#the horse is at least the right colour

[troublesomesnitch]

Meeting Vhagar - Drabble

Aemond x Wife!Reader

Much to your dismay, Prince Aemond insists on bringing your little son to Vhagar. Set sometime during the Dance.

Contents: Just a little practice thing... Dad!Aemond, Targaryen parenting, subtle fluff. Little bit of subtle angst too. No filth this time..

Words: 3000, and very sloppily proof read.

The carriage can only take you so far as to the Iron Gate. 

Beyond its massive doors, the Rosby Road winds North, poorly maintained and full of potholes, as it is the shortest of the main roads, and thus the least important. It is not as busy as others, and the gate is not guarded as well - clearly, as the men who should be protecting it are presently engaged in a game of cards, laid out on top of a large, flat rock.

That is where the driver will wait, but it is not your destination. 

There is another little trail. One that runs in the opposite direction, scarcely used and partially hidden, visible only to those who know it. No horse or wagon can make the journey, and there is no option but to walk - first along a narrow, trodden path, and then further still, down treacherous steps, carved into the very rock the city rests upon. Past the watchtower, and across the Northern beach, to the vast caves of Maegor the Cruel, where Vhagar has made her nest.

You walk alone, just the two of you. The prince in his coat and boots, and yourself in attire much less suited for the occasion. Fine shoes, fine skirts, and with your little son cradled in your arms. 

The gentle rocking of the carriage has lulled him to sleep. Four months old, he is, and a source of such joy that your poor heart can scarcely contain it. From his first high-pitched cry when you brought him into the world - oh, the pains of labour were all but forgotten, as was the threat of the raging war. And when the prince came to see his son, you could hardly even bear to let him hold him. 

He wanted to bring the boy much sooner, but both you and the dowager queen staunchly put your foot down against that. Children should not be brought outside the home until they have at least lived through the first perilous weeks, and possibly even their first fever. And even then, most would argue, they have no business being around ferocious animals. 

“I don’t like it,” you say, for the umpteenth time, taking the hand offered to you by the prince to help you cross a treacherous stretch. “It is mad, bringing an infant to such a beast - ” 

“Vhagar should know him,” he says, steadfast and determined. As he has done whenever you voiced your concern. 

It does nothing at all to calm your nerves. But it is his most compelling argument, and the only reason you have allowed this lunacy in the first place. So the dragon would recognise the boy as his, and as one of her own. So she would know to protect him, if - something should happen. 

You make it halfway across the pebbled beach before the prince pauses. And you do too, lifting your gaze to follow his line of sight; see what he is looking at. 

An enormous, greyish mass, some yards away, that at first you thought was a moss-grown rock, or years of washed up seaweed. But the mass makes a rumbling noise and begins to shift and lift itself, slowly and carefully, as though with much effort. Part of it becomes a leg, another part unfurls into a great wing, and the rock nearest to you becomes a head, with a mouth full of jagged teeth, and two eyes opening slowly. Amber in colour, and with slitted pupils staring straight at you. 

“She can sense me,” the prince declares, with no small amount of pride, lifting his chin and straightening his back. 

You, however, are paralysed, utterly shocked by her vastness. You have never seen Vhagar this close before, and though you knew of her impressive size, it is one thing to see her soaring across the sky, and quite another to be right next to her, unprotected and vulnerable.

It seems to you that the span of her wings could cover half the city, that entire buildings could fit in her mouth. And certainly, she could end all three of you with her fiery breath, or with a single swipe of her claw or her massive tail. One wrong move, even if accidental, even if she did not mean to - you would all be dead. 

“Come,” the prince says, pushing at the small of your back. But you stall, digging in your heels, frozen in place at the sight of her. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” you stammer. “We should go back - it is not safe…”

The prince gives an overbearing, if somewhat irritated sigh. 

“Dragons are loyal beasts,” he reassures. “Vhagar is loyal to me, she obeys me - ”

“She is a beast,” you hiss, hugging your drowsy son closer to your chest. “She cannot be trusted. It is too dangerous - I won’t let you bring him any closer - ”

Prince Aemond does not like to be challenged. He turns around to look at you coolly, his voice low and scornful as he speaks. 

“Is your opinion of me so unfavourable, wife, that you think I would risk harm to my own son?”

“No,” you respond, quietly, but truthfully. Since you were married, your opinion of the prince has only risen, slowly but surely. And it continues to do so, still - though perhaps not right now. “I don’t like it - ”

“Mhm - so you said,” your husband says dryly, all but wrenching the swaddled boy from your arms. 

He does not complain, the boy. Prince Aemond comes to visit often, at least once a day, and sometimes more. He sits with the child, reads to him, lets him fall asleep in his arms - not for very long each time, but it is at least enough for the little boy to recognise his father’s low voice and stern face as something safe and comfortable. As is evident from the way he now settles against the prince’s leather-clad chest, tangling his little fist into a lock of his hair. 

The beast remains still, pensive as her rider approaches, her serpent’s eyes fixed on the thing in his arms, on what he is bringing her. Your most precious treasure, your life’s very purpose, completely at the mercy of the greatest dragon in the world. 

You might have felt more at ease if the soft, sparse hair on his head had been silver like his father’s, but alas, it is not. It is exactly like yours, and only the bright violet of his eyes gives away his true inheritance. 

And that seems like too little a thing for such a large creature to notice. 

Prince Aemond calls out in that strange language of his, with the open vowels and the rolling R’s. It is beautiful, especially in his mouth, and the dragon responds at once, contorting herself to let him touch her wrinkled neck with affection. Which is a strange sight, but what is even stranger is the way she grumbles - as though she likes it. He speaks to her as if she was another person, in long, full sentences that are much too complicated for you to even attempt to understand. There is only one word you can make out, for the sole reason that he says it twice - yoreliatzeh, or yorelatzya, or something akin to that. You haven’t a clue as to what it means. 

Vhagar snorts once, and the prince steps back to give her room to move, to rise up onto her legs and bring her head closer, her nose almost touching his hip. While you stand at a distance, staring at the utterly bizarre scene playing out in front of you. A fearsome, vicious beast, sniffing the child like a dog would. Gently and carefully, only she is so big that each of her cautious breaths is like a small gust of wind, making your husband’s hair billow about his face. When she makes a grunting noise, he carefully unwraps some of the swaddlings, holding the child up to let her see him better, smell him better. 

He is bright, your darling boy, and curious, like all babes and children. His eyes are wide as they take in Vhagar’s scaly form, and he gives a soft squeal of surprise or wonder, kicking his little feet under the blankets. Reaching his arm towards the beast's massive head, her massive teeth -

“Aemond, please - ” you gasp, clutching your hands to your throat. 

The prince turns his head to give you a stern look, one that clearly shows he is running out of patience. And maybe this time it is justified, because your fearful outburst startles the boy, who begins to squirm unhappily in his father’s arms. Fussing and whimpering; a sound that is as painful to you as salt to an open wound. 

“Bring him to me,” you plead, “can’t you see that he is frightened - ” 

“He is frightened because you are frightened,” the prince says, as soft spoken as always, but with a hint of something sharp underneath.

He cradles the boy closer to his chest, bouncing him gently, holding his head and murmuring soothing words. Exactly as you would do, and to the same effect. It calms him down, and his big, round eyes start darting around again, taking in his surroundings. The dragon, the grey sea, the fine silver clasps on his father’s clothes. It does seem that the latter intrigues him the most. 

Vhagar lifts her neck and tilts her head just slightly, seemingly very interested in the child, in this tiny little creature; the way he moves his little limbs, and his soft coos and noises. There is an almost… thoughtful look in her eyes, or at the very least a curious one. 

It makes you wonder about the extent of her perception. Whether she truly knows that this is Aemond’s child, that it came from him, from his body, his flesh. If she can sense it somehow, through the bond they purportedly share, or if she understood it when he spoke to her. 

How intelligent is a dragon? Are they like dogs or horses, able to learn the meaning of certain words, but not the full breadth of language? Or do they think as people, with nuance and emotion, and a mind as vivid as your own. 

You do not know. You suppose no one really does. 

“Come,” the prince calls, reaching his arm towards you, beckoning you closer. However, a single glance at Vhagar, whose mighty gaze is now focused on you, is enough to inspire disobedience in even the most well-behaved wife.

“I would really rather not - ”

“She must know the both of you,” he insists. 

“Is that - necessary?” you squirm, wringing your hands, very much aware that you are not a dragon rider, that you haven’t a drop of Valyrian blood. “Vhagar has no reason to think fondly of me…”

The prince scoffs. 

“Are you not the mother of my child?” he says. “Now, come.” 

You must go to him. He is your lord husband, and he is a prince, and such is the way of things. But you are not at all glad to, and you walk with shaky, reluctant steps, gripping onto his elbow and cowering behind him like a frightened child. 

You close your eyes when the dragon lowers her head once more, bringing it towards you. A sudden, low-pitched growl makes your heart tremble, but the prince speaks a soft command. Lykirī, Vhagar. Lykirī.

It has a calming effect on you too. As does the arm he keeps outstretched in front of you - solely for your comfort, you assume, as it would make no difference whatsoever, should Vhagar decide that she does not like you. But you appreciate the gesture nonetheless.

The air is warm, this close to her, and your skirts move around your legs when she breathes, slowly and deeply, while the prince speaks to her in soft tones. That word again, the one from before, and many others. You know the words for wife, for king, for father, brother, sister, even for dragon, but he says none of those now, so you have no guess as to what he is telling her. Or if she understands. Or what he would call you, if not his wife. 

This woman is my - spouse? lady? lover?

You do have a kind of love for him, and sometimes you think he does for you, too. Sometimes. One can never be sure of anything with the prince, who keeps himself so closely guarded. Even after more than a year of marriage. Even now that you have given him a child. 

The birth went mercifully well, but your recovery was long, and he has only recently begun to come to your bed again. And so far, only a handful of times. The first time, it was so painful for you that the act could not be completed, and the second time, he finished so quickly that it barely even counts. The third was better. Pleasurable for both of you, but still strange after going so long without it - at least for you. It is both likely and possible that the prince satisfied his urges elsewhere while your body was indisposed. You do not know. Nor do you wish to. 

The ground shifts beneath your feet, and the heat around you lessens, as does the heavy smell of burned flesh and brimstone, the very same one that so often clings to your husband’s clothes. When you open your eyes it is to the sight of Vhagar, settled onto her belly, her head laid atop her claws. Calm and docile, and with a deep rumble coming from her chest - one that is probably a sign of contentment, even if it sounds utterly terrifying. 

“Touch her,” the prince commands, giving a gentle push to your back. “You have nothing to fear, touch her.” 

It is quite clear that Vhagar is unruffled by your presence, that she is resting. But with her eyes heavy and half-closed, it makes her look so menacing, so evil - even though you know that evil does not exist inherently in any beast. Only in those who train it. 

You draw in a steadying breath, gathering up your courage, reaching your hand out - only to then think better of it and let it fall. 

“I am afraid to,” you whisper.

The prince sighs. But his hand closes gently around yours, bringing it to rest on the side of her nose, first the tips of your fingers, and then your whole palm. 

It is like nothing else you have ever felt, her scales. You always imagined that a dragon’s skin would feel like leather, but Vhagar’s skin is so much tougher, so much rougher, like running your hand over little rocks. And she is warm - so warm, as though a fire is always burning somewhere in her throat. 

She does not object at all to your touch, even when the prince withdraws his own hand, leaving only yours. Only you and Vhagar. The largest, oldest being in the world. 

To think, the things she has seen. The conquest, the Dornish Wars, the very founding of the realm of the Seven Kingdoms. Dozens of castles have crumbled in her fire, and thousands of people have perished, and she has fought and won hundreds of battles; torn through stone, rock and earth as though it was boiled jelly. 

It is at once terrifying and romantic, like something from a fairytale, or stories of ancient times. A creature of such myth and legend that you almost feel as though you should bow down to her, as one does before a great matriarch.

Vhagar the Conqueror. Queen of all Dragons. 

She closes her eyes when you draw back. 

“He might ride her too, some day,” the prince says quietly. Wistfully. 

“But dragons only have one rider - ” you protest, cutting yourself off when you realise what he meant. What he left unsaid. 

This is war. The realm is at war. Death is everywhere; at the end of a blade, in the point of an arrow. And if not on the field of battle, then in tainted water or plague-ridden camps; empty bellies or festering wounds.

“You shouldn’t say such things,” you mutter, looking down at your feet. Your dirtied shoes. 

The prince does not answer. A heavy mood has settled over the rocky beach, something vast and bleak and empty, only compounded by the surroundings. The colourless sky, the sombre crashing of waves. Even Vhagar gives a doleful sigh, as though she too is weary of what is to come.

She has been the prince’s companion since childhood. He was born to the queen, but Vhagar made him what he is, made him ruthless, made him brutally ambitious. Made him Aemond One-Eye, Aemond the Kinslayer. Prince Regent, Protector of the Realm. She has known him boy and man, as well as any, and better than most. She has known him in life, and she may yet know him in death.

You push that thought away as forcefully as your mind allows. You shouldn’t think such things. 

A coo from your son breaks the tension, and his eyes turn to the sky, where a large heron is flapping its wings. The afternoon is turning to evening, and soon the bell will ring for supper - something warm and comforting, you hope. You are cold, your breasts feel sore, and you have most certainly had enough excitement for one day. For several days, in fact.

“Can we go, please,” you breathe, looking up at your husband with wide, pleading eyes. 

“She is tired,” he says, with a soft glance at Vhagar’s terrifying face, and a gentle touch to her side. “Yes, we should.”

—

You walk slower on the way back. Uphill, with sore feet, and your boy now fast asleep in your arms. Safe and snug where he belongs. 

“My Prince,” you begin, sweet and innocent. “What does… yoreliatzeh mean?”

There is a sly little smile on his face when you look at him, a self-assured look in his remaining eye.

“Jorrāeliarza,” he corrects, with an artful pause before he continues. As though to keep you in suspense. “It means dear. Or… beloved.”

If he sees the sudden blush on your face, he does not let on. 

“Jorālitzeh.”

“No,” he says. “Jor-rāe-liar-za.”

“Jor-rāe-liar-za,” you repeat, trying your very best to mimic the exact movements of his mouth, the way he gently rolls his tongue. “Jorrāeliarza.”

“Better,” he nods, and then you round a corner, just in time to see the guards hastily hide their cards away, and the driver shuffling back towards the carriage, eagerly shoving his winnings into a pocket. 

Jorrāeliarza. Jorrāeliarza. Jorrāeliarza. 

Dear. Beloved. 

You like that very much.  

Please feel free to come into my asks or DMs with critique of my fics! Constructive is preferred, but not required.

Tags. @arcielee, @targaryen-madness, @aemondsbabygirl, @qyburnsghost, @blackswxnn

I am a mess with the tagging, I'm so sorry if I forgot or wrongly tagged anyone. Let me know, I will fix it.

[petermorwood]

A day or so ago, @dduane reblogged a long post - a Canadian magazine article from 1966 - about the Americanisation of Winnie the Pooh.

It's an Impressive Tirade in which the writer (Sheila H. Kieran) says what she thinks about letting Walt Disney have a free hand with a foreign Children's Classic.

There's mention of the previous Adaptation Endeavour, "Mary Poppins" (1964) but it's very brief, perhaps with an eye to limited column space - or maybe because All Was Said Already in a previous review.

There is, however, rather a lot about the English characters being given American accents, and about the inclusion of a new character, an American gopher (which, the article suggests, looked vague enough to the Kieran children - its target audience - that it might as well have been a mole or a beaver).

*****

And that reminded me of another bit of American Animalisation done by Disney, in the 1949 short "The Wind and the Willows" - though in this instance it's visual since the voices are, for the most part, suitably British.

They include Basil Rathbone as narrator, and a horse who sounds like George Formby. In some scenes the horse actually looks like Formby, so this voice may not be entirely accidental.

Badger, however, sounds like a Scotsman - the worst kind of stage Scotsman at that - rather than how I used to "hear" him as a C. Aubrey Smith-voiced crusty retired colonel.

That, however, is just personal preference.

However, Disney's Badger is not a proper British (more correctly, European) badger, Meles meles. Here's one, which though not the most amiable of beasts in reality, still manages to look fairly affable ("I say, old chap, whatever are you looking at?")

Instead he's a North American badger, Taxidea taxus, which not only has a less affable expression ("Hey, bud, you. Yeah, you. You lookin' at me? You lookin' at ME?") but, more important, different stripes.

Here's Disney's version alongside mine. The correction took about five minutes of pixel-tweaking.

Disney's animators could have got it right from the outset just as easily, because I'm pretty sure the reference library which provided costume info for Rat's tweed Norfolk jacket and britches included picture-books of natural history.

Come to that, any "The Wind in the Willows" after the unillustrated first edition would have been enough, and there must have been at least one copy lying around for story adaptation and scene-description purposes.

The first illustrated edition came out in the UK in 1931, and its artist was, at author Kenneth Graham's request, the very same E.H. Shepard who had illustrated the Pooh books just a few years previously...

...while this Arthur Rackham colour plate is from an edition published in 1940 in New York.

So those books wouldn't have been impossible for Disney to get.

The problem, however, is that if a word ("badger", for instance) is well known to mean one thing here, it may be Too Much Trouble to find out if the same word means something else there, with the result that finding out can sometimes come as rather a surprise.

Check the UK / US meaning of "suspenders" to see what I mean... ;->

[the-fiction-witch]

Little Bump

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Jacaerys Velaryon Couple - Jacaerys X Reader Reader - Y/n Velaryon (Pregnant Wife) Rating - Sweet AF Word Count - 2288

Jace stood over the painted table in the great hall of Dragonstone he was going over his high valerian his mother had been assisting but she had been called away for other business leaving him alone at the large painted table featuring the map of Westeros. The sound of tender steps breaks him from his concentration and when he looks up he sees a beautiful sight that fills him with joy

About halfway down the steps to the hall, walks Lady Y/n, his wife. She wears a gown of blue velvet with black and silver details the colours of his house name Verlaryon. Her hair pushed back with a blue ribbon across the top of her head like a hairband, she's barefoot as she waddles slowly her hands on her baby bump "I'm not... Interrupting, am I?" She gasps in the middle as she gets her breath from the stairs

Jacaerys quickly hurries to her. “Y/n, my love!” He kisses her gently on the forehead, then moves a loose strand of his wife's hair out of her face. “How has your day been, beloved?” He brushes her soft curls back from her cheek.

"it's been slow, getting to the kitchens takes me half an hour these days" she chuckled as he helped her to the fireplace

“I can imagine. You are carrying our child, after all.” He places a hand protectively on the small swell of her abdomen. “Are you feeling well?”

"he's kicking away again. Always kicking."

“Ah, our son.” Jacaerys smiles at the thought of the new life growing in her womb. “I cannot wait to hold him in my arms.”

"I'm sure you can't, I cannot wait to see my feet again" she joked

Jacaerys laughs and sits down beside his wife. “I wish I could relieve your burden of pregnancy, however. For your sake more than my own.”

"I know you do" she smiled stroking his cheek "Remind me, to avoid your mother from now on"

Jacaerys chuckles and sighs. “My mother cares very much for you, but she can be... difficult.”

"she simply wishes to tell me stories, and her tales bring me little comfort. Of the pain. Of the stress. Of the loss. The injuries. I think she thinks she's helping... Honestly, she's just scaring me."

Jacaerys nods sadly. “I know she means to reassure but…” He places a protective hand upon his wife's belly. “My Mother's words may be dark but they contain a kernel of truth. The birth... will likely be painful. It is a fact we must both accept.”

"yes however this is our first child, she could at least attempt to offer kind words of sympathy"

Jacaerys sighs, looking at her with concern. “Perhaps... but my mother doesn't quite understand. It is not her fault, love. She has experienced so much pain and loss in her own life that I do not truly think she knows how to offer comfort.”

"I guess not. I suppose it doesn't help... There are so few good birth stories in this family of yours"

Jacaerys nods silently. “You're quite right about that. It's almost as though the Gods themselves have cursed the women of my family…”

"well I pray to them daily. So we can hope they shall spare us from this curse"

Jacaerys smiles and kisses her on the cheek. “If anyone deserves to be spared, my love, it is you.”

"ummm I have been praying to all of them, the old gods, the new, the seven, the drowned, just to hedge my bets"

“My sweet wife…” He sighs happily and strokes her stomach softly, his free hand finding hers. “Perhaps you are right in doing so... We shall know soon enough, my love. Whatever the Gods' judgement may be.”

she nodded "Maester says Only a few more weeks at the most."

Jacaerys smiles as he feels his son kick through her stomach. He grows every day, “I'm sure. Can you feel how strong he is?” He squeezes her hand fondly.

"he's very strong, I think he shall like to ride and run when he has grown, a proper little knight"

Jacaerys nods, proudly. “My little prince. I cannot wait to see his first steps, hear his first words, ride his first horse... There is much to look forward to.” He smiles, feeling the kicks in her stomach and squeezing her hand again. He leans in to kiss her on the cheek.

"Have you thought of any ideas for names?"

Jacaerys considers for a moment before shaking his head. “No, not truly. I have a few ideas, but I want him to be strong and proud of his name. Perhaps a Targaryen name... A small smile creeps onto his face....Or perhaps a Valyrian one. What do you think, my love?”

"not Aegon. Already far too many aegons in this family to keep track"

Jacaerys laughs and nods. “Fair point, fair point.” He smiles at her, a little nervously. “What do you think of Aemond?”

"Isn't that the same as your... Uncle... Cousin... Alicent’s son" she says trying to explain the Damn family tree,

“Ah, yes.” Jacaerys laughs. “I suppose that name cannot work.” He squeezes her hand again, and thinks for a second. “What of... Daemon? A strong name, no?”

