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targaryenrealnessdarling · 8 days

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Blood of My Blood

Summary: Stuck between duty and passion, she is given no choice but to yield to the game Aemond wishes to play | Words: 4.1k~ | Warnings: a lot of talk of illegitimacy, hatefucking, dubcon, incest (character is implied to have strong features), p in v sex, baby trapping, forced marriage

Can be read as a stand-alone or as a part two for The Blood is Rare!

His fingers tightened around her arm, the pressure a mix of anger and possessiveness. He forcefully ushered her across the threshold of the chambers she once called home, back when she resided there alongside the Hightower children. The worn flagstones caused her feet to stumble, while her forearm throbbed with bruises from his grip. She shot him a glance filled with both hurt and fury.

“You cannot treat me like this,” she spat viciously.

Aemond merely stepped back, his expression unyielding. "You are to be my wife. I'll treat you as I please."

Before she could reach the double doors, they slammed shut, brass fixtures rattling as Aemond hastened to secure her inside. Despite her feeble attempts to push back against the doors, her fists bruised from the effort, he locked her in without hesitation.

“They will come for me!” she screamed in protest, “unlock this, at once!”

Locked within the confines of the chamber, her heart pounded with a mixture of fear and defiance. She paced the room, her mind racing with thoughts of escape and retribution. Outside, the distant echoes of footsteps and murmured voices hinted at the presence of guards or servants, but she knew she couldn't rely on them for help.

King Viserys was dead. And Alicent Hightower planted her son on her mother’s throne.

As the hours dragged on, her frustration grew with each passing moment. She tried every possible means of escape, but the sturdy oak doors remained firmly shut, sealing her fate within the chamber. Her mind raced with thoughts of her family, of the kingdom thrown into turmoil by the sudden death of King Viserys. And now, with Aemond's revelation of his family's plan to anoint Aegon on the morrow, she realised the true extent of the danger she faced.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps echoing outside her prison. The door creaked open, and Aemond stepped into the room, his expression unreadable. She studied his face, and saw he looked slightly withered and tired, covered with a mask of coldness.

"We have much to discuss," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "But first, you must understand the gravity of the situation."

She eyed him warily, her heart pounding in her chest. "What do you mean?"

"Aegon will be crowned tomorrow," he explained, his tone solemn. "And my family has plans for us as well."

Her stomach churned with dread as she listened to his words. "What plans?"

"A marriage," he said simply, his gaze unwavering. "In the traditions of our ancestors, to solidify our alliance and secure our place in the new realm."

Her mind reeled at the thought of marrying the man who had imprisoned her against her will. But she knew that in the game of thrones, alliances were forged with marriages as much as with swords.

A tension-laden silence filled the chamber, thick with unspoken words and unyielding resolve. her heart pounded in her chest as she weighed her options, acutely aware of the consequences of her decision. The memory of their clandestine tryst, a moment of forbidden passion she dared not admit she had enjoyed, lingered in the recesses of her mind, adding an unexpected layer of complexity to the situation.

"I will not be your pawn," she said, her voice trembling with defiance.

A flicker of anger flashed across Aemond's face, but it was quickly replaced by a cold mask of indifference.

"You have no choice," he said icily. "You will marry me, for the good of our families and the realm. Just as Daeron will wed a Baratheon girl, to secure-"

She shook her head stubbornly, her resolve hardening with each passing moment. "I will not be forced into a marriage I do not want."

Aemond's gaze narrowed, his patience wearing thin. "Do not be foolish, mandianna. You have a duty to your family, to the legacy of House Targaryen. You will marry me, and you will bear me heirs to secure our place in history."

But she refused to be swayed by his empty words. "I will not be your broodmare, and I will not be shackled to you for the rest of my days," she declared, her voice trembling with righteous indignation. "Not when you have already taken so much from me."

Aemond's expression darkened, his features contorted with anger. "Do not speak to me of what I have taken," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "You gave yourself to me willingly, and now you will suffer the consequences."

She swallowed thickly, her pride blurring the edges of what she knew was the truth.

“He is no King of mine.”

A heavy silence settled over the chamber, the weight of her words hanging in the air like a shroud of defiance. Aemond's eye blazed with fury, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed as if he might shatter his teeth with the force of his anger. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the tension between them palpable. The threat of declaring treason hung heavy.

Finally, Aemond broke the silence, his voice cold and menacing. "You dare to defy me," he hissed, his words dripping with contempt. "You would betray your own blood, your own family, for the sake of your misguided principles?"

She met his gaze head-on, her chin lifted defiantly despite the tremble in her limbs. "I will not betray my mother," she declared, her voice steady despite the fear that gnawed at her insides. "You speak of blood after years of declaring me and my brothers alike your sole distaste.”

Aemond's nostrils flared with barely contained rage at her words, his eye narrowing into a slit as he took a step closer, his imposing figure casting a shadow over her. "Do not presume to lecture me on matters of blood," he seethed, his voice a low growl that reverberated through the chamber. "You may share the blood of House Targaryen, but you lack the fire that defines our lineage."

“Careful, Uncle,” she whispered, her voice tinged with fury, “I am as much Targaryen as you.”

A flicker of doubt crossed Aemond's features, his gaze faltering for a moment before hardening once more into a mask of disdain. "You may share the name, but you lack the strength and resolve to wield it," he sneered, his words like a lash that cut through the air between them. "You are nothing but a weak, insignificant girl who fancies herself a dragon."

Her jaw tightened at Aemond's cutting words, her resolve hardening as she refused to let his insults diminish her spirit. "Strength is not defined by the size of one's flames, Uncle," she retorted, her voice steady despite the turmoil within her.

Aemond's lip curled in a mixture of anger and begrudging admiration. Despite himself, he couldn't deny the fire that burned within her, the same fire that had characterised the Targaryen bloodline for generations. "You have spirit, I'll give you that," he conceded, his voice low and grudgingly impressed. "But spirit alone will not save you from the realities of this world."

She held his gaze, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts as she felt the tension between them crackle like lightning in the air. Despite their antagonistic exchange, there was an undeniable chemistry that simmered just beneath the surface, a primal attraction that neither of them could ignore.

As if sensing the shift in the atmosphere, Aemond took another step closer, his eye darkening with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine. "You may defy me, niece," he murmured, his voice husky with desire. "But deep down, you know that we are bound together by more than just blood and duty."

She felt her throat close up, her body betraying what she wanted him to believe about her. That she recoiled at the mere sight of him. That she could not bear to be within the same quarters. That she hated him.

And all of it was a lie.

She would not have given herself so freely to him in that darkened alcove if she truly loathed him. And yet her pride marred the truth.

“You will be my wife,” Aemond stated, his voice devoid of negotiation. It was a command, wrapped in the certainty of his position, a reflection of the harsh realities of their lineage and the role they played in the ongoing struggle for power.

Her reaction was a mix of defiance and disbelief. This was not the offer of a partner, but the demand of a prince used to being obeyed. Yet, even as the words hung in the air between them, she could not ignore the complex web of emotions that tied her to this man. There was no love in this arrangement, but there was something else—something harder to define.

“You speak of marriage as though it were another battle to be won. I am not spoils of war to be claimed.”

Aemond’s eye, ever so piercing, momentarily hardened, hinting at the turmoil beneath his princely facade. His hand flew out, gripping her jaw as he had done that steamy evening, clutching her skin in his long fingers - a warning.

“Come with me, willingly or not. It is your choice, niece.”

Her eyes locked onto his with a fierceness that could rival any dragon's gaze, attempting to sear his very soul with her stare. Yet, in defiance of the forceful hand upon her jaw, she wrenched herself free, her breathing heavy with indignation. The so-called choice he presented felt like a cruel jest, highlighting the absence of any real agency she possessed.

The machinations of the Greens had cornered her into this union with Aemond, rendering any thought of escape futile from the outset.

Their wedding was a somber affair, marked more by the exchange of solemn vows and cold, resentful looks than any semblance of joy or union. Throughout the ceremony, her thoughts wandered, detached from the grim proceedings. And when the final blessings were about to be pronounced, she turned abruptly, her last vestiges of defiance carrying her away to the solitude of her quarters.

The sense of betrayal that churned within her was overwhelming, a treachery not only to her mother's cause but to herself. The disappointment her family would feel loomed over her, a burden more oppressive than the iron crown could ever be.

