#The Old Council was WILD | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

blindmagdalena · 5 months

Text

All That Glitters

18+ 15.7k words. Dragon!Homelander x F!Reader fantasy au, messy world building, referenced cannibalism, handfeeding, super dubious consent, sexual coercion, monster anatomy, size difference, cunnilingus, breeding kink, dirty talk, marathon sex, mating bond/bite, knotting, tongue baths, virgins, scent kink, overstimulation, body betrayal, fairy tale schmoop. AO3 Link!

Summary: In a world where the only currencies that matter are gold and blood, the gods are lavished with both. Your regions god is a fearsome beast said to reign hellfire from the skies should his appetite not be satiated. When the demand for human sacrifices increases, you make the choice to volunteer yourself, determined to bring an end to the bloodshed, and ascend into the jaws that await you in the old stone tower deep in the woods.

illustration by the ever incredible @anon-nee, who was instrumental to the writing of this fic. see the full piece here! originally written for Monsterlander Mania, but obviously spiraled wildly out of control.

For as long as you can remember, there have always been sacrifices.

Such a thing is not unique to your village. Gods–and the creatures worshiped as such–throughout the world demand all manner of recompense for protecting the lands of those who idolize them. If the slaughter of a single lamb ensures green pastures in which the herd may thrive, few ever think twice before they lift the blade.

Not all townships worship for benevolence, however. Yours has always worshiped for mercy.

For generations, stories of hellfire raining from the sky have been passed by your people. A great, terrible beast with wings as wide as ten men were tall once patrolled the skies above you, wielding power so devastating that not even ballistae firing bolts the size of tree trunks could fell it.

It had a hundred names, each more terrible than the last. Scourge of the Skies, the Red Death, Flame’s Maw, and perhaps most unfortunately, the Devourer. Named as such for the countless lives it began to claim when treasures were deemed an insufficient tribute. Sacrifices were initially sparse, required only every dozen or so seasons. As time went on, the Devourer grew greedier and greedier, with the timespan between sacrifices shortening.

By the time you offer yourself to the council, there has been a sacrifice every month for over a year.

The wagon hardly jostles on this well-trodden road. You imagine it used to be a rougher ride, but with the increase in frequency of travel, it has smoothed. The thought worsens the feeling of icy weight in your stomach. One might think the exquisite fabrics you’re dressed in would bring some measure of comfort–softer than anything you’ve worn before–but the extravagance of them only serves to further alienate you from yourself.

You have become a thing. A finely adorned offering, and the fabric makes your skin crawl for it.

The tree cover breaks, revealing a monolithic stone tower that stands so tall, it splits the sky in two.

The Tower of the Seven. It’s been generations since anyone knew exactly what it was named for, but legend speaks of mythic creatures that were once held in such reverence, this tower was built in their honor. It served as both a temple and home to these venerated beings.

The years have not been kind to it. The stone pillars have become wild with overgrowth, and the air about this place reeks of stale, old death.

It stands now as a graveyard.

Even the horses refuse to venture much further than the threshold of the treeline, forcing you and your attendants out of the wagon to tread the remainder of the trek on foot. The men who walk with you carry short swords, but they serve no practical purpose, their edges having long since dulled. They are not here to protect you, they are as much a part of the ceremony as your fine clothes.

You shield your eyes as you look up at the staggering height of the tower, but swiftly drop your gaze. Best not to think of what awaits you.

On paper, sacrifice seems a simple thing. Slitting one’s throat upon an altar, floating a burning pyre across the river, or feeding the tribute a concoction of sleeping death and burying them into eternal slumber. Murder can be a righteous thing in the hands of a believer, or so they say.

For you, and those who have come before you, martyrdom is not as effortless as lying down and dying for the cause. The tower presents a trial to you. You must willingly climb the hundreds upon hundreds of large stone steps in order to prove yourself a worthy tribute.

Why you must prove your flesh worthy of consumption is beyond you. You’ve never heard of a farmer who sends his cattle to run laps before the slaughter. It seems a petty thing to demand. Perhaps the Devourer has grown indolent and slovenly in its feasting.

It’s easy to dream up nightmarish images of such an awful creature. A legless winged wyrm with a ribbed body, fat and slimy like an oversized earthworm. It would have an enormous maw with hundreds upon hundreds of jagged teeth, its breath reeking of charred flesh and sulfur. Such a wicked beast would stink like the layers of hell.

Somehow, tormenting yourself like this is an oddly calming distraction. The more nightmarish it becomes in your mind, the less real all of this feels. It’s just a bad dream.

No one speaks as you reach the base of the tower. There’s nothing left to say. You’re one of a dozen in the last year alone these men have ferried to their death. It almost seems cruel to expect eye contact, let alone sympathy. For that reason, it catches you off guard when one of the older of the three, a man named Hector with a thick set of troubled brows furrowed above kind but bloodshot, watery eyes puts his hand on your shoulder, offering a light squeeze.

The last sacrifice had been his own daughter.

In his gaze you find grief and gratitude in equal measure. Neither brings comfort. You return a small nod and move your eyes back to the ordeal that awaits you.

The tower is like an optical illusion: the proportions make it seem a reasonable size at a distance, but the closer you walk to it, the more mythical a thing it becomes. The archways curve high above your head, sized for creatures of legend, and the head of the building disappears completely into the sky.

In the center of it, a spiraling stone staircase beckons you. The masonry is exquisitely smooth despite the age of it, carved in an era when magic was a hundred times more prolific than it is now. It’s wide and open, the steps so large that you’ll be taking them one at a time. Worse than that, however, is the complete absence of any kind of protective railing.

If you sway, you very well may fall to your death.

At the center of the spiral stands a pile of debris. As you approach, a rustling catches your attention and you freeze, eying the pile warily. The head of a creature suddenly pops up, startling your heart into a thunder, but after a beat you recognize it for what it is: a small fox, its muzzle dirty. The two of you stare at one another for a long moment before one of the men behind you calls out, “Shoo, shoo now.”

Everyone keeps hushed, as if terrified of disturbing what is yet unseen.

Moving closer, you anticipate you might see a dead rabbit, or perhaps a chicken. Anything would have been a more welcome sight than the gnarled half-eaten body of a woman dressed just like you piled amongst the debris. You gasp, both hands flying over your mouth as you stumble a few steps backwards.

For a horrifying moment, you swear you see your own face in the rotten remnants staring back at you with black, empty eye sockets. It’s the hair that gives away the delusion, however, and with a chill down your spine you recognize the sacrifice who came before you; Hector’s daughter.

“Nadja,” the man groans morosely, the weight of grief in his voice palpable. You move away, towards the stairs, and watch with a morbid sort of fascination as the man weeps over the corpse of his daughter, touching her hair and her clothes, the only parts of her not twisted and rotted with death, the body left for maggots and scavengers. It’s sick, nothing like the beautiful and noble gesture sacrifice is always said to be. You look up at the dizzying height of the spiral staircase, following the line of it until the stone disappears into darkness. Did she fall, or was she cast away, having somehow proven herself unworthy?

In a strange sense, watching the men wrap her body in cloth to be carried home feels very much like playing the part of voyeur to your own demise. You stand at a distance, hand braced upon the stone, unable to shake the dread that you’re witnessing a vision of the future. Your future.

No. You will not be left for the insects and carrion-feeders. You turn your back to the sound of Hector’s weeping and, without another world, determinedly begin your ascent one large stone step at a time. Although you feel the men’s eyes heavily upon you, they remain silent, as if already grieving you.

Do not, you think brazenly, skin flushed with unexpected fires that bring your blood to a boil. Do not dare mourn what isn’t dead.

Those flames burn hot enough to carry you easily up the first several floors, indignantly stomping your way. You’ve heard stories of this tower all your life, but nothing could have prepared you for the true scale of it. Most of it is in a terrible state of decay, full of overgrowth and rot that, centuries ago, may have been wood and cloth.

You stop for a breath beneath the remains of what looks to have once been a vibrant mural. You can see trace evidence of beautiful paints, but whatever it depicts has been brutally clawed from the stonework. You lift a hand up high to trace one of the deep gouges in the stone; the marks are spread too far apart for your fingers to reach, but you can make out five distinct patterns nonetheless, like drag marks from a hand three or four times the size of your own.

Beyond the ruined mural, there are statues, too. You pass a grand monument of a woman who stands over seven heads tall wielding a sword of equal might, the statue adorned with steel bracers. You think she might have been beautiful in the same way a frightening storm is, but the head of the statue is long since gone.

On the next floor, you see upon the ground the ruins of a statue of a mermaid–at least, you thought it was. Upon further inspection, however, you see that the statue depicts a man. He has the lower body of a fish and strange indentations along his ribs, just beneath his bare carved chest. He, too, is headless, torso split horizontally, stone strewn across the floor.

This temple must have belonged to these lost figures, their monuments as desecrated as the rest of the tower. Whoever the Seven was, the world has since forgotten.

You wonder if the Devourer did this, defiled this temple to erase whatever history of heroes came before its tyranny.

Ultimately, you only find six statues. None of them have managed to keep their heads, and some are in worse shape than others. You imagine the seventh might have been destroyed entirely. It’s easier to imagine how or why these things might be than it is to focus on how badly your body aches, how you started this venture with the morning sun barely upon you, and yet you barely feel any closer to your destination as the darkness of night encroaches.

Every limb screams for rest. You stop occasionally, but you feel you must not sleep. Was poor Nadja pitched to her death for sleeping through her trial? You’d rather not find out. You’re not even sure if you would wake with the same angry conviction that drives you forward now, climbing step after unforgiving step. It’s gotten colder the higher you’ve gone, too. There’s a chance if you slept amidst the stone, you would turn to it yourself.

“Grant me strength,” you whisper to whomever may be listening. Be they fae or devil, benevolent or malevolent, it would be a boon to know there was some manner of being on your side.

You lean on the wall far from the edge as you ascend the spiral, too nervous of a fall to look over the edge and gauge your progress. A brisk wind chill has begun howling through the tower, whipping your clothing about and biting at your skin. You hug one arm tightly across your chest, bracing against the cold. At this rate, you’ll make for a crunchy meal not just for your bones, but for the frost you arrive covered in.

Your foot slides on something on the step that shifts and clatters. You nearly fall, heart hammering in your chest as you manage to catch yourself. Looking down, you’re shocked to see a pile of shining gold coins spilling down the steps amongst the debris. There is enough wealth discarded on these steps to see a dozen families fed for years and years to come.

You must be getting close. Carefully, despite the tremble running through your body, you shuffle your way through the mess, kicking it aside when you need to clear more of a path. The sound of rubble and gold and the like falling off the edge of the steps makes you flinch, the prolonged clattering of it serving as a reminder of just how agonizingly high you’ve managed to climb.

The familiar flicker of fire light draws a gasp of relief from you, tears gathered in your eyes from the sheer pain of moving your body forward. You can see shadows dancing across the walls, beckoning you from the cold with the barest hint of a warm draft. You’re practically crawling up the steps now, every part of you aching horribly. The tremble in your body is so severe, you worry you would fall to your death if you continued trying to walk through the hoard of treasures that have spilled down the steps.

You practically sob with relief when you reach the final step, limbs quaking beneath you as you haul yourself up onto the top floor and away from the awful railless edge of the spiraling stairs. You bury your face in the fold of your arms. The mixture of relief and exhaustion is so intense, the rest of the world falls away briefly, and the only thing that matters is catching your breath while you all but dry heave on the floor.

“I’ll be damned. I didn’t think you were going to make it,” purrs a resonant, honied voice, snapping you immediately back to reality. You shoot into an upright position so suddenly your head spins, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear your blurry vision.

Before you rests an enormous circular hall lit with dozens upon dozens of torches. The walls are lined with beautiful arched windows, and the interior is piled nearly to the vaulted ceiling with obscene amounts of coin, weapons, artifacts and similar treasure. Your gaze drifts towards the center of it all, where the source of the voice awaits you.

As it turns out, The Devourer is no oversized earthworm.

Reclined upon a magnificently carved marble throne, you behold a creature made of equal parts man and beast. Even sitting, his stature easily brings him heads taller than you. He is adorned exquisitely in gold embellishments–jewelry and piercings alike–and rich navy slacks, serving as a fine centerpiece to the lavish, untidy wealth that surrounds him. He wears a crown fit for a king, the jewel of it a radiant blue that matches his sharp predatory gaze. His lips spread into a wolfish grin. You’re utterly bewitched by the flash of his fangs.

“Rise,” he orders you, gesturing with a clawed hand that’s easily the size of your head. His rings shine beautifully in the firelight. “And speak.”

Shakily, you fight to climb to your feet. Worm or not, this man–this creature has been preying upon your people for generations. You remind yourself of the countless lives lost, of the mourning families, of Nadja’s desecrated corpse and the sound of her father weeping over the rotten remains of her. You steel yourself.

“You who the people know as Scourge of the Skies, Red Death,” you begin, blinking rapidly. Your head began swimming the second you stood. You’ve never been so worn out in your life, and though there are flames here that offer a slight degree of warmth, the cold has sunk deep into your bones. As you speak, your vision gradually begins to tunnel. “Flame’s… Maw… and the Devourer,” you address, fighting desperately to stay focused even as he fades in and out of clarity. “I’ve come to pay my village tribute, and to… to…”

The darkness at the edges of your vision thickens. Your words feel heavy and slurred on your tongue. You sway, feeling your own head slosh like a bucket of water, and before you know it, you’re pitching forward, and the world goes black.

That was anticlimactic.

There was a time he would have been met with awe. Reverence. He didn’t expect you to simply black out.

Scourge, Red Death, Flame’s Maw… Maw. He’s always despised that word in particular, and the ugly imagery it evokes. Just a handful out of hundreds of names he’s been called over the years–if you can call them that. Many border on insults, if not are so outright. The most tolerable name he can remember is Homelander.

They called him that in celebration, he recalls. Those were the last of the days he had any care left for them.

He blows a smoky little raspberry as he stands, hands clasping behind his back beneath his wings. His tail sways idly as he approaches, tentatively intrigued by your splayed form. It’s rare that a sacrifice makes it all the way to the top at all, let alone in a single day. The last one only made it halfway before she decided falling to her death was a kinder fate than him.

Truth be told, he should have reigned hell upon their little village for her insolence. Fortunately for them, her display filled him with far more apathy than it did fury. He crouches down near enough to touch, though he hesitates, hand ghosting just over your body. He tilts his head to the side. Your breaths are shallow in your sleep, a slight wheeze to each one. Your body is clearly overexerted.

Delicately, he slips his hand under your cheek to turn your face to him, examining your features. You’re prettier like this, the tension drained from your expression and replaced with peace. Certainly not the worst tribute he’s been offered. You were at least determined to reach him.

The corner of his mouth twitches.

He won’t kill you. Not yet.

Homelander lifts you up into his arms, supporting your comparatively slight form with ease. You feel as frail as any mortal might, but the weight of you in his arms strikes him with a peculiar sense of melancholy. He takes pause, more closely observing the shape of you cradled in his arms, head lolled against his chest. You fit there nicely, small as you are. He can almost pretend you’ve simply fallen asleep in the crook of his arm; somewhere you’ve always belonged.

It’s an intriguing little fantasy. He hasn’t felt the need to indulge in one of those in a long while. He keeps his eyes on you as he walks you to the collection of pelts gathered on the far side of the room, where he lays you down atop them.

What had you been intending to say before you passed out? Your departing words spin round and round in his mind while he looks you over, lowering himself until he’s on his hands and knees above you. Tributes used to come richly adorned in jewelry and glittering things, but such pageantry has long since vanished. He’s surrounded by enough of it that the absence doesn’t bother him anymore.

The glitter of gold hardly catches his eye these days. He doesn’t call for sacrifices to add to his wealth. He only seeks to quell his boredom. Perhaps you will prove useful for this, at least for a time.

Pressing his clawed thumb lightly to your chin, he tilts your head away and leans in, nosing up the line of your throat, lips barely ghosting your soft flesh. He inhales the salt-sweet smell of you, a mixture of sweat, the dusty stone steps you’ve scaled, and the sweet herbal oil bath your kind always receives before you’re sent to him. The blend is strangely intoxicating on you.

It makes him wonder if you taste as good as you smell. Parting his lips, his split tongue spills past them and drags a slow serpentine pattern from your neck to your jaw. Mmm, fuck. You taste better than you smell, the rich oil you were bathed in still clinging to your skin beneath the salty tang of your sweat.

It would be too easy to devour you. He groans quietly at the thought, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. He’s known few things more intimate than sinking his sharp teeth into warm, pliant flesh. The feel of a pulse slowing against his tongue. The metallic rush of blood down the back of his throat. He hasn’t craved human flesh the way he does right now in years, yet something in the scent of you has ignited that primal aspect of him. Salivating already, he swallows it away and draws back.

Not yet. He still wants to hear what you were going to say.

It makes him smile to see the goosebumps that have erupted on every inch of your exposed skin. He cocks his head to the side and trails his index claw down the center of your chest, dragging down the pretty white fabric of your sacrificial dress, stopping just shy of the swell of your breasts. More goosebumps there, too.

None of it compares to the sound that you make. In your sleep, your brows furrow, and you exhale a noise somewhere between pain and sheer exhaustion, your small hand brushing his as you adjust against the pile of plush fur pelts. His gaze drops sharply, hand lifting tentatively. After a beat, he sets it down lightly atop yours. Captivated, he watches your whole body respond to his touch, turning and curling in towards him like a flora bending to the light of the sun.

Fascinated by your innate reactivity to him, Homelander lowers himself onto his side next to you. After a beat of hesitation, he encircles your wrist with his thumb and index finger and brings your palm flat to the warmth of his bare chest. A tantalizing shiver rolls through your unconscious form. Just as he had anticipated–hoped?–you follow the feel of him, moving completely onto your side and into him, breathing out a shuddering little exhale while the fire that runs through his veins warms you.

It isn’t enough to stop you shivering, though. Shifting, he spreads out his wing and curls that over you, blocking the draft that spills in from the surrounding windows. Only then does the tension in your body begin to ease, warmth chasing out the chill from your bones.

