#visage [ feast your eyes ]

[the-gayest-sky-kid]

look at him.... if you even care...

[phantomcurtaincall]

woops

[ascheming]

tag drop

[golden-buddle]

I admittedly am not up on the cryptid batfam, so if I am remembering wrong, that is why. :p There's a monster under the bed. Children know it. Especially the children whose parents aren't kind. Whose parents lash out and abuse. There's a monster under the bed, who will not let children in its territory get harmed. (Redhood is the thing that lurks under the bed, to the woe of any abusive caretaker. However feel free to choose whoever fits your muse if it strikes.)

ohoho..

————

There was a Monster Under the Bed.

Every child in Gotham knew it, every child in Gotham has seen it.

It’s a young spirit, the older kids whisper at recess. Just like it’s sire had taken it, it will take you. The murmur louder, in hopes of scaring those who were listening in. But they’re leaving out something very important. That the Monster would never take anyone that didn’t willingly climb into its grasp.

The Monster is big, the monster is scary, it smells like copper and drips blood everywhere, but it isn’t scary. Not in the ways the children who needed it the most would see.

The Monster was big, and the Monster was perfect for those who needed to hide. For those who climbed under their own beds in hopes that their guardians, if the word could be used, wouldn’t see them just that night.

Whenever that would happen, when an adult would stomp down a hallway, their words carrying a drunken slur or an angry tone, the child would get desperate, they would throw away their blankets, grab their pillows and favorite toys, and climb off their bed.

They would crawl under the bed, murmuring ‘Please, I need help, please-‘ and curl up in the corner.

The shadows under the bed would coalesce, curl around the child in a soft embrace and to drown out the angry noises of any nearby adult.

As the shadows would whisper to the child, telling story after story, wind would swirl in child’s room. Curling and wisping in anger, the Monster would climb out from under the bed.

The shadows would warp, creaking and groaning as the giant figure clawed and deformed itself to get out of the small area.

Blood would drip from its stripped skull, it’s face streaked with so much blood that only the whites of its glowing eyes could be seen. No mouth, no nose, nothing but the glowing visage of haunted and angry eyes could be seen.

If the adult was wise, if they only had listened to the murmurs of their colleagues, they would recognize the creaks of the walls as the warning it was.

But not all adults are bright enough to realize that, not all of them were sober enough to flee the hissing rattle of a snake.

Some open their child’s doors, whether it’s by force or something else, and the lights of the hallway would shine in.

They would see It, the Bloody Hood of the shadows, second Eldest of the Gotham’s Knight, and they would scream.

Underneath their bed, the child would be lulled to sleep by the soft lullabies and rocking of the shadows, but outside the bed, the Bloody Hood would feast.

Both on the blood it was named after, and the aftertaste of fear that still clung to the air.

But once it was full, once it’s prey was drained off all it could give, the Hood would return back to the bed. It would break its bones, twisting and squeezing into the bed it came out of to whisk the child away.

Whereever it was talking the child, said child would never have to worry about the person who sent them running to the monster that dripped with blood.

[eelnoise]

seraphim

roronoa zoro x afab!reader c/w: bloodlust, consensual bloodplay, zoro bites, you scratch, religious themes, body worship, slight breeding kink, piv sex, creampie, manhandling, praise, post-murder sex (reader and zoro just killed a bunch of marines), public sex a/n: ? idk what even to say. i like my men bloody and i like when they bloody me. this is a rewrite of a previous fic which you can find here so if ur like "ive read this b4..." its because you kinda have banner by the lovely @buggyandthebartoclub!

Zoro isn’t a religious man.

No, he finds the very notion of reverence visceral.

Though as he turns back toward you, he’s dumbstruck. You face away from him, pulling the blade of your sword deep from the torso of a fallen naval officer and watching as the light fades from his eyes. Both of you had emerged victorious after a merciless and surprise assault from a group of marines in the middle of an open town square on some island that neither of you can remember the name of, where a large statue stands tall in honor of some long-forgotten hero at its center.

The scene is heavenly, you there - surrounded by the wages of spilled blood that pools beneath your feet, the remnants of singing steel permeating the now hallowed ground upon which you stand. There’s a certain beauty in chaos, and never has Zoro felt it quite as clearly as when he watches you tear into your foes with reckless abandon. The image makes him shiver - not in fear or revulsion, but something far more primal, deep within his gut.

He’s speechless as he observes you wiping the excess carnage from your blade, a sensation akin to delight igniting in his veins and fixated on you like a hawk. It’s beautiful, truly, a stunning vision that he couldn’t even dream up. 

“Well, we took care of that little rat problem, hm?” Your words are heavy with pride and exertion, but the sound of your voice only spurs him from a daze that he didn’t even realize he was in.

Then you turn to him, visage tattered and torn and stained with crimson. Zoro’s mouth goes dry, and words fail him, tongue tied tightly in a knot that he can’t seem to unravel. You’re immaculate, and for the first time in his life he’s fighting the urge to exalt, to sing your praise, to deify you.

He mutters something that’s beyond your field of hearing as he continues to stare at you like a starved man would a feast. Zoro’s seen you wield that blade countless times, watched on as you cut down enemy by enemy without effort or ailment, but never have you looked as angelic as you do now. Standing amid a symphony of battle and gore, covered from head to toe in splattered blood that’s both yours and that of the deceased around you, the look of delight and self-satisfaction twinkling in your eyes as you grin at him from across the square, fuck, it’s all too much. 

You’re right, of course, the two of you can and did handle these sin and sinew wrapped rats with ease, but the more pressing matter is the effect that you’re currently having on his heart. Zoro takes a step forward, taking in the beauty of your face, bloodied and bruised but not conquered.

Curiously, you leer at him, head tilted in question as you sheath your sword along your back, taking note of the lack of the usual snarky remark from the swordsman. “Zoro?”

His eye flickers to yours, lips parted in what could only be described as awe. He looks at you as if you’re a muse, descended from on high to grace him with your presence, one that’s stunned him into near silence. “Yeah?” Zoro manages to reply quietly, tone raspy and voice a barely audible whisper against the breeze - a timbre you only hear from him when he’s injured or exhausted, a weak and feeble inflection that almost has you questioning if the man was actually hurt.

Zoro’s jaw visibly tightens, his one open eye alight with the same burn that he eyes an opponent with, expression twisting into one that you know all too well. The face he only makes when -

He wants you.

Your war-torn, bloodthirsty appearance has overwhelmed Zoro, the innate desire etched on his expression like a fool in a daze. Lips twisting into a devious smirk, you’re keen on taking advantage of this rare opportunity of power that you’ve been given over him, and you know exactly how to proceed. With a step toward him, you do something he doesn’t expect, something that has his nails digging into his palms.

You lick blood from your lips.

Zoro’s blood blazes, a carnal, raw emotion swells in his throat with urges he cannot fight - will not fight. Ever a man of action, he’s upon you faster than you can react. Large, calloused fingers envelop your waist, pulling you close in an instant and slamming his lips onto yours in a starved, feverish, messy kiss. The metallic tang of blood on his tongue mixed with the taste of you drives him increasingly wilder each second you stay locked together in the embrace, hastening him further into devoted bliss.

You writhe as he leaves your lips to trail down your neck, lapping up the viscous liquid that coats your flesh in his wake. Zoro is fully prepared to kneel at your altar, to partake of and rejoice in each beautiful proverb that befalls from your sweet tongue, to bathe in every hymn you bestow.

Zoro's hands roam over your body, feeling the contours of your curves beneath the fabric of your torn clothing, tracing the delicate lines of your collarbone and shoulders before coming to rest on the small of your back, holding you firm against him. He feels like he could drown in this moment, in the warmth and passion that courses through his entire being.

Zoro grins wildly, a feral expression on his face as he feels the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips, the heat of your breath against his neck, and the sound of your voice washing over in melodic harmony. He wants nothing more than to revel in this moment, to lose himself completely in the intensity of the connection that you share.

“You wouldn’t believe how good ya look like this,” He growls into your skin, his chapped lips dancing across your collarbone and up to your shoulder. “I feel like I shouldn’t even be allowed to see ya. Feels…” words wane into a series of open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder and into the crook of your neck, deeply inhaling the intoxicating scent of blood, sweat, and battle on your flesh, “...wrong.”

“Doesn’t seem to be stopping you,” You purr, allowing a soft, pleased sigh to slide from your throat when he adds his teeth to the wet assault upon your skin, gently nibbling and grazing at you in a manner that grows hungrier and more sporadic with every passing moment. 

“We both know I ain’t much of a rule follower.” Zoro’s husky voice is hot on your ear, his warm breath sending a jolt of longing right through your nervous system. The hand low on your back begins to wriggle its way through tattered tendrils of threads that once made up your shirt, fingers spread wide as it skims up your pliant softness, tracing along your waist and up between your shoulder blades.

Zoro's touch isn’t quite tender, a clear indication of his burgeoning lust you suspect, but there's honesty, sincerity in his newfound charge. He knows that you aren't fragile, the evidence fresh and red around you speaking well enough on its own, so why stay the hand that plys the sword? 

Men fall to their hands and knees in prayer to gods they’ve never seen, begging for mercy and crying out for deliverance that will not come.

But you - he can see you, he can hear you. 

He can touch you.

Taste you.

You're divine. A paragon of a twisted and bloodied form of justice. It's you that's stupefied him, luring him into a deistic high that has Zoro practically foaming at the mouth with innate desire.

His painfully hard cock strains against his thigh with means to worship you wholly, to partake in his own ideals of perverse, distorted devotion. He breathes in your salty-sweet scent once more and groans in longing, the taste of your crimson essence on his lips makes him feel like an offering to an idol., and every drop that drips down his chin only serves to heighten his senses even more.

He looks up at you through an eye glazed over with depraved adoration, and all he can think of is how good you look, how delicious you are on his tongue, how much he wants to please you, be consumed in your immaculate presence, and to offer himself up as a sacrifice to the darker and more nefarious desire within him.

The urge to claim, to take what he wants from you and find salvation surrounded by your benevolent hold. To act upon the impure aspiration that pulsates in his mind in ways that would make even the most vileindividuals gawk. He yearns to clean the blood from your sacred, championed skin, a lust filled ritual to send you both into sacramental euphoria. 

He’s in a frenzy, feeling and touching each curve and crevice across your body while pulling you impossibly closer to him. Before Zoro can even think, he’s sinking his teeth into your shoulder, overcome with enlightened debauchery and biting down until that deathly addictive taste of your blood is fresh on his tongue once more - a testament to the depth of his obsession and the power of your shared experience.

The pain burns hot, but brief - quickly dissipating away into a cry of raw pleasure, a moan so salacious and so absolute that Zoro feels the very last of his will slipping through his fingers. He laps over the decently deep mark, his saliva mixing into the cuts like kindle to flame and earning him another woefully delightful wail of exasperation.

He thinks himself safe for the interim, that he’s pulled some sense back from the brink - until you say the one thing that shatters him to pieces.

“Do that again.”

He doesn’t deny you, and without hesitation he obliges by drowning his teeth back into your shoulder, pressing deeper into the wound and savoring the way your blood flows across his lips and into his mouth, painting his face red in the process. He grinds his hips against yours in a primitive display of dominance, while his fingers dig into your flesh with bruising force as you dig your nails into his back through his sweat and blood damped shirt.

Despite the danger posed by your actions amidst the threat of more marines, there is something undeniably beautiful about this dance of life and death. In this fleeting moment, Zoro and you find a kind of transcendence - a place where boundaries blur and limits vanish, leaving only pure, unadulterated passion in its wake.

His lips return to yours, and soon enough you feel yourself being whisked off your feet. The open air of the square leaves little room for privacy, but you know he doesn't care. Zoro walks with you in his arms, lips locked together in a messy, bloody, passionate kiss, your legs tight around his waist before he eases you down onto the lip of nameless hero's memorial upon which he plans to ravish you.

Zoro releases his hungry attack on your lips and rips the remnants of your shirt in two, leaving you bare to him as if an offering of communion. To feast upon your body, to drink upon your wine.

You gasp, wincing just a little from the shock of the fresh air upon your chest. “Zoro-” you begin, his name emanating from your breathless lungs as you watch the fabric fall to the ground around you. 

“Y’can have mine,” He replies, leaning forward to pull one of your nipples into his mouth. “After I’m done with ya.” Zoro’s mouth suckles greedily, teasing your sensitive nub with his tongue before biting down hard enough to make you squeal and arch your back, but not draw blood.

His free hand traces down your side, finding respite upon your inner thigh and squeezing tightly onto it, growling as the fresh wound on your shoulder trickles down your chest and right onto his lips and eliciting an absolutely lewd groan from Zoro as he laps it up.

He gazes up at you with an intensity that borders on madness, his eyes burning with an unbridled lust that has you keening. “Ya taste so fuckin’ good,” he growls between his assault on your chest, “God, I can’t get enough.”

“Then take as much as you want.”

And fuck, he does. In an instant does he pop his lips from you to slide your pants away, somehow careful enough to not rip them to shreds - something you’d have to thank him for later. Without even removing his swords from his hip, let alone his own pants - Zoro simply rushes to undo the clasps and push the waistband down enough to free his length, thick and leaking, to bounce out against your pelvis. 

You can feel it even through your underwear, warm heat radiating from what you desire most in this world at this moment. Zoro looks at you, gaze lingering on yours as he slides the fabric shielding your sex to the side and grips your hip with one hand and his cock in the other. He teases it over your slickness tantalizingly while sliding it between your folds and inch by inch are you filled so wonderfully, stretched and stuffed so marvelously full that each tense or twitch of him inside you makes the edges of your vision blur and has you wailing in pleasure.

As soon as your hips are flushed against one another, he gives you but a moment of adjustment before rutting his hips into you quickly, a rhythm so ruthless and wild that leaves you able to do little more aside from gasp out breathlessly and brave his savage ruin. You’re not even sure when your nails crept up his shirt, or when they burrow sharply into his shoulder blades until they’re etching down his back, the crescent shaped lines running his skin raw and bloody, scathing scores fueled by ferocious, crude passion.

He folds you then, one of his hands coming to grip over both of your wrists to pin them above your head as an arm forces your thigh downward. Zoro leans over you, your ankle now bouncing wildly next to his ear while he plows into you at a newer, deeper, more luscious angle. 

Skin slaps against skin in company with brazen indulgence, a foul yet righteous lament for the fallen mere feet from you. From this more cramped position, you’re all but forced to keep eye contact with him - and he’s looking nowhere else but at your face, enraptured by every sound and move you make as you squirm in his hold.

Your desperate pants mix, leaving patches of sweat to pool between your chests. Zoro’s increasing gasps and snarls of ecstasy ring loud in your ear, the sounds echoing through you like a quake and causing you to flutter around his cock. He hisses, harsh and shrill in your ear and with a throaty grunt he pulls out of you, letting your legs fall to the stone pavement and releasing his grasp on your wrists to firmly twist you by the shoulders, spinning you around and sprawling his hand on your lower back to shift you forward into an arch.