Moreover, the realisation that this marriage was orchestrated merely to secure an heir, to bind her bloodline to Aemond's as a political safeguard against total war, was revolting.

Standing alone, she tried to steady her trembling hands by focusing on the wine cup she held, just as Aemond's footsteps halted behind her. She braced herself for an encounter she dreaded, yet his next words took her by surprise.

“I shall bid you goodnight,” he said simply.

She spun around, half-expecting to confront a man prepared to enforce his will regardless of her consent. Instead, she met his gaze and found something unexpected—a reflection of restraint and perhaps a hint of understanding.

In that moment, a complex array of emotions coursed through her, challenging her perceptions and forcing her to acknowledge the intricate layers of their predicament.

“I will not lay with you tonight. You do not wish it.”

Her guard, so meticulously maintained, began to falter at the honesty in his words. "And what of tomorrow?" she asked, a tinge of cynicism threading her question. "When the sun rises, will your sense of duty not dictate our interactions?”

"It likely will," he conceded, the corners of his mouth turning down in a grimace. "But tonight, you've had enough battles to face. I won't add to them."

The silence that fell between them was filled with a tentative understanding, a fragile thread connecting two individuals caught in the crossfire of political machinations and familial obligations.

Yet, she was acutely aware that Aemond was not a mere bystander in the unfolding of these events. And it would be a mistake for him to assume she would quietly acquiesce to their circumstances.

Throughout the following day, Aemond's absence hung over her like a shadow, his presence felt more in his lack than in actuality. The dread of uncertainty twisted in her stomach, her mind conjuring scenarios that left her restless and wide-eyed, staring at the chamber doors until the early hours. The knowledge of her new status as his wife did nothing to ease her apprehension. It only highlighted her vulnerability, the potential for him to assert his marital rights in a way that robbed her of any semblance of control.

Yet, despite her fears, Aemond remained absent, his intentions opaque, leaving her to grapple with the anxiety of anticipation alone. The silence of the night was broken only by the distant, powerful beats of Vhagar's wings, a sound that resonated with ominous foreboding. She watched from her window as the great dragon, with Aemond upon her back, vanished into the stormy clouds that brooded overhead.

When Aemond returned to their chambers, it was not the composed prince who entered but a man storming in, soaked to the bone, his demeanor radiating tight, barely controlled anger. The storm outside mirrored his internal tempest, the rain that clung to him a testament to the chaos that seemed to follow in his wake.

His sudden appearance in the dead of night, the way he moved with a predatory grace, charged the air with a palpable tension. She could see in his expression the fracture of a man who had lost control, his ego bruised by the events that had transpired, a dangerous edge to his anger that made her heart race.

In that moment, the dynamics of their relationship stood on a knife's edge, the events of the night poised to define the course of their future interactions. It was a test of wills, a confrontation between power and vulnerability, where the choices they made could either bridge the gap between them or widen it into an insurmountable chasm.

"Aemond," she began, her voice steady despite the fear that threatened to choke her words. "What has happened?"

He halted mid-pace, turning towards her. The flicker of the candles reflected off his wet face, casting shadows that made his expression all the more inscrutable. "The game has changed," he said through gritted teeth, his voice a low growl.

Her eyes traced his movements, every nerve alight.

“What game?” She dared to ask.

Aemond's gaze was steel, the kind that cut deeper than swords. "The game we're all pawns in—the game for the Iron Throne." His words were heavy, laden with a darkness that seemed to suck the warmth from the room.

“Aemond, tell me plainly. What have you done.”

Her voice was terse, but it trembled.

There was a hardness in his gaze, a glint of something fierce and unyielding.

"Luke," he finally uttered, his tone laden with a severity that chilled her to the bone.

In that instant, clarity and horror crashed over her like a wave. Luke was gone, his life extinguished in the brutal game of thrones that spared no one, not even the innocent. A gnawing question arose within her: Had her mother been informed, or was she, too, left in the dark until now?

The realisation that Aemond, now her husband, had been responsible for her brother's death sent a shiver of fear down her spine. The man standing before her, cloaked in shadows and rain, was no longer just the prince she had been bound to in a marriage of convenience. He was a killer, capable of extinguishing a life—a life she had cherished. Luke's laughter, his teasing smile, the memories they shared, all extinguished in a moment's violence. And if Luke, then why not her?

Aemond's demeanour shifted, perhaps sensing the change in her perception. "You fear me now," he stated, not a question but a flat acknowledgement.

She took a cautious step back, her mind racing. The man before her, powerful enough to command dragons and armies, had shown he did not shy away from kinslaying. "I believe I ought to" she countered, her voice a whisper of defiance.

He paused, and in that silence, the harsh reality of their situation seemed to settle around them like a cloak. As Aemond moved closer, intending to assert himself, she couldn't suppress the instinctual urge to retreat. The space between them, filled with the unsaid and the undone, seemed insurmountable.

She could not help the stark whimper that escaped her when his fingers formed a fist in her hair at the back of her head, pulling her unyielding face up to meet his, his angered breath spilling over her face.

“You believe I would harm you.”

How could she not? She thought. He had so often shown a calm, quiet anger. And unleashed it all within a short afternoon, with Luke's body somewhere at the bottom of the sea surrounding Storm’s End.

“You dare to question this when you have murdered my brother,” she spat back at him.

Jaw clenched, Aemond raised his other hand to his eye patch, quickly ripping it off to reveal to her what was beneath it. The angry red scar extended from his forehead to his cheek, jagged, clumsy. And where his eye would have been was raw, a bright sapphire sitting firmly within the socket, forboding.

Of course, she knew what Luke had done, but she had never seen him like this. Fear gripped at her skin, and a strange throbbing between her thighs at the way he looked over her like this. Thought she attempted to now show that on her face.

Her expression must have mirrored poor Luke's mere hours before, as her new husband gazed down at her, his demeanour terrifyingly calm.

“You defend your little bastard brother after how he has maimed me?”

“Aemond, please-” she pleaded, only moving away an inch before her husband tugged her back, tighter.

“Your brother was of no use to this realm. But you,” he spat, one hand tucking up her skirts and then meanly digging at her hips, “I need your sweet little cunt for my heirs, mandianna.”

She felt her mouth go dry, unable to say a thing. She whimpered again when he used his grip on her hair to turn her body around, keeping her back towards his chest, his fingers slipped along her jaw, as if to communicate that he could wrap them around her throat at any moment.

Aemond was sitting on a knife’s edge. And she dare not tilt him in any particular direction. Equally though, she dare not admit to herself that it was exciting in a most forbidden way.

“You are my wife,” he murmured quietly, sliding her small clothes down her thigh, flourishing with gooseflesh, “and who am I to deny her her duty?”

She suppressed a yelp when her hands lay flat on the table, her breasts pressed hard against the oak as she felt Aemond's rapidly growing harness at her backside where he was rucking up her skirts.

Though she tried to wriggle free of him, one hand at the nape of her neck with undeniable strength was all it took to remind her how much smaller she was than him. How difficult it would be to resist. Does she just go through with it? Let her Uncle, her brother's murderer, take her like a common whore whenever he wishes?

She could envisage no escape, and as ashamed as she was to admit it to herself, she could do nothing but submit. At least there would be some pleasure.

She jolted as his slender fingers parted her folds with a click of her essence coated his digits, dragging his touch from her opening to her overly-sensitive bud.

“See how wet you become for me still,” he murmured, pressing his chest against her back, broad body caging her in, “though I am the greatest sinner in the realm, your body still begs for it, sweet niece. What does that make you?”

“Kepus, please-”

“A traitor to your own kin?” He whispered, exhaling shakily when he nudged her legs apart an inch and slipped the fat head of his cock between her arousal-glistened folds, disappearing into her without effort.

Her lips parted, a quiet moan slipping past at being split onto his length. And though little time had passed since their first tryst, she still felt the sting and girth of him as if it were.

Aemond groaned deeply, at the feeling of her sucking him in so willingly, her walls greedily tightening around his length.

“Or loyal to your kinslaying husband?” He added huskily.

How was she to respond when the air was incessantly pushed right from her lungs at every snap of his hips? The table legs creaked against the floor and her breasts ached from being pressed down to the oak by the tight grip of his fingers around her nape.

She wanted to say that he was brutalising her, taking what he wanted with no care for her pleasure, but even that wouldn't be true. Aemond's rhythmic grunts came hot against her ear as he rutted into her, his hand kneading the flesh of her buttock in one hand, grasping tightly to allow himself deeper access to her.