"the name of your stepfather?"

Jacaerys looks a little sheepish as Y/n brings that up. “I had... forgotten of that.” He chuckles, scratching the back of his head. “It's true, there are too many names to remember in this family. Perhaps... what of perhaps Corlys, after my grandfather?”

"hummm corlys I like. I don't dislike Daemon but... I feel it would inflate the ego of your stepfather to a whole uncontrollable level"

Jacaerys laughs and nods. “Good point.” He squeezes her hand once more, and leans in to kiss her on the cheeks. “No doubt of this, my sweetest Y/n: however our son is named, whatever his personality may turn out to be like... you shall always be the apple of my eye.” More small kicks erupt from her stomach, and Jace giggles as he feels them.

"... Ohh I had an idea,"

Jacaerys smiles widely and leans forward even more, ready to hear his love's thoughts on the matter. “What do you have in mind, my dear?”

"What about Cregan? You and him have been such good friends since you met all those years ago"

Jacaerys is taken aback by the idea but warms to it the longer he considers it. “Cregan... That is... not a bad idea, my love. A fine name, certainly... I suppose it would depend a little on the nature of our son, but I do like the notion.” He smiles, considering it as he feels another kick in her stomach and squeezes her hand.

"I rather like it, or we could always make him after your little brother" she said tenderly bringing up the topic as she knew the topic of Luke was difficult for Jace

Jacaerys smiles at her, taking in her idea with his eyes sparkling. “After my sweet brother Luke, you mean?” He nods as he realizes what a sweet idea this is. “I like this even better, my love. Luke was a fine boy, with so much potential. I would be honoured to have our son hold his name, with all the honuor and prestige that title carries.”

"It's settled then. Lucaerys Verlaryon shall be his name. If if course he is a he"

Jacaerys smiles widely, wrapping his arms around his wife's stomach as he feels another kick in her womb. “A fine name, my love. He laughs a little. I suppose we would need to think of another name for our daughter, then.” He squeezes her hands and rests his head upon her shoulder. “But that is a problem for another day. We shall first see the fruit of our love born, before we plan for another.”

"umm.. I rather have visions of me being pregnant again before even Lucaerys is walking"

Jacaerys smiles and chuckles silently. “My love, I suppose I should not complain about your enthusiasm for producing heirs…” He runs his hands over her stomach, then places his hands on her hips. “How soon after little Lucaerys are you thinking?”

"I don't know see how birth treats me first"

Jacaerys nods, rubbing his nose a little sheepishly as he realizes the stupidity of his previous question. “You are quite right, love. I cannot help but get ahead of myself. Our son's birth is far more a priority than his potential sibling.” He smiles and presses his cheek to her hip, squeezing her hand once more. “And yet, it is rather exciting, too. I'm quite interested to see you with child again.”

"humm I have a feeling I need to get very used to being pregnant. I think someone likes me pregnant " she smirked stroking jace’s hair

Jacaerys blushes at her words, looking up at her and laughing. “yes, I must admit, I... really, really like you pregnant.”

she chuckled "well I best not disappoint my husband. Perhaps we shall have ourselves a branch of the family tree with many leaves have ten children"

Jacaerys laughs again, a wide smile forming on his lips as he places his forehead upon hers, gently kissing her on the cheek. “Oh, my sweet, sweet, sweet love. Ten children?” He raises an eyebrow as he chuckles again. “If you and the Seven are up for that challenge, my love, I certainly am…” He squeezes her hand even tighter.

"I'm sure you are" she giggled giving him a kiss

Jacaerys smiles and runs a hand through her hair, kissing her on the forehead and the nose before looking into her eyes. “But for now, my love, let us focus on raising our first child together. Let us revel in his presence before we concern ourselves with his potential siblings.”

"your right, speaking of Him. Have you gone out with Daemon yet? To find an egg for sweet lucaerys cradle?"

Jacaerys shakes his head. “No, not yet. I have... hesitated to leave you for any period of time, with your pregnancy. If he had to tell the truth, he had been rather terrified at the thought of leaving his pregnant wife alone, for any period of time at all.”

"you will only be gone for the afternoon. I'll be alright. I'm sure your mother and grandmother shall keep me company with scary birth stories while you and daemon go. You know you won't want to go looking for one once baby comes and you don't want Daemon to choose for us"

Jacaerys nods and smiles sadly. “Yes, I know it is a task I must complete. It is a father's role to look for his son's egg, I know.” Jace laughs quietly and looks away. “But I cannot help but have a certain level of anxiety about all this. I have never been away from you for so long since our wedding.”

"I'm sure some man bonding time shall be lovely, talk about... Dragons, dicks and swords. I don't know what men talk about. It'll be good for you. Ask him questions he's a father to five after all"

Jacaerys smiles, and nods at her words. “You're quite right, my love. You know, sometimes I forget that Daemon is a father too.” Jace laughs nervously. “I should pick his brains, you're right, to better prepare me for parenthood.”

"umm maybe he knows some secrets words husbands can say to their wives to help the labour pains"

Jacaerys laughs heartily at her ideas. “I shall ask him to do just that.” He shakes his head and squeezes her hands fondly. “You know, my love, I have been lucky to have such a woman as you by my side. Most men... have a more hostile relationship with their wives…”

"umm most hate their wives we are very lucky" she gives him a kiss "or perhaps the hatred will come after the children?"

Jacaerys laughs, wrapping his hands around her waist. “I have no intention of hating you, ever, my love. You brought up a good point, though. Perhaps there will be more... challenges after our son is born. But I hope, with all my heart, that there will never be true hatred between us. I could not bear that.”

"I know there wouldn't ever be" she cooed cuddling him before she stopped and grabbed his hand moving it to her bump as a strong movement came through "awe he's dancing for his daddy"

Jacaerys smiles when he feels the movement of their son, his face lighting up as he places a gentle hand upon her stomach, his palm flat against the bump with the fingers splayed out across the flesh. “Oh... I swear, I can feel his whole body moving from here…” His words are interrupted as he feels another kick in Y/n’s stomach. He giggles and leans forward again, pressing his face against the bump. He lets out a small squeak of happiness, feeling the child move once more. “Oh, I am looking forward to holding you, my son.”

"Im sure it shall be a very magic moment indeed"

Jacaerys cannot help but smile as he feels yet another kick from within his wife's womb. His son is extremely active today. He wraps his hands around her belly and presses his cheek up against her stomach once more. “You know, you're right. I think he likes his father... His movements feel quite vigorous now, as if he is happy I am here.”

"he's happy to see you, of course he's happy to see daddy." She giggled "say hello to daddy little Lucaerys" she cooed and just as she said that the baby kicked hard

Jacaerys laughs and gasps at the strength of the baby's kick within her womb. He smiles, stroking her stomach. “Hello, my sweet Lucaerys. Can't wait to meet you face to face…” Another strong kick emerges from her womb and Jace giggles again, squeezing her hand. He leans forward, and places his forehead against her stomach once more. “I can’t wait to be a dad.”

[canisalbus]

I think a big reason people think of arabian horses for Machete is their reputation as an incredibly nervous and high-strung breed, something we've grown to associate with our beloved tissue paper and pipe cleaner skrunkle dressed in the finest fabrics. However other personality traits often assigned to arabians (at least based on all the reading I did in my horse girl past) is being friendly and eager to please. Also, honestly, the bug eyed look is a pretty recent development in arabs as breeding has gotten more extreme - I think both arab and akhal-teke could be very fitting breeds for Machete, but I gotta admit I enjoy the idea of akhal-teke. Horse Machete with an almost pearlescent, shiny coat sounds wonderful. (Though, also, something about marwari horses intrigues me for Machete - that's not how his ears go, but the prominence of marwari ears as a feature feels right. Understandable if the shape is too off, though.)

Also for Vasco I would vote for a lusitano in the palomino colouration, personally!

.

[txemptress]

─────── NEW ROMANTICS.

✩ ིྀ ! WE'RE ALL BORED, WE'RE ALL SO TIRED OF EVERYTHING ! •˙ ⌗

𓂃  ࣪ c. henituse + boredom has its own solutions ˖ 𖦹

“this is so boring.” cale groans as he fiddles with the piece of parchment in his hand. his eyes linger towards the female who was indulged in reading something about mystics, that he could have sworn she said was a stupid book that was nonfactual yet still read with an engrossed desire.

“Oi. Earth to name, i am in dire need of some affectionate company over here.” he seemed sarcastic in saying it, but in his heart he really did. the female did not move an inch, immediately realizing the depth of her reading he decides to take a different approach or entertainment and just simply admires her from where he is.

he sighs deeply before he buries his face in the books and sleeps. only now did name notice him, a small smile flickered on her delicate lips as she looks for something he could lay his head on that wasn't a hardbound book.

she takes off her own coat, not at all minding the freezing frostbite of air she felt as she folds it up and places it under his head, slipping off the book and replacing it in a quick motion.

proud of her work, she made the decision to return to her book. before she could, cale’s hand shot out and kissed her soft fingers. his lips grazing on her knuckles brought more than enough colour to her pale skin.

embarrassed as she was, she gave him a playful swat and left. leaving a chuckling cale behind.

✩ ིྀ ! HEARTBREAK IS OUR NATIONAL ANTHEM, WE SING IT PROUDLY ! •˙ ⌗

𓂃  ࣪ j. agriche + how to get away from political marriage ˖ 𖦹

for some reason, her best friend jeremy had the sudden idea to meet her in the woods in secret and she hasn't the foggiest idea why.

but like the good friend she is, she went anyway. she enters the quiet midst of the forest. her eyes look warily around her, noticing a whine of a horse she follow the direction of the sound.

she finds jeremy, sitting on his horse. his blue eyes seem to shine when he sees her. he slides off and takes her hand, kissing it gently.

“lovely to see you've come, my beautiful lady.” you could swear it almost sounded sincere, but that is simply uncertain due to jeremy being an agriche by heart.

“yes, yes. what's the meaning of this?” she responds, her response seemed to make him flinch.

“i’ve upset you, my lady. that was not my intention.” jeremy murmured. “but let's get straight to the point, i'm here to let you in on one or my schemes.” he could tell this peaked her fragile line of interest. “i need you to be my pretty mistress.”

“what?!” she is stunned to say the least. and she had every right to be.

he gave a small smile to her outburst. “my father wants me in a political marriage and i do not like the woman i’ve been paired up with.” “so you're asking me to helo you break here heart?” name asks and he nods. “are you insane? sign me in.” she grins and jeremy chuckles, patting her head.

in the end, the fake relationship for heartbreak turned to a real one that they consummated quickly.

✩ ིྀ ! PLEASE TAKE MY HAND AND PLEASE TAKE ME DANCING ! •˙ ⌗

𓂃  ࣪ h. niccolo + a dance with the marquis ˖ 𖦹

it all went by so fast, the marquis spoke with her and a moment later took her to dance. his fingers intertwined with hers, his arm on her waist. the two of them swayed gracefully on the dance floor.

their dance seemed to catch everyone's attention as everyone seemed mesmerized. it ie understandable. even she is. the marquis is beautiful, breathtaking. words could not describe his elegance, his looks. he is an angel that descended from heaven.

and to be dancing with him? that is a high honour for her. she is absolutely in awe. also quite panicky. she didn't want to do any wrong, especially not with him as her partner.

he suddenly carried her and spun her around moving her down, they spin and twirl for ages. when they finish, he guides her to the quieter parts of the party. his eye filled with love and admiration as he kisses her on the hand.

“thank you dearest. it was a lovely time to dance with you.” hie voice is soft, gentle, soothing... his purple eyes is fixated on her own. his hand slipe and caresses her cheek. “you look ravishing, my lady.”

this brought a flush of colour on her cheeks. “thank you..”

“no problem.” he smiles and kisses her cheek so suddenly. “please excuse me now, lovely. i’ll see you again sometime, yes?” he asks, and she nods.

✦. ⊹ ˚ dedicated to @bertry3 !! gift no.2

guests — @lombxrdi , @achy-boo ,

@crownxie , @histxricaldrama ,

@yevene , @nyrwve , @hikamins : ˚⊹ ᰔ

────────────────────

© dxmoness. do not copy,

take inspo or translate my

work! none of the chars i

write for are mine unless

stated!

[superprincesspea]

Courted by the Dragon

Chapter 16 - Uncle

Aemond Targaryen is both the cause and witness to the greatest humiliation of your life. You would rather die than see him again. Yet summer at court and the precipice of civil war have other ideas.