He’s sinking into you again, fingers tight and stinging at your waist and burying himself fully inside of you once more. There isn’t even a moment given for reprieve, the man continuing to fuck you as if he hadn’t even left your dripping heat and making you cry out in hypnotizing delight. 

Zoro smacks your ass, relishing in the ripple effect in your pliable flesh left in the wake of his blow. “Shit,” he exhales, adjusting his machinations of impurity to wrap his arms around your waist and lifting you from the ground, holding you in place mid-air and thrusting into you with less and less fluidity by the second. “Feel so fuckin’ amazin’, always do but god damn do you feel so fuckin’ incredible right now.”

You reach back to lock an arm around his neck seeking any leverage to keep yourself upright amidst his onslaught. You’re moaning something incoherent, words neither of you recognize due to the lust-filled haze that fills your minds, feeling the pull of release pit low in your belly as his balls slap against your clit at a rapid pace. 

Delirium bids its toll upon you, tears prickling at your eyes as the climb to your closely approaching high reaches its limit. Drool slides down your chin and onto your neck, and in an instant Zoro catches it with his mouth, once again dissenting on your flesh and gnawing his incisors into your neck - sucking and biting with brutal obsession and marking your angelic skin in devout defiance. The growing familiarity of the warm flow of blood trickling from the bruised indents in your skin makes you crack, flying over the edge with a scream of his name.

He doesn’t slow as you ride out the waves of pleasure coursing through your body, still slamming into you a breakneck speed. You twitch and twist in his arms, the hard beating of his cock keeping a state of hyperstimulation over you, the whimpers and cries of weak will and breathless joy beginning to tip him over the edge. 

The only thing in Zoro’s fogged head is his need to flood you with his spend, to pack you to the brim with his cum until it drips out of you and onto the stone below. He doesn’t even care if you’re bred full of his brats after this - if anything it would show just how he reveres you, claiming you as his own personal magnificence. 

His jaw tenses, still attached securely on your neck, as he cums. Loud groans and grunts and sighs of relief vibrate against your skin, Zoro’s dick leaking and draining into you as your walls milk him for all that you can manage. 

A few final, slow motions and he slides out of you, gently placing you on the ground and instantly rolling his shirt from his shoulders to hand it to you. “As promised,” Zoro says, a deviously weak grin on his face, moving to wipe his brow after you’ve taken the clothing from his outstretched hand. “Want me to patch ya up when we get back?”

“If you don’t mind, yeah.” You reply as you toss the shirt over yourself gently, minding the wounds that line your body as you do so.” Would rather not be asked any questions I don’t want to answer.” Zoro nods, chuckling softly before helping you clean up, using scraps of your ruined shirt as makeshift bandages and rags before he lifts you into his arms for a third time, though this one with the intention of carrying you safely back to the others - a soft apology for his brutality on your flesh, but one he knows he doesn’t need to say.

[nymphiria]

KAVEH NSFW HEADCANONS — GENSHIN IMPACT

♱ ∿ fem!reader, big dick kaveh, size kink, public sex, faux sympathy dom, facials, pussy eating, cockwarming, deepthroating

༉ a/n — why is kaveh so gorgeous (*>﹏<*)

it’s a miracle how kaveh always manages to fit completely inside of your snug walls. it seems that no matter how many times he fucks you, your pussy never gets used to his size. even hours of long foreplay never prepare you for the initial push of his length inside. as much as he coos and strokes your teary cheeks as you shake under him, you know that secretly he enjoys watching you writhe in pain. the mischievous and sadistic glint in his eyes always betrays his true feelings.

kaveh is known throughout sumeru for his architectural genius and lavish creations. naturally, he takes great pride in every palace and building he designs as any artist would. though mapping every room and area in exquisite detail is fun, he prefers the moment in time when it’s almost ready to be unveiled to the public. during this period, he takes in upon himself to fuck you witless in every spot inside of the area. the extravagant windowsills will keep you steady for him as he feasts between your legs and the breathtaking garden is the second best view compared to you on your knees swallowing him to the base. what’s the point of all work and no play? besides, it wouldn’t truly be a kaveh design if he didn’t christen all the rooms with your juices.

everything you do in kaveh’s eyes is beautiful from your face to your soft snoring as you sleep. he could write an epic on your beauty in less than a day if his schedule allowed it. the one thing in teyvat that multiplies your beauty by tenfold is when your visage is covered in his seed. the way that the ropes of white intricately drip down your cheeks and wrap into your hair drives him wild. the strings of cum only serve to make your fucked out face even more ethereal — a painting of fine art that just needed a touch up. most of the time when he’s about to reach his peak, he’ll pull out of you just to shoot his load all over your eager face.

late nights for kaveh are often filled with sleep-riddled eyes and piles of paper that have yet to be finished. usually he doesn’t allow himself to crawl into bed with you until three or four o’clock in the early morning. stress is no stranger to him as he is used to the amount of work his career demands from him. that doesn’t mean he doesn’t long for your company in the evening — you’re his only stress relief. once your ears catch the frustrated sighs and yawns of your lover, you’ll tiptoe into his office and nestle yourself onto his lap. he doesn’t need to tell you what to do, you already know. the first sigh of relief comes when you’re releasing him from the confines of his pants, the second when you slip his half-hard dick inside of you. it’s not inherently sexual. most of the time you’ll both end up falling asleep with him buried to the hilt in your pussy. when you’re waking up, however, it’s a different story.

[darlingofvalyria]

As the Princess of the Realm's most favoured maid, there are certain liberties you are privy to demand. Jealousy of the people surrounding your lady is not one of them. Amused, Rhaenyra wishes to show her jealous little darling that there is nothing to worry about.

╰┈➤ PROMPTS ❝ MIND MANIPULATION, BLOOD PLAY ❞

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 2,763 ] [ masterlist ] | Vampire!Rhaenyra Targaryen x Maid!Reader

contains— smut, fluff - monsterfucking, hurt/comfort, jealousy, allusions to murders and kidnapping (not reader), mind manipulation, mentions of blood - this is a darkish fic - nsfw: monsterfucking, v and v sex, blood play(?), thigh riding, dubcon - no betas.

a/n— countess bathory rhae version. + Quick note: I don't actually remember/know if a crown princess is higher in stature to a queen consort. I know a queen at least is higher than a crown princess... but in this fic, i'm making it so that a king's direct/crowned heir is higher in status to that of a queen consort, as in what i want you to understand here that a king's chosen heir has bigger power than someone who is only married to royalty and title. this is of course different than the show but eh. + comment, reblog & like at will, mi luvs, mwa!

You understand why they salivate after her like starved dogs for a hunt. Prowling, on the verge of humping the very ground she walks on.

Your princess is every consonant and vowel of her royal visage and title, adorned in jewels and gold, Valyrian steel interlaced across her throat and waist. Fat rubies in her ears, weighted layers of gold gleam across her collarbone with a Valyrian steel necklace that strung an almost black amethyst drop nestled in her bosom.

Rings of all kind adorned her fingers as she held a goblet, amused by whatever topic the Riverland Lord was saying with gusto, fat stomach straining against a leather belt.

In any feast, she is the star, unable to be shadowed by her enemies now that her confidence had bloomed. She presided every conversation, lords and ladies following her red mouth as much as her words, dominating circles of power with ease that surpassed her gender.

The Heir to the Iron Throne. The Realm's Delight.

You had never been prouder to say you serve such a woman, body and soul.

And at the same time, you cannot help the feeling of jealousy to flash like a quick strike of a dagger. It is not your mistress' fault that people stave off the attention she gives them. It isn't their fault either as you understand the sentiment. Once you've played in her hand, you are evermore enraptured by her.

But you're different. In a way.

As soon as the lord— a Lord Erodd Mudd, a vassal of House Tully who had proudly proclaimed to be an eager follower of the future Black Queen, henceforth his vassals flooding gifts and compliments to your princess — had gotten too close for comfort and too red from the overflowing Arbor Red, that as soon as you see the quick flash of Princess Rhaenyra's comfort threatened, you spring into action.

You move about dancing bodies and beautifully crafted ladies to get to her, your eye meeting her sword shield, the Ser Strong, with a nod. You know your strengths and weaknesses; wrangling a drunken lord physically is not one of them. Neither is a violent drunk, and there had been enough unsavoury gossip of the Lord Mudd for you to be on edge the minute he approached the princess.

You take a low bow in front of them at your sudden interruption, your voice calm but firm. "My princess, the Prince Joffrey is ready to be put to bed."

Rhaenyra smiles, gladdened of your quick feet and quicker thinking. "Thank you—"

"Audacious!" Lord Mudd squeaks, the spittle and stench of alcohol almost makes you grimace. Almost. "The princess is talking to a lord, she does not want—"

"— the princess does not permit others to speak on her behalf, much less about what she wants or thinks," you can't help but snap. "Please refrain yourself from doing so, my lord."

He purples in offence, fist shaking that you sidle up to move in front of the princess. "Oh why, how dare—"

You let out a breathless exhale at the appearance of Breakbones and his meaty hand on the lord's shoulder. "My lord. I'm afraid you've enough to drink. The night grows long." As the lord opens his mouth to retort, Harwin's smile sharpens is enough of a warning that he swallows and jerkily nods.

He bows to Rhaenyra. "G-good night, your grace."

Rhaenyra smiles amusedly, as if she is letting you in on a joke. "And to you, my lord. I will have a maestre prepare a concoction my... little brother uses in a time of head aches. He so prefers the sweet Red such as you."

As he bows again gratefully, Lord Mudd manages to shoot you a final glare before being escorted by Ser Harwin. For a brief moment as the revelry continues on, most guests now well into their cups and dreams to kiss your princess' arse, she laughs quietly in the privacy of your closure.

You snort softly. "I am glad the night has amused you thus far, my princess."

She giggles again. "How can I not? You had been glaring at the poor fool for the better time of the night. He had thought that he had offended me in some way, and was trying to appease with all sorts of ridiculous promises."

"Hm. What can a small vassal house by the name that means 'wet dirt' could possibly offer the princess of the realm?" You can't help but be haughty. Though you do recognise you are being a bit unfair to the lord, for he isn't just the only one who had pried the attention of the princess all night.

"A pretty new maid," Rhaenyra muses, making your blood freeze. "He said he's got a pretty collection of wenches, all well trained by his mother, whom I do know has a heavy teeth with her servants. Lord Tully has endorsed them so. Lady Tully as well. Oh, and that he has daughters fit to be ladies in waiting, should I want for more... high browed ladies."

You inhale deeply. "It is indeed... a good idea to expand your ladies. You are the Heir, higher in stature to the Queen Consort who has an army of ladies both in Great Houses and Vassals." You nod jerkily. "It is a smart idea, my princess."

Rhaenyra smirks, enjoying far too much the inner turmoil of your little head. You don't notice it, as you had perfected serving her for such a time and she is sure onlookers would see only a lady conversing with her maid, but when you are upset and trying not to show it, you blink three times as if wrangling your thoughts in order. There is only a small dip in your serene mouth that always makes her want to press it. Move it around. Then maybe bite you.

But if she touched you now, she would not stop. She knows her hunger very well, and in preparation for the three-day celebrations as well as handling her duties between council meetings and audiences with the common folk— she had not drank in a while.

If she touches you now, there would be no care for titles or eyes.

When she shudders faintly at the image, your keen eye sees it immediately. You see the faint pallor, the inch of peakiness. She had been consuming more and more raw meat, but animals barely curb the thirst.

"Shall I prepare your feast, my princess?"

She blinks at you, surprised. "My feast? Surely this is enough."

You're unable to stop your sigh as you look away. "My princess, surely, you don't think such a feat should go unrewarded? Lords of Great Houses are swayed to your cause. Their vassals are following suit. Even if a Great Council is demanded once more in your reign, the tide will turn for your favour."

"You do not know that." Rhaenyra laughs lightly as you are already shaking your head. "We should not tempt fate."

"You had been doing your duty unto the realm as its heir and its delight. We are tempering any whisper of revolt. Your win is marked in stone," you insist. "A reward is only just."

You scoot closer, pinching your voice low. Rhaenyra holds her breath with a sharp intake of air, a coil, nothing but a whisper, of your scent finds her nostrils and her hunger tightens in her stomach that her fangs sharpen. She bites her bottom lip hard.

"My apologies," you whisper. "But I know your hearing turns mortal when you have not eaten in a while. You must eat. The bustle for the celebration has been a good excuse to hire more alongside what we needed."

Her eyes flash. "... Maidens?"

"At least four of them, my princess."

She gasps, inhaling quickly and your scent comes first, the sweet imprint of your blood hums her own, but her eyes widen at the thick stench of maidens right in her room. Your gift. For your beloved. You smile, despite the niggling, pinch of jealousy that has a thick hold on your neck and Rhaenyra can smell it.

"The revelries will continue on," you say with finality, bowing. "The Prince Jacaerys is doing well with the Northern delegates thus far, and the Young Prince Lucerys has charmed the pirate lords from the Free Cities, as well as the Dornish Prince and his... mistresses. We are well here. I will keep an eye on your heirs. Enjoy yourself, my princess."

The revelries go well into the Hour of Owl before you give nod to the last of the guards and servants tasked with ensuring the more raucous guests find their way to their beds, moving along the quiet flutter of candlelight and sharp, slanting shadows like a wraith. Or a ghost. No one pays you any mind, and they know better.

You sweep straight into the princess' apartments, locking the doors behind you. The iron stench of blood is already thick here, seeping through the corners and clinging to the tapestries. You're used to it, even if the first times had been shaky in your memories. But your actions are a routine, moving to the tub filled thick with blood, almost to the brim, moving a finger through it, beads of blood clinging to you when you raise your hand, falling in slops back to the tub.

You hum along your duties, the actions of a routine is familiar... if not surgically placed into your mind, though the uncomfortable reminder strikes your head in a low, dull thud. Worrisome thought is a blunt knife to the steel guard your princess has wrought in your head.

For your protection, my sweet, Rhaenyra had purred, feeling her nails scratch in the fragments of your malleable brain.

Candles are flickering by the time your princess strides into her room, the heavy door deadbolting with a heavy thud. The stench of blood and her scent— grapefruit and vanille, a touch of something more ancient, cloying and heavy — thickens as you bow, your fingers in unlacing and getting her off the bloodied dress. It’s relatively clean, and she throws you a smirk for it. She knows you hate having to share just as much as she, and knows even better you would never make much fuss, but your chest warms at her thoughtfulness regardless.

She sinks with ease, a low, satiated hum escapes her lips.

“I will assume this is another present?” she teases. “No maidens?”

“Not after the Lannisport incident, no.” You regard her weightily but she only laughs. Sunk in blood, her paleness almost makes her glow. A goddess if nothing else. But her cheeks are also fuller, vibrancy clinging to her gold spun hair and gaze. “These were just as much eager to serve the crown as the young women were eager to serve their princess.”

Rhaenyra’s laugh is spoilt as much as it is indulgent. “And I am assuming you never told them the length or width of their servitude?”

She really does feel much better if she is in such a teasing mood.

“No,” theres a petulant, almost offended notch in your tone that you dont hide as well, if youre ever truly trying to hide it. The day wanes and the moon waxes, and you have been obedient all day.

