#the crown can only belong to one of us.

[runby2]

LET KLAVIER SPEAK!!! GIVE KLAVIER RIGHTS!!! (lighthearted and semi joking :3)

LET HIM SAY FUCK!!!!! LET HIM SPEAK TO ALL! HIS WISDOM IS WANTED

He will be allowed to speak again when he learns to behave himself. -🍷

[luna-has-some-thoughts]

Danny accidentally becomes the Ghost king, The president and the BIGGEST threat to Bruce's social status.

Pt 1 Danny becomes the Ghost king

"Fenton's were never allowed to have a "normal" life, we are either extremely successful or extremely unsuccessful, there is no in between. Maybe a spirit cursed us back in the days, but who knows, but one things for sure, all Fenton's will definitely make the news."

-Grandma Fenton from whatever generation

Danny's starting to believe that now. He used to think that it wasn't true, but now? He used to wish to have a normal life, be a good normal son with good grades an be an astronaut one day.

But like they said, a Fenton is either EXTREMELY SUCCESSFUL OR EXTREMELY UNSUCCESSFUL.

He was EXTREMELY UNSUCCESSFUL in that.

Instead of a normal life he turned a half ghost teen superhero. But oh well, the Fenton's were also known for their ability to go with the flow

But how in the world did the flow get him here???

In Danny's defense, he wasn't really expecting this. The only thing in his mind at the moment was keeping his town and his people safe from pariah. He just wanted to get rid of the rotten fruitloop. He was EXTREMELY SUCCESSFUL, so successful in fact that he ended up becoming Ghost king.

The fudge????

But okay, sure, he didn't wanna become king but if he also didn't want to give up the crown for others to take, what if an evil person becomes king and attacks amity again?? Fine, he'll be king, he'll figure it out. Just go with the flow.

Surprisingly, not only did he get the crown, he also got THE MONEY. as in literal gold and silver bars, coins and jewelry. Appearantly, one the kings a long long time ago, before at least two generations before pariah had an obsession with MONEY. So the king made a Permanent Royal Degree (a law that cannot be changed by any future kings) that when someone dies and becomes a ghost, 20% of the MONEY that they've acquired in their entire life. (The money turns into an equivalent of ghost currency in the realms but is still physically in the living. Kind of like how the soul is in the realms but the body is the earth. Also, the only reason money exists in the realms is for convenience and a sense of normalcy, it doesn't really have that much value unless the ghosts brings it to the living) would belong to the ghost king.

Basically, it's ghost taxes that only have to be paid once for the entire afterlife. (Or is it more of an entrance fee???)

But anyways, hes got the MONEY.

He's rich now and he thinks, "I have so much money it's disgusting"

So first things first, getting rid of some of it.

By this point, his parents know he's phantom and have changed their opinions on ghosts, instead of attacking they are now looking at ghost like they're equals and try and help them as an apology for hurting them.

They are also looking for a new project to spend time on. A new purpose

So Danny thought, why not give them the money then? Danny proposed to his mom a project to make things that can benefit both ghosts and humans.

Next thing he knows is that he's appearantly funding, building and making:

A ghost job agency

A human job agency

Ghost proof buildings (ghost can't pass through walls, it won't hurt them, just keep em out.)

Ghost proof clothes (overshadowing proof!)

A practical fashion line for ghost and humans (Bullet proof, blast proof etch. Borderline vigilante clothes that look like a civilians day to day outfit)

Homes for ghost and humans

A ghost obsession help center where they can ask humans to help with their obsession.

A school for both ghost and humans.

Liminal 101 because apparently because of the whole, pariah dark and, living in the ghosts kings haunt situation, everyone is liminal now

An entire line of technology that can be used by both ghosts and humans.

A fight arena where ghost and humans can fight for fun.

And so many other things , he can't remember

HIS NAME IS EVERYWHERE . His parents didn't even bother hiding the fact that their son somehow has enough money to fund these projects, everyone knows him now.

He ends up basically owning most of amity park.

And here he thought he wouldn't be the kind of king that expands their territory.

He was extremely UNSUCCESSFUL in that.

[urhoneycombwitch]

foreword: have u ever had a buddy so good you jack off with him <3 roommate!Eddie x reader fic for ya. 

cw: drug mention, R wears a bra, has breasts (implied to be large enough to “spill”) + V, no pronouns used only petnames, nipple play, R is queer (talks about Molly Ringwald in a sexual nature <3), praise kink, mutual masturbation, but as friends, we’re all normal here okay, we Do Not talk about our hidden feelings in this one soz

wc: 2.3k

___

An unfortunate shift of the pillows supporting your body pulls you from the depths of sleep, consciousness surfacing, breaching with a soft huffy groan. 

Waking up on a normal day is hard enough. Waking from a good dream, one where someone’s head was between your legs and everything was swelling lush with heat? Now that’s torture. 

You burrow the cold side of your face under the covers, eyes still screwed shut in defiance of being awoken before the dream could pay off. There’s a heartbeat pounding near the apex of your thighs; with one leg stretched out and the other draped around the curve of your body pillow, your hips roll forward automatically, seeking friction.

The soaked front of your underwear drags against the pillow’s seam, catching your clit on the next glide of your hips. Another soft moan, breath fanning from your parted lips. If you can stay in this grey area of sleep and waking, maybe the horniness will swallow your mind back to the dream…

When someone’s hand brushes your bare shoulder, your movements freeze. Goosebumps prickling in the palm-owner’s wake, you blink against the morning light pouring in through your bedroom window and try to orient yourself.

Your head is nestled in the curve of someone’s neck, left arm tucked secure around their chest. Leg hitched over their waist, cotton boxers band digging at the plush of your thigh- something else solid and warm trapped against their stomach.

A snuffle from your human body pillow, and the waking world hits you sideways, all at once- Eddie. You’d fallen asleep with Eddie last night, after helping him play-test a new hybrid strain and dancing to records all evening, until you both collapsed in a heap of giggles. In your bed. 

Which means that you’ve been humping Eddie’s leg in your sleep. And the thick length trapped under your thigh belongs to him, too. 

Before you can even fully process or think up an escape plan holding the least amount of embarrassment for you both, Eddie’s stretching the arm that isn’t cupping your shoulder up and out with a long yawn. 

His hips shift, pressing himself into your leg unintentionally, and you can feel the moan that rumbles through his body- at your ear, vibrating under your hand on his bare chest. Eddie mumbles something incoherent and sleep-addled, pulling you in closer, nosing at the crown of your head.

“Uh-” your voice comes out half-squeak, half-croak, not fully pushing off Eddie but keeping your frame tight enough to roll away at a moment’s notice. “H-hey.”

Eddie’s palm smooths down the plane of your upper back, stopping at the wide band of your bra. He makes another noise, this time a bit less sleepy- and then he, too, freezes, all those points of contact along the length of your own body stiffening, muscles tensed with realization. 

“Oh, fuck. Shit.”

Eddie’s voice is like rocks on pavement, three shades of gravelly, really not helping your whole ‘wet as a river’ situation, one that he can probably feel leaking onto his bare leg at this point. He doesn’t immediately roll away, though; he remains in that freeze-mode, tense and poised, holding you against the span of his side still.

Well. As frozen as one can be with a throbbing case of morning wood.

“I guess we… fell asleep,” you say, carefully, adopting the same cat-like stillness, the pause before a big leap. “Sorry-”

“You’re sorry? I’m sorry. Jesus.” Eddie uses the hand that’s not cradling your shoulder to scrub down his face. This close, nestled into his neck, you can feel his loose hair tickling your cheek, the light scratch of his day-old stubble against your forehead when he speaks. “I’m gonna… go take care of this. And then maybe. Breakfast? Christ. Can’t think. All my blood’s elsewhere right now.”

You breathe a chuckle. His arm is still wrapped around you. 

“Yeah. Okay. Or you could just- take care of it. Here, I mean. With me.”

Eddie’s breath stops, actually stops, then stutters back into steady rhythm under your hand. “...yeah?”

He sounds unsure but curious, excitement bleeding into the edges of that one word as your thumb sweeps across the spot where his ribcage meets. “Yeah. Be doing me a favor, too- I was kind of in the middle of a… a good dream. Prob’ly me that woke you up, anyways.”

Eddie’s hand drops from your shoulder, slithers back to his own space, disrupting your head rest briefly- until you realize he’s doing it to make enough room for you both to stretch out flat (on your mattress that was barely designed for one full-grown person). 

“A good dream,” Eddie parrots, as you both re-situate under the thin cover of your floral-patterned top sheet. Shoulder to shoulder, skimming the heat from each other’s bare skin as you stare resolutely at the ceiling, there’s a frizzy mass of black hair in your periphery. A hint of a smile in Eddie’s voice as he asks, “What were you dreamin’ about?”

You can feel the rippling shift of his bicep as his arm moves, hand sliding unseen beneath the sheets- a sharp inhale as his hand finds purchase over the bulge in his boxers. 

In response, your own hand follows the contoured path to the spot below your navel, toying with the band of your panties before slipping underneath. Cupping yourself, feeling the heated slick coat your fingers before dragging it back up to rest your middle against the beating pulse of your clit- “Ah- um. Was dreamin’ about. Uh. Molly Ringwald.”

A few days from your latest John Hughes marathon, it’s the first feasible famous person that comes to mind. Luckily, Eddie just laughs, in a stilted gasp when his fist finds his aching cock- “Oh, fuck- yeah? Redheads do it for you these days?”

“Uh huh.” Maybe if you keep the focus on someone else, you’ll both be able to come out of this event unscathed. Walk away with your hands clean- er. Well. Nope. 

A better analogy is gonna have to wait, because your abdomen’s tightening with each pass of your wet finger over your clit, pleasure licking and sparking, the usual slow-build to orgasm forming with shocking rapidity.

“What was she doing?” Eddie, sounding strained and strung-out already (really makes you wonder how long you’d actually been using each other, in sleep, grinding and working the other person up), hand moving in long strokes- “In your dream, I mean. Licking you out? Did she use fingers?”

It’s not like you haven’t heard Eddie’s dirty talk before- in fact, you helped cultivate it, years ago when he was nervous for a third date and wanted some advice. You’ve coached him on sex techniques, he’s given his own expertise, you’ve both appraised the other's nudes, for christ’s sake- this is just a natural extension of your friendship. Your closeness. 

Eddie’s feeling awfully close, now, his arm bumping against yours with each pass of his fist over his dick, your leg periodically grazing the downy hair of his shin as your hips jolt upwards, into the electricity stemming from the pad of your finger. 

Choking on your words around a bright surge of pleasure- “Y- yeah. Her mouth. Fingers. All of it.”

“Fuck.” Eddie’s form lurches, doing a half-crunch forwards- risking a glance, you catch a glimpse of the sweat beading at his temples, the dark slant of his brow in concentration, jaw working through the grit of his teeth- “Why don’t you use some fingers, then.”

Like he’s got you under some sort of command spell (because you’re not touching the alternatives with a ten-foot pole), you obey, middle and ring fingers curling into the tight channel of your cunt. There’s a spot you hit on your front wall, gummy and responsive, muscles reacting on instinct by contracting and spasming around your fingers.

You’re close already, panting, head tipped back against the bottom sheet, neck bared, eyes squeezing shut at the wave of pleasure that begins to pulse insistently. “I’m- fuck, Eddie. Keep talking, please-”

“So good,” Eddie says, almost funny in how quick he is to interrupt your pleading. “So good for me. Sound so wet, too, bet you’re soaking…”

You are, in fact, rivulets of slick joining into one just under the globes of your ass, cooling and sticky, a bit uncomfortable but since it’s laundry day and you feel this good you can’t really bring yourself to care.

A half-gasp whimper as you writhe your pelvis up, again, chasing that edge, tantalizingly close, the wet noises from your weeping cunt and plunging fingers spurring Eddie on.

“That’s it, baby.” He’s encouraging even in his own heady fog of pleasure (must’ve had a good sex-talk coach), voice low and rough at your ear as he drops his chin to get closer. “Tell me what you need, hm? Lemme get you there.”

“Need you- you, to…” Frustrated by your lack of breath, in lieu of communicating with words you slide your fingers from yourself, seeking Eddie’s hand before you can overthink the action. You leave a trail of slick against his hip bone, and Eddie releases himself to give you his hand- moaning, cock twitching, as you coat your own heated wetness over his dry palm. 

This time, when you both get your hands back on yourselves, it’s with a tandem whine, Eddie’s ending with a hiss through teeth- “Fuck. Fuck, yes. So wet. So good.”

“Yeah?” Like you never left, your pussy molds easily to the shape of your three fingers again. Your other hand leaves your side to paw at your clothed breast, nipples peaking through the lace. “I gotta- I’m gonna take my bra off. Please.”

You don’t actually wait for permission, but Eddie gives it anyways as you slide the cups down, babbling encouragement- “Shit, sweetheart, yeah. Whatever you gotta do. So good for me, tellin’ me what you need. Good job.”

One day, you’re gonna regret telling Eddie you get off on praise, but not today; with one nipple pinched firmly between thumb and forefinger, your other breast spills to the side, resting against Eddie’s upper arm.

He groans, from his toes, fist slipping over his cock with ease thanks to your contribution. The sounds filling your small room are obscene, sex-dipped moans and glossy wet hand movements all reaching a crescendo as both your hips jerk up at the same time.

Keeping the same pace against your clit as Eddie’s keeping on his dick, the spark of pleasure has turned into a roar that swims up to your ears, a white-out of an orgasm fast approaching each time the heel of your palm slams into your clit. 

“Eddie- jesus, Eddie- Eddie Eddie Eddie-”

You’d feel sheepish about how desperate you sound if Eddie wasn’t matching your energy two-fold. His lanky frame thrashes when your speech devolves into a repetition of his name, keening as his fist staves off tipping over the edge with a tight ring at the base of his cock- “That’s it, baby, y’can do it, angel. Come on. Come with me. Please, please-”

With a final cruel twist to your breast, you come undone, orgasm spooling heat throughout your whole system, Eddie’s name unraveling in a long cry. Eddie follows you, fucking up into his fist, ropes of cum shooting to the top of the sheets tent he’d made, hunching against the spasms crawling up his abdomen. 

You ride the last of your orgasm out on the stretch of three fingers, releasing your nipple when the pressure turns to a twinge of pain. Under the covers, your bare chest heaves around the stretched elastic band of your shoved-down bra; with shaky, uncoordinated hands, you reach behind and beneath yourself to undo the hooks, flinging the offending clothing in the general direction of your hamper.

