... You said it in the first place. You said those words..."

"Out of anger - "

"But you still spoke them!"

"I was foolish to do so!"

"You are a fool for many reasons, Daemon, but this is one act I am not willing to forgive so blindly. Wear your jester hat all you'd like, but it will take more than pretty words to make this up to me."

"I'll do what it takes to fix this." He tried to step into the room with you, but you held your ground in the doorway. "My love, please, how can I make it up to you if you do not let me in?"

"You must find any other way to do this because there's no chance in any of the Seven Hells that you share my bed again - married or not." You offered him a look of distain, musing, "You know what, I've decided: I simply don't care what you or your family thinks. I am extremely proud of who I am, and there's not a soul alive that can make me feel lesser than. Your words hurt, they cut deeper hearing it from the Princess, but that's simply your opinion," you eased. "I refuse to modify myself, but it's good to know you don't like my affection - I can always reserve it for whoever I choose to warm my bed. What was it you said?" You quipped venomously, "Marriages are political arrangements?"

"Not ours," he snapped.

"Oh? We're so different, are we?" You laughed.

"Of course we are, there's nothing I'd change. Hear me? Nothing," he sounded angry. "I was a fool to speak out of term, but you're right, I should talk to you about it - I am simply unequipped to having a wife I've chosen."

"Oh, spare me - "

"It's true," he insisted, "what woman in my life has loved me as you do? Has encouraged me to be so - so - loving and safe?"

"Apparently, I've been clingy and not as encouraging as I thought."

"I spoke out of turn," he insisted. "You're right - I can't go and take back what I've said. But I will do all I can to ensure I change their opinions on you, to mop up whatever verbal mess I've made."

You laughed without humor.

"And I will set Rhaenyra straight about all of this, I will ensure she knows that there's no room for such tension, jealousy, hatred."

"You swear to clean up all your messes?" You wondered earnestly.

"I swear."

"Good," you mused, "after that, how do you intend on rebuilding my trust?"

Daemon blinked, "You do not trust me anymore?"

"Of course not," you assured, "not since finding out how you speak of me so hatefully without my knowledge. That's where trust comes in, Daemon, but you proved me wrong, and now, that trust is gone."

Daemon looked confused, mouth opening and closing rapidly, shaking his head, "No, no, no, love, don't do this. We're okay, all right? We're fine, things with us - we're fine. We're okay."

"Saying it doesn't make it true."

"Do not tell me," He snapped. "H-Have I lost you?"

"Mhm. Not saying you can't fix things between us, but as of now, there's nothing about you I can trust."

"And if you cannot trust me, can you love me?"

You paused, considering his words. Honestly, his betrayal was something that hurt worse than anything you've endured before. "I'll have to think about that one," you whispered. With a saddened look, you hugged the door, sighing, and bid, "Goodnight, my Prince."

"My sweet - don't shut me out. Don't do this."

"Find a way to make this all up to me," you demanded, "because I'd hate for either of us to eventually resent this marriage, too."

He tried to argue but you shut the door on him forcefully; loudly locking it from the inside to prevent him from following you. You felt yourself brimming with anger, but nothing was like the betrayal coursing through your heart and veins. There was no sleep that night, there was a lot of tears, a lot of pacing, and a lot of grumbling to yourself.

requesting rules and masterlist

HOTD masterlist

Clingy Baby collection

[crushribbons]

ʜʏᴘᴏᴄʀɪᴛᴇ

summary: Alicent Hightower, queen of the realm, cannot sin alone.

cw: 1.3k words, SMUT (18+ ONLY), takes place late s1ish, alicent x chambermaid!reader, fingering, oral (both f!receiving), kind of toxic power abuse, religious undertones (for the vibes), fem!reader/oc. based off a prompt from my love @wedonthaveawhile whose brain is magic. requests open.

a/n: no research we die like lesbian servants!! xx laney

Rhaenyra and Alicent are nose to nose.

“The supposed parentage of my children is nothing but a rumor designed to discredit me,” Rhaenyra says, her teeth gritted together. “Designed, I believe, with intention, by Your Grace.”

The snort slips out of you before you have time to consider that it could be your last. King Viserys’ chosen heir whips around, a streak of lighting running through her stormy eyes.

“Beg pardon, Princess, I was merely coughing.” You curtsy low, with your eyes fixed hard on the stone floor. In your periphery, Rhaenyra turns back to face her stepmother.

Alicent’s gaze never falters, never falls from Rhaenyra’s. Her regal chin is raised in defiance and the fire backlights her auburn hair, making her personage glow in a way not of this earth. Your breathing falters as you watch hers remain even, measured.

She takes in a breath through her nose. “I will not see my children passed over for the throne for the false offspring of a woman who flouts duty and honor as if they mean nothing.” You busy yourself with turning down the queen’s duvet and placing warming pans at the foot of it, all the while straining your ear to hear the low anger seeping out of Alicent. “You have needlessly tainted a bloodline ten thousand years strong, one that I was expected to uphold without question or complaint. I have never faltered in my duty to your father,” she continues, and you notice Rhaenyra’s nostrils flaring, her lips pressing into a bloodless line.

And you have been a good queen, a noble queen, to us all! Beloved forever by the people of Westeros, to be sure! you want to cry. You do not, however, bound by your station to stay ever silent and unnoticed by the occupants of the Red Keep. You shrink yourself smaller into the shadows beside Alicent’s bed, watching. Alicent’s hands are clasped together, and something stirs inside you as you watch her knuckles whiten. She is so lithe, so elegant, her posture impeccable. The green dressing gown she wears shows off her narrow shoulders and you can’t help but feel the heft of fabric, ghostly, in your hands as you imagine pulling it off her. Shame shoots through your chest at the thought, while arousal hits lower.

Rhaenyra is speaking again, but her voice has lost some of its glass-sharp edge. “I will not speak of this anymore, Alicent—” You bite your tongue to stop yourself from speaking out of turn and instructing the ingrate princess to address her lady queen as “Your Grace” “—certainly not in the presence of such attentive ears.” The attentive ears turn red. Rhaenyra turns to you once more and calls, “Leave us.”

“Stay.”

You freeze. Alicent’s hand is raised, her soft palm pointing at you, but her eyes stay fixed on Rhaenyra. For a moment, all three women are suspended in indignation, anger, fear, and the only sound is the crackle of the fire. It sounds like Syrax, opening her maw wide to summon a pillar of destruction.

“Perhaps sleep…” The queen’s voice is softer than the pillow you don’t realize until that instant that you’ve been clutching. “Would be the most productive course, for now. You have traveled long, Princess.”

Rhaenyra looks as though she wants to say something, anything, to have spoken the last words between the two of them. She does not, however. With a final, searching look into Alicent’s eyes, the Targaryen sweeps out of the room, the heavy door slamming behind her. The candelabra flickers. Its wicks have burned too low.

Alicent does not move for several seconds, staring after the departed princess. It seems she can smell something in Rhaenyra’s wake, and it is not altogether unpleasant to her. Blood is rushing in your ears, and your fingertips are strangely numb. You open your mouth to speak, but your tongue weighs too much.

“You forget yourself too often.”

“I am sorry, Your Grace.”

“We must be more careful. Do not be so quick to defend me.”

“I cannot help it, Your Grace. She tells lies and besmirches the name of House Targaryen.”

“How can you dare to make such indictments against your future queen?”

Your knees are made of water. It feels like a trap. “You are my queen. My only.” Alicent, at last, looks at you, and it makes you sag onto the bed.  

Her head tips to one side. She regards you. “Mm. Very good.” 

She murmurs it again, but the second time, it’s said into your neck, her breath hot against your skin while her fingers work their way inside you and her naked frame presses you to the mattress. The bed is heavenly soft, softer than anything you’ve ever been allowed to sleep on in your life, but it’s nothing compared to her lips on yours. Her tongue laves across your bottom lip, sweet as honey. 

It’s so rare that she takes you in her bed; you almost feel elated. You never mind being with her elsewhere, though. She makes it hard to care about anything other than the sheer her that fills the room every time she enters. While Alicent takes both of your wrists in her left hand and moves over you to pin them to her headboard, her other hand never stopping its pumping in, out, in, her tits brush against your face and you feel no remorse for the wail she lets fly as you bite down on the curve of one. Your teeth dig in, a ragged moan tears out of her, and her bare cunt grinds down on the thigh she is straddling. She’s unbearably wet, and you can feel her clench against your leg as she breathes, “Once again.”

In, out, in. Long, elegant fingers, soft from a lifetime of gentility. Endless locks of hair flow down over her shoulders and down to her waist. She’s an angel, you’re sure now. “The princess is a liar. She flaunts her indiscretions, her lack of care for this noble house. She is shameless.”

Allicent releases your hands so she can move down and suck your clit between her lips, pushing her tongue inside you alongside her fingers. You’re so full of her, so put on display and arousal dripping down onto the royal sheets, that it makes you cover your eyes and groan. “Your Grace,” you weep, grabbing a handful of her loose curls. “Please, keep going, please.”

“Tell me what you think of her bastards,” she murmurs, pulling her lips away from your heat. Her free hand moves to your clit and rubs it, alternating between circles and light pushes that have you keening your hips desperately. You realize that forming words has become near impossible. 

You huff as the coil of pleasure inside you compresses itself. “She fucks anything that looks at her. Any commoner, any pathetic servant in her employ,” you whine. Your head covering is tossed over Allicent’s vanity, your apron on the ground. “Who knows if her children are even Ser Harwin’s? What is to stop her from lying about that, as well?” The queen is as pleased as you’ve ever seen her.

She uses her hand like a sword, sinking into you, the very picture of a conqueror. “You do wonderfully, my sweet, sweet girl. Come for me.” The command is said so mildly, so disinterested, you almost miss it over the roar of ecstasy in your ears. That coil implodes, and you arch your back off the bed with a hollow scream that you should pray can’t be heard throughout the castle. The only thing you have room to pray for, though, is that Alicent never stops moving inside you. That she never stops bedding you. That she never stops needing you to be her mirror. 

Hypocrisy is a sin, a septa who you knew when you were no more than eight years old whispers in your ear. Those who do in the darkness what they rail against in daylight.

You know she will start to feel the wash of shame soon, so you fight through the haze that your orgasm leaves behind. “Please, let me fuck you, my queen.”

masterlist

[randomdragonfires]

If The Sun Ever Rises | Chapter 5

Chapter 5 | Symptom Of Your Touch

SUMMARY | After narrowly escaping the Battle Above God’s Eye, Prince Aemond is now a hidden fugitive within the very kingdom he once ruled. Driven by vengeance, he plans to usurp Aegon III and avenge his family. His rage-blinded path to the throne begins with getting rid of Cregan Stark and the men who support his nephew’s rule. Having nothing to lose, he recklessly kidnaps the Northerner’s betrothed - his own niece - hoping to lure him and his men out to fight.

Soon, Aemond finds that memories of a first love are strong, and that he cannot steel his heart against the woman he has loved all his life.

WARNINGS | 18+; Smut; Canon Divergence - Aemond lives (but barely); Violence; Stockholm Syndrome; Mental and Physical Trauma; Angst; Canon Incest; Manipulation; No Happy Endings In This House YAY; Slow burn, I think?

WORD COUNT | 3k

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

As the first light of dawn began to creep through the mouth of the cave, she stirred from her slumber, the chill of the morning air seeping into her bones. Nestled near the entrance, she could see the forest floor spread out before her, bathed in the soft light of the rising sun. Beyond, the calm river wound its way through the trees, its tranquil waters shimmering like liquid silver in the early morning light.

With a sigh, she rose to her feet and stepped out, the soft earth cool beneath her bare soles. The forest lay silent around her - muted hues and shifting shadows as the sun cast its golden rays through the tangled branches overhead. But despite the tranquil beauty of her surroundings, there was a tension in the air that she couldn't quite shake. She dropped a hand into the river to drink, water going through her throat smoother than she ever thought possible.

Looking around, her eyes desperately searched for her uncle’s lithe form - but she could not spot him. Where has he gone?

It amazed her how quickly her heart had become too heavy to bear in his absence. She may be physically worn and barely holding on, but it seemed that her heart had taken a worse beating. Her mind churned with conflicting emotions, memories of happier times warring with the bitter taste of betrayal and hurt that lingered on her tongue. She couldn't shake the image of him standing over her, his features twisted with silent, dangerous rage as he pressed the cold edge of a knife against her throat. The fear that had gripped her in that moment still clung to her like a shadow, whispering of dangers yet unseen.

But beneath the fear, there was something else, something she couldn't quite name. A flicker of longing, perhaps, or the ghost of a love she had thought long extinguished. Despite everything, she couldn't deny the pull he still held over her, an undeniable force that drew her back to him time and time again.

All he had done in her presence was plot against peace, her brother and her betrothed - and somehow, her heart refused to let her see him for anything apart from the man she fell hard and fast for before their carefully curated world had crumbled from underneath their feet.

Setting her thoughts aside with a heavy heart, she laid a hand onto her stomach as the hunger settled in. She then assumed that he’d gone away to hunt and must be nearby. She shouldn’t move from here, she knew - but her feet carried her on their own accord as she scanned the underbrush for any sign of his presence. The forest remained stubbornly silent, its secrets hidden beneath layers of foliage and fallen leaves. The scent of pine and damp earth filled her nostrils, mingling with the distant echoes of birdsong and rustling leaves as she pushed deeper into the heart of the forest.

As she treaded cautiously through the forest, her senses heightened by the eerie silence that surrounded her, she caught the faint sound of footsteps behind her. Heart pounding, she spun around, expecting to find Aemond emerging from the shadows, but there was nothing. Only the whisper of the wind through the trees and the rustle of leaves underfoot.

Wary now, she continued on her path, her steps quickening with each passing moment. But before she could react, a strong arm wrapped around her from behind, pulling her back against a solid chest. She gasped in shock, struggling against the unseen assailant's hold, but his grip was firm and unyielding.

Not Aemond. It is all her mind manages to register as the man’s hands tighten around her, his beard nauseatingly close to her neck as it poked.

Not Aemond. 

Not Aemond. 

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond-

“Let me go,” she choked.

Amusement colored his voice as he spoke, his breath hot against her ear. "Wandered away from where you're supposed to be. Have ye, Princess? Trying to escape?" Her heart hammered in her chest as she thrashed against his hold, her scream dying on her lips as he silenced her with a quick, brutal motion. A blade pressed against her throat, its edge biting into her skin, drawing a bead of blood that trickled down her neck.

Helplessness. The feeling makes her want to retch.

Terrified and disoriented, she allowed him to guide her, her thoughts consumed by the fear of what Aemond would do when he found her gone. As they walked, she couldn't help but notice the sack slung over the man's shoulder, hanging by his side. Her confusion deepened when she caught sight of the worn-down skirt peeking through the edge of the pack, alongside short swords, jerkins, fruit, and scrolls bearing the unmistakable seal of House Hightower.

Of course. If anyone would help Aemond, it would be his mother’s family. How did she not think of this before?

“Who are you?”

“Quiet, Princess. I’m under instructions to not hurt you, but I don’t have much patience for girls, eh?”