Rhaenyra bites her lip. You have been good. And deserving. She leans forward, pressing herself back. “Come.”

You still, holding onto her oils. “I still have to wash your hair, princess, it has been an arduous day."

“It has, and you have done so well in pleasing me that I require you here, with me.” Her voice pitches, irises molting to a startling black. Your spine straightens and your gaze glosses. She hums, delighted to see that the full force of her prowess is back. Though it isnt truly much. The strings from your mind and body is one that she has owned long before. “Take off your dress, sweet girl, thats it, faster— and here, right on top of me.”

You are awake and dreaming, its a state you know quite well, but you move where she wants you, your strings hers for the taking, and you are up to your navel in blood before your mind catches up with thought that you are bare, bare before your princess as she looks up, her hands, soft and cold and wet with blood, moulding against the divots of your soft flesh.

She pulls you down with ease, so careful with your skin. Her hunger though fulfilled, the remnants of the creature within her still breathes. Your heartbeat is a siren song and the urge to devour you, to sink her teeth right in that throbbing, fluttering pulse— four maidens down her belly and her hunger for you is still so strong.

Your mind is your own when you have settled righto n her thighs, bracketing her between your own. A shuddering gasp leaves your mouth as she draws her hands from thighs to your centre to your breast to your jaw, pulling you to meet her mouth in a soft exploration between tongue and teeth.

It is kissing for beasts, for creatures trying to find pleasure unknown to them but hungering for it; her tongue tangling with yours, licking at the roof your mouth, her teeth, sharpened, tugging and grating against your soft lips. It is gluttonous as it is guttural, and you feel debased. But you like it, you like the clouding of your mind from pleasure, chasing the hums from her throat and smiling from her little laughs.

It is no wonder that your body craves, hips moving in an insistent, errant sway against her thigh that she laughs once more, finish suckling a bruise on your arched neck.

"Sīr needy hae iā līve, So needy like a whore," she purrs against your skin. "Are you my," she grips your buttocks and pulls you to her, though you stumble, you are still relatively on your knees and your pearl that is craving for attention hits against her stomach and you gasp, "little whore?"

"Yes," you murmur, arms wounding against her neck as she adjusts you more comfortably on her lap, watching intensely at your pleasure as she sits you down and starts moving your hips in a rhythm. "Y-yes I am."

She snakes a hand between you to pinch at your clit. You jolt.

"Manners."

"Yes, my queen!" You sob, head falling on her shoulder as your hips go faster, the blood is spilling, the smell of iron is so strong it fills your lungs, but your first relief is near and Rhaenyra hates denying you pleasure.

Even her punishments have always been to over feed you your own pleasure, indulge in the staccato wails broken by whines as your last peak has barely finished before she is making you reach it again.

"There she is, my sweet girl."

She helps your thighs, moving you faster and faster as she drinks in your skewered brows and hanging mouth, taking a breast into her mouth and laving it with her tongue, groaning at the blood and suckling deep. You will be blooming with bruises come morn and she cannot wait to see the spring she has created on your skin. You are so delicate, so... human. Your fragility is a beauty she enjoys.

Like right now, when your pleasure catches up to you fast and she has made it a mission not to touch your cunt at all, maintaining your movement even as you whine deep in your chest, your forehead falling to her shoulder as you twitch and shudder. When you garble her name, falling your please, p-please, 'smuch, she stops, running her hands instead to your sides, cupping your breasts faintly before she's nudging against your nose until you give in with what she is silently asking: soft, tugging kisses.

"Deep breaths, sweet one," she whispers against your mouth when she pulls away, "I will take more of your pleasure. All the sweet maidens in these lands are nothing to the taste of you." For emphasis, her other hand is already between your thighs, brushing insistently against your pearl.

Teasing, always teasing. You shudder.

"Your pleasure is much your reward as it is mine. Now, once more. On my fingers." She bares her fangs, another light laugh that tugs at your core because it is full of promises. "Then against my cunt."

Because Rhaenyra gives as much as she takes.

And she wants everything you... 'willingly' give.

[mrsshabana]

“𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮? 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚 𝐟𝐮𝐧 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 ~”

𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟖: 𝐒&𝐌

꒦꒷‧₊ Summary At first, you were just another meal to him. But when he hurt you, you didn't beg for him to stop, you actually liked it. Maybe he could have some fun with you before he makes you his next meal. If you can handle it. ꒦꒷‧₊ Content Gyutaro x female!reader, 18+ MDNI, Sadist!Gyutaro, Masochist!Reader, violence, blood, gore, rough sex, vaginal sex, creampie. ꒦꒷‧₊ Note 1.3k words

✧:･ﾟ→ Kinktober Masterlist

The only reason he chose you was because you were pretty. Jealousy filled his veins when he laid his eyes upon your beautiful visage. He would make you pay, make you suffer by his hands.

He swiftly plucked you from the crowd and took you back to his underground lair where he and his sister eat their prey. Stripping you of your clothes so he can feast on your flesh. You kicked and screamed just like the others, you weren’t special. At least not until he sunk his teeth into your skin. He wanted to make it slow and painful, slowly sinking his teeth into your neck as he holds you down. 

A soft, pleasured whimper escapes your lips when his fangs tear into your skin. Never has he seen a human react that way. It makes his eyes go wide and he has to pull away to look at you. Is this really happening right now? You should be crying and begging for your life. But here you are, deriving pleasure from the pain he inflicts upon you. 

He looks down at your flustered face. You quickly turn your head to the side to avoid his gaze, ashamed that he just heard you moan. 

A devilish smirk appears on his face as he roughly grabs you by the hair and pulls your head up, “You like this don’t you?” 

You can’t muster the courage to respond to him, only moaning and blushing more from his rough treatment of you. 

“How disgraceful,” he growls, “You should be begging for your life. But here you are, enjoying being tossed around by a demon of all things!”

Out of nowhere, he cups your pussy in his other hand, “And already wet too. Don’t think I couldn’t smell your arousal when I bit you, sweetheart.” He collects your slick on his fingers and brings it up to his mouth. Groaning as he savors your taste. 

“Guess I could have a bit of fun with you,” he rasps, “Then get rid of you when I’m done.”

You know you should be afraid right now, your life is literally in this man's hands and he hasn’t shown any intention of letting you walk away alive. But yet you still can’t help but feel some kind of twisted attraction towards the demon. His sadistic personality makes your knees weak, and not to mention his appearance. He looks like a monster, but that only turns you on more. Especially when he glares at you with those yellow eyes and smirks with those sharp teeth. 

“F-feels good,” you stutter, speaking quietly. Too ashamed to admit to him that you do indeed like what he’s doing to you. 

“You like it when I hurt you?” he grabs your thigh, slowly sinking his nails into your flesh, “What a fun human you are ~” 

“ Ahhh ,” you whimper in satisfaction as blood rolls down your thigh. 

He leans down and licks the blood from your leg, “Mm… taste so sweet too. Might lose control and devour you while I’m fucking you. I bet you’d like that huh?”

You nod shyly and open your legs, a clear invitation. If you’re going to get eaten alive, then you might as well go out with a bang. 

His erection is already straining at the front of his pants, you can clearly see that he’s big too. But that only makes you more excited. 

His eyebrow twitches as he looks down at your soaking cunt, it looks so inviting. “ Fuck ,” he mutters under his breath as he pulls down his pants. His hefty cock springing free, the length and girth of it will be sure to hurt you in more ways than one.

He grabs you by the hips and flips you onto your stomach, “Get on your hands and knees. Now,” he commands. 

Your legs shake with anticipation as you get into the position for him, exposing everything to his predatory gaze. 

“That’s it.” He grabs your ass with his left hand, and forcefully slaps it with his right. 

You squeal at the sudden pain, and the sting of his hand is left on your skin. A red mark immediately forming, bringing a smile to his face.

And without warning he shoves his cock into your entrance, sending a surge of pain through you as he forces himself inside. Literally tearing you to accommodate him. It makes his immediate thrusts even more painful, but that is the whole reason he’s doing it after all. 

“ Fuuuuck you’re so tight,” he groans, slapping your ass again as he continues at a rough pace.

“ Ah-aaahh! S-slow down please,” you beg. Partly because it really does hurt, but also because you know your begging will only make him go harder. 

He leans forward, grabbing you by the hair and lifting your face. He lowers his face beside yours and looks at you from the corner of his eyes. “Gyutaro,” he grunts, “Scream it. Now."

He punctuates his command with a violent thrust, ramming into your cervix. 

“ G-Gyutaro! ” you scream.

“ Ngh - That’s it. Good girl,” he coos. Letting go of your hair and moving his hands to cup your breasts. His nails dig into the fat of your chest while he holds you against him, thrusting deep inside of you.

The pain is overwhelming and your vision is blurred by the tears flooding your eyes. Every part of you hurts. Your neck where he bit you, your thighs, your ass, your scalp, your now bleeding breasts, and worst of all your cunt. 

His hands are covered in blood and so are yours. You don’t know where it all came from, but there is a pool of blood beneath you, soaking your palms as you hold yourself up.

The pain feels so good. And he loves administering it. 

You don’t know if it’s from the overwhelming pain or from the blood loss, but you’re starting to feel light headed. And it doesn’t help that he keeps hitting your sweet spot with every thrust of his hips. Not to mention how hard his bony pelvis slams into the flesh of your ass, surely to leave a bruise. But that’s the least of your worries. 

“ G-Gyu… ta-tarooo ,” you moan desperately, as you begin to lose your balance and everything starts to blur. 

“Stop whining, you pathetic girl,” he growls, his thrusts becoming animalistic. 

Looking down at you, he can see that you’re struggling to hold yourself up. So with a sadistic chuckle, he grabs your wrists and pulls them behind you, keeping you held up. 

“Can’t even hold yourself up? You’ll be punished for that.” His lips curl into a twisted smile, showing off his bloody teeth. He moves your right hand up to his mouth, and bites off your index finger. Promptly chewing through the bone and swallowing it. 

The combination of pleasure and pain is far too much for you. “ Gyutaro! ” You scream his name at the top of your lungs and cum all over him. Your tight walls squeezing him as your body shakes. The combined sensations are too much for you to handle and everything goes black.

Your body goes completely limp and Gyutaro continues fucking you at a rough pace. Until he finally spills inside of you, groaning as he’s filled with ecstasy. Painting your insides white as he shoots thick ropes of his semen. 

Finally, when his orgasm has subsided he lets go of your arms and you collapse on the ground. 

“Human?” he asks as he pulls out of you and lifts your head to get a look at your face. “Oh… she’s passed out.” 

Blood drips down his chin as he grins sadistically, getting an idea.

“I could just let you bleed out,” he chuckles, “ Or , I could turn you into a demon and we could have more fun. Then I could be as rough as I like.”

He looks down at your blood covered body as he thinks about it. 

Gyutaro brings out his sickles and cuts his wrist, hovering it over your face and letting his blood drip into your mouth.

“This is going to be so much fun.”

[semischarmed]

Exterior

You lick your lips and let out a soft breath.

“Goddamn, what a looker,” you mouth silently.  

A thick crown of chestnut hair frames a strong face with angelic features. Brown eyes glint with a hint of olive in the sunlight.

You’ve seen him before, you think- at the airport after break. Probably an athlete for the university.

Sure, he was hot at the airport, but everybody always is. Seeing him out here though, out in the real world? Really fucking hot.

You struggle to remain inconspicuous as your eyes greedily stay on subject. As if sensing your stare, his brow furrows as he looks in your general direction. You dodge glances last minute, cursing your lack of self control.

Anyone looking at you could probably see the longing in your glance, the hunger, the desperation to stay fixated at his visage. Anyone looking would see lust clouding your mind, the hint of a dangerous smiling painting your face, hiding the untold horrors in planning. But, you were never one to be seen, to be perceived. Always a background character in someone else’s story. He would be correcting that.  

When the coast was clear, your eyes rush back to feast on his image. He sits with some friends, adam’s apple gently bobbing up and down as he chatted, hair waving in the breeze like hands beckoning you inside. Everyone in the group seems relatively loose and relaxed, aside from him. One makes a joke, causing the rest to laugh. He gives a grimace, mimicking a smile. Though likely off-putting to some, that hardy exterior only manages to drive your lust deeper.

Another pats him on the back, and your heart stirs. Somewhat deceptive given his limber form, you only note how dull the smack sounds. It’s a confirmation to you. A confirmation that this man is dense and packed to the brim with muscle. Your mouth watered at the sight of that musculature tensing before relaxing. A brief glimpse in the raw power brimming inside that cute bundle of flesh.

“Peter, c’mon… lighten up bro,” they say. Peter. Aha, so that was his name. You repeat the name softly under your breath. “Peter…Petey…Pete”. It has a nice ring to it. In your mind, you relay the events with his friends instead directly calling *you* Peter. Your mouth pulls into a smile as your dick stirs. You rub it lightly, feeling a little pre leak at the thought “Mmmhmm. Peter. Call me Petey. Has a nice ring to it”

After several more minutes of jokes between friends, you finally catch one to break his facade. There it was. A genuine smile. A beautiful smile. A delicious smile.

You had to have it.

- - -

You sneak into the locker that Saturday. As you do, you slowly close each door, locking it. Ensuring none could block the consummation your life and Peter’s.

Like a snake in the grass, you slowly make your way to the lonesome Peter, sitting on a bench and panting after a game. A slight scent of flowers drifts through the air. As you move closer, the scent of his laundry fades and makes way to the damp, drying sweat soaking his shirt. Must have been a tough match.

His musk feels divine. If you could, you would have stopped time to just lay there, drunk in the scent that was Peter post-match. But you would have all the time in the world to bless yourself in that sun-drenched Peter flavor you craved. Plus, you knew you had to be quick. A body- especially an athlete’s body like this would be  incredibly resilient. You need to do this now, while he was sore and immeasurably tired.

He takes a swig while you approach. Putting down the bottle, he pants and looks up at you through sweat-stained vision.

“Uhhh.. can I help you dude?” He asks.

“I just wanted to say, I’m a huge fan”.

“Thanks bro,” He says.

“Just looking at the way you fly through the court. Amazing.” A bold-faced lie, having skipped his match to prep this empty locker room.

“Thanks,” he states plainly.

“And the way those hot, hot muscles propel you forward…”

You motion to hug him. He tries to pull away but you’re quick to embrace him. He feels a prick in his shoulder as you dose him.

You feel his post-game sweat drip off his skin and over yours, and lust overrides reason. You can’t help but squeeze tighter and tighter.

“The way that perky ass jiggles when you walk... I bet you’re packing too, aren’t you?”

His face, initially cringing in awkward tension, now shifts to disgust as he tries to push you away. Blind in pleasure, you inch even closer and wrap your legs around that ass, as he feels your dick sandwiched between your two torsos harden.

“And that face… goddamn what a face. I bet it’d be amazing to wear it. To look at your friends through it and hear them call me your name.” In frenzy, you begin grinding your stiffened dick into the heat of the closeness of your two bodies pressed together. “…to hear your own mother call me Peter. FUCK! I can’t wait to be Peter!” You whimper as you felt cum shoot out, staining your shorts and his. As a bit of your cum lands his flesh, he is finally able to shake off the initial shock.