Eddie chuckles, breathless, bellows of his ribs nudging your forearm as he sinks back into his (your) pillow. “Christ. Good thing it’s laundry day.”

There’s no room for shame, no ounce of you that wants to dwell on what this could mean, right now- although there’ll be plenty of time for that later. As it stands, you’re both swathed in a quiet, post-sex bliss, neither wanting to disturb the peace. 

In a dreamy haze, you take note of little things- the drag of Eddie’s pinky against the back of your hand. The glint of his rings stored in a neat line atop your nearby dresser. A block of mid-morning sunshine from the window cast over the bed, prickling at your legs with warmth.

After a few minutes of this, Eddie sits up, mumbling apologies when you snatch the sheets to keep yourself covered. “You want first shower?”

He looks at you over his shoulder, down the lovely arc of his nose, brown eyes tender and staying on you for a beat too long. Squirming under his gaze, you find anywhere else to look (other than the pale slope of his back, smattered and dotted with freckles), shaking your head. “Nope. All yours.”

You flick your interest back to the ceiling as Eddie pulls up his boxers, grimacing at the mess he’s made of your sheets; before leaving, he bends to scoop up your tossed bra, snapping his own underwear to emphasize- “I’ll start this load before showering, then I’ll come back for your bedding.”

At your nod, Eddie leaves to clank around in the laundry closet; then there’s a rusty squeak of the shower handle, a subsequent rush of water, and Eddie’s pleasant husky humming floats down the hall through the open doors. 

You roll onto your front with a contented sigh, burying your nose in the pillow Eddie was just lying on- it smells like him, now, smoky and spicy and familiar. 

You spend the rest of his shower time coming up with a good excuse to save this pillowcase from being washed.

[loversmantra]

LOCK YOUR PHONE!

synopsis. a secret relationship. a fantasy.

content. itoshi sae x cisfem!reader. aged up characters (+20). fluffy but suggestive. implied sexy times. profanity. secret relationship. sending and receiving nudes. sae's kinda possessive in this but there's nothing crazy. lowercase intended.

wc. 1.3k

message from noe. i adore him i fear... listen to billie nossa nova by billie eilish for a better experience. been wanting to write something based on this song for a while and i thought sae fit perfectly! enjoy.

there’s a warm body in sae’s bed.

his still asleep brain takes a second to make the connection; the softness of you under him is no longer a feeling he’s used to. he puts two and two together, eventually, and wraps his arms tighter around you. awake, but unwilling to let the moment end, he buries his face into your neck.

too late. you stir, push yourself away from him. he can’t bring himself to blame you: it’s hot in the room, hot under the sheets.

there will be no more sleeping for him, but it isn’t too late for you — with that thought in mind he too rolls away, blinking once, twice, context coming back to him as his surroundings do.

the bed is neither his nor yours, though he could have put that together himself — the satin sheets gliding on his skin in such an alien way.

creams and soft pinks blur before his eyes, pale under the early morning’s light. paris. the hotel room he booked for you in a haze, almost feverish in his longing for you.

the downside of keeping a relationship under wraps, he supposes: his noose-tight schedule and the hawk eye of the public force meetings to be few and far in-between, the secret protected like crown jewels. he knows you’re tired of it; he knows because he is, too. it’s exhausting, constantly looking over his shoulder when taking you to his place, or on his way to yours. it’s exhausting, always having to find a different hang out spot, for fear of the media figuring him out. it’s exhausting, waking up and wondering: is today the day the world sinks its teeth into you?

sae’s never cared to keep secrets, at least never willingly — he says things as they are, does things as they need doing, full transparency, if it’s up to him.

it’s exhausting, it is. but that’s just one more thing on the list — and it’s so. damn. worth it. every downside comes with an upside, or else itoshi sae wouldn’t ever bother.

these hidden moments sae shares with you, no one else is privy to them. only he gets to know you like this, love you like this, warm and soft underneath him. no one knows because no one needs to know. just you and him.

no one gets to see you in your entirety: the shine of your eyes when they land on him; the loving curve of your mouth as you smile at him.

everything that belongs to you. for him only.

the face you made when you first entered today’s suite will stick with him for a while, he thinks. the pure delight and adoration shining in your eyes. your lips parting in wonder. all for him. all because of him. your princess room, that’s what you’d called it. a child’s dream, delicate in its simplicity, crushed and torn apart by the cruel world’s sharp, sharp teeth. stitched back together by him.

he knows how it feels, to be ripped to shreds. he’s glad he can do this for you, at the very least.

the world awakens and so does he; slumber slipping through his fingers as he rubs it away from his eyes, tiny sand grains leaving a small sting behind. he slept well. better than usual.

his phone is still on do not disturb. he doesn’t bother checking the time.

sae sits up, covers dropping to his thighs. beside him, you stir again, whine a little. maybe you can feel him leaving, even now in your sleep, feel the shadow of his absence. maybe you’re just bothered by his movements rocking the mattress. either way, you sleep. finding his pants in the mess of the suite bedroom, without the aggressive light of his phone’s flashlight to aid him, proves to be no easy task, but he manages eventually. he slips them on and slips away, closing the bedroom door softly.

it isn’t much brighter in the living space. the lazy sun is barely rising, only the idea of it permeating the gradual brightening of the sky.

phone still clutched in his hand, sae lets himself drop on the abnormally large leather couch, massaging the tender spots you viciously bit into his neck. with just a few swipes, he’s opened his camera roll. time to collect the prize: the surprise you leave for him after every passionate encounter.

the first time you did it, he didn’t even notice until a few days after the fact, when he went browsing through his pictures for a home screen-worthy photo of you.

there it was: a beautifully crafted souvenir of the time spent together. the flash of his phone camera punctuating every shot, barely noticed in the heat of the moment. the red of the set you wore that day.

selfies of you before, and after. your lingerie still intact — and the canvas of your chest painted purple by his loving mouth. not a single video, but at least a dozen pictures: of you, of him, of the two of you together.

a gift from you to him — one that had his blood boiling, had him flushed, aching, yearning all over again.

he sent you his favorite of the bunch — a mirror selfie of you, chest painted purple, a teasing finger pulling your bottom lip down — followed by a question mark. a wordless interrogation.

finally, thought you were never gonna see them, 11:22pm

-is the answer he got.

want more? 11:23pm

and he did. and he got more.

it’s been a while, since then — long enough for it to become a tradition, a little present left in his phone after a secret rendez-vous. so you don’t forget me, you joke.

but how could he?

he’s learned a lot, since that first time. the most important: you’re a fucking tease. lighting, cropping, outfit, pose, it’s an art form to you, down to the time it is for him, when you press send. more often than not, he gets the pictures in the middle of the day, when he can see but can’t do anything.

you’re decent enough to warn him beforehand, at least.

you better lock your phone ;)

and then the raunchiest picture he’s ever seen — you outdo yourself every time — is all over his screen. he’s had many, many close calls. you don’t stop. he never asks you to. he loves the damn pics.

always pictures, never videos — they’re not your thing, he’s learned. not that it matters.

sae would’ve never guessed you’d be such a great soft porn photographer.

the couch’s leather sticks to his skin as he moves, trying to get just a bit more comfortable. he’s about to open his camera roll, ready to unwrap his present, when shuffling near his head startles him out of his reverie.

“why’d you leave?” you murmur, voice still rough with sleep.

you’re completely wrapped in a thin sheet, the only barrier between his hungry eyes and your soft, soft skin. the only glimpse he gets is that of your ankles. a small golden chain rests there, snug. his name is spelled out among the links, hidden. for his eyes only. his chest constricts, almost painfully.

he doesn’t answer; only opens his arms so you can take your rightful place tucked against him. you lay down, covering the both of you with the sheet.

the sun finally peeks from below the horizon, warming your face. it’s peaceful.

“i didn’t want to wake you,” sae decides to say.

you shrug. “more time with you.”

he feels the same — still, your sleep and your comfort take precedence over anything, for him. over anything.

you look so beautiful, like this. waking the sun, blessed by its gentle glow. for his eyes only.

it won’t last. he knows it won’t — secrets never stay secret for long. but for now, simply living like this is enough, more than enough. enjoying the sun. enjoying you.

sae slept well. better than usual. you’re warm on his chest, traces of you warm on his skin. there’s a present waiting for him in his camera roll.

it won’t last — but it won’t hurt to enjoy it while it does.

you fall back asleep quickly, lulled by his steady heartbeat. he follows easily. his dreams are swaddled in creams and soft pinks, and the warmth of the sun on his chest.

LOVERSMANTRA © 2024, all rights reserved. do not translate, crosspost, or copy. steal my work and i'll steal your kneecaps. bitch.

[arcielee]

Fare Well

Photo credit.

Summary: You visit Aegon after another council meeting ends. Paring: Aegon Targaryen x female!reader Word Count: 1600+ Warnings: Reader AFAB, knifeplay, object penetration, kissing, p in v, creampie, using intercourse as an escape from reality. Author’s Note: Listen, the new trailer came out and our muses are buzzing again. This smutty piece was inspired by this story by @valeskafics as well as this beautiful edit by the beautiful @bucknastysbabe. The title is from Hozier, as you all should come to expect now, and this can also be read on ao3. This is dedicated to @f4ll-for-you, my wonderful Tumblr kindred spirit who made me into the Aegon girly I am today. 💜 A huge thank you to @targaryen-dynasty for beta reading and making sure this all made sense. 💜 Enjoy!

“What troubles you, your grace?”

You had remained in the shadows and listened to the voices grow louder, though still muted through the walls, with their worries of what was to come next. They exited one by one, the morose men chosen to serve the king’s council, with the lord commander of the kingsguard escorting the queen dowager donned in green, her eyes downcast and her expression etched with her perpetual worry since her lord husband had passed. The lord hand was the last to leave, his face lined and wearied, his slow gate returning him to the tower where he would–as Aegon confided to you–continue to pen letters to garner support across the realm. 

It was only then that you dared to enter the room. You saw Aegon was seated at the head of the table, his violet gaze placed on the Valyrian dagger in his hands, the iron and rubies that once belonged to the Conqueror gleaming above him. 

The sun was streaking through the windows behind, giving him a kingly glow. His hair was a shade lighter and his cheeks sunkissed from the hours aback Sunfyre; despite the threat beyond the horizon, you knew that Aegon enjoyed patrolling the skies with his brothers.

It was these little confessions that he shared with you in the clandestine moments stolen within the walls of the Red Keep. He told you how he wished to be distracted, to allow a reprieve for his mind that weighed heavy with this anointed crown, and you were just this distraction, flesh and blood pulsing with your desire. 

It was then he looked up to see you still shyly posted in the doorway. “You seemed troubled, your grace,” you repeated with kindness, with concern. 

“I am now always troubled, it feels,” his smile was forced. “It seems to be something that comes with the weight of this.” He removed the crown and it echoed dully as he dropped it on the table. “But perhaps you can serve your king.” 

Your foot pushed the door until it closed soundly, and you took a step towards him. For a moment you saw the boy you had grown up with, mischievous and smirking, peering up at you from beneath the title of king. “This is why I am here,” your reply was sultry, and you saw how the black began to swallow the color of his eyes. “To serve, your grace.” 

Aegon sheathed the dagger and set it aside his crown before slouching back to spread his legs wider in the ornate chair he sat. Your stomach tightened at the sight of his thick outline against his thigh, pressing through his slacks, and you felt the flutter of that desire trilling your spine, spilling back into your veins. 

Your heart vibrated beneath and his lips curled upwards when he noticed where your eyes fell. His large hand patted his thigh. 

The gesture summoned you and you moved within his arms reach. He pulled you onto his lap, his face burying into the curve of your neck with a groan, a deep inhale that tickled. “Your grace,” you giggled, squirming in his hold, your blood warming your skin. 

“It is only us now,” he murmured against your skin, “and all I wish now is  to tear away these layers, lay you on this table, and have what lies beneath your finery.” 

“You would not dare,” you whispered, your eyes bright. 

His fingers dug into your hip while his other hand snaked under your thighs to lift you up from his seat. You giggled again, your arm quick to wrap around his neck to brace for his step forward as he set you on the edge of the table. His hands pawed at your layers, searching to find the dagger and he began to slice through your fabric.  

Your surprise spilled from your lips. “Aegon!”

He did not falter, but sheathed it and set it back down so his hands could grab fistfuls, tearing away the fabric to allow you room to part your thighs and welcome him. Your hands moved from his chest and combed through his hair, smoothing the indent left behind from his crown. He hummed from your touch, his hands moving from your hips and following your curves to your backside, pulling you closer so he could tilt his chin forward and capture your lips. 

His kiss devoured you wholly, pulling the air from your lungs with the dizzyingly desperation of his lips against your own. Your arms wrapped again around his neck and you rolled your hips for friction against the warmth he emitted through his royal garb, your fingers clawing at the fabric. 

You could feel his smile against your lips, his fingers returning to his hold on your hips. The outside of his palm rested on the dip and his thumbs pressed to the bone, eliciting a pleasure that jolted through you. You moaned softly and his mouth broke away, wet kisses that now trailed along your jaw, his teeth nipping at the slope of your neck. 

“Aegon,” you could not help but whine, and you tightened your legs around his hips. 

He turned to look at you, his expression unreadable, flushed. For a moment you were lost in his heady gaze, only brought back once you felt his hand trailing the detailing of your bodice and pressing until you laid back on the table. His other hand retrieved the dagger once more and your smallclothes were cut away, the air crisp against the slick between your thighs. 

“So wet for me already,” he clucked his tongue, “and I have barely begun.” 

Your stuttered response only further goaded him. His brow cocked. “What was that?” 

“Please,” you licked your lips. “Touch me, Aegon. Please.”

The darkness in his eyes glittered with the sunlight, and his satisfaction curled across his square jaw. “No. Not quite yet.” 

Before you could protest, you felt the pressure of something that was smooth, almost cool to the touch. You peered down to see the sheathed dagger pressed sideways to your bare cunt, the ruby stone sliding against the slick, the blossom of your arousal allowing him a circular motion of the gemstone against the bundle of nerves.  

You shuddered in response, your skin rising on your thighs and chest, and your head fell back, your hands pressing flat on the polished wood to anchor yourself. The unfamiliar touch began to build a familiar sensation, something that fluttered throughout, catching your exhale in your throat. 

“Aegon,” you cried, his name spilling sickly sweet from your lips, an endearment with the desperation of your tone. 

“Let me,” he soothed, his voice rasped with his intent focus. 