She pushed her back against him firmly in what could only be described as an act of defiance, but she felt his cock harden against the swell of her backside. Immediately, the disgust took over her and she gritted her teeth together as the man guided their steps. His touch made her squirm, and she hoped she’d find Aemond in time.

The sigil of House Hightower. This man will not attack her. 

But he was a man nonetheless. And she was a woman with no strength to summon and no one to help.

He won’t. He won’t. He won’t. Aemond will have his head.

He will. Won’t he?

As they approached the mouth of the cave once more, her eyes caught sight of a tall black horse tethered to a nearby tree, its powerful form standing sentinel in the dappled light filtering through the forest canopy. A sense of unease prickled at her skin as she wondered who could have left such a magnificent beast outside their secluded sanctuary. Was it this stranger? If he knew the cave, surely he had been here before?

Before she could ponder the mystery any further, the man behind her gave her a rough shove, propelling her forward into the comparative darkness of the cave. She stumbled, her hands reaching out to catch herself against the rough stone walls, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she struggled to regain her footing.

As she straightened up, her eyes adjusting to the dim light, she couldn't shake the feeling of dread that settled over her like a heavy shroud. Despite her circumstances, the cave never felt like a prison closing in around her - but it did now.

House Hightower. They’re surely part of this. As she steadied herself, she couldn't help but wonder what twisted game fate had set in motion, bringing her back to the one place she had hoped to escape.

The man’s gaze lingered on her, a predatory smile curling his lips as he took in her disheveled appearance. His eyes roved over her with a mixture of amusement and something darker, something that made her skin crawl. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she fought to maintain her composure.

"You're quite the curious one, aren’t you Princess?" 

She closed her eyes, turning her head away from him in a desperate attempt to block out his leering stare. She could feel his presence, his eyes boring into her, and it made her feel exposed and vulnerable. The cave's shadows seemed to stretch and twist, enclosing her in a suffocating grip.

The sound of footsteps approaching the cave’s entrance made her heart skip a beat. Hope and fear tangled together in her chest as she opened her eyes. Aemond emerged from the shadows, his one remaining eye flashing with a cold, dangerous light.

“You weren’t to speak to her, Hugh.”

“I wouldn’t have, but your little chit insisted on a little expedition. Luckily, I was around to bring her back to safety… was I not, Princess?” She did not look at either man, but she felt both their stares bore into her from where they stood - one amused, and the other furious.

“Regardless, I’m here for a reason,” Hugh said, and pushed the sack into Aemond’s hands. “I’ll be outside, Your Grace.” And with that, he was gone.

"Are you all right?"

She nodded, but the fear of being manhandled by a stranger in a forest she did not know refused to dissipate. In all honesty however, she found it hard to be as shaken as she should have been - multiple instances of near death have a way of doing that, she supposed.

“Stay here. I need to speak with him. Will you listen to me?”

“Yes.” How could she say anything but?

She listened to Aemond's footsteps recede, accompanied by the other man's heavier tread. The silence that followed was oppressive, broken only by the distant murmur of the river and the rustling leaves outside the cave. She sat alone and the hours dragged by, daylight waning into twilight.

The cave felt stifling, its walls pressing in on her with a suffocating intensity. Desperate for a moment of respite, she ventured outside to the river, the moon casting a silver glow over the serene landscape. She slipped into the cool water, the sensation soothing her frayed nerves as she scrubbed away the remnants of her fear and uncertainty. Each stroke of the water against her skin felt like a balm, washing away the grime and the memories of the day's encounter. The cut from Hugh’s blade stung, but she couldn’t be bothered.

Returning to the cave, she noticed the dress inside the sack Hugh had left behind. Assuming it was for her, she shed her old damp clothes, letting it fall to the ground in a heap. The cool night air kissed her bare skin, sending a shiver down her spine as she dried herself with the rough fabric before slipping into it as quickly as she could to preserve what little was left of her modesty. The worn-out dress was unlike anything she’d ever worn before - old, ordinary and almost maidservant-like. It laced at the back, and she struggled to reach the ties, her fingers straining in vain. Frustration mounting, she gave up, her back left exposed to the moonlight filtering through the cave entrance.

And then she felt it. She felt the air change, a presence darkening the entrance of the cave. 

She could always sense him before she saw him.

Aemond's stealthy, catlike steps approached, and she watched the shadows move before he even touched her. The heat of him, so close yet not quite touching, was intoxicating. His presence was a heady mix of danger and desire, making her pulse quicken and her thoughts blur. Every inch of her skin seemed to come alive under his gaze, her senses heightened to a near-painful awareness. 

And then he touched her.

His fingers traced a line down her spine, sending a cascade of goosebumps across her skin. She held her breath, her body taut with anticipation and an unnameable yearning.

He’d brought her here against her free will. Abducted her, subjected her to hurt. She must not love him. She mustn't. 

Oh but she did. She did she did she did-

Aemond's hand traveled to her collarbone, then down the front of her neckline, his touch firm and possessive as he cupped her breast. Her breath hitched as his lips brushed the back of her neck, the warmth of his kiss a stark contrast to the cool night air. A shiver ran through her, her body responding to his touch despite all that they’d been through.

For what seemed like years, Aemond leaned in closer, his face buried in her damp hair as he inhaled deeply. His hand remained inside her dress, fingers splayed over her skin in a possessive grip that sent waves of heat radiating from where he touched her. The sensation was intoxicating, overwhelming her senses and drowning out the lingering fear and uncertainty.

The blood of the dragon runs hot, he had once said. Hot indeed.

"Aemond," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her heart.

He pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck, his lips trailing a line of fire down her skin. "You are mine," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "No one will ever take you from me."

She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t-

Before the war, their paths would never have crossed in such a way. Now, he was a fugitive, and she was betrothed - what future could they possibly have together?

Gathering her resolve, she lifted her head and looked into his eye with a determined gaze. 

To fall out, or give in?

“I’m going to ask you one last time,” she managed to breathe out. “When all this is over, what will you do with me?”

Aemond's expression softened as he traced his fingers over her lips, his touch both tender and contemplative. She watched him, her heart in her throat, as he seemed to weigh his words. Finally, he sighed, leaning in to kiss her with a tenderness that took her breath away, all while his eye housed a dilated pupil so dark that she thought she could count stars.

"You will be my queen," he said softly, the conviction in his voice making her heart skip a beat.

Wasn’t that what she’d wanted her entire life?

To fall out, or give in? To fall out, or give in? To fall out, or give in? To fall out, or give in? To fall out, or-

For a still moment, they simply looked at each other, the intensity of the connection between them almost tangible. The weight of their past and the uncertainty of their future hung in the air, but in that instant, none of it mattered. All she could see was Aemond, the boy she had once known, and the man he had become.

Damn it all. Damn it to all Seven Hells.

I want him. I love him.

Throwing caution to the wind, she closed the distance between them, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that was both tentative and fervent. She gave in to her passing desires, letting them grow and burn her from the inside out. Her hands found their way to his hair, fingers tangling in the silken strands as she deepened the kiss, pouring all her longing and desperation into it.

In that moment, she forgot about Cregan, Aegon, and all the tangled webs of duty and betrayal. It was just the two of them, as it had always meant to be. The world outside the cave ceased to exist, and all that remained was the fire between them, consuming and all-encompassing.

Aemond responded with equal fervor, his hands roaming over her back, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. His kiss was hungry, filled with a need that matched her own.

His warmth seeped into her skin and ignited a fire in her veins. She barely dared to breathe as he pushed her into the cave wall and knelt down, his hands reaching for her bruised feet with a surprising gentleness. His touch was light, reverent almost, as he traced the contours of her ankles and then moved upward, lifting the skirts of her dress along. The fabric rustled softly, the sound mingling with the pounding of her heart.

His fingers brushed over her inner thighs, the sensation sending shivers of pleasure racing through her body. He was so close to her core, the anticipation making her breath hitch and her body tense with need. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the intoxicating blend of his touch and the heady sense of his dominance.

Aemond stood up, his breath warm against her ear before he captured her lips in a kiss and lifted her leg up to wrap around him. It was fierce, almost desperate, as if he were a man starved, finally tasting what he had long craved. She responded in kind, her hands fisting in his old linen shirt as she pulled him so close that neither knew where he ended and she began.

Between his kiss and his wandering hands, her head went light and hazy as she gave in to her desires. His fingers found their way to her slick folds and she gasped into his mouth - his touch both demanding and expertly gentle. The pressure built inside her with each stroke of his fingers pushing her closer to the edge.

Her breaths came in ragged gasps, her body arching into his touch as she felt the pleasure build, taut like a bowstring. His lips never left hers, their kiss deepening in intensity, a mirror of the growing storm within her. She could feel herself unraveling, every nerve ending alight with pleasure - the kind that she thought she’d never experience again.

How had she gone so far without him?

“Mine,” he said. His, his, his, his, his-

She always had been. In dreams and in desire.

With sped up ministrations, he sent her careening over the edge. Her peak crashed through her, a wave of ecstasy that left her trembling and breathless in his arms. Aemond held her tightly, his fingers still gently stroking her as she rode out the aftershocks of her release.

As she came down from the high, her body still shivered as she looked up at him. His one violet eye burned with a fierce, possessive light. He held her gaze as he brought his fingers to his lips, licking them clean with deliberate slowness. She blushed deeply, the intimacy of the act making her pulse quicken again.

He pulled her closer, her head resting against his chest as he whispered, "Mine, mine, mine." The steady beat of his heart and the rise and fall of his chest calmed her, grounding her in the moment. “My queen.”

Inhaling the smell of him, she watched over his shoulder as the river sparkled in the moonlight. “Yours."

In the distance, a pained wolf howled in pursuit.

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A/N: This feels a bit like I've completely forgotten how to write lol. It's been a while, please be a little nice about it hehe thanks loves!

[gainingfiction]

King Size

I had a great time working on this project with @bee-wg​! Working with such a talented artist was a phenomenal experience. It was amazing to see this story come to life! Make sure to check out their great art and give them a follow. Hope you enjoy!

(Note: colouring may appear a little off when viewing on mobile, clicking the image should correct)

Summary: Prince Leo grows into his new role as king.

Once upon a time, in a far away kingdom, there lived a handsome prince. With loose waves of chestnut-coloured hair and a jaw like carved stone, maids and knights alike swooned at every twinkle of his blue eyes. None could deny that Prince Leopold was the fairest in all the land.

Leo’s skills as an athlete were the stuff of legend. He was as able with a sword as he was on horseback, and though he was slender and lithe, his deadly aim made him the envy of even the finest archers. On each hunt he loosed arrow after piercing arrow, returning to the castle with braces of pheasant, quail, and grouse.

After the death of Leo’s father the king, the whole realm mourned, and none grieved more than Leo himself. His carefree life as prince was at an end, and now the weight of the crown sat heavy on his head. His idle days of sparring with knights, long rides through the forest, and week-long hunts were over. The burdens of his new role were many, and he knew that hard work lay ahead of him.

With little time to spend on his favourite pastimes, Leo soon discovered a new outlet for his energies: feasting. As prince, he often dreaded his father’s banquets, wishing he could be riding or hunting instead. Soon after taking the throne, Leo realized what his father had known all along, that the business of government is easier on a full belly.

Before long, Leo feasted often and enthusiastically. His brothers returned from their frequent hunts with game and fowl, and the kitchens bustled with activity. The cooks had never been busier, preparing dish after dish for their hungry new king.

And Leo ate. Plates of venison and lamb, roasted chicken and suckling pig, mince pies and rashers of bacon, Leo devoured it all, washed down with wine, ale, and mead. He feasted from dawn until dusk. By the end of the night, he had gorged himself into a stupor, his stomach stuffed and protesting by the time he made his way to bed.

It didn’t take long before the new king began to grow plump. As he filled his stomach relentlessly, pushing himself to the edges of his capacity and then beyond, his appetite grew. The roundness his midsection acquired after bouts of gluttony began to stick, until his stomach, once flat, swelled and softened into a fleshy orb. As the months passed, he was left with a fat belly and a pair of meaty love handles. Even his face changed, and he began to grow out his beard to cover his softening jawline.

Leo’s ass and hips grew, as well. Fat began to build around his slender thighs, and his buttocks bulged and ripened, struggling against the cloth of his breeches. Leo’s servants realized the problem before their king. Each morning they dressed Leo, and his clothes seemed to grow tighter by the day. Leo could see them exchanging meaningful glances as they tried to squeeze his added bulk into undersized clothes, afraid to tell him just how hard it was becoming to fit him into his garments.

Leo eventually capitulated. He spoke to the royal tailor, who soon became almost as busy as the cooks, constantly measuring the ever-expanding monarch for new shirts and pants to contain his ballooning poundage.

And so, Leo ate, and drank, and slept, and governed, and grew. The lords and ladies of court seemed shocked at just how fast their new overlord was gaining weight, at how unable he was to control his appetite.

None dared to question the king’s love of food. His wife, the queen, seemed unimpressed, but she had done her duty and given him a pair of twin boys. The realm had its heir. Now, the king ignored her, preferring the attention of handsome servants and dashing knights. This didn’t bother the queen, preoccupied as she was with her lady-in-waiting.

His belly swelled further, growing softer and heavier. By the anniversary of his coronation, it hung out in front of him, soft and round, drooping far over the waist of his pants. He often went shirtless, leaving his fattened torso exposed beneath a fine ermine cloak. That cloak had belonged to his father; it was too large when Leo took the throne, but now it fit him comfortably, and would soon become tight.

He was fatter all over, the small muscles of his chest now hidden under hearty slabs of fat. Below his breasts, his globular belly clung to his torso, flanked at the sides by thick handfuls of fat that projected over the top of his pants. His thighs were broad and hefty, and his rump had expanded to truly king-sized proportions.

A few years into his reign, the finest artist in the realm came to court. He had painted Leo before, and he stared in shock at the bearded, fat-bellied man Leo had become. In his fine cloak and glimmering crown, wearing a good-natured smile, Leo cut an image of a powerful but generous ruler.

He hardly resembled the strapping young knight he had so recently been. The painter looked back and forth between the old Leo and the new, his recent portrait of a slender prince and the overfed monarch now posed in front of him, seeming not to believe his eyes. The poor artist pleaded with his king to stay still, but Leo refused to stop eating and drinking, stretching his pendulous stomach to an ever-greater size. The buttons of his tunic were struggling by the end of the sitting, and hours on his feet had left him exhausted and sore-legged.

Over the years of King Leo’s reign, his girth only increased. His dimpled, rosy cheeks swelled rounder and plumper, and beneath his impressive beard, his jowls sagged and his double chin expanded. His chin grew so thick that it seemed to merge into his body, replacing his neck, and his shoulders broadened with soft fat. His chest billowed out atop his colossal stomach, a rack of teats to rival the bustiest milkmaid, and his stomach exploded in size, leading the way ahead of him and hanging low in front. He was a great bear of a man, as wide as a barge, large enough to intimidate anyone who crossed his path.