Homelander smirks, feeling inexplicably accomplished over this mundane little feat. He’s never particularly cared for the comfort of his tributes before; they’ve never served as anything more than playthings and meals. You should be no different. He knows you would be a delectable thing on his tongue, warm and wet down his throat, yet the thought of you in pieces–cold and unmoving–instantly vanishes his appetite.

He wants you in a new way entirely. Against him, with him. He wants to taste more of you, drag his tongue along the plains of your body and see how else you’ll react to him. He wants to find the places that quicken your breath. Would you sing your pleasure for him? He’s barely heard your voice, but already he can imagine it vividly.

You would. You will.

He’s begun to pant at the thought alone, smoke wafting from his mouth, his eyes softly aglow with crimson light. The smell of you has filled his senses so thoroughly he feels intoxicated by it, and between his thighs, his cock has begun to throb. He leans closer and nestles into your hair, inhaling deeply, a rumble leaving him on a warm exhale.

His entire body has taken on the heavy pulse of his heart, alight with the most visceral feeling he’s had in centuries. This is more than hunger, more than carnality–you mean something. Never before has he felt compelled to find pleasure in the frail body of a human, yet his blood sings it voicelessly in the back of his mind, his every instinct screaming one word again and again and again.

Mate.

Homelander had given up on the concept of a mate a long time ago, given that he’s… abnormal. Sterile. As an unnatural creature, there could not be a natural match for him. Someone who would call to his very blood and set it aflame. Yet here you are, seeking him as desperately as he once sought you. Is that why you were able to accomplish what so few before you had, pushing your body so clearly beyond your limits?

A low, possessive rumble leaves him. Reckless.

He pets your hair, testing the texture with his fingers awhile before letting his hand roam down the back of your neck, between your shoulders, up over your hip, down your leg. You’re no longer cool to the touch or shivering. He flattens his palm to your back and closes his eyes briefly. He’s never heard of a dragon bonding to a human before. He wonders if you’ll feel it too, recognize it for what it is, or if your mortality will make you oblivious to the depths of it.

It takes every ounce of his restraint not to shake you awake to find out.

Instead, he patiently learns the cadence of your heart. He commits your scent to memory, weeding out the natural musk of your skin beneath the herbs and oils you’ve been lathered in. Soon enough he’ll be able to pick you out of a crowd by the thump of your pulse alone, track you down from miles away with nothing but the barest whiff of you.

Not that he’d ever let you get so far from him now that he has you.

All you’re missing now is his scent. Leaning down, he licks a line adjacent to the one he had prior, and then another, mindful of his horns. The sweet taste of you makes him moan. He spends hours with you tucked in against him, idling away the time by learning your body as well as teaching you his. He nuzzles his cheek lightly against yours just so that he can turn and taste that same spot, something deep and primal in him appeased by tasting himself on your skin.

“My mate,” he half sighs, half growls.

He can’t wait to meet you.

Consciousness comes back to you in a gradual slew of sensation. Your fingers twitch, flexing in what feels like a lush, thick pelt of fur beneath you. Your whole body is pleasantly warm, as if you’ve fallen asleep in front of a crackling hearth, the cold of those awful stone stairs a distant memory.

The stairs…

Your eyes snap wide open, your spine going stiff. You’re laying on your back. Something wet and hot is dragging along the exposed skin of your shoulder–your dress pulled askew–in repetitive swipes. Looking down, all you can see is a mess of flaxen colored hair and one long, angular horn, the tip of it adorned in gold. The press of what you can only imagine to be a tongue is unnaturally smooth, as hot as settled coal against your skin. The beast gives a growl, and sharp teeth graze your skin. Your throat feels tight, the scream that bubbles up locked behind the tension of your jaw.

Oh gods, you think, beginning to shake. He’s eating me!

“Good morning,” purrs a familiar voice, the words vibrating against your skin. He lifts his head from your shoulder, though he doesn’t go far. You half expect to see his maw bloodied with your entrails from all the horror stories you’ve been told, but his grin is as clean as it was the first moment you beheld him. Up close, he’s even larger than you had initially realized. His face is well defined, with strong cheekbones decorated with smooth red scales that ascend into his hairline, where a golden crown sits neatly behind his horns. “Mmm, someone got their beauty sleep,” he says, the words a low, pleased rumble. You’re speechless, watching in bewilderment as he cups your face, hand so large it covers most of your neck, too. “You were out for hours.”

Your eyes dart to your shoulder, where your dress has been tugged down, but your skin appears unmarred. Around you, one of his enormous wings is curved over, shielding you both from the light and the cold beyond. You can’t move your legs, and with a glance, you understand why: his enormous tail is draped across both of them, pinning you in place. You look back at him, eyes wide in fear and confusion. You wonder if he’s been with you like this through the entire night. “You’re… You’re not eating me?”

The broad smile he flashes makes your heart skip a beat. His eyes, though sharp and a shade of blue you’ve only ever seen in the sky, are disarmingly human. Beautiful, even. They crinkle at the corners with what almost looks like fondness.

“No.”

“Why not?” You ask instantly, adrenaline making your voice sharp. “Not that I wish for you to eat me,” you say just as quickly. “But do you not–were you not–” He cuts you off with a noise that you belatedly realize is a laugh, the resonance in his chest so unearthly it gives every sound he makes an inhuman quality. “No, I was not eating you,” he says, sounding far too amused for your liking. “Tasting you, yes. And you do taste divine,” he says, leaning in again. You push your head back into the furs as much as you can, but he moves to the side, bringing his lips to your ear. “I knew my mate would.” Mate?!

Your hands fly up to his chest–gods, he’s as warm as hearth stones–as if to push him back, but you may as well attempt to push an oak tree aside. “What?”

He draws back, glancing down at your hands pressed to the bare skin of his chest before his gaze returns to yours, eyes narrowed in distinct pleasure. “Mate,” he says again, deliberately drawing the word out. “Dragons bond only once in a lifetime. Usually to another dragon. Clearly exceptions can be made, and you, precious little thing that you are… appear to be mine.”

His eyes fall shut, he leans in, and with a lurch of your stomach you realize he means to kiss you, his lips pursed and rapidly approaching. Your own lips part and a noise wholly outside of your control escapes you; a scream so shrill and sudden that it knocks even him back in surprise.

Blinking several times, he gives you a quick once over, visibly expecting to see you wounded and bloody somewhere. He looks back to your face when he finds nothing amiss. “What?”

“I can’t–I don’t know you,” you blurt out, equal parts flustered and alarmed. You can feel yourself burning up, and it isn’t just from the heat of him against you.

“So?” He dismisses, smiling with an array of sharp pearly teeth. “I’m your mate.”

“Humans don’t have those,” you counter, squirming under the weight of his tail. It’s like he’s draped several sacks of grain across your legs. “My lord Devourer, I–”

He scoffs, tail lifting as he shifts, bringing himself up onto his hands and knees over you, his wing unfurling and allowing the sun to spill in, washing you both in its light. “Homelander. If you must use one of those silly names, use Homelander. I’d prefer beloved, though,” he says with a sly lilt to his mouth.

A shiver rolls down your spine. Along with light, brisk morning air has slipped in between your bodies.

“Homelander,” you repeat, a name you’ve never heard before. It’s a great deal less menacing than the others, but that doesn’t change the fact that he has been eating your townsman for as long as anyone can remember. “I–”

He takes hold of your jaw with just his index finger and thumb, the rest of his fingers curling lightly over your throat. “You talk too much,” he tells you, eyes hooded and hungry. “Are you going to scream every time I try to kiss you?”

“Maybe,” you choke out, fists clenched tightly in the furs beneath you. He leans closer, tilting his head, his nose barely brushing the tip of yours. “I’ve never been kissed by a dragon before. Like I said, we don’t have m-mmm!”

It happens so swiftly you don’t have time to gather the air to scream. He presses his lips firmly to yours, making a noise so close to a moan that, despite the relative chasteness of the kiss itself, you flush with the indecency of it. It feels… hot. The heat of him is nearly too much to handle, like touching your lips to a hot mug of tea, but there is something intoxicating about it. He uses that heat to mold you to him, pulling you closer, his body sinking down against yours.

You’re too dumbstruck by the whole of the situation to struggle–not that it would accomplish much–which leaves you to simply experience it. His lips are tentative against yours, not harsh or demanding. He coaxes yours with his as if to dance, luring you into something that almost feels good.

Your heart hammers in your chest, his warmth pooling in your belly and spreading slowly through the rest of your body like boiled water poured into a lukewarm tub. He’s immovable, inescapable, and to your dismay, not entirely awful.

“I want to claim you,” he all but growls against your lips, his other hand clawing slowly down your side, tugging at your dress.

Your heart leaps painfully against your ribs. “Homelander,” you say, though he’s hardly paying you any mind, kissing your cheek now, your jaw, carving a wicked trail with his lips while his hand dips lower and lower, seeking the bottom hem of your dress. Heart racing, you breathlessly cry, “Beloved!”

That gives him pause. He rears back to look down at you, head slightly cocked, eyes bright and attentive. Your breaths are shallow, pulse pounding in your throat. You swallow dryly. “I’m thirsty,” you tell him, which is no lie. Your throat is so dry it almost hurts to speak. “Horribly. And hungry, I’ve not eaten since yesterday’s breakfast. You mean for me to survive, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” he says, expression twisting like he finds offense in your words. “You’ll want for nothing.”

“Then please. Water?” You push, praying that he is more man than beast.

He regards you quietly, eyes subtly darting back and forth. There’s a petulant kind of impatience to his gaze that catches you off-guard, like a boy who’s been told he has to wait before he gets to play with his new favorite toy. “Water,” he echoes eventually. You nod. He startles you when he exhales a little plume of smoke from his nose, reluctantly lifting himself off of you. The chill of his absence is immediate. “Don’t move,” he says, suddenly looking displaced. You’ve caught him by surprise. Perhaps you’ll survive this yet.

You watch him rise to his full height, standing easily eight feet tall. You sit up, pulling the furs over your legs to combat the cold seeping in. The muscles of his back give a mesmerizing flex as he stretches his wings out, the span of them just as jaw-dropping as his height. He wears furs over his shoulders held in place with thick leather straps that cross over his back and chest, emphasizing his musculature as well as the crimson plating that covers his body. Spines run down the length of his back, transitioning down into a tail that’s even longer than he is tall. It moves along the ground in zigzags, almost like a serpent. You don’t realize how intensely you’re staring until you look back up and realize he’s looking at you over his shoulder, those piercing blue eyes keenly set on yours.

The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smirk. Something about his expression makes you feel like you’ve been caught doing something naughty. You drop your gaze. “Back in a jiffy,” he says. You look up just in time to see him step off the ledge, those brilliant red wings fanning out behind him. He disappears so suddenly that you can’t help but gasp, sitting up on your knees. You hear the beat of wings against the air, and then a second later see him lift back up into the skyline, twisting in the air before gliding back down out of sight.

You sit in stunned silence, listening to the fading thrum of his wings. It doesn’t feel real. You don’t know if this is some kind of twisted game he pulls with every sacrifice, or if you’re truly somehow different. You weren’t entirely expecting him to listen to you, but he did. He’s gone, presumably to fetch you food and water. You don’t know how, but you just commanded the Devourer to not only let you go, but bring you a meal.

In hindsight, you’re a little concerned that it was never specified what kind of meal. As far as you’re aware, he primarily eats people.

Adjusting your gown, you haul yourself up to your feet, crossing your arms in a vain attempt to protect the heat of his body lingering on your skin. When that doesn’t work, you pick up one of the several fur pelts strewn on the floor and drape it over your shoulders, sighing in relief. The pelt still holds some residual warmth; a boon over the lovely but ineffective fabric of your ceremonial gown.

In the light of day, you can make out a great deal more detail throughout the lair. The floor to ceiling archways deter you from venturing too far beyond the center, but still there is plenty to investigate. For example, the throne catches your eye immediately. The size of it makes you feel like a child again, navigating a world not built for you. The masonry of it is exceptionally smooth beneath your fingers, save for a handful of deep, jagged gouges that marr the arm rest. Tilting your head, you realize that you recognize these marks: they match those that you’d seen on the ruined murals.

You trace them with your fingers, connecting them now to the draconic claws that, just moments ago, had so delicately followed the curve of your body. He could so easily tear you apart, and yet in that moment you had never known a gentler touch. You pull your hand back beneath the pelt, feeling a shiver roll through you that has little to do with the morning chill.

Mate. That word sticks in your brain like a wad of gummy tree sap.

Circling the throne, you carefully step around the glimmering mess of gold, silver and jewels that litter the stone floor. There’s so much of it that it doesn’t even look real, stacked over itself like forgotten hay bales left to rot. There is more wealth here than you’ve seen in your life. A single satchel of it would keep you comfortable for the rest of your life, and yet here it serves as little more than clutter. As far as you can tell, it means nothing here.

The Devourer stopped seeking material treasure generations ago.

As you explore, part of you expects to find the corpses of all those who have come before you. Dozens upon dozens of bodies stacked up in varying states of consumption or decay, or maybe a monument built of their bones. You find no such construct, though. In fact, nothing about this place seems put together. You can’t imagine the madness that living like this for a week would induce in you, let alone decades.

To the east, movement catches your attention, startling your heart into your throat. It looks like a silhouetted figure at first, but your brain catches up quickly, and you approach the gently billowing fabric. It’s draped over a statue, giving it the illusion of a person, and your curiosity gets the best of you as you tug the drape down off of it.

You suck in a sharp breath. Once again, you find yourself faced with a legend given form– a painstakingly and intricately carved statue in the Devourer’s perfect likeness. It comes as no surprise that this is the only in-tact statue you’ve seen, but what you don’t understand is why it’s even here. If the Devourer was a usurper, some vicious interloper, why would there be a monument to him in the same vein as all the others?

The plaque beneath it reads: Homelander. Son of the Skies, Protector of the Earth.

Devourer, Scourge, Flame’s Maw–these names are all you have ever known, and yet this is the name carved in stone. He was once worshiped not out of fear, but reverence that you can see in every gentle curve of stone.

What happened?

Shuffling closer to the statue, the discarded fabric gathers at your feet. It’s not quite to scale, but it’s a handsome likeness nonetheless. It’s certainly been cared for more than anything else in this place. You wonder if it’s just vanity or if it’s something less obvious. You trace the smooth stonework, letting yourself get a better look at this version of him that’s less likely to eat you.

Objectively speaking, it’s a handsome visage. The resemblance is uncanny, clearly the work of an intensely skilled mason. His jaw is strong, eyes set forward in unerring determination. Tentatively, you touch the lips of the statue. He’d been so certain that he wanted to kiss you. Just the thought of his closeness and heat makes your stomach erupt in a flutter of butterflies.

Mate.

“I thought I told you not to move.”

You barely hear the full sentence, your own scream ringing loudly in your ears. You move to spin around, but your foot catches on the pile of fabric you had dropped to the ground and suddenly your whole body is pitching backwards, the back of your skull destined for the smooth, unyielding stone behind you. Fortunately for your brain matter, your descent is halted just shy of contact, one familiar clawed hand cupping the back of your neck while the other lands at your back, steadying you.

Homelander stands over you, a curious quirk to his brow. With his hand at the small of your back, his claws press lightly through the fabric, effortlessly upholding your weight. He holds you as if you’ve been caught mid dip in a dance.

“Gods, you scared me,” you say, eyes wide. “I didn’t hear you.” You had been so certain you would hear his return based on the sound of his wings when he’d left, but his approach had been terrifyingly silent.

“Yes, I know. It makes me a very effective hunter,” he says, dipping down to nuzzle at your neck, taking advantage of how the pelt has slipped off of your shoulder. He inhales the smell of you, prickling goosebumps all over your body. “I missed you.”

“You’ve barely been gone,” you reply impulsively, awkwardly trying to adjust yourself out of this arch he has you in. No use. His size makes him impossible to maneuver around, and your foot is still tangled up in the fabric that he’s currently standing on.

He gives another one of those rumbling sighs, drawing back to look at you. “You’re supposed to say that you missed me, too,” he chastises you, and though his tone seems light, you’re sure you see a flicker of impatience or irritation in his gaze. Maybe both. Despite how fearsome the sum total of his features make him, you’re once again caught off guard by his eyes. Though the color of them is icy, there’s a distinctly human warmth to them that grounds you in his gaze.

Still, the last thing you want to do is make him angry.

“Oh,” you croak quietly, realizing he’s actually waiting for you to say it, staring down expectantly while he holds you. “I… missed you, too,” you return stiltedly, unsure your hesitant delivery will be satisfactory. Shockingly, his expression lightens, lips curving into a smile. He lifts you off of your feet, untangling you from the mess beneath you and turning around to set you back down on relatively clear flooring.

“Good,” he purrs, stroking his hand down the back of your head like he’s petting an animal. He seems determined to touch you, but entirely unaware of how to. He cups the base of your skull and tightens the gap between your bodies, enticing you with his warmth as much as he terrifies you with the hunger in his eyes.

You put your hands to his chest, soaking up the heat of him as you vainly try to maintain an ounce of personal space. “Ah, the–the statue, it’s beautiful. Why do you cover it up?” You ask, the words leaving you in a flustered tumble.

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder, looking at the statue like he’s only just remembered it exists. “Oh, that. Mmm. Don’t always like what he has to say,” he replies, fitting his hand over top of yours, pressing it to his chest. You blink. What in the world does that mean? “You humans chill so quickly. I’ll have to light the hearth next time I leave you,” he says, earning a yelp from you as he abruptly lifts you up into his arms, tail slithering audibly along the floor as he carries you back to what you suppose for all intents and purposes is his nest. His touch instantly warms you to your core, making the fur you wrapped yourself in seem like a thin sheet in comparison. Despite your apprehension, you can’t help the way the tension in your body naturally eases with his warmth. Upon returning to the collection of pelts, you see the fruits of his labor.

Literal fruits, in fact.

Homelander has returned with a small bounty consisting of apples, two melons, and even a handful of peaches, all of it held in a beautiful–albeit aged–woven basket. You don’t get the chance to eat those often; the trees they fall from grow high on the surrounding mountains, and the farmers in your village are content enough with the established agriculture that no one bothers to grow them.

