#cunning single lady | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kissatoru · 6 months

Text

𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓

pairing. sub!vampire!levi ackerman x dom!gn!reader

synopsis. in 19th century society, everyone has secrets they want to keep from seeing the light of day — so what will happen when you unveil levi’s?

content. implied virgin/touch-starved!levi, ooc levi at some points cause of vampire hormones, plot before porn, blood/blood-drinking kink, oral fixation, dry humping, handjob, inappropriate use of cravats, petnames (dearest, darling)

notes. first fic of hornyween!! the others won’t be as long lol this took FOREVER. anyway, please consider reblogging if you enjoy it<3

wc. 5k

Sparkling chandeliers adorn the ballroom’s high ceilings, making the polished floor gleam like honey as stylish figures twirl and glide across it. The rest of the guests are gathered by the walls in clusters, their lively chatter and chuckles mixing in with the night’s melodies.

You stand by one of the pink brocade curtains, sipping a glass of champagne. Your stance is relaxed but mannerly; not seeking nor avoiding attention, just observing and occasionally humouring a fellow guest that takes notice of your presence. Among those who approach you, admirers are plentiful, with faces of various qualities and contours, and characters both pleasant and not, but none who gain more than a few minutes of your time before you’re politely concluding the conversation or excusing yourself entirely.

As you’re meandering through laughing circles and swaying couples, away from yet another adamant admirer, you scan the room for him: the main reason you attended this ball at all. He rarely arrives for the banquets, and when he does, he even more rarely eats more than is expected of him. Now that the dancing has begun, he should be here, but you’ve yet to spot a single trace of him. It has made you restless, your eyes desperate in their pursuit. Each time you catch a glimpse of dark hair and pale skin or a short stature and a neatly tied cravat, you’re just as suddenly disappointed when you realise it’s not him. Eventually, you fall back into the same routine as before — entertaining married couples, faking laughs at bad jokes, listening to shallow gossip.

“Goodness, me,” Baroness Azumabito gushes at you, “you are as charming as they say, Your Grace.”

You chuckle courteously. “You’re too kind, Lady Azumabito.”

She offers you a closed-eye smile, her crow’s feet pinching together. “I truly must ask,” she begins, unfolding her peacock-feather fan and speaking a little quieter now. You already know it’s certainly not something she must ask. “What are your plans on marriage? You have no small number of choices, I’m sure!”

She giggles a little too hard for your liking, and you are reminded of the not-so-pretty piece of gossip you heard only a mere ten minutes ago — her husband’s gambling problems, her unmarried child. Quite the ideal motive for her to talk to you; someone who has both higher status and greater wealth. Of course, you know not all hearsay is true, but with a smile like Lady Azumabito’s, cunning as a fox and twice as sneaky, trust is a risk you’re not willing to take.

You laugh again. “Oh, none at the moment,” you say, feigning ignorance, “I’m so busy these days, I feel as though a partner might be…”

At the edge of your vision, a dark-haired silhouette passes. Your head moves in search of it, your eyes following, flicking this way and that. However, amidst the sea of extravagant gowns and upscale suits, the glimpse you had managed to catch slips from your grasp all too soon.

“Might be what?” Kiyomi asks.

An uneasy sense of disappointment hollows in your chest, but you ignore it. “Uh, a distraction. Would be... a distraction.”

Another flash of shadowy hair, porcelain skin.

Kiyomi clears her throat. “Do you care to elaborate, Your Grace?”

Just as you’re about to turn back to her, a figure stops in clear view before you: a metre and a half tall, raven black locks, eyes as sharp as falcon talons, an intricately tailored waistcoat — and the swan-white ruffles of a linen cravat.

A huff is your only warning before the short woman is stepping in and obscuring your line of sight, her round eyes now pressed into slits by her strained smile. “Please forgive my impudence, Your Grace, but what has you so–”

You abruptly but gently take her hands into yours. “Pardon my manners, Lady Azumabito,” you say, already shifting on your feet in preparation for your departure, “but I’ve spotted an acquaintance of mine with whom I’d like to discuss some private matters with.” You let go of her hands and give a curt bow. “If you’ll please excuse me.”

Her dumbfounded expression is the last you see of her before you swiftly take your leave. You track the person with your eyes and feet in tandem, each step purposeful and your eagerness barely contained. Once you’re in arm’s length, you cheerily call out:

“Viscount Ackerman!”

Several people turn their heads. The Viscount in question stops no later, though seemingly reluctantly. He turns to face you, a question perched on the peak of his raised eyebrow.

Your shoes clack as you stride the rest of the way up to him. Once beside him, you lean over and flash him a cheeky smirk. “Fashionably late as always?” you remark, but it fails to prompt any sort of perceptible reaction. The only change in his expression is his eyebrow returning to its relaxed position.

“And I see you are…” Silver blue eyes wash over you, up and down, in a single steady motion. “In attendance. As always.”

“Of course,” you reply with a practised smile. “I would not dream of missing one of the Duke of Trost’s parties.”

He hums. “I don’t doubt that.”

You hum back, thoughtful. “And what of yourself, my Lord?” you ask. “What brings you here?” You pause to smile knowingly. “Certainly not the food, seeing as you were absent for that.”

His eyes narrow and his lips press together in a firm line. “If you must know, the Duke was very insistent that I attend,” he explains, eyeing a passing servant before picking up a flute of champagne from their tray. “As for my tardiness… I prioritised taking care of some business affairs, first and foremost. Though I suppose I shouldn’t expect you to understand.” He swirls the liquid around in his glass and takes a sip.

You chuckle heartily. “Oh, come now!” you exclaim. “Why so hostile? Are we not friends?”

“Only in public,” Levi corrects in a low tone.

You turn to face the room, smirking against your glass. “That’s not true and you know it.”

A newly-engaged couple you were conversing with earlier passes by, waving. You smile and wave back at them.

Levi makes an exasperated noise. “Do you never tire of that?” he grumbles into his glass.

You bring your own glass up to your lips. “Whatever do you mean, my Lord?”

He grimaces. “That.”

You giggle. “Keeping up appearances is just the way I was raised,” you reply with a gesture of nonchalance, “but not all my smiles are fake, you know. It’s quite pleasant, smiling.” You beam at him, as if to prove your point. “I think you ought to try it some time.”

Levi scowls. “I know how to smile.”

“Oh, I never said you didn’t, my Lord,” you quip. “I have no doubt that you understand it in theory, just that you should try putting it into practice.” You point to the corner of your mouth, lifting it to mimic a smile.

He sucks his teeth and tears his gaze away from your own. “You’re infuriating.”

“And yet, here you are,” you say, stepping closer. “For longer than ten seconds, might I add. Surely a feat, no?”

Levi scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself.” He raises his glass, speaking over the lip of it. “You just happen to be the least infuriating one here.”

You bite your tongue — “Well, by your standards, being the least infuriating is, in fact, quite flattering!” — and instead, you glance around and lean in. “In that case, what do you say we go find a place away from all this poor company?” Your voice takes on a lighter yet all the more meaningful tone. “Perhaps somewhere just for the two of us?”

There’s a glint of interest in Levi’s eyes that doesn’t go unnoticed by you as you pull away to look at him. “I would say that’s highly inappropriate,” he says, hushed, but not in a way that matches his words; hushed in a way that suggests intrigue.

“Inappropriate?” you echo, lips curving into a smile. “You really needn’t worry so much, my Lord! We shan’t be away for long, I promise.”

Levi’s thin eyebrows angle up. After a moment of contemplation, he closes his eyes and sighs. “If you insist,” he concedes.

Without further discussion, you set aside your and Levi’s drinks, then go ahead and stroll over to the arched doors with Levi not far behind.

With how often the Duke hosts such extravaganzas, you’ve had plenty of occasions to become familiar with the layout of their home, hence why you know where all of the rooms are. You navigate through the narrow hallways with an air of confidence, occasionally stopping to praise or snicker at family paintings and decor choices, much to Levi’s chagrin.

“What is it now?” Levi asks, attempting to pinpoint the subject of your attention this time.

You stand by a window that faces the rear garden, peering through the glass with squinted eyes. “Do my eyes deceive me or is that the Countess of Ehrmich and her handmaid kissing out in the gazebo?” You turn to Levi with a theatrically outraged jaw-drop, making him roll his eyes.

“You are no better than those gossiping simpletons we left in the ballroom,” he scolds as he draws the curtains shut.

You chuckle. “Apologies! Only a jest!” He glares at you but otherwise doesn’t complain. You watch him for a moment, how his nimble fingers tug and adjust the curtains, how he mutters expletives under his breath at the dust that transfers to his hands from the curtains.

Feeling mischievous, you lean in, so your lips are almost touching his ear. “It’s just so fun to tease you, I can’t resist.”

Goosebumps raise on Levi’s skin as he flinches away from you, fingers hovering over where your breath brushed his earlobe. He swallows. “Maybe you ought to practise some self-restraint.”

You smirk. “Maybe you ought to have less of it.”

He frowns. “How would that benefit anyone?”

You take a step closer. “Try it and find out.”

Levi takes a step back, but you take another step forward. His back bumps into a solid surface as your hand reaches out. He freezes in anticipation.

The click of a door handle, then a quiet creak.

“I believe,” you say, smiling cattily and circling around him, “I have found the drawing room.”

Levi huffs. “Finally,” he mumbles and pushes past you through the door. You follow after him, shutting the door behind you.

The room is a size you’d expect given how large the rest of the residence is. A ceiling mural depicting an Ancient Roman legend; tall windows and velvet curtains. At the centre of the room, atop a patterned rug, gold and beige furniture is arranged in a thoughtful composition. Dainty — yet no doubt expensive — decorations and trinkets adorn various corners, shelves and walls.

In one of the armchairs, Levi sits down, exhaling long and heavy, as if he had been holding his breath all night. You, on the other hand, decide to explore the room first, ambling between the furnishings and admiring the cosiness of the space. Absent-mindedly, you run a finger along the spines of some books piled on top of a small table, tracing the ribbed leather and embossed text.

“At last, some peace and quiet, hm?” you say, mostly just to occupy the air with something of substance, as you glance at Levi.

He’s sitting with one elbow resting on the seat’s floral print armrest, the pads of his fingers massaging the area between his eyebrows. “Until you spoiled it, yes,” he grunts.

The beginnings of a witty remark form, then just as quickly dissipate from your tongue. The corners of your lips sink, the lines in your face waning into nothing.

With his face cast down, Levi is oblivious to the change in your expression. It isn’t until you take two, five, ten or so steps — when the silence drags on without a response of your own — that he raises his head.

“Actually,” you start, standing by the armchair across from him, only a few feet away, “I brought you here to discuss something with you.”

His reaction is stalled but still comes in the form of a puzzled frown. “Go on, then.”

The floorboards squeak under your weight as you take another few steps forward. Levi shifts in his chair. “We agreed to be honest with one another, Levi. To not keep secrets,” you say, “yet I have good reason to suspect you haven’t entirely been maintaining your end of the agreement.”

As he opens his mouth to defend himself, your approaching footsteps finally seal the remaining distance between you. You step in to occupy the space between his knees and the contact is enough to make them jolt away as if from flames. Levi stares down at them until he catches the movement of your arms in the corner of his vision.

In your hands is a book, presumably from the stack you were observing earlier. He had been so absorbed in the shrinking space between you that he didn’t stop to consider that perhaps the arms linked behind you might be holding something.

His eyes roam the book, then fall on the shining yellow words etched into the front cover:

The Vampyre

by John William Polidori

Electric impulses fire through his body. His mouth goes dry. “I told Hange to get rid of that.”

“Really? Why is that?” you ask, turning it over in your hand. “I hear it’s quite good.”

Levi can’t stop the irritation from showing on his face. “The problem is not with the book itself.”

It’s the influence it has on imbeciles like Hange, he finishes in his head. Imbeciles who’ll believe anything with enough coincidences and paranoid witness accounts. Sure, Hange is a special case, because they’re not so much afraid of the rumoured existence of ‘vampires’ as they are curious, which is arguably worse — especially since, for once, the imbeciles are right.

“Then what’s the problem?” Your frown seems to be of genuine confusion, but Levi knows better. There’s an underlying something just waiting to reveal itself.

Levi folds his arms across his chest. “What does this have to do with our agreement?”

The smile returns to your face, but it is unlike any that Levi is used to seeing; not fake, but not entirely trustworthy either. “Surely you’ve figured out that much by now.” You set the book aside. “Really, Levi. Do you take me for some kind of fool?” Your hands come forward and clasp the armrests of his chair. “Did you really think I don’t know that… you’re a vampire?”

Levi scoffs. “Do you hear yourself?” He narrows his eyes at you. “Vampires are a baseless conspiracy. A ludicrous superstition fabricated by the English that only a credulous halfwit–”

A hand grabs him by the cheeks, cramming the rest of his words back behind his teeth. “Open your mouth,” you order.

The suddenness of the command evaporates any and all thoughts from Levi’s head, replacing them with a purely chemical reaction in the form of heat striking through him. Gradually, you push his head back — and he lets you — while a hard mound he can only assume is your knee eases between his parted legs, coercing a gasp from his mouth. As soon as his jaw loosens, your fingers are poking through the gap between his lips, moving as if hunting for something. They settle around his upper canines, sliding over and prodding at them, over and over, until eventually they begin to grow, extending down, down into a sharp, tapered point, much too long for what can be considered human.

Levi groans, but the sound is much too airy for pain or discomfort to be the cause of it. Drool is gathering beneath his tongue and blood in his cheeks. How humiliating it is to have his fangs coaxed out by the close proximity of his carnal weakness — by someone who should be his prey in this dynamic — and how all the more humiliating it is to have the strike of heat from before already invading the rest of his body.

Only once the fangs have stopped growing do you cease your petting, opting instead to drag a single fingertip along the newly-revealed length of bone. “My, my,” you coo, “it seems that the truth has spoken for itself.” You remove your fingers from his mouth, but Levi’s head remains in its position against the backrest. “Whatever shall I do with you, now that I have you at my mercy?”

Your fingers travel down his exposed throat. Like a frightened prey animal, Levi’s body digs into the cushioned upholstery, trying to comprehend the foreign feeling of being touched in this way. Breaths beat out through his nose in quickening puffs and miniscule tremors rattle through his chest as he attempts to control, or perhaps conceal, the frantic rise and fall of it. Beneath your fingertips, you can feel his heartbeat, the pulse so solid that if you didn’t know any better, you’d think it was hitting his ribcage with every beat.

“Are you afraid?” you ask him quietly, your fingers continuing their path downward.

Levi swallows, lets out a heavy breath but doesn’t answer. You watch him, analyse him. His tightly closed eyes, the sweat coming through his clothes… “Then perhaps you’re—” His unsteady breaths, his contracting muscles— “aroused?”

His Adam’s apple lifts and then drops. You follow the motion with your eyes, then lower, lower and lower, until you find the answer you’re looking for in his oh-so-conveniently open thighs. He immediately attempts to shut them, but your own prevent him from doing so.

“No need to be ashamed,” you assure him as you smile that knowing smile and carefully climb on top of his lap. “I can help to relieve you. If you wish.” You rub your bottom half against his hardened groin as a testament to your words.

Levi’s neck stretches over the backrest, an open-mouthed moan escaping him, then retracts back to his chest. His eyebrows cinch together in thought, but the way his hips rut into you has already declared his decision, so when his eyes finally flutter open and peer up at yours, you are unable to suppress your look of delight.

“Please,” is all he says — and all he needs to say to send your mind and self-control reeling.

You pounce forward, ravaging his lips with your own, while you grind down again; harder than before, and with more finesse. The noise that Levi makes into your mouth is much too heavenly for a creature of such damnable origin, yet as addictive as if it had been produced by a devil of temptation itself.

The swipe of a sleek surface has you parting from him on instinct. “Careful of your teeth, darling,” you warn and he nods as if in a daze before pulling you back in. He paws at your clothes, helpless and wanting, as though he aches to bring you closer. You let out an enraptured sigh at his aggressive gesture. After all, what an honour it is to have the stoic Viscount Levi Ackerman falling apart and moaning pathetically beneath you; what sacrilege to be a mortal defiling its natural predator. You feel as though you’re going mad, losing all sense of self from the sheer thrill of it.

You drag yourself away from his lips, only to see the full effects of your actions. Strong features softening as though he’s melting from the pleasure. Eyes squeezed shut while his glossy black hair, usually so perfectly combed, fans out in loose strands over his forehead. Razor-sharp nails mauling the armrests. Two fanged teeth poking out from under his lip.

In minutes, Levi is curling into you and crying out against your skin. You guide him through his climax, raking your fingers up from his undercut and through the strands at the top while whispering caring words to him, in soothing repetition. He collapses into you, his arms limp at your sides and his panting breaths warm on your neck. Before you can push him away, he’s mindlessly nuzzling and lapping at your throat like a dog, coating your skin in spit, sucking and occasionally catching his fangs on the fragile flesh. It would be a lie to say you aren’t enticed by the prospect of them breaking through; moving with more purpose and sinking into your–

Levi whines against your shoulder. “Please, let me have a taste. I’ll do anything, please,” he mumbles. “It’s been so long, I– I cannot wait any longer, please, I beg of you…” He pulls away, licking his lips, as if the taste of your skin is enough to last and cherish. “Please,” he begs, “let me drink your blood.”