“Sick fucking FREAK!” He spits at your face as he pushes hard, leaving you several feet away. It draws blood and immediate pain, but you could only feel the hunger to have that might as your own to wield.

You corral the spit onto your tongue, sucking and savoring the taste of your future mouth.

“Man… fuck… so that’s what kissing us would taste like” you tease. You could practically taste the vitality brimming from his body.

He looks as if he’s about to gag, and begins to gesture moving away. He panics when he feels his movements slow.

“Honestly, with that tight fucking bod, I’m not sure how long before you break free of this.”

You begin to prep, stripping both your bodies naked. His head attempts to shake in defiance when he sees you pull two syringes from your pocket. You wink before jamming one into your arm and one into his.

The effects are instant, you feel your senses dull. You also feel your own body begin to soften as you move towards the naked Peter. After a few moments, your senses start pick up and explode and blend together. Every heartbeat, blood vessel, and neuron. You feel intimate control over every piece. It was overwhelming at first, truly feeling every bit of yourself. Looking at Peter, you knew you didn’t want to wait any longer to feel every bit of his.

You line your cocks together, pointing at each other. You then knead your dick slowly. Slit touches slit before inside begin to touch inside. Resistance bubbles in him as you see his arms clench and unclench, and his face wince at the foreign intrusion.

You sigh for a moment, admiring your handiwork. Peter’s dick appeared to be swallowing yours. That was partially true. You knew what you had actually done. Inside Peter’s dick lay your own, turned inside out so that both your insides faced each other.

He tries to scream, but can’t muster a sound beyond a low moan as you continue to knead and push and overlay more of your insides into his, your body turning inside out in the safety of his body. He sees your malleable form appear to deflate as more of your innards took flow in his.

“…aaaaAAAAAA. FUCKK.. FUUUUCK” He screamed. He starts to wiggle out the confines of his paralysis.

You know time is limited. In a rush, you use your nerves to commandeer his, swallowing all control of his dick as your own.

He screams and kicks in horror as he watches his own cock swallow inch upon inch of you like a worm. It happens in moments, and the force of the intrusion rocks his hips back, as his body makes room for you. His belly distends from all the added mass, causing him to lose balance and collapse.

“Oh god, oh god” he whimpers, as he gently feels his new belly, afraid of what was now inside him, what he could now no longer reach.

In the safety of your future body, you slow down, feeling yourself dissolve into a mass of parts.

Peter feels it in his legs first. Like millions of threads beneath his flesh, burrowing into his sinew. You don’t leave a crevice in the man untouched. In every part of his powerful legs, you weave and intertwine your fibers into his. He thrashes them in a tantrum, but the movement only causes him further displeasure, as he feels his own taught skin and muscle squeeze into wriggling masses. Into fusion.

You make quick work of his arms as well, greedily swallowing and interlacing whole pieces of Peter’s dense muscle fibers into yours. He screams as he feels his muscles in his biceps tear and repair themselves, fortified and irreversibly bonded to your fibers. With the half control you now had over his arms, you run them along his body and defile himself, dancing his fingers across and feeling every inch of your future self.

You make a quick stop at his heart, embracing it with your flesh to feel its power. There was a warmth in knowing this would soon be yours. He really was an athlete. You could feel the sheer energy in every pump.

After admiring your future core for a few moments, you decide to hijack it for yourself, pumping Peter’s heart full of your threads. Like a virus, you flood into his bloodstream, carried by the very organ that gives Peter his power. He’s unable to do anything aside from watch, as every vein and artery of his being pulse and writhe with you inside them. It takes a just a few pumps of the athlete’s heart to leave every juncture of his flesh connected to you. At last, you feel yourself in his own blood, coursing through him. If you had lips, you would lick them in anticipation at the last bastion of the old Peter- his head.

He squirms and smashes his head into the floor repeatedly, as he feels your fleshy mass slowly traveling up his vascular neck.

“I’m me! I’m me!” He repeats as he feels your brain touch his.

He grips his head in pain at first contact. Inside, your brain folds begin to slip into his, coalescing. The process is acutely violating for him, as he feels your thoughts inside of his own mind. Like a thousand needles, you inject every piece of your mind into his.

He pulls at his hair while trying to shake you off when he feels your sick perversions course inside him, then begins to get lightheaded as they start to come from him. He retches as he feels the thrill of possession, of violating his own flesh come from his own mind. Still, you made sure to keep the original Peter strung up and intact inside your shared mind. Something about keeping every bit of him tethered to you only riled you up further.

Breaths ragged, and screaming turned feral, he shouts one last war cry, as the last individuated pieces of yourself and his join and merge into one.

- - -

Your eyes blink open, woken by afternoon sun peering from the skylight.

You stand up groggy in the locker room as you try to piece the day’s events.

As you do, some stray hairs fall in front, and you see their gentle curl glow caramel in the filtered sunlight. “oh my god… oh my god,” you moan.

Upon hearing your velvety new baritone, your moan upgrades into a soft scream. You look down, seeing your new, long legs pushing you towering over your previous height, and the sun-tanned Peter-flesh and hairs now encapsulating them. ‘Fucking Stud’, you bite his lip.

Even standing, you could feel them brimming with power. You swing his arms back and forth, relishing in the control and precision they now had. Virile. Absolute god bod. You glance at the rest of your new, permanent meatsuit- Dick, already rock-hard and pulsating, abs, defined and glistening in the afternoon glow.

You slap your new cheeks, feeling them flush and jiggle with youth. Your Peter face pulls into a smile, wider and wider.

“I’m me, I’m me” you mock. “Welcome home, me”. You make him say to you.

His resilience, his power, his fucking body… yours.  

“FUCK! Oh God! Yes! Ugh… Fucking Mine. You’re all mine!” You scream. The pleasure is overstimulating, and you fall in a pool of your new body’s sweat.

His body. Yours. All muscle underneath. All at your whim. Molded, corrupted and rewired to betray its original owner and keep you forever locked safe inside.

His brain, his thoughts- last remnants of resistance that you keep as a souvenir. His own agency now tied to you. Through his brain, you feel Peter try to reign control, and in amusement you feel these thoughts pass through you.

Outside, his body spasms as he slowly regains sovereignty. He struggles to get up, body aching from the violation his insides endured. As he gets back up, he walks to the locker room mirror with worry in his eyes, trying catch anything out of the ordinary. He checks his face first, turning his neck from side to side. Slight relief paints Peter’s face.

He lifts his arms next, checking if they still listened to him. He begins to think he overshot the movement as his arms continue moving. Instead, horror begins to dawn on his face as his own hands run through his hair before landing on the back of his head. He trembles as he again wrestles for control. In concentration, drool escapes his lips and sweat dots his furrowed brow as his arms continue to shake but steadily move into a new position. Your position. They lock into a flex.

Slowly, Peter’s eyes blink close and face crinkles before wordlessly screaming into uncharacteristic pleasure. Then, those beautiful brown eyes with a hint of olive stare back, those beautiful lips smile back as you breath Peter’s air into the mirror, fogging it up for a moment before revealing his face swimming in perverse pleasure.

“…I-you-we feel fucking amazing. You think I’m ever leaving this fine, fine piece of ass? Bro? Bro… get real. I am never fucking leaving.”

Peter’s hands cup his own plump ass, squeezing tight. His vocal cords relay your moan, stifled by the slight pain.

With that, you reign back control of every cell and strand of sinew of your new flesh. You tune back into the folds of your brain inside of his, into his very thoughts and let his unburdened rage wash over you. Rage turns to revulsion as he promptly feels his own dick betray him and begin to throb. You love the feeling of his inner turmoil, his endless perseverance. Interspersed was the euphoria you felt in controlling his body, in wearing it as your own.

You also love it because these were his heightened emotions, raw and intoxicating, now turned internally, redirected. You fuel those very same emotions to his insides, causing them to tighten and squeeze the parts of you bonded to an eternal internal embrace even tighter.

A flex of the now-drenched hand and a slight scowl of triumph paints Peter’s face. He’s yours.

Everything he ever was, is and will be. Yours at last.

- - -

A few days later, a dormmate comes to your room. Apparently, the entire dorm had some form of event in a nearby beach.

You turn around and begin to remove your shirt before his eyes. As you do, you feel Pete’s struggle manifest as a muscle spasm. “GET THE FUCK OUT OF ME, I’M NOT EVEN GAY” He shouts and screams in defiance. You moan internally. In truth, you could tell his dick didn’t budge for men. Doesn’t matter. You pant softly as it hardens anyway, forced against its very nature into your own whims. This was your fuckstick, your cum to do with as you pleased. It felt fucking good to have him inside there with you fighting. Like a constant reminder that he was yours. You never wanted to take this divine body for granted.

“W-Why me?” He whimpers internally.

“Honestly bro? Something about you just felt right, your-our face. And that body? As soon as I saw it. I knew we were meant to be one.”

He’s silent after that.

Outside, all one would see is a single tear, escaping your new set of eyes, and you take a moment to relish his angst. As if to taunt him, you lick the tear, closing your eyes and smiling seductively. Internally, you grab Peter’s sense of self, snuggling into his personality as you feel your face externally begin to adopt his serious demeanor. These moments were always the best. When you were truly enveloped by Peter in all levels. Like when you called your new mother and father for the first time, and heard them call you their son. It was an actualization of your new identity. And it always made your stolen dick throb.

“So, uhhh, anyway… I’m Nate” The dormmate stammers as he stares at your defined musculature. The blushing Nate was quite a looker himself. You look back with disinterest and a cockiness previously uncharacteristic of Peter. Nate’s face looks disheartened.

Using your athlete strength, you rush him to the ground, grinding Peter’s sweaty bod into his and forcing your spit-lubed tongue into his gasp of surprise.

With your expert control over every piece of your new body, you snake Peter’s tongue over Nate’s, constricting it like a python. Likewise, You snake your new powerful arms and legs over his, locking him into your grinding hips. You tear away from the kiss savagely with a pop, and breath right over his face. “My body’s fucking hot isn’t it?”.

“F-fuckkkk” Nate huffed as his eyelids fluttered. You spot a growing stain on his board shorts and laugh callously in a way that just felt natural in body like Peter’s. “Bro, we gotta work on your fucking stamina”.

“Oh yeah… call me Petey,” you giggle, before pulling your lips into a wide-brimming smile.

-End-

Aaand that’s a wrap. What’d you think?

If you liked this story, surrender your body to me- work just keeps getting busier and busier, I swear I need another body or two to keep up with all of it haha.

[phantomcurtaincall]

[zeciex]

The Vow of Blood - 84

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 84: The Red Dress

AO3 - Masterlist

In the grandeur of the throne room, wine poured freely and indulgently. 

Aemond presided over the festivities from the high table, his steely gaze watching the commotion with cold indifference. Tables had been meticulously arranged between the towering columns, each laden with a sumptuous array of dishes. The offerings included succulent dire boar, whole roasted pigs, tender oxen, and an array of birds, each accompanied with its own sauce. Alongside these meats were platters of steamed and roasted vegetables, and a rich selection of fruits, nuts, and berries. The heavy scent of the meat permeated the air, rich and overpowering, almost overwhelming the senses. The kitchens would have toiled ceaselessly, preparing the banquet, and it seemed Aegon had spared no expense.  

Perched prominently on the dias before the throne, the King’s table was a spectacle of lavishness, set apart in both stature and decoration. From his elevated position, Aemond observed the revelry below with a detached air. His brother had already abandoned the formality of their royal seating, mingling among friends with a wine goblet casually in hand, his laughter echoing through the hall. 

Aemond, however, remained seated, solitary at the expansive table. He gazed out over the dancers and the diners with an expression of utter disinterest. While the ostensible purpose of the feast might have been to honor him, Aemond was all too aware of his brother’s motives–it was an excuse cloaked in celebration, a veneer of honor that  thinly masked an indulgence in excess. The joy and revelry that animated the faces of the other guests seemed to him a stark contrast to the cool, calculated thoughts that swirled silently in his own mind. 

Turning his attention from the boisterous crowd, Aemond’s gaze climbed the imposing columns where the stern faces of past kings seemed to pass judgment on the festivities below. His eye settled on the visage of Aenys Targaryen, the eldest son of Aegon the conqueror and his successor. Aenys I had been a king as fragile in rule as he was in constitution, his reign notably brief and tumultuous. 

From the contemplative face of Aenys, Aemond’s gaze drifted to his half-brother, Maegor, whose countenance were rendered enigmatic, almost condemning, as they were deliberately shrouded by a sculpted hood. Maegor had seized the throne through sheer force, his ascent marked by the brutal elimination of his nephews, Aegon and Viserys, in an act of kinslaying. 

History had condemned the former king for his merciless brutality, naming him Maegor the Cruel. Even the significant achievements of his reign, such as quelling the uprising of the Faith Militant, were overshadowed by the dark stains of the blood he had shed.

They say that in the act of killing his nephews, he had cursed himself in the eyes of the gods and man. And so, he had met his end by the very thing he had spilled so much blood to secure–found lifeless and impaled on the swords that protruded ominously from the ground around the Iron Throne. 

Aemond’s gaze drifted from the obscured visage of Maegor the Cruel, feeling the weight of judgment searing against his skin. It emanated not only from the stern, silent kings immortalized in the stone who stood sentinel over the throne room but also from the living occupants within its walls. Though none openly condemned him, Aemond sensed their censure all the same. He was marked as the Kinslayer. Beneath their superficial smiles and trivial conversations, he detected the revulsion they harbored for him. The dual judgment–from both the dead and the living–cast a chilling pall over his presence among the revelers. 

He had always yearned to be admired–to be respected and revered. He had wanted to carve out a place for himself in the annals of history, to be remembered. He wanted to command the same respect and power as his uncle, Daemon, had before him, to be esteemed with the same reverence as the Rogue Prince. 

He had wanted to be something more. 

Yet, despite all his desires and efforts, all he would ever be now was Aemond the Kinslayer. In the eyes of the realm, and in the judgment of history itself, he would be cursed–as all kinslayers are–doomed to be remembered not for any good he might achieve, but solely for the blood on his hands. He came to the realization: he would never be respected through admiration or love, but perhaps he could command respect through fear. If the world was determined to call him a kinslayer, then perhaps he should fully embrace the monstrousness they expected of him. This dark acceptance crept into his thoughts. He would earn their fear. 

As the dancers wove their patterns across the dance floor, moving rhythmically to the jubilant music that filled the hall, a sense of dread crept up Aemond’s spine as something caught his attention, standing still amidst the revelry. For a fleeting instance, Lucerys stood there, his skin deadly pale and marred with chunks of flesh missing. He appeared sodden, as if pulled from the depths of a dark, watery grave, and then, as the dancers closed ranks, his apparition dissolved just as swiftly as it had appeared. 

With a clench of his jaw, Aemond averted his eye, his gaze falling to his own hand as it tapped an uneven, restless rhythm on the polished surface of the table. Each tap was drowned out in the clamor of the feast, his fingers marked by scrapes and cuts. His gaze lifted once more as he noticed his brother approaching, the rhythmic tapping of his fingers against the table ceasing for a moment, as Aegon climbed the steps to the dias. 