In addition, a tall golden pitcher stands filled to the brim with water. You’re once again hyper aware of just how incredibly thirsty you are, lips dry, throat parched. It’s the only thing you care about, clambering towards it the second Homelander sets you back on your feet.

The pitcher is heavy. It appears made of solid gold and it’s three times the size of any you’ve ever seen before. You don’t lift it so much as you just tip it back slightly, sighing loudly as you drink back the crisp, clear water. You sputter as the flow abruptly increases, water spilling from the corners of your mouth. Homelander has lifted the pitcher to help you drink, holding it one handed as if it’s no more than a drinking cup, his other hand settled upon your waist. He looks thoroughly pleased with himself, eyes half-lidded, lips gently curved upwards. Once you’ve drunk your fill, you push against his hold and he relents quickly, unnerving you with just how attentive he really is. He sets the pitcher back down and watches you wipe your chin dry.

“Thank the gods,” you sigh habitually, finally not feeling as though there’s grit in your throat with every word.

“I’d prefer you thanked me,” he says coyly, his gaze drifting down to where the water has wet your gown. The fabric clings to your skin, sheer where liquid has touched it.

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Thank you, Homelander,” you correct. It’s taking every ounce of your fortitude to speak in full sentences with the way he’s staring at you, let alone the idle way his thumb is stroking your hip. No one has ever touched you with this mixture of ease and clear intent, the weight of his hand practically thrumming against you. The magnitude of him is a difficult thing to parse both in terms of his sheer size and the legend he represents. You don’t know how to reconcile him with the monster you grew up dreading.

No one warned you that monsters could be warm and handle you gently.

“Time to eat,” he says, setting the pitcher back down. He takes hold of both of your hips and pulls you down with him as he sits cross-legged on the pelts, the circle of his legs large enough that you fit perfectly inside it, your own legs hanging out over his crossed calves. His tail loops around as well, encircling him and draping over your legs. The underside of his tail is not unlike the belly of a snake, with large overlapping scales that layer down the length of it. It’s just as warm as the rest of him, and feels like an unnaturally soft stone that’s been baking in the sun.

Reaching over, Homelander plucks one of the peaches from the assortment. It looked perfectly average in the basket, but between his fingers it looks almost comically small. With a deftness that you wouldn’t expect from a creature of his size, he begins to slice through the peach with his blackened claws, delicately cutting out a wedge that he does not hand you, but he instead brings it directly to your lips.

You stare for a moment, struck by the rich red center of the fruit, how the juice of it drips onto his hand in sweet smelling rivulets. You turn to look at him over your shoulder, and he quirks a brow, nodding towards the slice of fruit. You decide that of all the potential battles you have in front of you, this one in particular isn’t worth fighting, and you part your lips, watching him as you do.

His own lips mimic yours, falling apart in quiet entrancement. He slides the wedge between your teeth and watches with rapt fascination as you bite down on it, holding his gaze in an exchange that feels so unexpectedly raw and intimate, your pulse ticks up a notch. You swear he notices it by the way his head tilts ever so slightly, almost as if he’s listening.

“Good?” He asks, voice little more than a rumble.

Gods above and below, it is good. Despite the preternatural heat of his hand, the succulent flesh of the peach retains the morning chill, sweet and cool on your tongue. It’s perfectly ripe, yielding easily to the cut of your teeth and flooding richly across your tongue as you chew. He feeds it to you until it disappears, pressing the last of it in with his thumb, which then follows the line of your bottom lip, smearing the sweet juice on it. You nod and lick your lips, tongue narrowly missing his thumb, and what that does to his expression makes your stomach flip.

He’s quick to cut another slice to offer you. You repeat this process in silence, the air thick with tension that feels so palpable you’re sure you could swim through it. The sounds of the world have narrowed entirely to the sound of his claw cutting through the delicate flesh of the fruit and the tip lightly scraping the pit inside it. His hands have a sticky shine to them by the time he’s tossing the pit back into the basket, stripped as clean as a bone.

You chew your final bite, jaw slowing as you watch him take his fingers into his own mouth. He’s unabashed in the way he slurps the nectar off his digits, tongue slipping between them. That’s when you realize that his tongue splits down the middle, dexterously sliding over his fingers to lap up every drop of juice. Not only that, but you spot a flash of gold; the same kind of piercing he has on his ears. Watching him stirs something hot in you, a radiating heat that lights a flickering pulse between your thighs. You audibly gulp the last of your bite, tensing subtly when Homelander looks at you.

Slowly, his lips curl into a devious smile. “See something you like?”

You flush, fighting the urge to look away. Don’t play into it. Change the subject. “What happened to your last mate?”

His expression shifts to something slightly more incredulous. “There wasn’t one. You’re my first, my last, my only. Dragons only bond once,” he says, that split tongue rolling along his sharp teeth, that gold tongue piercing clicking against them. You wonder where else he’s decorated himself with gold.

Wait, what did he say? Your gaze snaps back up from his mouth to his eyes, which are once more set into that self-satisfied slant. He’s closer to you now, and nearing by the second.

My first, my last, my only.

“But I am no dragon,” you say, leaning away subtly, though there isn’t far to go. He’s got you trapped nicely in place, like a butterfly beneath pins. “How could such a bond form?”

“I’m as mystified as you are,” he says, his hand sliding up the small of your back. “I didn’t think a bond was even possible for me. Apparently there’s something different about you,” he says, and you notice a brief twitch of his lip, a flicker that looks just a touch like disdain. It disappears as quickly as it had appeared. “Something special,” he murmurs, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath on your cheek.

Your heart races, your capacity for thought slowly disappearing the closer to you he gets. New subject, new subject! You think, frazzled by the warm spiced smell of him. His hand flexes on your hip, claws prickling your skin through your dress. “Aren’t you hungry?” You ask, eyes darting to the basket full of fruit just to his side.

“Yeah,” he rasps, voice so low you feel it reverberate. His nose brushes your cheek, trailing down from your jaw to your neck. You shiver, and the pulse between your thighs grows into a steady throb. He inhales deeply. “I’m famished.”

The world around you spins and the next thing you know, you’re on your back staring up at the aged banners draped along the stone ceiling, the fur pelts warm and plush beneath you. Homelander pins your arms down at your sides, once more poised on his hands and knees over you. His tongue draws a wet molten line from the collar of your dress to your throat, and you let out a soft, nervous cry as his teeth graze your skin.

Perhaps he’s going to devour you after all.

Oh gods! Gods, gods, gods, please no!

“Wait, wait! Don’t–please don’t eat me,” you plead in a panic, pushing up against his hands with all of your might. He doesn’t yield at all. You may as well be pushing against the stone walls of the tower itself.

He does laugh, however. It’s that same rumble of amusement that travels through your skin and into the core of you. “For the last time, I’m not eating you. I can smell your arousal, though. Practically taste it in the fucking air,” he says, trailing lower down your chest with every word, brazenly nuzzling the space between your breasts before continuing down. A wave of humiliation rolls through you at his words, and you look away. He releases your arms in favor of sliding his hands up your bare legs, pushing your dress up with them. “I’m just going to have a little lick.”

Frantically, you try to grab at him as soon as your hands are free. “Hold on, stop–”

“Enough!” He snarls suddenly, startling you quiet. You swear for just a moment that his eyes flash crimson. You clutch your hands to your chest. “You’ll not be harmed. Understand? Just… let me,” he says tersely, gaze hard before gradually softening as you silence yourself, watching him with wide, uncertain eyes. Satisfied, he lowers back down.

His sharp claws kiss harmless welts all the way up your legs, up to your hips, where he catches the band of your undergarments. He hooks his fingers over the waistband and drags them down, seeming to enjoy the way you pant and writhe under him, your heart racing.

“Have mercy,” you slip in quietly, squirming beneath the hot press of his hands, though you’re no longer struggling against him. “I’ve never–no one’s ever–I’m inexperienced,” you desperately explain, your mind running wild with what his size will mean for you if he decides he wants more than to taste you–to claim you, as he’d said before.

“Good,” he replies simply, pushing your knees up into a bend on either side of his head. “As you should be. As am I,” he says, turning his head to drag his split tongue in swirling patterns on your inner thigh, moaning at the taste of you.

You grip the pelts beneath you, brows furrowing. You stare down at the top of his head in confusion. “You are?”

“I told you. I’ve never had a mate. I’ve never felt the need to put my cock into what I intended to eat,” he says against your skin, erupting goosebumps all over your thighs. That should horrify you, but you’re instantly distracted by the sheer burning heat of his breath wafting over your wet cunt, a gasp slipping from your lips when he eagerly presses his tongue to it.

His tongue feels as smooth as glass, like liquid in the way it contours to your every curve. The split of it rubs on either side of your clit, massaging it between the two sides in a way that makes your knees shake. “Ffffuck,” he groans, immediately pushing his tongue into you, licking up the wetness of you twice as eagerly as he had that ripe peach.

You buck against him, a moan escaping you. The sound only encourages him to plunge his tongue deeper, that golden stud on his tongue brushing hotly against your inner walls. He drags it up and pushes it flush, half inside you and half grinding against your clit before pushing back in deep. It feels unlike anything you’ve ever known, so much better than your own curious, clumsy fingers. He laves attention on you like he’s starved for it, drinking just as thirstily as you had from the pitcher.

There’s no rhythm to the way he moves, no sense of consistency. He slips his hands under your ass and tugs you forward with ease, lifting you to push his thick split tongue even further inside you, plunging it in and out, growing greedier with every dive. He growls low in the back of his throat, tail thudding repeatedly against the floor. Instead of the little lick he claimed he was after, he’s working himself into an obvious frenzy feasting on you.

“H-Homelander, please,” you keen, his relentlessness rapidly building an unfamiliar pressure within you. He’s as sloppy as he is voracious, the wet sound of him obscene and loud in the enormous lair. His claws bite into your ass where he holds it firmly to his mouth, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. If he does, he’s taking it only as encouragement.

His tongue touches something inside you that makes your whole body jolt. You grab hold of both of his horns, your back arching as you desperately cling to them. You’re certain you meant to shove him back, to struggle. Instead, your body is ablaze as you yank hard on his horns, hitching your leg over his shoulder and riding his tongue with a shaking gasp.

The pressure bursts, and the wave of euphoria that crashes down on you is unlike anything you’ve ever known. You convulse against his mouth, walls tightening around the intrusion. You don’t recognize your own voice in the sounds you make as he continues to ruthlessly fuck you soaked and open with his tongue, his breaths so hot they nearly burn. The waves of your climax feel like they’ll never end, spurred on by every deep, wet thrust.

“Homelander! It’s too much, Homelander, too much, please, please–beloved, please, I can’t, I can’t,” you beg, desperate to get his attention. You’re on the verge of sobs when he finally withdraws his long molten tongue from you. You suck in a shuddering breath, releasing his horns and collapsing back against the pelts, sweat prickling along your hairline.

However, your shallow breaths are nothing compared to the sound of Homelander’s ragged panting. He looks entirely wild, smoke billowing from his mouth and nose, his cheeks flushed a dark red, the lower half of his face shiny with a mixture of your slick and his own drool. He takes his hands from under you and yanks the sash around his waist loose, dropping it to the side. Reaching behind him, he unfastens his pants.

Your mind is still a haze, but even through the delirium, you’re shocked by what you see when that rich navy fabric falls from his waist: his cock is as large as the rest of him, thick and dripping. The underside of it is strangely ribbed, a feature you’re certain is to be attributed to his draconic nature. Not only that, but he’s adorned in gold here, too, with a ring pierced into the head of his cock and studs between each ridge. Your eyes widen.

It’ll never fit.

Nevertheless, he looks entirely undeterred. Homelander adjusts himself between your legs, eyes thoroughly glazed over with lust, and presses his nearly scalding palms to your inner thighs, pushing them into a wide spread and down to the ground. Arousal and fear lance through you like a twin bolt of lightning.

“H-hold on,” you stutter, lifting a trembling hand. “I–” Bending over you, he silences you with a firm kiss. You press your hands to his chest and feel it thrumming beneath your palms, the heat of him more intense than ever. You can’t help but moan softly into it, overtaken by the smell of sex and something akin to burning incense. His tongue slips as deftly into your mouth as it did your cunt. Even after having felt it inside you, it’s thicker in your mouth than you’re prepared for, sliding in deeper, like he means to fuck you with it here, too.

It wholly distracts you until you feel a heavy, blunt press to your wet cunt. You make a half-hearted noise of protest, but his only answer is a low rumbling growl, claws biting into the meat of your thighs as he holds you still, effectively gagging you on his tongue.

His cock is as hot as the rest of him, but a great deal more solid than his malleable tongue. The thickness of it slowly spreads you wide, an aching pressure. You’re not sure if the burn of it is from the stretch or the heat, but either way it’s driving you insane. It’s hot and painful and good, frictionless with how thoroughly he soaked you, and despite your nerves, your cunt is loose with orgasm. It’s as if your body, independent of your mind, is eager to welcome him in.

You make a keening noise, the sound of it muffled in this devouring kiss. You grab hold of the leather straps across his chest and yank on them, twisting at them, but nothing takes your mind from how intense it feels to be split apart on the fat head of his cock.

The sounds Homelander makes in response are downright bestial, low and rumbling from his chest. Your only relief is when the widest swell of his cockhead finally breaches you, just the tip of it settling perfectly inside you. You cry out when he gives an exploratory backwards pull, and then shivers as he begins to rock gently, breathing heavily from his nose as he fucks you with nothing more than the head of his cock.

You’re starting to feel lightheaded, pitchy little noises leaving you with every exhale. Homelander sharpens his pace, breaking the kiss with a loud, carnal moan as he tips his head back. He’s barely even inside you and yet the girth of him is overwhelming, the ridges of his cock stimulating you in ways you didn’t know possible, the fat curved head rubbing against that same spot inside you that his tongue had previously made you see stars with.

Thoroughly overwhelmed by the incomprehensible assault of sensations, tears gather in your eyes. That pressure is building back up in you once more, starting at the base of your spine and slowly crawling up it. Desperate to tether yourself, to feel connected, you move your hand from the strap at his chest and touch his face. To your surprise, that instantly snaps his attention down to you, his beautiful blue eyes lost in a crimson glow.

Homelander meets your gaze, some level of cognizance returning to him, and whimpers, something hidden and vulnerable escaping in that exchange. He bends down, his nose brushing yours, and rests his forehead against yours while his thrusts grow more and more erratic, but never deeper. He fucks you in shallow, jagged snaps until finally that mounting pressure overwhelms you and you come again, simultaneously squeezing him into his own sudden release.

The flood of him inside you is burning hot, spilling into your core even from here, and he practically roars with it, burying that loud primal cry into the crook of your neck while his body stills, releasing pulse after pulse of thick, hot seed into you.

His breath billows hotly across your neck, the burning scent of him thick in the air. Your mind is so addled by your own euphoria that it takes you time to realize he’s speaking, fervent murmurings against your skin. “M’sorry, still, be still, I’m–don’t move,” he rasps, fractured little noises leaving him in between his words. You choke on your own breath when he sinks in, working you open slowly, shivers pitching up and down your spine. Gods above, he isn’t done.

Surely he doesn’t mean for you to take all of it… Does he?

You moan weakly, pushing your hand up into his hair and grabbing hold, which elicits a rumbling sigh from him in return. It’s silkier than you expected it to be. “Too big, it’s too much, it’s not–it’s not going to fit,” you pant out, screwing your eyes shut tight. While his release had initially softened him some, you can already feel his cock filling back out. Every bit he slips in further, you feel the mess of his release being forced out of you, come dripping down your thighs, slicking the way for the rest of him.

“It will,” he says at your ear, kissing the spot just below your earlobe, then your neck, his tongue slipping out to taste the sweat there before he kisses that same spot. He’s set upon you like an animal, lost to the drive of instinct, determined to fulfill his promise to claim what is his. “It will because it must. Because it’s yours. Because you’re mine.”

Homelander releases a breathy whine, sounding just as overstimulated as you are, nuzzling at your throat while he slowly works his way deeper, practically vibrating with restraint. He sounds as overwhelmed as you feel, but he refuses to stop, to lose. He holds you in place, growling whenever you squirm or struggle against him. The feel of it is dizzying, unbelievably hot and heavy, like fire given form, filling you in ways you didn’t know were possible. You’re feeling it again, the slow rise of that carnal pleasure building to an inevitable climax, and your whole body trembles with it.

You make a desperate keening noise, and Homelander hushes you, kissing your shoulder. “Sshhh, good, you’re doing so well for me. Don’t move yet, it’s almost over. You were made for this, for me. You feel it, don’t you? How easily your cunt opens to me. Nnngh, hah… Fuck, you fit me. You fit me. You do, and you always will,” he pants, voice hitching.

He slides his hands from your thighs to your waist, the press of his claws just shy of painful. With one final move, he lets out a quaking moan as he pulls you down onto the last of it, finally burying himself completely in your snug, come-soaked cunt.

The fullness of it breaks you–snapping the last tether that was holding you in place–and you come again, your velvety walls seizing up around him impossibly tight before spasming your pleasure around every vein, ridge and piercing he has. You can feel the shape of him so viscerally that you’re sure your body will remember it, carved out in the shape of his cock forevermore.

He cries out with your release, a reverberating sound that you feel all the way down to the marrow of your bones. You don’t know if he’s more in pleasure or pain, but he makes no move to retreat. Instead, he brings you that tiny bit closer, pressing every inch of your body to his. He rides out your pleasure, panting a wet spot into the crook of your neck.

Tears roll from your eyes to your temple, disappearing into your hairline as you breathe roughly. You’re overwhelmingly hot, oversensitized and raw, but as the aftershocks of your orgasm fade, your body steadily loses that quiver. You feel as if you’re melting down into the furs, struggling to even keep your eyes open as a gentle ecstasy sweeps over you.