On his 26th birthday, after five years as king, he realized with annoyance that he had grown too fat for the throne, unable to squeeze his rear-end between its arms. It was an uncomfortable old chair, anyway, and Leo had no time for discomfort. So he commissioned a new one, and thereafter sat his humongous behind on a throne as wide as a bench, built of heavy, gold-painted wood but still seeming to sag at the middle beneath his towering weight.

Some say that Leo was the greatest king of all. What his ancestors had settled at war, Leo handled with diplomacy: nobles were brought together at the feasting table, where petty feuds were put to rest over food and drink. They knew that food, not scheming, was the way to secure the king’s trust. Any request was usually accompanied by generous gifts, and whenever the king held court, platters streamed from the kitchens and filled the great hall. According to legend, the people flocked to Leo with offerings of food, just to marvel at his enormous belly and its seemingly limitless capacity.

Few would recognize the bearded mammoth as the slender, fresh-faced prince he once was, but all would agree that Jolly King Leopold’s steady rule had brought prosperity to the realm. His subjects lived happily ever after in peace and plenty—with none more plentiful than their king.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Domesticated.

Commissioned by the very lovely, very inspired @elsecrytt.

Pairing: Yandere!Satan x Reader (Obey Me).

Word Count: 7.0k.

TW: Dub/Con & Non/Con, AFAB!Reader, Reader Is Straight Up A Bad Person In This One, Toxic Relationships, Semi-Public Sex, Bondage, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Coercion, Prolonged Grooming, Mentions of Blood and Violence, Slight Stalking, and Obsessive Behavior. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

You were the first one to find Satan.

It wasn’t difficult. You’d been around long enough at that point to know that the birth of a demon was a strange, spontaneous thing; loud and wild, often accompanied by pillars of flame and always violent enough to leave the earth scarred in its wake. While his brothers fell from paradise like stars displaced from their heavens, you followed the cloud of smoke rising from the wasteland that made up the Devildom’s outskirts, tracked the scent of cedar and ivy and sulfur until you found him, seething in a crater of his own creation, freshly charred feathers still littered around him as he lashed out blindly, his aggression without a target but no less volatile for its aimlessness. He was bare save for the ash smeared across his pale skin, and you could make out a lashing tail behind him, a pair of curling horns sprouting from his waist-length hair, a pair of cat-like pawed feet he’d grow out of in a few weeks – all the same shade of black as the obsidian that surrounded him and tipped with a green you could only compare to the color of toxic waste, to the kind of emerald shine an insect might wear to let you know it was venomous. Every part of him practically glowed with rage. If you’d been aware of which throne he would take after he and his brothers found their footing in their new realm in that moment, you would’ve thought it was fitting.

In short, he was beautiful. Awe-inspiringly, breath-takingly beautiful.

And you were never the kind of person who could resist beautiful things.

Carefully, with dampened footsteps and a preference for the shadows, you edged closer to him, never letting Satan leave your peripheral. You were still a hundred or so feet away when he snapped toward you, pointed teeth already bared and curved talons poised to attack. You couldn’t be sure how lucid he was, but whatever happened to be running through that empty mind of his, it wasn’t enough to stop him from snarling at you, from hunching his back and digging his claws into the ground and charging, intent on tearing anything he saw apart before his anger could cool. Elation overwhelmed you. You felt the corners of your lips curl upward as he lunged, your heart practically beating through your chest as his lithe body streaked through the flame-tinged moonlight, as you took in the rabid creature that would be your end. There were sixty feet between you, then forty, and then—

And then, something dark and terrible descended from the clouded sky, tackling Satan and pinning him to the ground. Lucifer, you discovered, once the dust cleared and you could make out his face, his wings (lesser by two and painted the color of impurity, you noted with a not inconsiderable sense of satisfaction). You didn’t wait for him to notice you. Slipping back into the shadows of the wasteland, you stole one more glance toward Satan only to find his attention still fixed on you, unwavering despite his new guardian. Your eyes met his, and without hesitation, you spared him a smile. Of course, he didn’t return the gesture, but you didn’t mind.

You slipped into the night, already dreaming of the day you’d see him again.

~

By the second time you got so close to Satan, he’d already gained a reputation of his own.

You couldn’t say you weren’t proud. His anger cooled in the months after his conception, and he found a place among his brothers who, in turn, established themselves in the Devildom’s admittedly lax hierarchy of power and pleasure and all the many things that thrived when given reprieve from the harsh light of the sun. You kept your distance. As greedy as you were, you knew better than to get involved with people who knew better than to get involved with you.

Instead, you watched from the crowd as Satan grew into his rank, as the more untamed parts of his demonic nature fell away and he came to resemble something… cleaner, something less animalistic. You didn’t care for the change, but still, you kept track of him. What could you say? Even polished, he was still a gem worth keeping an eye on.

Your dutifulness was rewarded, too. Or, that was what you told yourself, at least, as you picked the lock on the door of the lecture hall where he’d thrown his latest fit, where it’d taken Mammon and Beelzebub’s joint strength to restrain him. You let your fingertips graze past overturned tables and side-stepped the shattered remains of shattered chalkboards and wooden chairs, taking in the proof of his untamed rage as you approached him. He’d been restrained, left to fester in his wrath until he was calm enough to deal with properly. Silver chains adorned with hundreds upon thousands of archaic runes kept him bound to a marble pillar near the center of the classroom, his arms trapped against his side and his more demonic features still on full display, much to your delight.

Despite having been on his own for a few hours, now, his rage had yet to die down. His fangs were still bared, his claws still biting into his own palms, his thorned tail still lashing back and forth behind his back like that of some starving wildcat, agitated that its quarry had been taken away. He only had a fraction of the wild radiance you’d been so captivated by during your first encounter, but still, you found yourself grinning. Even diluted, he was still beautiful.

This time, you didn’t have to mind your distance. You came to a stop less than a full arm’s length in front of him, ducking slightly when the point of his tail made a jab at your throat. “It’s alright, princess,” you started, keeping your voice low, your tone light. Like you were trying to soothe a wild animal – which, to be fair, wasn’t exactly not what you were doing. “I’m not here to hurt you. I just wanted to see that pretty face again.”

He really was so unlike he had been, the first time you’d met. There was a flicker of recognition in those burning eyes, a slight change to his posture. He pressed his back against the pillar, squaring his shoulders as his rabid snarl dulled into a thin scowl. His tail continued to thrash and writhe, but he didn’t try to go for your throat again. “I don’t need your help.”

“I wasn’t going to make an offer.” His eyes narrowed, and you held his piercing gaze for a second, then another, before allowing your attention to drift lower. Surprisingly, his uniform hadn’t been damaged during his rampage, only displaced; his shirt missing a few buttons where he’d torn at the collar, the jacket he always let hang open pushed so far back, it now threatened to fall from his shoulders altogether. What you were looking for lied lower, though – in the unnatural creases and unusual tautness of his pants. It was a common (albeit, no less embarrassing) side-effect of supernatural creatures giving into their true nature, especially for younger demons who never learned how to control their more primal instincts. He probably knew that, but you doubted he knew how to take care of it, just yet. Especially with his older brothers still learning how to handle their own sinful impulses. “I mean, I would be willing to give you a hand, if you need one,” you went on, nodding to his painfully hard cock. “But, if you’d rather seethe and growl in an empty classroom until one of your brothers comes back for you…”

You held up your hands, moving to turn on your heel and leave him alone with his anger, but Satan’s eyes widened, straining against his bondage as he lurched forward, practically drooling at the first hint of fresh blood. “You… you can do something about that?”

The muted excitement in his voice gave away his eagerness, his desperation. You let out a breath of a laugh, taking half a step closer, testing the boundaries before trying to catch such an active spark in your hands. When he didn’t immediately lunge at you, you brought a hand up, cupping his cheek and running your thumb over his jaw. “Of course,” you said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. As if he was the foolish one for being stupid enough to doubt you. “But only if you ask me to. I’m not going out of my way to help someone who’s going to tear my throat out as soon as I’m done.”

And, even then, you could’ve been persuaded to lay back and let him have his way with you if he begged prettily enough. Luckily, he was already distracted, already leaning into your touch and staring up at you with a new kind of reverence. He couldn’t have known he was doing it – his pride wouldn’t have allowed him to. As far as you could tell, this was all instinct. “Do it.”

You sighed, shaking your head. “You’ll have to do better than that, princess.”

He was quiet for a moment, then another. “Please,” he spat, finally, as if the word burnt his tongue. “Please, help me get rid of it.”

“No one’s going to want to do anything with you if you use that tone.” And yet, you stepped forward, resting one hand on his shoulder while the other dropped to the tent in his pants, to his cock. You ground your palm against his shaft through the thick material, and Satan grit his teeth. He didn’t know much, but he knew enough not to debase himself so willingly in front of you. “You’re lucky I’m such a bleeding heart. Otherwise, I would’ve left you here to suffer minutes ago.”

You watched him try to fight it, clenching his eyes shut as he braced himself, putting more effort into limiting his reactions now than he’d ever spared for his temper tantrums. With deft hands and saliva already pooling below your tongue, you shifted his pants down just far enough to free his cock – hard enough to press into his stomach. Like everything else about him, it was beautiful – pale but not ghastly, visibly veined but not overly defined, the head tinted a deep shade of pink you didn’t know you’d held such a fondness for, before you saw it on him. It was already leaking, too – pearls of precum dripping down his length and smearing against your skin as you wrapped your fist around the shaft and pumped lazily, playing indifferent to the way he bucked and writhed underneath you. “This,” you started, slowly, “is called a handjob. You can do it yourself, too, but it’s not as good. You’ll probably just end up making it worse.”

You swiped your thumb over his leaking tip, and he gasped, pressing himself flush against the marble pillar. You heard his restraints rattle and tightened your grip just enough to distract him, to give him something better to think about than getting away. “Pay attention, ‘cause you’re going to have to return the favor. That’s how this kind of thing works – I help you, then you help me.”

He nodded, sucking in a shaky breath. He wasn’t the brightest thing you’d ever come across, but he still might’ve proven himself to be a dutiful-enough student. “A h-handjob.”

“Good boy.” You teased the head of his cock by way of reward, then ground the heel of your palm into his base as a punishment for making you wait. When you were sure the lesson had sunk in, you took to jerking him off in earnest, taking on a pace just on the brink of satisfying and drinking in the little, stuttering moans that dripped past his lips in response. When his legs started to buckle, you worked a knee between his thighs and slotted your chest against his, staring up at him with as much adoration as someone like you could lend to something like him. You felt his cock twitch in your hand, heard his breathing turn raspy and shallow, and without warning, you pulled away, removing yourself from him completely.

He let out a desperate whine, the embodiment of pitiful. With an airy chuckle, you lowered yourself onto your knees, letting your hands fall to his waist. “This one’s a blowjob,” you muttered, just barely loud enough to be audible. He might’ve been a mediocre student, but you were an excellent teacher – always striving to fill curious minds with as much applicable knowledge as you could. “Some people call it oral sex, too. You’ll like it even more.”

His voice was so weak, so prone to cracking and breaking that in another world, it could’ve been cute. “…sex?”

“We’ll get to that later.” You pressed a fleeting kiss into his hip. “Just pay attention to me, for now.”

He really was lucky to have you. Anyone else might not have been able to handle how roughly he thrust into your mouth as soon as you’d taken the leaking head onto your tongue, might not have been willing to put up with his insatiable desire to bury himself in your throat – unaware or uncaring of your desire to breathe. You were patient, though, and strict, eager to swallow him down as deeply as you were able to before pulling back, pinning his hips down, and running the flat of your tongue up the sensitive underside of his cock. Whatever well of self-control he’d been using to bite back his pathetic little noises had clearly run dry. He moaned unabashedly, throwing his head forward and shuddering. His tail lashed out, his body determined to protect itself where his mind was unable to, but you didn’t pull away as it curled around your arm, didn’t waver as its curved thorns shredded your sleeve and sunk into your skin. Rather, you groaned around him, savoring the pure heat dripping down your arm, the way his agony seemed to drive itself under your flesh and make a home there. It was an overdue paradise, one that paled in comparison to what you could’ve had if Lucifer hadn’t interrupted you on that first night. You tried to treasure it all the same.

You fell into a steady rhythm quickly, no longer in the mood to tease him. You kept your eyes open as you bobbed your head, fixed to his flushed cheeks, his pained expression, the way he couldn’t seem to decide whether he wanted to shrink into himself or struggle against his restraints. “Stop, I—” He cut himself off with another moan, a quick jerk of his head to the side. As if there was anything he could do to hide from you, in a state like this. “There’s something wrong with—”

“You’re going to cum,” you corrected, pulling off of him just far enough to speak. With your lips still pressed against the head of his cock, you added, “That means you want me to keep going.”

If he had any mind to protest, he wasn’t able to put his complaints into words. Instead, all he managed to spit out was a fractured sob as you felt him throb against your tongue, as he came undone in your mouth. You milked him for all you had, pumping a fist over his shaft as he clumsily fucked your throat, his inexperience shining through once his inhibitions had been thoroughly pushed to the wayside. When you were sure you’d gotten everything out of him that you could, when your senses had been overwhelmed by the heady taste of him and the proof of your labor sat heavy in the pit of your stomach, you drew back, pushing yourself to your feet and taking in what you’d done to him. He was a mess, his face red and damp with sweat, emerald scales visible just underneath the collar of his shirt. With a slight smile, you fished something out of your pocket – a small, silver cage that you’d liberated from a succubus’ locker about an hour prior, when you heard Satan had lost his temper yet again. It fit the base of his cock as if it’d been made for him – pressing flush against his skin as it snapped into place with a satisfying click. When you were done, you pushed a kiss into the corner of his lips before stepping back.

 “When that starts to get uncomfortable,” you started, grinning. “Come and find me.”

You didn’t give him a chance to protest before slipping away, leaving him panting and half-dressed for someone more tender-hearted to take care of.

~

He made it three weeks before seeking you out. An impressive lapse, considering he’d been hard again by the time you left that classroom.

This time, you made an effort to keep your distance. No more trailing behind him as he walked with his brothers or standing on the outskirts of the crowd as he picked a fight with yet another low-ranking demon – no, what he needed from you now was separation, the time it would take for him to think to look for you in his peripheral and then, later on, to convince himself the pleasure you could give him was worth the blow it’d deal to his ego. You’d started to lose hope by the time bridged the gap at one of Lord Diavolo’s frequent balls, thrown to celebrate Satan and his brothers ascending to the rank of Avatar. No one could seem to remember there ever being a rank by that name before their arrival, but legislation was for the Celestial Realm. Citizens of the Devildom were always more than happy to sample their prince’s generosity, regardless of the occasion.

You’d just finished slipping a stunning silver ring off of a witch’s finger and onto your own when he found you, red-faced and visibly out of breath, as if he’d just run from one side of the castle to the other. You grinned, moving to speak, but he clearly didn’t have an interest in whatever you might’ve said; taking hold of your arm and dragging you out of the main ballroom by way of greeting. You made no effort to resist. Struggling was for people who wanted to run, people who’d lost control and needed to be somewhere else. You, on the other hand, couldn’t imagine being anywhere but here.