She felt as if she was betraying herself, moaning the way she was. And Aemond certainly did not miss a thing.

“Stubborn little cunt - saying you don't want it but I can feel you begging for my seed -”

The mocking tone of his voice had her clench around him, humiliation clawing at her skin the more Aemond speared her onto his length in quick rhythmic movements. Her moisture coated his shaft, his pelvis painting the inside of her thighs with it in the heat of their passion.

Aemond looked down between them, his fingers leaving red marks on her buttock the more he gripped. Both hands drifted either side, pulling at her supple flesh to watch the way her cunt took him, his lips parted in appreciation of how he disappeared into her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling so boneless that she did not attempt to wiggle away when he was no longer holding her down. Instead her fingers curled over the table for stability in a desperate plea to ground herself from the hot, tight feeling building every time his cock hit her fleshy, wet end.

And just when she was getting used to the feeling, Aemond pulled her hips back to him, elevating her hips and slamming into her at an angle which brushed against that deep, sweet place inside her.

A tingly, warm sensation fluttered up her spine, “kepus-”

“-fucking say you want it-” he murmured between breaths, pulling her onto him quicker the close the became to completion.

She bit her lip, if anything, using the last bit of her power to not give him the satisfaction of thinking she did in fact want it. So she remained silent, which only made his thrusts more aggressive and assertive.

“-I’ll give you my seed, watch you grow fat with child - and just when you think it's over, I'll fuck another one into you-”

Her nails dug into the oak, scraping painfully, lips parted in a soundless scream as she felt that wave of warmth and bliss crest, unable to control the way she fluttered around him.

Aemond strained, words caught tightly in his throat as he spilled inside of her, pulling her hips flush to him as if to mold himself to her irreparably. She shamefully felt herself tremble, her release still sending dull shockwaves through her blood as Aemond remained seated firmly within her.

She thought of her family. And how they would come to hate her for what she had become, allowing the man who had killed her brother to take her like this. She surely thought they would no longer see her the same with Aemond's child in her belly and tied to him by marriage.

Tears threatened at her eyes, two feelings at war with one another, shame and pleasure.

She whimpered when Aemond pulled his softening cock from her, a rush of warm spend spilling down her thigh in a way that only exacerbated her humiliation.

“You will write to your mother and tell her of your loyalties.”

Aemond spoke so coldly in between soft pants, it was as if he was hardly the man she had known a few moments ago. It has always been like this. But in a way, it is what made him exciting. Unpredictability was as much exhilarating as it was terrifying.

A notion she held to as she glanced at him, his good eye hooded and blown wide and black with lust and the sapphire glinting in the orange glow of the room as if bloodthirsty.

The game had to be played. And if this was the way Aemond wanted to do it, then so be it.

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince @thetrueblackheart @tsujifreya @urmomsgirlfriend1 @valeskafics @valleyof-goldenlilies

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hp-hcs · 5 months

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am just gonna bombard you with requests until instructed otherwise because i've found my new favourite writer✨

but how about the theo's x obscurus male reader (yandere or not, both theo's or not) honestly i'll gobble up whatever given - yxdls

freaks — yandere! theodore nott x obscurial! male! reader

tws: implied/referenced child abuse; snape being a dick

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

To be honest, nobody had really ever noticed Y/N L/N until he came back from winter break with a black eye and a broken nose; and with just one snide comment from a certain Potions professor, he promptly exploded into the most terrifying thing any of them had ever seen.

An Obscurus.

It’d been the first class back from the break. Someone clearly must’ve hated the fifth years, because the new schedule listed Potions as the first class on a Monday morning. Exhausted, all of the fifth years had trudged in and taken a seat, too tired to care about any accidental inter-house mingling.

Professor Snape was having none of it. His beady eyes flashed as he surveyed his class of half-asleep teenagers.

“When an adult says good morning, it is polite to respond.”

“Good morning, Professor Snape,” the class mumbled in a completely exasperated tone.

His lip had curled back into a sneer. Opening his mouth to, presumably, berate the class, he was interrupted by the late arrival of a student.

“Mr. L/N. How wonderful of you to join us. We surely wouldn’t want to waste any more of your precious time.”

The boy in the doorway tried to shrink in on himself. He looked so small and lost with that busted up nose and eye. He started to make an apology, but made it barely two words in before Snape struck again.

“Perhaps it would be beneficial for you all to take a note of Mr. L/N as living proof that Charles Darwin’s theory was not without some error. Mr. L/N, if you would research the term natural selection and write ten inches of parchment on the subject. You can turn it in to me tomorrow morning. Take a seat.”

The boy’s cheeks burned with embarrassment and shame as he scrambled to a seat in the back row.

“Natural selection,” the professor intoned. “The riddance of those who are not well-suited to their environment. That is, abnormalities or freaks of nature.”

The class glanced back at the previously unknown boy. Who was this kid? Why did Snape have a vendetta against him?

Something in the ashamed boy’s eyes flashed. At the word ‘freaks’, he visibly broke.

A low rumble filled the classroom, making Snape pause mid-sentence. With a resounding crack, the flagstones just inches from the professor’s feet split and shattered, like someone had taken a sledgehammer to them.

Snape jumped back, his head snapping up in a panic. The walls began to shake and rumble threateningly. From the belittled boy in the back row, an odd dark mist was beginning to form, slowly swirling around his body before engulfing him completely.

The kids around him scrambled away in a panic, the entire class rushing to the doors. Theodore sat still, stunned as he watched the terrifying scene.

One of his friends tugged on his sleeve, shouting something that was immediately swallowed by the sound as the odd swirling mist began to pick up speed, whipping papers and quills around the room.

The crack that ran through the flagstone floor began to spread with an ominous rumbling, the stone walls beginning to shake and spiderweb with fractures. A dust cloud of debris emanated from every fissure, choking up the air and reducing any visibility.

A sound, like a small child crying, seemed to echo around the room. Theo, stuck in place, watched with wide eyes as the mist- no, whirlwind, began growing, getting more and more violent.

The whirlwind lashed out, reducing Snape’s desk to splinters. The crying got louder, and a sharp burst of magic from the whirlwind sent Theodore flying, hitting the ground hard and scrambling for cover under a table.

For just a split second, so fast that Theo barely had time to notice, the mist of the whirlwind parted, revealing a white glowing form in the center. The form was vaguely humanoid in shape, curled up on the ground in the fetal position with its hands clasped tight over its ears. Its shoulders heaved with the force of its sobs, and then it was gone, swallowed back up by the storm.

Theo wracked his brain for the beaten boy’s name, scrabbling for any memory he had of the kid who had always previously gone unnoticed.

“Y/N!”

The storm…paused, sort of. The debris that had been in the process of being thrown across the room halted midair, hanging suspended for a split second before whipping back around with a stronger fury.

The shattering of glass made Theo instinctively cover his face, smashed potions and vials sending shards of certain death flying through the air.

“Y/N! Y/N, you have to stop!” Theodore shouted, pleaded.

The storm howled with shrieking fury, leaking anguish and total despair.

“Y/N! He’s wrong about you!”

A chair was sent hurtling towards him.

Ducking, Theo continued talking, raising his voice over the wailing of the storm.

“I want to help, Y/N!”

The storm paused again, for longer this time. A cauldron, suspended midair just inches from whacking into Theo’s skull, dripped some sort of potion onto his leg, burning something awful.

That was a problem for a different time, Theo figured.

“I want to! I want to help! You don’t deserve to be treated the way you are!”

The storm drew back a bit, the iron cauldron clanging to the floor and spinning around in circles as the dark mist of the storm retreated.

Theo tried his last saccharine sentiment. “You deserve to be happy!”

With a loud whoosh, the storm completely vanished, quills and chairs dropping to the floor with a loud clatter. The boy—Y/N—sat on the floor in the same way as the glowing form had; fetal position, hands over his ears. His skin crackled, and dark sparks snapped and fizzed from it, although he seemed to pay no mind.

Theodore stumbled to his feet from under his table and carefully picked his way through the debris of the classroom to kneel down a comfortable distance away from the crying boy.

“Hey, hey, there you go. That’s better. Are you alright?”

Y/N looked up with a tear-stricken expression, wiping his sleeve across his face and sniffling. “‘m not a freak, I swear. Please don’t send me back.”