“Must you always wear such a gloomy expression,” Aegon chided, stopping on the opposite side of the table. His voice carried a mischievous lilt–bordering on mocking, as it always did. “You look as though someone has died–,” he said, reaching for the flagon of wine, pausing for a moment, and then added with a half-hearted shrug, “Well, I suppose someone has–but someone we actually cared about, that is.” 

The jest, light as it might have been intended, hung briefly in the air, prickling against Aemond’s patience. It was not mocking, but it was close to it. His expression darkened as Aegon carelessly filled his cup with wine, nearly spilling it in his overzealous pour before setting the flagon back on the table with a clunk. He chose to remain silent, his glower deepening as he observed his brother. 

Aegon, willfully ignoring the tension, casually lifted the goblet to his lips, taking a deliberate sip. He paused, wetting his lips as if to prepare for further conversation, though the hall was rife with servers and wine at every turn–clearly, his approach to the king’s table was not for lack of refreshments but rather to needle Aemond. 

“This entire spectacle is in your honor, brother,” Aegon proclaimed with a sweep of his hand, indicating the lavish spread and raucous festivity surrounding them, His smile was amused and slightly inebriated. “You might at least pretend to enjoy the effort I’ve put into this.”

Aemond responded with a cool detachment that barely masked his irritation. “I believe it was the Hand who made the arrangements for this.”

While Aegon might have commanded the feast into being and outlined his desires to his Hand, he certainly hadn’t been the one to arrange the details. If it had been left to Aegon’s own devices, Aemond mused, they would likely have found themselves dining in Flea Bottom at some brothel rather than the grandeur of the throne room. 

“On my orders–that is what the hand is for, isn’t it? What the King dreams, the Hand builds,” Aegon retorted dismissively, with a nonchalant wave of his hand as if to brush aside Aemond’s point. “At least enjoy the fruits of the Hand’s labor; this celebration is in your honor, after all. It is you we’re celebrating.”

“I am enjoying myself,” Aemond declared flatly, his voice devoid of emotion and betraying little sign of any true pleasure. 

Aegon’s eyebrow arched, his expression dripping with skepticism. “Then perhaps try showing it. We’re celebrating your victory!”

Aemond only glowered in response.

“Don’t tell me you regret killing the little bastard–”

“I don’t regret it,” Aemond interjected sharply, his voice steady and dripping with disdain. He fixed his brother with a cold, unwavering gaze. “The bastard got what he deserved. I fed him to my dragon, and I will feed the rest of them to Vhagar as well–she’s developed quite a taste for bastards now.”

Aegon’s response was a wide grin, a chuckle escaping him as he glanced around at the assembled nobility. It seemed many had overheard Aemond’s dark declaration. Good, he thought, they crave my cruelty, and they shall have it. He felt no remorse for the killing of Lucerys, nor would he ever concede that it had been anything but deliberate. He had killed him, and they condemned him for it. So be it; what was a little more damnation?

“Then what’s with the sour mood?” Aegon teased, leaning in slightly, his voice lowering as though to probe a more personal sore. “Is it your lovely little betrothed that grieves you?”

Aemond’s gaze narrowed sharply at his brother, his hand resting on the table curling into a fist. Blunt nails scraped over the polished wood, drawing inward until they dug into the flesh of his palm. He felt the ache of healing wounds pulling tight across the skin, felt the ghost of a sting. 

“Oh, it is,” Aegon cooed, his voice laced with a jeering edge as he observed Aemond’s clenched fist. “Seems you’re a bit… on edge, brother? I’d wager your impending nuptials will prove rather frosty. I’m genuinely surprised she hasn’t taken your head for killing her brother–such devotion, she must truly love you.”

Aemond tore his gaze away, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he struggled to maintain his composure. He swallowed hard, forcing down the surge of emotions that threatened to shatter the stoic, steely facade he had so meticulously constructed. Yet, despite his efforts, the insinuations felt like a dagger twisting in his gut, each word a cruel reminder of the tangled web of his actions and their consequences. 

Aegon, unfazed by Aemond’s clear attempt to end the conversation, leaned forward on the table with a crude smirk on his lips. “Once the festivities grow stale, we should head to the Street of Silk. Let’s truly celebrate your victory–with wine and women! Perhaps we’ll even find a girl who bears a striking resemblance to your soon-to-be wife, though decidedly more eager. We might even find one that is a bastard if that’s your preference–”

The cutlery rattled noisily on the table as Aemond slammed his fist down onto the polished wood, standing abruptly from his seat, the feet of the chair scraping noisily over the dias. A crack had appeared in his carefully maintained facade; he could feel it, a crack through which his anger seeped. It surged within him, a hot, seething burn in his chest, and at his fingertips. He wanted to reach across the table and throttle his brother right there. The restraint he usually exhibited was thinning, strained by the provocation of his brother and aided by the constant tension hidden just beneath the surface.  

Aegon merely leaned back, blinking slowly at his brother, the trace of an amused smirk still playing on his lips. Before Aemond could retort, the sudden announcement of a new arrival pierced the sounds of the revelry, halting the music and drawing all attention to the doors of the throne room. 

“Princess Daenera Velaryon of House Velaryon.”

A profound silence quickly blanketed the room, almost tangible in its intensity as the festive noises abruptly ceased. The quiet seemed to echo throughout the grand hall, marking the significance of her entry. 

As Daenera entered, the searing anger within Aemond extinguished, like flames doused by a downpour. The heat that had just moments ago licked at his chest and fingertips was replaced by a cold, heart-rending sensation. It was as if her mere presence shifted the air around him, replacing fury with a piercing chill. 

There she stood at the threshold of the throne room, her appearance striking even amidst the grandeur.

The gown she wore was a deep, unforgiving red–as though a bleeding wound set against her pale skin. She paused momentarily at the entrance, allowing the assembled crowd to take in her appearance. Then, gracefully lifting her skirts just slightly, she began her descent down the steps to the floor of the throne room.

The crowd instinctively parted for her, much like flesh yields to the keen edge of a blade. They moved aside, not merely in deference but as if in fear that even the slightest brush against her might stain them with her blood red grief. 

With each step she took towards the king’s table, Aemond felt his heart wrench painfully at the sight of her. Daenera carried herself with the poised grace of a drawn blade, her elegance belying the steel hidden beneath the porcelain mask she wore–a cold, measured expression painting her soft features. Yet, despite her composure, he could discern the signs of her suffering–the haunted look in her eyes, the shadows that hollowed her cheeks, and her lips, frayed and painted a vivid red to match her gown, spoke of silent torment rather than concealment. 

As she drew nearer, the intricate details of her dress became more apparent. Adorning the bodice was a metallic golden dragon, masterfully crafted from beaten gold to resemble the creature’s scales, hammered in such a way that it seemed to move with the play of light. The dragon’s head rested on her lower abdomen, with wings that extended upwards to her shoulders, giving the impression of watching the beast from above. The fabric of the gown was rich and heavy, cascading around her and flowing to the floor like a waterfall. Her sleeves, long and sweeping, brushed the ground with her movements, and the deep neckline revealed the delicate pallor of her bosom and the gentle curve of her collarbone. Around her neck was a small ribbon, adorned with rubies shaped like droplets–pouring forth as though her throat had been cut. 

There existed a savage kind of beauty in the collective yearning to witness her sorrow laid bare–the sorrow she wore like an open wound. The crowd seemed to feed off her desolation, as if her grief were a spectacle to be devoured, a feast for their insatiable appetite. The cruelty in their hunger was almost poetic, a macabre dance between the observed and the observers, that left both of them with little semblance of humanity left in them. 

While many among them harbored a measure of pity for her, the court thrived on the spectacle of seeing someone else fall.

But she did not fall, and she did not cower beneath their gazes, instead she held them–held them until it hurt. 

Her presence cast a pall over the festivities, as if she were a mirror reflecting the darker undertones of the celebration. Many around her shifted uneasily, their discomfort evident as they met her gaze—like errant children suddenly aware they were to be held accountable for their misdeeds.

Aemond, perhaps, felt the weight of her silent accusation more acutely than anyone else.

His fingers prickled with an overwhelming urge to shield her from the prying eyes of the crowd–to cover and protect her from their relentless scrutiny. Yet, he remained motionless, acutely aware that she would never allow such protection–not from him. After all, she had chosen to be there–to make a spectacle of herself. 

He swallowed hard, his clenched fists easing as his fingers lightly brushed the surface of the table, seeking a momentary anchor in the solid wood. His gaze remained fixed on her with searing intensity, yearning for her to meet his eye, yet dreading the accusation he might find in her stare. She had come to haunt him, her dress a vivid reminder of the blood he had shed when he had killed her brother–the same blood she now wore as fabric, wearing his crimson guilt as a reminder and as a rebellion on the nobles' complicity. 

Aemond saw it for what it was; a careful presentation. There was a certain fragility to her–the visible scrapes and cuts on her hands spoke of her grief and turmoil, echoing the sorrow that had once reverberated through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, and the hollow absence of her screams that seemed to linger thereafter. 

She dressed her wounds in finery–but there was still a wound, and it was still bleeding. 

Her attire was an ostentatious display, masterfully crafted and worn beautifully–pity me, it seemed to whisper. Look at me and see what has been wrought upon me, see how they deny me my grief. Pity me, for I am a sister bereft of a brother. Pity me, for I am a broken bird trapped within a cage. Yet, beneath the facade, a warning lingered–still, I possess claws. 

Aegon moved along the edge of the table to position himself in front of his seat. As she approached, he towered over her from his position on the dias.

The tension in the air thickened as Aemond watched her approach the dias where Aegon stood, his body tensing instinctively. The entire room seemed to hold its breath, all eyes riveted on her–they had all heard her screams, were aware of the havoc she had wreaked upon her room, and knew of how she had collapsed before the hearth, remaining there for days. Aemond had caught the whispers snaking through the halls of the Red Keep, heard the rumors that she had lost her sanity, that she had been confined for fear of what harm she might do to herself or others. It was said she had been sedated with milk-of-the-poppy, confined to her bed, and he had felt each rumor pierce him like needles under the skin, each one embedding itself a little deeper. 

But Aemond knew the deeper truth–that she was not mad or weak, but vengeful, and she now stood before them as a ghost come to haunt him.

Daenera’s piercing blue eyes met Aegon’s, holding his gaze with an intensity that belied her calm demeanor. Her gaze remained fixed on his brother as she stood defiantly, refusing to bow. Her spine was straight, her head held high in spite. With a clear and controlled voice that carried across the silence of the room, she spoke, “Forgive me, Your Grace, for my late arrival and for not offering the courtesy of a bow. As you may be aware, I have been well for the last few days and I was aware that a celebration was being held in honor of your brother’s accomplishments. I fear that should I bow, I might find myself unable to rise again.”

Aemond’s gaze shifted sharply from Daenera to Aegon. He noted the slight curl at the corner’s of Aegon’s mouth, which twisted into a petty and mocking smirk that suggested he might deny her the leniency she sought and instead force her to bow–and to publicly submit to his will. 

“Of course,” Aegon responded smoothly, his voice laced with feigned warmth. “We’ve all been privy to your… resilience in the face of your brother’s fate.” His smile then broadened, a glint of cruelty flickering in his eyes. “It is indeed a pleasant surprise that you’ve decided to join our celebration of your betrothed’s victory in battle.”

Daenera’s demeanor was disquieting, her expression meticulously composed, betraying no emotion, yet Aemond could see the intense hatred smoldering in her eyes–burning like a cold flame. 

“What a fine dress for a celebration,” Aegon commented, his voice carrying across the room, loud and taunting. He grinned widely, seeming to cast his gaze out over the crowd. 

Aemond’s fist clenched tighter, the skin stretched and tender from healing beginning to strain under the pressure. His heart pounded with apprehension as she watched a flicker of icy fire pass through Daenera’s eyes. 

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Daenera replied, eyes burning. “I would have chosen a more suitable dress for mourning my brother, but, unfortunately, all my black dresses have been removed and I am not afforded such courtesy.” 

Her voice, though light, carried a sad, fragile quality that resonated throughout the room–and it became clearer, then, why she had chosen that dress, and what she meant by it. 

Aegon paused, letting the silence swell before he added his voice to it. “And yet you stand among us,” he began, descending a step on the dais, still towering over her. His voice grew louder as he surveyed the crowd, saying, “It is indeed curious, how one so stricken with grief finds the strength to join us, dressed so… strikingly.” 

The insinuation lingered in the air, a silent accusation that cast a shadow of doubt over her mourning. Daenera held her head high, her spine straight as a sword as she bore the scrutiny of court, and yet, Aemond could see the way Aegon’s words crept under her skin, the way she drew in her breath and held it.

With a smirk twisting into a sardonic half-smile, Aegon cocked his head in a dismissive half-shrug and took another step down. “But we welcome you nonetheless to the celebration of your betrothed. He has won a great victory after all.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his muscles clenching in visible tension.

Descending the final step, Aegon deliberately invaded her personal space, leaning towards her as she stood her ground. His voice then dropped to a low murmur, a tone intended only for Daenera–and Aemond–to hear. “One might question where the line is drawn between genuine sorrow and mere preformance… After all, how could a sister who truly loved her brother attend a celebration of his demise?”

Daenera’s eyes flared with a silent intensity, and Aemond could see the fissures forming in her stoic facade as her composure began to fracture under the strain. 

“Please, princess, take a seat and enjoy the revelry,” Aegon said, his voice smooth as he offered her a crude smile. He gestured towards Aemond and the empty seat beside him. 

Aemond’s gaze lingered on Daenera as she gave Aegon a nod of acknowledgement, her head bending slightly in feigned courtesy. 

As she started to move, Aegon called out with a flourish, “Music and more wine!” 

The musicians picked up their instruments, and the lively tunes filled the air once again, drawing out the brief silence. The room buzzed with renewed energy as conversations sparked up. 

Daenera made her way around the table, the heavy fabric of her gown rustling softly against the smooth stone floor as she ascended the dias. Throughout her approach, she avoided his gaze, denying him even the briefest connection. She moved with purpose, refusing him both the beauty of her eyes and the cruelty that might lurk within them.

Aemond clenched his jaw as Daenera settled into the seat beside him, willfully ignoring his presence. He drew in a sharp, agitated breath before himself sat down, the chair scraping loudly across the wood of the dias. Even though she was positioned on his blind side, her presence was felt, pressing into the edges of his perception like a shadow just out of sight. 

The closeness of her made his skin prickle, and he found himself casting a brief glance over the crowd. It was clear they had become the focal point of whispered discussions. 

“You should not be here,” Aemond murmured under his breath, his fingers beginning to tap restlessly on the table’s surface. It would have been better if she had stayed away. This was no place for her, nor was it a celebration he wanted her to witness. 

“Where else would I be,” Daenera responded, her voice cold as ice, slicing through the clamor of the feast. Aemonf felt the sharp sting of her focus on him, like the cold bite of a blade at his neck. He turned to face her, meeting her penetrating gaze. “But by your side,” she continued, her tone laced with bitterness, “as you are celebrated and honored for murdering my brother.”