You let haul you down a dimly lit hallway and through a simple wooden door – almost meager, by the prince’s standards. It was a storage closet, as far as you could tell, the shelves stocked with miscellaneous supplies and the light limited to what little could flood through the gaps between the doorframe after Satan slammed it behind him. You didn’t mind it, but you would’ve preferred something a little brighter. You would’ve preferred to have him on a podium, underneath a spotlight, where you could see every last inch of his perfect body. You would’ve preferred to have him on a stage, posed to your preference for the approval of an eager audience. You’d always been charitable, like that.

But, you couldn’t linger on how you would’ve liked him when you already had him right in front of you. As soon as he’d ensured you were alone, he was scrambling to find your hand in the darkness, to press your palm into the outline of his throbbing cock and whine ­– a sound it’d taken him minutes to make, the first time you were alone together. “I can’t take it off, and—and it hurts.” His speech was frantic, disjointed, prone to slipping and tripping over itself between coherent words. You couldn’t imagine how he’d spent the past few weeks. Even his brothers would’ve noticed something was wrong, if he was always this worked up. “The cage burns when I touch it, and it won’t stop leaking—”

“Ah, ah, that’s enough.” The saint that you were, you chose to put him out of his misery sooner rather than later. “Why don’t you show me the problem?”

At that, he froze up, his neediness momentarily overwhelmed by pure, unadulterated shame. His fangs caught on his bottom lip as he looked away from you and towards himself, his hands shaking ever-so-slightly as he brought them to the button of his adorably uncharacteristic dress pants. His brothers must’ve picked out his clothes – partially, at least. You didn’t know whether to be amused or endeared by the fact that he wasn’t quite ready to make decisions for himself, just yet.

Under your instruction, he stripped quickly, the pieces of his suit falling away until he was left exposed in front of you, dressed only in your last gift to him. Speaking of – his cage was… stranger than you’d remembered it bring, the silver bars pulsing with a dull violet glow. A lasting enchantment, you figured. You should’ve expected as much from something you’d snagged from a succubus, those freaks.

You ran a finger over the curved spine, taking a long moment to appreciate the craftsmanship before you turned your attention back to the source of Satan’s suffering: his cock, already hard and, like he’d said, already leaking. You probably should’ve been more selective when it came to how you restrained him. The flesh of his shaft strained painfully against the bars of his cage, the tip already drooling enough pre-cum to smear on your palm and pool on the floor in between his legs. The poor thing looked nearly suffocated – pale and ever so slightly discolored, sensitive enough to twitch and send a rough shudder up the length of Satan’s spine as you ran your thumb over what little of the underside remained exposed. He only had himself to blame, really. If he’d only swallowed his pride and come to you earlier, he wouldn’t need your help so badly now.

He wouldn’t need to prove that he deserved your help, after ignoring you for so many weeks.

“Poor baby,” you half-cooed, taking his face in your hands and pressing a lingering kiss into his forehead. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t be able to take something so difficult so soon. I’m sorry for making you suffer, like this.”

Immediately, you felt him stiffen. You could only hope it was a habit he’d never grow out of. You couldn’t imagine a version of Satan who was driven by anything other than the ongoing, everlasting need to prove himself and, when that failed, tear down everything that could claim he hadn’t. “I’m fine,” he said, as if he hadn’t been on the verge of tears only a second ago. “I could take this and more, if I needed to. It’s just— you said I would need to find you, eventually, and I wanted to get it over with before—”

“That’s enough.” You were sure he would’ve gone on for the next century if you let him, but you weren’t really interested in what he had to say. Not while he was so put-together, at least. “Do you want my help or not?”

He might’ve been a bad liar, but to his credit, he wasn’t delusional. Shakily, he nodded, keeping his lips pursed and his eyes pleading.

“Is that all you’re going to give me to work with?”

“…please.” He was more hesitant than he’d been the first time, but not quite so acidic, not quite so aggressive. He was begging, now, and you could never seem to turn away those in-need. “I’ll do anything.”

You sighed, the gesture airy and drawn-out. Eventually, when it seemed like his already-tenuous patience was starting to thin, you let your touch fall away from him altogether. “Why don’t you get on your knees?”

His expression fell – not so much disappointed as he was confused. “How will that—”

“I have other things to do tonight.” An expectant smile, a nod towards the floor. “I can’t help me if you don’t help me too, Satan.”

The weight of his given name seemed to do the trick. Slowly, his movements stilted and reluctant, he lowered himself onto his knees, his eyes quickly falling away from yours and find a home in his lap. You were glad you’d chosen to wear what you had – making quick work of the sashing binding your robes together and discarding your panties while Satan watched out of the corner of his eye, too embarrassed to stare but too curious not to look. You were tempted to take him by the hair, to find something to wrap around his neck and pull it tighter and tighter until he was exactly where you wanted him to be, but you couldn’t let yourself be so selfish. You couldn’t let yourself forget to take care of him – even if you could justify putting it off until he’d taken care of you.

With little warning, you brought up a foot and ground the toe of your heeled shoe into the shaft of his caged cock. He hissed, throwing his head forward and shrinking into himself, shrinking against you; his chest pressing into your thigh as he bucked mindlessly against your foot, the lewd act coming to him more naturally than you ever could’ve dreamed. Now, you raked your fingers through his hair, jerking him upward and guiding his mouth to your cunt. His eyes widened, a surprised grunt slipping out of some vulnerable pocket of his chest, but you held him in place. “Remember what I showed you last time?”

He hesitated, but not for very long. There was a slight lapse, a pause as he tried to bridge the gap between your anatomy and his, but after a moment of scraping your dull nails over his scalp, of grinning down at him with as much love and patience as you could muster, he let his eyes fall shut and opened his mouth, his tongue darting part his lips and lapping tentatively over your slit. His next swipe was a touch more confident, and the same went for the one after that, and the one after that. A slight groan bubbled up from the base of his throat, his hands coming to rest on your thighs – his curved talons biting shallowly into your skin. You embraced the spark of pain without complaint. As if you had the heart to interrupt such a valuable learning moment.

It was slow work – as sloppy as it was messy, his enthusiasm barely managing to overshadow his inexperience. You couldn’t tell how much of it was on purpose, if he meant to grind the bridge of his nose against your clit, if there was any rhyme or rhythm to how he drew his tongue over your entrance, but it was savage enough, animalistic enough to draw a shallow moan from your lips, to earn the flattened edge of your heel ground against his cock. It took ages for his tongue to slip into you, the tapered point curling and probing against the walls of your cunt. He was lucky to have been born such a rabid creature, to have been gifted such a pretty face. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be worth a minute of your time.

It was a good effort, but it wasn’t enough. With a sharp jerk to his hair, you pulled him away from you and threw him to the ground, his pointed talons leaving a row of raised skin in their wake. With a startled expression and a fog over his eyes, he blinked up at you, barely bothering to try and push himself up before you brought your heel down on his chest and pushed him flush against the floor. “Stay down.” You flashed him a smile, trying to pretend you meant for it to be comforting. “Don’t you trust me?”

He didn’t answer. You didn’t wait for him to, shedding your robes completely and straddling his waist. His prep work had been… minimalistic, to put it kindly, but you’d never been one to back down from a challenge. You met his eyes, holding his half-lidded gaze as you wrapped your hand around his cock and pulled his cage away as easily as if it’d never been there at all.

You took slow, agonizing seconds to line him up with your entrance, rolling your hips to spread his precum over your slit. He let out a slight whimper, then managed to find his voice. “What… what are doing?”

“I think I’ve already told you about this one,” you said, your smile now genuine. “We’re going to make love, princess.”

In your own defense, you gave him a chance to protest, to complain, to throw you off of him and rejoin his brothers in the prince’s ballroom. You waited a second, then another, and when he failed to do anything more than stare up at you with that pleading expression, you lowered yourself onto him, only stopping when you were sure he’d bottomed out.

You were able to bite back your voice, but Satan wasn’t so skilled when it came to hiding his reactions. His body went stiff underneath yours, his eyes falling shut as a sinful moan trickled past his lips. You heard his breath hitch, felt his cock twitch, and then he was coming undone inside of you, likely marking the first time he’d cum inside of anyone, because of anything but your mouth. You couldn’t help but laugh, drinking in his fractured whines as you started moving, rolling your hips and grinding against him, riding him properly – not that he’d know the difference. “S-stop,” he managed, though little pained noises and blissful gasps. “It— It hurts—”

Overstimulation, clearly. It was amazing, how sensitive a demon so ferocious could be. “You’ll like it once you calm down. Just try to tough it out for me, alright?” With one hand on his chest, you let the other slip between your legs and to your clit, sorely neglected by his earlier guesswork. “I’ve made you cum… how many times now? Twice? I think I get to take a little something for myself.”

If he was capable of responding, he didn’t seem to think it was worth the effort. Instead, he only collapsed underneath you, his talons scraping against the stone floor and his point fangs biting at his own lips while you used his cock as your own, personal toy; as something to be played with but otherwise left on the outskirts of your consideration. While he might’ve been willing to fuck anything you put in front of him, you held yourself to higher standards, seeking out whatever made heat pool in your core and that aching knot in the pit of your stomach draw itself that much tighter with a refined sense of determination. You’d known how pretty he was, but there was a different kind of beauty to the way he looked writhing below you, to the pitiful sounds he made every time you clenched around him or moved in a way that threatened to milk his cock – still hard, despite his whining, still needy – dry. It was clumsy, little more than reflex winning over dower rationality, but he tried to move his hips in time with yours, to seek out the heat of your cunt whenever you threatened to pull away and abandon him completely. Not that you were going to. As pathetic as his sensitivity was, you weren’t much better – the anticipation you’d built up in his absence more than enough to make up for his inexperience. Your climax rolled over you in thick, lethargic waves, dimming the edges of your vision and pulling a raspy, vaguely humored gasp from somewhere deep in your chest. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. You’d make him keep going until he gave you something better, next time.

Tonight, though, you had better things to do than babysit. With a shallow inhale and a moment taken to compose yourself, you pulled away from him and pushed yourself to your feet. Satan let out a displeased growl, loud enough and deep enough to rattle off the walls of the storage closet, but you shut him up quickly, pressing the sole of your boot into his shaft and rocking with just enough force to leave him spilling ropes of thick, ivory cum on his stomach, the evidence of his depravity left splattered against the pale skin of his midriff and the dark leather of your shoes. He moved to grab your ankle, to keep you that much closer to him for that much longer, but you pulled back, straightening yourself and shrugging your robes back on while Satan watched you, his eyes glassy and his fangs bared. “Maybe, next time, you’ll be able to take the lead,” you wondered aloud, then laughed. “Wouldn’t count on it, though. I think you’re cuter when you don’t have to think for yourself.”

You could still feel his eyes burning into you as you slipped back into the castle.

~

He started asking you to meet him in the House of Lamentation, after that. You told him you didn’t have a problem with empty classrooms and storage closets, but he insisted. You weren’t surprised. Just as he was learning that he would have to be well-behaved for you, you were starting to realize that you’d have to be gentler than anticipated with him.

That’s what you were doing now – being gentle. The collar wrapped around his neck was loose and lightweight, the leash that connected his throat to your hand allowed to fall lax for the moment, at least until the next time he did something that you would need to. You’d even let him take charge, laying back while he buried his face between your thighs, a skill he was eager to hone after you admitted his natural talent left more than a little to be desired. He was making progress, too. He’d learned to bite back his pride while he lapped over your cunt and pushed aimless patterns into your clit, spurred on by every twitch and moan he could draw out of you. There was a pillow between his legs, something soft and pliable he could grind against while he took care of you, but the thin golden ring sitting at the base of his cock made sure he wouldn’t have his fun before you had yours. This one wasn’t enchanted (you’d been tempted, but magic could be fickle and you didn’t want to bring an arcane locksmith into your time with him), but it worked well enough, and he’d never really gotten the hang of taking care of himself. To be fair, that was something he didn’t have to learn. He had you to dote on him, and you weren’t going anywhere. Not for a few hours, at least.

His hand curled around your hips, spreading you open further as the tapered end of his tongue lavished your clit, his drool mixing with your slick and staining the inside of your thighs. You let your eyes fall shut, using your legs to pull him closer as you bucked into his mouth and used his tongue to nurse yourself through your climax, only letting him go when the first pangs of overstimulation began to set in. Even without your encouragement, he didn’t go far. You felt the mattress shift, sensed his body on top of yours, and then, his mouth was crashing into your own, his kiss all teeth and tongue and violent lust. Within seconds, you could taste your blood on his lips, make out the little, airy noises only partially muffled by your connection. You could—

Your fist was crashing into his cheek before you had time to think, to stop yourself. Your knuckles caught his jaw with enough force to pry him off of you and leave him on the floor, still sitting up but visibly folded into himself. You cursed under your breath, your eyes only flitting to the door once before you lowered yourself to the ground beside him. There was a half-hearted snarl, but it died in his throat as soon as you were close enough to cup his cheek. You let out a softened coo as you pulled him close, pressing a fleeting kiss into his forehead. “Ah, I know, I know.” Another kiss, this one to the bruise forming along his jaw. Your remorse, although left mostly unspoken, was genuine. Anyone would’ve mourned leaving a mark on such a beautiful face. “Are you hurt?”

“As if something like that would affect an Avatar.”

As sharp-tongued as he was defensive. You were thankful for his ego-serving tendencies in this moment more than most. With an airy laugh, you strung your arms over his shoulders and let him bury his face in the dip of your shoulder. “Just don’t surprise me like that again, alright?” And then, after he managed to nod, “I know you’re strong enough to take it, but it’d break my heart to see you get hurt. Because of something so trivial, especially.”

When he didn’t pull away, didn’t respond at all, you sighed. “Do you have anything to say to me?”

It was little more than a mumble, spoke just under his breath. “Thank you,” he paused, melted that much further into you, “for taking care of me.”

“Good boy.”

You left a few minutes later, dressed in one of his shirts and little else. For your own peace of mind, you decided not to think about how long it’d been since you’d seen him bury his teeth in anything aside from you.

~

Honestly, it’d been weeks since you’d seen his fangs at all.

You’d had this problem before. Ever the romantic, your idle mind tended to linger on what couldn’t be reclaimed, to drive you towards the pursuit of wild beauty despite knowing that truly untamed things couldn’t be found twice, let alone a few times a week, whenever the careful surveillance of his brothers lapsed and Satan could seek you out like some mangy, prowling predator, spurred on by the promise of relief. Really, you would’ve given up on him after that first encounter, after he failed to sink his claws into your neck, or—

A ragged grunt drew you out of your thoughts and back into the present moment, back to Satan where he hovered above you. You were in some shadowed tunnel of the catacombs underneath the House of Lamentation, tonight, and you’d been kind enough to let him take charge, to keep your thighs wrapped around his waist as he fucked into you like a trained mutt, rather than the wild animal you were looking for. The stone of the altar he’d laid you over was cool against your skin, his horns pleasantly calloused where your hands were wrapped around them, and yet, your mind still wandered, the feeling of his cock beating against the walls of your cunt numbed by your lack of interest. Satan was less unaffected, his eyes clenching shut as he buckled against you, burying his face in your chest as he pushed open-mouthed kisses into whatever he could reach. It was sickening, the thought that he might’ve wanted you to return such tender affection. It was sickening, the thought that he could be capable of being so banal.