Once he recovers enough, he lifts himself up onto his hands, and then sits back onto his legs, his hands on your hips to lift you partially into his lap to keep himself buried deep, hitching your legs around his waist. His eyes are completely glazed over, lips parted around heavy, hungry breaths. He doesn’t look at all sated. If anything, the look of his desire has only intensified, despite his obvious sensitivity. Sliding his hands up your body, he pushes your pretty white dress all the way up over your head, tossing it to the side so that he may finally see all of you.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice utterly frayed. He stares at you as though you’re a vision sent from the gods, a nymph plucked from the heavens and nestled snugly upon his cock. His hand sweeps down your stomach, settling low on it, where he lightly presses down. You both moan with the pressure, with how keenly you both feel it. “Told you it would fit,” he says, but his voice is not smug. There’s a breathless wonder to it, like he’s awestruck by the look of your body against his.

His tongue rolls out to sweep along his lips. He opens his mouth, and you can see threads of saliva snapping between his sharp teeth, his mouth wet with hunger. He continues to reverently stroke your stomach, his large splayed hand easily covering the expanse of it. “You’ll make a beautiful mother,” he says, a concept you don’t even know how to begin to unravel, but the way he says it makes you feel worshiped. “Perfect. So fucking perfect for me,” he says, a shudder in his voice. His crimson wings spread and curve in on either side of you, the hooked tips of them bracing on the stone floor.

“Mother?” You slur belatedly. You feel dizzy, your body as warm as burning coals and tingling all over. He lifts your legs one at a time, bringing each one up parallel to his chest. They hook over his shoulders as he leans forward, wasting no before time kissing you. His wings support his weight while he grips your thighs, squeezing possessively.

“Mother,” he confirms between kisses, bending you practically in half as he begins to rut against you. He’s not thrusting so much as he’s grinding into you, wringing a low moan from you. “You want that, don’t you? I’ll keep you safe. Feed you. Fuck you. I’ll take care of you, be yours, and you’ll be mine, won’t you? Sweet little thing, fucked happy and heavy with my children. Tell me. Tell me you want that.”

“Yes,” you moan, kneading the furs on either side of you. He paints a beautiful picture in your mind of fresh fruit, crisp water, and this dreamlike pleasure for the rest of your days. Beneath him, any thoughts of the world outside this moment melt away. There’s only the two of you, resplendently warm and living amongst the clouds. “I want it. I want–I want you,” you say, touching either side of his face. He leans heavily into your touch, his eyes falling shut. A soft noise that sounds like relief escapes him as you kiss him, coaxing that long, clever tongue out to meet yours.

The eagerness with which he reciprocates nearly chokes you, his tongue slipping over yours and halfway down your throat before pulling back, practically devouring you in this kiss. In your fever, this consuming passion feels so much like love it makes your head spin, makes you forget where, when and who you are. He breaks the kiss to moan unabashedly, shifting to put his lips to your throat, mouthing at your skin like he’s trying desperately not to sink his teeth in. The thought thrills you. You almost want him to.

“Again,” he pants, grip tightening on your thighs. “Say it again, please.”

“I want you,” you say again, more certain now. The desperation in him is disarming, and despite the animalism of him, you can clearly see the man in him now, hear it in the way he pleads for you to indulge him. That and the euphoric spill of pleasure electrifying your every nerve imbues you with some kind of sense of power, and however misplaced it may be, you immediately feel drunk on it. You can feel your body beginning to build back towards that ultimate swell of euphoria again. “I want to be yours. I want you to be mine.”

He groans, dipping lower to suck a mark at the junction between your neck and shoulder. This time, when you feel the brush of his teeth, you don’t shy away. You cup the back of his head and drag your nails down his scalp. Homelander thrusts his hips jaggedly, wringing a throaty gasp out of you. “Keep talking,” he demands, but you hear the plea for what it is.

“You feel good. Y-you fit,” you say, echoing his own words, though it’s getting harder to speak with the way he’s starting to fuck you in earnest, just barely withdrawing before he drives back in, as if he can’t bare to be more than an inch outside of you. You moan for him, chasing the bliss swelling rapidly between your legs.

Wait… Something really is swelling.

“What is that?” You ask, voice reedy. You whimper. Somehow, it feels as though he’s getting bigger. “What’s h-nnngh, what’s happening?” Your words are starting to slur together again, your mind split down the middle between your mounting orgasm, and the surreal feeling of the base of his cock growing inside you.

“Knot,” he explains between swipes of his tongue. “Keeps every drop of me inside you,” he says, giving a shuddering moan as that swell catches on the rim of your cunt when he tries to draw back. Just when you thought you had adjusted, that swell makes you ache, has you whimpering and squirming under him.

He could have told you it would get bigger!

“Oh gods, it–mmm, I’m–it feels–” You stop and start again and again, writhing, but he keeps you firmly in place, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh loud in your ears as he fucks you harder and faster, spurred on by the quiver of your cunt as your own climax nears.

“Come for me again. Show me that you want it. I want to feel your pretty little cunt squeeze my cock for my come,” he urges, voice reduced to a rough growl in your ear. He sounds like he’s barely holding himself together, every word more strained than the last. “Give it to me. Give yourself to me.”

The tug of his swollen knot bouncing off of your rim and the feel of his thick ridged cock massaging your walls completely overwhelms you. “Y-yes, okay, I’m–oh gods, gods, I’m–I’m coming, Homelander, Homelander!” You call, lips falling open on a silent scream as your throat locks up, a third orgasm crashing down on you with a force that knocks the air out of your lungs.

Homelander muffles his own cry into the crook of your neck, stilling halfway through your orgasm with one final slam. This time, the rush of his release is pressed tightly against your cervix, pooling inside you with nowhere to go, his knot doing precisely what he said it would. The heat of it fills you in hot, rushing spurts, his cock jerking against your spasming walls with every load he empties into you.

A sudden stinging pain makes you gasp, confusion seeping into the euphoria that has thoroughly addled your brain. Fuck, you realize he’s biting you. His teeth sink in as smoothly as a knife through fresh butter, the sting giving way to the sheer heat of his mouth, the stroke of his tongue, and the inexplicable way it intensifies your orgasm.

The room falls deafeningly quiet save for the pound of your own heart in your ears and the heavy way you’re each catching your respective breath. Your arms fall bonelessly to your sides as you pant, your vision slightly blurry. Homelander begins lapping at your shoulder, soothing the spot he’d bitten. Your whole body feels heavy, stuffed fuller than you ever could have conceived possible. All you can do is whine as he adjusts you, gingerly bringing your legs down to settle on either side of him.

You’re not sure how you’ll ever get off of his cock now that you’re on it. His knot feels like a permanent part of you, fitted so snugly that, just as promised, you don’t feel a single drop spill.

Homelander doesn’t stop at your neck. He drags his tongue down to the dip of your clavicle, where it splits apart slightly anywhere it moves over bone. It feels surreal, but somehow different from the first time you woke to him licking you. For starters, you’re not terrified he’s going to eat you. That has an entirely new connotation now.

He moves down further, slinking down into the valley between your breasts, sighing as he pushes them together to lave his tongue between. He’s languid, practically purring with each breath as he savors the feel and the taste of you. You don’t have it in you to feel much more than exhausted, your limbs as heavy as stone, but it does feel good. Your breath catches when he opens his lips around one of your nipples, sucking almost half of your breast into his preternaturally hot mouth. His pierced tongue swirls over your nipple while his teeth flex precariously against the tender flesh. You lurch, letting out a breathy noise.

“Careful, please,,” you exhale, earning a glance up from him. His eyes are completely glazed over, soft and dark in a way that takes your breath away. He hums quietly in some weak acknowledgement before his eyes flutter closed, his throat bobbing with every swallow as he sucks your breast with unexpected gentility.

Watching him stirs a wash of strange feelings in you. With what little strength you have, you bring your hand up to touch his horn, contemplating the texture of it beneath your fingers. You follow the line of it down to his skull, tracing his hairline just beneath the crown that adorns his head, slipping behind his sharply pointed ear. He’s truly incredible to behold up close like this, beautiful without the lens of terror you had been viewing him through.

On some level, you know you should still be afraid, but it’s a difficult feeling to muster when he’s warm and lax on your chest with his cock buried inside you, suckling on your breast as you’re still riding the high of three consecutive climaxes.

You push your fingers into his flaxen hair. You’ve never seen hair this color before except in very young children. In your experience, age always darkens it away to a sandy color, but his is as bright and warm as sunshine. There doesn’t seem to be any part of him that isn’t golden. He exhales a deep sigh as you run your nails along his scalp, nuzzling sweetly against you. You smile despite yourself.

Who would have thought that a dragon might be so very much like an overgrown house cat?

When Homelander lifts his head, his tongue is the last to leave, returning to his mouth with a wet slide across his lips. He’s left your skin shiny with saliva, but he isn’t finished. He immediately lowers himself to your other breast, taking it into his mouth in precisely the same way. You bring your other hand up into his hair and continue to massage his scalp, earning yourself an appreciative little moan from low in his throat, his tail sliding audibly back and forth on the stone floor.

The two of you lay like that for an indeterminate amount of time. You drift in and out of consciousness, worn thin and soothed by the heat of his body seeping into your muscles, fairly certain you’ll never be able to sit up on your own again. Homelander eventually releases your breast with a soft pop and settles his head on your sternum, narrowly avoiding taking one of your eyes out with his horn. You continue to stroke through his hair as your strength gradually returns.

The swell of his knot, too, lessens, but even soft his cock fits snugly inside you. It isn’t until Homelander gingerly lifts himself off of you that it slides out, coming free with a significant gush that soaks your thighs and puddles beneath you. You flush, making a strained little noise. You feel carved out and left hollow by the sheer size of him. His wings withdraw and tuck in behind him while he sits back on his legs to admire the splay of you beneath him.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, smoothing his hands up and down your thighs. You’ve never felt as exposed as you do in this moment, laid bare under his gaze. Even now, visibly drunk on pleasure and thoroughly satiated, there is an undeniable lingering famine in his stare. He sinks down and slowly spreads your legs apart, leaning in to run his tongue up the crease of your inner thigh. He laps languidly at your skin, earning hitched little breaths and sounds from you as his tongue deftly cleans the mess he’s made of you. He’s much more tame now than he had been, focusing not on overstimulating you, but simply washing you. It’s a strange and animalistic thing to do, but it’s intimate, too. Sweet, even.

Gods, he’s really done a number on your psyche.

Once he’s satisfied with the state of you, he climbs back up and settles on his side, looking at you with his hand poised over you, hovering like he isn’t sure what to do with it. His expression starts to shift, concern seeping into it. “You’re quiet. Did I hurt you?”

You huff a little breath. You’re quiet because you’ve just been fucked within an inch of your life by a dragon’s cock, but aside from that, of course he had. “You bit me, for starters.”

He turns somewhat sheepish at that. “Instinct. I wanted to mark you.”

“You succeeded,” you say, touching your shoulder tentatively.The skin is still raw, but it isn’t bleeding. It doesn’t even feel like it’s going to scab.

You must wear your confusion plainly, because Homelander is quick to explain: “I sealed the wound. It should be fully healed by sundown.”

“How did you seal it?” You ask, bolder now with how you touch it. It feels like simple indentations, a perfect mold of his teeth.

“My saliva has particular properties. There was a method to my debauchery,” he says, pointedly licking his lips.

You suppose that’s far from the most miraculous thing about him. “That’s convenient,” you say, to which he smiles. It’s bizarre how easily this comes now. You’ve heard of breaking the tension before, but this is certainly the most intense way you’ve ever broken through that initial barrier to more casual conversation.

Seeing that his hand is still hovering over you, you make a choice and take it, pulling it down to settle on your hip. Relief and excitement flash in his eyes in equal measure, and he takes that as permission to tuck you the rest of the way against him, settling on his side. He rests his head in his palm, propped up on his elbow. You curiously explore the plains of his chest with your fingertips, testing where flesh meets scales. They feel almost like bone, crimson colored protrusions that catch the light as prettily as rubies. They’re smattered along his body in the same way a human might have moles or birthmarks, incidental and seemingly without rhyme or reason.

His ribs are guarded by stiff plates that aren’t as solid as the scales, but look to serve as hardy protection. You let your fingers swoop down the ridges of them, comparing the textures along different parts of his body. It’s fascinating.

“I’ve never seen anything like–” you begin to pull your hand away as you speak, but Homelander takes hold of your wrist, bringing it back to his chest.

“Don’t stop.” You look up at him. His expression catches you off guard. He looks wounded, those fiercely blue and ever human eyes of his intensely focused on you. Swallowing, you nod. He lets go, and you begin to traipse your fingers along his chest again, following the line of the leather straps that cross over it. He lets out a heavy breath. “No one’s ever touched me like this,” he tells you after a long few beats of silence. “Not that I can remember.”

You glance up at him, but he’s staring down at your small hand tracing patterns on his chest. “What happened to this place?” You ask, because that seems politer than asking what happened to him.

“Guess it’s been too long for anyone else to remember. They’re all dead,” he says, the mood of his words difficult to discern. He inhales a contemplative breath, clicking his tongue at the end of it. “Time happened. I used to be something else to my people. I was… war. I brought fire down on their enemies, and they loved me for it. I won them their home. Homelander. There were others like me, but I was the best of them,” he says with conviction, though you sense bitterness in his voice, too. “When all the wars were won, they built this tower. They built monuments to their gods, and they placed us here with them as though we ourselves were relics.”

The end of his tail has begun to slap lightly against the ground. You can feel a slight uptick in the heat of him beneath your palm.

“They placated me with gold. Adorned me in it. At times they would summon me to festivals. Use my strength to build their stone cities, but they didn’t celebrate me. They had forgotten their love. They treated me as you would any other tool. Something to be taken off the shelf for work and put away when the task is done.”

The seething resentment is more clear in his voice than ever. While you didn’t ask it, it seems he understood what you really wanted to know. You’ve never heard this story before; The Devourer had only ever been a tyrant upon the people. No one ever spoke of a Homelander. No one ever spoke of a hero.

“When treasure failed to keep me impotent and obedient, they tried meat instead. They sent me livestock, as if the simple act of killing a cow would satiate me,” he snarls through his teeth, smoke wafting between them. He sucks it back, tipping his head up slightly in a bit to regain his composure. “They thought they could control me indefinitely. Out of sight, out of mind. It worked for too long, but only because I allowed it. Because I thought things would change. They never did. So I took their gold and their cattle and their crops and demanded more still. I demanded until they couldn’t ignore me any longer. When they failed to provide, I reigned fire down on them as I did their enemies two hundred years ago, and I gave them no choice but to look at the monster they made.”

His tail cracks like a whip against the stone floor. His anger is so visceral it makes your heart race, but there is more in his gaze than just fury. You feel as though you’re watching him rip apart the stitching over a wound that has been festering for far too long. “After that, they sent people. Simpering peasants who had no fucking idea who or what I really am. They bathed them in oils like slaughtered lambs basted for roast,” he growls, the blue of his eyes fading into an eerie crimson glow. “So I did. I devoured them, and I spat their own blood in their faces. If they wouldn’t have me as a man, they would have a beast instead.”

The Devourer.

You sit in stunned silence, watching as the glow of his eyes gradually fades, though his temperature remains the same. He looks at you, his expression braced, as if he anticipates a specific reaction. Rejection, you suppose. It seems to be the only thing he’s known for centuries. Within his gaze, you recognize a profound need to connect, to feel you, to hear that there might be a single soul in this gods damned world that wants him.

What does one say to such a story? The anger in his voice strikes such a wounded chord, you can practically smell the blood. The rawness of it alone makes your eyes prickle with tears, a lump gathering in your throat. How warped he has become not for the absence of love, but the deprivation of it. It’s clear in the way he speaks of them how desperately he wanted them to still love him.

“I’m sorry,” you say so quietly it’s a wonder he hears you. His expression flips completely, morphing into bewildered surprise.

“What?” His voice sounds small.

“I’m sorry that they abandoned you.”

If his own words are a knife in the wound, yours twist it deeper. He flinches like he’s been struck, staring at you with such bruised incomprehension. He opens his mouth to speak, but it’s as though he doesn’t even believe what you’re saying enough to formulate a response. He kisses you instead, holding your jaw in his claws. “I was good once,” he says against your lips, voice hushed as if he’s confessing a far graver sin. “I’ll be good for you. Let me be good for you.”

The desperation in his voice sets loose your tears. You nod, kissing him just as fervently. Centuries of bloodshed on the back of willful neglect is difficult to stomach, but you believe him. You believe the love that went into this tower–this beautiful prison–that they made for him, and you believe the love that you saw in his face carved in stone. You have no doubt that the wonder of him once inspired all those who beheld them, and that they were fickle enough to grow weary of him. Desensitized and disinterested.

When he rejected their apathy, they rejected his humanity.

Homelander lifts you up into his arms, sitting up, kissing you properly with a hand cupping the back of your head, his arm around your middle. His wings curve in around you, and he kisses you until your lips turn sore and you have to protest, your words melting into muffled laughter. He draws back with a brilliant grin. It’s different from the others you’ve seen; it’s the kind of smile that brings deep warmth to his eyes, crinkling them at the corners. He lingers close to you, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

“I stopped believing a long time ago that you could be real,” he murmurs, unable to stop himself from stealing another quick kiss, his nose purposefully brushing yours. He’s thoroughly starved for every little touch.

“I am. So are you. Not the Devourer, the Scourge, nor the Red Death,” you say, tucking back the stray locks of hair that have fallen over his crown. This, too, had been carved for him. He had been loved once, and as he said, he had been good. There is love in you enough to help him find that goodness again. There’s no reason you cannot live for the being you intended to die for. “Just you. Just Homelander.”

He kisses you, and suddenly you feel as if you’re free falling. From this point on, your life is something new. Something inexplicable and unpredictable. It’s yours, but it’s also his.

All that glitters is not gold, and sometimes the monster in the dark is just your reflection.

phew. thank you SO much for reading. this fic took me almost a full month to write, and it often felt like it was never going to end. that said, i'm already kind of chomping at the bit to write more in this universe. i feel like these two have a ton of potential, and there's just so much more that i want to do with them now that we have the groundwork done. once again, a huge shoutout to the amazing artist @anon-nee, who not only illustrated our dragon boy himself, but these awesome environment sketches as well. please be sure to go give them some love! The Tower of the Seven

The Dragon's Lair

#homelander x you #homelander x reader #monster romance #terato #monster x human #dragon x reader #monster x reader #homelander fanfiction #i'm gonna need so much aftercare from y'all on this one i've been writing it for the last 23 days lmao #and i'm posting it all at once because I LOVE U #my writing #monsterlander mania

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aelenavelaryon · 5 months

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Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen Reader

Summary: Daemon finally finds love

Aella Targaryen was nothing like the rest of her family. She couldn't be. Many would often said she was a sweet girl whose only mistake was to have Valyrian blood cursing through her veins. House Targaryen had been on the Iron Throne for over a hundred years, she could remember the throne, it was rather beautiful she would admit. But, House Targaryen was a cursed lineage. Aella thought it was because they were all related. Brothers married sisters, uncles married nieces, cousins married cousins.