Masterlist

~~~

When you make it into the centre of camp, you can still feel the press of Aemond’s touch on your body, and the heat of his kiss on your cheek, but there’s no time to slow your racing heart. The wheelhouse is already coming to a halt and the groom is hurrying to open the door.

Your mother emerges first, her face seemingly horrified by your tousled appearance, as she rushes to smooth your hair and pull a stray pin from where its clinging on for life.  

“Just look at the state of you!” she hisses, and you wonder if your cheeks look as flushed as they feel. 

“I think her appearance is quite becoming,” Alicent says, emerging from behind your mother’s frown with a coy smirk before she glances around for the whereabouts of her son.  

“It was the wind,” you say, pushing your hair behind your ears while knowing fine well that the wind wasn’t the only thing which had tangled with it. There had been fingers, long, deft, and impossibly gentle.   

Perhaps Alicent suspects as much, her head tilting, regarding your appearance with more scrutiny than before.  

“Was it not the race?” she counters, and you swallow fresh nerves, wondering if everyone in the wheelhouse had noticed the way you and Aemond had charged down the road.  

“That too...” you admit, and she hooks her arm into yours, tugging you into a leisurely walk towards her tent.  

So much for staying with Cassandra , you think, glancing over your shoulder to where your mother and sisters are being left behind.  

“And who won the race?” Alicent says, drawing your attention back to her face. 

“I did, your grace.”  

“Ahh,” she smiles excitedly, holding you tighter, her cheek touching your shoulder for just a moment, “and was my son an insufferable loser?”

You laugh, despite the nerves knotting in your stomach, you can’t help it. Insufferable was certainly a choice word for her second son, and though you think her completely accurate in her estimation, you dare not say it.    

“Or is he just always insufferable?” she presses, seeming to sense your reluctance, and this time you manage to contain your amusement to a smile, though you’re feeling more at ease in her company. 

“Perhaps we can agree that all men are at least a little insufferable?” you suggest, and now it's the queens turn to laugh, her body shaking, her arm holding you tighter.  

“Only a little?” she says when she’s caught her breath, and you meet the mischievous look in her eye with a small smile before she releases your arm and gestures for you to enter the royal tent. 

It's far bigger than it looks from the outside, and so bright and airy, with the sunlight diffused through the thick white linen and a pleasant breeze blowing in at just the right angle. 

You take a seat on one of the green velvet floor cushions and Alicent sits across from you, before beckoning for a maid who places two cups on the low table and fills them almost to the brim with a honey-coloured wine.   

“You know... you can tell me everything ,” she says in a hushed tone when the maid has gone, and you think it strange to gossip with the queen about such things as suitors, stranger still that her son is the man in question.  

What could you possibly say? What did she want to hear?   

You let those questions go unanswered for long enough that Alicent speaks again.  

“I noticed you were riding Ōños,” she suggests, still trying to draw you into the conversation she wants to have, and her eyes are wide and probing, desperate for any scraps of information. 

“I was.”

“Strange ,” she continues, undeterred by your lacklustre answer, “I don’t believe my son has ever allowed anyone else to ride his horse.” 

“Then I should consider myself quite fortunate. Ōños is truly a wonderful horse.” 

“If he is wonderful then it is thanks to Aemond, my son is so diligent in all matters as I'm sure you must have realised by now?”  

“Prince Aemond is certainly...” single-minded, cocky, competitive, “ dedicated .” 

She blows out a small breath of satisfaction, seeming glad to imagine that you might see him as she does. Her golden boy, her perfect son. 

“He told me you almost beat him at Cyvasse the other day,” she smiles, delighted by the idea, and you try not to laugh. The last game you’d played with Aemond had been in his room, and he was letting you win, not succumbing to it.   

“That is an exaggeration,” you insist, wondering what else Aemond might have mentioned to his mother.  

Yet, her lips purse, and from the way she sighs, you imagine he has said as little as you are saying now, and you don’t know why, but you feel the sudden urge to reveal more. Maybe it's the way her eyes turn down or because, no matter the people surrounding her, she always seems so lonely.  

“The prince...” you begin and already you regret your words, but you can’t stop now, “was so kind as to give me a tour of the library yesterday.” 

“He did?” she brightens, “and what did you think?” 

“That it was very beautiful.” 

“And where you will always find my son, if you should ever have cause to look for him...” she leans forward, seeming to forget decorum in favour of answers, “ do you? Have cause to look for him I mean?”  

“Not that I can recall,” you say, feeling certain that Aemond was not the only single-minded member of his house.  

“Do you picnic here often?” you ask, changing the subject and Alicent’s eyes turn wistful, her gaze wandering across the camp.  

“I used to bring my children here all the time when they were small, away from court where they could just be . It's so wonderful seeing Jaehaerys and Jaehaera here now.”  

You turn your head, to look where she looks, and find them charging across the clearing with their wooden swords and shields clutched tightly in hand. But it's the determination furrowed into their brows which really catches your eye, and they seem to have only one opponent in mind when he strides from the woods- Aemond .   

Your heart skips, your cheeks flushing again as you watch the kindly way he reacts to their advance. Dodging their strikes, his laughter teasing but not mocking, before he scoops Jaehaera up, stealing her sword and using it to repel her brother.    

You watch them play for quite some time, content in the silence before the queen speaks again. 

“If a lady might wish to stay at court...there is always ample space in my retinue.”  

“That is very kind of you,” you admit, turning to face her, “but I am still very much looking forward to returning home.”  

“Oh? And what, might I ask, is there to look forward to?” she pries, sipping her wine, her brow raised, “a suitor , perhaps?”   

“Well... there is…” no suitor at all, only Lord Henry, but you could not tell the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms that you would rather return home to a cat instead of marrying her son, “my other sisters, of course.”  

“Of course.” She stares at you for a long moment, her finger brushing the patten embossed on the cup, “so many Baratheon girls and not one proposal this summer? Your mother must be beside herself.”  

“Not really,” you choke, glancing down to retrieve your own cup from the table and, when you look back at the Queen, her eyes have narrowed, as though she’s trying desperately to read your mind.  

“I think my son-” she begins, just as the man in question arrives, chased by the excited war cries of his niece and nephew and, for once, you’re grateful for his overbearing presence, and the very welcomed distraction from whatever she was going to say next.   

He falls on the rug dramatically and, from the queen's easy smile, you can tell this is not an unusual circumstance when the only eyes in the vicinity are that of family and very close friends.  

“By order of the Queen, I command you to tickle him to death,” she says, and the twins cast their weapons down in fits of giggles, little fingers reaching for all the good tickle spots while you cannot possibly stop yourself from enjoying every single moment of the spectacle.  

This was certainly not the Aemond you knew and loathed.   

Yet , the more you thought about it, the more you realised that wasn’t true at all. Not anymore.   

This was the Aemond who belonged entirely to the people who knew him best, and perhaps that number was limited to less than a handful, and maybe all of them were in this tent.   

“Won’t my lady save me from these hellions?” he says, repelling their onslaught with so much gentleness and good humour that your poor heart was skipping yet again.   

“I am afraid his grace is on his own, for I can see they are far too fierce to be trifled with,” you say, as though you are completely aghast at the suggestion. 

“You are quite right,” Alicent agrees and Jaehaerys seems to enjoy your words, his chest puffing out before he retrieves his sword to deal the final killing blow to his uncle’s ribs.  

You wince when it lands, knowing it must hurt terribly and that the winded groan is certainly not part of the game. But Aemond doesn’t shout or curse like your father would, he dies on the rug with more drama than he had fallen, and you must stifle your laughter with the palm of your hand. 

Victorious, the children leave, in pursuit of a fresh victim while the queen prods her son back to life.   

“I think you enjoy that even more than they do,” she says, and you suspect she might be right.  

“I’m merely teaching them how to fight without mercy,” Aemond decides, his eye betraying the serious tone in his voice, as he sits up on his elbow with his hair ruffled from rolling around on the floor.  

“Well, since you are in such a good mood for teaching, perhaps you’d like to show the Lady Baratheon how to play hoops?” Alicent suggests, scheming again. 

“As it happens,” Aemond begins, a slow smile inching onto his lips, “I seem to be forgetting that I should be staying at least twenty paces from the lady Baratheon, that was the original agreement, was it not?”  

You swallow, hard, remembering the details of your alternative agreement, the one where Aemond’s clothes had loosened from his body and your back had been pushed up against a tree.

But Alicent knows no such things and her excited stare flicks between yourself and her son.    

“Twenty paces?” she asks quizzically and you’re suddenly wishing the twins really had run him through.    

“It was a bet, your grace,” you say, giving Aemond a sharp look, a warning look.   

“A forfeit, actually ,” he retorts, the smile still firmly fixed on his face.  

“But why twenty paces?” Alicent prods, far too interested in the details, while your heart is pounding far too hard to think of anything good to say. Certainly not the truth. 

That you cannot trust yourself with her son. That even now, when you feel like you might kill him for bringing up the forfeit, you’re more annoyed about the consequences. Because you don't want him to leave, not really. Then again, you don’t exactly want him to stay either.  

It didn’t make sense, and you couldn’t explain it even to your own mind, but you needed Aemond Targaryen to be both twenty paces away and close enough to touch at the same time.    

Gods , you hated him.

“I cannot speak for the ladies precise reasoning,” Aemond begins when it's clear you’re not going to say anything , and the wicked look in his eye is keen to make a fresh appearance, “but I believe she wishes to prevent any further attempts I might make in asking her to be my wife.”   

“Further... attempts?” Alicent gasps, wanting to be certain she was hearing him correctly and she was. You'd heard it too.   

Why had he said that? Like it was nothing, like it was just something people said.  

“At least one more attempt,” he promises, pushing himself from the floor, his bow deep, and his eye only for you.  

Then, without another word, he takes his leave, sauntering across the clearing for exactly twenty paces yet not nearly far enough considering how much you want to kill him!  

Yet , killing him would have to wait and not just because of the witnesses milling around the clearing or even the way Alicent’s eyes are hot on your face. But because you can’t move or even breathe. Your mouth is hanging open and shock has drained all life from your limbs.   

“Hm,” Alicent says, a smile completely overwhelming her face, “so it seems there has been at least one proposal this summer?”

Gods , you feel as though you could die from embarrassment, but you don’t, and you can’t exactly ignore the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.  

“Please ,” your voice is as weak as a kitten, your cheeks as bright as the dragon on the Targaryen sigil, “excuse me.”   

She holds your stare, your stomach twisting with fresh knots before she nods with a small, pitying smile, “you’re excused. For now. ”  

You can’t dwell on what exactly she means by that, and you don’t want to. You stand on shaky legs and do what you should have done when the wheelhouse arrived in camp.   

You walk directly to Cassandra and cling to her side, feeling a heady mix of fury and anticipation each time you catch sight of Aemond, and recall the casual way he’d told his mother that he intended on proposing again .  

It was yet another humiliation to add to your repertoire, and for a man who had no intention of ever embarrassing you, he was certainly well adapted to it.   

You’re glad when it's time to leave and find yourself watching, with some regret, as Aemond races ahead of the procession with Ser Criston Cole, leaving you to travel with Ser Maurin as your only company. 

You’d like to say it didn’t matter, that the views were entertainment enough, but you’d be lying. The ride is hot, long and incredibly dusty. Its nearly teatime when you finally make it back to the Red Keep and there is so much fanfare and chaos to mark your arrival that you’re almost certain something has happened while you were away.    

The yard is crammed with people, double the amount from this morning and one of them is Otto Hightower, his face stark and serious as he waits to speak with his daughter.  

Trying not to stare, you encourage Ōños towards the stable and you’re surprised to see Aemond is waiting for you, resting against a post with a book to occupy his time.  

“I trust you enjoyed the ride home?” he says, looking up from the page before snapping the heavy cover shut.   

With a sigh, you swipe the back of your hand across your forehead and give him a pointed look. “You know I didn’t.”  

He smiles then, easing the book under his arm before opening the stable gate, and you wonder if Aemond’s the reason there are no stable boys or groomsmen to attend you. 

“I did as you bid me to and remained at twenty paces for the duration of the picnic,” he says, swapping Ōños’ bridle for a halter and you have to admit, you were somewhat surprised that he’d managed to maintain his end of the forfeit, and less surprised when he reaches to pull you from the horse. 

“Now we shall need to make up for it,” he says but you’d anticipated his touch and are quick to dismount on the opposite side to where he is standing with his arms still outstretched.    

“His grace seems to be implying that I missed his company. I must assure him, I did not .”  

When he laughs, the sound catches in the back of his throat, his arms falling back to his sides. “Then perhaps you’ll be glad to hear we had some guests arrive while we were at leisure.”  

You think of the chaos in the yard along with the grave look on Otto’s face. “Who?”  

“My sister.”  

“Princess Rhaenyra?” you say, not really a question, more the testing of a name which you’ve rarely had cause to speak until now.   

“One and the same,” Aemond answers, his tone flat, as he unbuckles  Ōños’ saddle before passing you a long brush to brush him down.  

A dozen questions spring to the tip of your tongue but you swallow them, suddenly recalling the knowing smirks which Alicent had been aiming at you all afternoon. 

Still, it wasn’t Ōños’ fault that his master was the worst man in the entire world, so you don’t throw the brush back at Aemond like you’re tempted to do, you run it across Ōños’ silky white coat with the reverence he deserves.   

Afterall, it wasn’t often you were expected to put away your own horse, but there was something strangely relaxing about the mundanity of the task, and you wonder if Aemond thinks it too.   

He’s quiet, perhaps even a little pensive, as he inspects Ōños’ shoes before finding another brush so you can work together, and it's a comfortable silence. The hubbub of the courtyard barely carrying past the stable doors.  

“I shall be eating dinner with my… family this evening. I don’t suppose you would care to join us?”   

“Me?” you scoff. “I’m quite certain I would rather-” you don't say more, you meet his eye, ashamed of your reaction. Dinner with the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms was a great honour even if you didn’t want it.  

“You’d rather what ?” he moves so he can search your face more readily, “throw yourself from the tallest tower of the keep instead of breaking bread with my sister and her bastards?”   

Bastards?  

You inhale sharply, your mind stumbling over the word and Aemond let’s its usage swell in the silence, his eye still studying you. Testing you in some way. Perhaps he wants you to challenge him, to call him a traitor, but you don’t. You’re afraid of even hearing such a word.  

“Personally, I would rather throw myself into the mercy of the sea,” he admits, and his voice is soft, his fingers reaching to touch your hair, but you move away, thrusting the brush back into his hand.   

Just because you harbour no wish to speak ill of his sister, does not mean you have no wish to speak on other matters, “do not think for one moment that I have already forgotten what you said in front of your mother!”  

“What I said?” he asks, tilting his head as though he is completely oblivious, when you’re almost certain Aemond could count on one hand the amount of time’s he’d been oblivious to anything.   

“You know what I’m talking about.” Marriage, proposals. It was not the sort of thing a person could easily forget.  

Amusement flickers in his eye, “refresh my memory.”  

“I will not,” you snap, attempting to leave him behind as you exit the stable, but there’s really no escaping Aemond Targaryen’s long stride, and he’s soon hooking his hand under your elbow.  

“If you will not tell me of your complaint Lady Baratheon then please allow me to make you a promise...”  

You glance back at him, regretting your curiosity the moment his eye darkens.   

“Starting now,” he begins, leaning in as though you are conspiring, “it will be no secret that I want you, no matter who is watching us and, when you have my child in your belly, there will be no question over his parentage.”  

No question over his parentage?  

“There shall certainly be questions,” you retort tartly, snatching your arm away, “such as what in the world I was thinking in allowing you to put it there in the first place.”  

“I can suggest at least one reason,” he says, and you hate his stupid arrogant smirk just as much as you wonder what the exact details of that one reason would be. But not enough to ask him, certainly not enough for that. 

Instead, you turn back towards the keep and see a man stalking towards you, a stranger, yet you’re in little doubt of his pedigree. Even if it wasn’t for the white hair crowning his head, there’s a certain devilish cockiness which rests so comfortably on his face that you cannot help but think of Aemond. Just older, more battle worn, yet not worn out.  

Almost all the women in the yard are watching the way he strides and perhaps it’s because his leather trousers are indecently tight, his shirt billowing in all the places where it doesn’t plaster to his skin.  

You imagine he must have been practicing swordplay in the yard for quite some time, and the sword in question is still swinging in his hand, long and dangerous, steel glinting in the sunlight. 

“This is my uncle, Prince Daemon,” Aemond says, when he comes to stand directly in front of you, “and this is my Lady Baratheon.”  

“Your grace,” you curtsy, and Daemon sinks the tip of his sword into the dirt at your feet, his eyes slowly scraping from your face and down the entire length of your body as though he’s appraising every last inch.  

“Well done, nephew,” he smirks, his gaze flicking to meet with Aemond’s and you gasp at the audacity in his tone, your temper flaring when Aemond says nothing to refute him.   

In fact, when you tilt your head to glare at him, Aemond’s smiling as though he relishes his uncle's approval. As though the many weeks he’d spent tormenting you was, indeed , very well done.  

“Do not allow my presence to interrupt whatever passionate conversation you were having,” Daemon adds, leaning into his sword, his brow raised and his head tilting expectantly. 

You open your mouth to speak, to refute whatever ideas he might be having, but before any words break free, you feel Aemond’s hand on your back, the press of his fingers dulled by your cloak but impossible to ignore.  

“I was just telling my lady that I shall escort her back to her chambers,” he says, his arm sliding to command yours and you don’t refuse him, doing so would surely be a humiliation on his part and you’re not cruel enough for that. 

You dip into another curtsy for his uncle and allow Aemond to lead you away, stopping only when the yard is far from view, your arm hastening from his. 

“I shall be glad to escort myself the rest of the way.” 

“Very well,” Aemond concedes, his hand’s fastening behind his back, his head gesturing down the hall without complaint.  

You start, both confused and surprised by how readily he’d allowed the rejection of his company, but you don’t question it.  

You turn, thinking you should be pleased with the situation yet finding yourself quite vexed. And why? You certainly didn’t want Aemond Targaryen to escort you.  

Or did you?  

No , what you wanted was, in some ways, far worse. You wanted Aemond to want it enough to ignore your own stubborn resolve, and you couldn’t understand that desire any more than you could understand why you desperately wanted him to kiss you.  

You begin to walk, cursing every part of your mind which seemed to be succumbing to his infuriating set of charms, and you barely make it more than five paces, before his steps have fallen in time with yours. Not by your side as before, but behind as though you were his lady and he your humble servant.  

Stopping, you turn back to face him, “what are you doing?” 

Resting back on his heel, Aemond seems to give great thought to the question before answering with a shrug as though it was quite obvious, “ walking .” 

“But your room is in that direction,” you say, pointing back down the hall and a smile threatens his cheeks, his jaw tightening just enough to hold it at bay. 

“I’m not going to my room, but I’m glad to know my lady has memorised its location.” 

“Do not flatter yourself,” you say, quickly turning to hide your own smile, which has escaped, quite inexplicably, onto your face.  

Then you begin to walk again, and a tall, leather shadow mirrors your every step. Not at all rebuffed by your stubborn resolve, but diligent, single-minded, and you can hardly stand yourself for how much you enjoy it. Or how forlorn you feel when you reach the door to your chamber, and he turns away.  

~~~

Thank you for reading!! :)

[milky-aeons]

— BY A COMMANDER’S SIDE

౨ৎ  . . . even though you may not always be by his side, there are multiple ways you and ARMIN ARLERT express your love for each other.

warnings: sexual content, memories of war, ptsd, marriage, pregnancy, mdni, w.c 845

♪ . . . ˗ˏˋ ꒰ tenerife sea — ed sheeran ꒱ ˎˊ-

: ̗̀➛ 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐍, who was, at first, not very forthcoming about his feelings towards you. Who allowed them to balloon into something monstrous, something that wouldn't let his eyes leave you no matter where you came or when you went.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐍, who mustered up the courage to ask you on a date after weeks of deliberation. That mind of his really was a double-edged sword, having the ability to lead squadrons to victory but crumbled when he looked into your eyes and became so adorably tongue-tied.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐘𝐎𝐔, who, on the day of your wedding, wore a crown of flowers in her hair and jewellery made from emerald sea-glass. Who kept the jewellery on that night you spent together, the smooth stone sliding over your bouncing breasts as you rode him into ecstasy.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐘𝐎𝐔, who held him tight on those nights he couldn't sleep. When the haunting echoes of war visited him instead of dreams. Who cradled him against your chest and carded through his golden hair, humming to him a song from your childhood, until his tense shoulder muscles smoothened down and he took more even, slumbering breaths.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐍, who was always phenomenal when it came to choosing gifts. Whether they be for special occasions like your one year anniversary — when he surprised you with that delicate little music box specially crafted to play that tune, the one you always sung to him — or little delicates he brought home after a long day's work. Chocolates, flowers, books from the Capital where he conducted the duties of Commander.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐘𝐎𝐔, who would know immediately when your husband has had a taxing day. When he'd come through the door of the little town house you shared — his eyes shadowed, his hair mused from where he ruffled at it. You would go to him and place longer, sweeter kisses against his lips. You would instruct him to sit in the kitchen so you could brew him some tea, so you could take your fingers to his temples and draw soothing little circles.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐍, who brought you to the beach on late summer's nights. Who would be mysterious and playful with his little secret, ushering you out of the house when you least expected it. Of course, he had the charade planned right down to the finer details; the standing wax candles in the sand, the blanket, the bottle of fine Mitras wine and two polished glasses waiting to be drunk.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐍, who was reserved with his desires, and yet eager to please you at the same time. Who would murmur hot and heady into your ear; where do you need it, love? Does it feel good when I do this? Tell me what you need, let me please you. Who had years of power in his honed abdomen muscles and thighs as he would use them to thrust into you without conviction. Who would relish in the way you called out his name as your walls clenched around him, undoing him by the very seams.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐘𝐎𝐔, who gave him a small clothed package unannounced one day. Watchful as he undid the layers with those gorgeous blue eyes wide and curious. Who did not take long to understand what the gift meant — a little wooden horse and a hat that would be much too small for him. He had stood, unbelieving, his eyes shining with tears, and picked you up in a hug that stole the air from your lungs and spun you round, round, round.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐍, who lay beside your curved belly swollen with life and read to them. About fields of fire, endless seas of ice, vast rivers of colour in the night sky. Who would place kisses to your unborn child, who would place kisses on the back of your hand and tell you how much he loved you.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐍, who cooked with you on the days he had been spared from his military duties. Who would lift your beautiful child up into the air and make them giggle as you stirred the pot. Who would come up behind you and encircle you in his strong arms, placing a quick, chaste kiss on your temple.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐘𝐎𝐔, who was cunning with him, adoring the blush that still coloured your husbands cheeks when you did something daring. You would seek him out on late nights in the study as he poured over reports by lamplight. Quietly, you would slip your nightdress down from your shoulders and let it fall to a pool at your feet. It always made your pulse flutter, the way he looked at you, like a man strangled. Like a man so madly and irrevocably in love.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐍, who, before he left every morning and before he closed his eyes at night, would mutter the same exact words;

"I love you, my moon and stars."

: ̗̀➛ 𝐘𝐎𝐔, who would murmur right back;

"And I love you too, my entire night sky."

[bullet-prooflove]

Lifetime: Travis Wheatley x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @pear-1206 @keyweegirlie @nu1freakshow

Travis thinks about you all the time when he’s on the road. His dreams are filled with the taste of your honey on his lips and the sound of your ecstasy in his ears. You presence is nothing more than a memory when he’s on the rodeo circuit but those other girls, the belt bunnies, they don’t get a second look.

You’re the only person he trusts with the news that his condition has deteriorated, that he’s now in liver failure. It’s a wakeup call, especially for the man who thought that he was going to live forever.

“I’ve done everything you told me.” He argues with the specialist. “I’ve quit the drinking, changed my diet…”

“That’s just the way it goes.” He’s told in a sterile room with his scans hanging up on the wall for him to see. “Sometimes the damage is too great.”

He flies to Yellowstone that afternoon from Texas because he can’t stand another minute away from you.

“I’m dying.” He tells you as he lays tangled up in bed with you, his thumb ghosting over the apple of your cheek as he looks into your eyes. “The end, it’s coming quicker than I thought.”

He expects you to leave because this is a burden he wouldn’t wish on anyone. He’s going to get sicker, it’s just a matter of time. It breaks his heart because he offered you a future and now he’s ripping it away.

“You promised me a lifetime.” You whisper against this lips as your fingertips trace along his grizzled cheek. “I’ll take whatever’s left of yours.”

He doesn’t think he can love you more than he does in that moment.

You go on the road with him. You leave behind your home, your job, your life because you want to spend the rest of the time you have together loving him.

When you start to compete for the first time in three years, he’s exhilarated. He’s seen you race in Yellowstone, he’s watched you train the up and commers but he’s never seen you in your element. When you win, there’s a fire in your eyes, a passion that he recognises in his own heart. He’s never felt as proud as he does in that moment. He’s weaker these days but he’s still there to lift you down from your horse when you trot back to the paddock. He can’t express the joy he feels at the sensation of you in his arms as the crowd cheers.

“We should start telling people.” You say as you press a cold compress to the back of his neck after he spends the morning throwing up. “You’re going to have to stop soon.”

He knows you’re right but he can’t face that right now, once people smell weakness on the circuit you’re as good as gone and he wants to compete as long as he can.

It’s when he takes that fall that everything changes. One minute he’s in the midst of wrangling a calf in the centre of a televised arena, the next he’s waking up on the dusty floor in the recovery position, vomiting his guts out.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Rip demands when he wakes up in a hospital bed surrounded by brightly coloured flowers and helium balloons. He counts at least seven horse plushies littered around the room.

“You know why.” Travis says forcefully.

Rip sighs as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket because yea, he gets it.

“I’m a match.” He says finally. “I got tested while you were out. The docs are getting it on the books as we speak.”

“Rip.” Travis says, his voice rough with emotion. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

He knows the repercussions of this surgery. Rip will be out of action for six months maybe a year. Travis has the means to weather that but Rip, he doesn’t.

“You always were a stubborn son of a bitch.” Rip says before he tilts his head towards the glass window. Travis can see you on the opposite side, your arms crossed over your chest as you talk to his doctor. “If you won’t let me do this for you, then let me do it for your girl, let me do it so that the two of you can live a long, happy life together.”

Travis can’t find a way to argue with that because that’s all he wants, more time, with you, with Rip, with all the people he actually gives a shit about.

That evening he calls John Dutton to his hospital room and they begin to make arrangements. Between them they make sure that Rip’s going to be taken care of throughout the duration of his recovery, no matter how long it may take.

It isn’t until the day of the surgery that Travis realises just how terrified of hospitals Rip actually is. He endures the checkups through gritted teeth, he keeps his gaze trained on the TV, switching the channels constantly in an attempt to distract himself. Travis, he’s an old hand at this shit by now, he’s spend the past year in and out of treatment but Rip…

This is the longest he’s ever been inside one.  

“I’m buying you a fucking horse after this.” Travis tells him as he tips his head towards the other man. “An expensive one, a stud. You’ll make four, five grand everytime the thing pops a woody.”

“I don’t want a fucking horse.” Rip tells him as he turns off the TV and gestures to the pony plushie nestled against Travis’s chest, Rip has a matching one that he keeps stroking his fingers over. “What I want is for you to marry that girl as soon as you get out of here.”

“Can’t do that if I don’t have a best man.” Travis remarks as he studies the cuddly toy once more. It looks exactly like his rodeo horse Crash.

“OK.” Rip tells him, tucking his own plushie underneath the crook of his arm. “You pop the question and I’m there, you just tell me where and when.”

Love Travis? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[willowed-wisp]

HER KNIGHT, HIS HEART- part two

previous | next

| Ser Harwin Strong x female!OC/reader insert

WARNINGS: violence, swearing, abuse

She had forgotten about Rhaenyra's fly about- it was Harwin Strong's fault, lecturing her about not angering her father. Putting aside her unattainable ambitions- at least he possessed the balls to properly counsel her, hence she chose him of all people.

Not a lot had happened in those two days, though her father was more emotionally challenged.

Apparently Prince Daemon with the City Watch had mutilated and murdered petty criminals.

Elspeth had never had too many dealings with the dark horse of the Targaryens but had enough to distance herself from the rogue.

The woman had also had no interaction with Ser Harwin Strong. She didn't know how to feel about that- having an innate desire to search among a sea of faces hoping that she'd see his. Elspeth shrugged that off as an aversion technique, but the anguish when she didn't find him spoke otherwise.

She had always envied Rhaenyra for the primary reason that she could ride dragons- be in the wilds if she wished. Just as she held hatred of man's freedom to fulfil any role they desired while women were made to battle in bed chambers and birthing chairs.

The woman felt more kin towards the Targaryens than her own. She loved seeing her princess in the clouds - what a rush that would be. It wasn't foretold for Elspeth, thankful she hadn't been roasted alive by

Having missed Syrax's flying session, she was glad a tourney was taking place- maybe it could provide the rush always wanting in her veins, "I missed you at the Dragonpit," proper and upfront- that's why they got on so well. Rhaenyra stood in a blood-coloured frilled gown- exiting the carriage.

"What was keeping you?" Elspeth had to stifle her amusement. Not that Rhaenyra looked ridiculous.

"Did King Viserys pick this out for you?" Brow quirked, lips in a smirk. Her best friend returned the sentiment.

"What made it obvious? The frills or the patterns?" Bunching it up by the mid hem.

Rhaenyra eyed what the Hightower wore. "Are you sure you don't have dragon blood?" Referring to the black and gold gilded gown the woman wore. Its neckline was high and crossed, sleeves short- nothing too fancy. She needn't impress the councillors nor onlookers.

Elspeth tutted, "None hold more disappointment than I, Princess," they walked- the older assumed she would receive an earful from her father for being late. "You should have a sibling by the end of events." Rhaenyra smiled, it was a momentous occasion for her. She seemed excited for the company of a brother or sister- Rhaenyra convinced it will be a little girl called 'Visenya".

"Yes Visenya is on her way. I can't imagine going through labours- I’m not in a hurry," Elspeth nodded, her younger siblings provided a strong deterrent to following her 'wifely duties. Others seemed to enjoy the deed committed to be with child, not that the girl of nineteen knew personally. "So... what kept you from the Dragonpit? Syrax missed you- she's quite fond of your presence. Soon she'll be able to bear two riders..."

A purse of her lips, "I fear the dragoness would send me to my death if I saddled her. I don't possess your lineage, Rhaenyra, and Hightowers would make the worst dragon riders. You and I both know that." They started to ascend the steps, up to the entrance and where the most powerful people in Westeros watched the events.

Their laughs quieted down, hushed by the cheers from around- only the king audible and able to translate.

"I know many of you travelled long leagues to be at these games. But I promise, you will not be disappointed. When I look at the fine knights in these lists. I see a group without equal in our histories. And this great day has been made more auspicious by the news... that I am happy to share: Queen Aemma has begun her labours!"