You smile, wide, and brush back the hair tickling his eyes. “Only since you asked so nicely.”

As soon as the words enter the air, Levi lunges at you. You’re almost not fast enough, but manage to get a hold of him.

You pin his wrists on either side of his head, and the tightness of your grip seems to snap Levi out of his ravenous trance. “That wasn’t very polite,” you reprimand. Levi only looks up at you regretfully, which is likely the closest thing you’ll get to an apology from him. You sigh. “Don’t worry.” You let go of him and slide your palm under his chin. “Open–”

His jaw falls slack in an instant, granting you access to the inside of his mouth. You trail your fingers around his wet lips first, this way and that, slow and soft, just to hear him whine. You giggle but finally slip a finger inside and Levi groans in time with it. His tongue is the next thing to fall from his mouth, hanging over his lip and dripping saliva onto his shirt.

“What a sight,” you breathe. “I wonder what our fellow nobles would think.”

Levi moans softly as you poke your fingertip into the point of one of his fangs. You hiss as it pierces the skin and wait for the blood to collect before turning your finger over.

“Tilt your head back, dearest,” you say, and Levi does so with haste. You dangle your finger above his eager tongue and watch his eyes roll back as the first drop hits his taste buds. He savours the flavour like a man starved of water, his mouth pooling with drool, and whimpers in anticipation of the next drop.

Your eyes are fixated on him, as if hypnotised, and engulfed in sick amusement from the power you have over him. Your thumb sits under your fingertip, forcing out the liquid with steady presses, but for Levi, it’s still not enough. Animalistic hunger and impatience possess him. His arms come to life to grab your wrist and yank it toward his mouth. He manages to swallow your finger whole before you can react, though the sight is much too precious for you to deny or scold him anyway.

The grip around your wrist turns vice-like as he feverishly sucks the blood from your finger. His closed eyelids twitch and runny spit oozes down his chin. You look on in adoration at the sweetly depraved state you have him in. Who would think that a blood-sucking monster could be this docile and helpless?

Levi’s panting grows heavier until you begin to feel him rutting against you. When you look down, the lump of his crotch has regained hardness, already straining against the dark material. “Aroused again so soon?” you taunt.

He is so engrossed in sucking that he doesn’t seem to hear you, so you tug your finger out of his mouth and hands. He grunts in protest, but you ignore him and try again. “Would you like me to take care of that for you?”

As if freshly woken from a daze, or perhaps still in one, those folds you’re so used to seeing between his eyebrows take shape in a show of gentle confusion. “Take… care of what?”

You bring a hand down to his lap and lightly tap the bulge that’s formed there, making him tense and spasm under you. He must still be sensitive, you think with a smile.

“Of this,” you clarify.

He swallows. “Okay.”

“Okay?” You stifle a chuckle. “It’s a yes or no question, Levi, so answer with a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’.”

He sighs and evades your eyes as he hisses out a reluctant “Yes.”

“Good boy,” you praise and begin to make quick work of the buttons on his trousers.

Levi frowns. “Don’t call me that. I am not a dog.”

You laugh through your nose, amused. “Yet you drool and whimper just like one.” You playfully stare up at him through your lashes. He doesn’t say anything back, just blooms a deeper pink, so you accept your win and finish unbuttoning his trousers. Next, you unfasten the strings of his undergarments, freeing his leaking length.

As soon as your fingers make contact with it, Levi writhes. His legs squirm and his hips buck up into your touch. In seconds, the wet head of his cock is dripping with bead after bead of precum. In your awe of his intense reaction, you find yourself experimentally toying with it; squeezing, tugging, kneading, fingering. Obscene noises created by the remnants of his previous release make colour fill Levi’s usually colourless cheeks. His glinting grey eyes are lidded, his head dizzy and delirious. His mouth is hanging open in surrender to the erotic sounds he cannot help making, tongue dyed scarlet from your blood and glistening with saliva. You adore it — are spurred on by it, even — but his volume is now teetering on too loud, and the last thing you want right now is to be caught.

So with one hand on his dick, keeping him distracted, you hurriedly untie his cravat and stuff it into his inviting mouth. A startled, confused but thankfully muted moan rumbles through the cloth. You grin at the conflicted eyes and knitted eyebrows you get in response to your actions, entirely unbothered as you continue to take him apart with your touches, to watch him become the embodiment of debauchery. Moonlight skin shiny with sweat, teeth gnawing around his makeshift gag, pelvis involuntarily meeting your movements, elbows pointing to the ceiling as he desperately scratches and claws at the back of the chair, surely ruining it beyond repair with his needlepoint nails and vampiric strength. So effortlessly picture-perfect.

No more than a few seconds later, he’s arching his back against the chair and wailing into his linen gag. The wood of the backrest splinters and the upholstery tears loudly under his fingernails. Warm fluid gushes out over your fist and dribbles down it as you continue stroking his length. Your other hand takes out the cravat from Levi’s mouth and wipes up the mess. He lets out a few wet little warbles and whimpers at the overstimulating feeling, but quietens down once you finish.

You don’t allow him a second to recuperate from his high, instead satiating your own desires; snatching his face up in your hands and latching your lips onto his in one smooth motion. Tongues curl together and the metallic tang of your own blood swarms your senses. Levi keens and grips the fabric at your waist. By the time your mouths separate, you’re both breathless and gasping against each other, and the allure of his dishevelled state has you unable to resist trailing a few extra kisses on his skin; from the corner of his mouth to his jaw, on the soft spot behind his ear and down his delicate neck. Levi grabs at your shoulders weakly, but when you pull back to check on him, his gaze drops to your laps.

“How did you find that?” You tilt your head. “Good?”

Better than good, so much better — is what he thinks, but what he settles on saying is “Yes, it– it was good.”

The smile that stretches across your cheeks is inevitable, and the most sincere one you’ve had the entire night. “Well… as much as I would like to keep going,” you say, chewing on your inner lip corner, and making Levi flush, “I think it’s time we go back.”

You climb off of the chair and straighten out your clothes. Meanwhile, Levi tries, and fails, to stand up, his knees buckling and sending him flopping back into the seat.

You sigh sympathetically and caress the side of his face. “You should rest for a moment,” you tell him. Your fingers glide down to his chin, take it into your hand and wipe the spit, along with the traces of smeared blood, from his lips. “Perhaps neaten up your appearance, in the meantime?” you add with a smirk.

Some awareness seems to have awoken in him, perhaps as a result of your teasing, because he pouts and replies with, “I was planning on doing so anyway.”

You don’t say anything else, taking that moment to appreciate the silence, just the distant echo of music and the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. Luckily, it does not take long for Levi’s ragged breaths to calm, and for his thighs to reclaim their strength. You help to clean up his image, fastening up garments, flattening out creases and wiping away or concealing the evidence of your activities. Kisses are exchanged in between; some of them stolen, some of them followed by giggles, and some by lustful gazes.

Once you’re ready to leave, you head for the door, but you only go as far as clasping the gold handle before stopping and turning to Levi. His eyebrows shift in that way they’re so good at, speaking when words don’t need to. Your eyes sketch out a path down his face, all the way to his lips, where you find yourself already missing the blood, drool and pearly fangs…

Before you can stop yourself, you’re reaching for his nape and wrapping your plush lips around each other.

“If you’re well-behaved tonight,” you rasp against his lips, “I’ll treat you to more than just a finger next time.”

taglist. @jazzyluuv <3

560 notes · View notes

disillusioneddanny · 4 months

Text

Forget Me Not

Tim/Danny

TW:MCD

He found himself sitting in Tim’s old bedroom, photographs and cameras scattered around him as he desperately tried to figure out what happened to his baby brother. Figure out what he had done to his baby brother.

Tim was gone.

And everything felt wrong. Dick knew it was his fault. Knew that he had been there to watch as Tim slowly slipped away, leaving him with nothing but the memories that Dick now held tight. Two of his brothers had died now. And now he was stuck in a house full of memories, of nothing but haunted whispers and glimpses of a brother who was gone.

He had thought that no matter how far Tim went, Dick would be able to follow. He thought that if he had given Tim space, let him grieve in this weird, and horrible way he was choosing that he would eventually get his brother back. That one day, Tim would wake up and he would realize that Bruce was dead and he would come home and he would be the partner that Dick needed, that they would grieve their father’s death together.

Instead, he had been found in his safe house with his throat slit.

And he had gone somewhere that Dick would never be able to follow.

He had left Dick to grieve yet another family member.

The vigilante wiped a stray tear away as he stared down at the pictures, pictures of Batman, of Dick as Robin, of Jason as Robin. Pictures of Nightwing. Pictures of Batgirl, of Spoiler, of Orphan. Pictures of Damian.

Not a single picture of Tim.

Of the bright-eyed, intelligent boy that Dick loved more than life.

Of the brightest, most caring, cunning boy. Of a boy who loved with his entire heart, despite the fact that the world around them continued to shatter it, over and over.

Dick took a steadying breath as the door opened and a ten-year-old boy carefully stepped inside. He said nothing as Damian carefully sat beside him, his head pillowed on Dick’s shoulder as they stared down at the pictures together.

Tim had gone to a place where they would not be able to follow. But Dick had to hope that he had finally found Bruce, that he was happy wherever he was. He was going to let Tim rest in peace, and had refused to even entertain Damian’s idea of taking his brother’s broken and defeated body to Ra’s to bring him back. He was going to let Tim rest in peace, but he wasn’t going to forget him.

His face would one day blur in Dick’s memories, just as his parents had, just as Bruce was starting to do. There weren’t nearly enough photos of the seventeen-year-old. He had taken them of everyone else, but never himself.

Dick wrapped his arms around Damian’s shoulders as the younger boy shook with held-back tears of his own. He wished that he could have helped Tim carry this burden, took the time to just humor the kid. Maybe if he had, Tim would still be here. Maybe then, Dick would have been able to help Tim come back home.

But instead, he had to let Tim rest in peace. And make sure that his legacy would live with Dick until they saw each other again one day. Until their next hello.

———

Danny Fenton sat at the top of Wayne Enterprises and stared down at the city below. The entire town was in mourning, which was understandable. They hadn’t just lost a good one, they had lost the best one.

There was a melancholy weight that seemed to weigh on everyone in Gotham, he could see it in the ways that people seemed to just walk down the sidewalk. Each of the Gotham vigilantes had a different crowd that seemed to flock to them.

Nightwing was the one that the older ladies and the children trusted.

Red Hood was the one that the kids and the street workers called for when they needed help.

Spoiler was especially popular with teenagers, especially the runaways and street kids who seemed to run the streets like their own little empires.

Batman and Robin made everyone safe and comfortable, everyone knew to call for them for safety and help.

But then there was Red Robin.

And the people who Red Robin called for were the vulnerable, the depressed, the ones thinking about ending it all. He was the one for the kids who were ignored or overlooked by their parents. The vigilante who was there for the ones who felt invisible or unseen. He was the hero for the underdog.

He was Danny’s hero.

Danny rubbed at the stray tear that fell down his cheek and let out a breath. He was gone now and everything felt wrong. He knew that there was a reason behind it, knew that he needed to do what he did. But it still hurt, still made it hard for him to even breathe as the days went by. It was necessary, though, it was.

It was the only thing they could have done, but it didn’t make it hurt any less, didn’t make it feel like his lungs were shriveling up in his chest or like his heart was cracking into multiple pieces.

He was the one who had to watch as Tim slowly slipped away, as he carefully tied up each and every loose end in his life without anyone but Danny ever knowing or ever seeing what it was that he was doing. It was hard, it was painful and he found himself fighting over the feelings that seemed to war inside of him as the days went by.

It had been a week.

A week and Danny was still filled with regret, filled with what ifs and questions.

What if they had been able to do it a different way? What if there had been a different solution than the one that they had found? What if there was a way to do this without leaving every person in Gotham feeling like they were now missing a part of themselves?

He saw it in the ways they all looked towards Wayne Enterprises, where Red Robin once stood confidently with his arms crossed over his chest as he stared out over the cityscape. How he heard the other bats start to call for him only to falter in their steps.

He saw it in the way that Bruce would stand over Tim’s grave, silent and sturdy and unable to actually look at the headstone.

Logically, Danny knew it was the only way. Knew that he was going to have to end things like this. He knew every time that he looked at Tim that it was the right decision to make. But it didn’t seem to take the guilt away.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it.

Saw the way that he sliced the knife across Tim’s throat, saw the blood spray out onto the carpet, and felt his heart break as he saw the light fade out of the man’s eyes for just a moment.

His mental state was in a stalemate as he tried to move on from what had happened, to come to terms with the part that he played in everything. Red Robin was gone and it felt wrong, it was a robbery to the people of Gotham City, and he knew that the walls of Wayne Manor likely felt hollow. Because of Danny, because of what he did.

Red Robin was a hero for the unseen, the ones who needed saving from themselves, the ones who were barely keeping their head above water.

He was a hero for people like Danny. Which made sense as to why he would show up now.

“What are you doing out here?” A voice asked and Danny turned to find Tim standing behind him, his bright eyes curious as ever.

Danny turned back to the city and let out a deep, heavy sigh as he looked out over the city once again. “I feel like a piece of shit,” he said mirthlessly. “I know that what we did was necessary, was the only way to keep you safe from Ra’s and I know that you’re okay. You’re a halfa, you’re like me. But every time I close my eyes, all I see is me killing you,” he whispered. “I look at my hands and I see your blood on them. It’s like it’s seared into my memories forever.”

Tim let out a breath of his own as he sat down beside Danny and twinned their fingers together as he stared out at the city. “It was horrible of me to ask you to kill me,” he admitted, tilting his head to the side in that curious way he did when his mind was going in about thirty different directions and he was planning at least five steps ahead of what was going on.

“It was necessary,” Danny breathed out. “It had to be me so that I could transfer ectoplasm to you.”

“Yes, and I’m grateful Danny, you have no idea,” Tim said quietly as he squeezed Danny’s hand, holding it in his lap as he let his feet dangle over the side of the building. “It hurts,” he said quietly.

Danny hummed in response. “I know,” he said simply. “Dying sucks ass.”

Tim shook his head. “No, I mean it hurts knowing that they think I’m dead. They’re all grieving me. That was the hardest part,” he whispered, still staring out at the city, his eyes glazed over and unseeing. “Being turned into a halfa was whatever. I’ve had my throat slit before by Hood. I’ve had so many near-death experiences that dying was actually easier,” he said with a humorless laugh.

The newly created halfa sucked in a breath and closed his eyes as he tipped his head back, his nose now pointed towards the sky. He let out the breath slowly, his thumb rubbed against the back of Danny’s hand. The new death scar that marred Tim’s neck shone against the bright lights of Wayne Tower.

“What hurts is knowing that Dick is down there grieving both me and Bruce. Knowing that the only way I could ever save Bruce was by dying myself was fine. Knowing that Dick, and Jason, and Barbara, and Alfred and hell, even Damian are all down there grieving? That hurts worse than any of it. Knowing that my heartbeat is forever different so not even Kon can track him down now that he’s alive once more. It’s. It’s hard, and it hurts Danny. It hurts knowing that they’re all down there grieving me, thinking that I’m dead. And it hurts knowing that I’m probably never going to get to go back to the life I had. That even after I save Bruce, I’m never going to go home.”

Danny hummed in response. “I still don’t understand why I couldn’t have been the one to go and get Bruce for you. Or to be the one to kill Ra’s,” he said but Tim was already shaking his head.

“We’ve been over this, Danny,” Tim said, squeezing his eyes shut tight. “Even if you were the one to kill Ra’s for me and bring Bruce back, I would never be able to stop running. Talia would be after me, the Council of Spiders is still after me, the Justice League thinks I’m batshit, and I’m pretty sure I would never feel safe again. Being a halfa, being this, it makes it easier. I can survive whatever is thrown at me. Not only that, but I’m with you,” he said quietly and finally opened his eyes to look at Danny, a small smile graced his beautiful face.

Tim let out a shaky breath and shook his head. “Who would have thought that my mission would take me to the sleepy town of Amity Park? And that I’d meet you, the answer to all of my questions,” he said before he leaned over and gave Danny a soft kiss.

Danny just smiled against his boyfriend’s lips for a moment. “Well, it didn’t lead you straight to me. I mean you put your nose into a lot of places it didn’t belong and I was already investigating the whole Batman timestream thing in Gotham when it happened,” he said with a chuckle.

Tim just snorted and pulled his head back, shaking his head in amusement as he did. Danny just smiled and stared back out into the city.

When he had met Tim, he was in Gotham trying to figure out how the hell Bruce Wayne had been catapulted into the timestream when Valerie had called him demanding he come back to Amity and talk to the weirdo who was trying to break into the local museum. He had gone back to find a haggard Red Robin trying to find his own clues to figure out what happened. They had compared notes, and started investigating together. Danny had been ordered by Clockwork to collect all of the bat-themed artifacts that were spread out in the world, and Tim was desperately trying to collect evidence to get Bruce back.

Along the way, they had developed feelings for one another. Danny figured it had to do with the fact that they were trauma bonding as they went about their mission. They had managed to evade Ra’s who was actively hunting Tim down, evade the Council of Spiders who was also hunting Tim down, and evade the bats who were trying to drag Tim back to Gotham to shove him into Arkham for being batshit insane.