When Aella was brought to court she was nothing but a babe. Only one perhaps two moons old. Daughter of Saera Targaryen and her brother Rhaegar Targaryen. Rhaegar and Saera had both been wild and untamable. The two ran away after Saera escaped Old Town and they were never seen again until now. Aella Targaryen was born in the year 105. Rhaegar brought his daughter to court, to present among the realm. Saera had died in her birthing chamber. Viserys, who had lost his wife a nearly two years prior welcomed them both. Aella grew up beside Alicent’s children and Rhaenyra's children.

Aella although growing up with her cousins she preferred to be alone, sitting in the gardens or her room and reading a history book. Her father wondered where she had gotten all of that, she was not like her mother or him. But, there were things he did like singing, poems and song writing much like his daughter. Aella had the basic training, in case she had to protect herself but the young girl no matter the circumstances could never and would never bring herself to hurt anyone. It wasn't in her blood no matter how much her father tried. But Rhaegar would protect his daughter no matter the cost. She rode Meraxes, queen Rhaenys dragon, the princess died that day but her dragon lived.

As the years passed, Aella Targaryen grew into a beautiful maiden. "The Realm's Angel" or "The Realm's Desire" surpassing her cousin Rhaenyra in beauty and everything else. Aella had reached her ten and five name day and was yet to be unmarried. Her father was the reason for that, although he was no king he saw that no one was fit to marry his only child. No one would ever be good enough. Alicent thought it would be a good idea to marry her to Aegon or Aemond if she wished. Rhaenyra thought she would be a great match for Jacaerys or Lucerys. Rhaegar Targaryen refused, once again. But, a few moons later he passed from a swollen belly, leaving his only child at the mercy of her family.

Aella didn't know who to choose as her family had given her the choice to marry who she wanted between the four boys. She was dutiful, whoever her uncle had chosen she would have married but she did not want to disappoint anyone by choosing wrong. The council knew that Aella marrying either of her nephews was a tragedy waiting to happen, so the young girl offered a marriage between another house but Rhaenyra, Alicent and the king denied her. Daemon who had recently lost his wife asked her to marry him, to unite themselves and protect each other. Aella was young, only fifteen summers old what did she know about love. She knew more about duty than love.

So, to stop any family issues or more drama she agreed and secretly married Daemon, consummating their marriage, now it could not be broken. The news reached King's Landing the morning after, creating chaos in the court. The king was fragile in health so he did nothing, besides they were married and they had consummated there was no breaking anything. Rhaenyra stayed in King's Landing, while Daemon, his wife and two daughters remained in Dragonstone. Nearly a year after their wedding Baelon Targaryen and Rhaegar Targaryen were born. Strong boys. On their second named day, their sisters Rhaella and Visenya had been born. When the boys were five, their sisters three Aemma and Viserys were born.

Baela and Rhaena quickly accepted Aella as she had this motherly warmth the girls loved and she had glady taken the role as their mother, not that she would try to replace the girls mother but she did her best to love and care for them as she did for her own children. Aella with Daemon's approval let the girls ride their dragons to Driftmark to visit their grandparents. Rhaenys and Corlys were grateful that the young girl allowed them to visit their mother's family as much and as often as they could. The six children had been kept a secret through out the years. Aella was near her one and twenty name day. As a result, the king had invited her and her family to celebrate as a family.

Her arrival had been expected, Aegon was now married to Helaena and had two children, twins. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. Aemond was unmarried but as far as she knew he was bethroted to a Baratheon girl. Jacaerys was to marry soon but his mother and father were looking for a suitable match. When she arrived, Daemon and the girls were waiting as her and the children had sailed there due to the young kids. Rhaenys and Corlys who were there watched their granddaughters run to their new mother. They saw the love the two girls had for her. King Viserys recovered and went back to being the peaceful king he was. He waited with his family as he watched Daemon help his wife.

She had turned into a beautiful woman, everyone could agree. She seemed happy with Daemon. And she was, he treated her good and with respect. "My king, my queen" she greeted with a nod. "Princess Rhaenyra, Laenor" she said with a smile. She greeted everyone. "Now, may we present our children?" she asked and everyone turned to her. They were surprised. The king nodded and Daemon signaled the maids to bring them. "Baelon and Rhaegar, our oldest. Visenya and Rhaella out second oldest. Viserys and Aemma our youngest" Daemon introduced as the four oldest made their bows to the king and queen. The youngest were only one.

"May I?" the king asked as he took Aemma, she had her eyes. Rhaenys took Viserys. "Baelon looks like our father, and Rhaegar looks like Aemon" Rhaenys nodded in agreement. Everyone cooed over the Aella'a children and all she did was smile. During the feast for her nameday, Daemon and his wife could see the tension between Alicent and Rhaenyra. "I would like to propose an alliance between our families" Aella began. She had spoken with Corlys and Rhaenys, and of course her husband. "A bethrotal between Jacaerys and Baela. And Rhaena with prince Lucerys" she said with a smile. Rhaenyra smiled. "I think that is a great idea" Daemon held her hand and nodded. "In addition, if Aegon and Helaena agree Jaehaera could marry Baelon and Vinseya Jaehaerys" the table was quiet but Alicent smiled. "I think that is magnificent idea" the king nodded in agreement. "Our house will be united" she smiled happy with the outcome.

Aella Targaryen was a woman many remembered, she had given her family peace but that peace nearly broke when Otto Hightower deemed her dangerous, sending for someone to kill the princess. The princess perished on top of her dragon as a scorpion hit the beast right in the neck, killing it instantly. She received the same fate as queen Rhaenys. The lady didn't survive the fall. Daemon Targaryen never remarried but once he found out who killed her, the Hightowers, more importantly Otto, he was killed soon after. Alicent was pardoned as she didn't know anything. Rhaenyra was crown queen and the princess match's were honored as Baela married Jacaerys, Rhaena Lucerys, and once older Baelon and Visenya married Aegon's children.

The Sweet Summer Child died but her memory remained throughout the years. Aella Targaryen iii married her brother Rhaegar, giving him the heirs he needed. House Targaryen didn't end with Daenerys Targaryen, it went on. It prospered. From Aella Targaryen the first, came the prince that was promised and the realm lived in peace.

#daemon targaryen x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader #game of thrones x reader #house of the dragon x reader #rhaenyra targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #harwin strong x reader #alicent hightower x reader #daemon targaryen #daenerys targaryen #daenerys stormborn #rhaegar targaryen

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milquetoad · 2 years

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what do u guys think their fav class to play as is when they play dnd together i’ll go first ray = paladin/barbarian, gerard = bard/cleric, mikey = artificer/wizard, frank rogue/driuid

#can also see gerard as a warlock… great old one patron…..#feel like ive played a game w a frank before. dude played a fairg rogue who frenched a town council member n died in our 2nd combat encounte #i literally want nothing more in the world than to sit in on a game gerard dms. imagine gerard way dming the wild beyond the witchlight #jut fucking. Picture it #im in my dungeons n dragons feelings to ight sorry that im cooler than u #my posts #my chem

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k-hippie · 8 months

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CHAMPIGNAC : A NEW SIMS 3 WORLD

Champignac is a fully living Frenchy suburbia World based on Champs-les-Sims and has nothing to do with a vacation place ... Well, nothing is not really the right word ;)

Back in 2016/2017, when we began to think how we could remade Champs-les-Sims, we didn't know really what kind of world we wanted to do. We named the project : Sims de Nimes. Then, because we were on other projects ( such as sims 4 k-mods ) we left Sims de Nimes somewhere in the pipes.

We made Oaksoak Hollow ( based on Mystic Falls ), we made Eureka Valley ( a world between tech and classic life ) and we left behind the Sims 4 because, well ... too long to explain. :D

So, it was time to get out of the box our old project of Sims de Nimes ... During this time, some talented creators re-made Champs-les-Sims with their own vision, more oldy or more city life like, or more like Sunset Valley ... All those versions are interesting, but we wanted something else. And so, is born Champignac !

If Champignac is a true living suburbia world, it is too a quite rural world, almost a village with :

37 Community Lots

36 Residential Lots

10 Medieval Towers all around the town :)

In addition, it remains few Empty Lots, differently sized to suit whatever you wish ... So, let's say Champignac is a french-not-so-little-town where life is slowly flowing and dynamic at the same time, perfect for families and Sims looking for a different lifestyle :)

A typical downtown and outskirts, full of old buildings and southern architecture, a joyful mix between south-east and south-west housing, with a touch of something more northener ( but don't tell the citizens; it's a sure way to be frowned upon ) ... After all they worked hard to keep Champignac as it is!

People living in Champignac are quite glad of it. Sure, teenagers dream of foreign lands, but they are not too eager to leave.

Once, the townies of Champignac were grumpy because Champs-les-Sims was so more popular than their hometown ... After all, everybody went to Champs-les-Sims, stayed there, made nectar, drove a Kenspa, flirted with locals, or … anyway! Tourists had a full experience in Champs-Les-Sims and weren't interested in visiting any other city. Champignac, the official twin city, didn't benefit from any international exchanges, and was left anonymous, far from fame and glory. As unreachable as the Eiffel Tower seen from Champignac ... until ...

In February 29th of a certain year, a distant descendant of Marquis de Landgraab lost his way on the road to Champs-les-Sims and landed in Champignac. Instantly, he fell in love with the town.

He saw an always growing vegetation, a Monastery full of secrets, the familial beach ( yes, there is a beach in Champignac ), the forgotten obelisk, the shop keepers full of stories, the well preserved houses, the green fields and the paved streets, the true Café Catane and a remaining wild fauna running here and there ... He saw perfection !

For a time, the townies of Champignac experienced fame and glory. But how exhausting it was! Tourists not really caring about the legacy of the kiosk owner, the monks overwhelmed, the museum director who couldn't find enough teenagers to help ... Even the fishes were exhausted! Hard times indeed ... Happily, this descendant of Marquis de Landgraab met someone, somewhere, and moved out, far far away from Champignac. Celebrities said their last goodbyes and slowly, life, as it should be, was back :) The townies and City Council learned from that experience that they very much preferred not to be as famous as Champs-les-Sims ...

Life in Champignac was relatively calm again when suddenly, a global health crisis emerged and the Simvid-18 pandemic hit many many people ... Anxiety swept through the villages and the small towns, including Champignac of course ... With an aging population, residents became increasingly concerned about the well-being of their neighbors and the future of the city.

Shop owners and farmers who were already considering retirement were now faced with the daunting task of deciding whether to continue their businesses in such uncertain times. The entire world seemed to come to a halt, leaving everyone in Champignac wondering who would carry the torch and ensure the future.

Surprisingly, the youngsters that only came sporadically for holidays, moved back to Champignac. Fearful of living in a crowded city and eager to gather with family members, they came to the old town with friends. After all, there were spare bedrooms in most houses!

When the restrictions were lifted, many were reluctant to leave. Going back to a stressful life and fast-paced city wasn't enticing anymore. Most decided to turn their lives around. They took up the florist shop or asked for a job transfer ... So, life emerged again :) Champignac is now a thriving town where you have everything you wish for and nothing more.

Champignac is blessed with old churches turned into bars or wineries, old palazzi that are inspiring, and small boutiques as gathering places ...

Winters and autumns are short, while spring and summer are long. Come and live among thousands of old buildings, walk on streets Roman soldiers once trod upon, see treasures from foreign campaigns, and benefit from the perfect blend of country living and town living.

Remember ... With its unique blend of history, culture, and natural beauty, Champignac offers the Sims a captivating and enriching experience. From the stunning architecture to the delectable cuisine, every aspect of this town reflects the South of France’s intoxicating charm.

Are you ready to move in Champignac ?

blackgryffin \o/

IMPORTANT : We advice STRONGLY to begin with the half-populated SavaGame provided in addition to the World itself ...

DO NOT FORGET to download the CC of Champignac we provide on our website too ! for more information, see the 2 posts below ;)

Have fun !

DOWNLOAD HERE

#sims 3 #sims 3 custom content #sims 3 worlds #sims 3 world #sims 3 cc #k hippie #sims 3 build #champignac #champs les sims #sims de nimes #k-hippie worlds #k hippie worlds

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frankcastleonlyfans · 2 years

Text

𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐃

pairing: aemond targaryen x lannister!reader

warnings: nsfw headcanons at the end SO NOT FOR MINORS, aemond is a good husband, reader has lannister features, breeding kink, spanking, hair pulling, anyways that nasty stuff but not so nasty.

author's note: i aged the green children so, aemond loses his eye at 15/16.

reblogs, feedbacks and likes are appreciated. support your content creators 💓 please leave a comment if you like my work, and enjoy your reading.

gif by @alicent-hightowers

· ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · ୨♡୧ · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ ·

— brief story:

When you were a child, your father let you under the guardianship of your uncle, Tyland, who was part of the small council of the King.

That was how you met him. You grew up together.

King's Landing was your home, and the Targaryens were your family.

Helaena was like a real sister to you. You really couldn't remember your own.

Aegon had his sick sense of humor, but he never truly bothered you.

And Aemond... his simple existence brought you comfort.

And you did the same for him.

You would always assure him that he'd find a dragon someday.

He'd always compliment your blonde locks.

You had so much in common with the prince, it was like you were made for each other. It was like destiny.

Queen Alicent looked at you as a daughter, since you treated her family so well.

"Mother says I'll be marrying Aegon." Helaena said, playing with her centipede.

You thought the bugs were gross, but you appreciated the way your friend was so fascinated by it.

"That's unfortunate. I love Aegon, but we both know he's not up to marriage." You said, paying attention to your sewing.

"I wish mother could have betrothed me to Aemond. At least he cares about me." Helaena murmured.

Aemond wasn't anything to you but a friend, and you still felt jealous from his sister's words.

"I wonder when will I get married..." You sighed.

"Don't worry, Y/N. A lion and a dragon shares the same heart." Helaena smiled.

You frowned, grinning awkwardly, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Helaena shrugged. You could take a wild guess, but your friend always seemed to talk nonsense.

After the royal wedding, your father took you back with him to Casterly Rock, where he would be finding you a suitor.

You'd still be in touch with Aemond and Helaena, sending letters to know about their well being.

That's how the young prince told you about his eye incident.

That's how you told him about your possible betrothal to the son of Prince Qoren Martell.

Aemond was quick to beg to his parents to make you his wife.

Lord Jason Lannister couldn't refuse the King, even though he wanted to. After all, he was refused by the King's heir, Princess Rhaenyra.

The ceremony had to wait until your first blood.

No one would guess that it would take years for that to happen.

You and Aemond exchanged letters through the years, and you've seen his personality change in it.

Through his words, you saw the boy prince turn into a man.

And after you turned into a woman, at the age of 18, you married the twenty year old prince.

When you saw Aemond for the first time in years, you couldn't recognize him.

Yes, he was missing an eye. But he was so... incredible handsome. A totally different person.

It awaken something in you.

"It's been a while since we've seen each other. I remember how you used to play with the cats around the Keep and... I have a present for you. I hope you like it." Aemond gave you a red box with a golden ribbon wrapped around it.

You chewed on your bottom lip and opened the box, not expecting a feline to jump on your lap out of it.

"Aemond!" You exclaimed with a large smile in your lips, "You're giving me a lion cub!?"

The prince bit back a smiled to your reaction. It made his heart warm to see you so happy.

"He will be trained so he doesn't get violent in the future. You're the first one of your house to have an actual lion. What are you going to name him?"

"Have you seen a lion named dragon?" You wondered.

The prince frowned, chuckling. "Hm, no?"

"Well, me neither! Probably raising a lion is easier than raising a child."

"Let's test that, shall we?" Aemond smirked.

— your relationship:

Aemond is possessive. He doesn't like to leave you alone with any man, especially if the man in question is his brother.

He constantly says that he wants lots of children.

Aemond likes to play with your blonde locks between his fingers.

He hopes for your children to have your hair and his eyes.

Most of your time alone with him, he likes to chase you around your chambers, and play like you're both children.

He misses the lost time with you that your father took from him.

He lets you take off his eyepatch, and leave soft kisses on his scar.

You often says how handsome he is.

He often confesses his love for you.

Aemond is a cold-hearted person with everyone, but you.

— your nsfw relationship:

Aemond is vocal. He growls and moans a lot. And he actually feels really comfortable doing so.

And he notices how your cunt clenches around him when he does so.

He likes to fuck you on all fours. He can easily slap your ass and pull your hair at the same time.

He's obsessed with pulling your hair.

He kisses your arched back, using his hand to play with your clit, watching you turn into a whining mess.

"Can I cum?" You'd ask, having your face smashed against the mattress while your husband is pounding deep into you.

He loves to control your orgasms. And also, to gaslight you.

"I don't know, princess. Can you?" Aemond teased, smacking your ass hard.

And if you cummed without his permission, he'd punish you.

Aemond was trying really hard to get you pregnant.

In the first week as a married couple, none of you left your shared chambers.

He discovered a breeding kink just to the thought of your cunt leaking his cum.

And even when you eventually got pregnant, we couldn't stop fucking you.

Your swollen breasts full of milk, your swollen belly carring his children... everything about it made him hard.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen imagines #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen headcanons #house of the dragon imagines

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man3at3r-mp4 · 3 months

Text

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕭𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕷𝖆𝖒𝖇 𝖍𝖍 𝖃 𝕸𝖆𝖑𝖊 𝕽𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗

Prologue

Chapter 1 Chapter 3.5

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

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Once upon a time, a long time ago there was a glowing city protected by golden gates known as heaven. It was ruled by beings of pure light, angels that worshiped good and shielded all from evil.