They had sneaked to their seats- sat either side of Alicent in the front row. Rightful cheers ensued-Elspeth one of thousands in attendance. She knew Rhaenyra never wanted the fate of the kingdoms in her hands - she wanted to fly around on Syrax for the remainder of her days. A male heir would make sure that happened. "May the luck of the Seven shine upon all combatants!" An eruption of applause. She found herself politely clapping.

"Who's first?" Directed at no one in particular.

Calculating by sigils on armour.

Somebody beat them to the punch, "Opening this wondrous tournament. Ser Casten Tully," a streak of blue and silver, "His opponent- the strongest knight in the Seven Kingdoms, Ser Harwin Strong!" Something leapt inside of her- head perking. Navy, forest and carmine flashed and glimmered with armour.

In a blink of an eye, Ser Casten was in a bundle on the floor- his beige steed a few feet away.

Cradling his shoulder, a broken collarbone maybe.

Her focus on the man was short lived. Ser Harwin trotted over on horseback- helmet lifted and his eyes were straight on her, "Lady Elspeth Hightower, I stayed true to my word." Eyes not daring to roll, as she stood from the stool.

She draped her hands over the boundary- elbows rested on stone. "I'm afraid I haven't made a wreathe," Elspeth was dismissive. Stifling that guilt deep down in her chest.

"You could give him your necklace..." Fucking Rhaenyra. What was she playing at?

Oh, he looked oh-so amused with himself. "Are you going to deny a knight his favour?" He was lucky he was handsome. Fingers fiddled to undo the clasp of her golden chained, emerald encrusted piece of jewellery. Sliding it down his lance. "No kind words?"

"Don't push it, Strong," she spoke through gritted teeth. Gods above she was in trouble. Especially when he wore the necklace- smuggled with his chainmail and chest plate.

Then he was gone.

She returned to her seat. Alicent and Rhaenyra sharing looks of amusement, “Was that why you were absent from the Dragonpit?” The answer as clear as her silence was loud. Chin up and observing the next rounds of the joist. Gwayne was on the lists, but Ser Criston Cole was the cream of the crop. Fairly unknown but his reputation from the Stormlands had preceded himself. And he didn’t disappoint, she overhead Westerling’s information as he spoke to the Princess.

For every other knight she didn’t pay attention. “Ser Harwin Strong!” But him, eyes trained on him while he took a lap around the list field. He seemed to notice, bowing on his horse at her- that smile prominent under the helmet. Alicent gasped as Rhaenyra laughed in a quiet manner. Elspeth didn’t know how that made her feel, although her cheeks felt warm.

The woman maintained her composure. “His opponent, Ser Gwayne Hightower!” Her arm was touched by a concerned Alicent. Harwin had a reputation for near killing his competitors- it was a worry. Not that she had control over the events.

“Gwayne will be fine.”

Elspeth was pissed off. So much so she had left the royal balcony, storming down to the knights’ village. Finding exactly who she was looking for, “You let him unhorse you,” the dishevelled hair didn’t help her unexplainable infatuation. While he stood there, unlinking his armour.

“Your Lord brother was better than me, that can be changed with more training,” He remained so calm and gentle. As he always had and she presumed would continue to be; riling her up even more.

She paced ever so close to the man, chin up attempting to look more foreboding, “Why did you let Gwayne beat you?”

“Ser Gwayne is a fine knight.”

“He may be a fine knight but he can’t unhorse you,” her chest met his; heart skipping, maybe that wasn’t hers. He hadn’t looked away- staring into Elspeth’s eyes as she did his.

That harsh edge to her melted as he dipped his head down, “Did you want me to win, my Lady?” Ending at the shell of her ear, Elspeth sucked in a breath.

The woman sought to maintain her composure, “I trusted you wouldn’t sully my honour, Ser Strong,” faces mere inches away, “But I’m sure you won’t repeat that mistake next time…” She took a few steps back- aware of prying eyes of tourney goers and those of knights.

Nothing could hide his look of bemusement, “You wish to give me your honour again?” The woman nodded.

“You are the strongest knight, in the Seven Kingdoms. You’re one of the best there is.” A wave of pride on his face but something waged sincerity.

“I didn’t know you to be capable of such flattery, my Lady.” He was too happy with himself.

“Don’t push it, Strong.” Deja vu as she walked away- turning back to witness that intent look on Harwin’s face, “Never forfeit another tourney.”

“Don’t you want your necklace back?”

She waved him off, “For next time. Don’t want you forgetting about me,” maybe she winked, maybe she didn’t. Elspeth was not ready to admit she winked at Harwin Strong. Or that she had given him her most treasured possession.

Those eyes of blue watched the girl, “Are you sure, Elspeth?” She was weak at her knees. Yet she held it- a weak, timid nod. How had they gotten so close again? Whatever the reason, Elspeth just wanted him to disappear and let her thoughts remain pure and allow for her to go about her usual day.

Not constantly think about him.

The woman just couldn’t figure the knight out. She couldn’t fathom why in the Known World would he align himself with her? The eldest daughter to the Hand of the King and the most outspoken Lady that the court had known.

Murmurs fluttered the air, a blur of orange came into view. “Ser Harwin,” The unmistakable voice of her brother. He had to look twice at his sister being in the knight’s village, “Sister, I think you need to return to your Princess.”

“Does being a stickler ever get old, brother?” Unamused and unyielding. Until that look emerged on his face. “Gwayne, what’s wrong?” Wide green eyes met his calmed blue.

“The Queen is dead.” Drums thundered around her- only a figment of her imagination but they pounded stronger than her own heart.

Fuck. “Rhaenyra. I’ve got to go.”

Without a second word, she found her best friend and held her tight despite declaring she ‘didn’t need’ Elspeth’s sympathies. That didn’t prevent the Princess from melting to the floor in the Hightowers’ arms. Both Elspeth and Alicent cradled her that day. Not speaking a single phrase, just sharing each others’ despair.

Queen Aemma was the perfect mother to them all. Never thinking herself to be above any subject. She was a true Queen. And a true Targaryen.

What was the Seven Kingdoms to do without her by Viserys’ side?

And her death was in vain- Prince Baelon only saw the living world for a mere few hours. Elspeth didn’t need a lesson from her father to understand what this meant. The succession of Viserys’ throne was in question. Unless he remarried and produced a male heir or two.

It also meant her father would be in a more ridiculous mood- which meant more suitors in the coming days.

The days went fast and her sanity broke at a quicker rate. She felt Rhaenyra’s pain- that agony. The Princess was there for both the sisters when their Lady mother passed, and now they would return the favour. Though, Alicent had been stealing her and their mother’s clothes as of late. And had been around the Kings chambers. The woman just hoped Alicent wasn’t being forced to play an adult game at the age of fifteen.

But knowing Otto Hightower and his schemes- that most certainly was the truth. And it made her blood boil.

A crash of doors, “What is the meaning of this?”

“Are you so power famished that you’re going to exploit your youngest child? Your daughter?” She sat on the desk he was working on- closing the book that kept his focus even while she spoke. Her stare was that of rages- not surprise, “You’re rotten at your very core, that throne... Please don’t drag Alicent into your games!”

“Well you certainly won’t do what’s best for this family… Alicent has a keen mind for the way things work in this world.”

“She’s a fucking child who has a misguided idolisation for her father! Mother would never forgive you for this…” Her breath taken as the man she called ‘father’ had his fingers wrapped around her throat. Nails digging further- a crushinh hold. It wasn’t fear running through her. It was pure hatred. “Do it. Kill me. Show them the monster you’ve always been.” It was a struggle worth the pain- he released her from his grip.

Elspeth didn't know what lurked behind those eyes before. Now she did. A coward and a kingmaker. Her throat felt the construction still, coughing to realign any part of her windpipe as soon as slumped outside of the door- not caring what the Kingsguard stationed outside thought. Before their worried faces asked, she had charged halfway down the corridor- passing by with steeled manner.

“Lady Elspeth, whatever is the matter?” The master of laws, Ser Lyonel Strong. One of her father’s peers that made sense, she was quite fond of the man. He often checked in with the woman, almost like an actual father would. Not that she would know.

She shook her head- politely, “Ser Lyonel, you are in good health?”

“Child, I have known you since you were knee high,” Arms crossed, “Your Lord father?”

She nodded, “I have to attend, her grace. I will see you in court, Ser.” Elspeth had been wholly unaware of the bruises circling her throat- however, the master of laws had not been so ignorant.

Lady Elspeth had not gone to Rhaenyra- a blatant lie so she could venture down and out of the castle. Kings Landing was a much better crowd than Oldtown ever had been.

The woman found herself on the bar counter - wooden and bulking - singing her tunes as somebody tickled the ivories and picked at the strings. A tankard of ale raised in her hand, that would be her fifth. Not that she paid for any of them. She knew Bert the owner, but vagrants had been stockpiling her in alcohol since she strutted in.

She was among the clouds- unaware if it were the ale or the brute slinging her over his shoulder. Not that the girl argued, she was too far gone to walk- it was nice being carried around.

Until her back crashed into a wall, “You are foolish for coming here, my Lady,” so polite yet so gruff at the same time. It ignited something in her.

Anger… lust… Elspeth couldn’t rightly say which, “Ugh, not you, Ser Breakybones…” Eyes rolled, taking a step she wasn’t ready to take in that condition- falling into his arms. And she felt safe, secure. The woman found herself in the clouds again. So she giggled, looking into his stern face. “I’ve always fancied you…” his hand swept away the hair, unable to resist sweeping in behind her neck. She couldn’t help but wince.

She felt this man of all men tremble, “Who did this? Was it one of those pigs inside?” He let her go for a moment- about to absolute havoc to the patrons until they gave him answers. But a hand on the side of his face stopped him- everything in the man. Eyes widened as if his own heart ceased to beat when he saw her composure unravel and the tears break down Elspeth’s soft skin.

All but shattering. He held her snug while she bawled. Elspeth barely noticed when he carried her, all the way to the Red Keep. She’d have appreciated that in consciousness or told him to fuck off.

[notyour-valentine]

The Head of the Snake ~ Tommy Shelby x wife (Angst)

[Masterlist] [Taglist]

Summary: Tommy returns exhausted from a BUF event in the middle of the night, and all he wants is peace. But he finds anything but

Note: Written for @raincoffeeandfandoms and her 2.5k Celebration. For it I chose night and even tried to put a spin on your "Black and White" theme. I hope you enjoy!

All my writing is produced by an adult and created with an adult audience in mind (18/21+). You are responsible for your own media consumption. I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other.

Wordcount: 1577 words

As soon as he heard the front door slam shut behind him, Tommy pressed the palms of his hands over his eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. 

He was home. 

It was over, at least for tonight.  By now all the downstairs fires had died down, and only the lamps on the stairs remained. 

From the corridor came Frances. 

“Didn’t I tell you there was no need to wait up?”, he asked, his voice uncommonly soft.

Even though she had gone against his instructions, Thomas Shelby was beyond glad to see a familiar, friendly face. “It was no trouble, Mr. Shelby.”, she assured him as she slipped the thick tailored coat from his tense shoulders. 

Every inch of his body hurt, and that was saying nothing of his mind, and on nights like these the stairs seemed endless. 

“Mrs Shelby is still up as well, Sir.”, she told him, just as he reached the halfway point, under the portrait of Monaghan Boy. 

Once upon a time, when the world was both smaller and simpler, that horse and it’s success had meant everything to him, and the money they had made with him, his victories, and finally losses, had paved the way for the rise of Shelby Company ltd. 

And the road that led him here. Right here. To tonight. 

Often, he wondered where he had gone wrong. If there had been a split in the road he had not taken, a corner he hadn’t turned, a bridge he hadn’t considered crossing, or if he had crossed one too many, leapt too high, ventured to far. 

Monaghan Boy did not have the answer, and he wouldn’t dare ask Frances the question and so he rallied himself once more and leaned his weight on the banister on the way up. 

Never had he felt so old before. 

When he looked down the corridor he could see the doors to the children’s rooms already shut. 

Of course. They were fast asleep, as they should, and although he felt a burning tightness in his chest that only the sight of his children could ease. 

He needed a reminder what he was doing all this for, not just against, needed to hear the soft sounds of their breaths, feel the smoothness of their cheeks, and the softness of their hair. 

But it was too late for that, he would only ever wake them. 

So he turned the other way and approached his bedchamber. 

To his surprise, Frances hadn’t been wrong. His wife was still up, still waiting for him. 

She was sitting on the windowsill, in her white nightgown and robe that seemed ever paler compared to the pitch black night sky. The only speck of colour, it seemed, was the glow of her cigarette. 

“I’m home.”, he announced, as if she could somehow have missed the arrival of his car on the driveway below, or the sound of the door opening and closing in his wake. 

The only response was the crackling of the cigarette’s paper being burned with another inhale. 

So it would be another one of these nights, Tommy thought bitterly, but he didn’t have the fight in him and so he only began to undress as quickly and efficiently as he could, placing first his jacket, then his vest over the back of his dressing table chair. 

Every single movement, no matter how small, reminded him of the exhaustion he felt body and soul, the kind no sleep - only peace could solve. 

He tore his cufflinks out of his shirt, their clattering on the shiny wood making his head throb so much he barely missed the sound of her voice. 

“We didn’t wait up for you tonight.”

Her voice was soft, calm, without any trace of emotion, only the slight rasp due to the cigarette and the lat ehour. 

“Well I didn’t ask you to.”

Tommy knew he would be late. He was nearly always late. 

“We wouldn’t have done if you did.”, she replied, just as cooly as she had spoken previously. 

Now that caught his attention. 

His arm resting on the back of the chair, he turned to look at her, seeing only a quarter of her face in the reflection of the window. 

It was as if she couldn’t even look at him, as if merely meeting his gaze would stain her. 

“So you really did it?”, she asked, tapping the ash away. 

“By ‘it’ you mean following the plan I agreed on with Churchill, then yes. I did it.”, he spat. 

He never should have told her, never would have told her if he hadn’t hoped that doing so would make her help him. 

He never expected her to turn her back on him and his cause, not after everything, not after Polly, but she had made no attempt to hide it then, nor did it now as she scoffed and shook her head. 

“I remember everyone telling me again and again about how much you are like a horse, but Tommy, you really are a horse.”

“What?”, he asked. 

“You are a horse.”

With that, she snuffed out her cigarette and got up, her open robe flapping behind her from the swiftness of her movement as she grabbed his face between two hands. 

“Like a racehorse with the blinkers on only you put them there yourself.”

Her fingers found his temples, limiting his eyesight to replicate the blinkers. 

“Racing ahead, blindly, stupidly, unable to see the truth of the realisation.”

He moved his head to rid himself of her touch, so warm, so smooth, but right now he could barely stomach her presence. 

“They put the blinkers on so that the horse doesn’t startle and injure itself and others.”, he scoffed, turning his back on her. 

“And why does the horse startle, Tommy?”, she asked calmly. “Because it’s not made to race. It’s forced to.”

He glared at her, his lips parted and his icy blue eyes piercing. 

“No one forces me to do anything.”, he snarled. 

It was too late and he was too tired for this. He just wanted to close his eyes and not think, not hear, not sense. 

“So you’re doing this because you want to?”

Tommy knows she is asking about Mosley. About the BUF and about the event he had attended tonight, where he had introduced the man. 

“I do it because it allows me to get close to him, to gain his trust and gather insight so Churchill can bring them down.”

She snorted once more and shook her head. 

“Take your fuckling blinkers off, Tommy.”,  she snarled. “Take them off and see what you are doing.”

“The right fucking thing for once!”, he spat right back at her. 

“No, you’re not!”

Her voice was dangerously low, and she showed not the slightest sign of folding as Tommy stepped closer to her. 

Of all people, he needed her to understand, to believe him. How many times had he tried to explain it to her and every single time she had refused to believe him. 

Why was she being so fucking difficult?

“Love-”, he tried once more. 

“No!”, she commanded. “No, Tommy. Think, for once about what you’re doing. Not what you or Churchill or anyone are planning to do, or going to do, but what you are actually doing.”

His law muscles tightened as he stared at her, this woman who had loved him fiercely and consistently, even when he had proved himself unworthy of it time and time again. 

She had been with him, had supported and shielded him in her own way, protected him from his family, from his nightmares and on some nights even from himself. 

And when he looked at her with this fierce determination in her eyes, a sharp terrifying fear took hold inside him, but he had no time to either reassure himself or ask, as she continued - relentless, just like the rest of them. 

“You are out there, on a stage with him, with them. You just gave him something money can’t buy. Legitimacy in this city, the city you call yours.”

“It’s all part of-”

“The plan. I know.”, she said, waving it off before he could even begin. ��But what if you do manage to bring down Mosley, or even all of the BUF? They will still have thousands of member and sympathisers, and thousands in this city alone, thanks to you.”

Tommy felt his blood run cold. 

“Little boys are running around all over Birmingham, playing Peaky Blinders with caps and knives just like their big hero Tommy Shelby. And now their big hero Tommy Shelby is standing shoulder to shoulder with fascists that tell people to throw rocks at their neighbours for all sorts of reasons. Tell me, Tommy, what will the little boys do? What will their fathers do who are employed by the thousands in your factories and docs and companies?”

He inhaled sharply, but that wasn’t deemed a suitable reply and so she shook her head and turned. 

“I’m sleeping in the nursery tonight.”, she said, reaching for her blanket. 

That made rage bubble up inside him. She was his wife, she was supposed to support him, not stab him in the back. 

“You kill a snake by cutting off it’s head!”, he told her harshly just as she was at the door. 

She turned slowly, glaring at him. 

“And what good will that do if its venom is already spread?"

~

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed and as always I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Taglist

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Tommy

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[writing-for-life]

A Sacred Garden: Death & Delight—Michael Zulli

Oh… was the first thing I thought when I found this. I need your help, fellow art aficionados…

I am not entirely sure if the title should be “A Wicked Garden” or “A Sacred Garden” (I find the latter more likely because of the symbolism, plus a gallery also has it listed as that), because it is listed as both.

But what on earth are we looking at here?!

Because Death is tied up. I immediately had to think of Jesus on the cross here (not least because Delight’s positioning reminds me of many paintings of the crucifixion and both Maries, but naturally also because of how Death is positioned).

And the flower floating above Delight’s hand is a rose, like in so many of Zulli’s paintings (they often stand for love and passion, but especially with Death, he often uses them for grief and mourning. They don’t have a specific colour here—if they were blue or red, it would be easier to figure out what they stand for. Also, I have to think of swirling things the way the rose is floating 🍥).

But what is going on here? Who tied Death to the tree? And what with all the skulls? Are they symbolic for Delight dying/changing to Delirium?

And is this some sort of altar (the thing Delight is holding on to with her right, with the jug on the left and the ram’s skull on the right)? Who’s the sacrificial lamb here? Is she bargaining for more time as Delight?

Another connotation is that of St. Sebastian, in many depictions tied to a tree, although that’s less straightforward. People used to pray to St. Sebastian for protection against the plague, which could also make sense in this context (mental plague rather than bubonic—again, is there some bargaining going on here?). I’m honestly so confused…

Or could we actually turn this on its head, and it’s not about Delight turning into Delirium at all—at least not at this point. What if it’s actually about Death, and how she relates to her function, and her own struggles? I’ll just leave that question sitting there...

Zulli painted a Triptych of Death and Delight roundabout the same time which makes me think that could be also be an option, or at least that they are both affecting each other:

The individual paintings are called “She rides a pale horse”, “Sisters” and “Eternal Spring.” Here, the roses are actually coming out of Delight’s hair, and they’re red. And her hair is beginning to dissolve in the last one.

Edit to quickly remind everyone of this reference to the falling blossoms in her domain in Brief Lives:

This takes me in all different directions, and it’s immensely confusing.

Death as the saviour makes sense (well, sometimes I guess). But is Delight looking for salvation? Did she want to die? Is that what turned her into Delirium? Is it symbolic for the loss of innocence and understanding that this is what comes for all of us? Or is it also about Death?

“Oh” indeed…

Tagging @tickldpnk8 @windsweptinred without pressure—and everyone else who’d like to have a go at this one.

[immeasurablesaladagere]

Can we get a fic about Wilson&House finding out Chase regresses please 🙏🙏🙏

Fun fact! I already had a prompt similar to this sitting in my notes app before I ever made this blog, so I decided to work on that! It just includes cg!House, I hope that's alright. House would have a very... ahem, interesting first-time-cg style.

-----

Word Count: 1230

Summery: House can tell that something is up with Chase on an overnight shift.

-----

Something was wrong with Chase.

House stared at him through the glass of his office, watching him go back and fourth between flipping through the patient’s files and a newspaper crossword. At least, that was what he was pretending to do. Chase’s eyes were obviously unfocused and staring directly through the papers, and it looked more like he was moving them around on autopilot to seem busy in front of his boss who he knew would be spying on him through the window. A smart move to be sure, but ultimately a pointless one. 

Chase picked up his pen and hovered it over the newspaper like he was going to write in an answer, then stopped and put the end of the pen in his mouthfor the dozenth time.

House wrinkled his nose in disgust. He was never using that pen again. It was definitely covered in bite marks and saliva, and while there was probably a large clientele who would pay too much for pretty-boy’s spit, he wasn’t one of them. If it wasn’t the pen, then it was biting the top half of his thumb or pointer finger, before he would get a look on his face and switch back to the pen or the cuff of his coat sleeve.

Then there was the fidgeting. For the most part, Chase matched the expected appearance of a man who had been awake for twenty-four hours on an overnight patient watch; sunken eyes, painfully-bored expression, slumped posture, and a general air of ‘I’d rather be having steamy sex with a hooker right now’— or maybe that was just him— but Chase was fidgeting almost constantly. It consisted mostly of swinging his feet back and fourth under the glass table or mindlessly shaking his free hand up and down. When he was particularly lost in thought, he would begin rocking in place to entertain himself. 