He moved the hilt and its decorative ridges rubbed along your swollen nerves. You squealed with the touch and then the intrusion, feeling his palm press to the inside of your thigh. “Trust me,” he whispered, his eyes boring between your thighs. You relaxed to his touch, feeling the curve of the handle pressing sweetly within you.

It sparked lights before your eyes and Aegon was pleased. He moved his thumb to replace where the gemstone rubbed enticingly before, matching the tandem of the hilt that now pulled you upwards to the prior peak and then past. It filled your chest, a bursting euphoria that pulsed your walls around the handle.

“Sȳz riña,” his voice low with his praise. Good girl.

Your head lifted, drowsy, and you saw him touch the glossy shine that now covered the hilt, his fingers showing the sticky web of your climax. His eyes met with yours as he showed you, and his eyebrows raised when you pushed to sit up, your hand gently covering his own to pull it towards your lips, licking the ruby and tasting yourself.  

It clattered to the cobblestone and his free hand now grabbed the nape of your neck, his lips finding yours with his returned desperation. Fingers collided to loosen his drawstrings, your hands pulling his cock free and guiding his blunt head to press against your silk entrance. 

His large hand wrapped around the base and you cant your hips, angling yourself so his cock can slowly sink into your wet warmth. You mewled from the delicious stretch and he shuddered once he was fully buried between your thighs. Aegon paused, stealing a kiss, a taste of tenderness on his lips as he began to rock against you. 

It started slow with a low groan spilling from his kiss swollen slips as he watched his cock disappear inside you again and again. He savored the lewd sounds, your soft cries as he pushed deeper within you, your fingers grasping to hold yourself upright, to remain as close to him as possible. 

Your body still simmered with your prior release and it did not take much to build again. His hips snapped against yours with the wet sound of skin to skin, and your walls began to flutter. It is a breathless chorus, your soft gasps and his low groan, your pleasure pulling with a creamy spill of passion that tightened around him, his cock pulsing hotly within you. 

You fell back to your elbows, trying to catch your breath, and Aegon slumped over, his damp brow pressing to yours, the mess of his golden waves falling across your face. His scent washed over you, exotic oils that were sent as gifts and the sheen of sweat on his skin. 

The council chambers are noiseless now, and you hold still under the dimming candles lit for the chandelier above. It is another clandestine moment stolen, where your hearts thrummed in unison before slowing back to their regular pace, pulling you back to the heavy reality that settled in the quiet.

It lingered in the shadows, the faraway thought, the threat beyond the horizon, the echoed worries returning of what will come next. 

Tumblr kindred spirits [taglist]: @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @fan-goddess @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @assortedseaglass @theoneeyedprince @babyblue711 @girlwith-thepearlearring @theobjectofyourire @troublesomesnitch @multyfangirl @darylandbethfanforever9 @snowprincesa1 @officerbrowneyes @qyburnsghost @namelesslosers

[undiscovered-horizon]

"Finnish polka" - Ivar the Boneless x Reader

SUMMARY: After helping one of the northern Jarls, the Lothbrok brothers attend a celebratory feast. There, they're faced with a tradition of warriors catching flower crowns that belong to young women. How surprised Ivar is when you almost shove your crown into his hands.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 2.1k

Enjoying my work? You can leave me a tip on Ko-Fi

Ivar is tired.

Of course he's glad that Jarl Thorstein came out victorious. And that his brothers are fine. Still, he feels weary as the adrenaline leaves his body. His legs start to ache. Ivar downs the rest of his mead in hopes it makes him a little more deaf to his mood.

The upbeat, bright music fills his mind like an obsessive thought. His heart beats to the rhythm tapped by the feet of dancing women. They spin, jump and run around with flower crowns sitting atop their heads. How the wreaths remain immovable, he can't quite say.

Ivar is also angry.

As the local tradition entails, when the song ends, all the dancing young maidens will throw their flower crowns to the crowd. Whoever catches it, is believed to be the girl's lover chosen by the gods. However, whether the couple indulges and trusts gods' judgement is a different story. But if the wreath falls to the floor, the girl is said to remain unmarried for the next five years.

Ivar knows the chance of him somehow catching one of those is near zero. He's sitting quite far from the dancers. Even if he did catch it, he's disillusioned about the imminent dissatisfaction of the flower crown's ownert. Not only is he disabled in a way that almost entirely excludes him from fighting but he's also infamous for his ruthless nature and vengeful heart. Hardly a man who invokes desire. Still, some naive piece of him remains hopeful that maybe he's wrong. Maybe he can be terrible and loved all the same.

He shakes those weak delusions away from himself before they sour his mood further.

His piercing eyes have been following one of the dancers for the better part of the song when he catches himself. Her movements look effortless even when the musicians pick up the tempo. Clearly, she's done this dance one too many times to have any doubts about what she's doing. Joy beams from her in a way that makes her appear almost shining. The wreath on the top of her head is mostly green with white and red flowers. It makes Ivar think of the woods surrounding Kattegat; it makes him think of home.

Ivar leans toward Oddleif, one of the Jarl's men, who's sitting next to him.

"Who is she?"

Oddleif looks at Ivar out of the corner of his eye. He scoffs, takes a large sip of his drink and only then decides to answer:

"If you're thinking of catching her flower crown, don't." His blond braids dance slightly as he shakes his head. There's a hint of laughter hiding in the back of Oddleif's throat. "Half of the surviving army wants it."

"I have no care for flowers," Ivar lies through his teeth. "They have no use. They wilt and die and soon no one remembers them. I am simply curious about her."

"Her father is the blacksmith. You might have seen him in the battle, swinging that damned sledgehammer." Ivar silently nods. He remembers that man - tall as a pine tree and wider than a stable. The blacksmith invokes respect even when he's not decimating enemies like a troll equipped with a tree trunk. "He said once that he'll let any man marry his daughter but only if he can lift an anvil. Tried it once myself. Not that I had any success as you can imagine." Oddleif laughs bitterly and continues drinking. His eyes are glued to the dancers but Ivar knows that right now, the two of them are admiring the very same girl with a flower crown like a forest.

The melody continues to quicken. Despite being out of breath, you don't want it to end. Your feet ache but they do not falter nor do they stumble. It seems that their muscles know the dance better than your mind. There are a dozen girls dancing with you but you do not see them. Not really. They appear worlds away from you and the song of bagpipes and strings.

And then appears he.

A slouched, dark figure flies before your eyes as you're doing another pirouette. The man simply sits there, in the corner, but his presence is overwhelming. Or so you think. He does nothing and yet he tears his way into your microcosm of quick footwork, turns and lively polka.

You recognize him. Of course you do. Many whispers, equally frightened and amazed, have spoken of him. You have believed in all of them until the moment you met his gaze for that split second. Right then, somewhere between blinks and breaths, you renounce every gossip you've ever heard about him. A voice in the back of your head, a trickster or an oracle, nags at you to learn the truth yourself.

When the lively, fast melody comes to a stop, you find yourself shaken awake from the thoughts about Ivar the Boneless. The end of the song seems somewhat abrupt to you as you've been letting your fantasy run wild without paying much attention to what's going on around you. Dancing the last part purely by the memory of your muscles. The moment musicians stop playing, a small crowd begins to form in front of you. Men of different class, age and ancestry reach out their hands. Each one of them is more determined than the other to catch your wreath. They start to yell something but considering that the inside of the long hall is awfully loud anyway, you can't make out any words. Reading their lips, you can only tell when they're exclaiming different variations of your name.

They're only pushing towards you, shoving each other away. You keep taking steps backwards but the distance you create with each step is quickly shortened with the men calling out to you. You knew there would be many of them in front of you but never assumed that many. Instead of somewhat flattering, the siege is terrifying and imposing.

Looking for help or advice, just something that will ease your tension, you silently look around the long hall. Your gaze falls on the same slouched, dark figure. Strange peacefulness washes over you when his eyes meet yours.

The dim candlelight seems to bend around Ivar, making his corner appear darker than anywhere else in the long hall. He's simply sitting there. Maybe he's not interested? But the way he's staring at you shows nothing if not burning curiosity. The sons of Ragnar aren't know for their patience. No, they're said to take whatever they want the moment their desire sparks. Despite that, the youngest of them, and arguably the most famous, appears to be waiting. But for what exactly?

The fresh pine needles prick your skin. You furrow your eyebrows. Your gaze falls to the wreath and then comes back to Ivar. Could it be...?

It isn't much of a throw, really. You toss the flower crown towards him without looking anywhere else but into Ivar's eyes. Without as much as blinking, he catches the wreath with ease as though he has been prepared for that. Low murmurs hit your ears but quickly the sounds of disappointment fall silent as it's made clear who caught your wreath. Despite their initial determination, the men who had been reaching out to you suddenly disperse like fog does in the early morning. They knew better than to get under the skin of a Lothbrok. Especially that one.

"I believe this belongs to you."

Ivar is holding up the wreath. Despite his words, he makes no effort to offer it back to you. His eyes are bright and glistening, the corner of his mouth is tugged ever-so-slightly upwards. He appears amused.

At first, it was nice to finally sit down after dancing for what seemed to be hours on end. But now, when you're facing the consequences of your spur-of-the-moment decision, the tension sets in once more. This time, however, it doesn't feel threatening. In turn, the nervousness is somewhat welcome like the jittery state before a surprise is revealed.

"If I wanted to keep it, I wouldn't have thrown it," you answer in a light tone.

"And why should I keep it?"

The blue eyes study you for a moment. It's a strange feeling - you can't help but think that the longer you are in Ivar's presence, talking or not, he's reading your mind and soul. He stares at you in a way that tells you he already holds all the answers but wants you to confirm them.

"It's said to bring good luck." You shrug your shoulders. "Until the wreath wilts and dies, Freya and Freyr will look after you."

Ivar looks at the flower crown again. Only now, when he's holding it, does he realize that for a flower crown, there aren't many flowers. A few sandworts and poppies, yes, but the wreath is made mostly of evergreen plants. It might take weeks until the crown wilts.

The microcosm seems closed again. Now it's not you and the bagpipes but you and him. It's strange and it's new but it's not threatening. It's not the kind of presence a man of his infamy should have. Or perhaps you've simply fallen for his honey trap.

"Why did you throw it to me?" Ivar tries to make the question seem unimportant, just curiosity brought to light. But he can't quite convince himself that he doesn't care. There's a hint of something vulnerable and genuine when the words roll off his tongue. It's easy to miss like a dandelion clock carried away by a gust of wind.

You wish you knew the answer yourself.

"I don't know really," you say honestly. "Perhaps it was one of the gods that threw the flower crown for me." You make a pause. Ivar's face is unreadable. "Or perhaps I have no interest in urgent, desperate men."

Ivar chuckles. A deep shadow is covering part of his face, making him appear kind of sinister. For a moment, you question whether he's laughing with you or at you.

"And what exactly makes you think I'm not urgent or desperate?" he continues. You notice his smile is growing wider. That glint of amusement in his blue eyes has changed in mischief. "What if I'm worse than all of them? You surely know who I am."

"Of course I do, Ivar the Boneless," you drone the words. In a barely noticeable fashion, he clenches his jaw when you say his name. It makes him feel a strange, burning sensation in his stomach but Ivar is left unsure whether he likes it or detests. "The whispers of your ruthless character are unending."

"But you're not afraid?" he asks with both disbelief and suspicion. A girl with a flower crown doesn't necessarily strike him as fearless in any way. Or this whole strange situation is a little too good, too dream-like, for him to accept it at face-value.

Ivar's smile falters when your face takes on a confident, maybe even arrogant, expression. He's taken aback.

"I'm a woman of the North," you say while leaning towards him on the table. The distance between your faces shortnes. "The only person I fear is my own reflection."

The sudden closeness makes Ivar inhale sharply. The strong smell of pine needles fills his nostrils. For a moment, his imagination runs wild but it's not his fault - he has no grasp on it:

How those big eyes glistened in the semi-dark of the long hall as you were staring at him. Your smirk, somewhat challenging and beckoning him to push on. Then, the smell of conifer that shakes all senses awake. His fantasy leaves the northern snows and travelles to forests, to him brushing pine needles from your hair and your naked, flushes skin smelling of evergreen trees.

But quickly his shaken awake, to his utmost displeasure, by you:

"Well, if you don't want it, I suppose I should take it back, no?"

Your hand unsurely reaches out for the wreath in Ivar's hand. He's quick to pull his arm back.

"It's bad luck to take back gifts," he states plainly. In an act of nonchalance, Ivar is playing with the wreath, spinning it around his finger. "I should like to keep it."

Sometimes you come back to the night you've met the infamous Viking, when you're rendered sleepless while he's calmly breathing next to you, getting the rest he desperately needs. How funny all of it seems - that a flower crown in bloodied, merciless hands could lead to having a genuine crown on your head. Maybe you were right, after all, and it really was the hand of one of the gods that threw the wreath for you.

[inky-duchess]

Fantasy Guide to Royal and Noble Jewellery

Royal and Noble jewellery is a staple of their life, a statement of the who is person is, their rank and their wealth. Jewellery simply isn't a accessory, it's an exercise in showmanship and a way to link to a past.

(Disclaimer: Many stones in pieces often have a bloody past, usually stolen or worked from the earth under the reign of Colonialism. It is best to always take this into account when admiring real world pieces)

Providence

Jewellery like this is usually inherited buy can also be bought or even given as a gift. There is three kinds of jewellery in this instance: private, owned by the crown or owned by the state.

Private jewellery is owned by a single person and worn or lent at their own descretion. Private jewellery can be no less grand than state owned jewellery. This jewellery can be inherited by anybody the owner chooses.

State jewellery is not privately owned, it belongs to the country itself. It is not inherited but used by royal family. If a royal family is deposed, the jewellery remains with the state. Such as the French Crown Jewels.

Owned by the Crown means that it can only pass monarch to monarch, worn only by consorts or the monarch and lent to anybody they choose.

Noble jewellery is not quite the same. Much of it is owned privately but there may be one or two pieces designated as official jewellery for the title such as a specific tiara.