Lucifer was once, one of these angels, blessed with beauty and wild mind for creativity. But, he was also reckless, for his ideas while creative, were dangerous and could threaten the safety of heaven.

Soon, as the angels began to expand the universe, from the dust of earth they created Adam and Lilith. Equals, the first of mankind. But something went wrong, Lilith rebelled the orders of the angels and fled the garden.

Lucifer, soon found her, drawn by her rebellion against order, the two soon fell in love, a love not holy a love that went against everything heaven stood for.

The two rebels, not yet had their fill of their chaos and rebellion, turned their attention towards Eve, Adam's new bride. Lucifer and Lilith tempted Eve, with the apple of knowledge, and Eve was not strong enough to resist.

With this simple act of disobedience, evil finally found its way to earth, with it a new realm of darkness and sin.

As the council of angels tried desperately to maintain the chaos, they knew Lucifer and Lilith has to face punishment. As punishment for their crimes, Lucifer and Lilith were sent to dark pit he had created, becoming the worlds first fallen Angel.

Despite the angels best efforts, they could not completely rid sun of the world, Lucifer's and Lilith's damage had already been done. But the angels not letting their hope be lost, worked harder then every before to fix the damage Lucifer and his lover had cost in both heaven and earth.

The angels created judgement, each time a mortal soul would pass on from earth they'd be judged on the goodness of their soul. If they lived a good life, with no temptations to sin, they'd be granted the privilege to be in heaven. If a soul lived a life full of sin, choosing to follow after Lucifer and cause damage and destruction in their wake. They'd be sent to the pit full of darkness where such a soul belongs, hell.

Despite a new wave of sin, ramping the earth, the dream of a world without sin and a heaven brother than ever before, was passed down to the seraphim sister's younger brother. The prince of Heaven.

As the voice finished speaking, a hand closed the book titled 'The story of Heaven'. The bright gold and white adorned key, clutched in a dark greyish hand. She stared at the key, longingly before a small hand and a high pitched voice called out to her.

"Sera! Sera!" The little boy pleaded

"Yes, y/n?" The female Angel asked, as she placed the book down on her lap, the key transforming in a bright blue puff of smoke, into a white, three eyed, winged puppy.

A child sat not far from the angel, on a bed way to big and elegant for a 4 year old. 'Y/n' blinked, as the puppy nuzzled into the child's hand as it sat beside them. "Um...why?"

The female blinked, "why what?"

"Why did Lucifer go against everyone?"

Sera blinked, "Well, he simply got cocky thought he knew everything better than everyone else did" she replied.

"But...why?" Y/n asked again, frowning.

"Because, Y/n" she replied once more.

"But because why?" He repeated. Sera sighed, rubbing her temple.

"Y/n..."

"Why did Lucifer think he was better? Why did Lilith leave the garden? Did she think she was better than Adam too? But why would she do that? Also why did they give Eve the apple? Why did they-"

As the little boy went on and on with his questions.

The snow haired Angel sighed once more. Before she could could get Y/n to quiet down, she was snapped out do her thoughts by the door creaking open.

Sera snapped her head, over to the door only to see a familiar short figure, adorned in a similar dress like hers. The older female smiled, " Good evening, Emily. Nice of you to join us"

The said Angel smiled, "Evening!" She said enthusiastically. "I just wanted to check on how your mission to get Y/n asleep was going."

Sera groaned, "Not very well, as you can tell" she gestured to the boy who was still talking and rolling around in his bed, while Skelly, the dog, happily began to roll around with the child, only to roll a bit too far and fall off the bed.

Emily chuckled, "I told you, that book would have been too much for him"

Sera frowned, "I don't think it's funny, I just wanted him to know the story of our people, he's never too young to learn". Emily's smile dropped for a moment.

"Well, of course not but he's only 4 years old Sera. I don't think he'd be able to fully grasp all that information." She replied, "at least not in word form, let him have his childhood a bit more. I'm sure when he's old enough he'll understand." She suggests.

Sera pauses, thinking over her sister's words, "I suppose you're right."

Emily smile once more, before turning towards the bed where Y/n was still blabbering on about Lilith and Lucifer and such. "Now, how about we get him to bed."

Sera nods, "Alright, but how? I've nearly tried everything...I wasn't expecting children to be so hard to handle". Emily chuckles once more, "maybe he'd like a song? Oo! What about the Lantern show!"

The other angel rose a brow, "Are you sure, that'll get him to sleep? The lanterns are pretty bright." The shorter female pouted "Cmon' Sera! We planned the show specifically for him! We do it every year since he'd been born!"

At the mention of lanterns, the lamb boy perked up. "Lantern show! Lantern show! Can I watch it please please please!" He asked, sitting up right immediately.

Emily motioned over to Y/n "See! He wants to, cmon!". The taller Angel rose a brow, still a bit unconvinced. That's when the others decided to pull out their ultimate move.

Puppy dog eyes.

Emily and Y/n pressed their faces together, as they pouted,making their eyes as wide and as large as possible, dilating their pupils as they looked up at Sera. The said Angel blinked, trying to resist the urge to give in to such cute faces. She almost did.

Key word. Almost.

Then Y/n grabbed Skelly, and pulled him in between his and Emily's faces.

He was also doing puppy dog eyes.

Sera groaned, "Fine." She finally gave in.

Emily and Y/n grinned as they cheered, "Yay!" While Skelly barked happily. Sera shook her head playfully before smiling, "alright, alright come on"

She placed the book back on the shelf, before she leaned down and scooped Y/n into her arms. The boy smiled, nuzzling into her chest for warmth.

Sera smiled softly, at the affection as both her and Emily made their way out onto the balcony. They both sighed contently as the fresh air hit their faces.

The peaceful moment was interrupted by Emily squealing as she clapped her hands, "ooh ohh! It's starting!" She cheered, as Skelly joined in on her cheers by barking.

Y/n fixed his position in Sera's arms a bit so he could get a better look over the balcony. His eyes widened in awe as multiple "lanterns" began to be released by the other angels of heaven as they floated up into the sky.

They weren't actually lanterns, they were bits of heavy magic, the angels began to send to earth to spread a new wave of hope in the human realm. This tradition started, on the day of y/n's birth. But of course y/n didn't know that, he's only 4 years old after all.

Y/n turned to look up at Sera. "Can we make one! Please please!" He begged, jumping up and down slightly in her arms.

Sera smile, "I don't see why not"

"Yippee!" Y/n cheered, before he focused on his older sister's palms. As goldish hue began to burst from their palms, he watched in awe as two 'lanterns' appeared in front of them. The younger Angel smiled, concentrating on his palms as he closed his eyes in deep concentration.

Emily had to stifle a coo at how adorable her little brother was.

A little 'poor' sound followed shortly after, Y/n fluttered his eyes open to see a small little lantern, with a lamb symbol on it. "I did it!" He said, triumphantly.

"That you did" Sera said, smiling. "Good job"

"I wanted mine to be a bit bigger tho.." the youngest muttered. Sera patted her younger brothers head, as she restrained a laugh.

"You'll get there eventually"

"Let's send them off! Ooh! I cant wait any longer!" Emily whined, impatiently.

Sera rolled her eyes playfully, "Very well". All three of them held onto their lanterns, Sera rejusted Y/n so she was holding him one of her arms. In perfect synch, they let go of their lanterns. The siblings watched as they floated up into the sky, in a peaceful silence.

"Mary, did you know that your baby boy

Is Lord of all creation?" Sera broke the silence as she sang, in a elegant yet soft tone.

"Mary, did you know that your baby boy

Would one day rule the nations?" Emily joined in her sister.

"Did you know that your baby boy

Is heaven's perfect Lamb?" As they both sang, they joined in harmony, Y/n's eye began to feel heavy. He yawned.

As they sang, Y/n couldn't help but let his eyes drift down past the other angels of heaven, and towards the golden gates. "What about down there?" He asked, breaking the two out of their lullaby.

Noticing his sisters confused looks, he reiterated. "Down there!" He pointed past the golden gates. "Why don't we send lanterns down there? Maybe the demons just want a little light?" He says.

It was quiet for a moment, but Sera visibly tensed. "No Y/n," she said. "We don't send ourselves or our magic down there." She sounded stern.

"But why?" The lamb asked. "Maybe they're scared of the dark? Maybe that's why they're so bad, I'd be bad too if someone forced me to stay in the dark all the time! It's so scary! maybe if they saw some light, they won't be mad all the time"

Sera remained silent, as she did Emily began to speak up. "Y/n,...we don't worry about what goes on below, okay?" She says, she seemed a bit nervous.

"But why?"

"Because, we have our people to worry about" Sera spoke up once more. "We need to keep our people safe okay? We can't worry about the affairs of demons. You want to keep our people safe dont you?" . The child nods. Causing his older sister to smile, "good..now let's get you to bed.."

As Sera readjusted Y/n once more, Y/n nuzzled into her shoulder, but he couldn't help but look out at the sky longingly savoring the fresh air before the balcony doors shut.

If you think the name Skelly is weird for the dog, i don't blame you. Lmao, it's supposed to stand for skeleton key. That's all I could think of. If y'all have better suggestions lmk

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#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x y/n #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin hotel x male reader #hazbin angel dust #vivziepop #vivzieverse #hazbin hotel x reader #adam hazbin hotel #charlie morningstar #sera hazbin hotel #emily hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #fanfic #x reader #x male reader

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dhampling · 1 month

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ivory tower 18+ ASCENDED!ASTARION X AFAB!READER, 4.6K

Something deeply sordid, raw; ungodsly. There’ll be no Lathandrian blessing for your young, no gentle welcome into some family fayre on the outskirts of the city; but you want this.

woah boy! my first ascended astarion piece, so please be kind! dal is back babey! woooo! thank you to @bhaalism and @lipstickghoulie for dealing with me while writing this i love you both endlessly. wc: 4.6k cw: afab reader, female language used. breeding, mind-control, p in v, ascended astarion, public fingering, private banging, great times all round, as always if there are errors no there aren't, creampies, yippee

Baldur’s Gate doesn’t sleep. Not really.

She sometimes slows just enough to find some purchase amongst the muddle, though - tiptoes lazy through highsun in soft linens, the burgeoning swell of soap suds and sunny rosemary through wide open wooden shutters. Lingering - sweat-soaking worn leathers, the sore of the flex in the arch of your foot splayed over cobble. As if to grasp at the memory, your fingers stretch out from your side and on to the dark oak of the armrest, in a moment of sheer jubilance. Summer. The sun. Wide bright mornings. Hopeful and hot as a bated breath.

The city ambles onward this evening, no different despite the inclement weather and the din of an early darkness. Half-lidded through dark streets as rain smatters the roofs with wet, glistening something dozy under the tall oil street lamps and swirls of ever-present heavy fog. Gurgling whilst each drain fills with water and swallows deep into the sewers.

Scatters the hay, bears the slip; sings a slow drunken stutter of thunder-wind whiling at the windows into the small hours. There’s a comfort to be found in it.

The harbour bell will go on to toll for every sail weary ship coming in from the fog; the crescent caress of the Gate’s waiting arms lit low with oily dots of amber. That even this late into the night the bands of trawlers on the dock work crates and barrels into cargo holds with worn hands and ruddy cheeks. The gulls and their scattering squawks. The flapping of their fat feathered wings up into the clouds.

From where you sit in the Ivory Tower you can hardly see anything at all. Fog obscures the streets to a point, other than the light patches under the oil lanterns out on the ramparts. The window runs dripping wet with condensation. Pools under the pane.

A hideaway of sorts within the manor. Newly reclaimed by Astarion in some deal with the quivering council in order to keep him sweet. Not that he has any armies of undead in his retainer to command as yet, but they don’t need to know that. There’s time. You’re still blessedly mortal and able.

Astarion.

He should be skulking the halls somewhere below with that unnerving silent step he’s taken to using. Your cheeks grow warm, the blanket over your shoulders pulled closer into your chest as you allow your mind to run wild; the scald of bliss to your brain like that of some ironmonger’s poker, split straight to the core.

Your love. Your lover.

Amongst his many newfound desires and passions seemingly includes the impetus to redesign a centuries-old palace from scratch, and while you doubt he has the want nor willpower to take the project anywhere near to completion you’re more than happy to indulge him during this burst of creativity. A designer’s eye. Lavish yet not ostentatious, he tells you. Your own private wing of the palace, and one you’ll share together. He has no need for his own private chambers. You’re the only one he wants to be beside. You understand that at its essence, it isn’t even necessarily a want to design for creativity’s sake, it’s important to you both to have every memory of the residence’s former owner gone. Every threadbare tread of carpet, every scuff on the wall; every painting being demounted by workers downstairs and shipped to the auction house first thing in the morning. You can hear them if you still enough, heart still beating in your chest and the low chunter of layman gossip.

The version of him you knew before his ascension was so very scared. Beautiful, but wavering. You loved him of course; and you always will - it was that version of him, the one lost in the wilderness that you fell for, and gods; you fell hard - frenetic and whiny, fleeting as light snow never to settle on the forest floor. Wild-eyed.

But this Astarion - the real Astarion, as far as he is concerned - has you completely and utterly enraptured each day you wake together, the same as ever, from the second your eyes open. Wrapped in those Daerlunian-import plush linens atop your gargantuan newly-installed four poster bed. Face of marble with those cattish dark lashes and eyes of carnelian crush. Enchants every room he walks into, as he always has.

You don’t know he’s with you until a hand ghosts your shoulder, sinewy; with those deft pale fingers deep encroaching on your collarbone in his grasp.

“I didn’t hear you, lover.”

“But I heard you.’

He circles round the velvet armchair, resplendent in his home finery. Not a crease to be seen. Voice soft, yet laced with a bristling concern.

‘Why do you insist on sitting up here?”

You err for a brief moment.

“I can hear the rain on the roof, here. See some bustle when the fog clears. The city goes on.” You shake your head with a smile as he crouches beside you, nestling his head in the crook of your arm.

“But it’s cold. Dark. Come down - I can light the fire in our sitting room if you like?”

“We have so many centuries yet to see together! What sense is there in not observing the world as it is now? Keeping record of the city as we saved it?”

His head lifts and his eyes meet yours, some churlish quirk of a brow in the low light.

“An archivist, now? Is that to be your profession alongside me? Whilst you raise our young?”

“If I wish it to be, yes.”

He laughs, a gentle low hum.

“Then an archivist you’ll be - the most renowned in all the lands. We’ll make it so.’ He stands once more and takes your hands from your lap, bringing them clasped to his lips in a soft, lingering kiss.

‘I’ll begin planning on your archives - I presume you’ll want a library? Or something similar in your wing, maybe even an office. Who knows?”

Astarion looks to the room around you, the shapes covered with old canvas and the rickety floorboards underfoot. Cobwebs in the corner. There’s no grimace nor displeasure. He simply surveys as cool as still water. Objective.

“I’ll have some of the merchants relay their contacts come morning too. If you insist on expanding your territory up here then it must befit you.”

“Befit me?” You grin now. His hold on your hands remains secure.

“If you want me to say it, then I suppose I will. As many times as it takes to get it through that heavy skull of yours.’

His smile reaches his eyes as he circles back behind your chair, fingers splayed over your shoulders once more in a deep round kneading pattern.

‘There’s nothing you won’t have if you want for it. Nothing too good for you to covet, my solace; Saviour to the whole Sword Coast and every plain mite within its bounds.’

There’s a small pause as he bows to kiss the top of your head.

‘And I thank the stars every day that I can provide for you. That you saw the potential in me and lifted me higher, to such profane glory amongst the swill of common man. That my gold, my influence, and terror, and each lift of my blade is at your command and yours alone. That you stayed at my side.”

He doesn’t like to mention the gods, hence the stars. Pointedly brings the grimace back into play, occasionally even furrows with the slightest twinge of anger brewing at his brow. The gods had no role to play in your shared victories. No divine intervention saved him from two hundred years of torment, from certain death after the crash of the nautiloid along that sun-soaked span of rocky beach;-

You did. You with your strange inclination toward the weak man he once was. The shell he lived in like a hermit crab on the shore, nothing more.

On bright days, you thank him for giving you time.

Time to live, time to breathe with full lungs. Time to allow you to burn your eyes in the beating sun with a silver pot of fresh coffee and whatever ridiculous spew the papers hold between the pages today.

You know as you sit in comfortable silence that your time dwindles, and that your turning is inevitable. Your eternal wedded bliss is to be alongside him and will be as vivid in nature as all the colours of the astral plane, if he’s to be believed - and there’s no reason not to see his word as gospel. You can see each moment as crystalline as sea glass on sand. Forever with the man you love more than you’ve ever felt inclined to love anything. The bridal ceremony is but a drop in the vast ocean of your lives together.

He thanks you too. Often alongside you with eyes closed in some dozy recline, forearm hanging lazily whilst he takes the sun on his skin like a blessing. A loose linen shirt akin to the one he wore back at camp at the start of your journey together, strings wide open, a blaze of blinding flesh at the corner of your eye each time he shifts.

The veranda on a clear day. Astarion has assured you he’ll never take this from you. He’ll never take anything that you don’t willingly give him with a clear heart - and why would you give him your ability to bask in the sun, like a street cat in days-warm dust? What purpose does that serve either of you, beyond making you a less useful weapon in his prized arsenal?

At one point, all you wanted was to talk to him - and it rings true even now. The want to be the bearer of all his tales. To learn about him, to be close to him; to hear him tear the world apart with that dulcet snarl, walking alongside each other on the barren dirt trails out in the wilderness. Hop-skipping to keep up with his quiet gait. Giving him back as good as you got. The glimmer of his hair in the sunlight, the way he’d sometimes just stop.

Close his eyes. Feel the heat. The gentle burn of highsun on tender flesh. A soft inhale.

That morning out in the clearing after your first night together. Arms outstretched in a welcome to the light. It had taken a few minutes for it to click as you’d silently watched on, why his sun salutation was so fond. So open.

It’s to be a long engagement with regard to your transformation whilst the manor undergoes renovations. Reason after reason as to why now isn’t the ideal time to commit you to eternity. You know why he wants to keep a hold on your precious mortality for the time being, of course; and that keeps you from the forever embrace of his Dark Kiss. It never changes.