It was what led Tim to decide that he needed to die to get them all to leave him alone. They still had thirty more artifacts to find before Clockwork would allow them to hop into the timestream and pull Bruce back. Something about righting all of the wrongs that Bruce had caused before getting him back to the present. Danny wasn’t even going to pretend to understand why they couldn’t just drag Bruce back and then hunt down the rest of the artifacts. But as his mentor always liked to remind him, it wasn’t for him to question. So the seventeen-year-old simply accepted what the ghost of time told him and went along for the ride.

Faking Tim’s death had been hard, though.

They had to make it perfect, they had to actually kill him to pull it off. Danny had slit Tim’s throat efficiently and carefully. Had watched as his blood sprayed his clothes and the room, and the light died in Tim’s eyes. He had forced the ectoplasm into Tim who became a halfa almost instantaneously, just as Clockwork told him he would.

From there, he had receded into his core and allowed his human body to stay there. Damian and Dick had been the ones who found Tim. They had done all the tests showing that it was actually Tim’s body.

Danny didn’t stay to see how the funeral went. He had hidden out in the Infinite Realms like a coward until the agreed-upon time to get Tim back. After a week, he had gone to the fresh grave and pulled Tim out of it, leaving behind an identical duplicate of his boyfriend. And somehow the two had now found themselves sitting on top of Wayne Tower, watching the city below them mourn the death of one of their most beloved vigilantes.

From what they had gathered, it had been whispered in the streets that Red Robin had died in the field, none of the others able to bear the thought of replacing his mantle. A Red Robin suit hung in the Batcave beside an old Robin suit. There wasn’t a plaque for it yet.

“It’s worth it,” Tim said, his nose scrunched. “I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but it is. Once all of this is over, we can go anywhere. You don’t live in Amity anymore, not after everything with your parents. We’re seventeen, we can go anywhere we want in the world, do anything.”

“Maybe one day we can come back to Gotham. You wouldn’t be the first bat who came back to life,” Danny said gently, still holding Tim’s hand in his.

Tim gave him a grim smile. “Maybe,” he said, although, it didn’t sound like he believed it. And maybe he didn’t. From what he told Danny, too many lines had been crossed. Bridges had been burned and from what it sounded like, Tim wasn’t convinced they could ever be mended. The freshly created halfa stood up and wiped his pants before a bright ring of light surrounded him, showing his new ghost form. “For now, we have work to do.”

#dpxdc #danny phantom #dp x dc #dc x dp #dp x dc crossover #dis writes #dis dreams #batman #danny fenton #dc x dp crossover #major character death #whump #angst #hurt/comfort

389 notes · View notes

kingconia · 9 months

Text

POMEFIORE WHEN THEY NOTICE THAT THEIR S/O HAS SHITTY FRIENDS

Vil Schoenheit.

— It takes some time from him to realise it. Not because he is stupid or anything, but he is always so busy, spending time solely with you, and you always say good things about them, so;

— But as soon as he spots you with them on some school event, he starts to understand something is really wrong. Why would they say all these sarcastic remarks? Especially, if you seem to be uncomfortable? He is furious;

— At first, he will have a talk with you. He just needs to make sure that you understand how toxic they are, and that they are really-really wrong. If you don't see that, or for some reason agree with them, he is sad and disappointed in himself for not noticing it earlier;

— ”Ah, my sweet potato, how could you think so bad of yourself? Just look at yourself in the mirror for a minute! Look at how charming you are. How I love every part of you...”

— Starts praising you more often! He is quite reserved on the public, but he clearly tries to do something good for you. Might pull out a complements on your ear quietly, when you see each other in school;

— ”Oh, who is this pretty lady is?” ”Ah, I am sorry that I bumped in you, darling. I just couldn't tear my eyes from you...”

— Once again, as Vil is busy and aloof, he will not call your fake friends out personally. But he will make sure that some measures were taken. And that they know that their single word against you will cost them so much. Especially, if they are from Pomefiore;

— Live, laugh, Vil Schoenheit.

Rook Hunt.

— Oh, of course he knows that. Rook spends half of time hunting down objects of his interest, but most of the time his eyes glued to you. Even if you don't realise;

— He hears everything. And he sees everything, too. There is no way to fool this man;

— He is immediately furious. But Rook's rage is different from most of the people; his rage is quiet, cold, and slightly... Delirious. But no one can hurt you, physically or emotionally, and he makes sure that others will know that;

— Firstly, though, Rook needs to make sure that you are not affected by their attitude. Whatever they are shitty for—making toxic remarks about your appearance, leaving you out constantly, or something else—Rook will make everything better;

— This man is literally kissing the ground you are walking on. No insecurity under his roof! No-no. If you ask him, he surely can become your servant, even. But you don't, so he continues to adore you in his own ways;

— But that I mean writing poetry about you and declaring it publicly, so everyone would now how loved you are. Gifting you small—or not really—tokens every day. Writing little notes of what it reminded about you. Ah, he can even spoil you with food and sweets! Anything you want, really;

— And regarding your friends... He will take care of it personally. In his own ways. Which can be extreme, but don't worry! They are alive, just frightened! But at least they apologised, right?..

— ”Don't worry, ma belle catastrophe. I will always keep you safe!”

Epel Felmier.

— He is quite observant, and you spent a lot of time together, so, of course, he notices that something is really wrong;

— He can't believe his eyes, though, when he realises how your friends threat you. For him, you are the most supportive and kind person in the world, and perfectly charming. He can't understand how anyone could ignore you, let alone brush you off constantly;

— Epel fully concentrates on fixing your mental state. He knows how bad it feels, to be dawned by insecurities. And he is not a perfect speaker, but he tries really hard to explain you how he sees your situation, how bad are your friends are;

— He is aware that he is not that impressive and scary as others, which means he can't scare off your fake friends. But Epel is smarter and more cunning;

— He uses what he has to make your friends pay for what they had done to you, uwu!

— He either will make sure that Rook or Vil will do something about that—he might dislike his house and housewardens, but, hey, they are useful—or ask to help his other friends. I mean, just pulling in this Jack would be already enough, but if anything, he has these two idiots from Heartslabyul to do something with it. You will not even notice! He is with you all the time, after all;

— ”Please, never forget that you are not alone anymore, and never will be! I am here for you.”

#twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #vil schoenheit x reader #vil x reader #vil schoenheit #rook x reader #rook hunt x reader #rook hunt #epel felmier #epel x reader #epel felmier x reader #pomefiore

523 notes · View notes

karpingaround · 3 months

Text

you know where to find me, and I know where to look ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ !

- inspired by that TV girl song, ‘taking what’s not yours’ , its been on repeat latelyjdidh

A/N : fluff, not checked through sorry!, 1.1k words, no use of y/n!, mikey and y/n are childhood friends btw

Mikey x Reader

header taken from @ suhanihateslife on pinterest!

As the new member of the gang entered the shrine, you felt a sickening bile start to bubble in your stomach. At first everyone had been skeptic of him before eventually becoming infatuated. However, you couldn’t help but narrow your gaze at his cunning smirk.

Why did Mikey let this guy in?

His crooked smile and his right hand man were immediate alarm bells for you. Yet, no one seemed to find a problem with letting the enemy team rise up so high in the hierarchy of Toman.

Silently, you left the shrine, going unnoticed by most. Even when you felt a pair of eyes burning into the back of your head, you didn’t look back, getting on your bike and driving to the small place you called your own.

Kisaki Tetta was someone you had grown up with. You remember walking to and from school together, you remember eating bentos together, watching television after school in your apartment, you remember when he’d get picked on for being nerdy and you would intervene, you remember when the same would happen to you and he’d just stand and watch.

You remember when he had suddenly joined in out of the blue, calling you names to others, talking behind your back. And eventually, you remember the bullying driving you out of your middle school and to another across town.

You clenched your fists just thinking about it.

Your train of thoughts stopped as you parked your motorcycle outside of the quaint bakery, hidden away from the main shopping areas. As you opened its door, you were greeted with a small chime from the bells above, it was scarcely filled, just how you liked it.

With the few people that were in there, idle conversation was shared in the bakery as people ate late night treats. You came here quite often, to get a pack of dorayaki, and leave half for when a certain someone would show up, finding you after you disappear.

After ordering, you immediately slid into the booth you had claimed as yours over the years, slumping in the familiar cushion as a million emotions flooded your mind at once. The sound of the tray chattering broke you out of your short trance, sitting up straight as you greeted the lady who smiled at you generously.

You picked up the mug of hot chocolate she had made, blissfully smiling as you forgot your problems as the liquid luxury warmed your throat. Shortly after you placed the drink down, you tore the dorayaki in half. And when the chimes of the door sounded again, you already knew who it was, further confirming your thoughts when the padded shoes hit against the tiled floor.

You looked up silently as the blonde had stopped in his tracks.

He contagiously grinned at you, making you reciprocate a small smile, sipping on your drink.

“You left the meeting pretty early.” He commented, sitting himself across from you, taking his hands from his pockets and reaching for the leftover dessert.

“mhm,” You hummed, however the curious look Mikey gave you told you it wasn’t enough of an answer for him. Placing down the half finished drink, you took your half of dorayaki, feeling his eyes follow your every movement.

“I couldn’t stay there, I was in shock, and annoyed.” You ranted, taking a bite into the dorayaki, observing the small bakery that you already knew every nook and cranny of.

The blonde hummed, already finished with his half as you lost your appetite from thinking of Kisaki.

“He pisses me off Mikey, I hope you got him in for a good reason, he’s only trouble.” You placed the dorayaki back onto the plate, a single bite taken out of it. Without words, you slid the plate over, watching as Mikey’s black eyes lit up, gratefully taking the offer.

“I know he’s trouble, if you want me to get rid of him just tell me.” He looked at you seriously for a minute, and your eyes swirled in admiration and confusion.

“Then, why did you..?”

“It was a spontaneous decision, he brings more people to the gang and he’s also strong.”

You hummed contentedly, picking up your drink again, pondering about the situation.

“If it makes you feel any better, Takemitchy punched him hard in the face right after you left.” He commented, immediately brightening your mood.

“seriously?! I should’ve stayed!” You laughed, imagining the scrawny boy punching someone like Kisaki. You laughed even more as you imagined Kisaki getting humbled. As your laughter cooled down into a supple smile, you sighed, unable to stop the warmth reaching your cheeks.

“Takemichi-kun has good judgement.”

Mikey nodded at your words, finishing the food with ease. He wiped the crumbs onto the plate, immediately slotting his hands back in the solace of his pockets. You picked up your drink, finishing it off.

“He also asked me to get rid of Kisaki, he says he has bad intentions, so, that’s two.”

“he said that?” You questioned, putting down the empty mug. Mikey in turn, picked his up, happily gulping it down, making you laugh as he put the mug on the table as if it was a drinking game.

“Seems he knows more than we know.”

“Don’t you think sometimes he knows too much? Like that time with Draken.”

He nodded, “He seems to only have good intentions and ideals though, so I’ll trust him even if he’s acting suspiciously.”

“You’re too loyal Mikey.”

You stated, smiling amusing as he tilted his head like a puppy. “Says you, you’ve never stopped following me around.” He laughed, watching as you scoffed, before eventually laughing along with him.

“That’s ‘cause you’re a good person Mikey.” You kicked him lightly under the table, resting your head on your arms. He raised an eyebrow, making you giggle. Retaliating, he kicked back gently, grinning at you playfully.

“No, I think you didn’t listen when we first met.”

You furrowed your brows, stopping your kicking under the table as you urged him to elaborate.

“I told you to try not to fall in love with me when we were younger.”

Immediately, you sat up straight,

“And I never did!” you lied, putting both fists onto the table to exaggerate your words.

He laughed, eyes turning into crescents, cheeks going rosy from laughing.

Your cheeks got even brighter than before, face overwhelming with embarrassment as he called you out.

After you bitterly muttered under you breath, you joined in. Softly laughing, you basked in the moment.

You wanted things to stay like this for as long as possible.

A/N: theyre so fricking cute i love them sm 3):)/&:)@

this might become part of a series, so look out :o also why does y/n know abt takemichi?!?? they broke the fourth wall

#manjiro x reader #mikey x reader #tokyo revengers #manjiro sano #sano manjiro x reader #tokyo revengers sano manjiro #manjirou x reader #manjiro sano x reader #tokyo revengers x reader #mikey sano #mikey manjiro sano

210 notes · View notes

princessanonymous · 4 months

Text

When Night Comes

Platonic Yandere Vampire

Previous Part | Next Part

First Chapter

14. 𝓢𝓲𝓷𝓯𝓾𝓵 𝓟𝓻𝓸𝓽𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓸𝓻

He left her in that room for the rest of the night trapped with the rotting corpse. The flickering candlelight casted an eerie shadow, etching the gruesome tableau indelibly into her consciousness.

Returning hours later, the sound of the lock announcing his presence, she remained motionless, her gaze fixated upon the lifeless form. Her back turned to him, she whispered, the words carrying a lot of weight. "I'm sorry," the phrase lingered in the air, a hollow murmur directed at the vampire or perhaps at the forsaken victim. She wasn’t quite sure.

"I know you are, doll," he responded with a voice that danced between sweetness and a subtle cruelty that spoke of centuries of existence.

She shook her head, trying to explain herself as well as erase the image from her mind. "I didn't want this..."

"Yet, you have brought this upon her," he countered. A hand rested on her hair. "Do not fret, dear. You have learned, have you not ?"

She maintained her silence, a tremor coursing through her weakened frame. Fatigue clung to her like a shroud, and a gentle tug on her hair spurred a clenching of her jaw. "Did you understand, dear?" he inquired, the softness of his tone juxtaposed against the underlying severity.

A muted nod was her sole response. The enfolding of arms around her form and a head resting on her shoulder signaled a rare, perhaps even genuine, tenderness. "Say it, dear," he whispered into the stillness, the words imbued with a delicate insistence. "Tell me you will not try this again." A dampness traced the contours of her neck. A single tear that wasn't hers.

"I won't," she promised with an apathy that indicated her surrender.

⊱ ────── {⋆☾⋆} ────── ⊰

Dorian cradled her with a gentle strength, carrying her weightless form to her room like a precious offering. He lowered her onto the bed tenderly. A soft kiss graced her forehead. Silently, he left the room.

He sighed as he entered his coffin. Vampires didn't need to sleep, but rest was a welcomed interlude, a temporal escape into the velvet embrace of his coffin. It was here, in the darkness, that Dorian found solace. It was a pleasant way to ponder about the event of the night.

While this might have appeared harsh or even cruel, Dorian did not regret it. She had to learn, he repeated to himself fervently. She needed this discipline, the chilling reality etched into the fabric of her soon to be immortal existence. It was a lesson to endure and remember. She had done this to herself and it was his job, as her parent, to educate her. He wanted this to be ingrained in her mind. He wanted her to remember. He wanted to squeeze out this rebellious streak out of her; to pull it out and crush it until there was nothing left of it.

Furthermore, the woman deserved it. The duke had given them all one very specific rule : to keep her in. Yet, one servant broke that rule, having been convinced by the young girl.

This brought up another matter. Dorian was well aware of (Y/n)'s craftiness. She had coaxed and deceived the maid. His daughter had fooled the lady with charming words for weeks.

The lingering pride in Dorian's chest, a testament to his daughter's cunning persuasion, manifested as a soft smile on his lips. The realization of her adept craftiness fueled a certain paternal pride—a sentiment that seamlessly blended into his musings on her intelligence and adaptability. In the chessboard of their existence, she had proven herself a brave player. Brave, but foolish. Her actions were extremely reckless. Bad behavior, no matter how well executed it was, had to be punished. It was his duty to do so; just as it was hers to learn and act accordingly.

Eventually, in the middle of the day, Dorian's tranquil contemplation was shattered by a distant scream from his child's room. In the fraction of a second, he was on high alert. He rose from his coffin and marched to his child's room.

He found her rolling in her bed, sweating profusely while muttering to herself. A nightmare. He should have expected this following the recent events.

Discovering her in the throes of a nightmare, he sat on her bed, gently shaking her to wake her up from the distressing dream. Whispering soft reassurances, he comforted her until she gasped awake. "This was but a bad dream," the duke wrapped his arms around the girl, shushing her cries.

She clung to him, her small frame seeking solace in the embrace of the vampire who had become her guardian. They remained in this position for a while. When Dorian deemed her sufficiently comforted, he prepared to withdraw. However, her pleas pierced the air, "Don't..." she sobbed while gripping his clothes harder. "Not alone..."

He sighed with no real annoyance. With grace, he slipped beneath the covers, drawing her into the protective cocoon of his arms. The sheets embraced them both, a refuge against the nocturnal terrors that haunted her. His fingers combed through her hair, his chin found its resting place atop her head. "Do you want to talk about it?" He asked.

(Y/n) shook her head, burying her face in his chemise in a childlike manner. How sweet. He smiled fondly.

"That is fine," he whispered soothingly. "We can simply remain like this." She nodded.

Her lips did not remain sealed for long however. "I miss my parents," her whimper broke the silence minutes later, the raw ache of longing echoing in her voice. "I want my mom."

A pang of jealousy fluttered within him, quickly stifled. This was his role now. "I am here," he declared, tightening his embrace.

In her vulnerability, she leaned into him. The nightmare had done a great deal to her, but Dorian couldn't help but feel a sense of joy. It was in these weakest moments that the girl was most receptive, that he could more easily reach.

He planted a kiss on her head. This was his child, she was his. His to protect and his to cherish.