The Rules

Jewellery like this are not just trinkets to be borrowed by anybody. Usually the monarch (or titled noble) or sometimes the spouse, is in charge of designating who can be lent which pieces and for what occasion. Even if you are a super close member of the family, you still have to take what's on offer. Sometimes certain jewellery is worn exclusively by a certain rank say the Queen or the noble themselves and would not be offered to anybody else. For example, you will note that into today's royalty you will see certain royals repeating the same tiaras such as Kate Middleton who has only worn the Cambridge Lover's Knot, the Strathmore Rose Tiara, the Lotus Tiara and once, the Cartier Halo Tiara. These would be the tiaras available to them, which usually number only a handful. Certain pieces are designated by for the monarch/Consort as well, the Vladimir Tiara & the Girls of Britain and Ireland Tiara only graced the head of the Queen in her reign. Other pieces such as earrings or bracelets would also be distributed accordingly, more elaborate and expensive pieces would be worn by the higher ranking members. Certain collections are meant to be passed on, such as the Consort's jewels but many Dowager refused to pass on their jewels such as Empress Dowager Maria Feodorovna after the death of Tsar Alexander III.

Treasure Trove

Now, just because a family has a throne or a grand title doesn't mean they have caches of jewels. Many noble families sold off their pieces to pay death duties, most only have a few pieces left today. As for tiaras most noble families would not have access to large quantities, usually only affording one or two. The Spencers for example own two, the Spencer Tiara and the Spencer Honeysuckle Tiara. This is an inaccurate protrayal in Downton Abbey, as the family have at least 6 but then again Cora is a Dollar Princess so it could be possible to own as many but it never made sense considering just how many times they almost loose the estate and never sell any off. Royal families are not exempt from this either, some families have vast stores of jewels such as the British Royal Family (I wonder where those all came from...) while the Greek Monarchy (discontinued) has only a few pieces. The Romanov collection is of course legendary and we may never know it's full extent.

[seravphs]

ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — KNIGHT! GOJO x PRINCESS! FEM READER

Gojo has devoted his entire life to protecting you as your dedicated guard. A greater force is conspiring to keep you apart. 

wc — 3.7k

tags — royal au, childhood friends, forbidden love, protective Gojo, sneaking around/flouting social etiquette, period drama-esque tension between repressed princess and rakish knight, mutually possessive, title from Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

part 1 of the hand which holds the knife

Everyone knew Satoru Gojo was supposed to be yours. 

You claimed him the day you knighted him. He wore your colors and answered to your demands. The physical evidence of your ownership was all over him, the way someone would mark a well loved pet. Even the neck of his jacket carried your embroidery like a collar. To anyone with eyes, he was your adored guard dog. 

When all of your memories blur into one stream of consciousness, the day you knighted him remains clear. You remember everything, including your father stealing him out from under you. 

You were the only one who truly thought he was ever going to be yours. It was part of the promise you had sworn to each other as children, playing princess and the guard with wooden swords and flower crowns. 

Looking back, you can see the gears of court machinations turning. It was no simple coincidence that the only heir to House Gojo ended up in close proximity to you, any more than any other of your introductions to sons of highborn houses. 

Gojo has no interest in pretending to be a prince. It was boring for him to be trapped in restricting uniforms complete with epaulets. He found more pleasure in protecting you from danger while you preened in your gilded cage, none the wiser through his efforts. Safe and unaware, the way he liked it. You would never have to know how dangerous the world was if he simply destroyed everything in your path before it got to you. 

You didn’t understand the way the adults looked at the two of you. All you knew was that you couldn’t bear to be apart from him. You rose each morning looking for him, and went to bed waiting for the minute you’d be reunited again. He was your whole world, your one and only friend. It was his hand that guided you through childhood adventures. He was the sword and shield that had cut down kidnappers and serpents for you. 

The first wedge in your relationship comes with his twelfth birthday. 

You chase his back through the years, watching it broaden in front of your eyes. His body changes. His voice drops. The first time you hear it after the pitchy squeaks of puberty clear from his throat, you feel the sickening wrench of something in your stomach. It had never mattered before that Gojo was a man, potentially your betrothed. 

Now it burns you to look at him. He became gorgeous while you weren’t looking, all long willowy limbs and snow white hair. The women of the court have started looking at him now. They call him the beautiful dragon, after his house crest. 

Even though you know reasonably that you can do nothing about this, really, you have no right to, that galls you. You’re a princess. You’re used to being able to deal with things that upset you with little more than a nod to Gojo. But he can’t solve issues that he’s the root of. 

The only way to show everyone that Gojo’s devotion belongs to you is to tie him to your side. At twelve, he’s already the strongest squire in the entire kingdom. Better than most knights, even. It’s a clear path to being the greatest knight of his time, throughout all of history, even. He already promised to be your sword when you were children. All you have to do is wait. 

Gojo trains and you begin to learn the extent of your royal responsibilities. Study etiquette. Marry well. Become a dutiful wife. Give the king heirs. 

Gojo becomes Lord Gojo. He calls you princess now. Although part of you rebels at the idea that he would ever call you anything other than your name, another part of you can’t help the queasy feeling you get when he says your title, low and soft. Like he means it for your ears only. Like princess is just another way of showing how much of him is yours. 

Gojo is not usually a proud man because he doesn’t have to be. His abilities speak for himself. But he’s cocky to a fault. He knows the extent of his capabilities, which means he won’t capitulate to anyone. Why would he? 

When it comes to you, however, he bends his neck and accepts the collar willingly. The strongest can only be tamed by what he allows to tame him and it’s you, it’s always been you. 

Perhaps that’s why things turn out the way they do on the day you knight him. 

Or, as you find out later, your father knights him. 

It was the day after your sixteenth birthday. Gojo himself had turned seventeen three months and six days before. It was strangely old for a boy of his caliber. He was so talented he could’ve been the youngest knight in the realm, but no one could make Gojo do something he didn’t want to do. 

There was no shame in it, either. Everyone knew Gojo was too talented and well-connected for it to be anything other than his own choice. The only heir of House Gojo, he was destined to become a knight even if he did nothing to earn it. And he had done much to earn it. 

Winning wars single handedly tended to do that. There were already legends blooming from the battlefield by the time he came home and tossed the unlucky enemy commander’s head at the king’s feat. His bow wasn’t nearly low or respectful enough to be addressed to the king, but he had been lighter-hearted back then, more willing to forgive. 

Especially for Gojo, who had cut a killing swathe through the ranks of the opposing army so ruthlessly they began to call him a god of death.

Gojo kneels at your feet, his white head still high. He’s a little too tall for you, even at this angle. Lord Commander Yaga clears his throat. Gojo looks up through the wisps of hair that have escaped to obscure his eyes. They’re piercing, an attractively violent blue. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, so low no one else could’ve heard the two of you even if you hadn’t been standing alone on the podium in front of the king’s throne. “Am I too tall for you now, princess?” 

“Don’t tease,” you whisper back, flustered despite yourself. The pommel of the sword is clammy in your grip. You’re scared to drop it and accidentally take a finger off with it. 

You’re taking too long. It’s making you anxious. You’re distinctly aware of your father’s stare boring into your back. You’ve been sheltered since you were young by your father’s paranoia, but he’s recently begun letting you apply yourself more to your royal duties. You can’t give him any reason to doubt you. 

Gojo dips a little lower. 

With this change in angle, you can place the flat of the blade on each of his shoulders. It’s your father’s sword, too large and unwieldy in your hands. Standing over Gojo is a strange experience. It’s uncomfortable looking down on someone who’s been taller than you for all your life. 

You wish he would stop looking at you like that. His gaze is searching. You feel naked underneath it, even with layers of dresses on. When he says his vows, it feels intimate, like he’s speaking them to you. For you. 

Gojo rises, shaking his hair out of his eyes like a shaggy dog. Like this, you’re reminded suddenly of how strong he is. His shoulders are broad underneath his silver armor. Lean muscle cords his legs. There’s an easy, effortless grace to the way he moves - the confidence of a man who has never been bested in his entire life. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs. He’s still standing too close. If it were any other man, your father would have demanded he be whipped by now, but Gojo has always gotten away with things no one could. He ducks his head so he can speak directly into your ear - dangerous, even for him. He says his piece fast. “I’ll see you in your rooms, my lady.” 

Then he pulls back. 

There are thunderclouds gathering across the king’s face, but when you shake your head, your father relents. He smiles and kisses your temple as you climb up the steps of the platform of his throne to return the sword to him. 

Years later, you learn that the moment you leave the throne room, your shoulders sure with the knowledge that Gojo is finally secure in your grasp, your father takes up the sword you had held and knights him. Princesses have no authority to confer knighthood. Only kings. 

You know your father means well. He loves you. You’re all he has left. If Gojo pushed for your hand to be one that he swears loyalty to first, then your father would have been happy to comply either way. You just wish you would’ve known that it meant nothing. 

There’s a sharp rap on your door, followed by two short, one long. A code you had devised a long time ago. You pull open the door and Gojo all but falls into your room. He’s pressed up against you, front to front as he closes the door behind him, tumbling you into your bed. 

“Hi, princess,” he says, his breath warm against your neck. You squirm in his hold, feeling heat rush through your veins. It’s getting harder and harder to hide the way he affects you, but you don’t want anything to change between the two of you. Though sometimes, you swear Gojo likes using your title so much precisely because he knows how you react to it. 

“We have to stop doing this,” you tell him, like you tell him every time. “It’s inappropriate.” 

He groans and pushes away from you. You mourn the loss of contact. “Come on, don’t make me do this again. Who cares if it’s inappropriate? Who says?” 

“Dame Zenin thinks we’re too close.” 

“Dame Zenin is an idiot,” Gojo says. “You know she only says that because she wants to get rid of me so you’ll look at Naoya. As if you would ever, even if I was gone.” 

“Still.” 

Gojo grabs your chin in his hand. “You are a princess and I am the only heir to House Gojo. We bow to no one, understand? What right do mice have to judge dragons?”

He’s the dragon, you think. Your crest is the rose. You exist to be judged. That’s the role of a princess. 

Gojo sprawls out on your bed. He’s so tall he takes up more than half of it, even though your bed was built to be more than twice your size. His eyes are shut, his long white lashes soft. He looks gentle in repose, almost like a lamb with his coloring. 

He’s beautiful. He always is. You want to touch, to hold, to claim. You want to press your ear against his chest and steal the thunderous beat of his heart for your own. You want to press your rouged lips to his neck and collarbones, to mark his body with a muted rose. 

Instead, you sit stiff, prim and proper. 

He opens his eyes. “Come here,” he says, his arm reaching for you. You let him pull you closer. 

As always, he has to reach out first. You can’t allow yourself to take what you want. It’s not in your nature, the way you were raised. 

You bury your face into the space between his neck and his shoulder. 

“There we go,” he coos. Your face burns with the condescension of it, the way he treats you like an animal that has to be carefully coaxed closer. But he’s not wrong, and that’s why you let him pet you into submission, gently stroking your sides as he tangles his legs with yours. 

You were never so affected by him as children. Somewhere along the way, Gojo had become unmanageable to you, and you don’t know what to do about it. 

“Stay with me,” he murmurs against your hair. “Where are you going off to in that pretty head of yours?” 

“I’m with you,” you whisper against his neck. “I’m always here.” 

You’ve spoiled him, you think. When you were a child, you didn’t know any better. Gojo was just Gojo. Letting him stay by your side even as you got older was an indulgence that he now pushes the limits of. He’s never cared about propriety. 

“You have to go back to your room now,” you whisper reluctantly. You’re always the more cautious one of your duo. It’s been too long. Someone will become suspicious. For once, you wish you could just let go of your worries, but someone has to check Gojo. If both of you just did whatever you wanted, it’d be the ruin of your houses. This is how it has to be: Gojo pushes and you pull back. 

The dim light of the dying candles make his blue eyes appear black. “Give me something of yours first,” he says. 

You know what he’s asking for. You climb up from the bed and go into your dresser to search, turning up one of your handkerchiefs. It bears the colors of your house and your careful embroidery.

He kneels at your feet. 

“Stop,” you say, trying to pull away. 

Gojo presses a kiss to your hand. His lips are soft against the skin of your hand, temptation incarnate. Your fingers tremble lightly in his grasp, torn between wanting to seize him and wanting to run away. The enormity of your desire for him terrifies you. If you ever let him in for one second, you can see how easy your descent would be. 

“I’m yours, princess. Don’t forget it.” 

With that, he ties your favor around his wrist and finally leaves you to your room, panting like you’d run through the halls. No matter how old you get, Gojo always leads in your interactions. He plays with you, enjoying the way he can make you react to him. 

It’s normal for a princess to visit the training yard, you try to convince yourself the next day. There’s nothing strange about stopping by while you’re on your afternoon walk. After all, you should keep abreast of everything within your castle. 

Gojo stands in the center of the yard. He’s demonstrating one of his self created drills, a complicated set of maneuvers only he can pull off. In short, he’s showing off while pretending like he’s doing the class a favor by trying to teach them something. 

Lord Commander Yaga notices you the moment you set foot in the yard. You should expect it. After all, it’s his territory. 

“Attention,” he bellows. “The princess is here.” 

Gojo perks up and finishes his final set of movements even faster. He throws his sword carelessly to the side, leaving a young squire scrambling to catch the priceless weapon as he strides towards you. 

He’s a little sweaty. You want to wrap your arms around him anyways, but you restrain yourself. 

“I’m sorry for interrupting,” you say. 

Gojo grins at you. It’s a sharp thing, his smile, hungry and wolfish. “Not at all. I was just thinking of you, my lady.” 

You tilt your head at him curiously. 

Around you, the men are scrambling to line up into neat little rows. 

“I’m picking a squire,” Gojo says. “Would you like to make the decision for me?” 

It’s a question that shocks you. You whirl to look at him again, see if he’s joking like usual, but he seems perfectly serious. “I don’t know anything about knighthood,” you tell him the truth. 

He moves closer. You’re tempted to step back immediately, but you don’t. You don’t want a sign of discomfort to be misinterpreted and used against him. Besides, you relish the proximity. Seeing Gojo in public feels like dancing on blades. The adrenaline terrifies you, but you can’t stop wanting more of it. 

“You may not, but you know people. I trust your judgement.” 

A cursory scan of the boys in front of you reveals little. They’re all stiff and proper, their backs as straight as they can make them. Some stand with their arms glued to their sides, others fidget with their swords. Every single one of them is eager for the chance to be acknowledged by the princess. They’re equally hopeful for the chance to squire for the greatest knight in the kingdom.

None of them catch your eye on the first or second passes. 

Only on the third, a boy with pink hair smiles at you. It’s such a small gesture. But for a boy who had looked just like everyone else at first, the toothy smile splits his features. It opens him up. He looks kind. 

You gesture him forward. 

Lord Commander Yaga nods approvingly. “Itadori is a good one, Your Royal Highness. He’s one of the best in this batch. Naturally strong, but just as hardworking.” 