“You’re not,” Theo soothed. “I won’t. Snape was way out of bounds with that one.”

Y/N sniffled again, a fresh wave of tears streaming down his face. “He called me a freak.”

At the sight of the boy before him, sobbing pathetically over his douchebag teacher, Theo felt himself burn with rage.

How could anyone hurt this boy? Who’s done absolutely nothing wrong?

“I’ll make him pay, sweetheart. Don’t worry.”

#harry potter #fuck jkr #hp #hp x male reader #x male reader #gay #x reader #theodore nott #theodore nott x reader #theo nott x reader #theo nott #yandere theodore nott

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flusteredmoonn · 19 days

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electric touch; sirius black

summary: "all i know, is this could either break my heart or bring it back to life," in which they take a significant risk in their relationship.

tags: (SFW), fluffy, soft? sirius, love confessions, friends to lovers, mentions of war, semi war angst, fast paced, afab reader, unspecified house, she/her pronouns, third person y/n.

words: 1.0k+

speak now tracklist. request.

the corridor was soundless compared to the chirping of birds in the courtyard, leaves rustled through the wind as it whipped through the windowless arches. not a student was in sight, the school being left near barren as half term commenced. even the school's poltergeist, peaves, didn't leave a trail of sound in his wake. though the peace was disrupted when the pitched sound of dress shoes walking across the aged flagstone erased the sounds of the night as a storm swirled distantly.

sirius hadn't gotten on the train at hogsmeade station with his friends, instead, he decided to stay back. though not before saying a final goodbye to his three friends at the station, bidding them a goodbye, before making the lonely trek back to the castle with hagrid, who made sure the first years had made it onto the train safely. the air between them had been left sombre.

at least this way his parents wouldn't be disappointed that he was spending his half term with blood traitors, he had bitterly thought to himself as he traversed the empty hall. his steps increased in pace the more he continued to think, on a mission to climb gryffindor tower and cosy up in his four poster bed.

however, his plans were immediately disrupted when he had heard a second set of steps, moving toward him. his attention piqued, though he kept his head down. who would still be out and wandering the halls at this time? probably some second years taking full advantage of the prefects not enforcing rules, because it's half term, sirius assumed.

he was quickly disproven when he caught sight of a familiar face, perking up at the prospect of not having to spend the next week and a half alone.

"y/n?" he verbally questioned, adjusting his posture as he paused his movements. her head quipped up, from her stare to the ground, rain filled the silence rhythmically.

"sirius?" she parroted, face pulling together in confusion, "i thought you left already? with everyone else?"

"nah, decided to stay back this time, don't really fancy getting another howler from mum and dad," the boy laughed off, stepping closer to the girl, as they still remained on opposite ends of the corridor.

"do you usually get a howler during half term, are you not going home?" she wondered, mimicking sirius' efforts to close the gap between them.

"well when i stay with james 'n' stuff i do, yeah," the boy somewhat mumbled, looking around in avoidance.

"oh right."

"yeah," silence fell between them, a sudden tensity between them at the tail end of the conversation.

another beat, rain continuing to patter through the archways.

"why're you staying back this time, that's not like you," sirius pointed out, a small smile on his face as it scrunched. "y'know, things to do, people to see," the girl laughed at her words, before further elaborating on her plans to study for the term ahead, with the inevitable disruptions soon to come.

an illuminating flash of lightning eerily casted shadows across the two, followed by a loud clap of thunder. even the insinuated conversation of whatever may be looming in their future was an unspoken thing through the school, the stands of great knights' armour sharing a knowing look of what was to come.

subconsciously, y/n took a step toward sirius, looking outside at the swirling storm. his hand gently went to her arm, a comforting gesture as another loud rumble filled the space.

"should we go inside," he suggested, taking a step in the direction of gryffindor tower. wordlessly, the girl agreed, following the boy closely as he made his way toward his home common room.

on their walk, his arm ended up around her as the intensity of the storm increased. their typical playful banter filled the air, the portrait's not bothering to tell them off for their disturbances. the tension in the girl eased the more they both talked with one another. and sirius could tell. which only encouraged the jokes he had cracked.

without the pressure of the other boys, the two could act without consequence. and the more the night progressed, the less careful they had both become. the fire of the red and gold commons crackling, as they sat shoulder to shoulder on the red pleated couch. idle conversation bounced between them until pin-drop silence overtook them.

"i'm glad you're here," sirius suddenly spoke, a shy smile on his face as he glanced over at y/n, gauging her reaction. "half term would be so lonely without you," he continued shamelessly, trying to rebuild his nonchalant facade.

"me too, it'd be weird being here by myself, or with anyone else. m' glad it's you," she replied, looking over and replicating his expression.

"really?"

"yeah," she paused, "plus, it'd be so awkward if james was here, he'd take the piss so bad if he saw us right now," she suddenly laughed, hand moving to hover in front of her mouth.

he grabbed her wrist gently, moving her hand down, her laughter simmered down at his actions. they stared at one another in silence, the rain picking up as it hit the tempered windows harshly. he leaned in ever so slightly, again waiting for her reaction before he moved forward. his energy became hesitant for a moment, until she closed her eyes inhaling, shuffling closer to him. he followed suit, closing his eyes and leaned closer to the girl.

their lips connected, heads turning to a diagonal as they breathed each other in. breathlessly, they pulled apart, searching the other's faces for a reaction.

"are you sure you want to do this," she asked him, still trying to regulate her breathing, her face flushed.

"yes. definitely. but you know that this changes everything," he smiled at her, eyes darting over her face, his own equally as beat red.

"yeah, that's okay. i want that."

"good," he said, leaning in to capture her in another kiss.

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perahn · 4 months

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How the Tadfools Stole Christmas

Most people in Faerûn liked freedom a lot, The Dead Three and their Chosen, the bards say, did not. They wanted to murder, creative and cruel: They wanted the dead and the undead, like ghouls: They wanted confusion, the town upside down, So they’d seize command with a fierce tyrant’s crown. This, you might say, could rightly be treason, But they didn’t care. No one quite knows the reason. Old General Thorm, who stood for the dead, Was hating and frowning at Orin the Red: While Gortash clicked his gauntleted hand And “Enough!” he cried. “Do you understand? “We MUST plot and scheme! We MUST think – and quick! “We have to come up with some clever trick! “The people need ruling, and killing, and such – “Any more of this freedom is simply too much.” Then he got an idea! An awful idea! GORTASH GOT A WONDERFUL, AWFUL IDEA! “I know just what to do!” he snarled with a sneer: “We’ll make a new god, and we’ll fill them with fear! “We’ll get a big brain, all squishy and wet, “We’ll put worms in their heads, and just watch them fret “As the brain in the hat gives commands, they obey: “And then I’ll ride in to rescue the day!” There was more of the plan for Orin and Thorm, A false army to lead, and sly changes of form – But Gortash, the hero, had the best role to play, And grew bolder and gloatier each passing day. But down by the river, which he didn’t guess, Adventuring people had got in a mess. They had swords, they had spells, they had hidden chains, They had hard-won friendship, they had worms in their brains. They had a withered old man on their side, And a ghaik in a prism who served them as guide. They came to the Towers, all shadow-cursed dark, And they killed off old Thorm, midst panic and snark. “That’s bad,” Gortash thought, “Though I’ve never liked him, “Our chance of success just got slightly more slim- “Orin, my dear, you’d best kidnap one.” “Oh goody,” she said. “This will be fun!” But her temple was pillaged and her victim freed And Chosen or not, it was her turn to bleed. The adventurers turned their steps towards the place Which Gortash had made into his fortified base. “He’s crowned himself Archduke, so he must be rich “We’ve emptied our invent’ries, let’s loot this bitch.” They grinned and they smirked with sinister pleasure They slunk ‘round the fortress and they stole all the treasure! They took the cheese wedges, they took the clam chowder, They stole eighteen potions and all the rune powder! The pears, grapes and apples went into their sacks, Along with two shields and an enchanted axe. They grabbed up the gems, and what’s even colder, They took the roast rothé, the boiled beholder! They gathered the beer, the ale, and the wine, When they heard a small sound, like the grunting of swine. They turned around fast, and saw in the door Gortash was leaning, with five guards or more. “Hello,” that Gortash most charmingly said, “You’ve got pretty far, but soon you’ll be dead.” But despite all the traps, the guards, spells and fire, The gallant adventurers quick made him a liar. As he lay on the flagstones, bleeding, out-fought, He was hazily thinking a vague final thought: “Maybe my plan went somewhat astray, “And freedom’s the friends we made on the way?” And what happened then? Well, the adventurers say Gortash’s small heart stopped completely that day, Then they gathered his clothes, his weapons and glove, And into the chimney he went with a shove! Then back at their camp, as soon as it suited, They laid out a table with the good things they’d looted! They toasted each other and the good cheer they’d found, A merry and jolly and earth-shaking sound! Tomorrow would come, and it might well bring pain: They still had the worms and the ghaik and the brain, But tonight they’d rejoice and forget all that bother, And the withered old bone man carved the roast rothé!