His hips crashed into yours, and you felt his lips turn upward, his cock twitch inside of you. “I think—” A pitchy whine, a half-swallowed whimper. “I think I’m in love with you.”

God. You might’ve been starting to hate him.

You let your hands fall to his shoulders. “Down, boy.”

He shook his head, too lost in his own bliss to listen to you. You scowled, shoving lightly at his chest, attempting more to get his attention than to force him off of you. “Down. Unless you want me to assume you’ve forgotten how to be obedient.”

“I—I love you,” he repeated, and then again, “I love you.” One of your legs was forced over his shoulder, his chest pressed almost flush to yours – bending you in half in a way that would’ve been painful, if you’d been anyone else. You let out a throaty growl, marking the first time you’d stopped to his level, but Satan didn’t hesitate, didn’t relent, only bowing his head and letting his rhythm deteriorate into something less calculated, less taught. You would’ve been pleased, if you hadn’t been so angry with him. “We— We’re going to be together, and you’re going to be mine, and I’m going to be—”

You could see tears running down his cheeks, hear his voice shake from something entirely separate from pleasure or desperation. You cursed under your breath, dragging your nails down the length of his spine and clawing at his back with enough force to break the skin, but he didn’t seem to notice, didn’t seem to mind, to care, to notice.“I’ll be yours.” He sounded so pathetically determined, as he thought it would come true if he only spoke loudly enough, if he only fucked you desperately enough. He probably did. You’d never taught him any better, and you weren’t sure he had anyone else who would even know to try. “I’ll only be yours.”

You were struggling, now, thrashing underneath him, but he was still an Avatar, still ranks above any station you would ever be able to reach. He held you in a bone-crushing, heart-wrenching embrace; close enough for you to feel his heart beating through his chest, to pick up on the half-muffled sobs catching in his throat. He only pulled away to bring one of his hands up to your jaw, to hold you in place while he pressed his lips against yours in a kiss so soft and so gentle, you would’ve been tempted to call it loving had it not been so vile.

By the time he drew back, he was smiling, and you couldn’t seem to remember why you’d ever thought he could be anything but hideous.

“And you’ll never have to leave again.”

[arcielee]

A love that burns.

Summary: Aemond is a man obsessed and you are the object of his unwavering devotion. Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Female!Reader Word Count: 1037 Warnings: Canon book Aemond, manipulation?, sexual themes, oral (female receiving), p in v, absolute depravity and murder. Author’s Note: This is a reader insert, but with the third person perspective, it is a bit Alys-coded kind of? (I rewrote one of her lines in F&B) A big thank you to @bhxrdy and @itbmojojoejo helping me fix some mistakes and for helping me choose the title 💜🦝 This story is dedicated to the wonderful, the talented @aegonx who gave me prompt #371 by @creativepromptsforwriting. She also made my nifty banner for my blog, so I owe her everything. I am always happy to attempt any requests, I just cannot promise a timely fashion, as it is more whenever the muse strikes. Tags (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @sylas-the-grim @aemondx @fan-goddess @babygirlyofthevale @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @assortedseaglass @amiraisgoingthruit @theoneeyedprince @babyblue711 @girlwith-thepearlearring @hb8301 @lovelykhaleesiii @darylandbethfanforever9

He was a dragon incarnate with the blood of Old Valyria knitted within the ichor that coursed through his veins. Aemond was proud, tall and lithe, his broad shoulders held back despite the burdened weight of his reputation that preceded him–Aemond the One-Eye, Aemond the Kinslayer, but those utterances only rolled like rain against the scales of Vhagar; he was unbothered, unharried, especially now his role within the kingdom elated with the title Prince Regent, and with it the Conqueror’s Crown to wear. 

The metal and rubies held a weight that now grounded him, reminding him of his purpose, and he went to reclaim Harrenhal with the intent of killing every Strong bastard. 

Here is where he had found her, an eerie calm amongst the chaos, silent despite the cries of mercy as each person was brought to the courtyard and slain. She had watched, unblinking, with an expression that was akin to when Aemond had watched his nuncle take the head of Vaemond Velaryon in the Throne Room a year prior; it had been a moment that kindled a bloodlust that thrummed beneath his skin, a vengeance that could not be forgotten. 

That night, when she was brought to his quarters, she greeted him like an old lover, a sweet kiss pressed to his lips, her soft murmur, “I have been waiting for you, my prince.” 

She came from a noble house without the wealth of Westeros, but revered still and old, old enough to carry the blood of the First Men and its mystical properties. She had followed her sister to Harrenhal when she was chosen to be the next wife for Ser Simon Strong.

Both were now dead and she did not seem to care. 

“Then why did you choose to accompany your sister?” Aemond had asked her after; it was that intimate exchange shared in their bared embrace, nestled on sex soaked linens with her plush thighs serving as a pillow.

Her fingers thread through his silver hair. “The Isle of Faces,” and she smiled, as if she were stating the obvious; she leaned forward to give a chaste kiss to his lips. “I came to listen to the whispers of the weirwoods.” 

Behind closed doors he was intoxicated by her proximity, with an unbridled lust that replaced the blood in his veins, as if she were the very embodiment of his siren call. They fell into one another, and he felt something that burned within him, something that perhaps was always there and only now  ignited by her soft touch, by her gentle pull that brought him flushed against her chest. 

Aemond would worship her through the night, drinking her very essence until the brim of her overstimulation, until he saw her lashes clumped together from her unshed tears, and only then would he shift his weight between her thighs, flushed and slick from her peaks. 

He would move to press his heady cock, heavy and wanting, against her silken folds, and despite their many nights together, she would still feel split open, aware of the ridges and the veins of his thick member as he sheathed within. Her soft gasps came in response to his thrusts that would begin again the crests of ravishment that warmed her blood; and he would not stop his pace until she was a mewling mess, until the lewd sounds of skin to skin mixed with her cries of release, until his name was a repeated reverent prayer that spilled from her lips. 

Aemond hummed her praises, his hot exhale against the curve of her neck. “The gods made you for me alone,” he would breathe against her lips and they would part in a silent cry, her skin pebbling with pleasure. “You were made to take my cock, and you do so well.” 

His words brought her to the precipice and when she felt his hot pulse within her velvet walls, her own clenched in response to chase another climax with boneless ambition, with a sobbed release as the air tore from her lungs but she was breathless to reclaim. Only then would they curl into each other’s arms, their skin aglow with the intimacy shared, with the soft murmurs and quiet exchanges of lovers in their post-coital haze.

“I will have your son,” she promised him. “I can already feel the flames warming my womb.” 

She was always at his side, devoted, everpresent, with a severe gaze that served as a balm for the Prince Regent in the most twisted way. They called her his Blood Queen as she seemed to encourage a sadism that pulsed beneath, speaking that the gods knew what had to be done and that he was the vessel of their actions, always encouraging him to listen to the beckon of the blood of Old Valyria. 

Aemond became a man obsessed and she fed into his depravity; she spoke with such conviction and he believed her every word, her every prophecy. When she would take a boat across the waters, he would remain on the shore pacing like an animal caged, while Vhagar roared overhead, the wind beneath her wings causing turbulent waves that crashed against the lakeside. 

She returned as her namesake with blood that covered her hands and her dress; she would whisper what she saw to him alone, of what was to come and what needed to be done. On one such day, she spoke of the betrayal in the Riverlands, of those who had chosen to ally with the Blacks and their false queen. 

Aemond called for Vhagar and they climbed aback; she was knitted against his backside with her cheek pressed between his shoulder blades, and she could feel his rumbled command, “Dracarys,” to rain fire below them, scorching the very earth. She hummed her contentment, the scent of sandalwood and smoke, a scent that intimately belonged to the Prince Regent. 

Her arms curled around his slim waist and he looked down to see her small hand pressed against his chest. Though the histories would recall all the ugly things they had done, in this moment, as his palm reached to cover hers, all he thought was how their entwined fingers were so beautiful together. 

arcie's masterlist

[necstasy]

listening to paul w his hand in the box n acting like im overstimming him :3

overstimulation; unprotected p in v; submissive paul; & PAUL ATREIDES MDNI 18+

one thing about paul is that he's very vocal.

he's the son of the duke. he's never been instructed to remain quiet, or to hide away in the shadows. he's always been allowed to show his true emotions. and this freedom bleeds into the bedroom, staining every motion of his.

he sighs with you when he stuffs the initial finger into your walls. he hums and moans into your center when he's eating you out. he always asks if you're feeling good, an attractive "yeah?" sealing the deal more often than not.

and while this always gets you going, the pretty sounds he makes when you're making him feel good are something else. something heavenly, placed down onto this earth as a once-in-a-lifetime blessing.

he sounds wounded sometimes. his eyes squeezed shut, his thick eyebrows attempting to meet each other in the center. before you got used to it, you used to worry. you would pout up at him and abandon your work on his sensitive cock, instead gently stroking the sparse hairs splattered over his lower abdomen. he'd truly seemed wounded when he opened his eyes, the green in them glazed over with something deeper than tears.

"should we stop?" you'd asked him. but he was always quick to deny, after pushing through the fog, telling you he was okay and that the noises were good. they were positive.

his reassurance back then led to you understanding him even better now. with the noises he's making under you, you're becoming wetter. the wanted intrusion of paul's cock nestled deep in your walls created a sloshing sound, pushing your wetness this way and that with each time you rose up and sunk down onto him. he'd already come multiple times before, the white fluid coating his pubic hair and yours a testament to just how sensitive he surely was.

but he wanted more. each time you lifted up towards the bulbous head of his dick, his lithe hips would feebly drive up in search of your warmth. and each time you gave him what he wanted, he would whine. that same painful sound slipping past his swollen and glistening lips.

it was flattering how eager he was to have you, but his motions were throwing off your rhythm. you had no choice but to plant your hands on his hips, shifting your weight down into your palms.

"stop moving," you mumbled through your own moans. and through his euphoric noises, you swear you heard paul atreides, heir to the throne, apologize.

[humanpurposes]

We're Born At Night

Chapter 3

Lady Rhaelle Targaryen of Runestone travels to King's Landing to plead for her sister's life, though the King she must bow to is a kinslayer three times over, and the very man who slaughtered her father

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Rhaelle Targaryen (OFC)

Warnings: 18+, mentions of death and war, Targaryens trying to flirt

Words: 6.8k

Days pass and every day Rhaelle brings herself to her knees before the throne, pleading for her sister’s restoration as Lady of Runestone, as their mother’s heir, for her freedom and for her life.

Aemond denies her. Again and again he denies her, and each day she appears before him, she thinks she sees his expression darkening. It is obvious that he is a proud man, a second son who was never meant to be King, repeatedly defied by the second daughter of a traitor. Lord Corlys tells her to give him time to persuade the King and the council. He also warns how quickly Aemond’s patience can turn into anger with deadly consequences. What else can she do but try, even if it means tempting his rage?

They have been here a fortnight and not much has improved. She and Daena often take tea with the other ladies and attend dinners in the throne room but Aemond’s court is an echo of what she remembers from the reign of his father. The dinners are polite, the music is sombre, the dances are slow. There is no joy in the castle, just talk of the fast approaching winter.

Back home, the running of the castle— her castle thanks to Aemond’s generosity— would keep her busy. Between her duties she would be able to steal a few hours for herself, read her favourite texts in the library or mount her horse and roam the surrounding lands as she pleased, bringing back pheasants because Alyssa was the sister to inherit their mother’s talent for hunting larger quarry.

One night she dreams she is riding her horse, a beautiful grey stallion she has back at Runestone named Semyon for the legendary knight with sapphires for eyes. It feels so real with the wind whispering in her ears, the scent of the fields and the forest, the slightly earthy taste on her tongue. She rides along the paths she has followed since she was a girl, the same her mother would have followed, and passes the valley where her body was found, tightening her grip on the reins and the saddle, as she always does. The sky seems to darken. A figure blocks out the sun and lets out a whistling, rippling screech, the cry of a beast she has only heard a handful of times, and never will again.

She is woken by a sound that still rings in her ears as her eyes open, sweat clinging uncomfortably to her skin. It sounds again, a faint clash of metal. It is a wonder it was even enough to rouse her. 

The stone floor stings against the bare skin of her soles, the cold creeping into her flesh and sinking itself into her very bones. Yet she walks, first to the chaise by the wardrobe to wrap a thick robe around herself, and then to the window. The days are darker now. The sun takes longer to rise and beyond her window the sky is a glum shade of grey.

Down in the courtyard, before the steps of the holdfast, a flash of silver catches her eye.

Aemond is a fearsome fighter, tall, lean and lithe, moving quickly and fluidly. He bests his opponent, Ser Willis, with a few brutal blows, holding the edge of his blade to the man’s throat. Before long he is eager to go again.

She can imagine him on a battlefield, his face silently furious, carving through the men and boys who dared to place themselves in his way. She can imagine him in the courtyard of a ruined castle, blood on his face and hands. They say he slaughtered each member of House Strong himself, and then he bedded one of their bastards and made her a Lady. Daena thinks he would not have given a servant such an honour unless she had borne him a bastard, but Princes have sired bastards before and had mistresses from far more noble backgrounds. What was so remarkable about Alys Rivers?

With a particularly harsh swing of his sword, Aemond brings his blade down upon Ser Willis’, but the Lord Commander recovers quickly and begins an attack. Aemond is clearly taken by surprise and quickly forced to his knees with a frustrated grunt, one which she hears easily through the quiet of the early morning. He is facing the window though she doubts he will notice her. He glares up at Ser Willis, lips parted as he pants for breath. He looks enraged, vengeful even, and she almost expects him to leap up and attack with renewed force. Instead he bows his head and accepts Ser Wills’ hand to help him to his feet.

As a slight draft brushes over the exposed parts of her skin, she imagines the sound of his breathing and finds herself struck by a strange feeling of emptiness.

Later that morning she dons a blood red gown and makes a journey through the castle which is all too familiar to her now, to the waiting chamber by the throne room. Lord Corlys is there, speaking to a man who she has only seen across a room, more often than not, glaring at her along with the Hightower brothers. He has wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, but his face appears surprisingly younger than the flecks of grey in his hair and his beard would suggest. He has sharp eyes that stay fixed on her as she approaches.

Concern briefly flashes over Lord Corlys’ face as he steps forward to greet her, but the other man already has his hand extended to her. “Unwin Peake,” he says. “We have not been formally introduced, Lady Rhaelle.”

She doesn’t like the sound of his voice or how he says her name, but smiles and takes his hand.

Unwin Peake fancies himself a war hero. Rhaelle is not so easily misled. She knows he led a thousand men under the banner of King Aegon, only for half of them to desert him when he proved a less than capable leader. She knows he tried and failed to seize control of the Hightower host after Tumbleton, that he quarrelled with his rivals to the point of bloodshed, and yet somehow earned himself a place on the Small Council before Aegon’s death. 