You’ll allow him to sire your children. You want him to. Crave it. Him.

Your very own lineage together, he whispers; frenzied by your ear as his fingers crawl the bare span of your thigh. He can breed you full like fate intended and you’ll have something - besides him - that’ll also last forever. Something of your own surpassing the death of all of your contemporaries. The Vampire Ascendant and The Saviour of Baldur’s Gate, flesh-on-flesh, skin smacking skin; his debauched groans and lewd whimpers as he buries himself inside you, your cooing breaths;-

You’ll wed normally too, for the interested eyes of the city. Some dull ceremony with the elites adorning all tables as gilded pieces might some decorative chess board, deceptive vows. Legally it makes things easier should anything befall either of you but the hassle almost makes the whole thing undesirable - gods, especially because he already treats you as some smitten newlywed might. Adores you. Follows you around the manor, stalking; like some wolf cub after its mother. Carries you to bed each evening and ploughs you senseless, until spit gathers in the corners of your wet, wanting mouth and you can’t see straight through grey-blear eyes.

He likes the idea of you taking his name by law. Melds with your own like it were meant to be, from the starter threads of whatever cosmic tapestry pulled you together, the marriage of your first name to his last, interwoven by a scholar’s hand in gold-shining delicate point.

Ancunín. The House of.

Tapestries. Large, spanning the halls. The Sarsantyr's over in Waterdeep - they’ll be able to create what you’re picturing.

A familiar gaze meets yours. It’s then that you realise you aren’t alone in your mind once more

“If you want tapestries, you only have to ask.”

“In fairness - you didn’t give me a chance to.”

He hums, tilting his head a little in the sun’s glare.

“I’ll send for them. The Sarsantyr's, yes? Have them pack up all their little-’

He pulls a face and lifts his hands in some kind of puzzled shake.

‘Sewing bits? Textiles? I’ll send carriages. They can come and stay in the lower rooms. Create the masterpiece you envision.” Astarion sniggers a little at the thought of putting them in the old dormitory while you remain lost in thought.

“Okay. Check them through first though, yes?

The real event - the wedding - will give you total ecstasy beyond your wildest preconception, you know this. Unfettered and euphoric. Books and books on the topic stacked clumsily beside your bed, reds and greens; the turning of a vampire bride in leather bound prose. You know what to expect in florid detail. You know to trust your lover, that the rabid creature you’ll become is only a temporary mental state precursing an eternity alongside him.

And yet, you wonder about the children. They’ll be here by then. However many he decides is enough, naturally; assumedly under the care of some hired help whilst you engage in your thoroughly bastardised pastiche of a wedding ceremony. You laugh now. He’s still in your head, mulling over your thoughts as soon as you can think them.

Will you miss them? Will they be your last thought before you pass away; Astarion unable to complete this ritual alone as he was unable to before? Will your death lead to his, leaving your dhampir offspring to ravage Baldur’s Gate unsupported by the windfall of knowing parents? There’s still no hesitation, though. You will bear his young. You want to. The consequences either way are vast and long-lasting, and you’d rather be at his side than facing his ire-

“Love, what are these thoughts? What on earth is going on in that very pretty head of yours today?” His voice is a low drawl, pitying yet laced with affection. He sits straight in his chair whilst a hand lazily searches for yours atop the sun-warmed table; beyond the scope of the ramparts wall the low meander of city life continues on.

“Mulling things over.”

“You don’t need to do that, pet. Come now.’ He beckons you onto his lap and wraps his arms around your middle, hand searching for the soft pillow of your chest as your ass backs up to his abdomen.

‘You want me to make it better?”

You nod gently, the sun catching your eye in a particularly bright beam and making you squint.

“Please.”

“Poor thing. It’s okay.” As he coos; one hand finds the curve of soft flesh at your chest, holding the weight of your breast firmly as he starts lightly thumbing at the nipple through your nightshirt.

“There, now. Good girl.” Your head falls back onto his shoulder, a deep sigh as he lulls you into a new state of calm astride him. Birds sing overhead whilst you nuzzle his neck.

“I will miss this warm flesh of yours, you know. Terribly so.’ His other hand moves to your nightskirt, gently hitching the material bit-by-bit up your thighs until you sit exposed to the air. Nobody can see you from here - the faceless crowd little but colourful dots below; Astarion giving a small tense laugh as he feels your pulse quicken against him.

He toys with your skirt, edging ever nearer your exposed cunt; and your eyes flutter closed.

‘But the greater purpose… I just can’t let it go. Us. Our lives together. I sincerely doubt you want to wither away to age; to lose your extraordinary beauty-’

A gentle groan as he feels your warmth.

‘Do you, my most precious flower?”

“Of- Of course I don’t. I want to be with you, as we are; forever.”

“Then we’re going to need to make a concerted start on the only thing setting us back, are we not?” His fingers gently tap on the crux of your pubic bone, threateningly close to your clit. You feel the familiar seep of your slit leaking onto the bunched skirt fabric and you think of honey. Some kind of sweet glaze.

“Yes.”

As you sink further into him his fingers move down just a little to meet your clit; and in response to your delighted sighs he very lightly begins to stroke either side of the engorged flesh. There’s no urgency to his movement nor his demeanour; just a treacle-thick teasing grin as he turns his head to kiss your blazing cheek.

“Good.”

There’s something borderline celestial about the gentle way he touches you, coaxing more of your slick from you with every gentle jerk. He deftly motions ‘come hither’ with a soaking middle finger dipping lightly at your hole then brings your arousal up to wetten your clit once more.

“You want this, don’t you?” A finger slips down to your cunt, this time slipping and nestling deep inside as you feel yourself writhe on him. One arm scrambles around the back of his neck to support yourself while he begins to curl at your spongy spot, and the anchor of your arousal shifts free.

“I’ve been rifling through that glorious mind of yours these past few days and I see you now. You want comfort. To comfort. To seek shelter in those warm lights on the horizon, to know you aren’t alone in the late hours.”

You nod furiously, wincing, desperate to feel him deeper. Thicker. You need more, your fox-eyed paramour giving only the barest minimum he can do to watch you squirm.

“You, with my babe in arm;- oh the image alone does things to you, doesn’t it?”

It’s as if he’s creating the visions in your head as he speaks them, bringing them to the forefront of your mind in hushed coos and silent gasps. As if by magic, the only thing on your mind is a primal need for him to fuck you full. Nothing else, no mind for coffee nor completed manor renovations.

You will be round. You will brim with life before he turns you, and you’ll take to his seed the minute he offers it to you. You’ll accommodate him like no other across Toril could hope to. You wonder if he has the power to decide how many, as he adds another finger to your unbridled torment. If he could choose to speed the process up with a celebration of twins, triplets. An heir and two spares. Maybe he’d wait instead until the first was born, just to ensure the viability of his bloodline. A test.

He’s doing this; you become starkly aware as he withdraws his fingers, spiderwebs of glistening drool clinging to your inner thigh as he brings them between his lips and suckles. He’s giving you these ideas of grandeur because he can. Because you are his. Because you wouldn’t want to belong to anyone else, to be tied to any other notion of whatever a fulfilling life is, if it weren’t one shared wholly by him. With him.

“Let me take you inside, sweet one. Let’s take care of you properly, shall we? Curb this fever, hm?”

Please, you think. Please take this burning hole in my womb and make it full with you. Extinguish the flame with your unholy spend and give me children. Give me oud and orchids and a life of warmth, however long we both may live.

“Use your words, my love. Tell me you want this.”

“I want this. Please.”

On the bed you now lie, the room cool and dark; balcony doors open wide with light-billowing curtains. Sweat consumes you as your thoughts run wild, the smell of your arousal, clammy hands and deep breaths in the low light. Astarion approaches like something from a dream, shirtless now; smirk plastered cheek-to-cheek as he leans over your trembling form with confidence - your lust-addled fingers reaching for his steady form like a ship to harbour.

“You want to feel it, little dove? Feel how you set me alight?”

He pries your wrist from him with gentle urgency, taking your hand under his and skating both downwards; down the plane of his tight torso, slowing to a stop just above his pelvis.

“Tell me - do you want to feel it?”

A small smirk plays at the corner of your lips, but he doesn’t seem to notice - watching the way your hand twitches under his.

“Hm?”

His groan is guttural. Thick. He doesn’t even try to mask it, eyes wide as his hand shifts yours just a little further down and over the blistering burn of his heavy cock through loose linen trousers. A hazy sigh as he moans a small whimper at your touch.

“Please, Astarion. I beg you.”

It’s like his fingers are enchanted, the way they reduce you to this sodden mess. Unable to think unless guided delicately by his superior whim.

“I need to bury myself inside you fully for this to take. I need your full attention, submission; your devotion to our lives together. Do I make myself clear?”

He’s giving you one final chance to withdraw. Your head clears for one sweet moment and you can do little else but stare at his bulge with heavy lids and your mouth agape.

“Crystal. I ache for you. Please, give this to me.”

You lift to meet him in a soft kiss, jaw slackened and cunt ablaze. Nothing else matters, no complications, nor possibilities of horribly mangled spawn from your womb as a result of your copulation. This scalding stupor that sends you insane won’t go away until he quenches it with his seed.

Your response has satisfied him, if the way he stands sharpish and unties his trouser laces is anything to go by. The glassy head of his cock stands purple at his stomach, leaking wild at the slit and red-hot as your hand reaches blindly for him in your hunger.

He gently taps you away and back down onto the sheets.

“Magic?” You hear yourself mumble, still amazed at how surely swollen he must feel with how sore he looks. Has to be.

“Just me.”

There’s a tenderness in his eyes as he crawls back over you, legs instinctively parting and lifting at the knee to accommodate him. Something that compels him to hold your face in the hand that isn’t supporting his weight and just look at you, fondly; for what feels like an age.

Then he shifts once more to angle himself, decidedly spending no more time on preparation. The heat of his cock against your slit is unlike anything you’ve ever known, dizzying yet pleasurable; hard and yet still yielding, and as he thrusts a shallow dip into your core you swear you see angels overhead. Yes, you’re ready. You’ve never been more ready for anything than you are for the sheer ecstasy you know he’s about to give you, and he’s going to give you it in droves. Seismic tremors as he shifts a little and you adjust to him once again.

He nods. He hears you.

Then, he snaps once more; and he’s lost.

Each glub of his cock meeting your spill as he ruts into you; the way you feel it running downward in long dribbles, with each and every mindless hump of his hips eking more honey from your cunt in spades.

You hear the sounds of your shared carnal pleasure and it makes you clench around him in some kind of self-perpetuating cycle. Groans and whimpers and moans and hisses and the frequent egregious slaps to your thighs whilst he chases his high.

He’s perfect like this. Halo of curls above you, voice silken as he calls you every pet name under the sun, his, always. Your legs ache already from being wound so tightly, interlocked around him, and you think of the prespill inside you already. How each fangy showman’s smile means he’s twitching at your cervix and leaking molten gold inside you with every thrust.

It’s not until he nuzzles down to your neck that you remember to offer it, potentially for the last time on this mortal coil.

“Are you asking?”

“Well, you didn’t offer.”

The immediate pang is one of violent nausea, subsiding quickly into a wooze coating the bottom of your stomach in black tar as he fucks upward. Unease. There’s something in his spit, you assume. Something that makes the gaping wounds a little more bearable, a little less raw as he kitten-licks the flesh between swallows. Ice courses your veins with adrenaline as it always does.

Astarion chokes down his first sip with an eager cough. The burgeoning panic wracking your limbs turns into a numbed haze as your lover feasts, big neat gulps whilst he clutches at your ribcage with fingers splayed deep and cock buried to the hilt, like a man starved. His hair tickles at your jaw, the smell of something herbal. Slightly lemony.

He splutters that he’s close and you feel yourself nearing your peak too.

There’s a profane desecration in what he’s doing, painting your walls in an attempt to get you pregnant. Something deeply sordid, raw; ungodsly. There’ll be no Lathandrian blessing for your young, no gentle welcome into some family fayre on the outskirts of the city. No villages to raise them, no cards nor flowers from friends or family; but you want this.

You want him to taint you in his particular shade of crimson, visibly; so the realms know who made The Saviour of Baldur’s Gate come to heel. The man who compelled her through sheer love alone and to whom she gave everything. The indomitable force for whom you’ll die, only to resurrect forever as his.

Visions of your turning don’t scare you - all lightning and thunder, the cries of your dhamplings in some nursery down the towering halls of your palatial wing; and yet you’ll be safe in his caress. He wouldn’t let a single thing happen to you. He won’t.

And as he cums; he calls your name.

Some rhythmic prayer over and over again; and with each kick of his cock he loses some of his bedroom charm and hurtles back to earth, humbly enraptured. More candid. His weary muscles tighten as yours threaten your own release around him.

“Cum for me, now. Milk me.” in a heavy whisper whilst he strokes the soft flesh of your cheek; and you do. You cum harder than you can remember ever before. Each wave of sheer pleasure some blackout tidal wave as you writhe, staccato in his arms.

If you die during the ceremony, you’ll die happy. Should the younglings bite their way through your womb, it won’t matter.

You’re loved. He loves you, in soft kisses and gentle arms carried all the way to the waiting washtub. In the way he sponges your aching shoulders and brings a washcloth to your dazed face.

Baldur’s Gate doesn’t sleep, not really.

But tonight it will, in the patient, visceral bliss of calm before a summer storm.

#my writing #astarion #astarion x reader #astarion ancunin #baldurs gate astarion #ascended astarion #ascended astarion x reader #astarion x female reader #astarion baldurs gate #astarion bg3 #bg3

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pursuitseternal · 2 months

Text

“Unmask Me:” 🎭 NSFW Masquerade update for “The Rogue You Were”

Ascended Astarion x f!Reader |E| 4.7K of revealing smut

🎨by @glorious-void 🌹

Summary: Music and masks, dancing and deception. It’s so easy to hide your identity beneath a mask, but for you, as Regent Consort while Lord Astarion is away on his travels, everyone knows you. Everyone wants to be with you, particularly your love and Lord. Once he returns and is unmasked, of course.

CW: Mistaken identities, jealous/aroused Astarion, Dom!Astarion, outdoor sex, playful punishment, spanking, oral sex female receiving, rough fucking and regal engagements afterwards.

Previous ch | ao3 link | Masterlist

🎭🩸🎭🩸🎭🩸🎭🩸🎭🩸🎭🩸🎭🩸🎭🩸🎭

Regent Consort. That is your title, at least until your love’s return. You flounce your ebony skirts, that sultry hint of burgundy beneath a little nod to your beloved vampirism. You adjust the many layers of petticoat that fill out your gown. Alone in the ballroom, you pace by the window. Weeks of Astarion away, and he is due to return any hour now.

You know he will be hungry, he will desire you more than anything. He will be feral, wild. Untameable until he’s drunk his fill of your blood and fucked you enough. If he isn’t exhausted from his travels to the far East… alliances and silks from Cormyr and gems and… it was enough of a burden for him to shoulder. You have been left with enough to handle here in the City, his Right Hand to rule in his place, his Regent Consort on his throne. Your tasks have been ceaseless since he left so many tendays ago: Council meetings and trade deals to twist towards your benefit, not to mention cajoling Duke Wyll Ravengaurd enough—enough for him to remain oblivious to the fact that you and your love had far surpassed any authority he thought he held.

You smirk, gazing out into the night’s sparkling darkness. Of course you decided the best course of action was to stroke your old friend’s ego—and nothing touts a symbol of friendship and your own wealth and power like a good masquerade ball.

Of course, it just happened to fall on the same evening as Lord Astarion’s long-expected return. But your heart leaps in your chest, if it could beat faster, that is. Every detail has been carefully laid, and all with his secret knowledge. He approves of this wholeheartedly, those little flashes of his affection quaking down your bond as Master and Bride keeping him informed. You feel his love, his approval and his hunger. Your bond of heart, mind, and blood is enough only to coax his hasty return just a little faster.

His presence had long disappeared from your mind, leaving you without word, his journeys consuming enough of his power to claim his concentration. And so you wait, on baited breath, for his return. Soon, he had said. Tonight.

At long last, your guests arrive in your wide and sprawling drive, carriage after carriage emptying with elegantly clothed couples and painted faces. A parade of colors and paper and decadence. A night in honor of the Duke, a demonstration of the Vampire Ascendant’s immense affluence. The grandest host on the Sword Coast. The most powerful, handsome being in this whole realm.

Yes, you smile, releasing your folded arms to adjust your own demi-mask, Astarion will revel in the extravagance.

Once he finally fucking arrives, of course.

But you force a smile on your face as your guests parade into your presence, all fanfare and pomp and circumstance as befitting a ball for the Duke… as befitting a party hosted by the Vampire Ascendant and his Consort. Couples sweep into the grandeur, each pair, each guest more sumptuously dressed than the one before. You make your way to the head of the dais, your black Demi-mask in place, but you are certain your own scarlet eyes and your fang-toothed smile will surely make certain not a hand is laid on you.

No mistaken identity as to who you are tonight. You are Regent Consort, the Ascendant’s Lady. You are his.

And if your vampiric qualities aren’t enough to drive away would-be admirers, the decadent, gold and bejeweled crown on your head certainly will. A quaint little symbol of the power you tend in his absence. Your eyes scan mask after mask, even as you stand before his throne. Nodding greetings, formally and cordially welcoming guest after guest.

You scrutinize the most gallant looking, the most ostentatious of males. If he were to disguise himself, to play one of his little games with you… surely he would spare no expense on his costume. Even arriving from his travels… it dawns on you now, looking at this primped and preening man. You know why he has gone as silent as his empty grave on his end of your bond.

He’s planning something. A surprise, a seduction. Something that will surely set your slow, undead heart racing and make your folds drench down your thighs.

Once you unmask him of course. There would be… some clue. He wasn’t that clever, never one for details. He prefers to lure you in with honey-sweet words and a grind of his bulge somewhere on your body. Sensual, sweet thing that he is.

Your gaze has grown distant, your pleasant smile fixed on your painted lips. It’s only once the musicians strike up the music that you slowly return to your surroundings.