#baldur's gate 3 #poetry #nonense #apologies to Dr Suess #also I know it should be Durge not Orin in the first part #but that was harder to rhyme/scan

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distant--shadow · 1 year

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Well this certainly was a change of events; a woman with purple hair coming to her in the forest and not once (not yet) asking her to leave, instead asking her questions that come with easy answers and was this how conversation normally moved for people? Did one another usually fall into familiarity and what felt like safety with such comfort and did that yellow bird actually knock her out this morning? Imogen’s scarf is the same colour as that goldfinch and maybe it’s all a hallucination, maybe mushroom spores sank into the cut on her forehead before she sealed it shut with the salve and in reality her body now lies twitching on the floor making soot-and-dust-angels on the flagstones whilst Pâté finally gets to be the one to consume his master's flesh and construct his own marionette.

Imogen giggles softly and it’s such a welcome sound to break past the rushes of the trees and the creak of their trunks that creaking of rope that has always filled the empty spaces and-

“Oh! I forgot, I bought a loaf of bread; do you want to share it, seein’ as you’re cooking for us both? Feels like the least I can offer.” Imogen stands at the curtain-door, Laudna on the floor overseeing the fire and she readies the skillet with a slab of butter. “That would be lovely, you can’t go wrong with eggs, bread, and mushrooms.”

“I’m really lookin’ forward to it. You sure the mushrooms are safe to eat, right?” Imogen walks into the room, and it’s charming, really, how she removes her brimmed hat from her head, despite the lack of a roof.

_____________________________________

thank yous to @picturesofthegoneworld for writing an imogen that is specifically catered to me.

excerpt from here

(yeah i re-uploaded this just to include mind-butter-melting-in-a-skillet)

#imogen temult #imodna #laudna #critical role #recommended reading #i just have a feeling this story is gonna have me doodling a lot of food #going into the woods today hoping that will be me #fanart4fanfic

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softerhaze · 1 year

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not too different from what i posted yesterday omg, but i made some concrete and flagstone rugs to fill in the gaps between lots and i'm pretty happy with how it looks! there are 4 lots in the top photo and it's not super obvious where they start and stop which is exactly what i was going for ✨

#i don't know what i want to put on the weirdly long lot but i'm just going to go back to gameplay until i figure it out

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fayes-fics · 2 years

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Overprotective

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Anthony gets overprotective when there is an injury

Warnings: None... just fluffy fluff.

Word Count: 1.5k

Authors Note: This is an anon request fill (request: could you do a fluffy one-shot where the reader is injured in a minor way and benedict or Anthony takes care of her?). I went with Anthony for this one. I hope you enjoy Nonny, and sorry it took so long to respond <3 Many thanks as ever to my lovely beta @makaylan :)

The gardens of Aubrey Hall are so beautiful you take every opportunity to spend time in them during your stay. It’s early on a warm sunny morning, and you are delighting in the thick borders of lilacs and roses, breathing deep to enjoy the floral scents, picking your way through the winding flagstone paths, the wondrous riots of colour.

You stoop to smell a beautiful yellow rose when you hear a thunder of hooves and the call of a masculine voice.

“Woahh, boy,” he signals to his horse as they come to a stop.

There he is. The viscount, Anthony Bridgerton. Owner of this magnificent estate. You cannot help but stare at his handsome face, jaw thrown into relief by the sharp angle of the morning sun. You find yourself drawn towards the sight, akin to a moth to a flame. Not paying attention to where you are walking, you don’t even see the small flight of steps at the gentle elevation change in the garden.

Before you have your bearings, you feel a pain bloom in your ankle, and the next thing you know, you are staring at fluffy clouds passing over an azure sky. It appears you have fallen down the steps and landed rather inelegantly in the soft grass beside.

Hoping the embarrassing moment has not been seen, the bright sunlight is suddenly shaded by the looming concerned expression of the aforementioned Viscount. No such luck.

“Miss y/l/n!” His voice exclaims, filled with apprehension, “are you quite alright? Did you hit your head? Can you hear me?”

“I am fine, my lord,” you assure, going to sit up.

“No, no!” he argues, “do not sit up! You could be injured. Let me assist you.”

“Honestly, I believe I'm alright. Just my ankle.”

Before you can argue, he swiftly picks you up and carries you towards the house. You feel his body flex against you as he effortlessly strides across the lawns; you blush at where some of your thoughts slide when he is being nothing but an exemplary gentleman.

“My lord, please do not inconvenience yourself like this!” You try to argue.

But he will hear none of it and will not let you to your feet to test out the ankle.

“I witnessed the fall. I need to confirm you are not injured before I can allow such a chance,” he frets as he enters the house.

“Jenkins, please send someone to fetch the local doctor with haste!” he instructs. “Miss y/l/n took a tumble in the gardens, and I’m concerned she has broken her ankle.”

“My lord, it is not broken,” you protest.

“Let the medical professional decide that, please,” he responds, a tick of annoyance on his face.

You cease your complaints and allow him to carry you up the stairs and through the hallway to your guest room. You are somewhat taken aback that he knows the room you are staying in without asking; it seems like a detail a lord would not trouble themselves with knowing.

He settles you upon your bed and starts to bark orders at the assembling staff that have followed in your wake - to bring blankets, extra pillows, tea and biscuits and cake, lots of cake.

You lay there, mostly bemused by his overreaction. Yes, your ankle is slightly swollen, and it throbs a little, but nothing that couldn’t be cured by a touch of rest, a cold compress and maybe some brandy.

He drags a chair to your bedside and insists on staying until the doctor gives his opinion. Taking tea with you and attempting, though somewhat stifled in his delivery, to read to you from a novel on your bedside table. You are touched by his caring nature but slightly confused by his continued presence.

“Lord Bridgerton, I am sure there are many pressing requests upon your time’” you begin carefully, “I’m quite certain the staff can see to my needs, and you can return to more important pursuits.”

“Nonsense. The health and welfare of my friends and family are of utmost importance to me; this takes precedence.” he dismisses. “Are you sure your pillows are adequately placed for comfort? Would you like a fire built?”

“I’m quite fine,” you chuckle, and he nods but does not move.

“I shall leave when the doctor provides his diagnosis,” he assures for your mother’s benefit. She has taken to hovering in the room, which he likely interprets as her concern for your injury and, indeed, the appropriateness of his presence in your bedroom. However, you are sure her enthusiasm for an eligible bachelor in your room far outweighs any concern for your injury or even your reputation; she is very keen to have you married off soon.

“Doctor Samuels,” Anthony's greeting is flooded with relief as a kindly gentleman walks in. “My good friend Miss y/l/n has injured her ankle, and I fear it’s broken.”

“Let me be the judge of that, please, Lord Bridgerton,” the doctor bustles and starts his examination.

He moves your leg gently around and checks a few movements with your ankle.

“Any pain when I do this?” He queries as he manoeuvres your foot.

“No, doctor,” you answer honestly.

“Well, it’s not broken. It appears to be a twisted ankle. I recommend resting for a day, and the swelling should reduce.” He opines, reaching into his bag. “I shall bandage it to provide support, but you should be able to remove it in a few days.”

“Thank you, doctor,” your reply is in unison with Anthony.

Your eyes meet, and you both chuckle, your cheeks blushing.

“Yes, well, I can assure you, doctor, she will be nursed for with the utmost care,” Anthony says solemnly.

Dr Samuels frowns, bemused, as he finishes bandaging. “It is not a serious injury Lord Bridgerton; you needn’t fuss.”

Just then, some kitchen staff walk in, laden with platters of what looks like freshly baked cakes.

“I tried telling him that doctor, and look where it got me,” you jest lightly, nodding at the cake.