Their gazes locked in a prolonged, tense silence, underscored by the lively melody that filled the hall. Around them, dancers moved rhythmically on the smooth stone floor, their steps resonating through the air, mingled with the constant hum of chatter. Aemond was the first to look away, swallowing hard as he felt her scorn burn against his skin. 

“I don’t want you here,” Aemond managed to say, his words forced through gritted teeth as he felt a constricting pressure in his chest, as if his ribs were digging into his lungs.

“Why?” Daenera questioned, her gaze sharp even if her voice wasn’t–it was almost soft. Almost. “Is it because I remind you of what you’ve done? Or is it because you fear what I might do, now that you’re being celebrated for murdering my brother?”

Aemond maintained his composure, tightly gripping the facade he presented to the world–cold as steel and just as biting. And yet, he yearned to keep her distant from the revelry–the curious glances darting her way, waiting and wanting to see her breath, the pervasive hum of celebration, and the mingled pity, mockery, and judgment that filled the air. More than anything, he wished to spare her the cruelty of witnessing her brother’s death being celebrated like this, with wine and food, with music and dancing, with laughter and happiness. He wanted to offer her the mercy of being removed from a scene where his sins were lauded. 

And, perhaps, it was as much for himself. 

“Mayhaps it is because you’ve come to realize the horror of what you’ve done, and are not ashamed–”

“I am not ashamed,” Aemond declared, his voice strained as he forced himself to meet her gaze once again. Why should he feel shame? Lucerys had gotten what he deserved. He did not have any regret for the act itself, only for the manner in which it had unfolded–a momentary loss of control. Yet as he faced her cold, accusing stare, he felt his heart tear itself open upon her eyes. 

“You should be, Kinslayer,” Daenera said–almost a sneer, but far too soft. She averted her gaze, and he noticed the slight shimmer of unshed tears, the way she blinked rapidly and the tightness around her mouth as she fought back her emotions–her mask cracked then, if only just a little, and through that crack tears seemed to pour. 

In that moment, despite everything, Aemond felt an overwhelming urge to reach out to her, to bridge the chasm of grief and guilt that lay between them. It itched beneath his skin, and he extended his hand across the smooth surface of the table before he clenched it shut again–finding a strange sort of comfort in the way the action pulled at his healing wounds. 

“How does it feel to get everything you’ve ever desired?” Daenera’s voice cut through the air, laden with resentment. Aemond turned to face her again, encountering the icy facade of that porcelain mask–deceptively soft yet harboring a beautifully sharp cruelty, like silk veiling a blade. “To finally achieve the revenge you’ve longed for. Does it bring you satisfaction? Has it made you whole?”

Aemond attempted to ease the tension in his jaw, but the effort was fleeting; almost immediately, he found himself clenching his teeth again, feeling the sting of her words like the kiss of steel. His fingers traced the table’s surface, blunt nails scraping across the wood grain, instinctively curling towards his palm where they fretfully picked at the scabbing wounds. 

No, it had not made him whole. It hadn’t restored his eye or reversed the injury inflicted by the injustice–it had not given him back that part of his soul that was taken when the maester had pulled out the remnants of his eye. Instead, his quest for vengeance–for regaining that part of him back–had exacted a heavier toll, allowing the festering darkness to bleed further into his soul. He acknowledged, without remorse or guilt, a grim satisfaction in Lucerys’ Velaryons death–it had been just. Yet, the tainted satisfaction was marred only by the manner of its execution: he regretted not the act itself but the loss of control that had defined it. 

And he regretted the pain it brought her. 

“You have your revenge now,” Daenera stated, her voice thick with bitterness as her fingers restlessly toyed with her fork. “You’ve got your war.” Her words were laden with disgust, scorn, and vitriol, trembling slightly as she spoke them, just loud enough for him to hear. “You’ve gained the power and renown you always desired–Aemond the Kinslayer. Now everyone will know your name. They all know what you’re capable of.” Then, she turned her gaze directly back to him, her eyes piercing. “Tell me, does it live up to your expectations?”

The monstrous darkness that had festered within Aemond since the day he lost his eye–that cruel beast that lurked beneath his skin–seemed to bare its teeth. He swallowed back the venomous words that threatened to spill from his lips, tainted with bitterness. 

“Even me, another piece of your conquest,” Daenera added with a scoff, her voice wrought with pain. Disbelief and bitterness twisted her features, furrowing her brow and pulling down the corners of her mouth–as though she was exasperated with herself for ever allowing herself to love him. 

The sight of her pain drove a blade deep into his gut, twisting agonizingly.

“Power, war, renown, and now me,” she said with an empty scoff. “Your prize. Is it everything you’ve ever dreamed of?”

Aemond’s posture remained as rigid and unforgiving as the blade of his sword, tension coiling between his shoulder blades. His muscles tightened beneath his skin as he turned to face her further, reaching out to cup the side of her face. His touch was possessive, fingers brushing against the small curls at the edge of her hair, her skin searing against his–he committed the sensation to memory, savoring it as solace for the long and lonely nights ahead. She stiffened under his grasp, her lips pressed tightly together, her eyes wide with a tumult of emotions–anger, resentment, hatred–and she leaned back slightly, though unable to escape his touch. 

A heavy silence stretched between them, laden with the weight of the response he owed her–a response that hung in the air, unspoken and resounding with a silent no.

However, Daenera seemed oblivious to the silent response conveyed by his demeanor. Her brows furrowed into a pained expression, her eyes rimmed with red and gleaming with unshed tears–tears that seemed to cling to her, always at the edge of being shed. It appeared she perceived only the answer she expected. 

Aemond’s voice, chilling and sharp, sliced through the air like a finely honed blade. Yet, underneath the surface, there was a slight tremor in his tone that betrayed how deeply she had managed to poison him. “I do not possess all that I desire…”

“Remove your hand,” Daenera demanded through clenched teeth, her voice sharp and cold. It was then that Aemond noticed she was gripping the fork tightly in her hand, the metal gleaming ominously in the dim light, her knuckles white with tension. “Or my dress won’t be the only thing that is red.”

Reluctantly, Aemond withdrew his hand. The touch of her skin lingered on his palm, sparking a mix of longing and regret, urging him to pull her closer once more. Yet, he restrained himself, curling his fingers into a fist and retreating to his own space. He redirected his attention to the dancers, watching them move rhythmically across the floor, their bodies synchronizing with the lively music. His gaze then drifted to his brother, Aegon, who stood at the end of a table, a wide grin on his face as he glanced over at Aemond and then returned to his conversation, his laughter shared by the friends gathered around him. 

Agitation smoldered within Aemond’s chest, a fire kindled by tension and conflict. 

Daenera loosened her grip on the fork and picked up a cup of water instead, lifting it to her lips. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, swept over the crowd before settling on Aegon. 

“You’ve already been branded a kinslayer,” she said, her voice steady and piercing as she met Aemond’s gaze with a challenging intensity. “Why not remove the final hindrance and claim what you truly desire?”

A humorless smile tugged at Aemond’s lips, devoid of any genuine amusement as Daenera’s words pricked at his ambition and sense of duty. His gaze lingered on his brother, who cast his arms wide as he spoke with his friends, his face split by a wide grin. It would be dishonest to claim he hadn’t entertained the thought during the darkest hours of night, when his mind wasn’t consumed by the thoughts of her. Yet, removing Aegon wouldn’t be as straightforward as merely executing him; it would brand him not only a kinslayer twice over but also a kingslayer. Moreover, Aegon wouldn’t be the only challenge he’d face. 

Despite being a thorn in his side, Aegon was still his brother. 

“There’s not just one hindrance to consider, as you well know,” Aemond responded, his voice low and measured, his fingers resuming their restless tapping on the table. 

Daenera’s reply was laced with a chilling tone, almost ringing with the iciness of her accusation, “And here I was, thinking you weren’t above the act of killing children.” 

His gaze shifted back to her, studying the unyielding coldness of her facade. He watched her for a long moment, feeling the tumultuous twist in his gut, the beast within him recoiling at her words. What she was insinuating was monstrous, even for him, and he didn’t believe for a second that she genuinely wished for him to follow through–not even she could harbor cruelty of that magnitude. She would never bring such horror upon Helaena, nor upon Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, and Maelor. Yet, her mere suggestion frayed his restraint.

“I am not above killing bastard children,” Aemond retorted, his voice almost a sneer, heavy with disdain. 

Their gazes locked in a long, tense moment– a moment where the air between them seemed to thicken with unspoken words. Resentment and bitterness crackled silently, an almost tangible force, as they stared each other down. 

Their intense exchange was interrupted as Aegon sprang onto the dias with a flourish, snagging a knife from a nearby platter. He rapped it against his wine-filled challice, the sharp clink resonating above the din, commanding the silence from the gathered nobles. With a casual flick, he tossed the knife back onto the table, his movement exaggerated and theatrical. 

Drawing in a deep breath, he stood tall before the king’s table, his presence asserting dominance over the suddenly hushed room. His voice boomed, robust and clear, filling the expansive space. “As everyone here is undoubtedly aware, tonight we’ve come together to honor my brother’s triumph in the battle above Shipbreaker Bay!”

As Aemond reasserted his impassive demeanor, the cold detachment enveloped his face like a mask, seamless and impenetrable–he wore it like a second skin, natural and familiar from years of use. And he fixed a steely gaze on his brother’s back as Aegon held the court’s attention. 

“Much has been said in these past few days,” Aegon declared, mastering a steady, authoritative tone that resonated through the now silent hall. He briefly locked eyes with Aemond, giving him a knowing look before his gaze swept across the assembly. “But allow me to tell you the truth of what happened.”

Aemond caught the suppressed grins of Aegon’s closest friends–Ser Leron Estermont, Ser Martyn Reyne alongside his sister, Lady Cira Reyne, and Ser Wyllam Lefford. They seemed to relish in the theatrics of the moment. 

Agitation stirred beneath Aemond’s skin.

“My dear half-sister dispatched one of her bastards to remind Lord Borros Baratheon of a long-forgotten oath sworn when she was our father’s only child,” Aegon narrated with a calculated pause, allowing the weight of his words to permeate the room. “She sent a bastard boy to do a man’s job. The boy must have quivered in his boots at the mere sight of my brother.”

A ripple of amusement undulated through the crowd. Aemond clenched his jaw, and although Daenera was out of his sight, her presence was palpable, as if an extension of his own being. He sensed her anger emanating like heat from a blaze, tasted the bitterness that filled her mouth, and felt the sting of impending tears in her eyes. He couldn’t see her, but he could imagine it–could feel it. 

Aegon carried on, his voice resolute, carrying a sense of triumph and smug amusement, “The boy had been sent to persuade House Baratheon to usurp my crown, yet he arrived with nothing more than empty hands and stale words. Borros Baratheon would have sent the boy back to his mother the same as he had come had my brother not intervened.”

A breath slipped from Daenera’s lips–a fragile and pained exhale that seemed to tremble in the air, seeping beneath Aemond’s skin and hollowing him out from within. The hand that had previously tapped absently and restlessly against the table now curled into a tight fist, the wound’s on his palms threatening to split apart. He endured the heavy gazes of the court, feeling it prick along his skin with the same piercing iciness as the rain that had drenched him when he had pursued Lucerys through the storm–prickling against his skin as icy needles. 

“My brother, Aemond Targaryen, generously offered to spare the bastard’s life if he would forfeit an eye in payment for his own,” Aegon declared. As he spoke, Aemond felt a surge of memories pressing against the edges of his consciousness–the sharpness of the blade slicing through muscle and bone, the warmth of the blood cascading down his face and through his fingers, the piercing sting of the needle as it stitched the wound, and the persistent ache that lingered long after. The scar throbbed and itched, reminding him acutely of the sapphire that now filled the eye socket–feeling its etches within his skull, feeling its coldness against the tissue. His heart echoed the discordant rhythm it had pounded on the night he confronted Lucerys–when the boy had mocked him with a half-hearted apology, when the chase had driven them both through the tempest. 

Aegon’s voice carried on, laden with contempt, “A fair exchange for the agony my brother endured at his hand, I would think. Yet, the coward refused to settle his debt. He fled, tail between his legs, no doubt seeking the comforting folds of his whore of a mother’s skirts!”

Laughter swelled once more, filling the room as murmurs hummed among the guests. 

“Had the bastard merely settled his debt, my brother would have let him go,” Aegon proclaimed. Aemond wasn’t entirely convinced he would have done so, but the point was moot now–it didn’t matter, all that mattered was what had happened. “Instead, Aemond was compelled to exact justice on his own terms–he pursued the bastard and his dragon through the storm…” Aegon’s eyes flicked towards them, his expression sharpening, a growing smirk marring his face. “You killed the bastard, fed him to your dragon! What did you say, brother? You fed him to your dragon and you’ll feed the rest of them to Vhagar as well now that she has gotten a taste for bastards?”

Aemond heard the slide of her movement–could almost taste the steel she clutched–and as he turned his gaze towards her, his heart shuddered at the way her eyes were aflame, burning bright and cold, filled with sorrow and rage and a familiar desire for destruction. Despite the fire in her eyes, her expression remained nearly blank, her composure a finely crafted mask–slowly starting to crack under the strain of her emotions. His eye followed her movements down to her hand, which was clenched tightly around the knife on the table, her knuckles white from the grip, the tip of the blade quivering slightly. 

He moved subtly, placing a hand over hers to still it–knowing that she wanted to plunge the half-dull blade into his brother’s neck, or even his own. Her skin was cold beneath his touch, yet it burned against his skin all the same. Daenera neither flinched away from his touch, nor did her eyes move from his brother. As Aemond’s hand slid up to gently pry the knife from her grip, the moment the weapon slipped from her fingers, her own snapped down on his. He felt the sharp sting of her nails, felt the promise of bruising, and he welcomed it. 

Yet, despite the pain intended by her touch, it brought him an unexpected solace–her marks were a testament to her presence, and he found a twisted comfort in the pain, as long as she touched him. 

Aemond kept his face impassive–the usual sharp smirk on his lips, but his eye bore into his brother’s smirking visage with a glare sharp enough to cut.

Aegon, unfazed, turned back to the crowd, his voice carrying a cruel amusement. “With each passing tide, the rumors swell that our dear half-sister has lost her senses and is searching the coast of Shipbreaker Bay for her bastard’s remains… It appears she hasn’t realized that she ought to be searching a pile of shit just beyond the city walls if she wants to bury her son… but I suppose what Vhagar didn’t consume, the sea claimed. A bastard in life, a Velaryon in death…”

Laughter swelled around them, and Daenera's grip tightened on Aemond's hand, her nails digging in with such force that he was certain they would leave crescent-shaped indentations in his skin

“It’s a pity Vaemond Velaryon isn’t here to stake his claim on Driftmark. If only he had waited another week…” Aegon jeered. He then raised his chalice high, shifting the focus of the celebration. “To my brother, for his first victory in battle!” 

Aegon’s grin widened as he turned towards Aemond, lifting his chalice in a gesture of respect and honor. “You are the true blood of the dragon!”