It was when the thought crossed House’s mind that Chase looked more like a little kid waiting for their parent to finish up at the DMV than a doctor trying to stay awake that he began to think that Chase was more than just tired. 

Age regression was a zebra, but Cuddy hadn’t given him his own team and office because he was an expert at finding horses. 

He watched as Chase yawned and rubbed his eyes, then rested his head on his hand and slipped his entire thumb in his mouth. If it wasn’t regression, then House got an embarrassing habit to hold over his head for the rest of time.

It was probably best to test his hypothesis before they were called to deal with the patient and Chase’s toddler brain accidentally killed her. He turned to his laptop and typed ‘colouring pages’ into Google, then printed the first result; an ocean floor scene with corny cartoon dolphins and fish.

At the sound of the printer starting in the office, Chase seemed to snap back into some kind of focus and pulled his thumb from his mouth, hastily tucking it against his cheek. 

When House walked in, Chase pushed away his file and cleared his throat. “Did you find something for the patient? I can’t think of anything.” 

“Forget the patient, I have a much more important question.” He set down the colouring page in front of Chase, “How do you feel… about sea creatures?”

He watched as Chase’s eyes went wide for a split second before he schooled his face into confusion. “What’s this?”

“Sea creatures.” He tapped the cartoon dolphin’s face, “See?”

“Yeah, uh… Why?”

“You tell me. Why would I, as your boss, distract you from a case with a children’s colouring page?”

Chase shrugged, looking anywhere but directly at the picture. “I ‘dunno…”

“Sure you do.” House nudged at the pen on the table. The plastic end was completely mangled by teeth marks, and it left behind a small trail of spit as it rolled. “And the sleeve, and the thumb, and the fidgeting like a four-year-old.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, House—“

“Tell me the truth, or you’re fired.”

Chase looked up at him in disbelief. “W-What?”

“You’re showing signs of an altered mental state. What if you were drunk? Or on drugs?” House wondered aloud, “The hospital wouldn’t take kindly to that, and what would that say about me? I can’t have a drugged-out doctor on my team—“

“I’m not on drugs! Or drinking!” 

“Then what?“

“It’s age regression, okay?” Chase blurted, “It’s this thing I do, I-I was thinking like a kid and it’s not like— why am I explaining it? You already knew, I’m just— I was tired and we weren’t getting anywhere with the case, s-so…”

House smirked with vindication. “So you figured it was fine if your adult brain took a vacation for a few hours, right? The patient’s not important, I get it.”

Chase buried his face in his hands. The tips of his ears were bright red with shame. “Please don’t fire me. I swear, it was a one-time thing, I’m not— I can control it, I—“

He hummed and tapped his fingers against his cane in dramatic thought. “I don’t know… I’m pretty sure you need to be at least eighteen to be a doctor, and you’re, what? Five? Cuddy wouldn’t appreciate the liability, and I don’t know if I can trust you to be a big boy if you can’t handle a—.”

Chase sniffled. Ah, crap.

“M’sorry,” He mumbled and stood up quickly to leave, but House grabbed him by the arm before he could run away and lightly pushed him back down into the chair.

“Sit down, relax.” He wanted to mess with the kid, not make him cry. “I’m not going to fire you.”

Chase looked up at him, eyes round and wet like a sad puppy. House grimaced. “But you said…”

“It was a joke. I was just messing with you.” He didn’t look convinced. On one hand, House was happy that his theory was correct. On the other, now he was stuck babysitting his employee who he’d inadvertently worked up into a panic. Why couldn’t kids ever understand sarcasm?

“Oh…” Chase shrunk in on himself and fiddled with the end of his tie. “…Sorry.”

“It’s fine, kid.” He sighed. “How young am I dealing with here?” If he was babysitting, he at least wanted to know what he was getting into.

Chase stared at him owlishly like he was afraid to answer, and his face flushed pink as he answered, “Six..?”

“So I was close! Look at me go. Listen, we’re going to talk about this later, but you’re not fired, got it?”

“Mhm.”

“Oh, and you’re off the case until you’re an adult again. If you get paged, I’ll go. I was serious about the liability, Cuddy’ll be up my ass if I let a toddler perform CPR.”

Chase frowned indignantly. “That’s not a nice word. An’ I’m not a toddler.”

Oh good, the language police. “You’re close enough.” He turned to grab the cup of pens on a nearby counter and set it down next to the colouring page. “Here. Not much for colours, but it’ll do.”

Chase looked between him and the pens a few times before hesitantly picking up a red one and beginning to fill in the crab.

“Oh, and no eating them. Those are my good pens.”

[animelovelover123]

Devil May Cry Characters During Threesomes Extra

Parings: Sparda, Urizen, Nelo Angelo, Credo, Kat, Dante, Reboot Dante, Vergil, Reboot Vergil, Nero, and V x Reader

Synopsis: The awaited sequel to my DMC 3way story. I ended up putting off the girls for the future because writing this was really draining. The only exception is the reboot characters as, due to a lack of them, it is one of the twins, Kat, and you. I don’t intend to do the boy-girl pairings because that would be like 120 scenes (if I did the math right) and I think that would kill me.

Trigger Warnings: Spardacest and selfcest warning, the focus is on you but there are moments where characters pleasure each other and references to family ties.

Also some non-con elements (pretty much just with Urizen and Nelo Angelo), bondage, public foreplay and sex, spoilers for DMC1&4&5, oviposition (aka freaky egg stuff), emotional distress, tentacles, exhibitionism, being an experiment subject, size difference, some pain, lack of control, Macrophilia (giants), BDSM, horse crops, Shibari/Kinbaku, blood, double penetration, edging, orgasm denial, and face sitting.

Dante & Sparda

"Just relax my dear, take in the sights and scents around you." Sparda encouraged you as he helped you lay down on the luxurious bed he had moved to the garden. Around the four-poster bed were tall flower plants, painting your eye line with soft greens and colourful petals.

"You really went all out, didn't you?" Dante said, barely restraining the scoff in his voice. He could admit it was a sweet arrangement, but it seemed overkill. "We were just late coming home." Dante hopped up onto the mattress, which was specially made to fit multiple people.

"That is where you are misguided my boy," Sparda corrected as he leaned over the bed to lovingly stroke your hair and cheek. "To us, it may not seem like much, but to someone waiting at home for their partners to return, uncertainty and worry for their loved ones occupying their mind, it can be extremely stressful." Sparda cupped your cheek and lifted your chin a bit to face him, taking a moment to gaze into your eyes. "We must make up for our mistakes and soothe our love’s troubled heart and mind." He then slowly lowers himself to place a feather-light kiss onto your lips, giving you the room to turn away if you were not quite ready to forgive his and Dante's misdeed.

Dante let out a sigh that started amused but ended as being one of genuine regret. He was still not used to having someone waiting for him at home, but it was clear how upset you were when he and Sparda returned 4 days late from the supposed 1-week long mission. But now at least you looked calmer, with your red cheeks no longer covered in tears and your chest raising and lowering at a normal pace. And when he laid down beside you and started to stroke your stomach, hips, and thighs, you didn’t push him away, something that actually soothed his own troubled heart.

“I guess the old lady was right,” Dante mumbled as he watched Sparda start to kiss from your lips to your chin to your neck. “you are better at dealing with ladies.”

==+==+==

This whole idea was based on the fact that in the DMC5 prequel novel Before the Nightmare, Matier (the old lady from DMC2 that fought alongside Sparda long ago) said that “his father was better at dealing with ladies, as well as better at making excuses”, or so says https://devilmaycry.fandom.com/wiki/Sparda which can’t always be trusted but it's not like I can read the Japanese only book myself to check.

Vergil & Sparda

“Slow down my boy.”  Warned Sparda in that gentle, ‘not actually angry’, parental tone as he placed a hand on Vergil’s back to help break through his son’s lustful haze and listen. “You are going a bit too fast, especially here at the beginning. You want her to feel and enjoy every little movement and sensation rather than it blazing past as a numb blur.” It takes a moment, but Vergil does slow down.

“I understand father.” Vergil huffed out, still in a bit of a daze. The rough and quick slamming of his cock into you slowed to a smooth drag, finally giving your body a chance to relax a bit as your trembling arms held you up so you weren’t face down in the mattress.

Sparda, despite being bigger and stronger, had been so very gentle and considerate of you when he did his “demonstration”, only ramping up the intensity to help push you both over the edge. But Vergil, blinded by the desire to prove himself to Sparda and the lust that had built up in him while watching you be fucked by someone else, had dived forward. He had forced himself into your still-seizing core, not even letting you finish your first orgasm before ravaging you. Thankfully Sparda was there to help and guide Vergil.

“She seems a bit overwhelmed Vergil. Look her over, ask her how she is, and care for her. It is your responsibility as the dominant one to take care of your partner. To make sure they are safe, happy, and satisfied.” Sparda instructs, though he had been watching you closely to make sure you were enjoying yourself so knew you were okay, just a bit overwhelmed.

“Right, of course.” This reminder of your pleasure snapped Vergil out of it, at least for the most part. “My darling, how are you holding up?” Vergil ran his hands up and down your back, using just enough pressure to act as a message.

“Lay her on her side for now,” Sparda said, leading Vergil to gently shift your bodies so that you were both lying on your sides facing Sparda. Vergil did not remove himself from you, his primal lust still holding on too strong to truly give you a break. At least it was more of a cockwarming situation now, for the time being at least. “There we are.” Sparda laid down as well, making it so that Vergil was pressed up against your back, giving your neck apologetic kisses, and Sparda was in front of you running his large hands over your body in a soothing pet. From up into your hair to down your sides and even your legs which he messaged a bit since they had worked so hard to keep you up as Vergil had tried to take you while you were still recovering. “Remember my boy, she is not merely a vessel to let out your lust, but a person to be cherished and, when she gives her trust over to you like this, taken care of. Do you understand?”

Vergil is only able to nod in response as he finds himself struggling to stay calm. He did agree with his father completely, but you felt so good, not just wrapped around his member but also in his arms and his heart. But he would listen to Sparda for you, out of respect for his father, and because deep down inside him Vergil wanted to surpass Sparda and his power to pleasure you.

==+==+==

I thought this scenario would be a fun callback to the Nero & Vergil part since Vergil taught his son a lesson on “how to treat a woman”. Here though you can see how different Sparda and Vergil are in the way they teach and their opinions on how you should be pleasured.

Also, last time I tried to avoid references to characters by their relationships, like calling them brothers or father and son, since it makes some people uncomfortable. But this time I completely gave up. I have so many to write and I feel like the familial bonds could make an interesting dynamic. Besides, even when I blatantly point out that there was, in a way, Spardacest in the last one and tried avoiding bringing attention to it, someone still complained so what the fuck ever. Some people are gonna bitch no matter what so I’ll just ignore them and have fun making what I want without restrictions.

Nero & Sparda

It was quite the strange proposition you received from the great Lord Sparda, which is apparently rather normal in demon high society, though there it is not so much a proposition as a forced encounter. Nevertheless, here you were, having both Lord Sparda and his grandson Nero performing a practice bonding ritual on you meant as a way for a demon (or part demon in Nero’s case) to mark their partners. When Sparda had first explained this to you both, he talked of the benefits of a bond. How, even if one was monogamous, this way they could leave their scent on their partner to ward off predator demons. What he did not tell you is how intense it would be.

“That’s it, get as deep as you can.” Sparda encouraged, though it probably did not register for Nero who was bent over you rutting into you like a wild beast. Nero was at your front while Sparda was behind you. Or, to be most specific, you were practically lying on top of Sparda who was holding you in place while also thrusting up into you. The two men were sharing the same whole, stretching you beyond what you have felt before. Thankfully you were given plenty of prep. Still, it was a shock to the senses as Nero’s cock jammed in as far as it could, practically kissing your womb with his tip, while Sparda’s thrusts were more shallow as he aimed for your g-spot. “And then, right at the peak, you need to bite down where her neck and shoulder meet.” Sparda did not intend to do this, but hearing your cries of pleasure, feeling your body against his, and smelling your scent, led him to give a demonstration. He was still conscious enough to not actually create a bonding mark without your consent, but his teeth still bore down on you, leaving a mark of lust as he spilled his seed into the condom he was wearing.

Nero watched intently. He was coated in a sheen of sweat, his eyes were misty, his fangs were out, and his tongue went between, lolled out and licking his lips as he looked at you.

“Wanna do it, wanna mark, please.” He begged both you and Sparda. His thrusts got more uneven as he chased his own peak, one that could only be quenched by the demonic tradition of marking and bonding. “Please, please, please.”

“I understand Nero, but we must not pressure her into making that decision in the throws of passion.” Sparda pointed out. With his own lust satisfied, at least for the moment, he let go of your hips and instead wrapped his large hands around your neck. He did not put any pressure on your neck and he let you move and bend freely. He was not restraining you but protecting you, acting as a shield so that wherever Nero did bite, he would not bind you to an unbreakable vow. You can decide if and when that happens when you are a little more sane. Right now Nero was looking down at you like you were a delicious treat and he was starving.

“Yes, need it, need you… forever~”

==+==+==

This didn’t turn out quite the way I intended it to but oh well. Also, I almost switched this to being the Dante & Sparda story but then I switched it back to Nero.

V & Sparda

Tonight was supposed to be your chance to witness the most regal side of society. A ball where everyone was dressed in exuberant gowns and suits, a live orchestra was playing the music, and everything shimmered in the extravagant marble scenery and jewels adorning everything and everyone. However, your dance partners were making it hard to focus.

“You’re losing the tempo my songbird.” Says V in his silky smooth, deep voice as he dips you low. “Though I suppose it is hard to keep a beat when your heart is fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird.” One of V’s hands glides up from your side to your chest so he can feel your heartbeat, but with the squeeze he gave you it was clear what his true goals were. Before you can respond V pulls you upright again and sends you towards your other dance partner who is quick to press up against your back and wrap his arms around you to stop anyone from interrupting the sensual dance between you three.

“I do hope you are not overwhelmed, my dear,” Sparda says, his voice a bit deeper than V’s but with a more gentlemanly cadence to it. Sparda was much taller than you, standing at 7 feet tall, so when he grasped your chin with his gloved hands and made you look at him, your head had to be tilted up and pressed against his chest. “Your face is red and your breathing…” He gently runs his thumb over your lips, making the sensitive skin tingle,  “it is heavy.” His other hand glides down your torso and stops just above your sex, his fingertips just barely brushing over where your clit would be, and he pulls you tighter against him.

“Ah, you must be overheating.” V comments, drawing so close that he is on the cusp between it being appropriate and inappropriately close. “Let us step outside for some fresh, cool night air.”

You are swept away from the crowd of attendees towards a large balcony on the side of the building that does not face any garden or place where people could mill about alone. It faced out into a seemingly endless ocean sparkling in the moonlight. As you walk both men keep their hands on you, one resting on, and slowly groping your bottom while the other flicks at your bra strap over your clothes, as if threatening to undo it. Just before stepping out, Sparda made a motion towards the guards who quickly went to work closing the curtains and lining up at the door so no one could disturb you three.

“There, now we are free from that stuffy, stifling atmosphere.” V’s choice of words and tone indicated that it was not simply the obsessive heat he was glad to get away from.

“And yet our darling still seems a bit dazed,” Sparda says as he, along with V, leads you to the marble railing. Swiftly they turn you to face them, press your backside to the railing, and trap you there by each placing a hand on the railing on either side of you. “I fear it is the weight of your extravagant and voluminous gown that is the cause.”

“I agree. We must strip you of some of your layers songbird. I will start with your bodice.”

“And I with begin with your garters.”

==+==+==

This started with Sparda and V just using their voices, since V had a sexy voice and I like to imagine Sparda as a gentlemanly, slightly British, voice also on the deep side. Then I started to think of what scenario could facilitate this and somehow got to dancing. Then it evolved into this. Fancy boys pretending to be fancy while they do naughty things.

Dante & Nelo Angelo

Things had developed in such a strange way that it was hard to wrap your brain around. One moment Dante and you were preparing to fight the armored being that appeared from the mirror in the castellan's private bedroom. The next you were desperately trying to jog the memory of the man inside that was clearly brainwashed. He still seemed to recognize you though as he had zeroed in on you right away and removed his helmet for you. And when he had suddenly grabbed your side and used his absurd strength to lift you like a doll and force his lips upon you, Dante knew what he had to do to save his brother.

“Come on Vergil, you remember this, right?” Dante said as he held your legs open by locking his own legs atop yours. One of his hands was holding up your top to show your breasts still sitting in your bra while his other hand, having already pulled off your underwear, was stoking and holding open your lower lips. “You’ve been in this pussy before. Remember how warm and tight it was? You used to love it.”

Nelo Angelo, as was his new name, was focused on your core. The way your slick glistened on Dante’s fingers and your body, and how your entrance flexed in nervous anticipation. He strode closer and climbed onto the bed you and Dante were on, his size and weight caused the bed to dip. He knelt there for a moment, then, like his helmet before, another part of his armour disappeared in a flash of flames, causing his cock to spring free. Nelo Angelo was larger than the man you had known before, about 1½ times larger, and that has applied to his manhood which was now as thick as your wrist and as long as your forearm.

“Oh shit.” Dante murmured, though because he was pressed up against your back you could hear his shock loud and clear. “Alright sweetie, you ready to take one for the team?”

The initial penetration was tough, with your body twitching and the wind getting knocked out of you. And when Nelo Angelo started moving the sound of his deep grunts was drowned out by your own voice crying out in pleasure and pain. Dante had to hold you in place while Nelo Angelo lost himself in the familiar feeling of your inner walls clamping down around him. In the meantime, Dante whispered words of encouragement to you and stroked your clit to heighten your own pleasure. And for all this work, you were rewarded with your insides being coated in Nelo Angelo’s hot seed, and a wavering voice calling you by a familiar pet name.

“Darling?”

==+==+==

Your pussy has saved Nelo Angelo, congrats! lol

Vergil & Nelo Angelo

You were sandwiched between two men that, though from different periods of Vergil’s life, were the same man and still similar in most ways. And yet by having them both embracing the person they love the most made one act vastly different. Nelo Angelo treated you in the usual way, thrusting into you with quick precision, using his strength to hold you in place with just enough force to make it sting a little and not speaking as he was confident in his skills to please you, though that last bit was also due to the fact that he could not speak words. Vergil though…

Vergil was treating this like a competition, which in it of itself was not that surprising. The strange part was with how unsure he seemed. Perhaps it was due to being faced with himself at his weakest, or the fact that you, the one person whose opinion he cares most for, are seeing him in the weak state. Whatever the reason, he was acting more desperate. His usually strong grip was instead a gentle embrace, which, when paired with Nelo’s strong thrust, caused both Vergil and you to bounce rhythmically. His usual tight lip, open only to steal kisses and mark you with his teeth, were now split between peppering your face, neck, and chest with kisses, and saying things that were demanding, yet bordering on pathetic due to the tone.

“Darling, look at me,” Vergil said, trying to sound like his usual demanding self but instead sounding like a plea. You barely open your eyes before Nelo Angelo, going off of pure instinct, grabs your chin, forces you to turn your head, and kisses you with a strong, almost suffocating passion. “Darling.” Vergil breathed, barely subduing the tremor in his voice. His own lips dart forward, kissing your cheek then trailing down your jaw, and neck, and finally landing on the middle of your chest where your heart was. His hips also picked up the pace, though they weren’t as strong as Nelo Angelo’s. Between each kiss, Vergil demanded your attention. “Here darling. Look at me. Listen to me. Hear me. Focus on the man who drives you crazy with lust and love, body, mind, and soul. The one that has claimed you. The one you love… right?”

==+==+==

I kind of lost track of what I was doing on this one TBH. Since Vergil has trauma about his time as Nelo Angelo I wanted to utilize that but I did not want to make it too intense. I originally had Vergil break down more to the point of crying, but that seemed out of character.

Nero & Nelo Angelo

Both you and Nero were frazzled but that did not stop Nelo Angelo from picking you both up. Nero instinctually started clawing and cussing but did nothing to impact Nelo Angilo’s mostly armoured body. Nero was dropped down onto the large desk and before he could reorient himself and his new position, his legs were pushed open and you were shoved down on top of him. Now you and Nero were chest to chest, laying on the table, with your legs between his. Nelo Angelo made a grunting sound as his hand, thankfully not covered in armour, grabbed Nero’s semi-hard cock and pulls it out from between you two so he can rub the tip against your still-loose entrance.

“Ya, ya, I get it.” Nero grumbles. He was having a great time but this Nelo Angelo guy was so demanding. “Yo, babe, can you lift your hips real quick?” Nero asks you as he wraps one arm around you, his hand landing on your ass to give it a good few gropes, while his other drifts down between you two. When you do as asked he quickly positions himself so that when you go back down you will take him in. However instead of slowly, teasingly grinding down, Nelo Angelo places his hand on your lower back and shoves down, forcing Nero to impale you in one go. Thankfully you have been stretched beforehand, but that jolt of pleasure and lingering pain still shot through you, making your arms and legs weak. All of your weight falls down on Nero for a moment who uses his now free hand to hold your back. “Jesus christ, you okay?” he asks you despite also having been shot with sensation as you suddenly engulfed his manhood.

Nelo Angelo makes a pleased groaning sound before he grabs Nero’s leg and pulls on them, making it so both you and Nero were hanging off the table below the belt. Your body was properly bent over the table, your torso and face safeguarded from the wooden platform by Nero’s body, with your legs hanging down but not quite touching the floor. Nero was lying face up, his upper body supported by the table while his lower body only held aloft by Nelo Angelo’s grip on his legs. Nelo Steps forward a bit and, without warning, shoved his fingers into your back door to start stretching it.