Anthony rolls his eyes as Dr Samuels laughs and bids you farewell.

“I will see the good doctor out. Please rest,” Anthony implores and gives a respectful bow.

“Please don’t….” you raise your hand as you see your mother’s mouth open. “I assure you, mother, he is just being a good host and gentleman. Please do not make more of this than it is.”

She pouts and goes to leave the room as well. “Darling daughter, I must disagree; I would wager your pin money that man asks for your hand before the week is through.”

You just shake your head and motion her away—what a ridiculous notion.

——

A few hours later, you are happily engrossed in a book when there is a knock on your door.

“How’s my favourite patient?” Anthony asks brightly, clutching a bundle of yellow roses, your favourite.

“Well, thank you,” you answer with a smile, smoothing down your bedding. “You really didn’t have to go to such trouble. Also, that was far too much cake.”

“It’s no trouble,” he assures, placing the flowers on your bedside table, “and I’m sure I’ve heard eating cake assists with healing,” he adds, a small teasing smile tugging at his handsome features.

You laugh. “Then I’ll be right as rain in no time, my lord.”

“You’d better be; your presence has been much missed,” he opines quietly, the sincerity making your heart skip a beat.

“It’s only been four hours since my injury,” you tease.

“And I’ve had to endure a luncheon without your sparkling wit; believe me, time is immaterial in such matters,”

You giggle but quieten as his hand covers yours gently.

“You will rest, won’t you? For me?”

“Yes, my lord, I’ll be fine very soon, I’m sure.”

“Good, because our annual country ball is in three days, and I was rather hoping to be the first on your dance card,” a grin twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Of course, Lord Bridgerton, it would be an honour” you smile demurely, knowing even if you’re still in pain, you’ll endure it for a dance with him.

“I may also have a very important question for you to answer,” he said lightly but with a lingering look that causes butterflies in your ribcage.

“What sort of question, my lord?” your voice sounds breathy even to your own ears.

“The very best kind,” his answer and smile being somewhat cryptic.

“Will you not give me a clue?” You ask cheekily.

“How attached are you to your last name, Miss y/l/n? Because my question might change it,” he breezes with a wink.

You gasp loudly and place the hand not under his over your heart on instinct. He wants to marry you.

“I… I…” you falter, then plum for the best option you can think of, to sum up your thoughts. “Thank you, Lord Bridgerton. For everything.” You don’t know what else to say.

“It is nothing. As I said earlier, albeit in different words,” his voice crackles with a quiet intensity, “I will always, always protect those I love.”

Your heart soars as he raises your hand in his and your last fleeting thought before his warm lips brush against your knuckles is, strangely, of your mother and how you have just lost your pin money wager. But it appears you may be gaining a husband—what compensation!

Tagging: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports

#anthony bridgerton fanfiction #anthony bridgerton fluff #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x female reader #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton x y/n #anthony bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton

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blckfyres · 1 year

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can i request #41 with aemond thank you!!!

btw i’m so excited about this and if you’re up for it im so down to send you more requests but i don’t want to overwhelm you 🖤

i'm alive! life got in the way but your dear author managed to get a big job! this is my first time writing smut so i’m not super happy with it, but please enjoy take on a blackwood!reader's reaction to aemond returning from storm's end with some slowburn gratuitous smut. our aemond is a tough nut to crack.

request a song prompt!

The Bloody Post

Warnings: smut, slightly sub!aemond dom!reader, choking, murder, kinslaying aftermath

WC: 4586 (i wish i were sorry)

Prompt 41: "Love will save you from misery, and tie you to the bloody post" - Love Will Save You, Swans

The palace halls were filled with a turgid emptiness tonight. Smoke hung heavy on the cold stone walls, flame from the torch sconces stuttering death rattles in the biting cold. You pulled your thick robe closer to you as you hurried, leaving a trail of hushed condensation behind you as you breathed like dragon smoke.

It was desolate nights like these that made you miss home, where your mother kept all of the hearths lit, ready for your return from the barren gardens of Raventree Hall. You would often sit at the dead weirwood, even as a girl, chattering to the Old Gods and petitioning your dreams on the necroding white bark. You did not need a reply to know they heard you – you could always feel it in the sprawling coil of the white roots, more familiar to you than your own blood.

Targaryens had their occasional dreamers, but the blood of the First Men ran thick with greensight – you, who could hear the whispers of long-forgotten gods, and things yet to come to pass. You were a long way away from home, but you could still feel that magic in your bones – thrumming, cold, knowing.

It’s how you were jolted awake tonight – dreams of a dragon’s jaws at your throat, and a mother’s screams in your ears. It’s why you scrambled out of your room before your legs had even registered moving, and how you could always feel him before you saw him. When it came to your love for eachother, neither of you had ever needed eyes.

Your feet traversed the freezing flagstones bare – you had been too hurried to find your sandals, hearing the roar of Vhagar’s return from the east wing as soon as you crossed the threshold into the hall.

Something in that roar made you sure it belonged to Aemond rather than his mount, and your already-freezing blood ran colder. You had awoken for a reason, then. You could feel him more strongly now – the sensation of cold rain spittle on his neck was keeping him anchored. Outside.

You didn’t think twice about the sudden turn you made towards the palace gates. You felt talons of broken stones slashing the skin of your soles as you walked outside, and thanked the blood you would leave in your wake. My debt for the warning, paid in full. Paid to the Old Gods in blood.

The downpour became heavier the closer you got to the palace walls, and you searched for your lover desperately through the thick, mummer’s drape of a storm.

Your legs became victim to the biting cold, as numb as his resolve felt to you. You needed to find him before his family did. He needs me. You thought, as your wet shift slithered against your legs. He won’t be able to wash the blood from his hands by himself.

Out of both breath and heat, you surveyed the grounds again. Lightning struck two leagues north of the castle, illuminating the grounds and the tall figure you suddenly noticed stalking towards you. You watched Aemond lurch closer, you – a phantom in his path. He could walk right through me, you thought. And I would let him.

You had barely registered the distance he had closed before you felt Aemond’s freezing hands grip the hair closest to your scalp– desperate, stinging, a shipwrecked sailor clinging to dissolving driftwood. The little breath you had left was crushed against him like a paltry sacrifice.

Your voice was little more than a guttural choke as you grabbed his shoulders. You hoped your grip was iron – you couldn’t feel your hands.

“What is it, what’s happened?”

Aemond stared at you, and his silence was as telling to you as the whispers of your gods. But you needed to hear it, gods, you needed to hear him say it. You needed to know what to fix - for him to tell you where to sew his flesh, even though you could see the gaping wound.

Aemond watched you implore him with your eyes, unable to do much else than bask in the overwhelming comfort of your presence as he gripped you, the same way he used to imagine gripping dragon reins as a boy. You were two rusted anchors clinging to each other for dear life so you wouldn’t fall apart. You were sure that your nails had pierced through his leathers by now, how could they not have?

Another bolt of lightning illuminated the tableaux in front of you again, and this time you could see the state of of the prince clearly. His naked eye was half-crazed, his silver hair a matted ash, and arms trembling as they held his hands to your head. You had never seen him panicked before, not like this.

Aemond’s arms dropped from your hair - gone was the strength he had to hold them up. They tumbled down your body, and his hands gripped whatever of you they could find to keep afloat, drowning you as he held you. He didn’t know what he needed, he just needed.

Your lover’s sudden cold touch pulled you back to the present, your mind suddenly sobered – you needed to know what you had to prepare for.

“Aemond.” You barked, ripping his hands off of your form.

The panic in you rose like bile, shrouded in your demand. You weren’t sure if the roaring in your ears was Vhagar’s or your own.

Aemond took a deep breath through his clamped teeth, breathing between his teeth as he yanked you towards him once more, gripping you even tighter than before.

He shook his head like a child in denial, and dread gripped your lungs like a tourniquet. You struggled against the steely muscles of his arms, looking up desperately to read his face.

“Storm’s End,” He searched your eyes for a wisdom that evaded you. “Luke.”

It was the first time he had called his nephew by the name used by the boy’s mother. A mother’s love, transfigured to an uncle’s guilt. And that’s when you knew. Perhaps, If you were honest with yourself, you knew the moment you awoke - your gods have never deceived you. Denial. You thought. A pretty, pretty thing.

The prince began to scramble at your silence, though brusquely, justifying it to himself just as much as you under the bluntness of his tone.