Lord Corlys catches her eye and seems to be uneasy. She gives him a small nod as Lord Unwin takes her by the arm and leads them into the throne room. It is a show of courtesy, one she must accept with grace.

Aemond is already upon the throne, legs crossed, leaning into one side, without fear of cutting himself on the blades. Noblemen and smallfolk alike come before him and he responds to every concern with such eloquence and certainty, as though the entire ordeal has been rehearsed. 

And he always looks ahead. Rhaelle stands on his seeing side, below the throne, but he shows no indication that he has seen her or that he intends to acknowledge her.

She knows what she will say and she knows what his reply will be, and in that certainty there is fear. She can hardly keep her hands still, pressing her fingernails into her skin to stop herself from trembling. The pain isn’t much of a distraction. All she feels is cold, even through the thick material of her gown. She pictures her sister in a cell, in the darkness, perhaps even in chains. 

Another chill slips down her spine as she hears a footstep sound softly behind her.

“Do you know what Lord Tyland has taken to calling you?” Unwin Peake’s voice hisses close to her ear.

Rhaelle clenches her jaw. She expects he will tell her whether she wants him to or not.

“He calls you the reluctant Lady of Runestone.”

She presses her nails deeper into her skin.

She finally spurns herself forwards. Aemond’s eye finds her as she enters his line of vision, fixed on her as she moves across the room and kneels before the throne.

She bows her head and stares down at the flagstones, at the crevices between the stones, the flecks of dirt and dust settled within. Any nervous or curious chatter has ceased. The hall is quiet enough that she is sure the onlookers will be able to hear her heart pounding in her chest. If she holds her breath she can see it pulsing through the neckline of her dress.

Meeting his eye is a strange sort of thrill. He watches her sternly, his lips pressed together in a thin line, his fingers tapping against the arm of the throne.

She opens her mouth to speak but his voice pierces the air, clear and demanding. “Dearest cousin,” he says, then exhales sharply through his nose. “You come before me yet again.”

“Your Grace–”

“No, I already know what you’re going to ask of me, and my answer will be the same. Alyssa Targaryen may be my blood but she defied her true King.”

“I know my sister. She is wise and just, but dragged into a war she should never have been a part of.”

“She is a traitor.”

“And yet she has not been put on trial. You seem content to hold her. Why? Allow her a chance to prove her innocence before she is condemned, or else let her return to her home.”

“You have come before me every day since your arrival, to plead on behalf of a traitor. I do wonder what that might make you, Lady Rhaelle?”

“It makes me loyal to my family. I love my sister, and her suffering is my suffering.”

“As admirable as that declaration may be, I have made my decision. I will not hear any more from you on this matter.”

“If you had a chance to save your own sibling from a terrible fate would you not take it? Could you ever forgive yourself if you stopped trying?”

Something about his face changes. There is an absence of amusement, something quiet but cold in the way his eyes and his lips soften.

When his eye falls away from her she thinks she might have made a grave mistake.

He holds the arms of the throne as he stands, grips the iron with his fingertips when it is barely in his reach. Without another word he leaves the hall through the side chamber, keeping his head and his crown held high, while his fists are clenched at his sides.

She shares a look with Lord Corlys, himself stunned at the irregularity. Aemond never leaves the throne room until he has heard each grievance, and never shies from his duties.

The King is an elusive figure at the best of times. He does not seem to enjoy the more frivolous aspects of rulership. If he is seen at dinners in the throne room, he confines himself to the high table along with Lord Corlys. Other than his early morning spars with Ser Willis in the courtyard or his occasional rides out into the Kingswood, he appears to spend most of his time in his chambers. She imagines him pouring over ledgers and papers by candlelight, his face hardened in concentration.

That night, when his seat at the high table remains empty, Rhaelle cannot help but fear she has been the cause of this absence. Did her words truly anger him so deeply? Is her persistence so vexing to him? 

She finds herself unable to settle when she retires to her chambers that night. She is starving and yet she has no appetite. Her body feels heavy and her head aches behind her eyes, yet her mind is spinning and will not allow her to find sleep.

He said he would not hear from her on the matter. She pushed too far, allowed her desperation to cloud her judgement and attempted to argue on sympathy rather than reason. Now she feels it all slipping away, any sense of control she had when she arrived in King’s Landing, any hope she had of reuniting their family after so many years. Why would she ever think that Aemond should show mercy to a prisoner on a plea of sisterly love?

He must have loved his sister, gentle Helaena, who wore a gown of pale blue and gold to the wedding of Alyssa and Jacaerys. She smiled rarely, never in the presence of her husband, she could barely even stand to take his arm as they entered the Sept and the throne room. Her eyes often found Aemond though, glassy with tears when he winced at the pain of his wound, as if she shared in it. Did he ever imagine, when he left for Harrenhal, that he would never see her again?

The next morning she wakes with the sunrise, somehow the shortened sleep has left her more awake than she usually is. She is already halfway dressed in her riding leathers, fashioned from a set of her mother’s, when Morra enters her bedchamber, and Rhaelle immediately sends her to the stables to ensure a horse is readied for her.

Finally, once she has pulled on her boots and tied her hair into a single braid, she heads down herself, but not before stopping by the window. The sun has yet to appear over the walls of the castle and the courtyard is empty.

She huffs to herself, at the restless feeling that’s been gnawing at her insides for weeks. 

The entrance yard at the front of the Red Keep is bustling with servants carrying baskets and barrels, men unloading carts and carrying their contents towards the kitchens. Morra is waiting for her by the steps, fiddling with the edges of her sleeves.

Rhaelle pulls out her gloves and slips them onto her hands. “Did you find me a horse?” she says.

“Yes, my Lady, but there is another matter–”

She can already see what the other matter is. Aemond is standing by the gates, dressed in black riding attire, arguing with one of the stable hands. He has a beautiful grey horse on a lead, with a coat that shimmers like silk in the early sunlight. The stable hand stands with a slightly smaller horse, brown with a white spot on its nose. These are both muscular creatures meant for speed.

Rhaelle approaches them with Morra close behind. “Your Grace,” she says firmly but calmly. The two men immediately cease and face her, the stable hand with his head bowed, Aemond with a slight frown on his face and the beginnings of a sneer on his lips. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Likewise, my Lady,” Aemond says, entirely unconvincingly.

There is noise all around them, voices, footsteps, men and women at work, and yet the silence between Aemond and Rhaelle is palpable. 

“I was intending to ride through the Kingswood this morning,” Rhaelle says, holding her hands firmly in front of her, unmoving, unafraid. “Perhaps you were intending to do the same?”

“I was.”

“What a happy coincidence,” she says, willfully ignoring the shortness of his tone. “We could ride together, then? I do not know the woods you see, I think I would benefit from having a companion.”

Aemond purses his lips, and glances between her and the horse being held by the stable hand. “It would be my pleasure, dear cousin.” 

She smiles graciously. 

Aemond hums to himself, then takes hold of the grey horse’s saddle and hoists himself into it with ease. As it happens, the brown horse is a similar size to Symeon. She finds her footing in the stirrup and hauls herself up, settling comfortably in the saddle. 

“You ride well, I assume?” Aemond asks her.

She tries not to display any contempt at this subtle insult. “I believe myself to be a more than competent rider, Your Grace.”

He offers her a tight smile, though it fades quickly. His seeing eye remains alert. 

Two men of the Kingsguard ride with them through the city. Aemond does not wear his crown but the people know their King, atop his horse, Blackfyre hanging from his hip, his silver hair tied away from his face but flowing proudly down his back, his eyepatch an unmissable feature. They stand aside as they move through the streets, met with awe, either glad or fearful, and distant calls of “long live the King!” 

Aemond does not wave, smile or bow his head to anyone, though he occasionally looks over his shoulder to meet her gaze. Does he expect her to disappear? Does he expect her to ram a knife into his back? 

How quickly he seems to phase through different states of being. One moment he is amused, the next proud, the next infuriated, concerned, remorseful. And how terrible he is at hiding this in his face, no matter how subtle he is, but a mystery remains because she still cannot read his thoughts, no matter how she pleads to the old gods and the new that she could.

Before long, they reach the southern gates of the city. She can see the forest ahead of them as soon as they are out of the walls of King’s Landing. The trees are dark, lush evergreens, reaching far from the west and east towards the seafront, to the cliffs that overlook the bay, raised on hills and going further south than she can see.

The guards stay with them a little longer, until they pass over a bridge across the Blackwater Rush and the road becomes quieter. Most of the people here are travelling along the Rose Road towards Highgarden, but Aemond leads her towards the treeline, along a path often used for hunting, so he says. It seems to head towards the coast.

Mostly staying at the edge of the forest, the trees are sparse. It’s not like the wide open fields and hills that she is used to. To one side she sees tree trunks, spots of darkness where the forest is thicker and closer. To the other she sees glimpses of the sky and the sea below it. 

Aemond slows his horse slightly so they can ride side by side at a comfortable trot. Now she cannot look out over the bay without looking at him, or appearing to at least. 

She realises they have not spoken a single word to each other since they left the castle.

“Do you ride often?” she asks.

“When I wish to, and when I can find time to,” he says without looking at her.

She nods to herself, letting her eyes linger on the way he rocks with the motions of the saddle, the way he grips the reins with gloved hands.

“I like to hunt back at Runestone,” she says, facing forward once more, “do you hunt?”

This captures his attention. He turns his head to her, glances up and down. “You did not bring a bow.”

“Or a blade, no. I was not intending to kill anything this morning.”

Aemond hesitates, then smirks. “I never made a habit out of hunting. It is a tedious sport, more suited to times of peace.”

It is a harrowing reminder of the kind of man who rides beside her, a man who kills and holds his own family prisoner.

“You like to spar too. I see you in the courtyard most mornings,” she says.

“I do not like to make a spectacle of myself.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you did, but it is rather difficult to avoid when it happens below my window.”

He turns his head towards Rhaelle, and she finds herself entirely distracted. Away from the gloom of the Keep, without his crown and the way he commands the fear of his courtiers, his beauty is unobstructed. His lips and his seeing eye settle in a way that seems gentle. “If it disturbs you then I shall remedy it.” 

“No need,” she says, “for what it is worth, you perform extremely well.”

He smiles again, dipping his head slightly as he adjusts his hold of the reins. “Come then, you say you are a competent rider, I’d like to see a performance from you,” he says, catching her eye.

Her breath stops in her throat. 

He kicks his horse’s side and in an instant he’s bolting down the path.

It takes her a moment to realise what he wants, kicking her horse into a canter, then quickly into a full gallop. It follows her commands easily enough but she remains cautious, keeping a tight grip on the reins and with her thighs, chasing the gleam of silver ahead of her. She does not know if Aemond is leading her or racing her, and for now she doesn’t care. Excitement surges through her. She feels the impact of the horses hooves as they meet the dirt. Her stomach drops as they head deeper into the forest, darting between branches, leaping over streams and fallen trees.

She seems to be gaining on Aemond and spots a ridge she thinks might allow her to overtake him. It’s a risk she takes without thinking it through, urging her mount up and along the narrow trail. They seem to stumble at one point but she doesn’t stop. She passes Aemond, just as she thought she would. He looks up at her with a wide eye, the traces of a laugh echoing behind her as she leaps down, back onto the main path. 

There’s a clearing not far ahead where the path splits into two, she would wager Aemond had this in mind as an end point. She slows her horse gradually, checking behind her to see him doing the same. She turns the horse to face him, trying not to beam or appear too pleased with herself, but she cannot help it. Her cheeks burn at the exertion and the effort it’s taking to withhold her smile.

The sun is rising higher above them. The light catches on his hair, the thin sheen of sweat on his brow, the curve of his lip as he tries to catch his breath. “I’d say you are more than competent,” he calls, tugging on the reins to bring his own horse to a stop.

“I spent most of my childhood on horseback,” she says. “Ser Gerold always said I took after my mother.”

His amusement fades into something passive, observant.

“She used to take Alyssa and I out with her one at a time in the saddle with her. As soon as I was old enough to ride by myself I could hardly be kept from the stables. Alyssa and I used to race each other around the hills for hours, or until we were called back to the castle for our lessons.”

Aemond watches her as she speaks, breathing deeply, his brow hardened like he’s trying to concentrate.

“Still,” she says, patting her horse’s neck as it starts to get restless, “I cannot imagine it could ever compare to riding a dragon.”

“It is a poor substitute, to be sure,” Aemond says quietly, like he did on the balcony, but she can see the change in him again. With a quick huff, the gentle look in his face disappears and he dismounts his horse. “There’s a stream close by, we should water the horses.”

He approaches her, reaching his hands up to help her dismount. Her more prideful side wishes to tell him she does not need the help, but she accepts it, swinging her leg round so he can hold his waist as he lowers her down. She keeps her hands on his shoulders, even once her boots have met the ground. The pressure of his fingertips through the thick layers of fabric are almost intangible, but it makes her breathless all the same.

They take the horses to the stream at the edge of the clearing, tying the leads to a tree and patting them down reassuringly as they drink. Rhaelle sits herself in the grass, out in the sunlight. Aemond joins her, but he reminds her of a cautious animal, following her a little unsurely, sitting beside her, always watching the space around them.

The air is cold but she feels the sun’s warmth beaming down on her face.

She hears Aemond take a breath before he speaks. “You never claimed a dragon?”

“No,” she says.

“You never had an egg in your cradle?”

“No. My mother insisted her children would be born and raised in her home.”

“And in the traditions of House Royce?”

“For the most part.”

“But your father never…” he stops himself with a deep breath. With his chin tilted down he lifts his gaze to look at her. The sunlight shines in his right eye, cold and clear like a stream, like a cloudless violet sky at dusk. Like this, sat amongst overgrown grass and the last of the autumn wildflowers, he doesn’t look like a tyrant. He doesn’t look like a man who burned half of the Riverlands to ash and fought in a battle that left the waters of the God’s Eye red with blood. 

Ser Gerold would have been glad to see Daemon’s end. He called it “justice” when news came to Runestone of his death, justice for the wife he murdered and the daughters he neglected. 

Looking at Aemond now she wonders if he regrets it. Does he look at her and see the eyes of the man he killed staring back at him? Does it haunt him to be near her, is that why he watches her so intently?

“I asked him once if I could fly with him,” she says. “I was so desperate to know what it was like. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t laugh or scoff, he just looked down at me. My suggestion was so unremarkable that he didn’t waste so much as a breath on me. Of course I went crying to my mother about it. She took me into her arms and told me that the only difference between riding a dragon and riding a horse was the distance between you and the ground. So much further to fall, she said.”

He tilts his head. “I cannot disagree with her.”

And oh how her father must have fallen, through fire and empty space, into blood and water.

“What was it like to have a dragon?” she asks.