With Nelo Angelo’s fingers now exploring, stroking, and scissoring open your insides, your body instinctively reacted accordingly. It was like you were his puppet that he could make twist, jerk, raise, lower, and buck with the simplest movements of his fingers. And with each movement made a domino effect to Nero, due to his position and lack of energy after the previous couple rounds, could only hold your body as it moved against and around him. Even his legs were rendered pretty useless to him as Nelo Angelo held them aloft and used them almost like leashes to hold you two in place. It was a very pleasurable break for him, allowing him to gather the energy for when it was his turn next to be on top.

==+==+==

I thought about how a bunch of these focus a lot on the setup and decided I wanted a few more that were PWP.

V & Nelo Angelo

With all the thrashing and grunts of rage Nelo Angelo had been doing when first pinned down by the familiars Shadow and Nightmare, it seemed like he would not accept the next step of the process. Yet the moment you lowered your crotch onto his lips he calmed down. It was as if your warmth and scent had pacified him to an extent. It still took some time to get him to start moving though.

“That’s it songbird, keep going.” V encouraged, giving your hands a squeeze. “Let him taste your nectar. Let your love flow into him and break the chains Mundus has over his heart and mind.” V stood before you, above Nelo Angelo’s head, holding either of your hands. You were palm-to-palm with him as he did his best to keep you steady and focused. However, it was his mind that was drifting from the task at hand. In making sure things were going as intended, V had to look down at where you and Nelo Angelo were connected. Watching the way Nelo Angelo’s lips moulded to your form, how his tongue varied from long strokes to quick flicks, it was tantalizing and stirred jealousy in the pit of his stomach. “Songbird.” V breathed, his words short and vague but his tone spoke of his desires, as did the growing in his pants. With you sitting on Nelo Angelo’s face, you were at the perfect hight.

When witnessing the extent of V’s desire, Nelo Angelo seemed to recognize the spark of excitement and confidence in you. As V rushed to push his pants down enough to free his manhood with one hand, since he refused to fully let go of you, Nelo Angelo’s mouth became more aggressive and his arms lifted and wrap around your legs so he could pull you down harder onto him. The moment your lips touched V’s sensitive skin, a jolt went through him and he let out a low groan.

“That’s it, my love, let me show you love as you do for your poor knight.” With one hand still holding yours, V’s other combed through your hair, pulling you close as a subtle attempt to make you take more of him it. This chain of pleasure continued as such with Nelo Angelo holding you in place no matter how you trembled, cried out, or came.

==+==+==

I’m losing steam and I am not even halfway done 🙃 .

Dante & Credo

“How dare you!” Credo snapped as he glared at you through the bars of solitary confinement. This barely slowed Dante down though.

“Just having some fun,” Dante said, flashing Credo a sly grin before focusing on you again. He gripped your hips a bit tighter and changed his angle so that the next time he thrust into you the slap of skin hitting skin and the squelching of liquids was lewd to an almost obnoxious level just to bother Credo more. Your upper body was bent forward, your hands gripping the cell bars to hold yourself up as Dante showed little mercy.

“Do you two have any shame?” Credo argued, yet he could not look away from the display in front of him. “You are prisoners for attacking His Holiness, this is not some broth- HEY!” Credo was cut off when you reached through the bars, slipped your hand under his uniform coat, and grabbed the belt holding his pants up. Credo grabbed your wrist to stop you, yet did not pry your hand off. You could feel his hand shaking a bit.

Dante let out an impressed whistle. “Feelin’ frisky today, hu baby? Alright, I’ll play along.” Dante, using his impressive height, reached over you and also between the cell bars. He grabs the flap of Credo’s uniform jacket that was covering his crotch and lifts it. He also used that to pull Credo closer, making Credo release your wrist so he could brace himself on the cell bars.

“What is the matter with you both? Cease this at once!” Credo threatened, yet did not truly fight back. There were ways he could break free, he had a weapon and his angelic form. He could easily fight you off enough to get free. Instead, he watched as you undid his belt and pulled down his pants enough to let his semi-hard cock free. The grip he had on the bars tightened to the point that his knuckles turned white and started to burn when your hand stroked his cock, your thumb brushing over the tip to encourage precum to come out. And when you finally took him into your warm mouth he failed to stifle a guttural groan of pleasure.

“That’s it baby.” Dante praised, smirking as if you and he had just won a battle. He let go of Credo, correctly guessing that Credo would no longer pull away now that your tongue was dragging along the underside of his shaft and returned his hands to your hips. Dante started his hip movements again with vigour, spurred on by your muffled moans, gasps, and gagging sounds. Each thrust of Dante’s hips bounced you forward, making you take Credo in deeper.

Credo’s mind was a battlefield between his alliance to The Order of the Sword and the burning pleasure he was feeling. But when he realized that he had unconsciously started bucking his hips forward into your mouth, he knew he had lost. He just prayed that no one would catch him down here like this or find it suspicious when he would return daily to check in on the prisoners.

==+==+==

Credo is honestly the hardest for me to write, so coming up with ideas for him is hard for me. Hopefully, this is okay. I wanted to play with how outgoing Dante is with sex and affection while Credo is less open, or at least that is the assumption since we never see him react to sexual things in DMC4. Maybe in the novel, there is a moment where he is faced with things of sexual nature, but I doubt it.

Vergil & Credo

When you looked down you could see your chest clear as day due to the low cut, loose neckline of the silky dress you had been gifted and ordered to be put on. If you try to adjust it though, your hand will get a sharp whip.

“Hands down.” Came Credo’s order as he used the end of his crop to push your hand down.  “You are to stand straight and hold your head high. Stand your ground with pride and confidence.”

“And if you don’t, you know what will happen.” Added Vergil as he stalked around you in a circle. He was rhythmically smacking his upturned palm hard enough to make a sound that was both tantalizing and threatening. “So raise your head and eyes.” Vergil tucked the tip of his crop under your chin and used it to push your head up. “Focus on your masters. Thank us for our wonderful gift.” He said, referring to the wrap dress you were in that was held together by ribbon. It was silky and cool, a great contrast and soothing element to how heated your skin gets when being struck. But it was also weak, as Credo demonstrates by easily pushing it aside to slide his crop tip in through the part.

“If not, then we may just take it back.” Credo pressed the leathery tip against your lower abdomen, just below your underwear waistband. A clear indication of where you would next be receiving punishment.

==+==+==

I originally had this weird idea of setting this back in time when Vergil visited Fortuna and have this thing where you were dating Credo and Vergil was like a god and gifting you and Credo with the next child of the Sparda bloodline. It was weird and the timeline definitely would not match up and Credo would be Nero’s adoptive/half dad, and it was a mess. Thankfully I switched to this idea where I showcase and utilize the men’s dominating, commanding personalities.

Nero & Credo

Once the anger and adrenalin had faded from their battles and survived Sanctus Diabolica’s crazed destruction for godlike power, only fear remained in Nero and Credo: the fear of you. They knew you would be upset and hurt at the two men you love most in the world nearly killing each other and getting killed by a man with power Credo helped him obtain. And to add salt to the wound, they were both stuck in hospital beds barely able to move. They would recover in time, but for now, they were at the mercy of you. They expected tears, accusations, shouting, or, worst case scenario, a breakup. What they were not expecting was the punishment.

“Fuck, please, you're killing me.” Nero panted, using what little strength and movement ability to desperately jerk his hips up in hopes of penetrating your entrance that you so cruelly pressed and rubbed against the tip of his hard-on. However, due to not having the use of his hands so not being able to properly aim and hold steady as he pushes through your entrance, his cock slip and slides along your skin. “Let me in babe, please.” His pleas were ignored though.

“You’ve done enough, we understand our faults.” Credo tried to reason with you through gritted teeth. He had enough control to not fruitlessly thrust up as he knew you would not let his cock slip betwixt your beautiful lips. You would kiss, lick, and tease his shaft at an agonizingly slow pace until you deemed that they had sufficiently suffered. “Cease this ridiculous tantrum-” With a simple pull, the belt around the base of Credo’s dick stopping him from cuming tightened, silencing him in an instant. His back arched off the bed and the gasp he let out sounded suspiciously like a moan. The torture for him was twofold as he both hated being denied release yet also was further aroused by your harsh treatment.

“God damn it.” Nero cussed as you use your lower body to stroke his cock but did not give him the satisfaction of being pulled into your warmth. “I’m sorry babe, I’m fuckin’ sorry okay? I was stupid and rash. I shot first and asked questions later, that was wrong.” Nero finally broke down.

“Y-yes, I need to apologize.” Credo panted, his face turned away in shame at admitting his wrongdoing and defeat. “I was blinded by my faith, putting everyone in danger and hurting you. I’m sorry.”

There was a suspenseful pause, Credo and Nero’s bodies and minds still buzzing, hoping that by giving in they would be rewarded.

“H-hey, where the hell are you going?” Nero stammered as you pulled away from them.

“You can’t leave us here like this,” Credo argued as you began to walk away, only bothering to throw a blanket over each of them to cover their still sensitive manhoods.

“You can’t just blueball us like this!”

“I order you to come back… HEY!”

Their shouts and then disgruntled grumbles could be heard all through the house, a victory tune of sorts and something that will be burned into Nero and Credo’s minds from now on so they know never to do such a thing to you again.

==+==+==

I was trying a new dynamic/kink with this one. Not sure if I did it well but I’ll get better with more practice.

V & Credo

Credo’s breathing was long and deep to take in enough air despite the bindings around his bare chest, neck, and arms and his eyes glanced up at the statue of the saviour in the opera house. In his mind, he prayed for forgiveness and understanding, but when you gave the order to kneel, his heart and body did so without hesitation.

V, on the other hand, had no shame or hint of doubt. He knelt for you, the being more precious and sacred to him than any deity. The red jute rope you have used to tie up his body, the way it twisted and folded over itself in intricate patterns, how it restrained his movements, the way your hands had glided over his painted body, it was all a sinful bliss that was more pleasurable and beautiful than any work of art he has encountered before.

And then there was you, sitting atop the stage with more rope in your hands. You could wrap a piece around their heads to gag them, tie their thighs to their calves so they couldn’t stand, hell you could use the ropes to suspend them in the air if you so desired. No matter what you chose to do though, the men before you, with faces as red as the ropes that bound them and eyes hazy with lust, would do anything you asked of them. Even if you ask them to stay still as the heel of your shoe presses down on the bulge of their pants.

V lets out a long, deep moan as his eyes fully closed and his back arches. Credo grits his teeth and turns his head away, as if he could mask the pleasure he felt at submitting to you like this. His hips gave away his inner desires though as they lifted up, forcing more pressure between your foot and his prick.

These two are at your mercy, like two followers desperate for their saviour to bless them. However, unlike Sparda, your sinful gifts were actually given and are enough to drive these men wild. Even when the gift came with some pain, as it did now with you grinding your feet down, both men thanked you.

“Oh dear songbird, our mistress.” V moans, his legs twitching like an all too pleased mut while Credo leans forward to kiss your legs as thanks, his teeth occasionally nipping at your clothes as a hint that he wishes to pull them from your delicious skin. “Thank you for this gift. Please, allow us to pay back your kindness. Let us shower you in the pleasure you deserve. Let us worship you.”

==+==+==

Initially, the only idea I had was the general theme of was religious or sacrilegious since Credo is a devout follower of The Order of the Sword and V has a poetic, old-fashioned, intelligent personality. However, I struggled to build an actual scene around that aside from “fuck in religious building”. Then I started thinking about Kinbaku-bi and added some religious themes and I had it. That’s how a lot of these go, I think of a very loose concept or theme based on the personalities of the two characters and then try to create a scene from it.

Dante & Urizen

You were not privy to what Dante had been planning when he told you he had a “sweet idea”, or what his twin brother Vergil had to do with it. The twins spoke, Vergil got mad, Dante laughed, Vergil huffed and gave in, then walked off “to prepare”, or so Dante had told you when he joined you on the couch again. No amount of questions or tricks gets Dante to spill the beans of his plan. He just gives you a toothy grin and tells you to “buckle up for the ride of your life”. This ride ends up being Urizen sitting on a self-made throne in an abandoned building halfway to being taken over by the forest it resides in.

“Come on baby, don’t be scared, he won’t hurt ya. And he already knows the safe words so don’t worry, just have as much fun as you can. He owes me quite a few so have your fill.” Dante shoots you a wink. Urizen lets out a groan that is more like a growl and he rolls his many eyes.

To help you relax and get into the mood, Dante starts by touching and stripping you while Urizen just observes. And when you still instinctually tense up when one of Urizen’s tentacles approaches you, the self-proclaimed demon king switches tracks.

“Woah there, getting impatient Mr. High and Mighty?” Dante teased, a rare blush painting his cheeks as a slick tentacle slid between his lower set of cheeks.

“The Ms. seems frightened of my touch. Once she sees the pleasure it can bring she will relax and enjoy herself more.” Urizen stated with as much enthusiasm as a man giving a presentation at work. But then it takes on a snide, superior tone. “Is that not what you want Dante?” It was a direct jab meant to strongarm Dante into giving in despite Urizen doing this to pay back a debt. A small way for the demon king to assert power.

“You’re not wrong,” Dante admitted, trying to keep up a confident, unbothered demeanour. “Hope you enjoy the show baby girl.”

Dante’s focus stuck to you, but between his kisses and remarks were gasps, hisses, and moans as the tentacles explored. You could feel his body jolt when Urizen first shot him with a spray of lubricant. Then, as he finally entered you, you could see the strain in his expression and how his body tensed as a tentacle also entered him. His thrusts were uneven, but not out of choice. Sometimes Urizen thrust in time with Dante, and other times he would suddenly slam into Dante, forcing him forward and into you. And when Urizen also entered your backend, he pretty much took control of the pace.

“You both fell in line so quickly.” Urizen comments as he looks down at you and Dante, both lying on your sides, surrounded by tentacles that wrap, slither, vibrate, and stroke your naked bodies in the nest of pleasure. Dante, lost in lust due to still fucking you while also being fucked, couldn’t stay still. His lips wouldn’t leave yours, giving you barely the space to breathe with his tongue, partially triggered to be longer, ravaged you. One of his hands was holding the back of your neck in a possessive gesture while his other arm was holding one of your legs up, making it easier for both him and Urizen to thrust into you. “You creatures are slaves to lust.”

==+==+==

This one I started with a vague idea of Dante starting the threesome for fun and also being fucked by tentacles. I began writing and was like “I’ll figure it out as I go”. I then proceeded to create a story progression as wiggling as one of Urizen’s tentacles that has not the best structure. Oh well, hope you like the mental images.

Vergil & Urizen

As your consciousness drifts back to the waking world, you are met with the chatter of many creatures speaking in their own ways yet are somehow communicating. None were speaking to you, not out of malice or disrespect though. They simply did not realize their queen was awake. They were addressing their rulers, one of which you were snuggled up against while he was snug inside you.

“And have you delivered the message to the Fire Hell that their days are numbered if they don’t comply?” Asked Vergil to whatever demon servant was present. His warm breath glided over your hair when he spoke, tickling the nerves ever so slightly. Both his arms were down on the armrests of his thrown as if you being in his lap came as naturally to him as wearing clothes.

To be fair, you spent more time in one of their laps than in your seat. You had your own place, but your husbands both preferred you use them as your thrown, draped in sheer cloth and jewels like a living sculpture that is to be witnessed, marveled, and longed for by all, but not approached as only Urizen and Vergil has the right to touch you.

When your brain processed the limp cock still buried inside of you, your insides unconsciously clench down. The sensation of your inner walls constricting around him made Vergil groan, one hand clenching his armrest while the other snapped up to grasp your already stained and torn clothes.

“Our queen has awakened.” Came Urizen’s gravelly voice, the mere tone being enough to silence everyone else in the room. His head turns towards you, as do most of his eyes. A few keep watching to make sure no one dares approach you. “Leave us.” He makes a sweeping arm motion over the crowd of people who all tense up, sensing the threat in his command. Despite the impending pain if they disregard his orders, all eyes turn to you for the final decision. It isn’t until you give the okay that all your underlings scatter. Within the minute everyone but you and your pair of kings had left. Now alone, Urizen’s stance, tone, and movements became more relaxed and softer. He reached a hand out toward you slowly so as not to startle you and ran his pointed fingers through your hair, smoothing it down and giving a pleasant scratch. He leaned on one arm of his thrown, towering over you and Vergil, though Vergil was not intimidated by him at all. “How are you? Now too overworked I hope.”

“Definitely still tight enough.” Vergil jumps in, his lips twisted up into an all too pleased grin.

“Being shaped to fit your lovers perfectly is quite the feat.” Urizen compliments as his hand drags down your back. One finger curled under you to poke at where Vergil and you were still connected.

“There is still a lack of energy and strength though.” Vergil becomes a bit more serious as he tucks a finger under your chin and lifts your head, only for it to flop down as soon as he lets go. “I little pick-me-up is needed.”

Urizen gives a nod then pulls his hand away. With his hand as a baton, he controls the roots and branches of the Qliphoth tree, which is what makes up your home and most of the furniture in it. From the ceiling descends a branch with but one fruit on it. One is more than enough for you though. In fact you aren’t even fed the whole thing since it is so hard to grow one. Instead, Urizen uses his claw-like fingers to penetrate the apple-like fruit and cut out a chunk. As soon as the skin is broken, a small fountain of liquid, the colour and power of human blood but with the ripe taste, somewhat like both a sweet apple and a peach, comes pouring out. Urizen and Vergil both make sure said liquid splashes onto you.

“Eat my queen,” Urizen says not as an order, but a request, which is a privilege only you are gifted. “you need your strength for the next round.”

Vergil gently lifts your head towards the fruit piece, leaving you to open your mouth and chew at your own pace. Once you start regaining some energy, with you now being able to sit up on your own, Vergil and Urizen’s attentions shift. Vergil leans in and starts licking up the rivets of juice flowing down from your lips and where you had been sprayed. Urizen, using his powers to lift Vergil’s thrown so you could all be at eye level, does the same. Vergil uses his smaller form to clean harder-to-reach places like your neck, face, and ears. Urizen, on the other hand, takes long sweeping licks along your back, chest, stomach, and lower. With the mixture of intimacy and the power gained from the fruit of the Qliphoth tree, your energy not only refilled but began to overflow. All this energy would be needed though as you could feel Vergil’s cock growing stiff inside of you and Urizen’s tongue starting to lap at your sensitive spots despite having already cleaned off the juice from there.

It was going to be another long day for you all.

==+==+==

I wanted to go for a regal, supervillain overlord kind of thing without being too gross about it. Hopefully, that came across. Also, though I can’t actually decide how the reader feels or reacts to things or that would take people out of it, I also tried to at least imply that the reader here willingly chose to be the Queen for these two Kings, not a kidnapping victim or forced marriage or anything like that. I hope that also got across without taking anyone out of the story too much.

Nero & Urizen

Nero had charged in with good intentions, but his blind rage at seeing you at the mercy of the self-proclaimed Demon King had made his fighting sloppy and left him open. Within minutes Nero was in the same predicament as you, held aloft by tentacles that slithered under his clothes. He thrashed and cursed, but he was outmatched in strength and limbs as he was pulled closer to Urizen sat atop his thrown.

Urizen, for his part, had been oddly interested in you, watching you squirm, pant, and moan as his tentacles explored your body. He could feel you through the tentacles, your warmth, your softness, even your scent. It was captivating to him, stirring something within him other than a lust for power that he had never felt in his short existence. When Nero had entered the equation, he saw such a pitiful creature as nothing but a nuisance and distraction, so pined him down just to stop him. The tentacles did the same exploration to Nero purely because Urizen was so focused on feeling and revealing your body that the other tentacles, with no real orders, did the same to their captives. Nero was of no interest to him, that is until you moaned out Nero’s name. Your body, though already sensitive to the tentacles, reacted differently when you bore witness to Nero’s begrudging pleasure.

“You mean something to this woman,” Urizen said, some of his eyes turning to look at Nero, his voice the usual gruff gravitas but with an underlining sense of intrigue and jealousy.

“Fuck you.” Was Nero’s response to this, his breath heavy as he tried to repress the waves of pleasure he received from the tentacles flicking at his nipples and coiling around his painfully hard cock. Urizen did not grace Nero with further words, instead turning his attention back to you and the way your pussy clenched and dripped not just from the tentacle massaging your clit but from watching Nero’s penis be stroked and his chiseled chest being revealed as a tentacle ripped the fabric of his shirt open. This rush in you… it was beautiful to Urizen. It ignited feelings and sensations in Urizen that he could not understand yet but knew that he needed more.

The tentacles brought you and Nero closer together and worked to find what ways they could touch you to heighten the desire between you two. The experimentation grew more intense and brought you closer together until the preverbal pieces fit together.

“The hell do you think you're doing jackass?” Nero asked as you were twisted into a horizontal position and your legs were pulled open. When Nero was brought closer, nestled between your legs, realization hinted Nero. “No, fuck off, what is wrong with you!?” Nero cursed, thrashed, and fought harder than before, but was ignored but Urizen who was wholly focused on how your body reacted to Nero’s body being put between your legs. The tentacle coiled around Nero’s cock pulled away but stayed close enough to aim the prick towards your core. There was no stopping what was about to happen. “I’m sorry,” Nero said in a mix of a moan and a whimper. He felt he had to, not only for what was about to happen, but also because of how excited he was for it, how much he wanted you from the moment he stepped into the room and saw you being pleasured. His jealous anger was going to be satisfied, and he hated how quickly he gave in.

==+==+==

Just like the Nero & Vergil part last time, the base idea of being forced to fuck by a giant has been in my brain for years. Now I get to use it. Thank you Nero for letting me get all these weird thoughts out of my head, lol.