“See,” Gojo says. “I knew you would choose well.” 

He touches your hand briefly, slipping a white scrap of paper inside your closed fist before he grabs Itadori by the shoulder and hauls him off for further training. Although disappointed, the other squires still look starstruck to be in his presence, though Yaga disperses them all to train themselves soon enough. 

In elegant cursive, Gojo has written a time and place. 

You shouldn’t go. 

You can’t risk it. 

All eyes are on you and Gojo as it is. People already suspect the two of you of something unsavory. Courtly love is one thing, but you and Gojo are too close for an unmarried man and a woman. As a princess, your sole purpose is to marry well and bring alliances to your house. You can’t risk damaging your reputation. 

But every stolen encounter with Gojo steals your breath away. You sneak through the halls, quiet and empty. 

A hand slaps over your mouth before you can scream as someone tugs you into a dark corridor. 

You kick and lash out, forgetting everything Gojo has taught you in favor of blind violence. 

“Shh,” comes a voice in your ear. “It’s just me.” 

You bite him. 

He hisses and pulls back, shaking out his hand. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“Why would you do that? You scared me!” 

“You’re not careful enough, princess. There was a maid coming up on your left that you hadn’t even noticed.” 

You sigh and lean into him. You can’t help it. 

He laughs. “Are you that happy to see me?” 

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll show you exactly how happy I am.” 

“Come on,” he tugs you out towards the gardens. It’s dangerous, but you follow him anyway. Being with Gojo is so threatening not despite his strength, but because of it. You rely on him too easily, trusting him to see you safely through any peril. It’s easy to relax when he’s with you, his presence the promise of security. 

You expect him to tell you why he called you here, but he’s silent when he tugs you down on the bench next to him. 

“Gojo?” 

“Here,” he says, opening his hands. A single crushed violet sits on his palm. You laugh, picking it up and raising to your eye. It’s all the more fragrant because it has been mangled, the delicate petals bruised. 

Gojo’s mouth lifts in a smile, too. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t realize.” 

“You really know how to win a girl’s heart,” you tease. 

“Hopefully I know how to win over her father’s, too.”

You freeze. 

“I’m sorry. I can’t wait any longer. I’m going to ask your father to be your dedicated knight tomorrow. Do I have your permission?” 

You hesitate, worrying your lip with your teeth, but Gojo understands. Years of watching after you, bandaging your scrapes that you refuse to cry over or avenging your honor after you pretend your pride hasn’t been hurt has taught him a lot. He can see right through you. You never need to hide when you’re with him. 

“It’s alright,” he says. “We can wait.” 

“It’s not that I don’t want you to be my guard,” you say in a small voice. “I just-” 

“I know,” he says. “But I’m the strongest. Who else would your father ask to protect you but me?” 

“Do you think he’ll say yes?” 

Gojo looks at you seriously. “I’ll get down on both knees and beg him if I have to.” 

“Don’t do that,” you gasp. 

“I don’t care,” he says. “You’re what’s most important to me. More than pride, more than honor. Can I ask your father for you?” 

You look at the crushed violet in your hand. 

Who else but Gojo? 

You press the flower back into his palm. “I trust you to do what’s right.” 

His eyes soften. He leans closer. 

“Gojo,” comes a voice. “What are you doing in the gardens this late at night?” 

You stiffen. The owner of the voice is drawing closer.

“Do you trust me?” Gojo asks, as cool and collected as ever. 

You nod, not trusting your voice not to give you away. He cups your face in his hands and ever so delicately presses a light kiss to your cheek, tilting his head towards you. 

“Stop,” he tells the man behind you. “Don’t come any closer. You’ll scare her.” 

“A new plaything?” Asks the Lord Commander. “I’m not so scary, am I?” 

Gojo notices you tremble harder. He lifts a hand to the back of your head and presses it gently towards his shoulder, obscuring your face even further. “Come here, darling,” he murmurs. “That’s right, what a good little thing,” he says as you press yourself into him. He pulls you over his lap, your legs straddling his waist as he runs his hand up and down your back. “Keep your head down,” he whispers to you. You tuck your face farther into the crook of his neck. 

Louder, he responds to Yaga. “The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard is a terrifying man, or so I’ve heard.” 

“Just escort her to her room when you’re done,” Yaga says gruffly. “I don’t need to tell you to be a gentleman, do I?” 

“No, sir,” Gojo says cheerfully. 

In hindsight, you’re still not sure if Yaga recognized you or not. On one hand, he’s known you since you were a child. He watched, a silent guard, as your father raised you. On the other hand, he’s never brought it up to you. 

The only other reason you suspect he realized who you really were was Gojo’s induction into the kingsguard the very next day. 

[seenoversundown]

I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm

Warnings: Smut (Oral F receiving, sex sex sex)

Word Count: 1.3k

Andrew x Reader (y/n)

The laughter of our friends echoes down the hall as he guides me further and further away from them. We’re hosting the annual holiday party this year for the first time. It was our third holiday season together but the first one in our new home. 

“They’re going to notice we’re gone, we’re going to get caught,” I say while tugging his hand. I can’t help the fit of giggles that follow. 

“Love, we’re only going to get caught if you’re loud,” Andrew replies, and the heat building in my stomach drops. We continue down the long hallway until we hit the staircase. I’m ready to start tiptoeing up them, trying to remind myself to avoid the squeaky stair halfway up, when Andrew pulls us into the small closet built under the stairs instead, causing me to gasp. 

“This is way too close to everyone else!” I hiss under my breath. 

He laughs while tugging me in further. “We have about ten minutes before Marlow comes looking for me; better make them count.” 

 My protests quickly fail as he attaches his lips to my throat, my ultimate weakness. He pulls me against him as he pushes the door shut with a soft click. I’m holding on to his arms as though they’re life preservers keeping me from drowning in all of him. I feel the low rumble of his laugh as he peppers soft kisses trailing up to my lips. 

As soon as Andrew’s lips touch mine, I feel myself drown. It’s intoxicating as I spiral from our kiss. I let my hands roam over his arms, chest, anything I can touch. It seems as though he feels the same way with the way his hands are pulling my dress up over my thighs. I can feel his fingers slip over the outside of my thong, looping into each side. With one quick movement, he pulls them down and falls to his knees simultaneously. He looks up through his lashes at me, and god, is it a beautiful sight. His pupils are so blown out that I can barely make out the green of his eyes I love so much. I’m breathless looking at how gorgeous this man is. I feel lucky. 

“I’ve been thinking about you all day, love. I need to taste you.” Andrew sounds desperate as he plants kisses on my thighs, almost like he’s waiting for me to permit him.

“Please,” my voice comes out breathless, almost inaudible, but it’s all he needs. He takes his fingers and separates my folds to give me one long swipe of his tongue. I forget our rules, where we are, for a moment, and moan in relief. Finally, my man is where he belongs. 

“You have to stay quiet, love, or I can’t let you finish.” 

My hands instantly go to the back of Andrew’s head. “Sorry, sorry, don’t stop.”

“My needy girl, what am I going to do with you?” He doesn’t give me time to respond as he expertly finds my clit. I’m focusing hard on not making a sound, but I can’t help the whimper that comes out of me when he inserts a single finger. The scrape of his beard on the inside of my thighs is deliciously painful. 

“More, please give me more.” I’m close, something that always happens fast with him. I feel him chuckle, which just makes my clit hum in pleasure, but he complies. I feel the second finger enter me, and I slowly become untethered. My hands are lost in his unruly curls as I hold him against me, chasing my release. His fingers curl inside of me, and I come entirely undone. It’s hard to remember to stay quiet when he makes me feel this good. When he’s sure I’ve come down, he rises from his place on his knees. 

“I need to feel you,” Andrew whispers against my ear as he turns me around. I hear the zipper of his pants before he shrugs them down his thighs. He places the crown of his cock against my entrance, and I can’t help but push up against it; the anticipation is unbearable. 

“My desperate girl can’t wait for me, can she?” My head shakes in response as I hear him tsk behind me. “You know the rules, babe. Use your words.” He slowly removes his cock so he isn’t touching me anymore. 

“Please, please. I need you. I can’t wait.” He’s right, I am desperate for him. 

I hear Andrew’s low chuckle behind me as he repositions himself at my entrance. He doesn’t give me any warning at all before he’s bottoming out inside of me. The mix of our moans fills the tiny closeted space while he brings up a hand to my neck. With his hand slightly tightening on my throat and the other gripped onto my hip, he starts to thrust. 

“You’re so wet for me. Just for me. God, I love being inside you.” Andrew murmurs in my ear. I feel myself melting for him. I press my ass back and spread my legs even more, trying to get as much of him as I can. 

“You need this too, don’t you, babe? My naughty girl, I love when she comes out to play.” I lightly moan in response to his words when his hand gives a warning squeeze around my throat. 

“My naughty girl still needs to be quiet. Wouldn’t want to be found, would we?” 

“No, sorry, please.” My breath hitches in my throat as Andrew thrusts into me at a steady pace. His hand slowly travels up my side as his languid thrusts continue until he reaches the peak of my breast. My nipple is hard, and I need more from him. I don’t have to say anything as he pinches my nipple and gives me the pressure I am desperately searching for. 

“You feel so good, pleasedon’tstop.” I barely recognize my own voice anymore. I love when sex with Andrew sends me into another dimension. 

“Let me feel you come, love, come undone for me.” My orgasm is right on the surface as I listen to his words, but once his hand deserts my breast and makes its way to my clit I am entirely done for. 

It’s hard not to whimper as I come on Andrew’s cock, and it’s hard not to moan when I feel him release inside of me. It feels as though there’s no more air in this closet, just Andrew and I. He stays behind me for a moment, maybe two, just holding me in our post-coital bliss. When he’s ready, he finally pulls out of me, and I can’t help but whimper at the empty feeling. 

Andrew moves around me and cleans me up with my discarded panties. After  he puts them on the shelf out of view, “I’ll come back for these when everyone leaves.” He says as he presses a kiss to my temple. 

“You better not forget them, I swear, Andrew.” 

“Swear what?” He presses a kiss to my lips. “I know how to get on your good side, love. I’m not worried.” He laughs that glorious laugh; it’s the best sound I’ve ever heard. He unlocks the closet door and looks back at me, “ready to go back?” 

“Do I look okay?” I ask as I smooth my dress back out, trying to look as normal as possible. Andrew takes my wrists and stops my movements. 

“You, my love, are ethereal.” A single kiss to my forehead. “Let’s go.” 

As we walk back down the hallway , the voices get louder and louder, seemingly right on time; a small pair of footsteps is running towards us. 

“Uncle Annndreeeewww!!” Marlow bellows. “I’ve been looking for you! Have you been playing hide and seek?” She erupts into a fit of giggles as Andrew lifts her above his head. 

“Absolutely was, Mar. Good job! You found us.” 

I can’t help but laugh behind them as we walk into our living room to be greeted by everyone else. 

“You two were gone for quite some time.” Our friend calls from the other side of the room. 

Andrew’s quick to cover Marlow’s ears before he responds. “You know me, I would never worship and tell.”

[tflaw]

The idea of the handmaiden being shorter than the harbingers (like she's 5’0 ft) gets me going since they could easily lift her if they wanted to while having a rather rough lovemaking session.

Might have already sent this though, if I did then I'm sorry but my brain is failing to remember properly.

— THE HANDMAIDEN. PT2.

In the frozen land where the outcasts belong and the peculiar is home, tomorrow is never promised. Intertwined your fate with the harbingers might be, it’s in your best interest to remember: the cold swallows the weak and Snezhnaya knows no tears.

★☆ ! f!reader. part / installation of these drabbles. size kink as was stated in the ask. unprotected. not proofread. warnings for each character are as follows (lmk if i missed anything, it’s almost 2 AM here, my mind is foggy):

pierro — undertones of manhandling.

capitano — mentions of finger-fucking && foreplay. dacryphilia.

dottore — exhibitionism. voyeurism. he lets his other segments do you. creampie. undertones of overstimming just to be sure.

pantalone — rough sex.

tartaglia — foul legacy form. he’s sooo leaky.

PIERRO !

who would’ve thought that there’s a hidden gem in the throng of servants in the palace? the fascination pierro has for you seems to go on unceasing. it is why he keeps you close. apart from your obedience, there’s one more charming thing about you that utterly has him bound and enthralled: you are small.

yes— small. he can control you in anyway he wants. flip you to his satisfaction, drive you mad with his brawn, and fuck you so deeply it will leave you mousy for weeks from the memory. sometimes he fears of breaking you, especially when he gives your little pussy such a fervid pounding that renders you shivering. you tell him it’s alright, i can take it: words that seem to drive him mad that he fixes you on his lap, holding your waist while watching your pussy sucking only his fat crown. impatient, he would dig his nails to your flesh, releasing a gutted moan as he slams you down and fills you with his hard shaft. all virility and nothing less than that.

CAPITANO !

despite not divulging the reason for his lusting after you, capitano thinks that it’s clear as crystal to anyone who possesses good eyesight. the equation is simple: he’s huge and you’re small. aside from the surge of adrenaline it pumps into his veins, the sight of you in bed is one he finds hard to forget.

capitano makes certain that your cunt is drooling before ramming his cock in you. call it safety measures, because it is. despite his infamous nature, he wouldn’t deliberately hurt you if he can help it. however, he sees your wet cunt with white trails of arousal dripping from the hole, and he’d drive himself in with force that takes away a little bit of his sanity. and yet, after all the preparation of finger-fucking, his cock remains a tight fit. your hole gapes around his veiny shaft, utterly small and struggling and fluttering. he releases a grunt, then, pitching his hips slowly despite the physical ache it causes. and even with the measured thrusts, he finds you trembling and crying from being filled to the brim.

DOTTORE !

dottore is a keen observant. and perhaps that is an innate nature that shapes who he is today. there are things that he realizes only after thorough scrutiny. and one of his favored thing— or person— to observe is you. he has been aware of how small you are ever since you’ve started to stand meekly beside him, hoping to get a good look on his experiments while trying your hardest not to be a nuisance. it’s such a foolish little thought: one that has managed to slip through the piles of ideas inside his brain and one he’s more than willing to carry out for the sake of his curiosity.

it has taken him only a few tweaks to use the clones fit to accomplish the experiment. this particular study gives no relevance to his existing ones, and yet it has brought him great pleasure to see you fucked out and senseless by his segments lining up to shove their cocks in you. dottore overlooks the whole experiment, rejoicing at the sight of your puffy cunt expanding based on whose cock and how large said cock is while fucking and abusing your walls. you look so good on his table with your pussy leaking from too much cum jammed inside it. the loads of his segments are an unstoppable current, thick in consistency and languid in motion while running down from the table. an experiment of self-indulgence— one that will keep him awake and one he will continue observing.