┉┈◈◉◈┈┉

Imagine being so desperate that you have to seek comfort from that same person that hurt you so much. yikes. not good mentally or emotionally for dear (Y/n). But good for my fic :)

Spent hours trying to find the perfect image for this chapter, I gave up and just put something that was meh.

#platonic yandere #yandere platonic #yandere vampire #yandere father #obsession #yandere #vampire #platonic #x reader #female reader #reader insert #child reader #yandere x reader #fanfic

161 notes · View notes

idoodlestuffsometimes · 1 year

Text

Brother's Keeper AU Story Post 12 (Part 2)

AU MASTER POST

BEGINNING | PREVIOUS | NEXT

[Image ID under the cut]

[IMAGE ID: Three pages of a black and white comic.

PAGE ONE

PANEL 1: Perry Porter continues his news report. "Further investigation," he says, "reveals that this human has been the subject of sightings in Bonesborough for a few weeks now, and is the cause of a recent disturbance at Hexside School. For further comment, here is my own son, Augustus." PANEL 2: Perry interviews Gus, who is grinning with excitement. "Augustus, is it true you've encountered this human before?" "Yeah!" exclaims Gus, "She snuck into the school and now she's my friend! Her name is Luz!" PANEL 3: "Now that they're together, I can see…" says Belos. "It's them." With a point of his finger, he conjures hologram-like illusions of Luz and Lillith, who stand in the throne room facing them, with their names above their heads. "I don't understand," says Caleb. PANEL 4: The illusions have transformed into Luz and Lilith in their disguises from "Elsewhere and Elsewhen." The names over their heads have changed to "Luzura" and "Aunt Dirtrude." "I had to consult memory magic to be sure," Belos says, "but I was correct." Caleb reads the names out loud: "Luzura and--" PANEL 5: He points, laughing. "Wait, is that the witch who broke your nose?" "They're the two who helped me find the Collector," Belos grumbles. "I did always have questions about them. Clearly there was time magic involved."

PAGE TWO

PANEL 1: A profile view of Caleb, quietly sad. "I see," he says. "And this human attacked a witch in a duel." PANEL 2: But then he turns and brings a hand to his chin in thought. "But… the boy called her his friend?" "Either a cunning ploy, or she is… struggling to find her way," responds Belos. "Either way, she isn't ready to face a witch." PANEL 3: A view of footage from the news report, projected by the crystal ball. In a moment from the episode "Convention," Eda exposes the power glyph used on Amity while Luz looks on in surprise. Belos continues to speak off screen. "If it wasn't for the Owl Lady's intervention, she would have sorely lost." "The Owl Lady protected her?" Caleb asks. "Yes, it appears my suspicions were correct." PANEL 4: "The portal door has reappeared, in the hands of another one of your blasted Clawthornes." A close-up of Belos against a totally black background, his face shadowed. One hateful eye gleams from behind his mask. PANEL 5: A close-up of Caleb staring up at him, also shadowed against black. His face is lined, his single pupil a pinprick. His expression is schooled neutral. "And just as before," Belos continues off screen, "the witch has taken advantage to claim a human soul." PANEL 6: "No wonder the child came to me for help. If not for Lilith, perhaps I could have aided her back then." He stands in front of the projection, watching the newscast, his back to Caleb. "I should order her collected and brought here. Shield her from further corruption. If only the Owl Lady wasn't guarding her." PANEL 7: A close up of Caleb jolting forward, fearful. "NO!" he bursts out.

PAGE THREE

PANEL 1: A close-up of Belos glowering dangerously over his shoulder, lit by the broadcast from behind. "No?" PANEL 2: Caleb sweats. "I mean. Philip, don't you think it'll look suspicious to show too much interest in a human?" PANEL 3: Caleb takes Belos hand, clutching him imploringly. "Not to mention the possibilities of meddling in the time-line. It's too risky." Belos isn't looking at him anymore. He looks ahead at the illusion of Luz, whose back is to us in the foreground. His expression is unreadable. PANEL 4: A high angle shot of Belos and Caleb watching Luz's illusion. Caleb still clings to Belos. Luz's illusion is alone now, staring at them blankly as she stands at the far end of the throne room. "Yes," Belos agrees, "I fear it's too early to intervene. It seems the Lord is testing her." PANEL 5: "For now," he continues off screen, "she will have to face the temptations of this realm on her own." A close-up of Caleb, letting out a breath of relief. PANEL 6: Caleb's eyes snap open. Belos' hand has come up to brush his cheek. PANEL 7: Belos pulls Caleb into a hug. Caleb's face over Belos' shoulder is drawn in supressed, silent horror, cast in deep shadows, as Belos murmurs to him reassuringly. "Don't worry, Caleb. The Owl Lady will be taken care of. And then the portal to the human realm will be in safe hands." PANEL 8: Belos and Caleb in profile against a black background, casting long shadows on the ground. Belos hunches over Caleb, one arm around his back and the other hand on the back of his head, pressing him close. Caleb dangles limply, face towards the ceiling, pulled halfway out of his wheelchair. Belos murmurs into Caleb's hair. "I won't let history repeat."

#The Owl House #TOH #Caleb Wittebane #Philip Wittebane #Emperor Belos #luz noceda #eda clawthorne #lilith clawthorne #gus porter #perry porter #Brother's Keeper AU #doodle art #ah yes just totally normal brothers. nothing to see here! I'm sure Caleb and Luz and the Clawthornes will be just fine #with this and the last one there was so much dialogue i finally gave in and started using type instead of hand-lettering #still some kinks to work out but i think i'll stick with it. some def improvements not having to draw out guidelines anymore :)#also!!! my handwriting is now a font. for the sake of transitioning to type without it looking suddenly super different. Very fun :D

1K notes · View notes

marihoneywk · 6 months

Text

A dragon's ambition

Jacaerys Velaryon x older stepsister - one shot

Summary: Growing up under her father's influence in the Red Keep, Alysanne becomes determined to claim the Iron Throne. Feeling the sting of being overlooked and fuelled by ambition, Alysanne hatches a plan that involves the seduction of the heir to throne, her stepbrother Jacaerys, who also happens to be her half-sister's betrothed.

Warnings: incest (stepsiblings that are cousins), sexual content, p in v, tiddy succin, breeding kink, some fluff, third person narrative, oc is manipulative.

Word count: 3.8 k

Alysanne Targaryen was the oldest daughter of Daemon Targaryen. Conceived in the only night Lady Rhea Royce and Daemon spent together, Alysanne wasn’t a desired child, as her mother secretly tried to end the pregnancy.

However, Alysanne was tough and stubborn since the womb and came into the world crying so loud, the whole Vale could hear her.

Daemon welcomed his daughter to live with him in the Red Keep upon her third name day, raising her in his own ways, educating her to be cunning and fearless.

Alysanne had grown up to be her father’s female version, a thing that scared Daemon. Her sharp mind aligned with her ethereal looks, made a dangerous combination that didn’t let any man escape. With her sweet eyes and big eyelashes, not even the guards were able to refuse a single request she made, crumbling immediately to her pleads.

Alysanne liked her sisters, Baela and Rhaena, but didn’t love them. They were nice and fun to be around, but she couldn’t stop wandering if perhaps her life would be better, if they weren’t around.

She also liked to believe she was her father’s favourite daughter, even if she wasn’t sure. It was only fair right? Baela and Rhaena had their own mother to favour them, while Alysanne only had Daemon. Her mother had a brief presence in her life, dying in a tragic accident with her horse three moons before Alysanne moved to Kings Landing.

Alysanne’s life was pleasant enough, but then, Lady Laena Velaryon died and Baela and Rhaena were also left with only one parent.

They just seemed to want everything Alysanne had.

First, they played dress up with her gowns, then they ate all her honey cakes at breakfast and then finally got her father’s attention to themselves, as Daemon focused more on the twins, supporting then through their grief.

Then, Rhaenyra came and married her father.

Alysanne liked Rhaenyra though. She let the girl use her earrings and necklaces, and even gifted her some dresses from her younger years. But what Alysanne liked the most about her new stepmother was the fact that she was set to be next Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, making Alysanne feel like she could just touch the Iron Throne

As a result of being raised in the Red Keep until moving to Pentos, Alysanne quickly learned the power of that seat.

Even if she didn’t understand how Viserys got there, as an ant and him had the same skills to be king, every time he passed by her in the halls, she could not divert her eyes from the shining crown on top of his balding head. Suddenly her dreams were filled with images of her sitting in the Iron Trone, wearing long bright dresses and matching jewels.

Alysanne and her family had just come back from the capital, landing victoriously in Dragonstone after securing Lucerys’ inheritance of Driftmark.

However, Alysanne couldn’t be madder. It had been announced to everyone the official betrothal of Lucerys and Rhaena, and Jacaerys and Baela.

How could her father and stepmother do this to her? She was the first Daemon’s daughter to become of age to wed, and they had just putted her aside, betrothing her younger sister to the future king of the Seven Kingdoms.

Jacaerys and Alysanne weren’t very close, as the two-year age gap between them didn’t align their interests with each other. It was a small difference of age, but Jace was a typically childish boy, which contrasted with the more mature personally of the girl.

Of all her siblings, she preferred the younger ones, Joffrey and little Aegon and Viserys.

Their small age made it easier to shape their small minds into Alysanne’s likings. The girl quickly became their favourite sister as she would be the one that spent more time with them, playing, reading, and teaching them everything that she valued. Joffrey became so attached to the girl’s presence in his daily activities, that sometimes he would cry in his bed for her, and as a good sister, Alysanne would leave her chambers and put the boy to sleep with kisses on the forehead and loving lullabies.

Daemon had called Alysanne into his study , noticing the annoyed expression that hadn’t left his daughter’s face the whole trip to Dragonstone.

“What’s wrong with you? You are acting different since last night.” Daemon asked looking directly into Alysanne’s eyes.

Alysanne wondered if she should tell her father what she was thinking exactly. Daemon liked honesty but she wasn’t sure if honesty was the right path to follow in this conversation.

“Why are Baela and Rhaena getting married before me?” Not exactly the centre of the matter that was bothering her, but it was close.

Daemon laughed, not believing his daughter’s bad mood was caused by her sisters betrothals.

“Do you want a wedding for yourself, daughter? I didn’t know you were so eager to be attached to a man and to be popping out heirs.” Alysanne only rolled her eyes, not having the patience to her father’s typical comments. “I don’t understand your little tantrum Alysanne, if anything you should be thankful you don’t have to marry yet. But if you really are that desperate to get wed, Cregan Stark’s wife just passed away. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a Targaryen beauty like you being given to him.”

Alysanne immediately laughed in her father’s face, letting the anger that was slowing boiling beneath her skin finally snap.

“No!” She yelled, slamming her hands down on the wodden desk that stood in the middle of the room.

“No?” Daemon repeated, not expecting her outburst.

“How is that fair? Baela gets to be queen, and I get send away to freeze in the North?” Her loud voice echoed through the chambers, as Alysanne couldn’t believe her father’s suggestion.”I’m the oldest girl! I’m your oldest daughter, I should be the one getting my ass cozy in the throne! Not Baela!” She screamed and pointed her indicator finger to her father in an accusing manner.

Daemon was shocked but without hesitation jumped in defence of his other daugther.

“You’re not going to speak about Baela like that again! Do you hear me Alysanne?!” Daemon’s shook her shoulders, letting his temper take the best of him.

Alysanne felt her eyes water and her throat itch, as she tried to contain the sobs she was holding back. Her father had never screamed at her, and not once he had directed his anger towards her like that.

The feeling of injustice settled once again on Alysanne’s chest, hurting like the sobs in her throat.

“You’re going to inherit Runestone, isn’t that great already?” Daemon asked rhetorically and left the room they had entered, slamming the door on his way making Alysanne shudder.

“Why have only Runestone when you can have all the Seven Kingdoms…” She whispered to the empty office as the tears finally fell from her eyes.

Alysanne had one goal: be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And to accomplish that goal, she traced a plan that involved betraying her half-sister and her father.

It would hurt, because she loved her father very much, but lately Daemon had been so distant from Alysanne and so close to Baela, that she didn’t feel that terrible doing it.

Jacaerys was sitting in the beach of Dragonstone playing with little Viserys in the sand. Alysanne got closer and started an innocent conversation.

“Hello Jace.” She smiled gracefully at him.

“Hi Aly.” He returned the jest, turning his attention to young boy next to him as he tried to stand to the sight of Alysanne.

“Hello to you too my love.” Viserys immediately put his little chubby arms in the air, begging for his sister to pick him up, showing his small teeth in a smile.

Alysanne bended over to pick up the babe, making sure she aligned the low neckline of her dress with Jacaerys’ eyesight.

She turned to the older boy, now with the younger one on her right hip, and notice his red cheeks and the bobbing of his throat.

“How are you feeling brother?” Alysanne asked.

“A-, what-… what do you mean?” He was nervous. Like she had caught him doing something bad.

“About the betrothal, Jace. How are you feeling now that you are about the be a married man?”

“I’m content Aly, Baela is a kind and nice girl. It could be a lot worse.“

Alysanne knew he was being honest. Baela and Jacaerys were really good friends, and considering the Westerosi history in arranged marriages, she agreed that he definitely could have gotten worse.

“Do you think she will make a fine Queen?” She questioned him while sitting on the sand next to him, putting Viserys in her lap.

“With Daemon and my mother educating her, I don’t see how she could ever do wrong.”

Alysanne started playing innocently with a curl on the side of Jacaerys' head, twirling it on her fingers. She pretended to not notice the chill on his neck and moved her hand to massage the curls on the top of his hair.

“I agree with you brother, Baela would be a nice Queen. But would she be a nice Queen to you?”

“I don’t understand Aly.” Jacaerys was getting flustered, getting distracted from the conversation as the girl's hands played so smoothly with his hair and her breasts were sitting so prettily in a pink dress.

“A Queen should not only serve the realm, but should also serve her husband, the King. You know that right?” From his expression, it was clear that Jacaerys still wasn’t getting Alysanne’s point. “The marital bed is how Queens serve their Kings, brother. By giving them pleasure.” Alysanne smirked seeing Jacaerys’ blushed cheeks, laughing lightly when he avoided looking at her eyes.

It was the middle of the night, and the castle was sleeping peacefully, except for Alysanne, who was just leaving her chambers, wearing nothing but her thin nightgown. Tiptoeing carefully on the stone floors to not alert any guards, she made her way to a room she had been very few times.

Opening and closing the door quietly, she let her eyes wander through the dark chambers, stopping on the big bed and on the dark tuff of hair resting on the pillows. Jacaerys was sleeping peacefully, completely unaware of his sister’s presence in his room.

Alysanne made her way to the bed, seating behind Jacaerys’ back, leaning carefully in his ear.

“Jace…” She whispered while letting her index finger wander through his neck.

The boy started to wake up, opening his eyes slowly trying to adjust to the lack of light.

“Alysanne?” He interrogated turning his body to face her.

“I think I saw a spider in my room. Can I sleep with you tonight Jace?” Alysanne pouted, batting her eyelashes the best she could, but the doubt in Jacaerys’ eyes was still visible.

“Aly, I don’t think it’s appropriate. If somebody catches you, we might get in trouble.”

As much as his words were denying her, Alysanne noticed how his eyes went down to her nipples, that had perked due to coldness of the space, and were now very visible through her white nightgown.

“Please Jace.” She pleaded, putting her hands his shoulders. “The spider was very big, and you know how scared I am of bugs.”

“Fine, but you have to leave before the morning comes.”

“Thank you Jace, you the best brother.” Alysanne kissed his cheek, making her breasts collide with his chest, and even in the dark atmosphere of the room, she could very much recognize his blushing look.

Alysanne got under the covers, making herself comfortable on the second pillow of the bed. At first, she gave Jacaerys some distance, but as the minutes passed, she slowly began to move herself close to the boy. She was facing him, observing his closed eyes, and almost laughed at his failed attempt to pretend to sleep.

Alysanne once again, let her fingers wander through his chest, following the patterns of his garment.

“Aly…go to sleep” Jacaerys mumbled with his eyes still closed.

“I’m trying Jacey…”

Alysanne lifted her right foot, making a gentle path up and down in his leg, not going up above the knee.

Jacaerys stopped her foot from continuing to move, holding it tightly with his hand.

“What are you doing Alysanne?” He said as he finally opened his eyes, giving her a serious look.

“I’m just caressing my brother. I like to make you feel good.” She muttered, now rubbing his leg with the foot that wasn’t trapped in his hand.

Jacaerys closed his eyes once again, but this time doing it as mechanism to calm himself. Alysanne moved her eyes down the covers, espying the bulge on the boy’s breeches. She bitted her lip and drawn her face close to his, letting their noses touch slightly.

Alysanne could feel his warm but shaky breath, also smelling the scent of lavender in his hair.

“Jace, let me make you feel good tonight…” Jacaerys whole body got chills, as the girl whispered and started to kiss his neck, making a trail to his jaw.

“Aly-, I- “He hummed, moving his hand from her foot, tightening his grip on her ankle.” I’m betrothed do Baela, and I can’t let yourself be ruined for your future husband.”

“I appreciate your concern for my reputation brother, but I’m not a maiden anymore.”

Alysanne didn’t let Jacaerys make any questions, biting his neck roughly which led to a loud grunt echoing through the room.