V & Urizen

“It’s alright my love.” V coos affectionately as he stroked your hair and held your head to his chest. “There is no need to panic, you know I would never let anything harm you. Thrashing around like that will only make things harder on you. So just relax and let it happen.” He grabs one of your legs and gently moves it to spread your legs, giving more room for the tentacles to move, prod, and release onto your core.

“You are far too tight,” Urizen said trying to sound intimidating though it teetered on sounding like a disgruntled grumble, which was more accurate to what he was feeling. He could feel through the tentacles. It was as if his own finger was sliding betwixt your folds, spreading the lubricant both he and you were creating around, and gently pressing against your entrance, desperate to be let in. “Is this not enough slick? Do you require more?” Suddenly the tentacle pulled back and released a large spray of slickness that covered not just your core, but also splashed onto your stomach, chest, and onto V as well. At least it smelled sweet, like fruit.

“So impatient.” V chuckled as he whipped off the slick that had hit him with his long, thin fingers. “My apologies love, my other half did not inherit any of my grace or understanding of anticipation.” V lifted his fingers to your mouth, motioning for you to lick him clean. The slick also tasted of fruits and had a healing and energizing quality to it. Clearly V wanted you to keep up your energy for the long haul. As you accepted his offering, he looked up at Urizen. “Our precious darling is used to the manhood of us when we are one. This is a new experience for them and it will take a lot of gentle coaxing.” Once you finish cleaning off his fingers, V uses his hand to grab one of yours and bring it to his cock, making you wrap your fingers around the already hard shaft and start stroking. “Just take things slow my dear and focus on me.”

For a while you did, getting into a rhythmic pattern. Sadly it was harshly shattered when one of Urizen’s tentacles slammed into you, forcing itself through your now-relaxed muscles before they could clench up again. Urizen had gotten impatient, and honestly rather jealous of his other half, so took matters into his own hands. Thankfully the penetration did not hurt all that much and was more so shocking. Still, V shot Urizen a glare.

“Clearly you lack the ability to listen as well.” V held you a little closer to his chest as if he would shield you from the feeling of the tentacle twisting, sliding, and exploring your insides like a snake looking for a place to borrow.

“Silence,” Urizen spoke in defiance, a somewhat satisfied smile coming to his lips as he watched your reaction and felt your moist heat wrapped tightly around him through the tentacle. “They are fine. Besides, going so slow and delicate will never prepare her for the real test.” Urizen sat back a bit and started stroking his own cock which was the size of your whole arm.

“Alright.” V sighed, his free hand moving down to stroke your stomach soothingly. “I suppose he is right my love. I apologize for the rough treatment. Although, we did warn you when you requested to have all of Vergil, the good, the bad, the romantic, the animalistic, the rough, and the gentle.”

==+==+==

I wrote this instead of going to sleep on time for work the next day. I make good, healthy decisions.

Urizen & Nelo Angelo

The impact of Nelo Angelo being thrown to the ground shook the room along with your eardrums due to the thud and shout of pain from the fallen dark knight.

“Is this truly what you crave?” Urizen asked with unprecedented rage. The sight of him at his weakest is an insult as is, but to see your desire to help this insignificant weakling has set him spiralling. “You wish to waste your time saving this pathetic creature? Fine then, prove for yourself how inferior it is.” You, being held in Urizen’s hand, were shoved down onto Nelo Angelo.

Thankfully Urizen had already forcefully ripped most of Nelo Angelo’s armour off so you weren’t pressing your chest against hot demonic metal. On the other hand, Nelo Angelo had spent so long in the armour that feeling your skin on his cold, pale skin sent a jolt through him. He took in a heavy gasp that turned into a moan as the breath was released. Feeling anyone was more intimate than he had felt in a decade, but the fact that it was you was enough to get him hard.

You had been told by V, who was the one that suddenly appeared with Nelo Angelo in tow, that making love to him would bring him back to his senses. Urizen had caught you at the beginning of this process and his reaction was visceral. Still, the chance of saving Nelo Angelo was there and it wasn’t like Urizen was going to let you two go, so the process continued.

Nelo Angelo, battered, bruised, and confused, struggled to participate in the lovemaking, but at least he reciprocated. When you kissed him he kissed back. When you wrapped your arms around him as best you could, his arms would snake around you as well. And once you two have joined and your hips start rolling, Nelo Angelo moves in the same rhythm so his cock can be buried as deep inside you as possible. This, however, ends up being both your undoing.

Urizen watches as you two grow closer, more intimate, and it infuriates him further. Suddenly, just as you were about you reach your peak, Urizen’s fingers wrap around your body and rips you away from Nelo Angelo.

“Your essence will not to be wasted on scum like that.” Urizen uses his other hand to press one of his fingers against your needy hole desperate to be filled back up. One of Urizen’s fingers, though thinner than Nelo Angelo’s hardened cock, greedily took the job. He did not give you time to adjust to the change in size and shape though as his finger fucked you quickly and roughly. “You are not to waste your body on trash like that. You belong to someone superior. You belong to me.” Urizen growled.

And as you are practically dragged to the peak of ecstasy, you look down at Nelo Angelo still splayed out on the floor, his cock hard and but a sliver of recognition in his eyes that was fading without your embrace.

==+==+==

I was going for a mean, sad, angry sex kind of feeling which I think I did get across, but does that make it not sexy anymore? I’m kind of just sad now.

Nelo Angelo & Credo

Credo knew of Nelo Angelo before he appeared on the island, having been subject to Agnus’ rantings and raving, so was prepared to test his combat skills with him. But fate had a different idea. Nelo Angelo had no interest in fighting, only throwing aside any creature or thing that got in his way as he marched towards his goal, the one thing his heart and broken mind were still clinging to, you. The Order of the Sword, seeing this as an opportunity to gain more knowledge and power, used you as bait and trapped you in a room with Nelo Angelo with a wall made of glass so your interaction could be observed. The one saving grace you were given, if only to make sure you survive long enough for data to be collected, was Credo. Unbeknownst to everyone but yourself, you were now trapped in a room with your past and current loves, both feeding off of each other’s aggression and desire to dominate and win you over.

“You damned demon, you’re hurting her!” Credo said, his voice distorted from being in his angelic form, as he used his shield arm to force a wedge between you and Nelo Angelo.

The sudden intrusion caused Nelo Angelo to halt his movements and release your legs from the spread eagle he had put you in. His cock slid out of you, but with how long you have been ravaged your core did not tighten and close right away. It stayed open a bit, framed by red, raw skin from Nelo Angelo’s armour, leaving it so very empty and sore. This was something Credo could not bear to see.

Without a word, Credo replaced Nelo Angelo in front of you and between your legs like it was his right and duty to care for you. It was not aftercare he provided though. Instead, his own manhood, lengthened and hardened more than usual due to his angelic form, filled up your empty hole. Though his penis was harder than Nelo Angelo’s, the rest of him was softer. The feathers surrounding his thighs and lining either side of his crotch were silky and pillowy, providing relief like a cool water-soaked cloth on the forehead. The forced spread eagle Nelo Angelo had put you in was also dropped, letting your muscles relax as they were made to encircle Credo’s feather-covered waist. Credo’s movements were slow and precise, trained to please you in the perfect way without overexerting you. It was a break from Nelo Angelo’s rougher treatment, though it did not last forever.

Soon Nelo Angelo became impatient. He grabbed you by the shoulders and pulled you to lay down on your back over the table in the room, your head hanging upside-down off it. You get a glimpse of the glass wall where The Order of the Sword’s scientists are watching the scene unfold before Nelo Angelo blocks your view, his arousal hanging in front of your mouth waiting to be let in.

As you are about to be taken at both ends, an uncertainty hangs in the air. How long will this testing go on for?

==+==+==

I had an initial idea but then I thought about a fanfiction I read on Tumblr where the reader and Leon Kennedy, infected with the Las Plagas, are put in a room to be studied as Leon ravages reader and tries to impregnate her. I forgot who wrote it and I can’t find it! :< But if I find it again or if someone recognizes it and can send it to me, I will link it here. I really liked that story and decided that that kind of scenario would fit best with Credo and Nelo Angelo so I switched it. I’ll use the original idea for a different pair.

Credo & Urizen

Urizen is sitting on his throne. In front of him stood Credo in his angelic form. Credo’s legs shook and his hands flexed, itching to pounce on you. You were kneeling on the floor panting and shaking, drenched in the slick from Urizen’s tentacles. The substance soaked into the shreds that were once your clothes, making them somewhat transparent and cling to your dirty skin, but thankfully smelt pleasant to you. To Credo through it, along with your own scent, was a pheromone, an intense aphrodisiac that was infecting his mind and body, demanding him to step closer.

“Go my general,” Urizen urges, though with his natural voice, it sounds like an order. “Look into the eyes of the person whom you have desired for so long but contradictory human beliefs told you you could not have and unleash onto them all of the lust they have caused in you.” This was a gift, or so Urizen claimed. In reality, this was more of a bribe. Urizen had heard tales of how exceptional Credo, captain of the Holly Knights, was and strived to recruit him to his army. It had been a challenge though as Credo had clung to the idea that he was a righteous angel. What luck though that the person that Urizen had already intended to take as his own also happened to be Credo’s weakness. “Let the desire flow through you and revel in the power you now hold.”

Credo hesitated, transfixed by the way the tentacles continued to pour the liquid onto you, a waterfall of slickness that made it impossible for your hair to stay in one place but kept you on the floor in a puddle so slippery that you had no friction to stand or crawl. Urizen guides him forward using his tendrils all while continuing to encourage him to make use of this opportunity, to assert his dominance, and to relieve himself of the bottled-up desire. You look up at him, perhaps pleading for more or glaring up at him, calling him the monster you always thought he was. No matter what, all three of you… you know that no matter what you do or say, Urizen will not be letting you leave, even after you pass out from pleasure.

When Credo does finally give in, stepping forward and enacting the countless scenarios he has imagined of you while living in Fortuna, Urizen will praise him, feeling satisfied in, as he believes, how this moment has grown the bond between you all and brought you closer to accepting your role as the future queen of the demons and humans.

==+==+==

Hmm… I’m not sure about this one. I like it, but it also seems messy…

Urizen & Sparda

You have been hand-chosen by the rulers of both the underworld and the human world to aid them in a mission of the utmost importance. You were found by Lord Sparda, the man who took down the old king of the underworld, Mundus. Sparda took you to Urizen, the demon that started conquering the human world and who Sparda made truths with rather than an enemy. Both these creatures had agreed that you were perfect to carry out this critical mission. You are to be the vessel for which their heirs would be born.

“To think,” Came Urizen’s thunderous, rumbling voice as he gazed down at you cradled in his tentacles. His breath was still heavy, though, for pride's sake, he tried to hide how heart-pounding the moment had been for him. “that seeing you like this, swollen with my seed, would be so satisfying and beautiful.” He reached out a finger and gently caressed your abdomen which was now enlarged due to the egg nestled inside you.

“Well done my friend,” Sparda said both as a compliment and to gain Urizen’s attention. “Now it is my turn.” There was a bit of impatience in his tone. Urizen hesitated for a moment, reluctant to let you go so soon after, but he had made a deal. Plus, Sparda’s hunger was starting to transcend into dominating anger. You were lowered down into Sparda’s awaiting arms who cradled you to his chest in the bridal position. “There you are, my dear.” Sparda’s voice was affectionate and still held a regal edge to it. He carried you towards a platform made of soft leaves and flowers which Sparda had requested be made for this event. “You have been doing so well for us, accepting Urizen’s seed. And now…” You are laid down on the plush, natural bed and Sparda quickly slots himself between your legs. He had a fire in his eyes and his body was tense with anticipation as he reached down and started undoing his belt. “It is time for me to fertilize you.”

==+==+==

Surprisingly enough, coming up with the base idea for this was not that hard, it popped into my head really fast. What I struggled with was deciding who would give you the egg and who would fertilize it since Sparda is a demon with bug features, which lays eggs for the most part. However, he also has other animal parts like hooves and an upside-down fish mouth. Urizen has tree features. Trees do make goopy sticky things, but they reproduce with seeds, which is another form of egg. Thankfully my editor helped me choose and when I apologized for asking them weird questions about my weird stories they said “Not weird, imaginative.”. Ahhh, I love them so much!

Sparda & Credo

All you could see right now was Credo staring at you as you did both the most worshipful and sinful thing imaginable. You were a lady of the church and you had been left to start a task while Credo momentarily stepped out to grab something. However, with the express knowledge that he would soon be returning, your devotion to Sparda was being rewarded by the saviour himself. And Credo was able to fully bear witness to this giving of the gift as Sparda had a hold on your thighs, holding them open and using them as leverage to lift and lower you onto his cock. A cock, which needs to be said, was buried in your ass. Sparda’s pace was rather fast, but when he noticed Credo, he slowed to address the captain.

“Come, kneel before me,” Sparda ordered. His lips curled up into a pleased smile when Credo did as told with little hesitation. “Good. Now aid me in my mission.” Sparda pulls open your legs a bit wider to draw Credo’s attention to your currently dripping cunt which glistened with unused slick. “Let go of formalities, put aside inhibition, and embrace the natural desire within you.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The task was left purposely vague, allowing Credo to proceed as he wished. And what he wished was to taste the sweet nectar unjustly being neglected. Credo moved forward, keeping his hands on his thighs to keep his posture more polite and structured, and brought his face closer to your core. “Thank you for this gift,” he breathed just before his tongue stretched out so the tip could drag along your skin. From your lips to your inner thighs, and even down to your perineum. It was as if he was teasing himself, holding back to make the final dive between your folds all the sweeter.

“Look, my dearest,” Sparda said, his soft tone making it an encouragement rather than an order. Though his solid thrusts up into you muddled your perception of the intensity. He pressed his head up against the side of yours, nuzzling you in an affectionate, almost animalistic way. “See how he adores you. Feel what it is like to be worshiped, as you deserve.”

==+==+==

I am quickly realizing that I keep putting Credo in a similar submissive position of doing as ordered. It fits his character since he followed The Order of the Sword and Sanctus way past where a reasonable person would. And for Sparda, he does not really have a set-in-stone personality, so I just keep messing with it, lol.

Nelo Angelo & Sparda

You are surrounded by lush, silky fabrics and cushions. Your body is sunk into the bed the perfect amount and the countless pillows cushioning and circling your head is like a nest of comfort and luxury. The room is quiet, the gentle light of the morning casting through the windows but not directly on you. The distant, gentle sound of the fountain outside and birds singing can barely be heard along with the soft breaths and mouth sounds of the men showering you with affection. Nelo Angelo, free from his armour so you can see his pale skin and striking blue veins, is to your right pressing featherlight kisses along your chest while one of his hands caresses the opposite side of your chest and your side. His eyes stay closed for the most part as he focuses on bringing you soft, calm pleasure. They rarely flutter open so you can see his red orbs. Sparda lay between your legs peppering kisses along them, paying special attention to your inner thighs. His eyes remain focused on you, watching the way your body flexes and twitches in response to their combined touch and gauging your emotions to make sure you are enjoying yourself and changing tactics if you aren’t.

Everything is so soft, gentle, quiet, and smooth… it is almost enough to make you forget that you had been plucked from your normal life and locked up in the tower of the rulers of the underworld’s castle like a princess from a fairytale.

“Don’t be afraid my dear,” Sparda whispers as his kisses draw closer and closer to your sex. “Let us wash away all your concerns, fears, and responsibilities.”

Nelo Angelo shifts closer, laying lengthwise beside you so you can feel most of his body and how much bigger he is than you.

“We can do everything for you and give you anything you desire. We can drown you in luxury and passion, let you be free from any work and just enjoy the pleasures of life. All you have to do is agree to be our queen.”

==+==+==

I also wrote this one while slowly falling asleep. I had a good nap though. This is based off of this vague memory I have which I am 60% sure I imagined of the protagonist of a female-oriented show getting kidnapped by a bad guy that loved them. They chained her to the bed and tried to convince her to join him, but no NSFW stuff happened. My head tells me it was from Sailor Moon but my head also says I made that shit up. IDK, maybe someone else remembers it too.

Kat & Reboot Dante

“Are you sure about this?” Kat asked as she moved above Dante’s head. You were already impaled on his cock so Kat was the only one not yet in place.

“Fuck ya.” Dante practically panted as he looked up at Kat’s glistening cunt like a hungry dog waiting for its next meal. “Come on Kat, put all your weight on me, you know I can take it. I wanna drown in you.” One of his hands left your rolling hips to grab the space between Kat’s leg and torso, then pulled on her to encourage her to take the final plunge.

With a gulp and a deep breath, Kat lowers herself and instantly jolts when Dante’s tongue darts out to meet her. With you and her facing each other, you could see how tense her body was and how she instinctually tried to jerk away from Dante’s mouth who was not going easy on her. Her face was bright red and her eyes closed, a sign that she was still embarrassed as this was her first time being intimate with you both. As if begging for comfort, she lifted her shaky arms out to you. As you embrace, her arms wrap around your neck and she pulls you in for gentle kisses, a contrast to how intense Dante was moving beneath you both. His aggressive motions made both of you bounce, you a fair bit and her a little but she matched your movements, her chest jiggled as it pressed against yours, and even through the soft mounds, you could still feel how hard and fast her heart was pumping. You were her rock while Dante was her wave.

As for Dante? Well, he was in heaven. He had two of the smokin’ hottest people he had ever seen smothering him. In this position he had the perfect concoction of being in control and submissive, and of being the center of attention and voyeuristic viewing, or listening in his case. Kat’s and your primary pleasure was coming from him, his cock and tongue. The way you and Kat bounced and grinded against him gave him that masculine pride based in sexual prowess. He could manipulate you both, making you both stutter in your movements and let out sharp gasps and moans by suddenly slamming up into you or taking Kat’s clit between his lips and sucking harshly. At the same time, he is under you both, making his movements limited. He could move his mouth and buck his hips a bit, but if you two really wanted to you could put all your weight on him, stopping his movements, or pull away from him, leaving him needy and cold. You both were largely relying on him, yet he knew you two were satisfying each other. If he slowed his movements he could listen to the sloppy sounds of lips and tongues moving against each other desperately. He could feel from where your weight lay who was leaning in. Though it was a little frustrating that he did not actually get to see Kat groping your chest or you sucking on her tit. But he was stuck like this, unable to escape this pleasure. That was more of a blessing than a curse though, especially when you and Kat come undone on top of him for the first time, soaking his body and mind completely.

==+==+==

I did not mean to write so introspectively but here you go.

Kat & Reboot Vergil

“Don’t look so worried Kat.” Vergil said gently, reaching out his right hand to stroke her head, ending with holding the back of her head to keep her still as he leans into to kiss her temple. “I’ll take care of you.” He promises, kissing her cheek and then her lips all while his left arm was wrapped around your waist, holding you against his side. Seeing as you were all naked, every touch was skin-to-skin. And with his head turned towards Kat you had free reign to kiss and touch him if you wished. “I’ll take care of both of you.” He breathed as his lips parted from hers. He then turned to you, giving you the same treatment. “Lay down on the bed for me in whatever position is comfortable for you both.”

You and Kat climb up onto the bed and she naturally gravitates towards you, unintentionally forcing you to lay on your back so she could rest her head on your shoulder. Your warmth, your heartbeat, the way you stroked her head and shoulders, it was all comforting to her in this new experience. It was a new experience for all of you, but Vergil acted confident, like he had done this countless times before. In reality, he got off on being in control. You and Kat were at his mercy, lying down and looking up at him expectantly.

“Are you sure this is what we should do?” With each of Kat’s words, because she was pressed against you so snuggly, you could feel her breath fan over your skin. “Shouldn’t we do something?” Kat was still not used to being taken care of, even if you have all been in this relationship for a while now. It’s sadly just not the kind of life she has been subject to. This though… this was more.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Vergil verified with a soft chuckle. “Just relax and enjoy yourselves. You both know the safe words.” And so, Vergil began, gently guiding your and Kat’s legs apart. He takes the time to retrieve the bottle of lube from the side table and coat his fingers so as not to cause either of you pain. Then he gently and lovingly started to open you both up, scissoring your respective holes with either hand. He watched your body language carefully to be sure you both were enjoying his touch, even using the extra mental focus to move his hand differently to satisfy you both.

Kat was very vocal, moaning, mewling, sighing, and squealing as her body twisted and twitched in reaction to Vergil’s menstruations. Suddenly her noises stopped and she shifted. She lifted onto her arms and turned to look down at you. Her face was red in embarrassment but her eyes shone with love and longing.

“Can I… kiss you?”

==+==+==

A lot of these stories are rough and intense, but for this one I wanted it to be gentle and sweet. Kat has been through some shit, a real cinnamonroll, and I just want her to be happy and treated nicely.

[justrainandcoffee]

Sinners (James Delaney x fem!oc) II

Masterlist - Part I

Summary: Agnes and James finally see each other after all those years apart. || Agnes can't leave her thoughts about Zilpha behind her and plan something to see her. || James starts to think that the truth behind Inés' new identity is bigger than he believed at the beginning.

Warnings: Manipulation. || Catholic themes.||

Words: 2.2k.

1813

“In nómine Patris et Fílī et Spíritus Sancti…”

Two days of fasting was what Agnes did after she saw James Delaney. Just water and praying. God listened to her in the past and she was sure he was willing to do it again. Her soul, after all, belonged to him.

It was well known that some nuns and priests whipped themselves because it was a way to clean the soul through the pain, but she didn't do that. Not this time.

She looked through the window and watched the city. It was raining, it was humid and it was also cold.

How she could forget that face? His face was the one to blame for all the things that happened. Him but also her own stupidity.

.

"What do you know about Inés Serra?"

Brace saw the younger man scrutinizing the rooms. Whatever happened to him in Africa, the man in front of him wasn't the boy he knew. Physically he was there, his eyes were there looking at everything but James' mind wasn't.