Aemond responded to his brother’s toast, his fingers reluctantly uncurling to grasp his own chalice, lifting it in acknowledgement. 

With a wide grin, Aegon turned back to the assembled crowd, his brother booming with fervor, “Let this first blood of war serve as a warning to all who dare oppose us!”

As the hall erupted in cheers and chalices were hoisted high, Daenera’s fingers withdrew from Aemond’s hand, leaving behind a sharp sting from the emerging bruises and the residual heat of her touch. This sensation seeped into his veins, twisting in his gut, and he quickly gulped down his wine to wash away the bitter taste clinging to his tongue. The realization of how deeply he craved her touch–whether gentle or cruel–struck him as profoundly pathetic.

The music swelled once more, weaving through the renewed buzz of conversations as the celebration continued. Aegon swiftly drained his wine and placed his chalice aside, then strode along the table to position himself before Aemond and Daenera. With a slight tilt of his head and a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, he addressed them. “Princess, I’m delighted you could join us for this celebration. Your presence must be a great comfort to my brother, standing by his side as we honor his achievements. And again, brother, well done.”

Aegon flashed a quick wink at Aemond, then turned and strode confidently down the dias, rejoining his circle of friends. He was greeted with cheers and raucous laughter. Meanwhile, Aemond remained where he was, enveloped in a heavy, oppressive silence that lingered between him and Daenera. 

He felt a desperate urge to speak, to say anything–to apologize for his brother’s tactless words, to atone for his own harshness, to confess his love. Yet, when he opened his mouth, the only words that emerged were, “You shouldn’t have come.”

“No it is good that I came,” Daenera responded, her voice trembling yet icily calm, “I see things clearly now.”

Aemond’s gaze fixed on Daenera. Her composure had begun to fracture, the cracks in her facade widening, yet beneath the porcelain exterior, ice seemed to gleam. Her eyes, brimming with unshed tears, met his with burning intensity. She was devastatingly beautiful–like summer snow. 

She stood abruptly, the chair scraping noisily across the dias. Reacting instinctively, Aemond rose swiftly to his own feet, his chair skidding back, nearly toppling in his haste. 

“Will you excuse me,” Daenera said, her voice measured and cool, “I fear I have worn myself out.”

“Let me escort you to your chambers,” Aemond offered, his voice laden with a faint hope that she would accept, granting them a moment alone, away from prying eyes–where he might be honest and soft and pathetic. 

Daenera raised her hand, halting him with a gesture. “No, this feast is in your honor; you shouldn’t leave. I have Edelin, she will escort me back.”

With that, she turned and descended from the dias, her silhouette gliding behind the columns and melting into the shadows. She traced the periphery of the throne room, where she might be left in peace, making her way discreetly towards the doors. 

Aemond stood motionless, his gaze tracking Daenera until she vanished behind a column. He searched the shadows for her, eye darting between each pillar, catching only a fleeting glimpse of her as she slipped through the doors and into the hall beyond, disappearing from view. 

Aegon approached then, breaking Aemond’s reverie by clapping a hand firmly on his shoulder. “The feast is growing tedious. Let’s take our celebration to the Street of Silk, brother.”

[nightswatchdisbandmentera]

Question for Jon stans: so I think a lot of us expect Jon to leave the watch at some point in his story, whether in Winds or sometime in Dream. I tend to think he’s going to straight up desert the Watch, like going ‘fuck it I’m done here’ much like Bloodraven and Mance, instead of leaving on a technicality (i.e., a ‘he’s dead so he’s technically done his service’ type of thing). 

BUT the question is, does he go north or does he go south? I think it’s reasonable to assume either direction works narratively.

We have this:

Lannister studied his face. “Yes,” he said. “I can see it. You have more of the north in you than your brothers.”

Plus he’s been set up to parallel Bloodraven and Mance both of whom go north, and there’s this quote from AGOT that could be foreshadowing:

Far off to the north, a wolf began to howl. Another voice picked up the call, then another. Ghost cocked his head and listened. “If he doesn’t come back,” Jon Snow promised, “Ghost and I will go find him.” He put his hand on the direwolf’s head.

“I believe you,” Tyrion said, but what he thought was, And who will go find you? He shivered.

(Tyrion III)

There’s also symbolism in him embracing the name “Snow” and living in the snowy north….

But then we these quotes from AGOT as well that’s essentially about him finding the Wall to be stifling and equating freedom with the south:

“Yes. Cold and hard and mean, that’s the Wall, and the men who walk it. Not like the stories your wet nurse told you. Well, piss on the stories and piss on your wet nurse. This is the way it is, and you’re here for life, same as the rest of us.”

“Life,” Jon repeated bitterly. The armorer could talk about life. He’d had one. He’d only taken the black after he’d lost an arm at the siege of Storm’s End. Before that he’d smithed for Stannis Baratheon, the king’s brother. He’d seen the Seven Kingdoms from one end to the other; he’d feasted and wenched and fought in a hundred battles. They said it was Donal Noye who’d forged King Robert’s warhammer, the one that crushed the life from Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident. He’d done all the things that Jon would never do, and then when he was old, well past thirty, he’d taken a glancing blow from an axe and the wound had festered until the whole arm had to come off. Only then, crippled, had Donal Noye come to the Wall, when his life was all but over.

(Jon III)

He had no destination in mind. He wanted only to ride. He followed the creek for a time, listening to the icy trickle of water over rock, then cut across the fields to the kingsroad. It stretched out before him, narrow and stony and pocked with weeds, a road of no particular promise, yet the sight of it filled Jon Snow with a vast longing. Winterfell was down that road, and beyond it Riverrun and King’s Landing and the Eyrie and so many other places; Casterly Rock, the Isles of Faces, the red mountains of Dorne, the hundred islands of Braavos in the sea, the smoking ruins of old Valyria. All the places that Jon would never see. The world was down that road … and he was here.

(Jon V)

And if Jon is to live his best wildling/crow-deserter life, it’ll be about finding freedom - just like Mance.

Plus there’s the whole thing with him seeing three different trees which could serve as representing his arc in the series, and the final tree faces south… 

Just north of Mole’s Town they came upon the third watcher, carved into the huge oak that marked the village perimeter, its deep eyes fixed upon the kingsroad. That is not a friendly face, Jon Snow reflected. The faces that the First Men and the children of the forest had carved into the weirwoods in eons past had stern or savage visages more oft than not, but the great oak looked especially angry, as if it were about to tear its roots from the earth and come roaring after them. Its wounds are as fresh as the wounds of the men who carved it.

(Jon V, ADWD) 

So which one is it?

Also if you think he goes south, where does he end up? 👀 

[miranyx1337]

Alastor x angel reader

FEATHER chapter V

When I opened my eyes, I sensed it was the day I never wanted to face. The day to start implementing a grand scheme against heaven. Crimson light pierced through the curtains, but it wasn't the familiar sunlight. A magnificent pentagram gleamed above the hotel, and an army assembled against heaven. They aimed to extinguish my people, but did I possess the right to thwart them?

I observed malicious smiles honing angelic weapons, relishing the thought of golden blood. Yet, what emotions would Adam's blood evoke in me?" I'll likely be his top priority. I suspect he forced my mother into silence and passivity. If only I could erase his little secret from memory.

If souls could be judged anew, why hide it? Is it about his dignity or perhaps the will of God?"

Strips of bandages cascaded near my bare feet. As I reached the portal in the nick of time, I grievously injured two of my wings. The pain of unfolding stiff feathers pierced my back, accompanied by a subdued hiss escaping my lips.

Examining my ravaged visage, circled light eyes, disheveled hair, and wings with missing feathers. I confronted the memories of the previous evening. Running my fingers over my cheek, recalling increasingly embarrassing details,

Wait, didn't Vaggie once mention that Alastor's favorite meal was decaying deers? Oh heavens, I hope he didn't consume them yesterday. I watched as my cheeks reddened and feathers bristled. It wasn't what I had planned, yet I easily surrendered to the arms of the radio demon.

I braided my hair and arranged feathers in any sensibly stylish manner. Trembling hands slowly buttoned up the snow-white shirt, a silver corset wrapped around me, and beneath a light skirt with a slit, long black boots peeked out.

"What time was really left? Three weeks until the battle?’’ Approaching the balcony with determination, I forcefully swung open the doors. Only 4 or 5 meters separated me from the ground. With a smooth movement, I jumped onto the railing. maintaining balance by leaning on one of the columns.

Barely 9 days passed, yet it felt like an eternity without flying. A few deep breaths, I spread my arms to sense the balance. Seconds from the jump, a sudden tug pulled me back. A black tentacle gripped my waist, and moments later, I found myself in the arms of radio demon.

"I knew you might feel regret, but I wouldn't accuse you of suicidal attempts," he whispered directly into my ear. I sharply recoiled, standing on my own.

I glanced back to utter the first words of the day. "Jumping from the balcony is nothing compared to a hellish portal," I proudly replied, resuming my climb on the railing.

"Sweetheart, just wait a little; impatience isn't a trait of wise people," he cautioned.

"What should I wait for? An army furious angels led by Adam?" I questioned.

"Wait for my plan to work."

"No offense, Alastor," I addressed him directly for the first time, "but your army of cannibals can only break their teeth on celestial blades."

His face revealed he didn't take criticism well. " Oh, I see you don't appreciate demonic beings,". The atmosphere thickened. "And me.

When I first learned about the plan from Charlie and Veegie, I was terrified. However, my deep longing to return home was tied to their success. My lips opened in silent astonishment; they truly wanted to face the angelic forces.

So, what's the plan? Invite them for dinner with our own bodies?"

The plan is the last thing your beautiful silver head should worry about. I'm the one pulling the strings here, Soon, we'll partake in a feast with Adam's head served on a platter and golden drinks in our cups."

"Stop talking like that about my kind ," I insisted.

"Oh About angels flying here to murder hundreds of souls or those who aren't in a hurry to descend for you?" he mocked.

My lips tightened in a grimace; I felt anger taking control over me.

"Alastor, stop!" - I shouted, to my own surprise, feeling my hand clenching on the cold metal.

A blue chain led from my hand straight to the tied demon, who instantly froze.

Alastor looked at me with undisguised surprise, his eyes wandering across my face and hands, trying to connect the dots until he finally found an answer.

Alastor POV:

Angel magic weakened contracts but also made them susceptible to a new owner

The hands that touched me with unique delicacy this night, now are helding the chain tightly around my neck and hands, instantly making me to be on my knees

As quickly as they appeared, they vanished, and I desperately gasped for air.

Y/N approached, visibly in shock but stopped a few centimeters in front of me.

The sudden command still echoed in my ears, piercing through my body like a blade.

Traces on my wrists and neck burned. I know the feeling of chains, but their angelic version was something else on my sinful skin.

Oh fuck it, I became properity of an angel

From her bewildered eyes, I gleaned that she has no idea what just happened. Does she even know about soul contracts in hell? If not, it's better to keep it that way. "Give me a second," I propped myself up on trembling hands, clumsily attempting to stand, "and I'll explain everything."

I felt a slender arm lifting me up. She gripped my face, examining it from every angle.

"We will talk later," she uttered with a gaze lowered.

I tried to read something from her expression, but with a stony demeanor, she turned towards the balcony.

A strong gust of wind forced me to lean on a cane and close my eyes. When I reopened them, Y/N had dissolved into the air. Only the shadow of wings traversed the crowd gathered below.

Simultaneously, giving me time for deep reflection on how to deal with this... unconventional situation."

[hollowwrites]

Putting the RIP in Scriptorium

Part 2

Summary - I didn’t think this would have a part 2 but after a few people asked for it and I had a cheeky think I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So thanks to you guys @skarathewitch and @samfoley!!

In my little slow burn Ominis and Eve are already very touchy feely and comfortable with each other. I wanted to explore the origins of that

Warnings - mentions of Crucio, little bit of Angst, mostly comfort

Word Count - 1676

~

Evelyn lowered herself onto the long benches flanking the Slytherins’ Feast Table. She ached to her core. Sleeping usually solved all of her problems. Whether it was a common cold or a headache, most of her ills could be resolved with a simple nap.

So why would Crucio be any different?

She was wrong.

Painfully wrong.

Her bones protested against the slightest movement, though she tried not to show it. The scarf she wrapped around her neck hid it’s own secrets, the huge bruise that spread out from the scar left in the curses’ wake.

Imelda and herself spent their morning talking about nothing. At least that’s what Eve heard. Imelda’s musings, unfortunately, just weren’t sinking in. The only thing Eve contributed to the conversation was an unenthusiastic nod and the occasionally hum of faux interest.

Where was Ominis and Sebastian?

She craned her neck painfully to stare at the big double doors hoping to see them. Either of them.

Well preferably not Ominis.

He had told her to rest but she was already so far behind her peers, just one day seemed like too much to ask. She sighed and shovelled more toast into her mouth, her jaw aching as she chewed on it slowly.

Suddenly, a gentle hand rest upon her shoulder. Her body contorted stiffly to avoid putting unneeded pressure on her side.

It was Ominis.

“A word” he said flatly, eyebrows slammed flat over his eyes. The stare of his sightless eyes sent a shiver up her spine.

“Ominis? I-“ she started

“Now” his hand fell from her shoulder and he strode towards the landing overlooking the Great Hall. He disappeared up the stairs and she sighed, defeated.

“I’ll see you later, Imelda” she mumbled before obediently following after Ominis.

He waited, arms crossed and foot tapping, impatiently at the top of the stairs.

“I told you to rest” his eyes somehow bore into her and she found herself shifting under his gaze

“I’m fine, honestly”

“Oh really?” His snippy little attitude was starting to grate on her. She was already in pain, she didn’t want to deal with this as well. “Where did that curse hit you”

“My chest, towards my shoulder sort of-OW!” She yelped as Ominis’ long digits jabbed into the bruise below her scarf

“I thought you were okay?” He asked sarcastically

“Enough, Ominis. I get that your concerned but I can’t afford to just sit around all day because I have a bit of a bruise” she snapped back, ignoring the dull ache from her shoulder as it screamed it’s objection.

“Are you forgetting who you’re talking to? It’s not just a bruise, Evelyn. It’s-“ all of sudden, he could smell the unforgettable scent of fresh blood. She started sniffing waiting for him to continue his tirade, until he randomly reached out and touched her lip. He drew the pool of red onto his finger, using it to punctuate his rant.

“It’s this too” he continued. She gasped rubbing at her face failing to rid the blood from her visage. She tasted the metallic tinge on her tongue as she licked it from her lips.

“Please…” his anger subsided, his true intentions bubbling forth as he held her arms “Come with me to the Undercroft. We can study all day if you’d like just…don’t spend all day in pain, pretending that you’re not”

“Okay” she said meekly, her voice now raspy “Can you help me study for Herbology? I need to write 20 inches on Mandrakes and their uses” he laughed breathily

“Of course”

~

She heard Ominis before she saw him.

He’d left her, momentarily to gather some supplies for their day in the Undercroft. He promised her that he wouldn’t be long, if she promised not to leave. If he had to sacrifice a day so that she wouldn’t do herself a mischief, then so be it.