“Carefully Jacey, you don’t mommy Rhaenyra to catch us don’t you? Or worse, my father and my sister. Can you imagine?” She said licking the spot behind his ear.

Jacaerys just shook his head and surrendered to whatever Alysanne planned to do with him.

Alysanne switched positions, straddling him with her legs, seating right on top of his erect cock. Jacaerys moaned and the girl took his hands putting them across her hips.

“Do you want to see me bare brother? Do you wish to see and touch my soft skin?”

“Yes, Aly…yes.” His hands tensed around her hips, and Alysanne moved them again, letting them rest against her rear. Jacaerys immediately groaned, hardening his grip, possibly leaving bruises on her skin.

Alysanne rubbed herself against Jacaerys’ bulge, and because her only piece of clothing was a nightgown, the only thing separating them was his breeches, causing both to moan at the contact.

The room was getting hotter, with the heavy breathing and sweat that started to glisten in their bodies warming up the atmosphere.

Jacaerys’ eyes were close, and his head empty of thoughts, the mere feeling of his stepsister’s cunt making him dumb.

Alysanne´s hands moved to the straps of her nightgown, pushing them down just enough to show her tits.

“Jacey, open your eyes my love.” She whispered in his ear and the boy followed her request, coming to immediate disbelief, not expecting Alysanne’s bust to be right in front his face.

“Can I?” He asked nervously, not having the courage to express in full words what he wanted to say exactly.

The girl nodded, and carefully, Jace moved his hands touching Alysanne’s tits like they were a fragile piece of glass. She chuckled teasingly as his index fingers made round movements around her nipples.

“You can go harder you know? I’m not a doll.”

Jacaerys, hearing her words, gripped both of her breasts roughly, and as a moan left his stepsister’s mouth, he got even harder, felling like the fabric of his breeches was about to rip.

Alysanne grabbed his hair, pushing his head close to her chest. “Suck them brother.”

He widened his eyes, taking some seconds to fully process her words, and Alysanne, with her lack of patience, pulled his hair harder with her fingers, moving his head forcefully in the direction her tits.

If Jacaerys got uncomfortable with the sudden lack of delicacy of his stepsister, he didn’t show it, as he immediately opened his mouth and sucked on Alysanne’s left breast like a hungry babe.

“Fuck…You are so good Jace. Can´t believe I only discovered you now.” The Targaryen girl opened her mouth in silent moans, never once stopping her hips from moving against her stepbrother’s lap.

Jacaerys felt like his cock was going to explode. Never once in his life he had been this hard.

He had noticed Alysanne’s looks before, always having to look away when the siblings would go for a swim in the beach of Dragonstone, and her shift would stick to her body, giving him a perfect view of her bottom and chest. He was still in disbelief, but the feeling of guilt or treason had vanished from his head since he felt her bare cunt against him.

Alysanne moved Jace’s head again, withdrawing his mouth from her breast, making a thin thread of spit connect to her nipple. His eyebrows raised in a frown, as he didn’t like that he got stopped, until the girl carefully raised her hips, and slowly started to unlace his breaches.

“Are you ready brother?” She questioned and the boy nodded without hesitation, eager to finally feel her pussy fully around him.

Alysanne was pleasantly surprised upon the sight of her stepbrother’s cock. With only a handful of sexual experiences with one of the knights of the Dragonstone, Jacaerys’ manhood was big in length and width. Alysanne debuted her hand could fully close around it.

Before pushing her hips down again, the girl took her nightgown off, throwing it to some corner of the room.

Her cunt was glistening with wetness, making Jacaerys grunt at the sight.

Alysanne pushed one finger inside of her, whining at the feeling, only to pull it out and slowly press her wet and shiny digit to Jace’s lips.

The boy didn’t expect this action, but quickly let the surprise get away and instead allowed the curiosity to take hold of him. Opening his mouth carefully, he licked the wet substance that was touching his lips, being interrupted as Alysanne shoved her wet finger inside in mouth. Just like he did with her nipple, Jacaerys sucked like his life depended on it, loving the sweet taste of his stepsister in his mouth. It was sweater than any dessert he had ever tasted, and more addicting than any wine in the Seven Kingdoms.

The Targaryen girl chuckled amused with this moment, proceeding to leave delicate kisses on his neck.

Taking her finger of Jacaerys’ mouth, Alysanne connected her gaze with his, as she aligned his cock with her cunt, finally sinking down.

Both moaned loudly at the sensation. Alysanne felt full to a point of pain, and Jacaerys felt a tight and warm embrace in his manhood, that it was close enough to make him come.

“Fuck Jacey.” Alysanne pulled their lips together in a lustful and passionate kiss. It was hungry and desperate, both chasing each other’s tongue, not worrying about syncing the movements.

Alysanne started to move her hips, first at a slow pace, wanting to adjust to her stepbrother large cock, but Jacaerys was already impatient and wanted more. Groaning, he took hold of her hips, and pressed her down more on him. Alysanne felt like she could sob from pleasure, and moved her hips faster, making herself and Jace see stars.

“Aly you feel so good.” He moaned breathy, pressing small kisses on her tits.

The bed moved against the stone wall, making a noise that echoed through the room, but not high enough that could silence their sounds of pleasure.

Alysanne, feeling her leg muscles starting to get tired, slowed down a little, and Jace, sensing that, began to move his own hips upwards, thrusting into Alysanne´s pussy without mercy.

The girl’s eyes watered as his cock touched that spot, forcing her to bite into Jacaerys’ shoulder to prevent the scream that was about to leave her mouth from waking their family up.

They exchange gazes, and Jacaerys thought he was seeing an angle, upon the sight of Alysanne´s face. Her silver long hair was a mess, and her cheeks were flustered and red, but what really mesmerised him were her teary violet eyes and swollen lips. If he was meant to go to one of the seven heavens, he was sure they would never be more beautiful than this view.

Seeing his deep stare, Alysanne smiled softly and pressed a small kiss on Jacaerys’ lips.

“I’m close Aly.” He said making a low sound that rattled in his throat.

“Come inside me Jacey. Please brother.” She begged and the boy was quick to nod in agreement, but Alysanne could still see the hesitation in his eyes. She pushed Jace against the mattress, taking command of the pace again, and with all her strength, she rode Jace like the dragonrider she was.

“Gods...” He whispered, one hand on her back and the other on her ass, squeezing it tightly.

Fire burned in Alysanne’s belly, as her climax was also approaching. She moved her hand down, reaching for her cunt and toyed with her clit, wanting to reach the orgasm together with Jace.

Alysanne pressed her forehead with his, the sweat sticking their hair together, and Jacaerys’ brown eyes widen with adoration.

He felt like this was meant to be, Alysanne’s deep violet eyes looking into his and his hands worshiping every piece of her skin. He wasn´t sure if should be thanking the gods for her existence, as in the moment she was a goddess herself.

“Come on brother, let me give you a sweet babe with dark hair.” As this sentence left Alysanne´s mouth, Jacaerys’ was unable to hold it anymore and with a trembling heart, he lifted his large palm, and slapped the girl’s ass forcefully, immediately leaving a red bruise. Alysanne gasped, and finally, together, both reached their release. Alysanne clung to him, coming with a loud cry, and Jacaerys buried his face on her neck, muffling a deep moan into her skin.

Alysanne felt the warm release of her stepbrother filling her, and smiled, allowing her hips to continue moving, wanting to prolong both of their pleasure.

“Fuck...” Jace’s tired voice spoke as he carefully withdrawn her from his lap.

Alysanne moved to his side, putting her head in his chest and looked directly into his eyes.

“Did you enjoy it?” She questioned teasingly.

“What do you think?” The boy laughed and pressed a light kiss to her forehead.

The silence that now filled the room was an extreme contrast to the loud atmosphere that was bursting moments before.

Alysanne got what she wanted, and the happiness of being able to accomplish her goal, mixed with the pleasure she had felt, had brought her to a state of bliss.

Jacaerys on the other hand, was now contemplating his future. If his betrothal to Baela wasn´t important some minutes ago, now it was a screaming thought in his head.

When the betrothal was announced, he never for once got sad about it, with Baela being a kind and beautiful girl. But now, after having Alysanne in his arms, he knew that entire years of a marriage with Baela wouldn’t bring him the happiness he felt in a single night with Alysanne.

#jacaerys velaryon x oc #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon smut #jacaerys Velaryon x original female character #jacaerys x oc

300 notes · View notes

atopvisenyashill · 1 month

Text

there's a really sad parallel theme running through arya and cat's stories and it's that both of them are considered to be Doing Womanhood Improperly and struggling at how to reconcile their own feelings with the expectations of the people around them...

cat spends her whole life with arguably more power than most women would have due to her atypical life; first, as heir presumptive of riverrun, then, as acting lady of riverrun, and finally, as ned's beloved wife. all of this gives her the freedom to do wild stuff like travel to KL in secret, take tyrion hostage (and outwit him at nearly every turn!), get involved in conspiracies and politics and help raise banners, to use her shrewd mind and her intellect in a way that challenges and excites her....but when ned dies, every single iota of power is stripped from her and handed to robb by law and there's nothing she can do to reign in her fifteen year old son who makes mistake after mistake and drowns out her voice because it conflicts with his....

and as she struggles through her complete loss of power, unable to decide for herself where her path will go, unable to give commands, unable to argue for the safety of her daughters, helplessly watching her father die, arya goes on her own journey that involves a complete loss of power. arya's womanhood is a constant threat looming over her head so she leans into her non conformity to save her own life and fears that her newfound strength and harshness will make her mother turn from her for Being A Lady Incorrectly, never knowing that her mother is so desperate to get her back that catelyn has decided she's through being a proper lady and starts arguing back, starts acting without asking, starts showing her resentment on her face and gets herself banished by her own son...

both of them spend all of the first two books struggling with their womanhood only to have a flashpoint of realizing they can simply stop following the rules because the rules are unfair - from arya's " I am a direwolf, and done with wooden teeth" to catelyn freeing jaime from the dungeons, they realize the Rules of Men will never help them, will never save them, and turn to their own intellect, their own grief, their own cunning and despair and violence, to do what the Rules of Men have never been able to do and that is to keep them as women safe.

And its with each other, I think, that they will only be able to lay down their despair and grief and find both peace and comfort in this new definition of womanhood that they've both carved out for themselves!

#valyrianscrolls #catelyn stark defense squad #been trying to make this post for like 8 months and could never figure out how to compare the two #catelyn stark #arya stark #mothers and daughters #getting on my soap box #i'm saying arya and lady stoneheart are going to meet that's what i'm saying #i know everyone says this but if i had to bet money on one (1) thing happening in twow it's arya and lsh being lsh's final scene #clearing out my drafts a bit here #well not everyone says this there's some absolutely stupid takes that jaime will kill lsh and i cannot even begin to explain why THAT #is not fucking happening

90 notes · View notes

weirdmorefics · 1 year

Note

Hey, I really love all your stories and I was wondering if you could do an autistic!reader x Anthony Bridgerton and she’s his wife? You can have complete control over the storyline but it really makes me happy when I find reader x one of my fav characters and the reader has autism because I do too lol 💙

Autistic Wife! Reader x Anthony Bridgerton

Honesty Is A Trait To Love

Pronouns- She/Her

Word Count- 935

Summary- Reader is anxious over Anthony's Mother not liking her.

A/N- Thank you so much for the request I love writing Autistic characters because I am also Autistic and it makes me feel way less alone. All of my characters may come off as Autistic though because I always imagine myself as the character/reader LOL.

"I am quite anxious about Eloise's first ball while participating in the season. I do thoroughly love Eloise as my sister-in-law. I am however afraid she will not participate of her own free will." I say to Anthony as the maid tightens my bodice.

"I am sure she will be fine Y/n as long as you stop aiding in her mischievous plans to avoid ever being wed." He says back with a cunning smile.

I hold my hands up, "You have caught me. If it helps it wasn't all Eloise's idea to tell the seamstress we would not be attending." I sigh, "It's just these gowns and corsets are atrocious I swear they make them tight and itch all on purpose to torture women."

"Yes, Y/n I am sure it is all some big elaborate scheme to spite you," he laughs and walks away to prepare the carriage.

"I can tell by your laughter you are joking but I nontheless will take it as a statement of truth to prove my point!" I shout back as he walks away and more laughter follows suit.

My maid giggles, "Lady Y/n, you truly are the most humorous woman I have ever met."

"It was not my intent to be humorous," I frown. "Surely you must find these dresses a horror to wear?" I turn to ask my maid.

"If only I was so lucky to wear one Lady Y/N," she responds.

I frown then surely state, "Next time you can take my place and go to the ball with Anthony."

She laughs yet again while putting the finishing touches on my gown, "You are a such humorous young lady."

I sigh, put on a smile, and thank her before bidding her adieu.

I meet Anthony in the carriage and rest my head on his shoulder, "I swear no one gets me as well as you do Anthony."

"Good so no one can steal my beautiful maiden away from me," He says with a smirk.

I was about to make a smart remark back but before I can he makes a tactical maneuver by tickling me.

I am quick to wack his hands away, "Your Mother will kill us if we do not look pristine for this ball."

He nods "You are so smart maybe that's why I keep you around."

"You love me and you know it," I smirk.

"You are so right my darling," He smiles and kisses my cheek.

The carriage ride went smoothly after this and we arrived just on time. I link arms with Anthony which always strikes others as odd like why isn't the married couple holding hands but let me tell you linking arms is superior no gross hand sweat.

We also arrived inside the building just in time to see Eloise running away from her mother.

"Y/n please you must save me! You are the only women I know who does not buy into the magic of these events."

"They are quite tedious," I say in agreement.

Eloise's mother catches up and chastises me "Do not encourage her."

I am quick to apologize as she ignores me and drags Eloise away. "I swear your mother doesn't like me. I am really trying to win her over but I seem to make her uncomfortable... I make a lot of people feel that way." I sigh and twiddle my hands.

Anthony grabs my hands and assures me his mother will warm up to me and that I am an acquired taste whatever that means.

"I will talk to her, I can't imagine there is a single soul who doesn't come to admire you," he smiles brightly.

"Well I can name a ton," I start to list them and count them on my fingers.

"Fine darling some people will not like you. I mean there will always be people who see me as a rake. Do you see me as a rake Y/n?"

I shake my head rapidly " No of course not! If anyone ever said that I would give them a detailed list of why you are not!"

"See my dear that is why my mother will love you-"

"Why would that help my case I mean I am merely speaking the truth?" I interrupt him before he can finish.

"That is why I adore you Y/n you speak the truth fiercely and are so passionate about the things you care for. There are not many women who speak their minds preoccupied with finding a suitor and pleasing them. You I can trust to be honest with me and some people may find this strange at first but I am sure that everyone who got to honestly know you would never leave your side. My mother will come to see honesty is a trait to love and not fear it just takes time." He passionately rants about me and it makes me flush.

I am not quite sure what to say so I mumble a thank you. He chuckles at my flushed expression and kisses my cheek.

"No thank yous needed and is just how I feel, though the thank yous are certainly appreciated." His smirk turns into a full-blown Cheshire smile as my flush deepens to an all-time high.

"You are so easy to make flustered as well another reason I love you not sure if that is one of the reasons my Mother will love you though." He chuckles yet again but this time I try to swat him away as he points to my flustered face which just makes him laugh more.

#anthony bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton x y/n #autistic reader #bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton fanfic #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton x you

480 notes · View notes

lixxpix · 2 months

Text

the blood crown. (chapter 1.)

pairings: prince!chan x reader, prince!minho x reader, prince!changbin x reader, prince!hyunjin x reader, prince!jisung x reader, prince!felix x reader, prince!seungmin x reader, prince!jeongin x reader

warnings: mentions of blood, death, poison, suggestive jokes but no smut, competition amongst noble families, ot8 are princes

author's note: hellooo:) welcome to my first series on tumblr! i wanted to go with a sort of dark theme for this fic:> please please do leave likes and comments, it truly makes my day!

You grew up in a household made of lies, deceit and poison.

Born with a silver spoon in your mouth, you were born to an ordinary village girl, and your father, a high-ranking noble. Your mother had been training you since you could barely walk; always smile politely, always walk gracefully, always greet your guests. Each time you would get something wrong, the feared cane would come down upon your hands, enough to hurt but never enough to leave bruises. Your mother had grown up in a poor village, using her charm and wit to seduce your father and charm her way into the ranks of high society. She was ruthless, cunning, and most of all: ambitious. She dreamed of ascending to the very top- the royal family. It was no surprise that when you were at the mere age of ten, your father was pronounced dead on a Thursday afternoon in his quarters, being assassinated by a thief who had supposedly snuck into your house.

But you knew.

You knew when the corner of your mother's lips curved up ever so slightly, at the funeral ceremony of your father. Barely there, but it was the smirk of a triumphant winner of the chess game. All your father's assets were transferred to your mother, and she became head of the household- never remarried and never gave birth to any more children.

Your kingdom was governed by the Bahng's, who had eight sons and a daughter- Christopher, the heir to the throne and the king's sole legitimate child, Minho, the second, born to a concubine in the king's harem, just like the rest. Changbin was the third, along with Hyunjin, then Jisung, Felix, Seungmin, and finally Jeongin. And then there was Princess Areum, the king's beloved daughter and second legitimate child.

Your mother heard from the gossip circles amongst the ladies at the tea tasting ceremonies she hosted often, that there were talks of Princess Areum being engaged to Duke Choi's son, Yeonjun. The Choi's were a rival family, always competing with your mother for power.