Something in him comes alive. He looks at her with a quiet excitement, shuffling ever so slightly closer to her. “I used to believe a dragon was a birthright. My siblings all claimed their mounts when they were young, and my nephews shared their cradles with eggs and watched them hatch. For many years I was an outlier, a dragonless Targaryen, I was nothing. But it is an earned right, one that must be claimed.” As he speaks he draws his knee up to rest his arm upon it, his hand restless as he speaks. “Dragons are creatures with their own wills. We cannot control them fully, but we guide them.”

“And you claimed the fiercest of them,” she says.

She remembers Driftmark like it was a dream. She remembers standing by the sea as the coffin of Laena Velaryon was delivered to the waves, looking at the faces of a family she scarcely knew in the aftermath, clinging to the only people she had left in the world, Daena and Alyssa.

She remembers someone storming into her chambers as she slept, the shadowy face of her father appearing in the moonlight that beamed through the window. “We are needed in the Hall of Nine,” he said.

“We?”

He found Alyssa in the next room and left Daena to sleep, marching down the dark corridors of Hightide. They walked in on a scene that terrified her. While their father leaned against the doorway, almost amused, Alyssa and Rhaelle walked further inside, hand in hand. They could not see clearly past the crowd that had gathered to watch this battle between the Princess and the Queen, but there was shouting, pleading, blood on the faces of Rhaenyra’s sons and blood on the face of the King’s son, Aemond.

She peered through the bodies, the fabric of nightgowns and the haze of the braziers to see him sitting there, stitches in his face, smaller cuts on his brow and his lip. He didn’t look at the eye discarded in a tray by his side, he didn’t look to his siblings for reassurance or comfort. First he glared at his father with a hatred that somehow seemed contained, stunned but unsurprised. Then he looked at his mother, with far more understanding than a child should ever have to need.

“Do not mourn me, mother,” the boy said, “I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon.”

“A dragon is terror and freedom,” Aemond says as her eyes drift over the edges of his scar and the details of the leather patch that conceals the rest. “When I claimed Vhagar, centuries of power and strength became mine. I felt her in solitude, I learned from her.”

It shows, she thinks, that he grew bonded to a beast of conquest, a witness to her fire and majesty, and took that into himself.

Her eyes trail lower, over his jaw, the pale skin of his neck just visible beneath his collar, which ends with a silver buckle. She can pinpoint the rise and fall of his breath, the detailings of golden dragons against the black leather, his hair draped over his shoulders and down his body.

She feels her legs getting numb and shifts her weight onto her palm, placed on the grass beside her so that she leans in closer to him.

“But to take flight on Vhagar,” Aemond says softly, a hint of a smile on his lips, his eye gleaming and trained on her, “to feel the force of her wings, the wind and the weightlessness…”

She feels herself clinging to every word he says, each subtle breath he takes, the minuscule movements in his face as he inches closer to her. Only for her heart to sink when he pauses. 

He reaches up, taking the end of her braid between his gloved fingers. “I wish you could have known what it was like.”

“It is like you said,” she says, “it is not a birthright, it is something earned.”

“By those of our blood,” Aemond says, his eye darting back up to meet hers. “You should have had the chance to earn it.”

Our blood, the blood of dragons and conquerors, of Queens and Princes, of weak Kings and cruel fathers.

He releases his hold of her hair, positioning it over her shoulder and tracing his fingertips over the coat of her leathers. His eye follows, then slowly returns to her face. “Might I show you something?” 

“Yes, of course,” she says, carefully withholding eagerness in her voice. “Shall we fetch the horses?”

“No,” Aemond says, rising and offering his hand for her to take. “We’ll go on foot.”

He keeps her hand in his, leather against leather, as he leads her down the path, freshly disturbed by hoof prints, away from the clearing and back into the forest. He stops where the path diverged into two and with a small inclination of his head, they walk along the trail that leads uphill. This way is not as the other, overgrown with grass and even the thick, twisted roots of trees. Aemond is keen to guide her, walking just ahead, tightening his grip on her at the slightest of obstacles. 

The hill becomes steep, and in fact she is grateful for his caution when she loses her footing on a loose rock and he is there to steady her, determined that she shall stay upright. The higher they climb the sparser the trees, the louder the wind howls, the closer the sound of the water becomes. The path leads on, but Aemond stops and steps out into the open.

She stands behind his shoulder to shield herself from the wind, clutching his hand and squinting through the blinding sunlight on the eastern horizon, over the waves of the Blackwater, roaring and crashing against one another, against the base off the cliff they stand on. The city is nothing but distant shapes, further along the curve of the shore. The Red Keep, where standing at its gates seems to reach high into the heavens, seems so unremarkable from here. The cold seeps through her leathers. Sea salt stings in her eyes and on her tongue.

“My mother’s sworn shield taught me to ride on horseback, Ser Criston Cole. He’d lead me through these woods, until I knew all the trails by heart,” Aemond says, leaning into her so she can hear him. His breath is warm against her ear, his grip on her hand still unrelenting. “I came across this place when I was a boy. I used to sit here for hours, especially when the others would ride their dragons.”

Gulls sail effortlessly through the sea air. She imagines dragons in their place.

“A childish indulgence,” Aemond mutters.

“Show me,” she says, tilting her head up to meet his eye.

He smiles to himself. “Stand there,” he says, pointing to the very edge of the cliff face, at a slab of grey stone reaching out below the rocks and spray of the sea.

“On the ledge?” she says, her legs unsure beneath her.

He releases her hand to gently guide her by her waist. “Right here,”

Her stomach lurches when her boots leave the earth. If it is the truth or a trick of the mind the stone seems to move beneath her. “Aemond, I’m going to fall!”

But he holds her waist tight, pulling her into him until she feels the heat of his body through their riding leathers, the hilt of Blackfyre pressing against her back.  “I’ve got you,” he murmurs in her ear, “I’ve got you.”

She cannot seem to breathe, gasping for air as she wills her heart to calm. She grasps at his hands, clinging to him as if he would not merely fall with her. His proximity to her is not quite comforting, it only seems to make her more afraid, but it is a pleasant sort of fear.

“Can you imagine it,” he says, leaning his cheek against her temple, “out of reach of the rest of the world, the heat of a dragon beneath you, the wind against your skin, the weightlessness?”

The force of the wind seems to push her closer into his grasp. She can feel the terror. One misstep and she will fall, her body dashed out over the rocks below, her blood feeding into the water.

“I could feel her fire brewing beneath her hide. I could feel it burning in my blood and my throat before she unleashed it,” Aemond whispers, his lips grazing the shell of her ear.

She shudders, letting herself turn into him, letting her hands close around his wrists.

He leans into her, resting his forehead against hers. She feels his heat. She feels something like fire burning in her blood and wonders if it burns in his too. A gloved hand delicately takes her chin. 

It would be easy to give into him, she thinks. She would have been glad to do it the first time she laid eyes upon him.

But she knows she must not allow herself to be ruled by impulse and desire. She cannot escape him completely but she turns her head back towards the open water. Aemond is still holding her, still breathing against her neck.

She waits for him to guide her back, to the safety of solid ground, away from the ledge. Now he cannot meet her eye.

They walk back to the clearing and Aemond holds her hand again, though this time she does not stumble. Aemond unties her horse, helps her into her saddle and she waits for him before they set off back down the path.

The ride back to King’s Landing is a silent one. Each step their horses take through the woods feels heavy in her ears, the closing of a door, the beat of a funeral drum. She looks ahead to Aemond, hoping he will turn back and catch her eye but he does not. 

She wants to tear her hair out from the roots and strike herself across the face. She couldn’t afford to make another mistake and yet she has done exactly that. What if the King feels slighted? What if he holds this against her? 

The guards are waiting for them by the bridge and escort them back through the city. The streets are busier and grey now that the sun has risen and hidden itself behind a sky of clouds.

But the entrance yard at the Red Keep is no longer filled with servants. Instead the clashes of steel ring out against the walls of the castle, as men of the Kingsguard, nobles and knights spar, to the awe of a few spectators.

Aemond pays little mind to the people in the yard. Even when they greet him he simply nods his head. As his horse is taken by a stable hand, swings a leg over the head and slips effortlessly from the saddle.

Then he approaches her horse, wordlessly holding out his hands, offering his assistance. She allows this, and purposefully turns to face him once her boots have met the ground, keeping her hands on his shoulders, not too firmly, for she cannot appear to be too forceful.

“Your Grace,” she says, determined that their eyes should meet again. “I am sorry if I have offended you, truly,” she says quietly, though she will hardly avoid attention when she stands with the King, his hands lingering on her waist, more timidly than he had been in the woods.

Aemond looks at her, and once again his expression is a gentle one. “I am anything but,” he says, one of his thumbs tracing circles over her leathers. He lowers his voice. “The truth is I am deeply moved by your loyalty to your sister. You were right, I have regrets of my own.”

There have been all kinds of rumours regarding Queen Helaena’s death. Some say she was pushed from the window, perhaps even by Rhaenyra herself, and others say she threw herself from it. She was driven mad by grief, supposedly, since the murder of her eldest son, and perhaps she could bear the pain no longer. Perhaps the cause was the false news of Aemond’s death at the God’s Eye. At first the only news had come from smallfolk in the nearby lands, that both Princes had fallen. A fortnight later Aemond arrived at King’s Landing, dragonless, but decidedly alive.

“I often ask myself why I did not do more for them. Why did I put them in danger? Why did I leave them? Why did I not return to them…”

Something else catches his attention. His gaze has moved from her face, to the leather breastplate she wears under her coat, embroidered with ancient runes, naturally.

“What does that say?” he asks in a voice like ice, tracing his fingertips over the golden thread, over the same markings written into the sleeves of the first gown she wore in King’s Landing.

“Have you seen it before? It is an old saying in the Vale,” she says, startled by another shift in him, “the words read: learn to die.”

His throat hums, lowly and softly. His eye returns to hers, his lips curling into a self assured smile, the kind that infuriates her because it means he knows something she does not.

He releases her waist, then reaches for her hand. He pinches the end of her right glove and pulls it from her slowly, the lack of warmth stinging her bare skin.

He whispers, “I cannot give you what you ask of me, not now at least. But I will try.” He raises her hand and presses his lips against it. “I promise you, I will try.”

Blood blooms beneath her cheeks. For once Aemond’s words fill her with hope. He seems sincere, she wants that to be the truth.

She smiles politely. “Thank you, Your Grace—”

“Your Grace!” Calls a voice from the steps to the Keep. Aemond’s hand falls away from hers and he faces away from her as Martyn Hightower approaches them. “All the preparations have been made for you to receive Lady Floris and Lady Cassandra. They are expected to arrive before the day’s end.” 

She watches Aemond bring one hand to the hilt of his sword. The other he brings behind his back, clenched in a fist. “Good,” he says, and turns towards Rhaelle again, his body following his head. “Thank you for accompanying me this morning, my Lady.”

She takes a breath, meaning to thank him but then he’s stalking across the yard and disappearing into the castle.

Rhaelle decides she can hardly bear the sight of him walking away.

Tags (comment to be added)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria @lacebvnny

Series taglist: @adragonprinceswhore @persephonerinyes @gemini-mama @aemondzyrys @snh96 @magnificentdelusionr @aegonx @xxxkat3xxx @dahlias-and-marigolds @mandiiblanche @thaisthedreamer @heavenly1927 @herfantasyworldd @heimtathurs @minttea07

[writing-intheundercroft]

Ser Freckles // S. Sallow

Rating: T

WC: 2,743

Summary: As heir to the throne, the princess takes appointing her sworn protector very seriously.

A/N: Submitted as part of a writing challenge because I'm a glutton for starting AU projects. inspired heavily by HOTD (I've been looking for an excuse to use the name Gawayne). Much love to the pals who keep Knight!Seb living in my brain <3

“Now that you are of age, and officially the heir to the throne, it’s time you appoint your first sworn sword.”

She looked up to Fig as they walked down the stone stairs, the excited chatter from the courtyard echoing off the walls.  Fig had been her tutor all her life, and only now did she realize her lessons with him had a greater purpose.  She was the only daughter of the king’s dearly departed brother, a king who lacked any heirs of his own.  And now that she’d turned eighteen, with no hopes for a male cousin in sight, she had been formally invested as the heir apparent.

Fig was no lowly court tutor, she realized. He’d been placed with her from her youth, preparing her for what had seemed like a distant possibility that she might one day become queen. Lord Eleazar Fig, a member of the King’s Counsel, had been priming her to take power all along.

”I’m not sure why I can’t keep Lady Singer,” she mumbled, kicking her skirts as they continued their descent. “She’s been my guardian for as long as I can remember.”

”Lady Singer is a governess,” Fig reminded her. “And in no way capable of being your sworn protector.  The young man you choose today will become a knight, sworn to your king's guard.  Can you remind me what the function of your king's guard is?”

”My queen’s guard,” she snipped, emphasizing the word, “will protect my counsel and me from harm, as well as my future heirs.”

“Precisely, Princess.” Fig smiled. “It’s largely a symbolic role considering the relative peace our realm has seen this past one hundred years, even more so with the city watch taking guard of the castle.  But the king—er, queen’s guard is a deep rooted tradition each house takes very seriously.  The gentlemen we’ve assembled today for your selection come from some of the great houses of the realm.  Others have been lauded for their bravery and skill in the battlefield.”

The princess and Lord Fig walked to the balcony, the crowd below falling into silence. There were six men (boys, she observed, especially considering she’d grown up with four of them around court) standing in the courtyard below.  They all wore gleaming armor, save for the last, wearing a dull set without embellishments.  Each had a pennant with their house sigil, members of their families standing behind them. The animals on each pennant were embroidered with gleaming metallic thread–lions, eagles, badgers, and snakes taking center, representing the great houses each family bowed to. 

Lord Fig took her hand, helping her stand on a stool to catch a better glimpse of her future knight.

”The first proposed candidate is Ser Leander Prewett,” Fig stated loudly. “Ser Leander is the second son of Lord Lyonel Prewett.  He is a fine duelist, trained by one of the land’s most notable swordsmen.”

She cocked her brow, observing the redhead below.  Tall, lithe, with a glorious mane of red hair.

”And rather shit on a horse,” she muttered under her breath. “Did you see him in the last tourney?”

”Horsemanship is not a requirement of a knight, Princess.” Fig muttered.

”He truly had no idea if he was facing the front, or the back.” She joked. 

Lord Fig concealed his laugh in a cough. He waved his arm, and Leander’s gleaming smile vanished into a rather sour expression as the next option stepped forward.

”Ser Garreth Weasley,” Fig announced. “The third son of Lord Gwayne Weasley.”

”I know Ser Garreth well,” she smiled demurely. “Is it not one of the oaths as my queen’s guard to take no wife, have no children, and to be sworn to uphold the duties of the crown until death or dismissal?”

”It is, Princess.”

She clicked her tongue. “I know very well my dear friend Lady Natsai would be quite upset if I took her beloved to my service.  I’d rather see the two of them happily married than split apart by duty.” She waved him backwards, knowing Natty would be pleased.  Garreth stepped back, cheeks red, but a relieved look on his face.

“The next option is Ser Amit Thakkar,” Fig looked down at his notes. “Son of the Dowager Lady Tara Thakkar. No notable tourney experience, he’s been—“

”Away for his studies in the new world,” the princess interjected. “I know Ser Amit quite well. Tell me, Ser, how was your research on the skies?  Anything new to report?”