“It was an accident. I only meant to scare the boy, and Vhagar –”

Only. You gripped his leathers again, like you were trying to tear at his skin. You wanted to howl at him, rend his flesh like a wild animal, to peck at his eye like the ravens on your weirwood – rage. Rage at his arrogance, his stupidity, his pain, his projection.

But all you could do was sob, move your attention up to hold his weathered face in your hands, and hate yourself for the gentleness of your touch.

He needed you, and you would carry him as you would his sins, paint yourself with the same brush and blood-red paint. He would not be alone. Tonight, you would fix him, and tomorrow, you would break him down again – repaired, reborn.

This is what love is, you supposed. Getting blood on your own hands because you can’t help holding theirs.

Aemond pressed his forehead to yours in desperation, as if to meld into you to make you see, understand. You would never forgive it, but he knew you would face the seven hells with him, hand in hand.

You caressed his face through your tears, and pressed your lips to his suddenly, needing comfort in him just as much as he needed you. You forgot your own hatred for vulnerability when it came to Aemond. Aemond, who would raze kingdoms and caress your cheeks with gentle thumbs in the same breath. Love. You thought. All it is is your blood on the line and your head on the block.

You caressed your lover’s eyebrow with your free thumb as you kissed him slowly, and you felt the tension in his body dissipate at your tenderness, your acceptance of him despite his sins. But the tenderness was little match for the violent need you both felt.

Your lips danced against his in their usual battle, and he clutched at the soaking underclothes that clung to your body. You felt him fight tears of his own, his despondency turn into desire. Aemond pulled you against him tighter, like he wanted to dissolve into you, consume you. He got like this sometimes – all gnashing canines breaching lips, and moans more violent than dragonsong. But you couldn’t let him succumb yet. Not here.

You stopped him with a flat palm to his chest, an action that usually made him crack a smile. Dohaeris, you would whisper wickedly, before he pushed you down to devour you from under your skirts.

He didn’t stop kissing you this time, a man too starved to serve. But you needed time with him – away from the tumult of war councils and the retribution the gods might strike down on him, a kinslayer.

“They’ll be looking for you,” You murmured against persistent pecks against your lips, letting his fervent kisses wash that ugly word away, if only for tonight.

You looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to steer you through the hidden tunnels of the castle to his chambers. He ignored you, lips harsh against yours once again, hands rending the robe from your shoulders with a snarl as if its mere existence offended him. You did your best not to arch into his touch – it was liquid wildfire.

You knew that he would fuck you right here if you allowed it, and your core clenched at the thought. He grunted in victory when he noticed your reaction, and moved his attention to your collarbone and neck – he bit and kissed languidly, in the way he knew made you writhe.

You fought the urge to yank his head back and claim his mouth with your tongue, your body was beginning to betray your sound mind – you weren’t sure if the wetness between your legs was the rain or your own.

“Aemond.” you said weakly, tugging at his hair to try and reveal his face to you.

Aemond grunted against the valley of your neck, licking a hot trail up to your ear to distract you. He needed your hands on him now – he would break apart without them, crumble to ash.

“Aemond.” you commanded, nails digging into the scruff of his neck to get his attention.

He pried himself away from you with a hiss, tenderness rearing its head at the familiar, steely stubbornness of your gaze. He could never deny you, not really.

“Unless you want the entire palace to see me bare,” you challenged, eyebrow raised.

You stepped closer to him, hand on his chest once more. You reached up to caress his neck, lips against his ears in a whisper that you were surprised was not lost in the storm. “Or am I not yours?”

Aemond stared at you for a moment, your heaving breasts and wild eyes, the way the rain hung from your lips. He knew exactly what you were doing, yet he never had the strength to resist you. You, his conniving, feral love.

Aemond hummed without a word, taking your wrist and pulling you with him towards the unsuspecting wooden door you would often use.

If it were any other time, you’d have the strength to smile. You could always rely on your lover’s jealousy, if nothing else.

The walk to your chambers was a short one through the passageways, though this time you made the journey in complete darkness. Something about his unusual lack of restraint had you wetter than ever before, and now you were the one dragging him behind you, his hand protectively on your waist as if you’d disappear if he ever let go.

You weren’t certain about how you got so close to your bed – it was all a flurry of tongues, teeth, and desperation. You had never felt him move this fast before, save in his sparring matches. The prince’s need was palpable, a forest fire raging in the blood, forcing him to burn and lick like flame.

Faster than you could register, Aemond moved behind you and gripped your back against him, hard.

His pale palm was firm against your throat and clear in its instruction. You sighed at it, arching your neck back against his shoulder - bare and willing against the jaws of the dragon.

The prince’s other hand held your lower half flush to his clothed cock, and began to rock you against him. The friction was all-consuming, and you suddenly understood how the clash of battle could be glorious. You cursed his leathers for the distance they put between the two of you, and began to blindly move your hands behind you to free him from them.

Aemond snarled at the feeling of you trying to weave your way through his grip. Insolent. He readjusted his grip with a hiss, moving the source of his pressure to your clit as he continued to grind. He needed you still, to tame something, someone — he fumbled for control as if he were holding water with open fingers.

The dual friction ended what little control you had over your hands. Your eyes rolled back as they would during your visions, but the only god you saw this time was a dragon, devouring what little restraint you had left stored in your neck and shoulders.

Aemond groaned at the feeling of you jolting against his cock, sharply lapping at your ears and neck and biting what resistance your muscles dared present into submission. You fought to keep your head clear, grappling for a tether in a thick fog of pure want.

As your mind cleared, you began to feel the tremble in his hands, how his eye refused to open, his unwillingness to remove his leathers. A struggle for control.

You felt your resolve strengthen against his blunt bites to your temple. No. You thought. Not this time. Not like this. He needs me.

You took a deep breath, a final bolster before you tore yourself from his grip and whipped around at a speed that mirrored his own.

The dragon may have strength, but the raven has cunning and speed.

You watched his pale face balk in shock, lips parted and eye wide and heavy. Before he could revert back to his scrambled dominance against you, you brought your soft, uncalloused fingers to the sliver of scar tissue that peeked out from his eyepatch.

You stroked the raised, pale flesh with your thumb softly, and feeling the muscles jump, unused to contact. His eye began to flicker closed slightly, nostrils flaring. You watched him fight against his reflexes, unravelling like a half-tamed serpent.

When you replaced your lone thumb with two fingers, Aemond’s breathing stilled entirely, and for a moment you worried you had gone too far. The candlelight of your room was suddenly oppressive, seeking the reflecting glint of the sapphire underneath the eye patch.

You fought to remain eye contact, and swallowed at the intimacy of the gesture – somehow you felt like the one laid bare, as if the jaws of the dragon were stilled and coiled to strike. The metallic scent of danger did little but strengthen your resolve, and you pressed your lips to his, still parted in shock.

You caressed him as you always did, lulling him into the familiarity of your embrace to calm him. The kiss did little to dampen the fire between you, try as you might – there was always something within the both of you yearning for the other, like fire and blood.

“Ñuhon,” You whispered into his mouth, your rudimentary Valyrian holding a rustic beauty he had yet to find in even the libraries of Oldtown. “Ñuhon se sȳz.” Mine. Mine and good.

Aemond growled under the praise, and tried his best to mask his desperate, preening sob with a low grunt. Your core clenched at his response, fighting the urge to guide his fingers into you.

You shook the thought from your core. Not tonight.

You continued to caress his scar as you kissed him, paying little mind to the tense coil of his balled fists and thrumming heartbeat. You could feel him slowly softening into your languid ministrations, a low pant forming at the apex of his burning lungs as you continued to touch his scar.

You moved your other hand to massage his scalp in encouragement. Your movements were repetitive, deliberate – it was as if you felt afraid to frighten a stray cat. You felt his neck erupt in gooseflesh when your tongue grazed his bottom lip, the tension in his muscles stark against his involuntary preening.

Still fighting me.

Your kisses were plush and languid with the promise of wildfire. When you opened your eyes to meet his, he simply stared at you. Your eyes were probing, imploring in a way that made him fight the urge to panic.

You sighed as you ran your hands along whatever lands you could reach: chest, fangs, fingers, lips, talons.

“Ivestragī nyke,” you whispered, thumb soothing the sharp contours of his eye. Let me.

There was a long pause before you saw him nod, almost imperceptibly.