One day, when you had just crossed the age of eleven a few weeks ago, your mother called you to her study. You sighed, getting up gracefully from where you had been perched on a chair reading, and walked to her study, knocking first, three sharp raps.

"Come in," she called.

And so you put on a demure smile, hands clasped in front of you, never tripping or stumbling on your way. Clothes neatly ironed, not a single hair out of place, the pinnacle of perfection.

"Y/N." her perfectly shaped brows rise, scrutinising you, before smiling softly. Your mother was always strange like that. You knew she loved you, but in wanting what was best for you always pushed too far.

"You know of Princess Areum's engagement."

You nod, brows furrowed.

"She is not the heir to the throne and poses no danger to us as she is a girl, but her future husband does, unfortunately. The Choi's will surely use their newfound power to gloat over us and trample us underfoot if their son was to be married to the princess. However, we must target the girl this time, it is far too risky to target the boy. Weeds in a garden have to be pruned, ripped out by the roots, to maintain the beauty of the garden. Surely you understand. Tell me the number one rule in chess again." her once soft expression hardens, and she leverages you with a stare, piercing through you.

"Always predict your opponent's next move." you reply, unsure of where this conversation is going.

"Yes. The Choi family will immediately suspect us if something happens to their precious firstborn, meanwhile the princess will be easy to manipulate and target." your mother sighs, folding her hands neatly on her lap.

"I want you to make friends with Princess Areum, invite her to our house if possible. We'll see from there."

You nod, hesitant yet confused. What did she mean by target the princess? Was she going to manipulate her to cancel the engagement?

It turns out, the outcome was far worse.

Princess Areum had become fast friends with you quickly, both sharing common interests. Soon, she began to invite you and your mother to the royal palace, your mother becoming close with the queen too.

You should've known.

Years later when you were older, you finally understood what had happened. A tiny bottle of liquid your mother had claimed to be a restoring health tonic, carefully tucked into your mother's sleeve as she made her way to the palace together with you for your weekly afternoon tea sessions with just the four of you.

Princess Areum's rigid body falling to the ground when she took a sip of her afternoon tea, the cries of Queen Bahng echoing out throughout the room as the princess drew her last breath.

You knew.

The King was heartbroken, his only daughter buried in a grave six feet under the ground. No one even suspected your mother.

One year later, Queen Bahng departed from the realm. The people claimed she died from the heartbreak of losing her only daughter, but only two individuals ever knew the truth.

Your mother pretended to be inconsolable at the funeral, sobbing as she watched the casket, and you almost wanted to applaud at how convincing her acting was. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the Crown Prince, Christopher Bahng, standing beside his father who had a tight hand clasped on his shoulder. The prince's eyes were clearly red from having cried the night prior, yet he remained stoic throughout the ceremony. He never let his emotions nor his grief consume him, you supposed it was how you were like with your mother. Never allowed to show your imperfections to the world. Though you wouldn't admit it, deep down you felt sorry for him, a broken child just like you.

The Choi's never rose to power, and your mother's plan worked.

"You must take what is rightfully yours," she had said on the carriage ride home. "And you must do what it takes."

"But at what cost?" you asked.

"Everything."

-years later-

You stared out the window at the bustling city, feeling extremely uncomfortable in the many layers of silk and fabric you were clad in.

"Remember," your mother turned around to look at you, her sharp voice cutting through the silence. "Keep your head up and your eyes trained upon the goal. Charm Prince Christopher.”

“Become the next queen."

~part 2 coming soon~

116 notes · View notes

kitkatscabinet · 1 year

Text

I wanna get close to you, you are my dream come true

Aemond Targaryen x f! reader

Summary: Aemond Targaryen wasn't exactly what many considered to be an eligible bachelor, handsome yes, but still terrifying and slightly insane. That matters little to you though, from the moment you see him for the first time Aemond is all that you want, even if he wasn't so receptive.

Genre: fluff, reader needs to get a hobby that isn't related to Aemond

Word count: idk wrote this on my phone cause I’m camping

A/N: rushed ending, unedited

From the moment you had laid eyes on Aemond Targaryen you knew there would never be another. It wasn't quite love at first sight, you weren't so naive as to think his personality was guaranteed to be as pretty as his face, but it might have been something close.

Silently you cursed the gods for having to take Laena away in order for you to meet the boy. You cursed them even harder in the aftermath of a grieving children's squabble turned deadly. Especially after your first, and what you feared would be your last conversation with him. He had been adorably shy, evidently not used to the attention, cheeks flushing the prettiest pink. You had beamed at the boy, trading quips back and forth in Valyrian at your behest and patiently corrected any mispronunciation. You screamed and raged at the gods for their cruelty, condemning you to long for a boy that would eternally associate you with one of the people that had cost him an eye.

As you bid him farewell, there had been a guarded hostility in his eye and your heart shattered for the young boy. Determination had flooded your veins, giving you the courage to quickly lean in and gently kiss the skin under his newly lost eye. A laugh of delight escaped as you witnessed his skin flush that pretty pink again. Looking back on it, that had been when you'd decided to fully dedicate yourself to making Aemond yours.

Your efforts were, however, continuously thwarted by your presence on Driftmark. As Baela's lady-in-waiting you had stayed by her side when her sister and father returned to Dragonstone, which in turn of course thwarted any plans to see Aemond. You had no reason to visit King's Landing and he certainly had no business that would send him to the Velaryon's.

You were nothing if not determined though, and spent many an hour writing to the boy you were determined to court. He never responds, that did nothing to deter you. Not even when two months after your initial letter he sends you a single word. Stop. His irritation only fuelling your fervour, because if he was telling you to stop then surely he'd read your previous letters.

You had even taken to writing his parents, at the subtle but amused behest of Princess Rhaenys. King Viserys seemed delighted at the prospect, entertaining your responses in a way that slightly saddened you. Even the king was lonely it seemed.

Queen Alicent had been slightly more hesitant, though your persistent nature paired with her innate longing for a close relationship with a daughter slowly won her over.

His family has gone insane. That's the only possible explanation Aemond can muster up for the sudden madness that has overtaken them. His head is still reeling from the conversation he had with his father. A conversation the man had called him for, a conversation surrounding you. The insufferable girl that simply would not leave him be, pestering him with letter after letter even when he demanded you stop.

Even his own mother and sister have apparently fallen prey to your cunning deceptions. It's like the gods have cursed him, his every waking thought and conversation somehow circles back to you.

He firmly pushes down the small voice, that sounds alarmingly like Aegon, whispering that he simply didn't have to read her letters. Nor does he let himself admit they have slowly become the highlight of his days. This is what he tells himself as he finally replies, he's only doing so because his parents ordered him, there is no other reason.

Over the next six years you see Aemond twice, the moments are fleeting and not nearly enough, but you fall in love a little bit more all the same.

The third time you see him is a grim affair, one that ends with blood splattering against your face and the floor as Vaemond Velaryon is struck down by a wroth-filled Daemon. Your eyes gravitate towards Aemond, only to be struck slightly giddy as you realise he is already looking your way. There is something distinctly heavy in his gaze that forces your breath to catch in your throat as your fingers clench against your skirts. Unfortunately, Baela has come to know you better than you know yourself and drags you away to get clean before you can even take a step towards him.

From the moment you enter the throne room Aemond is unable to tear his eye away from your form. Your face is pulled into a tight scowl making your displeasure at Vaemond Velaryon well known to all. Even so, Aemond’s heart lurches against his chest painfully as if attempting to reach your side itself. To wax lyrical on the beauty you have become, to demand you return his mind to him.

Six years have passed slowly, but even though he has only made your acquaintance in person three times his mind is made up. He is going to marry you.

You who had been an annoying thorn in his side with your insistent letters. The girl, the woman that had refused to give up even when he had been less than amicable. The girl that had never shied away, had accepted him as he was physically and emotionally.

Six years have passed of back and forth letters, and somewhere along the way he has fallen in love. If asked he wouldn’t be able to say for sure when it had happened. Maybe it had been when you’d refused to give up, sending him book recommendations and silly anecdotes of your day. Perhaps it had been when you’d first opened up about your feeling of inadequacy as lady Laena’s friend. Though, deep down he knows that it had been from the moment you’d pressed you lips against the skin of his cheek. The soft sensation later causing tears to spring to his eye at the care you had taken. The lack of disgust you had shown for his newly hideous and disfigured face.

He thinks his soul knows yours better than his own at this point. Though as he watches you stand tall even as your skin is covered in scarlet liquid he knows that it cannot possibly be a bad thing.

Watching your back as Baela pulls you away he waits until you are completely out of sight before his own feet start to move. He couldn’t care less if his father needed to rest, an audience was needed before supper.

You aren’t entirely sure why you’ve been invited to the family feast but Princess Rhaenyra had insisted, a wicked gleam in her eyes. You had entered the room on Baela’s arm, dressed in one of the most magnificent gowns you’d ever seen, only to be immediately seated next to the prince that had held your affections for years.

Had this been any other occasion you likely would have been vibrating in excitement but there is a certain tension in the air that causes your muscles to clench. However, you quickly realise it isn’t tension from divided factions. In fact, in a miraculous turn of events everyone seemed to be getting along. This observation did not ease your nerves, for along with it came the realisation that you were receiving sideways glances and smirks from most parties.

Just before you can speak up the king is raising a toast and you are forced to attention. It isn’t until halfway through his speech that you realise Aemond has been staring at you intently the entire time. The kings words fade slightly into the background as you become entranced with his features. His gorgeous violet eye has softened considerably and you almost choke on your spit once you realise he is smiling slightly. Smiling at you, a look you had only imagined over the previous years as a response to your letters.

The sound of your name wrenches your attention back to weirdly jubilant king, his glass raised in your direction. Your eyes have widened owlishly as you realise you have no idea what has just happened.

Luckily Baela senses you plight and raises her own glass with a smirk before toasting to your new engagement.

“To the newly betrothed” Jace tacks on, pulling cheers from the tables occupants. Your throat dries as your brain tries to process the last few seconds. Multiple sets of eyes have attached themselves to you as if waiting for a reply you do not have. A weight on your hand has you looking down in time to witness Aemond’s long fingers entwining with your own before he is pressing a kiss to the back of your hand with a smirk.

“To my future wife” he raises his own glass, and that is the last thing you see and hear before the world is suddenly pitching backwards and everything goes dark. Though, even through the haze you swear you feel a lithe arm pulling you close to a warm chest just as you succumb.

join my taglist!

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #x reader #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd x reader

728 notes · View notes

morallyinept · 4 months

Text

A full character analysis on AGENT WHISKEY from the film KINGSMAN: THE GOLDEN CIRCLE

I've created this as a point of reference when writing for Pedro's characters, and I hope you find it useful. Even if you just want to learn more about the character. 🖤

FULL MASTERLIST OF PEDRO'S CHARACTERS ANALYSED

FULL CHARACTER STUDY:

Basic Details:

Full Name: Agent Whiskey/Jack Daniels

Nickname(s): None, real name Jack Daniels

Appears in: Kingsman: The Golden Circle, 2017 (first appearance seen at approx. 47:41)

Age (if known): 42 - (Although this was the age Pedro was himself when he filmed his scenes, and Whiskey's DOB is listed the same as Pedro's, 2nd April 1975, so his age may be incorrect. This was found via Whiskey's character Wiki page, see the bottom of this post for the link.)

Nationality: American, from Kentucky

Sexuality: Straight

Family: Former sweetheart/wife and unborn baby boy

Spouse/Partner: None, however he did have a "sweetheart" who died when she was out getting groceries and was caught in the crossfire of a robbery. It is claimed she was his wife, but he never refers to her as his wife or girlfriend in the film, only as his "sweetheart"

Relationship Status: Single/possibly a widower if he was married

Current Living Status: Deceased - Death by meat grinder

Languages Spoken: English

Education: Not confirmed, however as Whiskey is a secret agent, he would have had substantial training with Statesman. Assumed would have had school/college education as minimum before joining/recruited

Occupation:

Job Role/Title: Senior Statesman Secret Agent/Spy

Special Skill(s): Master marksman with guns, skilled with a lasso/whip, combat training, espionage and spy experience, can pilot aircraft

Notable Colleague(s): Eggsy, Galahad, Champ, Tequila, Ginger

Distinguishing Features:

Tattoo(s): None

Piercings: None

Scar(s): Mark/scar on left temple by left eye from being shot at point blank range by Agent Galahad

Other Markings: Freckles on neck

Eye Colour: Brown

Prominent Feature(s): Moustache

Injuries: Whiskey is shot in the head at point blank range, left side temple, by Agent Galahad, but is saved and revived by an alpha gel nanite pack. He's left with a mark/scar on his lower temple, right by his left eye. He is later killed by being pushed into a meat grinder, head first

Hair Colour: Brown

Whiskey's mark/scar from being shot at by Galahad:

Personality:

Traits: cunning, adept, clever

Whiskey appears to be from Kentucky, based on his American accent and where Statesman is based in the film.

Whiskey is against any mercy being shown to helping cure the people poisoned by Poppy's drugs, due to his own story of loss and grief due to drugs. His sweetheart/wife was killed whilst out grocery shopping by two meth addicts, who held up the store. She was also pregnant with his baby boy at the time.

Whiskey is a master marksman; he is adept and can shoot at moving targets with precision, barely missing. He can do tricks with his guns such as spinning them around his fingers.

Whiskey's whip/lasso can be turned electric and can cut through almost anything, including metal.

It is apparent throughout the movie that Whiskey harbors some sort of dislike for Ginger Ale. He has voted against her several times to become a field agent. This has never been explained or really explored in the film. Fan theories suggest it's because he is trying to protect her from being in the field due to what happened to his sweetheart/wife. Other theories suggest he is resentful that she couldn't help save his sweetheart/wife with the tech they have at Statesman; he later tells her that she didn't fix Galahad properly, hence why Galahad shot at him: "well I’m guessin’ you didn’t fix him right!" The real reason for Whiskey's distaste of her however, has been left open to interpretation. Later, after Whiskey's death, Ginger is promoted to an agent, and is, ironically, assigned Whiskey's code name.

Whiskey sees himself as a charmer with the ladies, telling Eggsy to "watch and learn, kid" when he attempts to smooth talk the target at the festival. He ultimately fails.

When we first meet Whiskey on screen, he is based in the New York office of Statesman, and is referred to as a senior agent by Champ, indicating Whiskey has been with Statesman for a long time and has plenty of experience and leadership skills, and is one of their best agents.

Fashion/Outfits:

Outfit 1 - (Opening scene in New York office) Black suit, white shirt, textured tie, Stetson, Statesman aviator spectacles

Outfit 2 - (Picking up Eggsy & festival scene) Black leather jacket with brown under collar, white round neck t-shirt, dark blue jeans, black wellington boots, Stetson, aviator sunglasses, brown studded Whiskey flask belt, watch/tracker on left wrist

Outfit 3 - (The bar scene) Blue wool blazer, dark denim jeans, brown boots, white shirt, blue polka dot tie, Stetson, brown studded Whiskey flask belt

Outfit 4 - (Statesman HQ scene) Brown wool blazer, white shirt, black/blue and white striped tie, Stetson

Outfit 5 - (Mountain scene) Blue snow suit, blue gilet, white turtle neck vest, black leather gloves, Stetson, aviators, black snow boots

Outfit 6 - (Piloting jet) American Flag helmet with name 'Whiskey' printed on it, denim jacket with brown lapels, grey denim look shirt, aviators

Outfit 7 - (Final showdown scene) Denim jacket with brown lapels, dark denim jeans, grey denim-look flannel shirt, brown boots, Stetson, brown studded belt with Whiskey flask, brown leather knife sheath and gun holsters on belt

Accessories: Aviator sunglasses, brown Stetson, watch/tracker on left wrist, silver engraved mini Whiskey hipflask belt buckle, which is detachable and he drinks from it

Weapons Used:

Weapon(s): (Exact weapons pictured below)

Whiskey has two Colt single action army 5.5 artillery model .45 long colt pistols that were custom designed and made for the film, and silver barreled. They are sheathed in a dual gun holster leather strap, embossed with the Statesman logo.

Whiskey has a whip/lasso that he can make electric, which has the power to cut through thick metal

Whiskey also has a knife with a thick brown handle, that he uses in the final showdown fight with Eggsy & Galahad

Modes of Transport:

Vehicle(s):

Whiskey drives a 1970 Ford Bronco with white top and trim and black base

Whiskey pilots the 'Silver Pony,' which is an F 22-A Raptor Fighter Jet

Dialogue:

🗨 See Whiskey's full dialogue from the film, including deleted scenes.

Further Character Links (if any):

Behind The Scenes Interview with Pedro Pascal, Kingman: The Golden Circle Behind The Scenes, Final Fight Over Briefcase VFX With Whiskey

Whiskey's Villain Wiki Page

Samples of Whiskey's Wardrobe - Brown Stetson, white shirt, blue wool blazer & tie info obtained via Styleofpascal IG

FULL MASTERLIST OF PEDRO'S CHARACTERS ANALYSED

#agent whiskey #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #agent whiskey kingsman #kingsman the golden circle #agent whiskey jack daniels #pedro pascal cinematic universe #PPCU #pedro pascal character study #pedro pascal character database

90 notes · View notes

inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 years

Text

Have You No Idea That You’re In Deep? [Chapter 2: The Same Agony]

Aemond is a fearless, enigmatic prince and the most renowned dragonrider of the Greens. You are a (newly widowed) daughter of House Mormont and a lady-in-waiting to Princess Helaena. You can’t ignore each other, even though you probably should. In fact, you might have found a love worth killing for.