PANTALONE !

he likes to measure things. especially the mora that flows in his hundred bank accounts and in snezhnaya. for a man as ambitious as pantalone, seeing the actual size of something gives his ego another shove. he’s probably not the only one who have seen it, as it is palpable whenever he observes how the other harbingers look at you. the difference in your height is one that is not hard to miss— and most certainly the reason that drives him in a frenzy whenever he fucks you stupid.

pantalone grows a habit of pushing the back of your weakened thighs to display your pretty little cunt. before fucking you senseless, he’d press his cock just above your pussy lips, as if measuring how deep he’d go once he’s sheathed inside. he has the image tattooed on his brain, and yet he couldn’t seem to get enough of its sight. you can say it boosts his pride, fucking you with his sheer length, watching the pulsing veins around his shaft shape their thickness on your plumped pussy. until he’s out of order, going ballistic with lust. he fucks you with a need of one deprived man, savaging you to the point of surrender. because as much as he loves the sight, he loves how you cling to him and rake your nails from his back to his buttocks more. you love it as much as he does. and there is no denying, especially when you lock your legs around his body, securing that his cum would go straight to your perfect cunt and nowhere else.

TARTAGLIA !

tartaglia has nothing but adoration whenever you wallow in his wildest fantasies. which sometimes makes him think that it is due to your work as a handmaiden in the palace. although he has not heard any objection from you, this particular fantasy he’s been concealing for so long planted doubt on his mind. and so his joy had been immeasurable after obtaining your approval.

he was not wrong, though. it is truly a magnificent sight. tartaglia finds it fascinating how your pussy seems only slightly bigger than the crown of his cock in his current form. you can barely take him in: pussy hole stretched and gaping around his tip. the pre-ejaculate he’s squirting since earlier seems almost enough to pump your womb swollen. for a second he fears that his cock wouldn’t go in, debating whether he should change back on his human form instead. but you have urged him to go on— giving him full consent to ram his whole length in you. with patient thrusts he did— or at least tried to do so— until he couldn’t endure it any longer and pistoled his hips between your thighs, penetrating your cunt to the root and pumping thick loads that looks exactly like pre-cum. you have a long night ahead of you, it seems.

[chosetherose]

"The Alchemy" = Karlie's POV of how she's going to take Taylor from Travis?

"I haven't come around in so long

But I'm making a comeback to where I belong"

Karlie showing up at the Eras Tour! Taylor didn't spend long enough with either of the beards for "so long" to make any sense as being about them. How do you make a comeback when you're barely a thing to begin with? Karlie's comeback was headline news though.

"So when I touch down

Call the amateurs and cut 'em from the team

Ditch the clowns, get the crown"

Her football fan baby ("fly like a jet stream") is touching down and coming to sweep away the understudies, users, narcissists and clowns. King of my Heart coming to reclaim her crown! We can only hope 🙏

"Cause the sign on your heart says it's still reserved for me"

Taylor can rewrite history all she wants, but Tratty was never a thing and no-one with a brain can buy the idea that he was the love of her life ten years ago, while Kissgate was happening right in front of him. Peak Kaylor era. When we all saw with our own eyes how she looked at Karlie! But, no, it was Matty all along! Sure, Jan.

Meanwhile, even the "anyone but Karlie" Gaylors who hate her can't deny Taylor has been writing songs about Karlie for a decade now. Even they think she's not over her. So who "still" has Taylor's heart and could make a comeback? Mmhmm.

"I circled you on a map"

Flashback to Taylor highlighting Kaylor-related towns on the weather map in the Lavender Haze music video. Uh-huh.

"Who are we to fight the alchemy?"

Alchemy is the process of turning things into gold. Are we really going to sit here and pretend this isn't Ms Gold Rush, Ms "it's like your eyes are liquor, it's like your body is gold"? Are we really going to pretend Karlie hasn't been gold coded since the beginning? But no! This is about Travis! Totally! Does your blindfold fit snugly enough, babe, or do you want me to tighten it some more for you? 🙄

"Hey, what if I told you we're cool

That child's play back in school

Is forgiven under my rule?"

The child's play is the bearding. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. It's getting so old to never grow up. Karlie is saying it all means nothing.

"These blokes warm the benches

We've been on a winning streak"

Her British beards have just been keeping Karlie's seat warm. While she and Taylor have privately been on a winning streak.

(Seriously, the construction of this song makes no sense if you believe it's about Travis. How could she have been "on a winning streak" with him, while "these blokes" were present-tense warming the benches? Or are we supposed to believe they're just waiting on the sidelines for Taylor to get back with one of them? Even though things are so great with 🚜 and she's said multiple times she doesn't want that? So . . . how is any of this working, exactly? What benches are they warming? Are we SURE the "we" is Travis? Hmm?)

"He jokes it's heroin but this time with an e"

People are so distracted by this "dig at Matty" they can't see what's right in front of their faces. Heroin with an e = heroine. As in, the female hero of a story. The joke is that the one to "save" Taylor won't be any of these jokers dressing up as kings. It's a woman. A HEROINE. Not a hero.

And then we get a football metaphor everyone will assume is about Travis, even though Karlie's love of football is well-documented. Do we really think Travis cares more about the beard he's made his meal ticket than he does about winning a trophy? Yeah, right. The days of wasted celebration with no Taylor in sight really give that impression. The thirst traps he was liking on Instagram while "dating" Taylor really show he only has eyes for her. Totally.

Meanwhile we have a million songs where Taylor tells us all her obviously-Karlie lover ever wanted was her.

I can't see The Alchemy any other way than as a Karlie comeback song. Bring it home, Karlie! We're all rooting for you! Go! Fight! Win! 🏆

Wow, Anon! I love this take! Lots of food for thought.

[lilibethwrites]

Head that Wears the Crown

Aemond Targaryen x F!Targaryen!Reader

There is only one woman in the whole of Westeros who can get inside Aemond’s Targaryen’s head. On the night of Aegon II’s coronation, Aemond’s beloved wife, Y/N Targaryen is not happy with who wears the crown, and she seduces her husband into making a move that might change the order of succession in a mere turn of the moon.  

Warnings: smut, incest  

A.N: Reader is Rhaenyra and Daemon’s daughter and married to Aemond. This is somewhat darker than what I usually write, but it’s also something I’ve been meaning to write while I’m still working on the requests I’ve received.

Word count: 1958

You were at the Dragonpit earlier, standing tall and proud with your husband by your side as Aegon was crowned as the true King. Within you, however, the fire of a dozen dragons burnt bright and tall. The same fire also burned inside your husband as he grunted and scoffed, your hand in his was squeezed to the point of discomfort—pain, even, as he tried to restrain himself.

 It should have been you. It should have been Aemond. The legacy of Aegon the Conqueror was insulted when his crown was placed upon the head of the disgraceful, reproachable man you had the displeasure of calling your brother-in-law.

 And Helaena? Old Gods and new had to band together to save your family from doom if she were to rule alongside her brother.

 What you devised required a clear head on your part and Aemond’s both to blossom. You allowed him to take a flight on Vhagar to clear his head, and spar with Ser Criston afterwards until his arms and knees threatened to give out.

 Then you knew where to find him as if you’d placed him there by your own hand. In the new, spacious bedchamber in addition to yours, gifted to you as Aegon and Helaena vacated it. You suspected it was a consolation gift from Alicent. A mere room for the Seven Kingdoms.

 The room was spacious. The floor was tiled with veiny marbles imported from Dorne between smooth stones and the walls were covered in rich tapestries; and it was dark, illuminated by what seemed like a dozen candles and the fire from the fireplace alone. In the middle was a tub partially obscured by a silk curtain left ajar, and within it was Aemond with his arms hanging out on each side, his slender fingers drumming on the side of the cold tub with a servant carefully scrubbing his broad shoulders.

 Your entrance did not go unnoticed, and you relieved the servant of the frightful duty. She had heard the tales from other girls who’s heard them from others: Aemond was cruel and short-tempered. He’s beaten and maimed people on a whim. On an evening like this in particular, it was easy as a pie to get on his nerves.

 “Leave us,” you ordered, and she set down the rag and scurried away eagerly. Aemond’s face was turned away from his Princess wife, you, and towards the fireplace that extended all the way up to the high ceiling. It gave his face a soft tinge of warmth, he almost looked less intimidating.

 “My love.”

 Only a hum.

 You took a fluffed-up pillow from the bed and kneeled on it beside the tub, to which Aemond finally turned his head. You only hoped it was washed thoroughly. Even through heavy stockings, you were revolted to kneel on only Gods knew what touched before. Knowing Aegon, it was nothing decent.

 “What a day we’ve had,” you whispered, dipping the rag in water.

 “Hm.”

 You began with his arm, scrubbing gently and slowly before moving up to his shoulder, following the muscular curve of it in circles.

 “Talk to me, husband,” you whispered again, much closer to his ear this time, and sealed your seduction with a kiss to his neck.

 From the way his chest rose and fell, you knew he was giving in to you.

 “Aegon is…” he sighed. Aemond shared your dislike for Aegon but his sense of duty and his commitment to his family tied his tongue. You, however, were also his family, and you were determined.

 “A drunkard and a charlatan, yes. Not at all the knight and the scholar you are. The heirloom of Aegon belonged to you and you alone, my love.”

 You dipped the rag into the water once again, this time rubbing his chest. He caught your heavy-lidded eyes and licked his lips like a man starved before a feast.

 “Aegon is the king, now. This is treason,” Aemond spoke through gritted teeth. The words of his older brother’s coronation were heavy on his pride and difficult to speak.

 “So be it. Then we shall hang together.”

 You trailed down from his chest to his abdomen. His muscles under your rag tightened. He could foresee your next move as with shaky breaths that bordered on sweet mewls and moans, you let go of the rag and pressed your palm on his skin.

 “Hand in hand in death as we are in life, my love,” your fingers travelled down a patch of light hair that led to his manhood.

 He was growing hard already and twitched in your palm when you gave his cock a light squeeze and a pump. Aemond’s hips shifted as he slid down the tub, his legs spread wider to accommodate your conduct.

His breath was heavier also, shaking with each up-and-down slide of your hand around his shaft and with kisses pressed to the corners of his lips.

 “Aegon cannot hurt you, love. No one can while I am around,” he grunted. His head was thrown back in pleasure though his eye was trained on your face still.

 “Mmm, husband. What would I do without you?” You purred in his ear, scratching with your words the spot that pleased him the most.

 Aemond wasn’t a man to be manipulated, but you were a woman not to be underestimated. Your hold over him was stronger than most knew. Perhaps even Aemond himself didn’t always know just how much of his decisions were placed in his head by his dear wife.

 “It was not right,” his lips loosened up between grunts as you picked up the pace with your strokes. “He—he should not have—” he stuttered between gasps and huffs.

 “We can make it right. My dear husband, we can make it right,” You could tell he was close. A hand on the curved corner of the tub clutched the marble so tight that veins on top of his hand and around his forearm popped up. He hissed through gritted teeth with each stroke you gave him from the hilt to the tip.

 He was burning up, too. When you pressed quick but wet kisses all over his neck and jaw, your lips felt as if you’ve kissed hot coals.

 “How?”

 You knew the signs all too well. You knew when to press on, and much to your husband’s dismay, you knew when to pull back. With a disappointed groan from Aemond’s throat, you pulled your hand out of the water and began slowly to loosen up the bodice of your dress.

 He watched you with a heavy-lidded eye and a heavier heave of his chest. The heavy silk of your gown slid down from your shoulders and bared your naked breasts to your husband. He cupped one, massaging and squeezing, desperate to feel more of you.

 Aemond’s wet hand raised goosebumps on your skin. There was the familiar, sweet building up of heat and ache between your legs, as well. You needed him just as he needed you. Though before you allowed yourself to indulge, the matter at hand needed Aemond to be resolved on a particular solution—and who better than you, his darling wife, to make it happen?

 You cupped his cheek and brushed your lips against his before sliding your tongue between his parted lips. It was more of a promise of things that might come, so you pulled back when his hand tangled in your hair to deepen the kiss.

 “There is a way, my love.”

 You had Aemond just the way you wanted then: panting and gasping, trembling, silently begging to be touched, to be inside you. Your thumb caressed his lips, and he watched you expectantly.

 “Though some might say it shall visit a curse upon us—”

 “You are asking me to… to—”

 “Not quite. Not a slit throat, or a sword through the heart. But… you do fly together occasionally. Above the clouds, above even where the Gods cannot reach you. If a dreadful accident were to happen…”

 “It would be—”

 “It would be the only way to ensure there would be no protests to your coronation,” your hand wrapped around his neck gently, your thumb stroking the vein that ran from the side of his sensitive flesh. You could feel the flow of his hot blood when you pressed your finger down on it.

 Aemond leaned back, looking up at the ceiling. If it wasn’t an immediate no, it was a yes. A reluctant one, maybe even an afraid one—and could you blame him considering the weight of what you just asked of him?— but it was a yes.

 Your hand dipped into the water and down between his legs again, and you started stroking his already-stimulated cock, this time to bring him to his peak.

 “Leave Helaena to me. I know you are fond of her,” Though the idea that Aemond was keen on her made it all the more alluring to do away with her in a more permanent manner, you had to tread carefully and make your calculations precisely. Your plan was as delicate as it was dangerous. If you turned greedy, it could collapse.

 “I shall ensure she disappears without damage. This, I promise to you, my love. But Aegon,” you squeezed him, and he reached down to grab your wrist, making your hand resume its movement.

 “Aegon must…”

 “I will do it,” he finally agreed to your plan. The hesitation in his voice was palpable, but you knew your husband to be a man of his word. He would do it if he promised he would.

 So you kissed him one more time as he guided your hand around his cock, only a few more strokes away from release. You didn’t resist when he bit your lip and swirled his tongue around yours.

 “I shall be the kinslayer to put a crown on your head, my dear, wicked wife,” he murmured against your lips. It took one to know one. And that was all you needed to hear, so you worked his cock just the way that he liked—the way that drew out ragged moans from his trembling lips.

 He came panting, chasing his pleasure with erratic and desperate jolts and rolls of his hips. You let him, and he fucked your hand until the last drop of his load.