"I don't know, never heard of her again. Last time I knew something was when her father died at least a year and a half after you left. Yours, wanted to give her a place in this house but the girl rejected the offer. She was so young to be alone. Maybe she died."

"No, no, she didn't. She's a nun."

Brace nodded "probably that was the best choice. Young women almost always end in the streets as whores, she did a right choice."

James just hummed. "Did she stay here after I left?"

"No. Both of you left almost at the same time, maybe "just months of difference. That man, Serra, became an alcoholic after the girl left. A good man but his last years alive, he was violent. Your father didn't have the heart to kick him out of his company, not after the years of service, but he should have. One day, a boy found him dead in his bed."

"You didn't see her?"

"No. Your father told me she was in the funeral and then left after refusing his offer to stay here."

"Mmh."

"I always thought that girl was in love with you. You were almost the same age and she was always looking for you."

"Yes, she was and it was good that she left in time. I need to go, Brace, see you later."

.

Ten years passed since he left the country and in many aspects everything was the same, but in many others, not. When he left England he was a boy, barely a man. He didn't understand the world the same way he did it now and that caused him to make mistakes. And Inés Serra was one of those mistakes. He asked himself if he could do that again knowing the damage he caused. Probably not, but that didn't mean he couldn't be willing to try.

She, for sure, was pretty. He liked the colour of her skin eternally kissed by the sun and her brown eyes that in summer days seemed to be the same colour as the honey. Inés was pretty, that was a fact that he as a young boy couldn't deny. The problem was that his feelings towards her weren't strong enough to be considered love. Love was another thing. It was a feeling that only one person received from him in his life. Forbidden as it was.

His white horse was waiting for him and he mounted on him to return to St. Bartholomew's hospital. If the circumstances had been different, then he couldn't waste his time on her, and could have left the young woman alone. But he did need to talk to her.

"I'm looking for Inés Serra," he said to one of the nuns outside the hospital. "She's a sister like you. I want to thank her for taking care if my old mother," James lied.

"There's no sister named Inés Serra here, sir. But if she's new maybe I don't know her, ask the Sister over there. Her name is Agnes, she has been working here for almost a decade. She knew almost everyone here."

The nun pointed at Agnes herself who was looking at him. That moment she was helping a little kid but left him with another one and turned around to go to the small church there.

She saw him.

James thanked the old woman and walked after Inés. Or Agnes. Why did she changed her name?

The church was silent except for the sound of the raindrops knocking on the stained glass windows. The smell of candles was mixed with the humidity outside and Agnes felt the vitiated air in her lungs.

In her mind.

She began to pray again. God needed to listen to her.

“In nómine Patris et Fílī et Spíritus Sancti…”

But he wasn't to listen to her prayers. Maybe because he was busy, maybe because she didn't deserve to be listened to.

Heavy footsteps broke the silence inside the sacred place and she knew who the person was.

Agnes saw a shadow behind her and the sound of coins falling in the moneybox the church had.

"I thought you were dead," she spoke looking at the dark tiles. The first words in ten years she said to him.

"I am, Inés."

"Inés is also dead."

"That's what I imagined."

"It seems this is a meeting for the dead, then."

"What better place to reunite two souls than a church?" James took off his hat and put it besides him. "Long time, sister Agnes."

"What do you want, James?"

"I'm looking for forgiveness."

"Father John will be here at five. He can pray for your soul."

"No, I don't want that kind of forgiveness and you know what I'm talking about."

"Then forgiveness is what you have, James. Long time ago, right? Everything is forgotten."

"Is that so?" James could sense some anger in her voice. Resentful, maybe.

"I'm a woman of God. I learnt to forgive."

James nodded. "Okay, then. Everything is forgotten."

The smell of candles in the church, was now the smell of fish and rum behind that cantina. The sound of the raindrops was now the mumbling of the people passing by while they were fucking there. Agnes shook her head.

"I heard your father died. I'm sorry. I have nothing but gratitude words for him because he helped my father, my brother and me when we had nothing. I hope his soul can find peace in Heaven."

"My father isn't in Heaven. He wasn't the man you think he was, Agnes."

Neither of us is destined to be in Heaven, thought Agnes but remained quiet.

"He was the cause my mother died. But I'm trying to fix the things."

"You can't bring back dead people."

"You're wrong. Not bring them back in a way that you and I are alive, but you can. They talk to you if you know how."

"That's against God's rules."

"So is lying, Agnes. And you're fucking lying to me," James put his hat on again. She lifted her head to look at him. "You can find me in my old house. I have an use for you." He stood up and walked towards the door but before he can leave he heard her once more.

"Are you still seeing your damn sister?"

"Are you sure everything is forgotten, Agnes?" he asked crossing the door.

He was still seeing her and Agnes had no doubt about it. It wasn't Delaney Sr. who should have died but his daughter. Agnes could stop her own thoughts but didn't regret it either. Sinners should die.

.

The good thing about being a nun was that usually people was willing to help them. They were one of the closest things they had to be next to God and most of nuns had a gentle soul. Why, then, anyone could distrust one of God's most loved servants? Agnes knew that and took advantage of it. And when she asked for information that was what she got.

Zilpha Delaney lived in a beautiful house and wore the surname Geary now.

Slim and mysterious as ever that was what Agnes thought when she finally saw her crossing the enter of her house. She was still wearing black, probably mourning the death of her father. Next to her was a tall gentleman, no doubts that was Mr. Geary.

Zilpha Delaney was even lucky to get a husband, a nice house and now she also had her brother back and still in love with her. All those feelings that Agnes believed were behind her reappeared, but now the one carrying them was an adult woman and not a naïve young girl.

She walked towards the Geary manor when he was sure enough that the couple was already settled inside and then knocked on the door.

A young maid, opened the door and greeted her with a smile that Agnes correspond.

"I'm looking for donations for poor children," she said. "Is the man of the house here?"

"Mr. Geary just arrived, Sister. But I don't know if he's interested in this. But please, come in, and I'll call him."

"You're really nice, darling. God bless you."

The inside of the house as pretty as Agnes believed. Only one of those paintings or sculptures could feed a whole school for years, she thought.

Mr. Geary didn't make her wait for that long and before she could realise, the man was standing before her. He didn't seem to be a smart one, probably inherited his money from his own father and his marriage helped him to built the rest.

Yet, he was exactly who she wanted to see.

"Thanks for wasting your time in our cause, sir."

"We don't make donations to charity. You understand that if we help one, we need to help all."

"They're just kids. Orphans. I want to believe that good people still exist."

"My father-in-law just passed away," he said "we're not in conditions to waste our money in bastards, with all respect."

Fucking asshole.

"It's okay. I'm sorry for wasting your time, sir. Are you married? I'd like to add your name and your wife's name to my prayers, maybe god can illuminate your hearts."

Just say it, she thought. And Geary replied exactly how she wanted to.

"Zilpha." Agnes repeated "That's an uncommon name. Zilpha Delaney? I heard of her when I was little. Same as her brother, James. I know he died long ago, I'm sorry, she lost everything she loved in her life."

"James Delaney is alive," Geary said and couldn't hide his hatred.

"Really? Are you sure? In that case, I'll pray for him too. Thanks for your time, Mr. Geary."

But the man stopped her. "What do you know about James Delaney?"

"Very few things. I had a friend who lived in a house that not longer exist next to the Delaney's one. All I know is because of her. And she's dead now, so…"

"What did she tell you?"

"Mr. Geary. In this world exist something worse that greed. Things that are better to keep it in the dark."

"Like what? Murder?"

"Murder is not a secret for humanity, Mr. Geary. It's also unforgivable but very frequent. Others…" Agnes looked down. "Better don't ask. May God help the soul of your wife, Mr. Geary, because I can't. Goodbye."

Agnes' heart was racing when she left the house. If she managed to implant a doubt in Geary's head, then for now it was enough.

Those thoughts that caused the death of Inés and her ulterior reborn as Agnes, invaded her soul and this time there wasn't any salvation.

Agnes didn't care. Envy wasn't a strong word to describe her feelings towards Zilpha. She hated her and was determined to destroy her perfect world forever.

.

James wasn't sleeping, he never really slept. But he was thinking in bed. 10 years. Math was a perfect science.

But inside him, he knew it. That kid, Robert… he wasn't product of his father and a whore. His father couldn't care less if a whore got pregnant of his bastard. But Horace Delaney could care if his reputation was in trouble.

Robert was James' son. And the only two girls he fucked were his sister and Inés.

Why, why did Inés change her identity? Girls all the time ended with a broken heart but not because of that they hide from the world and pretend to be a new person. They didn't kill themselves figuratively speaking.

And why his father offered her a place in the Delaney's house after her father died? He had no obligation. She was no one but the daughter of his friend.

Unless she was also the mother of his grandson.

[secretwhumplair]

Lessons

1,252 words | The black prince [WT] (sequel to Good morning)

Content | Exhaustion, power imbalance, feelings of inferiority/internalised classism I guess?, implied past noncon, mention of slavery

Notes | Elgar does not know how to stand up for himself :( But it's going to be okay, right?

Taglist | @echo-goes-aaa @whump-blog @scoundrelwithboba @whumpcreations @neverthelass

@whumplr-reader @vampiresprite @pleasestaywithmedarling

It was a long journey, just like Elgar had feared. What he hadn’t predicted was how much he swung back and forth from feeling almost comfortable around the prince, to perfect uncertainty once more. The stops along the road, where they would inevitably be put up somewhere far more fancy than he deserved, didn’t help. Nor did the new clothes he was given as they climbed into higher and colder terrain, soft furs that even he could tell were of great quality, and thick wool dyed many colours expertly woven into patterns too elaborate for someone like him.

It was disconcerting, and it was exhausting to be so worried all the time.

To make matters worse, it had been decided he should take lessons in the precious resting time. Not just what little help the royals could give him with the language—he would have a proper tutor for that, the princess reassured him, and that too was a scary thought—but etiquette lessons too. It was important he would know how to act by the time they reached the capital, the prince had explained, looking at him earnestly while his sister read off what he had written for Elgar, because Elgar still couldn’t read. It was important.

And worst of all, he was getting riding lessons.

The princess had asked him if he was ready to start within the week of them setting out from Akreh; clearly, she was the impatient type, and Elgar, of course, didn’t want to displease her, so there was only really one answer he could give.

And so, while the prince was sitting comfortably by, or even resting indoors, he was learning to ride.

It was a small comfort that the horse—Sparrow, he still hadn’t gotten used to thinking of her as his own—was so easygoing; she barely ever seemed willing to move if she could help it, so there was not much worry she would run away from under him.

But still, it hurt.

He was healing so slowly, what with the daily travelling, and now he had to ride more. In the evenings, he wanted nothing but fall into bed and maybe cry to himself a little, but he knew the prince would worry, and somehow, explaining himself to him seemed worse.

He was no longer worried the prince would be upset with him for daring to voice a wish, at least not all the time; some evenings, they huddled together in a hug before going to sleep hand in hand. And yet, he simply couldn’t bring himself to ask for this specific favour, for this specific reason. Maybe he worried that the prince would tell the princess about the hows and whys of it. Yes, that must be it. That, too, was silly, of course—what dignity did someone like him have to lose in the eyes of a royal?—but it made some sort of sense.

And then, the prince was exhausted too, Elgar could tell. After his first crying session, he was certain that all the smiles and happiness he was putting on all day, whenever anyone might see, was just show, and it must be draining, especially while he, too, was still recovering from what their master had put him through—far worse than Elgar, even if he now had been stitched back together better.

»You’re making great progress! Maybe tomorrow, we can try cantering.«

The princess’ cheerful voice called his attention away from his misery. She was smiling brightly, as if that was good news.

It was true he had been getting better at keeping his balance on the horse, and at giving her the correct signals on his own—it did start to feel like he was actually riding.

It helped that however slow it went, the pain was fading, with every night he remained untouched. Still, he did not look forward to riding harder tomorrow, but he nodded. »Thank you, your Highness.«

He no longer needed her help to get off the horse and lead her away from the field they had been practicing in to be untacked. That was something he wasn’t expected to do himself, anymore than the royals were, and it made him feel uneasy. He was being served. Two of the slaves travelling with them were looking after the horses, and one of them took her out of his hands with a smile.

He managed a mumbled »thank you,« or so he thought.

He no longer needed the princess’ help with this, but she had followed him anyway, and now her grin had returned. »And you’re making great progress with that as well. Bet once you can get under our tutor, you’ll learn the language in no time.«

»Thank you, your Highness.« He opted for the more comfortable Teeradian this time, knowing she would understand it. Then something about the phrasing caught in his brain. Their tutor? Surely not their, the royals’, tutor, why would they need an Ochurian tutor?

But then, who here could teach Ochurian to a Teeradian—but perhaps someone who could have taught Teeradian to an Ochurian, too?

What would a royal tutor expect from him? How could he possibly hold up?

It was the end of the day—they had squeezed the lesson in after dinner—and Elgar was glad to be able to withdraw, sore and exhausted and now freshly worried.

Well, withdraw from most. The prince was waiting for him in their bedroom, but that was alright. Sometimes, he almost felt a kind of companionship with him. Almost like a resurrection of the bond tied between them during their captivity.

The prince was sitting up by the window and reading inbetween the fading light of dusk, and a candle. He closed the book when he heard Elgar enter, and gave him a smile, and a questioning thumbs-up.

Elgar nodded hesitantly. »It’s getting better.«

He went to sit with the prince. The bedroom was cool, of course, but he was dressed for the temperatures, like he very much hadn’t been under their old master.

For a moment, they sat in silence. Elgar looked out the window, into the stripe of orange drawn across the western sky, trying to calm his mind, but then he blurted out, »Do you think your tutor… is going to be satisfied with me?«

The prince looked at him quizzically, and Elgar explained, »Your sister, her Highness, she mentioned—I’d be taught the language by your tutor?« It sounded silly as he said it. He must have misunderstood something. But then—he had been afforded every luxury, far more than he knew how to handle.

And the prince nodded earnestly, reaching out to hold his hand.

»I just, I—I don’t know if I’ll be as good at it as… they’d expect.« He felt a hotness creep into his cheeks, and he was glad for the low light.

The prince shook his head, smiling, pointed at his chest then made a cutting motion. Elgar couldn’t read his lips too well as he mouthed words, but between it all, he figured it out. I was not good at it.

He couldn’t help a chuckle, but the prince’s smile faded as he thought about his words, and he gave a small shrug, flicking his free hand, then pointing between the two of them.

They were in the same boat. The prince would have to learn a new language, as well, with his hands.

He nodded, squeezing the prince’s hand. »We’ll—we’ll do it.«

[captain039]

The lord and lady (Cooper Howard)

Cooper Howard x reader

Bridgerton and Cooper Howard is a muussstt

Warnings: Olden times, swearing, age gap, tension, slow burn, plus size reader, fat shaming, parental abuse, sexual things, eventual smut, angst, AOB (suppressed by vault tec)

I’m also gonna focus more on the AOB side, make it more AOB than I have been xD

I’m trying to use less Y/n but also failing lol

The ride to the centre of the ton is short, the overseer is placed right in the middle of this town in her lush castle and sick husband, and her rumoured out of wedlock fling Mr Maclean. Though their family is of high status the rumours surrounding that poor family could in fact fill this whole town if written. You see the Macleans ahead of you, their Daughter Lucy Maclean stepping out in a fresh new dress and headwear just like the rest of the 20 lady’s being presented today. Every year it is 20 lady’s that are to be presented to society, they are sure the numbers stay intact no matter the costs. If you haven’t secured a marriage by the end of the season or year, well nobody truely knows what happens to those poor souls. The men of course are left alone however you and your fellow women in arms are left wondering who will be next?

As you stand outside the Overseers presenting room you still find yourself nervous no matter how many times your teacher forced you to rehearse this till you were satisfactory. You smile to Lucy when she turns to face you her big eyes full of excitement and anxiety. You fear yours don’t show the same, you are tired, a sleepless night and now this. She gives you a small nod before her name is called.

One by one the ladies are presented, when it is your turn you fear you may throw up, but the glare your father gives forces your bile down in fear. You avoid eye contact and bow when you’re at the right length away from the Overseer her dress a bright blue adorned in yellow gems, an odd combination in your opinion but it has been the Overseers colours for century’s. The Overseer nods her head and you make your way to wear the already seen lady’s stand and hold your mother’s hand tightly.

In the way back you’re bombarded with horrid words and spat accusations at how horrid you were at the presentation. You force yourself not to cry as you look out the window while your mother tries to calm your father down. You hear the coach men shout and then there’s a rush past your window making you frown and look. There’s a man galloping down the Main Street on a brown horse. Your father yells swears at him before the coach moves again. The man whoever he was must’ve been in a great haste, perhaps his wife was having her child or he lost a bet at the local club and he was running away. You only wonder briefly before you go to feeling jealousy that he can ride away on a horse because he is a man and nobody would question it.

Your first ball is torture before it even happens. Despite this being what you were brought up to do your father constantly reminds you of what a failure and frantic, absurd mind you have for your painting and drawing, your love of books and being locked away in your room despite him being the one who had locked you in there in the first place. Even now he questions whether you are ‘pure’ like you could’ve actually escaped such a man to promenade where you pleased.

You’re dressed in a silvery cream coloured dress with clear gemstones, you wear a simple gem necklace and studs, your hair is done up and pinned with pretty gem flower piece to match the whole outfit. Small silver heels on your feet and dashes of makeup. If you are not to secure a match tonight or at least a suitor or caller you fear what your father may do.

The first ball is at the Macleans house, grand and overdone if you say as you enter the large estate. Guests huddle and chatter, tables are filled with flowers, treats and sweetened water. Despite the cold night it’s stuffy in the large estate. Your father is off quickly to drink with the other lords while your mother probably searches for your future husband. You hide by the drink stand getting some fresh lemonade before you’re approached. You’re thankful it isn’t a man and Lucy as she beams at you, big eyed and beautiful.

“Evening” she says grinning as she takes a drink and stands by you.

“Evening” you reply looking over the crowd.

“Are we scoping the options?” She leans in to whisper and you almost choke on your drink, you cover it with a laugh.

“I guess” you shrug and her face falters.

“I think my Mama may be doing it already” you say nodding in her direction. She’s talking to three young gentlemen whose back are turned to you.

“You could always marry my brother” she suggests and hesitate on your drink. Her brother is kind, a little odd and quiet but kind.

“Your brother is kind yes” you say and she elbows you gently.

“I won’t be offended if you say no, you know, he is rather quiet for a gentlemen” she chuckles softly and you just nod. The doors open once more, someone late to the party. This member makes your neck hair stand on end though as he enters in a ravishing blue suit with yellow bow tie. You frown a little at the Overseer colours, perhaps he is a member of the Overseers management. He approaches some lords and greets them with big smiles as they pretty much yell their celebration that he has arrived.

“Who is that?” You ask unsure if you’ve seen him or not.

“Lord Howard? You know him” Lucy says and it clicks.

“Oh of course! I didn’t recognise him from here” you huff softly. You gulp a little sipping your drink quicker. Lord Howard is the one man in the ton who truely interested you, his love for his horses, his adventures he goes on. Most of the young lady’s go to him for riding lessons however yours were cut short the moment your horse bucked you off and you embarrassed your teacher and father in front of the other parents and young ladies. It had been mortifying, you swore you broke something but all you got was thrown into your room and yelled at, your Mama managed to save you from a further beating seeing as you had just flown off a horse. You loved horses, you were fascinated by them, beautiful beasts able to carry a man at high speeds.

“Greeting young Ladies how are we?” Your mamas voice brings you from your thoughts and you smile at her.

“And he’s coming over” Lucy’s words make you snap your head though as the Lord approaches. Your whole body is on edge and everything around you seems to dull out except him.

You unaware he’s talking to you till you feel Lucy’s elbow in your side and snap back to reality.

“I’m so sorry Lord Howard” you say rushed almost fumbling over your words as you lay your glass down with shaky hands.

“It’s quite alright Lady Y/n, I was asking how you are both going?” He chuckles softly and your stomach does flips.

“I’m alright thank you, and yourself?” You ask wanting to hold your mother’s hand.

“Well thank you, my mare just gave birth to her first foal” he says with a proud smile that makes your heart thump.

“Oh how wonderful! Are they both doing well?” Your Mama asks.

“Yes quite, little colts got a fiery spirit for sure” he answers. You’re not focused, too focused on his neck for some strange reason. You find the place suddenly oh so inviting with the need to press your nose into his skin and breathe him in.

“Oh my dear daughter does love horses though she hasn’t had much experience with them” your mama gushes and his eyes find yours. He falters a moment sucking in a small breath, nose flaring.

“You should come by and see, never too old to learn how to ride, plus horses are better than people” he smiles and whispers the last part and your mind goes haywire. The thoughts of being on the ranch with him again, smooth kind words teaching you how to ride, praising you. You’d almost beg for his praise.

You excuse yourself suddenly and rush outside into the cold air where you’re able to breathe properly. Heavens what ever was that? Your heart is pounding, you feel yourself sweating.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” You hear your father growl like some wild beast and you flinch when his hand grabs your arm roughly in a bruising grip.

“Running off when a lord was talking to you?! Are you stupid!” He snaps his face mere inches from yours.

“I’m sorry father, I wasn’t feeling well I didn’t wish to make a scene of sickness” you explain your head bowed and eyes on the ground.

“Stupid girl! You’ve already made a damned scene!” His other hand grips your chin roughly and you whimper at the contact.

“Get the carriage!” He snaps at the footman and he hurries off.

“Get in the carriage, you’ve ruined this night and any chance of a proposal!” He growls and you’re forced into the carriage. You see your father hurrying your mama but you also see him Lord Howard frowning at your parents then looking to you in confusion and concern.

Next part ->