A/N: Thank you all so much for the love this series has received! I hope you continue to enjoy it. 🥰🥰

Song inspiration: “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys.

Chapter warnings: Language, slightly more extensive witchcraft, mentions of death and violence, sexual content, this fic is for readers 18+!!!

Word count: 4.8k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @crispmarshmallow @tclegane @daddysfavoritesexkitten @poohxlove @imagine-all-the-imagines @nsainmoonchild @skythighs @bratfleck @thesadvampire @yor72 @xcharlottemikaelsonx @loverandqueenofdragons @omgsuperstarg @endless-ineffabilities @devynsshitposts @vencuyot @ladylannisterxo @itzwhatever123 @cranberryjulce @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz @liathelioness @mirandastuckinthe80s @haezen @fairaardirascenarios @darkened-writer @weepingfashionwritingplaid @signyvenetia

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

“You wouldn’t happen to have any bear teeth, would you?”

“Bear…teeth?” Aemond blinks at you, confounded. You are standing together in the doorway of Helaena’s chambers as she plays on the floor with the children: stacking wooden blocks into diminutive castles, demolishing them with cloth dragons, chanting childhood nonsense songs in a wavering, whisper-soft voice. It is late-morning, and sunlight pours in through the open windows in sheets like rain.

“You see, bears are large terrestrial mammals. Their pelts make good rugs. They are commonly found in caves and forests, eat lots of salmon, and have often been observed—”

“Kindly desist your taunting,” the prince says, though fondly. “Why on earth would you require bear teeth?”

You hesitate. “They’re for…a tradition.”

“A tradition?”

“Um…perhaps…rather…a ritual.”

He flashes a devious grin. “A ritual, or a spell?”

You sigh in defeat. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”

“You still worship the Old Gods,” he realizes. His single remaining eye—bright, cunning, oceanic blue—sweeps you up and down. He is not mocking, not appalled; he is forever seeking to uncover more pieces of you like shells collected from sand. “Well…that’s alright. We won’t tell Mother.”

“Yes, please don’t. She’d send me to the Wall.” This is an exaggeration, though not by much.

“What sort of spell involves bear teeth?” Aemond inquires, amused, like he’s waiting for a punchline.

“One for protection.”

“Oh? And who do you believe needs protecting?”

You peer up at him guiltily. He’ll hate that you’ve had this thought. “You’re riding in the tourney tomorrow.”

“Me?!” he exclaims, and laughs. It’s an alarmingly beautiful sound; you have to stop yourself from reaching out to touch him, his face or his forearm or his long silvery hair. “You think I need protection?”

“You never joust. You haven’t in years, I know, people won’t stop talking about it. They’re all baffled by your sudden interest. Everyone’s wagering bets. And you’re out of practice.”

“Hm, yes, well if Axel Hightower can do it then surely I’ll manage.”

You’re dismayed; if you’ve unwittingly encouraged him, that makes you responsible for any resulting catastrophes. In your own heart, at least. “Please tell me you aren’t doing this to outshine my dead husband.”

“Logistically, it would be rather difficult to compete with a corpse.”

“You don’t joust,” you say. “You never joust…”

“You know, my Uncle Daemon was known to joust on occasion.”

“Perhaps, but you aren’t.”

“Calm yourself.” He’s impatient now. “It’s a tourney, not an execution. And my match is some Lannister boy, it’s not like I’m stepping into the tiltyard with Ivar Kellington.”

“Right.” Ivar is the son of a house sworn to the Baratheons, and he is positively monstrous: tall, broad, fearsome, immovable. When he spars, he has to face two or three ordinary men to keep it competitive. He’s responsible for no less than four deaths resulting from tourney mishaps. He has a reputation even larger than he is; you’d heard about him all the way back in the Reach during your marriage. People around the court refer to him—with both awe and shudders—as ‘Sir Killington.’

Aemond considers you, always searching, never quite finding his footing. “I thought you weren’t one to shy away from battles.” And then he adds swiftly, just to emphasize how beneath him this is: “Not that a tourney is anything like a real battle, of course.”

“I’m not trying to stop you. I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t need your help,” he replies briskly.

“Fine.”

He stares out into the hallway with his arms crossed. You stare over at Helaena and the children without really seeing them. Neither of you speak, but neither of you leave either.

“Enjoy your sparring,” you say eventually.

“Enjoy the beach,” Aemond replies, and departs almost soundlessly like a shadow. You tug on your pendant as you watch him disappear down the hallway: the lines of his shoulders, the sheen of his hair, the way strips of sunlight fall on him through windows and doorways. As your grip tightens, the oval of moonstone etches its shape into your palm; the silver chain digs into the soft vulnerable flesh at the back of your neck.

That did not go well. That did not go well at all. You frown absently, your mind elsewhere. So much for my attempted witchcraft.

“Lady Mormont?” Helaena beckons, breaking your apprehension like glass. She clutches one of Jaehaera’s tiny hands in hers while Jaehaerys stomps around demolishing microscale castles. You hope this is not prophetic of his (possible, far-off) future reign. “Help me get the children ready. The sea is calling for you.”

You shimmy the toddlers into swimming clothes, gather up toys and linens and pieces of fruit, and walk with Helaena and her white-haired twins down to the golden sand, to the water’s edge. As Helaena supervises her children—which consists primarily of having flustered handmaidens chase them around while the princess sits on a sand dune and embroiders a green-thread praying mantis onto a pillowcase—you wander ankle-deep in the warm, foreign surf.

King’s Landing is nothing like Bear Island. Home was stormy and grey and fog-cloaked, harsh, cold, rocky, inescapably brutal. Home felt old, hopelessly old, older than the stars; there was no hope of changing one’s life there. The people of Bear Island have been scraping out an existence—forcing an untamed, unwilling land to nurse them at blade-point—since long before the Targaryens ever set foot in Westeros, since before the Andals, since before there was any divide between history and myths. But here…here…

As you stand on the beach below the Red Keep, there are gulls circling far overhead and clear blue skies and invigorating heat and ships gliding ceaselessly in and out of port. This land yields life plentifully, effortlessly. Within the walls of the city there are people clawing their way up ladders every minute of every day, and tumbling down them as well; there are always new futures to be made. This is an idea you could get used to. This is a world you could get used to.

Later, much later—after bathing the children, after lunch, after visiting the sept with Queen Alicent (requiring some pantomimed piousness on your part), after a meandering stroll through the godswood, after music and dinner and dancing—he finally returns. You don’t need to see him come in. You can hear his footsteps; you can feel the room shift like a ship rocked by waves.

“Aemond!” Helaena squeals in glee and rushes over to him. Meanwhile, you loiter by the fireplace pretending to be engrossed in a letter. In truth, you’ve read it twice already, and it wasn’t all that enthralling to begin with; one of your cousins, married into House Manderly, has just birthed her fifth child in seven years and feels the compulsion to tell the whole world about it. It occurs to you that some people’s luck is really quite excessive.

You try not to listen as Aemond asks Helaena about her day, as she prattles on about the beach (but mostly about her insect embroidery), as she gets sidetracked and scurries off and lowers herself onto the couch to finish the aforementioned embroidery. The prince’s familiar footsteps approach you. You refuse to look up until he’s waited several minutes with nothing but the dry, popping fractures of wood in the fireplace to split the silence.

“Did you and Sir Criston have a productive time hitting each other with sticks?”

“There was a slight change of plans.”

He tosses a leather pouch to you. You catch it in mid-air. Inside are cracked, bloodied bear teeth. You gasp in the flame-lit stillness. “How…?”

“It was the strangest thing. I, entirely unprompted, was struck by this intense desire to go bear hunting.” He grins: impish, off-kilter, waiting to see if you’ll forgive him. “I hope they’re adequate, they were difficult to…uh…dislodge. From the skull, I mean. And I wasn’t sure if you wanted them…you know. Cleaned.”

“No, you did well. It’s better if they’re bloody.” You are struck by a sudden, ludicrous vision of the prince practically dragging Sir Criston Cole through the woods for hours—their boots coated with mud, their brows sweated, twigs embedded in their hair—while dodging Sir Criston’s increasingly exasperated inquiries. “I don’t know why you did this for me.”

“I know what it’s like to hold something sacred that others don’t understand.”

From the couch, Helaena murmurs: “He had to close his eye.”

You turn to Aemond for a translation.

“To get my dragon,” he says softly, then gestures to his lost eye: quickly, as if he doesn’t want to draw any more attention to it than he absolutely must. You know it happened in some sort of childhood scuffle between Alicent and Rhaenyra’s sons—every noble who’s ever travelled south of the Neck knows that—but you’ve never heard the details. Unthinkingly, reflexively, you reach out for him, resting your right palm against the mutilated half of his face. He’s so perfect in spite of the destruction his flesh holds like a memory; he’s so fucking beautiful. Your thumb ghosts across the section of scar that slits his cheek in two. Aemond flinches and catches your wrist.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Gently, he lowers your hand back to your side. Then he grasps your pendant to examine it more closely. “Hm. Moonstone and silver, together, entwined. Curious, don’t you think?”

“Very,” you agree. You wonder what he looks like without his eyepatch, not in a morbidly curious sort of way but out of a longing—a craving—to know every part of him entirely.

“I’ve studied the Old Gods, you know,” he says. “Purely for scholarly purposes. And the Drowned God, and the Lord of Light. There are temples dedicated to Him in Dorne. I’ve exchanged letters with several of the maesters there.”

“I’m sure your mother is positively delighted that you’re writing to maesters instead of eligible Baratheon and Lannister women.”

He smiles wryly. “Aegon has brothels. I have the library.”

“So you don’t spend all your time sulking around unnerving courtiers.”

“Well, not all of it.” His face is illuminated by the fire, amber and scarlet and gold. He reads the nervousness on yours: the tourney, the joust, your own dawning realization of how much he means to you. “Fear not. I’m coming back.”

“That’s exactly what my mother said before she left me in the Reach with Axel Hightower. And I never saw her again.”

Without speaking, Aemond cups your face in his hands. He touches his forehead to yours—lightly, lightning-briefly—and then backs away. He takes several long strides, as if he’s afraid of what will happen if the space between you could be so easily closed.

“Good luck tomorrow, Silver,” you tell him.

He glances down at the leather pouch of bear teeth still clutched in your left hand. “I thought you were taking care of that for me.”

~~~~~~~~~~

When the rest of the Red Keep is slumbering in unwitting darkness, you slip unnoticed back to the heart tree. You have to do this part here, where the Old Gods can hear you; you have to give Aemond the best chance you can. You pour a handful of the bloodied teeth, rosemary, sage, sea salt, and your last few pebbles of black jade into the mortar you left Bear Island with, and then Oldtown after Axel’s death. You hope you never have to leave King’s Landing. Everything in you struggles against the thought of it, like an animal with its paw in an iron-jawed trap. You light a white candle and set it on a root of the heart tree.

“Protect him,” you implore the flame again and again. It flickers and bends to you in the cold night wind. You grind the teeth until they are a fine, pale-pink dust. “Break others if you must, burn others if you must, bury others if you must…but protect him.”

This next part is the trickiest. Back inside the Red Keep, you evade guards and handmaidens to slink inside the prince’s chambers. The man you are regrettably falling in love with—Aemond Targaryen, Aemond One-Eye, the dragonrider of Vhagar—is exactly where he should be: asleep in bed. He is sprawled on his stomach and occasionally murmuring as if in the middle of a very consequential conversation. He is mostly obscured by blankets, but you can see he’s not wearing his eyepatch; his white hair flows freely and unincumbered over the pillows. You are careful not to look too closely at him, only because you know he wouldn’t want you to.

You crouch down on the cold, hard floor and scatter the powder you’ve ground under his bed. No one would ever recognize it as witchcraft. It could be sand, it could be dust, it could never be noticed at all. When you are finished, you flee the room with feather-light steps.

Yet you think you might have heard it as you crossed through the doorway, just maybe, just barely: a creak, a stirring, the prince rising to catch a glimpse of you with his sleep-bleary eye.

~~~~~~~~~~

A Mullendore unseats a Buckwell. A Tyrell unseats a Rollingford. A Westerling gets so drunk he falls off his horse mid-charge and the Tully proclaims victory. Sir Ivar Kellington breaks some poor Massey boy’s jaw. Everyone applauds politely.

Aegon leaps to his feet. “Well done, Sir Killington!” he shouts, raising his wine cup. “Uh…I mean…Kellington.” Aegon drops back into his seat. Otto Hightower glares at him.

You tug nervously on your moonstone pendant. Helaena claps and smiles when necessary but otherwise watches the birds, the clouds, the horses and works on the favor she’s making. The queen is wringing her hands and dressed—predictably—in a rich emerald-green gown. Alicent has always struck you as kind and affectionate enough, albeit in a distracted sort of way. You suppose she has plenty of legitimate distractions. Her husband the king is ailing, rarely seen, unlikely to live much longer. Her father is ruling the kingdom in all but name. Her estranged stepdaughter, a prospective schemer and confirmed dragonrider, is the heir apparent. And she has an adult son in need of a politically-expedient marriage…a son who doesn’t have any spare eyes to sacrifice to this tourney.

You turn to Aegon, who stares vacantly down into the tiltyard with red, groggy eyes. “I know the prince is good on his feet, but can he joust? You know…without his…?” You point to your own unharmed eye in explanation. Aegon shrugs listlessly. This does not inspire confidence.

As Ivar Kellington exits the tiltyard, Aemond comes in. They exchange a look as they pass each other on their horses, a silent antagonism, a taking of measurements. It can safely be assumed that Ivar—a man whose legacy will be built on the bones of the people he’s brutalized—would like few things more than a chance to publicly skewer the prince, but he won’t get it. The Hightowers would never allow such a match. Aemond smirks up at the giant triumphantly.

The crowd cheers as Aemond and the Lannister boy he’s scheduled to joust gallop around the tiltyard, but in a way that is tentative, taunt, uneasy. No one can recall ever seeing the brooding, one-eyed prince participate in a tourney before. As his long white hair flows out behind him like a banner, as he sizes up his opponent with a cool, stoic gaze, people chatter about how much he reminds them of Daemon Targaryen. Is Aemond another rogue prince? Is that primal breed of fear that he inspires in people deserved? You observe the nobles gathered here from your seat between Aegon and Helaena, noting for the first time just how many seven-pointed stars there are: on cups, on chairs, on pieces of embroidery, on necklaces. Queen Alicent wears them constantly.

What do they do to witches here? Burn them?

A bolt of dread pierces through your chest like a blade. No one is looking at you, of course; no one is paying any attention to you at all. But suddenly you feel naked in this crowd.

Sir Criston has appeared to give Aemond his parting words. He grabs the horse’s reigns and says something to Aemond that you can’t hear over the thunderous noise of the audience. The prince nods. Criston speaks again, miming a technique. The prince continues to nod. His mood is evident from his posture: Yes, okay, alright, let’s get on with it. Criston hands the prince his helmet, which is open in the front and without a visor, and people murmur about how Daemon always wore the same style. You think it has less to do with an homage as it does with practicality. Aemond cannot afford what sight he has left to be obscured by metal. He doesn’t look at or acknowledge you in any way, but when he dons his helmet and his hair is momentarily displaced you see it rubbed onto the back of his neck where no one will notice: a fine, chalky, pinkish dust.

He saw me after all. In his bedroom.

You can envision him crawling out of bed and dropping to his knees, investigating while still clumsy and half-asleep, pressing his palm to the dust before marking himself with it. You smile, a solitary moment in a pulsing space.

That has to be good luck, doesn’t it? That has to give the spell more power.

You wish you knew more about magic. You wish your mother was still alive.

Sir Criston hands Aemond his shield and his lance. Aemond asks Helaena for her favor. She gives it to him wholeheartedly: a small wreath of green calla lilies she’s been weaving together with jittery fingers. She waves him off and then sinks back into her seat, silent and remote.

Aemond takes his place at one end of the tiltyard. The Lannister boy—Leland or Luca or Landon or Lyndon or something like that, you keep forgetting—waits on the other. Their horses paw at the earth restlessly. There’s already blood in the soil, the air. Everyone else clears the tiltyard. The seconds tick down.

Suddenly—like falling forward—both riders have kicked their mounts and the horses are hurtling towards each other. The space between them evaporates like a waning moon. People are screaming all around you, and some of the noise is pure exhilaration but a good amount of it is horror, because already people can see it: the prince’s lance is aimed just a bit too low and too far to the left, and the Lannister boy’s lance is poised to collide with Aemond’s unguarded face. Aemond sees it too, soon enough to know but not soon enough to fix it. His blue eye is wide and gleaming with doomed shock.

Before the riders can strike, there is a deafening snap, a cracking of bones. The Lannister boy’s horse plummets to the earth as its left fetlock shatters. The Lannister boy’s lance goes flying, his lips loose a shriek…and his body falls perfectly into the line of Aemond’s lance. The prince’s lance crashes into the Lannister shield and sends the boy soaring off the back of his collapsing horse. The crowd explodes into cheers and applauds. Aemond has won.