 Aemond’s head was thrown back, his eye shut tight with tremors still going through his hips and groin. He only looked at you when he heard the rustling of your skirt on the stone and marble floor. He watched you—exhausted and having barely caught his breath— as you stepped out of your dress and joined him in the tub. Bubbled bath water splashed on the floor as you straddled him.

 “My king,” you wrapped your arms around his neck and his breath hitched in his throat. If he wasn’t convinced of the plan before, hearing the words from your mouth certainly sealed the deal for him.

 “My cruel, cruel queen.”

 “Only to our enemies, my love. Only to those who would do nought but menace to us.”

 “Oh, whatever would I do without you?” Aemond teased, mockery laced with playfulness. You could let him entertain any notion he liked as long as you got your wishes.

 He was growing hard under you again with each roll of your hips. As his head bowed down to take your nipple in his mouth, you guided him inside you.

 A shared moan escaped your lips as he filled you to the brim and your walls fluttered around him.

 “Don’t—don’t stop,” he pleaded.

 You had no such plans. Not for the night, nor for the future.

  Aemond Tag (let me know if you’d like to be added to it):

@cherishedauthor @schniiipsel @verycollectivecreator @dangerousbluebirdpoetry @aemcndtargaryen @m1ndbrand @iorveth-scoiatael @let-love-bleeds-red @imakeangelscry @midnightindiewolf @queereddie @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @nighttwingg @mllemarianne @lomllino @tinykryptonitewerewolf @mirandastuckinthe80s @loverandqueenofdragons @fultimefangirl @lenasvoid @leilani788 @theekinslayer @dangerousbluebirdpoetry @m00n5t0n3​ @paprikaquinn​ @dearbaji​

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Maybe a drabble in which our Lamb meets Chimaera Reader, the maker of all crowns? Like, he stumbles upon their lair, and sees all types of the crowns, big and small, black and white, one-eyed and two-eyed, etc.? Maybe even a little inter actions between the Reader and the Red Crown in which it recognises them as their maker?

Sorry for my English, it is not my native language-

Also sorry if this request repeats, tumblr May have doubled it-

I swear I'm gonna turn this into an OC one day because I LOVE the concept of a crown maker in the COTL universe

........

'Where am I now..?' Lamb pondered as they stepped into a cavern--one most unfamiliar to them.

It was strange, considering they've scoured nearly every corner of the Old Faith for resources, potential rival cult activity, and even martyrs for the Bishops.

But this area was entirely new to them.

With their weapon drawn, they cautiously ventured further inward, eventually arriving into a larger room that was almost entirely cloaked in darkness. They could barely see a thing even with the few torches scattered around lighting the way.

Then suddenly, they saw a bunch of eyes opening up on all sides of them, varying in shape, size, color, and number. And they just stared down at the little sheep.

While they were accustomed to having so many eyes on them, this was completely different.

These eyes certainly didn't belong to any follower of theirs.

What if this was a trap?

What if-?

"Welcome, little Lamb! Promised liberator of the Old Faith!"

Looking upwards, they could see you descending from the darkness. You looked like a tradition chimera: a lion, goat, dragon, and snake all mixed into one. Both of your heads smiled as you took a seat upon your throne, although you frowned a bit upon realizing how poor the lighting must have been.

"Oh forgive me, it is awful dim in here, isn't it? Hold on one moment." Your lion head breathed out a small blast of fire, aimed towards a nearby candle that lit up.

That set off a chain reaction which lit up dozens of other candles around your lair, and burned the torches bright enough for Lamb to see what all those eyes belonged to:

Crowns.

So many crowns.

Big and small, black and white, one-eyed and two-eyed..and even multi-eyed; some sported horns and some did not. Others had bare surfaces while others were decorated with jewels or marred with scars from time.

It was an astonishing sight, and when Lamb looked back up at you, they could see a crown on each of your heads--snake tail included.

Not to mention your seat was adorned with four familiar ones...

"So you..take crowns from fallen gods?"

"Do I take them?" You repeated, before laughing uproariously. "No, but I can see why you'd assume that. I'm [y/n], Maker of the Crowns."

They blinked. "You created the crowns?"

"I have since the first gods ruled over these lands." You chuckled, taking the Green Crown into your paw. "I mold them into a design of my liking, give them life, and then send them off into the world to find a worthy host. They're like my children, so I do get sentimental at times...but I know they'll do great things."

'Huh...Leshy did say the crown found him..' Lamb mused.

"Of all the ones I've created, though, I never thought to see the Bishops' crowns again. But they were in such terrible condition...falling apart, barely able to keep their eyes open....I couldn't believe it." Your gaze shifted down to the sheep. "You wouldn't happen to know why, would you?"

They tensed. "...well...um-"

"Haha! I only jest, Lamb. I know everything." You smiled reassuringly. "I've sensed strong spikes in their energy, and I'm well aware they've been used as aids for the bishops after Narinder's betrayal. Speaking of whom...."

Pausing, you outstretched your paws towards them. "I see the Red Crown has found a new master."

"It's a long story, but--hey!!" All of the sudden, the Red Crown slipped out of their hands, morphing back into its normal form as it began floating up to you. They were shocked and angered, feeling extremely vulnerable without it. "What are you doing?!"

"Nothing, little one. It came to me all on its own. Welcome home, my darling." With the crown nestled into your paw, your smile grew as its eye stared back up at you with happiness. You sighed and brought it closer to your cheek, allowing it to nuzzle up to you. "Oh how I've missed you, mighty crown of Death. I'm glad you have not forgotten me."

"Give it back!!" Lamb snarled, baring their sharp teeth as they tried storming up to your throne. But their little hooves kept slipping on the skull pile that served as its foundation, and they eventually tumbled downwards, landing on their rear. "I need it back right now!"

"...are they always like this?" You muttered to the Red Crown, who just rolled its pupil in response. "Huh, I thought so. Arrogant, entitled, paranoid....just like your first master-"

"Don't compare us." They scowled. "Narinder was worse than arrogant...he would have destroyed this entire world, along with you and all these crowns if I returned it to him! We are NOTHING alike."

"Hm, I see I've touched a nerve. My apologies. I just wanted to take care of this little chip in its horn." Smiling, you manifested some black ichor to seal the crack you discovered on the crown, before sharpening up its horns a little bit. "There. Much better."

"....thank you. Now may I have it back?" Lamb put their hand out, growing more anxious with each passing second they were separated from it. 'Why isn't it returning to me?"

"It doesn't see why it has to right at this very moment...and quite frankly, I don't either. It's not connected to your lifeforce. You're still standing without it-"

"Because I'm its new master! I gave it new purpose. I gave it freedom...and it should be obeying me unconditionally and I don't understand why it's being so stubborn. That crown wouldn't be anywhere NEAR as powerful if it weren't for-!!"

"Choose your next words carefully," you tutted, shaking your head as you gestured to the walls. "My children do not look it, but they too have ears."

Falling silent, they looked all around, noticing that the crowns were now glaring at them. They tensed up, a feeling of heavy discomfort and embarrassment washing over them as they slowly realized how childish they were acting.

And in front of the crown creator, of all people?

"Tell me..do you see the crown as nothing without you? Or perhaps you feel like you are nothing without the crown?"

"........"

"Your mistake, little lamb, is that you see crowns as simple tools to do your bidding. A conduit for your godhood. But do not forget, they are also living breathing creatures like you and I." You chastised. "As such, they deserve respect. I figured you would've been more grateful to meet their maker...such few have the privilege to enter my lair and receive such a warm welcome."

The Red Crown bobbed up and down in agreement, before it scowled down at Lamb, as though to say "you better listen to them and treat me better".

They just looked at the ground, unable to form words as shame creeped up their spine.

You sighed softly. "I understand your worries as a new god. The mere thought of separation from it drives you to rage, especially after what happened between you and Narinder. But I have no desire to take it from you. Not when you've fought so hard for it. All I wish is that you continue caring for it."

"....I'm sorry, Great Crown Maker.." Lamb muttered, finally letting themselves be humbled. "I don't mean to act like I did. It's just...he's been annoying me all day today, shouting about "divine right" and making my life a living hell. He still can't accept that it chose me over him.."

They felt the familiar and comforting weight of the Red Crown returning to the wool atop their head, but they only looked up at you with respect. "Thank you."

"Of course, young one." You nodded, smiling once more. "Narinder has possessed that crown since he was a wee little kit, so it's going to be quite a long time before he lets that grudge go. Perhaps in a hundred years, give or take."

"I understand...so.." Lamb looked around. "Do you have any wares?"

"Oh, plenty!" You clapped your paws together. "Feel free to take a gander! Since this is your first visit, you may have one of the tarot cards over there on the house. But just know that the crowns aren't for sale."

[sleepingdeath-light]

alastor helping his s/o ‘relax’ hcs ; 18+

requested by ; anonymous (27/10/22)

fandom(s) ; hazbin hotel

fandom masterlist(s) ; here

character(s) ; alastor / the radio demon

outline ; “May I please request hc of l alastor and reader with him trying to help them "relax" and "let off some steam" after they've been coming home late and over working themselves (he also might be feeling lonely with them not being around as much and growing a little possessive :)”

warning(s) ; possessive!alastor, sexual content, rough sex, marking kink, one reference to cannibalism, references to bleeding and overstimulation

minors and ageless blogs will be blocked!!!

working for the ‘happy hotel’ often translated into long hours chasing after your guests and even longer hours spent cleaning up the aftermath of whatever fresh hell you’d gotten yourselves into in order to retrieve them

and for as endlessly optimistic and helpful as your ‘boss’ (who felt more like a friend than an employer, frankly) could be, her responsibilities tended to fall beyond the scope of standard busywork which left you and a small handful of other demons to your own devices

nifty was the most helpful by far when it came to clean-up duty (as husk was usually off drinking to forget what you’d just played witness to and alastor was off doing things that only occasionally happened to help out the hotel)

but either way it was still a lot of work for you to handle and that meant that it had been a long while since you and your partner-in-death had been able to spend some time together

well, time that wasn’t spent discussing your work, that is

and after a good month of this, your patience had more than worn thin and the two of you agreed to take the rest of the day off and spend it as couples do

it’s the third day of the new month and you’re already beyond done by the time you stumble into your shared bedroom, slamming the door shut with your heel as you groan and fight the urge to scream out your frustrations

and alastor is already waiting for you, the radio playing your song as he greets you with a grin — bright eyes scanning over you and taking you in for the first time in far too long

he keeps up the facade of polite concern for a few beats as you walk over to him and wrap your arms around him, pressing your lips to his as you take in his presence — his scent, his look, his voice, his everything — after so long spent apart

but then he presses a kiss to the crown of your head and pauses before his claws fly to your waist and he practically growls out something about it being far too long and him needing to reaffirm that you’re spoken for lest some more ungentlemanly demon try to stake his claim upon you

and that translates rather simply to a long day of toe-curling, mind-blanking, overwhelming, rough sex

your uniform (issued by vaggie, of course) is immediately torn off of you, shredded under sharp claws and carelessly discarded to the floor before you’re practically tossed onto the bed

his large hands roam up and down your body — groping, pinching, scratching and clawing every inch of bare skin that was exposed to him

and soon he started using his mouth in conjunction with this

not stopping until you were covered in marks — bites and bruises and scratches — that screamed ‘this one belongs to the radio demon’

then, finally satisfied with your state, he gives you both what you’ve been craving and finally takes you

he fucks you in every position the two of you can manage: riding, bending, twisting, laying, standing — anything and everything is on the table

until you’re screaming his name

until you’re so fucked out and cock drunk that you’re only able to cry and sob and scream for him

until you’re covered in blood and sweat and cum

until the sheets are peeling up at the corners and your mattress is practically hanging off of the bed

until he’s had his fill of you and knows that everyone else knows that you’re his — that he’s the only one who can touch you like this

then he will relent and roll off of you and summon some fresh food that he’d picked up earlier that day, happy to indulge you for being such an obedient and receptive toy

i hope you like the taste of earth-born sinners

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

Bat Boys with Bat Babies HC

Warnings: polyamorous mates, nothing else really, batboys being mushy with the bat triplets, ft amren & mor, i know i have two more requests to get done from last month but the bat boys are my comfort mates rn

honestly you hardly get any time with your babies besides breast feeding. the bat boys were smitten and abducted your babies from their cots

already wrapped around the triplets' little fingers

Rhysand loves toting his pack of children wherever he went. two would be on his shoulders while he held one in his arms

in both velaris and the hewn city, everyone calls Rian the crown prince despite Dagen technically the first born. (as babies no one is for sure of who belonged to which father but as they get older it's easy to tell. rian has the prettiest eyes; dagen has whisps of shadows on his wings that make them look fluffly, and baila had the general's rambunctiousness)

also as a toddler, baila made it a habit to greet everyone by headbutting their shins like a goat 😂

you nor your mates or the rest of the inner circle care about paternity. in your mixed family it didn't matter.

though succession would be something to talk about when the kids got older

cassian is definitely the fun dad. rough houses with all three bat babies.

azriel plays shadow tag and hide & seek with them. his shadows make for good alarms at night as they monitor the nursery while you caught up on much needed sleep

bat babies LOVE mor. amren kinda scares dagen and rian but not baila.

"this one is fearless" amren would comment then add with a smirk "i like it."

an even bigger bed is required for all seven of you to properly snuggle

when the babies start to experiment with their wings and flap them rhysand damn near cries. its a big step for illyrian babies when they begin to utilize their wings and strengthen them. (rian like rhysand can summon his wings at will)

az tells them stories using his shadows to make images for them (when their eyes start to track, they're mesmerized)

while there are no favorites, baila is more spoiled than her brothers. she was the only female afterall and the most charming. baila had cass' personality with your appearance. cass jokes that she'll be ruling the court of nightmares in no time lol

however, she's the one who likes to stay by your side the most. complete mommy's girl and it breaks her daddys' hearts 😂. always cries when they try to take her away from you.

kids like napping in rhys' office. often times dagen is curled up against his chest as he goes through paperwork. rian and baila in the cot that he moved to his office.

when they learn how to walk, they follow rhys everywhere (or try to)

pls send me more bat boy hc. they give me life

[obsessedwithceleste]

Daisy Chains and Kept Promises

George Weasley x reader

Based on this request🫶🏽

Summary: George Weasley was never one to break a promise. Especially not one sealed by a daisy chain ring.

word count: 3.2k

©️ obsessedwithceleste. all works posted here belong to me and should not be reposted or copied in any way or form.