The clattering of his arrival rang down the entrance corridor and echoed around the Undercrofts empty walls, followed by a string of mumbled curses.

“Are you okay?” She called to him from the crate she perched on top of. He stumbled though the portcullis, followed by a flock of tomes and books, loyally following behind, flapping like birds.

“I hate this bloody charm” he grumbled, dropping the crate he was carrying to the floor, the telltale jingle of potion vials tinkling against one another. He took out his wand, gesturing to the books. They descended into a neat pile at Eves feet.

“What are these?” She hissed bending to retrieve the book closest to her. They were immaculate textbooks covering each and every topic she was studying at Hogwarts, and a few she hadn’t heard of yet. Each were perfect, albeit a single mark upon the top right corner of each tome. Elegant handwriting marked each with the initials ‘OG’…“Are these yours?”

“Mmmm yes” he hummed “That is every notebook, dossier and textbook from my first year here. I’d have gotten my second, third and fourth years too but…having that many books follow me would’ve drove me mad.”

“Why?” She asked flicking through the pages of ‘Charms: a beginners guide to the basics’

“So you can stop worrying about falling behind. You’re a fast learner and a talented witch…you can use these, anytime, to brush up on things you’re not certain about. Or you can compare your notes to mine and see how exceptionally well you’re doing. You need to remember you’re technically a first year. So stop comparing yourself to fifth years. I’ll leave them here for you.”

“Ominis…” she clutched her chest, touched by his consideration. “That’s very sweet of you, Thank you”

He shrugged, summoning multiple blankets and throw cushions around them. If they were going to study, they were going to study right.

“I thought you couldn’t conjure objects inside of Hogwarts?”

“Ah, something I learnt in my third year. There are always exceptions to the rules, Evelyn”

-

Ominis was more intelligent than he let on, despite his moaning about Professor Garlicks’ lack of care or Sebastians’ distracting behaviour in Defence Against the Dark Arts. He had a theoretical knowledge of every possible subject making completing her assignments easy. His Wiggenweld may be rubbish, but he knew the potions origins and how to properly chop dittany better than even Garreth.

They made light work of their shared essays and assignments, and after several hours they decided they worked enough for one day, opting to just, for once, relax.

They leant against each other on their plush picnic blanket, shoulder to shoulder.

Well, shoulder to bicep. Ominis was tall and gangly, there was no way she was ever reaching that high.

Eventually, the fatigue of their long day caught up to them and they settled against each other, Eves head finding it’s way to his shoulder and his cheek found the top of her head.

For a while they were quiet, lulled to a calm and relaxed state by the steady stillness of each others breathing.

The soft tinkling of an enchanted harp sang away somewhere in the clutter of the room. It’s heavenly harmony was interrupted, momentarily, by the distant chime of the bells signalling it was dinner time.

Eve sighed, heavily. And she noticed that no pain shot up her side.

“How are you feeling?” Ominis asked shifting slightly as though he could look at her. No doubt a habit he had picked up to put people at ease.

“Actually? Much better. Those Wiggenwelds worked a treat”

“Can I see?” He leant back fully now, prompting her to remove her head from him. She groaned needily at the movement and earned a wonky smile from Ominis. “Here” he rotated himself and positioned himself directly in front of her “Now this will look…unnerving. But…trust me”

He took his wand off the blanket where they had discarded them earlier in the evening. Almost instantaneously the red glowing tip flared up. She squinted away from it as he pressed his wand closer to her.

“Er…Ominis?”

“Could you guide me to the scar?”

“Yes?” It didn’t mean to come out as a question. But, in her experience, being on the receiving end of a wand, usually ended badly. She wrapped her fingers around his hand, gently pulling it towards her collarbone.

From here, he seemed to gather the information he needed, on his own. The blunt tip of his wand dragged across her skin, the smallest amount of pressure being applied. It was soft and warming and she couldn’t help but close her eyes.

Why was this tingly? Magic?

“This is how I see colour. I’m checking to see if you’re lying to me, like how you lied this morning” he smirked

“Sorry” she mumbled sheepishly

“We agreed no more apologies” he smiled “I understand why you did it” he pulled his wand away discarding it as he had before, seemingly happy with the results of his interrogation. “I don’t agree with what you and Sebastian get up to. Running around the school solving everyone problems. Galavanting off into the Forest…” she opened her mouth to speak but he continued “but I understand why you do it. You’re kind and thoughtful. And it’s why you need to take care of yourself. I can’t stop you running off playing the hero…but I can be here for you when you get back.”

She thought for a second. Everything he said was true. And she didn’t know why. She just wanted to study and explore this new world after she’d been torn from her old one.

It was all getting a bit much.

“Do you ever feel like you’re being pulled away?” She said abruptly letting her thoughts spill out into the real world

“From what?”

“Everything” she laughed “My life. My friends…you. I feel like I’m being pulled down a path I don’t necessarily agree with”

He toyed with the edges of his shirt, fighting with himself. He reached over to her, tentatively, and took her hand in his.

“You won’t be pulled from me…I won’t allow it”

Masterlist

[eelnoise]

upon crimson wings

zoro x afab reader

cw: blood (slight bloodplay), religious terms, implied body worship, a little steamy at the end but generally SFW

a/n: continuing my current zoro obsession with this fic that i couldn't get out of my head (sorry). also messing with formatting this time instead of being lazy

Zoro was not a religious man. No, he found the very notion of reverence visceral. Though as he turns back toward you, both having emerged victorious after a merciless assault from a group of marines, he's met with a heavenly scene.

You're facing away from him, surrounded by the wages of spilled blood that pooled beneath your feet, the remnants of singing steel permeates the now hallowed ground upon which you both stand. There was a certain beauty in chaos, and never had Zoro felt it quite as clearly as when he watches you tear into your foes with reckless abandon. The image makes him shiver - not in fear or revulsion, but at something far more primal, deep within his gut.

He's speechless as he observes you wiping the excess carnage from your blade and his eyes widen in delight at the sight before him, his attention fixated on your divine form. It was truly beautiful - a stunning vision that he couldn't have even dreamed up.

"I'd say we took care of that little rat problem." Your words are heavy with pride and exertion, and the sound ignites a fire within his veins.

And when you turn to him, visage tattered and torn and splattered in crimson, his mouth goes dry. You're immaculate, and for once in his life, Zoro is fighting the urge to exalt, to sing praise, to deify you.

A low rumble escapes Zoro's lips as he continues to stare like a starved man would stare at a feast. He's seen you wield that blade countless times, but never have you looked as divine as you did right now, standing amid a symphony of steel and blood. You're right, the two of you could handle these rats with ease, but the more pressing matter was the effect you were currently having on his heart. Zoro takes a step forward, taking in the vision of your face, bloodied but not conquered.

You peer curiously at him as you sheath your sword, taking note of the lack of a usual snarky reply to your words. "Zoro?"

His eye flickers to yours, lips slightly parted in awe. You were a muse that had descended to grace him with your presence, and any words he tried to muster died in his throat. "Yeah?" He manages to ask quietly, his voice a raspy, barely audible whisper.

It dawns on you then - exactly what he's thinking.

He wants you.

Your war-torn, bloodthirsty appearance had overwhelmed Zoro, and it was clear in his gaze. Your lips twist into a devious smirk, keen on taking advantage of this rare opportunity of power you've been given over him. You know exactly how to proceed, and you do something he doesn't expect, something that has his nails digging into his palms.

You lick blood from your lips.

Blood runs cold beneath Zoro's skin, a primal, raw emotion fills his mind with urges he cannot fight. Ever a man of action over words, and before you can react, he's upon you. Large, calloused hands envelop your waist his lips were on yours in a starved, feverish kiss. The metallic tang of blood only spurs him further into devoted bliss.

You writhe in his grasp as he leaves your lips to trail his tongue down your cheek and onto your neck. He's fully prepared to kneel at your altar, to partake of and rejoice in each beautiful proverb that falls from your sweet tongue, to bathe in every hymn you bestow.

Zoro was not a religious man, but he was ready to worship you.

[darlingofvalyria]

❝The story where your rage nearly tore Winterfell to ashes?❞

[ You talk your daughter down from her cold feet. ]

[ 1,405 ] [ series masterlist ] | king!jacaerys velaryon x aunt targ!reader (aegon's twin)

contains— canon divergence - fluff, smidge of angst - allusions to warfare, character death(s), infidelity, revenge, manipulative targ!reader - children, arranged marriage, mentions of pregnancy and childbirth - sort of fluff?? bits of angst, toxic as shit hhshs - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.

a/n— a little blurb before the third proper instalment of 'in hightower green' (yes, we now have a masterlist and a series title!!). this is post-the series, & contains a hint on what happens to the third part, which will be a two-parter, cos its heavy and reader goes full gone girl shdjshdhs can't wait to share it!! but for now have a glimpse of the future lol + comment, reblog & like at will, my loves!!

"I was told that you were on the verge of fainting, but I see you are upright as a horse." A faint smile glimmers on your playful lips as your daughter turns, smiling in an exact replica of how Helaena smiles.

It bursts wildflowers and warmth in your chest as you approach, standing behind her as you take the earrings from her fingers that have been turning them around and around, Nila, the spider whose web you placed by your daughter's, said.

You balance the heavy accessory, before you say, "Let me."

A quiet settles the pair of mother and daughter, the chaos of the feast unable to taint the tranquility provided in her chambers. As you take care in placing the baubles for her ears you press a gentle smile on your face as you gaze upon her on the mirror. Maegella Velaryon is a patchwork creation of your most beloved people, despite being the fourth born daughter and the second triplet, she bore Helaena's smile and Aemond's dusky laughter.

Though there is the Strong features in her jaw and face shape, her eyes and hair are your mother's. The Hightower features you have adored since childhood, the auburn hair and the gentle, round brown eyes.

Your seventh child bears the most resemblance to your Hightower roots, as she is the only one with her grandmother's auburn locks. Sweet orange red, a shimmer of a dying flame.

"I do not know if I am making the right decision, your grace." She breaks the silence, meeting your violet gaze with her gentle brown. She is young, on the verge of her womanhood, while you have aged, a mirror of what visage will soon become. "I understand that the Lord Stark is an honourable man, most auspicious is our arrangement thus far, but..."

"But?"

"I am fearful," she whispers.

There is Aegon in her chin, in her purse lips. It tugs at your heartstrings further at the reminder of your beloved twin.

Your children have always been Aegon's favourite to spoil, but much more your triplet daughters.

"They all look so much like you, sweet sister, even if their colouring is not fully Valyrian," he had said when they were born, snuggled against each other in their sleep much like the two of you when you were newborn babes.

"So they look like you, since we are twins," you teased. He nudged you with an elbow, giggling.

"Yes, exactly." He turned to Maegella, newborn as she is, her hair had been a lighter shade of red orange back then. He runs a finger down her hair and forehead before booping her button nose. "This one has mother's hair."

"And brown eyed. I thought of naming her Alicent, but I digressed. Much too on the nose."

He laughed. "Maybe the next one then, as for sure you will be round with the Strong bastard's babe once more."

Though there was no heat to his tone, you still slapped his arm. It wasn't like he was wrong. You promised Jace you will bring him heirs.

You promised yourself strong babes. Their blood is yours, and they breathe with you.

"Oh, my sweet, darling girl," you say now, smiling gently as you place a coifed, auburn lock back behind strings of pearl that swept up her hair in elegant coils, not unlike fully bloomed roses cinched together. "You are about to make a new life for yourself, there is much to fear. But you are the blood of the dragons. And of the oldest, greatest House in Westeros. And the sea. Which is ancient, and has drowned men in vigour despite her age."

"Just like Vhagar?"

You laugh. "Much like Vhagar when she lived, yes, that old, ferocious girl."

She giggles then sighs as you hold her close to you. Gentle as you are to her wedding attire, a faint, seafoam blue laced white dress. A gift from her father.

You stand straight, something in your expression triggers her own posture to straighten. The visage and orderly manner of a princess coming back to her spine and face.

"No true marriage is a fairytale. Most oft, you have to strangle fate by the throat and conquer your future."

Her eyes widen. "Mother! That sounds ghastly."

"It is." Your laugh isn't what she's used to. It's a breathless, mirthless exhale. A memory so entangled in your mind it weaves about in silvery threads between you. "But my marriage to your father had not always been such a gladdened time."

"I would expect so..." she says hesitantly, wary of every minute change of your expression. "It has been a long marriage, with a heft of babes of your own." Her hand finds yours and squeezes, trying for a jest with a pinch of honesty. "Do not expect the same amount of children from me, your grace. Though the birthing bed is a war all women must face, I have five other sisters to continue your lineage."

You exchange a laugh, pinching her cheek whilst she yelps.

"I cannot fathom birthing the same amount as you have. You are the strongest of us all."

"Your great-great grandmother, The Good Queen Alysanne, named after your sister, bore much more than I, I will remind you so."

She shivers. "Madness it is."

"It is," you agree. "The realm had asked for only two, but I had love your father so. But our marriage... it had almost cost me everything."

"Everything?"

Your smile is flaccid. "My crown, my birthright, my position in your father's life. Everything."

She stands, thoroughly alarmed, spinning to you and holding your arms. "Mother? I have not heard of this before."

"Oh, how can you? You were yet to be born." You run your fingers over her sweet face. Your seventh child. To think you almost lost them all. To think such bastards nearly took everything from you. "Only Daenera and Aemma had been, and I am not sure they can remember it all. They were quite young. And I am furious to tell further, but... but for you, I can. So you might understand that marriage is too, a battle to be won. A prize you must covet. As a dragon, your hoard is your own. Any who dare touch it must pay with fire and blood."

Your chin tips. "Even if sometimes, your enemy is your own spouse."

"Father?" A faint gasps leave her lips. "You are scaring me mother. What story is this?"

A smirk plays on your lips. "The story of how Winterfell almost burnt to the ground."

"What?"

"Rage, my sweet girl, especially born out of a dragon's flame, can raze armies to the ground. We were called conquerors for a reason." You cup her face with your hands. "Though I have not made a promise to your father, I had kept this piece of history deep within the wells of my heart. But for you I shall. To guide you into your marriage, and to comfort you that no matter what happens, no matter what tragedy curses your vows, you are able to control your future. You are no mere wife. Your blood sings above the sheep alike, and with it, a reminder to all that you are a dragon and nothing less."

You release her face, smiling gently, before you tug her to the bed. "We have time for a story, I'm sure. They cannot start it without a queen nor the bride."

"The story where your rage nearly tore Winterfell to ashes?" She frowns. "How does father fare in this?"

"Oh, he had lied to me."

"Father?! Lied?"

You tap her lips. "You must take this story to your bosom. And you must not look at your father any differently. He is changed now. He has kept his vows with much sincerity." Though a certain bitter triumph echoes in your heart at the idea that his own daughter might look at him with hatred.

The years had been kind to you, yes. But by no means have you met it with ease. The crown you bear on your head bore witness to every battle you had won, every war you had forged, and only those who understood its stench know of the blood you had spilled to get it.

And though you have forgiven him long before, the memory sings old embers anew.

"Her name was Sara Snow, and your father had dared..."

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