“I’ve identified at least twelve constellations once lost to our maesters,” Amit announced excitedly. “And I do look forward to finding more.”

She tilted her head to Fig, eyebrows raised. “I do believe Ser Amit’s talents are better used with the college of maesters, rather than as a member of my queen’s guard.”

”Moving on,” Fig tutted. “Ser Duncan Hobhouse, son of—“

”No.”

”Okay, on to the next.” Fig winced, letting the young Duncan Hobhouse step back with a sigh. “Next is Ser Isaac Cooper. Son of Ser Tristan Cooper, the Lord Commander of the city watch.  Strong, steady, and good with a lance.  Ser Isaac has topped the tourney lists, specifically winning the tourney of Aranshire this past spring. ”

The princess chewed her lower lip as she appraised Ser Isaac.  He stood tall, black hair cropped closely to his head. His parents stood behind him proudly bearing the badger on their sigil.  Isaac gave her a beaming smile, followed by a rather obvious wink.

“I look forward to serving you, my princess, in all ways you see fit.” Isaac said loudly, followed by a showy bow. A gaggle of young ladies on the upper balcony giggled audibly, Ser Isaac blowing a kiss to his admirers.

The princess gagged, wrinkling her nose as she turned back to her tutor. 

”A tourney knight,” she huffed. “Tell me, Lord Fig, do any of these knights have real combat experience?”

Fig sighed deeply, beckoning forward the sixth option.  It was the knight in plain armor; unlike the others, he did not have a large gathering of family members behind him.  A thin, peaky girl stood by his side, wobbling on her feet as their sigil shook in her hands. The green velvet of the flag looked worn, but a silver snake had been embroidered into the fabric with metallic thread, red beads for eyes.  Behind them was a stern looking man, beard peppered with silver hairs.  

The boy paid them no attention, standing forward with his head bowed to her. 

“Ser Sebastian Sallow,” Fig cleared his throat. “The nephew of Ser Solomon Sallow, a former knight of the city watch.  He was dismissed from his post after the death of his brother, taking on the stewardship of his young niece and nephew.  Ser Solomon and his nephew Sebastian have taken the responsibility of patrolling the lower highlands, protecting their hamlets from ashwinders and poachers.”

She leaned forward over the railing, interest piqued by the humble knight below. “Tell me, Ser Sebastian, of your experience fighting against the ashwinder rebellion.”

He lifted his head, big brown eyes framed by an explosion of freckles. He had a round, boyish face for eighteen, thick brown hair descending in waves. A blush took over his cheeks as he dipped his head once more.

”I have fought against the ashwinders for the past five years, Princess.  For as long as my uncle has allowed me.” He said, tipping his head back towards the stern man. “The lower hamlets rarely see reinforcements from the city watch, so it is up to the residents themselves to gather arms.”

“And when did you become a knight, Ser Sebastian?”

Sebastian turned briefly to look at his uncle, who merely nodded. “The Lord Commander of the city watch was passing through our hamlet when he witnessed me apprehending a cohort of ashwinder assassins.” He adjusted his grip on the helmet in his hands, metal clanking as he shifted.  Unlike the others, there were no grand decorations, no feathery plumes attached to the helmet.  It was practical, well-worn steel that had seen battle many times before. “He knighted me on the field, after the battle.”

”One boy against twenty ashwinders,” Fig whispered in her ear. “Quite a feat.”

She braced her palms against the stone ledge, hair falling over her shoulders. He looked up at her intently now, eyes wide.  even with his armor on, she could see his throat bobbing, swallowing down his nerves.  

“That settles it for me. I choose Ser Sebastian Sallow.” 

The hall descended into loud whispers; the girl holding his sigil gasped with delight, while the man behind her dropped his mouth open in shock.  Sebastian knelt, but kept his gaze fixated upon her.  It was as if the chocolate brown orbs were burning into her, somewhere between admiration and curiosity. 

Fig gave her a knowing look. “Ser Sebastian it is.”

”I’ll leave the details to Ser Sebastian’s investiture to you, Lord Fig.” the princess said, stepping down from the stool. Her heels clattered against the floor, hands folded behind her back. “And measure him for new armor.  Something befitting my sworn protector.”

”The customary armor, of course, with your sigil on the pauldron.” Fig noted.

She paused, turning one last time towards her counsel.

”Don’t forget his snakes.” She reminded him. “Silver with ruby eyes.”

Fig tried to conceal his smile. “Yes, princess.”

“You know we’re not allowed in the armory,” Poppy hissed, trying to tug on her skirt. “Lady Singer–”

“Lady Singer can kiss my arse,” the princess declared, enjoying the way her lady in waiting’s cheeks flushed. “I would like to supervise the fitting.  Will you join me?”

“I think not,” Poppy lifted her nose. “I’ll be off to the library to meet with Imelda.  You should stay out of trouble.” the brunette warned.

The princess pulled open the heavy door of the armory, grinning at her friend. “Trouble is my middle name,” she sang, waving goodbye as she entered the room.  The normally bustling armory was quiet at midday, with most of the knights standing guard.  She stepped past the rows of white cloaks, all hung under their corresponding owner’s name.  Weapons were stacked against the wall on wooden racks; she wouldn’t dare go near the spears, swords, and morningstars for fear of tipping them over.  Her slippers pattered against the flagstone floors as she walked deeper into the chamber in search of her new knight.

“There you are,” she declared, seeing him standing on the pedestal. Ser Sebastian Sallow stood in his freshly tailored white breeches and shirt, half dressed in his new gilded armor.

“Princess,” the armorer bowed his head quickly, stepping away from Sebastian. “I did not realize you were coming in to supervise the fitting.”

“Is it not tradition?” she asked, circling the pedestal with an approving nod.

“It is,” the armor rubbed his hands together anxiously. “For the king.  But you are a young lady, it’s hardly appropriate for you to be in the armory with a knight in a state of undress–”

“Ser Sebastian is my choice,” she pointed out. “So I will supervise the fitting of his armor and his sword selection, just as my uncle did for his sworn swords.”

“As you wish, princess.” The armor nodded. “I’ll fetch his sword at once.”  He bowed, walking backwards out of the room.

“Are you always so commanding?” Ser Sebastian asked, a hand on his hip.

“Only when they’re so formal.” she grinned, crossing her arms. “The armor looks good on you.”

Sebastian’s cheeks flushed. “Thank you.” he stammered. “And thank you for honoring my house.” he gestured to his pauldron, decorated with the Sallow family sigil. Instead of the crudely carved 

The armorer returned, holding a glimmering sword with a checked handle. “His sword, your grace.” he handed it to her for inspection. “I shall return shortly with his cloak; the seamstress was just finishing the hem.” He backed out of the room once more, leaving the pair alone.

The princess bobbed her head as she held the sword in her hand, testing its weight. “Good balance,” she mused, tossing it from one hand to the other.

“You’re trained with a sword?” Sebastian asked, eyebrow cocked.

She gave him a toothy grin, swinging the sword from side to side. “My uncle thought it best that I was taught the same as any other prince of the realm.” 

“I certainly agree,” Sebastian offered. “I trained my sister as best as I could before coming to the capitol.”

“Well then, should we practice for your investiture?” She asked. “On your knees, then.”

Sebastian sank to the floor, beaming up at her obediently.  He tipped his chin upwards, right hand resting over his heart. 

“Do you swear to uphold the code of the kingsguard?” she asked, trying her best to remember the vows Lord Fig had tasked her with memorizing.

“I do,” Sebastian echoed.

“Do you swear to guard the king with all your might, and give your blood for him and his heirs?” She recited the words slowly and thoughtfully.  The sword was beginning to feel heavy in her hands, but Sebastian didn’t budge.  He stayed, knelt below her on the ground, closed fist bound to his chest.

“I do.”

“Do you swear to take no wife, father no children, hold no lands? Do you swear to guard your king’s secrets, obey his commands, defend his name and honor?”

The princess blinked down at her chosen knight, hovering the blade over his shoulder. His big, brown eyes stared back at her, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.  She hadn’t noticed the freckles on his lips; then again, she’d never been so close to him before.  He looked both like a knight and a boy all at once–his armor was unfinished, missing the pauldron on his left shoulder that would bear her sigil.  Sebastian’s messy hair stuck up in the back, and the princess felt the strong urge to pat it down.

She instead remained steady, blade in hand.

“Do you swear, Ser Sebastian?” she asked.

“I swear to take no wife, father no children, nor hold any lands.  I swear to guard my queen’s secrets, obey her commands, defend her name and honor. For as long as I breathe, my life is my queen’s.” Sebastian gave her a coy look, eyes glittering with mischief; he aimed to flatter her, charming the princess with his change in verbiage.

Two could play that game, she thought. The princess lifted her sword, tapping it on both of his shoulders.  “By the grace of the future queen, I name you Ser Kiss Arse.” she declared dramatically.

Sebastian choked, and the princess laughed.  Her whole body shook with her giggles, and Sebastian pouted. 

“No fair,” he complained. “Pick a better name.”

“Fine,” she wiped a tear from her eye. Feigning composure, she straightened her posture and gave him her best queenly glare. “By the grace of the future queen, I name you Ser Freckles.”

“You’re making a mockery of it,” Sebastian whined.

“We’re practicing, remember?” She snorted. “I promise, I’ll be much more official during the actual ceremony.”

Sebastian huffed. “Fine then.  But if I get a nickname, then you get one too.” he warned. “Princess Picky is what I’ll call you.”

The princess scoffed, backing away. “Who called me picky?”

Sebastian gave her a sheepish look, rubbing the back of his neck. “Everyone at court, actually. They thought you were too picky with your requirements of the kingsguard.  The public is fairly certain you’re making a mistake in picking me as your sworn sword.” his smile faltered, a wave of doubt crashing over his face. “My family has no riches, no influence at court.  I have nothing else to offer you.”

The princess chewed her lower lip, dragging the sword behind her as she leaned down to face her knight. “It is no mistake,” she murmured, pressing a hand to his shoulder. “You are the most deserving of the title.  I chose you. And if that makes me picky, so be it.”

Sebastian touched her wrist; the gesture shocked her, eyelashes fluttering from the surprise embrace.  But she did not move her hand–the princess kept it on his uncovered shoulder, her hair falling in her face as she looked down at her sworn protector.

“Princess Picky and Ser Freckles,” Sebastian joked. “An eclectic pair.”

She gave him an earnest smile. “I’d have it no other way.”

[lurkinginnernarrator]

MDZS au where WWX isn't rescued by the jiangs and he basically becomes a Mafia boss. Or whatever the equivalent for ancient Xianxia China Mafia boss is

Just, imagine it: An elegant man robed in white ducks into a low den, tucked away in the labyrinthine city alleys.

A fair yet strong hand pushes aside gauzy carmine arrases, yet his keen vision remains partially veiled. Lazy clouds of smoke intermingle with the rich fabrics that cocoon the low-slung chambers.

Men and women alike crowd the ornate hall, a variety of characters all in different stages of repose. The rich tones of liquor, incense and secondhand smoke perfume the room. From respectable scholars to disreputes of society, unowned and owned women, thieves and merchants, criminals.

The low humming of a multitude creates a melodious baseline of noise.

A thin yet surprisingly forceful hand clamps down on Lan Wangji's shoulder. Lacquered nails dig through the fabric and into his muscles. A feminine voice cuts through the polyrhythmic thrum of voices, drawling.

"And what, is a man like you doing here?"

Woman and cultivator meet eyes. She's small, yet her build is strong. Wrapped in vermillion brocade, cold eyes and a strong brow. Hair bound tightly, ornamented with glinting hairpins. There are blades hung on her belt. Lan Wangji bows his head respectfully, baritone joining the chorus of voices around.

"I would like to meet him."

Her gaze is sharper than a serrated edge. She steps deeper into the room, eyes flicking about the occupants and back to Lan Wangji. Back turned, he can only see the profile of her face as she considers the audacity of his request.

"And why should I, Bái-daozhang?"

白 Bái: Artic, Snowy, White, Bright.

Steadily, he replies.

"I would speak to him."

She snorts, swinging her head in his direction.

"I'm afraid a reason like that won't suffice. And quite simply, Bái-daozhang, you remain here on my sufferance.

State your goal."

Four women bleed out from the crowd, penning him in.

Right as Lan Wangji was about to speak, a strong and merry voice calls out from the depths of the chamber.

"Li-jiejie! What have you caught there? Bring it here."

She glares at Lan Wangji but motions him forward, deeper into the den. Two red clad women flank him, escorting him to the source of that mellifluous voice. His eyes search for the other two, but it seems they bled back into the hubbub.

He's hustled through curtains and past partitions, the crowd thinning out the further he's taken. More and more red robed persons flit past his vision.

Two guards stand by a veiled doorway, stances relaxed yet emitting a dangerous aura. They merely observe as Lan Wangji is ushered through the heavy embroidery and silks.

Low tables lurk at the edges of the room, from the rafters hang black tapestries, the smell of wood and candle wax welcomes him in. A draft carries the signature of wine to him.

Littered around the room are people, some caught in amicable conversation, others observing the proceedings.

His generals, perhaps.

At the head of the room is a man. The man. He sprawls on a mahogany throne, cushions and pillows artistically strewn about him, lending his position overabundant gravitas.

An irreverent hand swirls a jar of wine. Leather braces peek out from beneath long black sleeves that fan about his sides. His robes cling to his chest and torso, displaying the man's lithe and powerful body.

Not dissimilar easygoing musculature of a panther. He moved like a river at night.

Black and grey skirts played about his ankles, the polished leather of his boots catching the diffused light.

His waist was trim and firm, wrapped in crimson textile, the red of his waist meeting the black of his chest in pleasing contrast. Lan Wangji's eyes travelled up. Tanned skin parted his collars, revealing a structured collar-bone and sinewy neck. Long hair framed his bust, locks burning copper in the light.

Outdoors from a young age would explain the bronze appearance and sunbaked hair.

Grey eyes caught his.

Ornamented by a winsome face and charming smile, those intelligent eyes took note of Lan Wangji's every detail.

"What have we here?"

The woman, Miss Li he supposes, gave the lissome man a respectful bow.

"Bái-daozhang here claims a desire to speak with you."

The beautiful face turns inquisitive.

"Bái-gege, what can this lowly man do for you?"

"Lan."

Lan Wangji is inwardly surprised at his sudden reply.

Eyebrows raise and the handsome man's eyes twinkle in delight

"Lan-gege, then."

Lan Wangji watches as wine-stained lips wrap around the syllables.

The flippant hand loosely brings the jar to his lips, chin tilted up, exposing the lewd column of his throat as it bobbed.

"What brings a respectable cultivator like Lan-gege to this Wuxian's hospitality?"

No one has ever spoken his name the way he did. Playful, warm and teasing. Flirtatious.

Lan Wangji would like to hear him speak it again.

Wei Wuxian leans forward as Lan Wangji explains.

Their gazes never waver from the other. It was as if they were the only two in the room.