It was the first sunny afternoon in what seemed like forever, but in reality had only been a few days, and the residents of the burrow were eager to escape onto the vibrant, green lawn.

“Fred, George you stay out of trouble now!” Molly shouted from the kitchen as you run out the door with the twins.

“Come on now, it’s our last summer before they ship us off to Hogwarts! We gotta make the most of it!” Fred replies, sprinting out to the shed where the Weasleys stored all their brooms.

“Hurry up Georgie, or I’m taking the good broom!” You tease as you race past the other boy, snatching the best broom from the rack before he has the chance to protest.

“Aw c’mon! Why’s she always get the good one?” Ron complains as he catches up with you all.

“Oh shut it Ronald,” George retorts, not bothering to give his youngest brother a second glance.

The four of you spend the afternoon zooming across the field, a beat up quaffle tossed between you in carefree bliss as the sun shines down on you and Ginny watches from the ground below.

Eventually you all tire and you find yourself lying in the shade of the old oak tree that loomed over the garden. Thankfully the rain had scared off the gnomes that had a habit of sneaking into the garden for a tasty treat.

“Show me how to make those daisy crowns? Like the muggles?” Ginny asks, bringing over fists full of the little white flowers.

“Not now Ginny,” Fred sighs, rolling his eyes at the young girl.

“No, no, we can do it now,” you argue, patting the ground next to you, gesturing for the younger girl to sit beside you.

“Yeah, let her stay,” George agrees, smiling fondly at you.

Fred snorts at his brother, eyes rolling once more.

“You always side with her, you’re supposed to be my twin! How are you two going to survive without each other?” Fred retorts, leaning back against the tree.

“It’ll only be a year, then y/n can join us in the fun,” George replies happily.

“Oh at this point you might as well just marry her,” Fred responds with a huff.

You feel your cheeks begin to grow red and you turn to focus all your attention on the young girl beside you, showing her how to intricately wrap the stems together to form a chain of daisies.

You’d known the twins for as long as you could remember. You’d practically grown up with them. Your father Remus did the best he could raising you on his own, he really did, but it was hard. Especially on full moons. The Weasleys always took you in on those nights, often resulting in you staying for days while Remus recovered.

George had had a soft spot for you since the beginning, always being the slightly softer twin while Fred was more severe and brash. You could remember a particularly bad night when it had been storming, the loud thunder making you shake with fear. George had stayed up with you all night, making sure the storm didn’t get you. You had been seven at the time.

It had started back then you supposed, your little crush. It had confused you at first as you had thought of all the boys as your brothers, but now, at the ripe old age of ten, you could tell that Georgie was different from the other Weasley boys.

“There!” George announces excitedly, shaking you from your thoughts as he brandishes a single daisy up into the air, its stem tied rather roughly in a small circle.

Without warning, he grasps onto your hand, sliding the makeshift ring onto your finger, looking rather pleased with himself.

“There. You’re my wife now,” he says proudly as you stare at the little flower adorning your finger.

“You didn’t do it right! You have to ask her to be your wife. Everyone knows that!” Ginny exclaims, watching the two of you with a dopey little grin on her face.

“Oh. Right. Y/n, will you be my wife?” Georgie asks, batting his eyes dramatically at you and sticking out his bottom lip.

“Yes I will,” you reply with a laugh, admiring the pretty daisy that now sat on your finger.

“You two are so gross,” Fred says, making a face.

“Oh, oh! Do the promises! The ones where you say I do!” Ginny urges excitedly, clapping her hands.

“Alright. Do you promise to always laugh at my jokes, always be there for me when I need you, and always take my side when we argue with Fred?” George asks.

Fred begins to make dramatic gagging sounds.

“I do.” You reply with a giggle as Fred just glares at you. “And do you promise to always make me smile, always protect me, and always make me hot chocolate when I can’t sleep?”

“I do.”

It was dark. The whole house was dark really. All the time. Dimly lit and constantly smelling like mold and rotting wood. And the furniture seemed to be permanently damp, the coldness settling into your bones.

You hated it here at Grimmauld Place. The constant shrieking of decrepit, old portraits, the eerie feeling of constantly being watched. The only positive attribute about living in this wretched place was the fact that Remus had never been happier.

It had taken months to do it, but after Harry had been able to help Sirius escape the dementors, Dumbledore had inconspicuously been able to move Sirius into Grimmauld place where you had been staying ever since.

It had been strange at first, no doubt. You had only just met the man, but he grew on you quickly. Like a fungus. You loved seeing how comfortable he made Remus who visibly softened whenever the other man was near. And you hadn’t seen Remus smile as wide or as often, well ever. You could tell that the two of them were just meant to be side by side, and honestly, that was enough for you. Especially in dark times like these.

“Lighten up love, we have a surprise for you before dinner,” Remus announces, entering the drawing room where you sat wrapped in a pile of blankets, a book in hand as you tried to ignore the screeching bag lady in entry way portrait.

“Is it another one of those horrendous sweaters that Sirius keeps digging up from somewhere?” You ask, nose scrunching at the thought of another one of the putrid smelling things being presented to you. You didn’t have the heart to tell him that you detested the nasty things, so you had been giving them to Kreacher to dispose of rapidly. “I know I keep telling him that they’re lovely, but how many of the things does he think I need?”

Remus just laughs, shaking his head. “I’ve told him to move onto something else, but he’s determined to fill your wardrobe I think. But no. It’s not another sweater. For now at least. No, I do believe you’ll quite enjoy this little surprise.” He tells you before leaving you to your book and your thoughts.

Dinner time couldn't come fast enough as you eagerly eyed the clock every fifteen minutes, only to be disappointed by how little time had gone by.

About thirty minutes before the three of you usually ate dinner, you began hearing a chorus of voices coming from the entry way. And not the familiar voices of the Black family portraits.

"Well where is she then?" a loud voice asks.

Hearing the voice, you immediately perk up, not quite believing you'd heard correctly. This place might be driving you mad.

"Oh bloody hell mate, don't seem too eager now," comes the sarcastic response.

You'd know those voices anywhere. Practically throwing yourself from the couch, you eagerly scramble to the door and down the staircase to be greeted by the whole Weasley family grinning up at you.

"Look Georgie, there's your wife, don't get your knickers in a twist now," Fred scoffs.

You fly into George's arms, sighing contentedly as his arms wrap securely around you.

"Well hello to you too," you hear him laugh as he gives you another squeeze before releasing you.

You hadn't seen him, or the other Weasley's for that matter, in what felt like ages. He and Fred had grown their hair out, and you didn't quite remember them being so tall last you saw them. His smile never changed though.

Bashfully, you greet the rest of the Weasley bunch, even Fred giving you a quick hug, before rubbing the top of your head affectionately and effectively tossling up your hair. You stick your tongue out at the boy in response, batting his hand away.

"I missed you all, so much! I've been going absolutely bonkers being here alone for so long," you tell them.

"Well not to worry love, we'll be here all summer. Hermione too, though she's not coming for another few weeks." George tells you.

Feeling eyes on you as you laugh with the boys, turning to see both Sirius and Remus gazing at you intently, eyes flickering between you and George.

Sirius silently points at you, then George before drawing a line across his neck with his finger before giving you a wink. You feel heat creeping into your cheeks as you turn back to the boys.

"What are you all doing here?" you ask eventually as the adults begin to file into the kitchen.

"Came to be used as house elves of course," Fred replies, earning him a nudge from George.

"Mum said that Sirius volunteered the house to be headquarters for the Order," Ron butts in.

"Yeah, then mum volunteered us to help clean the place up," Ginny adds.

You make a face at that.

"We have a lot of work to do then, this place is disgusting," you tell them, leading them up the stairs to the room you'd been staying in. On your way up the stairs, George's hand never leaves yours, fingers intertwined as you guide him up the dusty staircase.

"Long as there aren't any spiders," Ron replies, eyeing the spiraling stairs with suspicion.

You just look back at the boy with concern, pity overtaking your face as his own face turns pale.

For once Grimmauld place was silent. A rare luxury you'd found, especially since the Weasley's had moved in. Not that you minded, the red headed family made the grim, old place feel alive and vibrant. Something you thought the it needed desperately. But you liked the quiet too.

It had been a strange couple of weeks as everyone, the adults especially, seemed to be on high alert. And who could blame them? Hermione had just moved in, sharing a room with you and Ginny. You could hear their breathing now as you stared up at the dark ceiling above.

After the Weasley's arrival, you had all spent countless hours decluttering Grimmauld place. Sweeping, dusting, banishing the more mouthy portraits to the attic. It was hard work, but you had loved every second of it with George making you laugh until you keeled over, tears streaming down your face. His presence just made everything better. You thought so at least.

In the darkened room, your mind drifts to the conversation you had heard between the adults just hours ago. It definitely wasn't a conversation you had been meant to overhear, but Georgie had given you a pair of extendable ears that he and Fred had developed, and you just couldn't help yourself.

"Oh really Sirius, they've all practically grown up together, George would never do anything to hurt her," Molly had said.

At the mention of George's name, you just had to find out what they were talking about.

"We never said he was going to do anything malicious, we just don't want to see her get hurt," Remus replied with a heavy sigh.

Her?

"They're practically adults, you can't protect her forever. So what if they fancy each other? They're not children!" Molly retorts.

"Oh that's rich coming from you. Just the other day you were going on about young witches and wizards rushing into marriage during the first war. And how many times have you told the twins that they're forbidden from joining the Order hmm? They're adults, Molly, you can't protect them forever," Sirius responds.

"Oh but at least I've done all I can to protect them up to this point. What have you done for y/n? Nothing. Because you've been locked up!" Molly spits. You can hear the fury in her voice.

Your fists ball up in rage at her comments. None of it was Sirius's fault. He didn't do anything wrong. How dare she?

"That's enough!" you hear Remus cut in, a sharpness in his voice that you hadn't heard before. "We weren't coming to attack George, or the way you raised any of the children. We were simply raising our concerns, as any good parents would. Now that we've made our point, if you don't wish to interfere, fine. We won't either."

After that the only thing you had heard was the shuffling of feet as they abandoned the dining room. They had most definitely been talking about you. No doubt about it. You hadn't realized they were concerned about you. They never said anything. And it was only Georgie. The two of you had been married for six years now. In all the ways that mattered to you at least. He would never hurt you. In fact, he'd made it a promise.

Mind racing and unable to sleep, you slip out of bed, careful not to make a sound as you slowly creep to the drawing room that you so often took refuge in. To your surprise however, a dim light was already flickering inside when you approached, and a familiar head of red hair sat facing away from you on the sofa.

"Georgie?" You whisper cautiously, not wanting to spook him.

His head turns in surprise, but his face lights up when he sees you.

"What are you doing this up this late, love?" he asks.

"I could ask you the same."

"Fair enough. Just a lot on my mind I suppose."

"Me too," you reply.

A silence falls between the two of you as you stand, watching mesmerized as the light flickers on and off of the boy's handsome face.

"Want me to make you a hot chocolate?" George asks finally.

A smile grows on your face and you instantly perk up at the mention of your favorite treat. George always knew how to put you to sleep, and he always made the best hot chocolate. Nodding enthusiastically, the two of you make your way down to the kitchen where George begins gathering supplies.

One thing you'd always admired about him was that he never minded doing things the muggle way. While Fred was always quick to magic his way through things, George was content taking his time.

"Help stir the milk so it doesn't burn?" he asks, gesturing to the pot now on the stove.

You silently take the wooden spoon from his hand, fingers brushing ever so slightly, before focusing on the task at hand. George sets out two mugs on the counter before helping you melt in the chocolate.

It all felt terribly domestic. As if there wasn't a sociopathic murderer on the loose. Like it was just the two of you.

It isn't long before George is pouring the dark liquid into the mugs, sprinkling in a few little marshmallows and a cinnamon stick or two and the both of you are retreating back up to the drawing room.

The first sip sends shivers of satisfaction down your spine as you lean into George who wraps his free arm around you. You pull a blanket over you and revel for a moment in the comfort.

"Care to share what's been on your mind?" George asks, breaking the silence.

"Only if you go first," you reply, not quite sure how to explain that he was really the only thing on your mind these days.

George just sighs. "It's nothing you we haven't told you before," He tells you. "Mum is just fighting for her life to keep Freddie and I out of the Order, but Moody agrees with us. We're of age. There's nothing she can do to stop us."

"Will you be safe?"

"Safe as can be. Mum has made sure they don't give us any real missions. Just patrolling Diagon Alley since that's where we set up shop."

You simply nod your head, letting it fall against the boy's chest as you feel his even breathing and let it overtake you. You'd never admit it out loud, but you were grateful for Molly to an extent. The twins had an abysmal lack of self preservation skills, and you didn't know what you would do if you lost Georgie.

"And what's going on in that pretty little head of yours?"

You feel your shoulders shrug as you think carefully of what to say.

"I overheard our parents talking today," you mumble, not exactly sure where you were taking this.

"Oh?"

"Dads are worried about us," you tell him, hiding your face in his chest.

"Worried?"

"I dunno. They said something about your mum talking about how a lot of wizards and witches rushed into marriage during the first war, and there was a lot of talk about you being of age and what not. It got intense. There was a lot of yelling."

You feel George's chest rumble with soft laughter at your words.

"Well that's a silly thing to be worried about considering we've been married for years now at this point," he says.

You're not sure if he's joking or not. Maybe the exhaustion was finally getting to you.

"I'm being serious Georgie. I didn't know they were so worried about me. And Sirius sounded so upset," you reply, sitting up to take another long sip of your hot chocolate.

"So am I." he responds, looking you dead in the eye. The usual mischievous gleam is gone this time and you know he's never been more serious about something. "You know I'm not one to break a promise."

The air grows heavy as you feel yourself freeze for a moment at his words before you sink back into his warm embrace.

"I still have it you know. Your ring. Your mum charmed it for me so it wouldn't wilt. She knew all along," you tell him.

"She tends to have a sixth sense when it comes to these kinds of things."

Another silence falls between the two, but this time, the silence brings comfort as you feel your eyes growing heavy. George tries to stifle a yawn, but it escapes anyway. It was later then you had realized.

"I'm glad it's real for you too," you murmur, leaning further into the boy as your eyes flutter close. Something about being in George's arms provided a sense of security you couldn't find anywhere else.

"It was always real. I'd never break a promise to you, love."

bby's first non-slytherin boy fic🫣

don't ask me if I edited this- the answer is no and I don't want to talk abt it💀

tag list: @sol-lupin-black @breeistired