And it’s only once the drums begin pounding so loudly it shakes in your rib cage that you notice one male lingering at your feet. Richly brocaded damask, deeper crimson than what runs in one’s veins, his costume is breathtaking. Cut so perfectly around his waist and hips, drawing the eye towards that gusset between his thighs.

You quickly raise your gaze, realizing you are licking your lips as you scan this male’s body.

And you’re met with eyes that are so deep set in his golden Bautta mask, you can’t see the color. But you drink in that intensity. That gilded cover hides every sharp, pale feature, even covering his sly and sultry mouth. But all he needs are his eyes boring into you, already undressing you. It’s… delicious.

He would come in regal colors and damask, in a mask that’s inlaid and filigreed with real gold. That feathered cap on his head is a nice touch to hide his telltale silver tousles, as well. Slowly, this man turns towards you, and you can feel it, the way he is drawn to your power, eager to be your thrall.

He wants you, and you know it must be his plan, a master of stirring your body for him alone even in disguise. Feet treading up a stair or two in your direction, he gives an elegant bow, a swish of his scarlet, silken cape as he extends his gloved hand for yours.

Your feet follow him into the mass of people, the center of the dancing as couples begin to form in patterns and forms. Ready to dance.

He doesn’t need to say a word, only giving a deep, muffled laugh beneath that pointed mask as you sweep with your supernatural grace in his hold. A merry dance, one that weaves you around other couples at a clip, one that makes your own silken, gloved hand pass into the palm of every male on that dance floor. Spin after spin, pass after pass, and your flesh practically ignites with each time you cross with your golden-faced lover.

Your mouth salivates, and you wonder why he hasn’t whisked you away to your chambers.

As the music begins to slow, you feel a pinprick at the back of your neck, even as he… the man with the golden mask… your lover pulls you in one last spin. You see nothing in the crowd, but you feel… something. Something hot and sharp, eyes on you from somewhere in the masses.

Then again, all eyes are on you. You and your Lord do tend to turn every head in the room. And you do so as you pull him through the double glass doors and onto the open aired terrace.

Lit by only the moon and stars, you keep your hands on his arm and his waist, leading him as far as possible from the crowds. You don’t even know if the Duke has arrived, nor do you care. You need sating, need to indulge the tension that has flared between you two in that ancient way you always have.

He stops once you both reach the shadows, arms wrapped around your elegant dark dress, its gauze and crinolines dusky burgundy and black as you practically bleed into the shadows yourself. “My lady,” that voice whispers from behind the mask, muted and strange. A trick of his disguise.

“My lord,” you lilt back, taking a single finger to stroke the bare flesh of his neck where it peeks above the bright collar of his jacket. “I need something from you, ever so badly.”

“Then take it, my lady,” he tilts his head, baring more of his pale skin. Your eyes are wide, ravenous. You haven’t fed from living blood since his departure. For his was the only vintage you drank, the only kind that would fill you. Craning your head, standing on the balls of your toes, you lick your lips, barely restrained enough to take a little bit of time.

Your fangs finally bite, and warm, coppery essence fills your mouth… but only after a few swallows does it hit you.

Smack in the face.

Blood strange on the tongue.

And then you feel someone drawing closer behind you, soft footfalls that make your stomach flutter, your bond snapping taught. He’s here at last.

And this man beneath your mouth isn’t him…

“Darling, I’m hurt,” you hear Astarion’s voice, perfectly clear, breath brushing down your shoulders and back, “I thought we had something special…”

You round so quickly, spitting out the stranger's blood from your mouth in utter disgust.

He’s there.

Astarion.

You curse yourself. You should have known… how did you not? He was perfect in his disguise, he was…. Your rogue. Just as he was on those nights in the camp… simple and elegant and mouthwatering. A familiar frilled shirt, ruffles of embroidered silk framing his pale and perfect chest… tightly cinched breeches that hug his every sinew and line of his thighs and bulge. A mask, black as night, gilded with embellishments shaped like the rays of the sun—a little nod to his Ascendant power.

His greatest disguise as the Vampire Ascendant— the Rogue he once was.

But it’s his lips pressed in a hardened smile, his eyes practically glowing with power, swirling with the concoction of jealousy and arousal that makes you tremble before him. Both emotions strike you in your belly, launched at you, a blade from his mind thrust into yours.

You let out a whimper, your mouth fluttering at the sight of him, your elegant rogue, your vampire lover and lord and husband and master. “Astarion,” you gasp, feeling the man’s mortal blood seeping down your lower lip. Gaping in horror at what you have done.

“Tch,” he sucks his teeth, keeping his distance, totally giving no heed to the man who staggers a bit behind you. “Well, darling, it seems you have found your entertainment for the evening already. A pity I wasn’t more forward… more aggressive to catch your… hungering attentions.”

You feel it… knowing he feels it too. Your belly aches to begin feeding once more. “No, no…” you protest, drawing a step closer, wiping your bloodied chin on the back of your sable silken glove.

“Really, my Consort, who am I to deny you your hunger?” he’s hissing. Defensive. Eyes heavily lidded, jaw tweaking as he watches you unravel before him.

“Hungry? Yes,” you pant, a feral need unlocking inside you to be so close to your love, your maker, and yet kept at arm's length. “For you, my love. I thought he was you, Astarion.”

He sniffs, derision seething in that one breath. Disdain turns playfully at his lips and darkens his crimson eyes. “I forget sometimes how new to your vampirism you are, darling,” he chides, none too gently. “You have no idea the pull you have on others… the natural way your charms will command the weakest minds to bend their necks for your teeth. No matter what ignorant fools they are, trying to take what’s mine.”

And with that, he snaps. Uncontrolled aggression embodied, a growl in his throat, Astarion flies at the poor male. His bare hand locks around the other’s bleeding neck. “Get out of my sight, out of my palace… out of my city, if you wish to survive this night, you fool.” His voice is death itself, bone chilling and sharp. And the man waits not one second more before fleeing into the night, back through the crowds.

Turning back to face you ever so slowly, he pulls off his mask, fingers tugging swiftly at the black silken ribbon behind his head. You see it in his face, the darkening of jealousy… but also the arousal in the way his nostrils flare and his pupils dilate so wide. “Well, my treasure, I’ll admit… power never looked so good on another… on anyone that wasn’t me.”

You force yourself to inhale, lungs shaking as you try to breathe. “You’re not… mad?”

“Darling, I am furious,” he hisses, closing in on you swiftly, clenching his grip hard around your throat. “You’ve done remarkably well in my absence in most ways, such a lavish soirée, even I am impressed. But,” he thrust his smirking, snarling face into yours until your noses brush, “you clearly need a swift reminding, darling, of just what you’ve been missing… of what parts of me you’ve missed.”

Grabbing at your hand, he thrusts your palm against his cock, so hard and hot through the well-oiled, skin-tight leather.

“Just like old times,” you rasp under his clutches.

“Tut, tut,” he chides you, all honey in his venom. “Nostalgia for your vampire rogue isn’t going to work on me…”

“Well,” you smirk, rubbing your hand up and down against his twitching erection, “something has…”

His lips crush yours, certainly ruining what was left of your lip paints, licking off the remnant of that poor fool’s blood from your chin, your fangs. And most assuredly, making your lips swell and bruise as he works ravenously in his kiss. He keeps your palm pressed hard on that aching rise between his legs, slow little rolls of his hips against the pressure.

“Watching you touch another… dancing with another… watching your eyes batting at him…” He breaks from his words to dart his tongue inside your mouth, licking again and again until he’s replaced all traces of that offender’s blood with only the flavor of him. “Watching you beckon him into the privacy of your presence… your lips on his skin…” His body seizes, that blend of jealousy and arousal crashing into you again four-fold. “I’ve never wanted to kill and fuck more than I do right now…”

You watch his pale chest heaving, watching every one of his veins beat with his ascendant heart, perfectly perched under his beautiful skin. Head cocking, he grips the ruffled collar of his silken shirt, tugging it wide.

Licking your lips, you feel his command: If you’re starving, daring, then feed.

You don’t need him to offer again, don’t need any other influence on your mind. Your stomach assumes control. Crown tilting askew from the pile of curls atop your head, you bite his warm and tender flesh.

And you bite hard.

Lewd, loud, trembling as if you just came… you moan right under his ear. Your mouthful of his rich, powerful blood almost spills over your lips, but you don’t dare let a drop be wasted. His hand presses harshly against the back of your neck, your curls and pins tugging at your scalp with the force. But you don’t care. Not as one hand grips into his arm to hold him steady, your other bracing on the other side of his neck to feel that raging pulse under your touch. There is nothing now that matters more than his ascendant blood on your tongue and his warm flesh beneath your lips.

“Careful, darling…” he speaks, vibrations from his silken voice shaking your lips. “I can’t be too bloodless to finish satisfying our hunger. Bad form to have the Ascendant unconscious at his own gala.”

One last, long drink and you pull off the wounds from your fangs with a pop. “Yes, my lord, how else do you think I hunger?”

Oh, he catches you by your neck once more, more playfully this time, long fingers wrapping up around your jaw. “What a stupid question for one as clever as you, my pet. You’re going to take my cock so nicely, another nice warm welcome that I know you’re craving too, darling. But first, you’ll pay nicely for your charming little transgression.” He pulls you further from the chaos and din inside your palace, deeper into the shadows. You can smell the gardens below you, the heady scent of blossoms in the air, lilacs and roses and lilies, just over the waist high wall.

And it’s over that wall you feel him spin you, laying you out carefully over its wide edge.

“Bad girl, my consort,” he leans over, his body crushing you from behind slightly to rasp right behind your ear. “Though, it was rather… intoxicating… to watch those lips redden with another’s blood… to scent your arousal so potently at the mere thought of my return. I shall be lenient, my love.”

“You liked it, didn’t you?” you jeer sweetly, a little roll of your ass against where he presses you down into the stone. “Of course, I only indulged thinking it was you playing some cheeky little game…”

He sinks his fangs into your neck, making a sharp cry pierce your words and stutter your voice.

“… should have known your games are much more fun,” you manage to add as he sucks from your veins. One hand grips behind where your crown perches, yanking at the roots of your hair and tugging your neck to a wider angle. And then he drinks quickly and deeply.

“What am I if not fun, hmm?” he purrs beneath your ear, one hand clasped around your wrist, the other begins to lift the pile of your skirts, tulle and silks and crinoline piling high on your back until you feel the night air on the back of your thighs.

Until you feel the breeze on your ass as he slips your undergarments to your knees.

“Feel free to scream, my pet. There is no one out here but us creatures of the night now….”

Smack.

His palm lands sharply on your bare cheek. A gentle rub follows the pain, fingers angling their dexterous touch slightly between your pressed thighs.

Smack.

Harder this time, fully on the other side, he spanks you. And while you grunt, muffled into your bent arms beneath your head, Astarion groans.

Loudly. Full throated.

His hand massages that freshly reddening ass this time. You feel his body bracing along your side, spank after spank making you shake with pain, only to be brush away quickly with his tender touch.

It’s maddening, making your core heat even more than before. Your hips wiggle under his fingers, hoping he might accidentally slip one or two between your folds.

But nothing Astarion does with his skilled hands is accidental or blunt— refined, precise. Perfect. “Feeling sufficiently contrite?” he purrs, moving behind you. One single hand splays on your lower back, the leather of his breeches presses behind you, almost like skin against your bare flesh.

“Yes, sorry,” you mumble into the gauzy sleeve of your dress as you bury your face.

His touch slips just a little between your cheek, your arousal running down your thigh as he spreads you just a little. “What was that, darling? You have been awfully quiet in your penance, you know…”

A single finger, nail first, creeps to where you clit lies. “Yes…. S- sorry,” you groan, lifting your head, turning just enough to see where he crouches behind you. He looks delicious in the moonlight, if you didn’t feel your bond, know your body teemed with undead power, he would look as he did all those nights on the road. That same devious smirk, same glinting, feral gaze that wants to eat you right up….

Say no more… he purrs into your mind, a delicate brush of his power making you shake. Reading your thoughts as you gaze at him.

He slaps your thighs apart, burying his face between them to do just that.

Eat you right up.

That thick tongue of his sweeps from your clit to the end of your seam.

“Scream for me,” he bids you. Your back arches, your head lifting, like a wolf in heat, you howl. Your voice ricochets off the garden wall, followed by another whimpering sound as he keeps that mouth of his sucking on your clit. Fingers spread you wider, thrusting your body back and forth as his tongue slides into your channel, his breath hot each time he breaks to swallow you down. That bliss begins to swell, relief from longing for his body for so long finally within your reach.

Until he stops. And you pant and growl in frustration as that precious wave of orgasm washes out of your reach.

One last, long sweep of his tongue, and he moves out from under you. His hands squeeze hard into your ass, marking your pale, cold flesh with his nails, just a bit. Just enough for him to know you’ll sit with hidden discomfort for the rest of the night.

“You’ve earned my forgiveness, my lovely consort,” he raps, leaning over you, crushing you to kiss against that sensitive spot behind your ear. “And I’ve been wanting to this since the moment I left your bed, my pet…”

Recognition spikes up your spine, you know that warm, blunted head that slowly begins to enter you. Contented. Happy. You sigh and arch to look back, unable to see anything below his chest beyond that ridiculous pile of your skirts over your back. His gaze is fixed on your thighs, watching your folds swallow him up, the little tip of his tongue licking the corner of his mouth.

Sweat gathers under your mask, and you know your tints and kohl and paints are wrecked by now. But you don’t care. No one would notice under your demi-mask. And it was so worth it, to feel him buried deep inside you again.

That paradox of pressure and relief. To be so full and so happy again. A belly sated by his blood, a cunt brimming with his cock. Your delicate fingers grip into the edge of the balustrade, bracing yourself to ride his thrusts. The soft whines of music a merry tempo, one he almost seems to match as he fucks you. You groan, knowing it’s just a taste of the rest of your night, knowing that once your guests have basked in your presence for long enough, you’ll steal away, spending the rest of the night in each other’s arms.

For now he ruts into you, no holding back, no mercy or tenderness now. Just that blind drive to finally join with you after so long apart. If you close your eyes, you might as well be in some clearing near the Emerald Grove, addicted to giving one another your bodies. His sweet words in your ear, little grunts as he fucks with each snap of his hips.

Same cock… same arrogance… same moonlight-bathed faces twisted in pleasure as he takes you from behind. Even the scent of blossoms in your nose… truly just like when you knew nothing more than his charm and his vampirism. And didn’t you come to love all he was… all he became… the same and yet now so much more to you.

“I missed you…” you whisper into his mind, feeling how his body has wound tight through your bond, sensing his cock’s throb, his sensation of how good it feels inside you flooding your own body.

“I know,” he replies, a growl inside your ear, a caress of fangs in your mind. He chuckles into your thoughts, until his laughter turns into real breathless pants as that tension in his body claims its release. He slams into you, once… twice… until all you feel is the twitching head of his cock emptying inside. Leaning over your once more, Astarion places a kiss into your neck one more time. “I missed you too, my love…” he whispers for your ear alone. “Never again, my treasure. It was too long… too many horridly boring, ugly people. Why waste my time with riff raff when I could have just brought you with me.”

“At least you know better now,” you simper, moaning as he pulls from inside you, those skirts brushing over the raw, tender skin of your ass. You hiss, straightening.

“As do you, my naughty consort….” He’s already slipped himself back in his breeches. Bringing you in for a devouring kiss by grabbing your reddened and punished ass. Yelping, you kiss him back, feeling his wicked smirk against your lips. Pain shoots up your spine as he crushes the hard fabrics of your skits against your flesh… nevermind that your undergarments are abandoned on the ground now…You shrug, let them be.

You have no need for them, now that he’s returned.

He pulls you by your hand back towards the gala, retrieving his mask from the terrace, quickly replacing it on his handsome face.

You smile, shaking your head at his antics, his games… his rakish, seductive smirk. Licking your thumb, you clean the lingering streaks of your blood and cum from his chin. “There now, you look presentable, my Lord,” you speak in dulcet tones, regal and refined. “The Vampire Ascendant ready for his festivities, no longer unmasked like some feral, rutting monster.” You wink, a sly smile at him.

Hand braced at the back of your neck, he crushes you once more to his mouth, one more kiss, one more cleaning lick of his own tongue on your lips and chin. “And you, a radiant Regent Consort,” he grins, hands quickly, assuredly straightening your mask and crown. As you turn to enter, he whispers against your temple one more time. “Let’s turn some heads, shall we?” He offers you his arm, a gentlemanly bow at the waist, as if he hadn’t just been ramming into you on the terrace moments ago.

You flash him a smile, head held up high, as you enter the crowd and din and lights. They part like water before you, heads bowing… even the stony-gazed face of Wyll, new Duke Ravenguard, tips slightly in deference. He knows your power, cautious to upend the delicate balance you and he have established.

But Astarion… Lord Astarion… he carries you right past the Duke’s contingent, right up the dais stairs until he’s stopped before your thrones. He stops short, says nothing but a wave to the music to continue the festivities.

They promptly obey, and he sits in his throne… and before you can sidle over to yours, he wraps an arm about your waist and settles you on his lap.

You hiss, the bone of his thigh pressing hard on his bruises and bite marks that riddle your rear.

“Something the matter, my lady?” Wyll’s formal tone hasn’t changed a bit since your days on the road.

You glance up, smiling and demure. He’s grinning politely back, concern in his stone eye. Always that suspicion underlying his gaze, that mistrust of your new… vampirism. You widen your grin and give a little bubbly laugh. Assuaging the monster hunter. “Just so pleased to have Astarion back from his travels. I’ve felt so… empty… without him.” You hide the double entendre with a regal simper and a pat on his chest.

“Not too exhausted to enjoy your evening, I hope,” Wyll asks, pausing a bit too long until he adds, “my Lord?”

“Nothing I can’t manage to savor in spite of it, Wyll,” he jerked his head with a smile, shifting you higher up on his lap, dragging those raw marks to center over his still softening cock. “Now, enjoy your festivities, old friend….” He drags his fangs over the shell of your ear sucking it between his lips, a display of his desire for all to see. “We know we will.”

🌹 thank you to @glorious-void for the fanart, and to my consort coven: @marimosalad and @brabblesblog

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