He is dutiful about it, honorable about it. He dismounts and helps the Lannister boy to his feet and expresses sympathy about the horse: such bad luck, so unfortunate, although everyone knows horses are prone to such accidents. He bows graciously to the crowd of courtiers who have so consistently ignored, avoided, misunderstood him. And only then does he come to accept congratulations from his family.

Aemond receives a giddy hug from Helaena, a sloppy whack on the shoulder from a very intoxicated Aegon, and kisses on his hands from the queen. Otto Hightower gives him a proud, beaming nod. Sir Criston sprints up from the tiltyard to embrace—in fact, nearly tackle—the prince. In the joyous mayhem, you make no attempt to capture Aemond’s attention, but he does fight his way through it to find you. He circles an arm around your waist to pull you close so he can whisper to you as he places Helaena’s calla lily wreath on your head like a crown.

“I’m awfully glad I found you those bear teeth, Moonstone,” he says, and then he’s spirited away by admiring nobles.

You watch—alone in the havoc—as Aemond is commended by the great families of Westeros, the fathers and the matriarchs and the marriageable daughters too; and you are struck by a sudden and overwhelming sadness.

He is going to marry a Baratheon or a Lannister or an Arryn or a Stark, you think. And any fantasy that deviates from that eventuality is pure, self-inflicted cruelty.

You don’t belong in his world. Perhaps you don’t really belong anywhere.

Unnoticed—or so you believe—you escape through the spectators and into a small, empty stairwell of the Red Keep. You crumple onto a step, entertain the possibility of composing yourself, and then rupture into helpless, pitiful tears. You sit there sobbing with your face in your hands for five minutes, or ten, or twenty, you aren’t sure. It doesn’t matter. No one misses you.

When you hear the footsteps, you immediately know who it is. You don’t even look up. You wipe your sore, drenched cheeks with the sleeves of your gown and stare down at the stone floor in abject humiliation.

“What troubles you?” he asks. You marvel at his voice, and not for the first time: calm yet compelling, soft-spoken and yet so heavy with gravity.

You consider lying to him, but you don’t. The answer is so simple. Now your eyes find his. “I want something I can’t have.”

Aemond nods, solemn, pensive. “I find myself afflicted with the same agony,” he says. And then he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

There is an informal feast held in the Great Hall to celebrate the winners of the tourney. People roam and mingle and eat off of plates balanced precariously in one hand. There is dancing and music, an anxious plucky sort of sound that plays from the strings. Aemond is the guest of honor, although no stranger would guess it; after his short obligatory exchanges with various nobles and fellow jousters, he makes his way back to his immediate family. You are obliged to accompany Helaena, and thus bound to stay near Aemond; all night you orbit each other like planets, like seasons. Sometimes he catches you watching him as you sip your wine, sometimes he skates his palm along the small of your back as he passes behind you, over and over again you find excuses to stand next to each other while saying nothing, while thinking everything, while feeling each other’s heat through the infinitesimal space between you. Finally, as the evening careens towards midnight, he finds you alone in the doorway of the same winding staircase he tracked you to earlier, except now you’re at the top of it. You’re nursing a cup of wine, unnoticed and unnecessary, still wearing the crown of green calla lilies. Helaena is thoroughly preoccupied with a plateful of pear tarts and the doting attention of Otto Hightower. Aegon is presumably off badgering a servant girl somewhere…or perhaps passed out under a tree.

“This is an odd question, I freely admit it,” the prince says, close enough that you can see the ring of dark blue around the edge of his iris like the ocean at night. Torchlight glows on the flush in his cheeks: one pristine, one ruined. “But would you happen to have been in my bedroom last night?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Lying is a sin in any religion.”

“Alright, yes, I was there. Briefly. Very briefly.”

“So you didn’t want to stay?”

In reply, you only gaze up at him, wanting him so badly it puts aches in your hands, your spine, your lungs, the threads of your heart. His smile is knowing and playful and warm and kind. He reads you the same way he pours over dusty, long-forgotten books in the library and you read him like a spell. You want to know everything he’s made of. You want to feel him beneath the innate design of your fingerprints. He looks into your eyes and sees all of this and more; and then he turns and descends the stairs.

You follow after him, your dress dragging on the stone steps. His footsteps are so light they’re nearly soundless. He moves like a storm, like a wolf; you don’t hear them until they’ve got their jaws around you. Torches burn overhead as you traverse the staircase down, down, down. You can still hear the muffled music of the strings through the castle walls. You can feel the pounding of your heart, the blood roaring in your ears like waves. The music fades as you walk, and then disappears; but your heart grows louder.

When you reach the final step, Aemond catches you, presses you against the wall, kisses you so deeply it feels like you’re drowning in him: in heat, in insatiability, in all that long-caged wildness screaming to be freed. Your wine cup and crown of calla lilies both tumble to the floor. His hands are gliding beneath your dress. You’re ripping open his tunic. In the sea of fabric, his fingers find the velvet-soft inside of your thigh and follow it upwards. You’re soaked for him already. He moans, licks his fingers, kisses you so you can taste yourself on his lips, his tongue. Your hands tangle in his hair and drag him closer, closer, until there’s no space left between you, not even enough to second-guess this. You open your thighs wider, bite his neck, beg him to fuck you. His fingers stroke you until your hips are thrusting in rhythm, until you’re stifling your cries against his bare, flare-hot skin. There is a powerful, shuddering sensation of an opening, a warm glowing like liquid gold. Reflections of fire dance over you both. His breathing is ragged, ravenous. Even through his clothes, you can feel how hard he is, how thick. You are starving to be filled with him.

“Wait,” you gasp, and immediately he stills. You touch his face, your palm to his scar, and this time he doesn’t flinch away. “Can I see you?” you say. “I want all of you. The real you.”

He hesitates. He reaches for his eyepatch. He rips it away in one fluid motion, like a bandage off a fresh wound, like he’s afraid of losing his nerve. Where his left eye should be is jagged flesh framing a glittering, savage-blue sapphire. You can see the shadow of the little boy he was when he was disfigured and never avenged. You can see every brick he’s built himself with since.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” you whisper, your words weightless and vanishing like smoke.

“I never wanted people to pity me.”

“No one pities you. They fear you.”

Aemond asks, mesmerized, spellbound: “Why don’t you fear me?”

“Because I was raised to admire ferocity, not to run from it.”

“You are perfection,” he breathes. “You were made for me.”

You grab his face with one hand, hook it around his jaw, and look him straight in his eyes, both of them: one flesh, one sapphire. “Show me.”

You’re still throbbing, still slick, still roiling in aftershocks as he plunges inside you. You fuck with your faces close and your hands entwined, kissing, moaning, biting, whispering promises that cannot be kept. When he comes, his teeth close around your collarbone to keep himself from crying out; and then he rests his forehead against yours. You remain there together in this dying moment, in the receding seconds, dwelling in them like the last days of summer. Then he steps back and the illusion is shattered.

You let the hem of your dress drop to the floor. Aemond refastens his tunic and smooths his hair. As you find your balance on weak and trembling legs—as you adjust to the unwelcome absence of him—you push Aemond away. “Go,” you say, glancing to the steps. “Go. I know you have to.”

His hands are open, empty. “Are you sure—?”

“Go,” you insist. “Please, just go. Before you’re missed.”

He looks at you like he’s going to say more. Then he picks up his eyepatch off the floor, secures it over what remains of his left eye, and ascends the staircase to rejoin his family in the Great Hall. That’s where he belongs, after all. That’s where he will always belong.

You wait to follow him until enough time has elapsed to evade suspicion. You wait at the bottom of the staircase in silence, in agony, your skin crawling with the echoes of flames.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd #hotd fanfic #aemond x reader #aemond imagine

802 notes · View notes

azrielwingspan · 2 months

Text

DISTRACTIONS (AZRIEL X OC)-PART 3

Distractions is a collection of short stories whose main characters are Azriel and Nyra (OC).

It's established that there is some heavy tension between them (everyone suspects lol) and I decided to put into words a few visualizations I've had of the both of them just pining for each other, playing hard to get, flirting, a bit of angst, maybe smut, some fluff and overall just being HELLA CUTE OKAY.

Part 3 of the collections of short stories!! No specific reading order to be followed.

PART 1 / PART 2

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Summary : Nyra and Azriel finally meet after a month. What starts off as a pleasant conversation branches out into something more. Warnings: Angst , mild swearing, bit of smut (i think?) .

Enjoy !

Nyra was fed up. Everything, everywhere all at once was going wrong. For the past few days, all she had done was wake up, fix shit and have a fitful sleep.

She came back home to Vallahan a month ago and had been served bad news on a silver platter. The nobles were planning an intervention to add a new clause to the tax benefit laws. This wasn't something new that had to be tackled but it had never been held over the courts head before. If this wasn't handled delicately and shut down definitively, the court would have a civil war on their hands.

"I will say this once and only once." she stared down the Lord of Fendale, her face a carefully crafted mask that betrayed no hint of emotion. "The laws exist for a reason---" she raised a hand as she noticed the Lord open his mouth to interrupt her. "NOT for you to change them as per your personal interests. So if you have any legitimate reason for your proposal my lord, you will present it to the ENTIRE court. I will not be tolerating anymore personal visits."

She motioned towards the door not giving him a chance to speak up. She had had enough of this idiocy for a lifetime. The Lord fortunately took the hint and left the room slamming the door behind him. That fucking cun---.

"Another visitor for you my Lady."

"If I see one more noble parading in here like they own the damn place, I will stab them with my pencil. Let them know beforehand. Would serve as a fair warning don't you think?"

"Fair enough." a dark and smooth voice responded. The scent of night chilled mist and cedar hit her bringing a smile to her face.

"That applies to you as well, Shadowsinger."

"I am not a noble." the sound of boots tapping across the wooden floor came closer , the male now in front of her casting a shadow across the reports she was trying to read.

"You did walk in here like you own the damn place." The words in front of her might as well have been an entirely new language. Her brain refused to acknowledge anything else when he was nearby.

"Was I meant to take an appointment?" a teasing tone laced into his voice.

"Would've been suitable."

"And here I was thinking you would always make time for me. It's not reciprocated I see."

Scarred hands placed onto the table entered her field of vision and she finally looked up meeting his gaze.

After an entire month of restlessness , irritation and exhaustion, something in Nyra finally settled. It felt like walking into an open field, taking in a huge gulp of fresh air and feeling the heaviness leave your body only to be replaced by a pleasant humming sensation.

"Hello, Az."

"Hello, Nyra." a delightful grin graced his face.

The greeting alone seemed to charge the air around them. The memory of him kissing her neck sprung into her head and she pushed it out immediately. Now was not the time.

She had thought of that moment every day since. The feel of his lips brushing against the skin of her throat, the shared breaths, the heat of his skin beneath her fingers. Most of all, she remembered the dismissal at the end of it all. It managed to break her out of her day dreams every single time. It wasn't meant to happen. What was she thinking?

Something on her face must have betrayed her emotions because Azriel's smile dimmed as he watched her. The memory seemed to clutch him in its grasp as well , making him step away from the table. The heaviness slammed back into Nyra with full force.

Well there goes my moment of peace.

Clearing his throat, Azriel pulled something out of the shadows surrounding him. "Rhys asked me to pass this onto you. I managed to find some...information regarding the Lord of Fendale that might be of benefit to you."

"Oh."

Stupid, stupid girl.

Of course he was here on official business. She had duped herself into thinking he was there for her.

When will you learn?

"Right." She read through the report Azriel had written all the while trying to shove her disappointment into a dark recess of her mind.

"This is.....excellent." The information in the report could be used against the Lord and make him rein in the other lords who had fallen out of line.

"Azriel...thankyou. This might solve the problem once and for all."

He bowed his head and gave her a small smile.

"I hoped it would. He's a viper Nyra. Be careful."

"I will."

They settled into awkward silence for a few beats. She hated it. This feeling of walking around eggshells around him, the way they were pretending that nothing ever happened between them. She didn't know how to fix it and she hated herself more for it.

"What is this?" Azriel had moved towards a table littered with official and personal letters. He was clutching one of them in a white knuckled grip, his eyes flying across the page over and over again.

SHIT. SHIT. SHIIIIT.

She knew exactly which one of the dozens of letters he was clutching. She had planned on burning it that morning but clearly had forgotten.

"Az..."

"What. Is. This. Nyra?" he growled, his voice like subdued thunder.

He had gone still. Oh so still, she wondered if he was even breathing.

His eyes were still glued to the letter and she wondered how the page hadn't caught fire from the look he was shooting it.

"It's nothing important. I was supposed to burn it today." she tried to placate him, standing up from her seat and making her way towards him.

"Nothing important?" he turned to look at her and she almost stumbled at the darkness in his eyes. Hot burning anger that raged like a fire, she could deal with. However, Azriel's anger was like cold death. It was honed and sharpened to strike it's opponent when the time came.

She wasn't scared of him.

Never.

She was scared for him.

"Yes nothing." she kept her tone unbothered , tinging it with a hint of annoyance. It wasn't hard really. She was annoyed that he had found it fit to just go through her letters.

"It would be of utmost honor if you were to wed my son---"

"I know what it says, Azriel. I can read." She could feel her anger rising to the surface preparing to clash with his.

"Did you respond?"

"Yes. Yes I did."

"What did---"

"It's official court business."

He scoffed.

He fucking scoffed.

It was enough for her anger take over and make her see red.

"Put the letter down Azriel. You have no right to read those. Oh and next time make a damn appointment. I don't have time to deal with your fucking tantrums."

"Tantrums? You think me reacting to a marriage proposal is a ...tantrum?" his voice had gotten deadly quiet.

"Yes." she hissed through her clenched teeth. "What I do or don't do with my personal life is none of your concern. If I want to marry a Lord's son, I damn well will and YOU are not obligated to know about it."

"Say that again, Nyra. Say that again but be truthful to yourself this time." the intensity with which he was looking at her hadn't subdued. If anything it seemed like he was taunting her.

She stepped closer to him, reaching out a hand and grabbing the letter out of his.

"I..." she started tearing the letter into pieces.

"do not..." she crumpled the pieces in her hands, a few of them fluttering to the ground.

"answer to you." she tossed the remaining pieces onto the table, her hands shaking from the adrenaline rushing through her.

"No. No you don't." he stepped closer to her , towering over her as their gazes clashed. Cold death and a simmering volcano.

"But I do know one thing with absolute certainty. You know what it is?"

She kept silent and refused to look away.

He took another step and let his scent envelop her completely. His shadows were dancing around them, seemingly out of control. They had carved out a dark secluded spot in the bright confines of her office, trapping the both of them in a whirlwind of their emotions.

"You can do whatever or whoever you want Nyra. At the end of the day, it'll always be you and me. Remember that."

Her breath was knocked out of her, the anger being flushed out of her body in an instant. A whole new set of emotions that she had carefully locked away poured into her, leaving her dizzy.

She didn't know who moved first. It didn't matter. Because the next thing she knew, they were a clash of lips and tongue , desperate to get closer and feel everything.

She ran her hands up his shoulders and reveled in the feel of it. How she imagined doing this over and over again every single night. His hands were cupping her face , angling it towards him as he kissed her like it was the first and last time.

He turned them around and placed her on the table, all the while kissing her. Her dress had bunched up to her thighs and Azriel ran his hands over her body as if trying to memorize the feel of every inch.

She ran her hands through his hair, the burn in her core flaring with every second that passed.

"Az." she let out a whimper as he trailed a line of kisses down her neck and chest. Tugging at the collar of his shirt, she brought his lips back to hers, wrapping her legs around his hips to bring him closer.

"You have no idea how long I've been waiting for this." he whispered hoarsely against her lips, taking her lower lip in between his teeth and biting down gently.

A new wave of lust shot through her and Azriel's gaze turned ravenous as he noticed her reddened cheeks and glazed eyes.

"I refused." she said ghosting his lips as she craned her neck to place a soft kiss on his pulse. "There is no one else I would say yes to, Az." she clutched his shirt tighter pressing herself against him. Her breasts brushed over his chest, her nipples turning to peaks. She did it again, chasing the feeling.

He let out a groan that made her clench her thighs around his hips.

"You don't know what you do to me , Nyra."

She bit down on his neck, making him hiss and lace his fingers through her hair.

"The things I want to do to you ...fuck. Not here though. I want to take my time." his breathy voice was doing things to her brain that she could not comprehend. She didn't want to. She wanted to be at the mercy of the moment.

His hand brushed the underside of her breast and she let out an embarrassingly loud moan that had him pulling her head back and latching onto her lips.

As suddenly as it started, it ended.

Azriel pulled back abruptly, blocking her from view as he turned to face the door.

"Lady Ny..." her attendee walked in , stopping dead in her tracks when she noticed Azriel. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know you had company." Her face turned tomato red.

Nyra cleared her throat and spoke as though she hadn't been close to being bent over the table. "Anything urgent?"

"Uh..y-yes my Lady. The nobles have called an emergency council meeting."

Azriel exhaled through his nose in exasperation. Nyra wanted to kill someone.

"Wonderful. I'll be there soon. Thankyou, Elle."

She would be needing that pencil after all.

#azriel #azriel fanfic #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x oc #acotar series #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #acomaf #azriel x original character #azriel fic #azriel x nyra #rhys acotar #cassian #acosf #azriel smut #azriel spymaster #azriel angst

47 notes · View notes