You pulled him to you once again, and this time, his hands moulded against your curves in silent submission. You sighed as you felt his tension dissolve in a way that made you want to sob.

You began to move him against you, wings in the wind, and he moulded himself around you like a wave to the moon.

His forehead slowly dropped to rest against yours heavily, exhausted, as you began to unbutton the stiff leather of his doublet. You would burn it in the morning.

You rubbed your nose against his in comfort, your heart straining at the relieved huff he let out.

You struggled slightly against the latching of his leathers, hands still freezing from the storm. But he was patient, eye closed and almost serene.

His skin looked more pallid than usual in the candlelight, and you observed the stark contrast of skin between the two of you as your hand found his bare chest. You imagined this was how he felt taming Vhagar as a boy — raw muscle, the touch of the untouchable.

You felt Aemond’s abdominal muscles tense at your cold touch, and then relax slightly at the feeling of your full lips on his chest.

Aemond felt your tongue against his flesh, a violent gentleness that took his breath away. It felt like the old gods rather than the seven – primordial, familiar, scorching. Devastating, but gentle nevertheless — as gentle as wildfire could be.

You marked your territory slowly, kissing and licking whatever bare, scarred skin you could find in front of you until you felt Aemond’s muscles begin to tremble in earnest.

You lost yourself in the act and in his warmth, whispering whatever broken Valyrian you could remember under your breath as you mapped the contours of his flesh: Dohaeris. Serve. Nuhon. Mine. Rapa. Soft. Gevie. Beautiful. You suddenly knew how Aegon the Conqueror felt when he looked out on his lands.

You tore your lips from him with great effort, finally looking up at his face when you felt him let out a long-held breath.

You felt the slick from your mouth leave a trail connecting your lips to him, and your stomach jolted when you saw the way he looked at you.

His eye was heavy with something you didn’t recognise, and his cheeks flushed. You licked your already-wet lips and felt your own face grow as hot as your core – he had been watching you the entire time, with a religious reverence and a hard cock.

The sight of him more wrecked than you had ever seen him, his scarred, bare chest and straining leathers ignited something deep within you – perhaps that dominance, that aggression that your parents had tried so hard to cull.

You stared at him through heavy lashes, pushing his shoulders down with a nod of your head. Aemond heeded your instruction without argument, sitting at the edge of your ornate, mahogany bed without his eye leaving yours.

There was something deeply erotic about the way he was looking up at you, and you both knew it. Your chest was heaving under your damp shift, now eye level with your lover as you stood over him. You wanted to break him, and then make him again, like a god. There was a pulsating power in the air, and it belonged to you. Is this how dragons feel?

You observed the way his lips parted in need – had it been any other night, he would have pulled you flush and taken your nipple into his mouth with a desperate urgency. But this time, he simply waited for instruction, single blue eye begging as violent need consumed him from the inside out.

Your fingers weaved their way into Aemond’s scalp as you kissed him with a sudden ferocity that you had little strength to fight, relishing in his grunt as you climbed and straddled his lap. You didn’t wait to remove his trousers, swallowing his groans of relief as you loosened the ties to relieve the tension.

He could have sobbed when he finally felt your hand make contact with his strained cock. He could already feel the tip weeping, and could do little to stop the flow of precum that escaped when you began to lick at his ear and neck as you pumped him.

“Ñuhon,” You repeated in unison with his strangled grunts. “Aōhon.” Mine. Yours.

He did not need to hear anything else but that broken phrase for the rest of his life.

He clutched you like he did Vhagar’s scales when he claimed her when you began to remove his eyepatch. Your hand never faltered on his cock as you stared at him, pupils dilating when you revealed the sapphire nestled deep within sensitive scar tissue.

You felt all that he did, he knew. He could see it in the way your pupils swallowed your irises whenever you would swipe a thumb over his tip.

Those eyes will be my undoing, he vowed, finally closing his open eye and letting it roll back into the blackness where the Stranger no doubt waited for him.

You relished his hiss of ecstasy when your free hand yanked at the hair close to his scalp, punctuating the pull with the squeeze of your hand on the tip of his cock. Aemond finally let out a strangled moan, all grunting restraint forgotten.

“Ivestragī jikagon,” Let go. You commanded, feeling yourself gush onto his drenched leathers at sight beneath you. You couldn’t stop yourself from rutting against his thigh, joining his moans to create a symphony that sounded closer to dragonsong.

You felt something ignite in you when you remembered his eyepatch in your hand. Spurred on by the prince desperately fucking himself into your hand beneath you, you quickly placed it over your lover’s head and guided it to sit around his neck. Pretty, you thought.

Aemond’s eye snapped open at the sudden sensation, eyes darkening as you slowly started to pull the leather tight. The pleasure that shot through Aemond almost winded him, his groans built from the pit of his stomach as you began to choke him.

“Kessa,” Yes. He repeated it like a prayer, though it still sounded too much like a command for your liking.

You couldn’t look away from each other as you began to fasten your pace on his cock and wind the strap tighter. Aemond’s pupils were blown and his teeth bared, your instruction forgotten as he began to desperately tug your core over to his cock.

You felt his entire body tremble and his cockhead darken even more – he would not last long, judging by his desperate need to sheath himself in you. You ignored the agony between your legs, that desperate ache to ride him – your work was not done.

You nipped at his shoulder in reprimand at his attempt to put you off of your strategy, punctuating the bite with another tug at his neck. You relished at his flared nostrils and his wrecked gaze. His eyes were pleading, desperate, adoring. If you didn’t know better, you could see tears begin to form.

“Ivestragī jikagon, Aemond.” Let go, Aemond.

He growled at that, defiant until you shifted your weight to hover your core over his cock. The sound the prince let out was more dragon than human, and it made you tighten your leash and hold his gaze — daring him to disobey you and fuck up into your warmth.

Gods. You groaned at his heady glare. You would need to be quick, your own resolve was becoming little more than dornish sand.

You weaved both hands into your lover’s silver hair and you straddled him, carefully holding your weight. You lowered yourself slightly and slowly with a hiss, until his cockhead barely breached you, nestled in the very opening of your walls.

The prince cursed within a groan. Aemond’s grip on your hips was bruising – the wetness between your legs did nothing to put out his fire. He groaned at the heat, legs shaking at being held over the edge like this.

He almost toppled over as he felt your tongue on his scar and your core clenched around his tip.

“Kessa ao ivestragī jikagon hen bisa?” Your words were a honeyed, panted command. Will you finally let go of this?

It was all too much for him. Your wanton acceptance of the ugliest part of him, the way you fit perfectly into his hold. He found himself nodding slightly, begging, and the overwhelming feeling of acceptance wormed its way through his core.

Something about the ease of it after all of these years was infuriating. He could do little else other than adore you, and beg for his destruction at your soft hands.

“Yes, yes I –” He shuddered as you began to let more of him in, the scorching warmth of you enveloping his cock until you were fully seated.

“Fuck,” You whimpered, feeling him completely fill your walls, everything you had.

You threw your head back as you began to ride him, sobs escaping you at the sheer feeling of fullness and the sound of him begging, babbling in Valyrian.

He watched you, enraptured as your hips began their familiar, snake-like dance against him. In his haze, he wondered how you, his anchor, had your palms anchored onto his chest.

You smiled at him slyly, something unspoken resolved during the whole affair – it felt lighter. He felt lighter. “Would you like to be released, my prince?”

You punctuated the address with a swivel of your hips, a clench of your core, and a caress of his balls behind you.

“Wretched woman.” He groaned weakly, gripping you for dear life as he tried to ward off his release. Impossible. “You save me from misery and tie me to the bloody post.”

His words did little more than spur you on. You lay flat against him, your chest on his as you began to ride him faster. The fire in your core was stronger than it had ever been, punctuated by your squelching wetness as you rode him. You let your lover adjust you so he could hit that sweet spot within you – he needed to please you, he always did. You allowed it, arching to allow his fingers to resume their familiar, circular position on your clit.

Your vision behind your eyes was bright white, brighter than the heavens as you felt your release chase after you. You weren’t certain your body would be here when you awoke, you were on fire. You would both be little more than ash when you awoke, and you would love each other more for it.

You felt the coil tighten past human comprehension for the both of you, an ouroboros of pleasure as you fed eachother. You saw your tears before you felt them, falling onto the prince under you like flutterings of volcanic ash.

“Let go, Aemond.”

Your final command was weak, but he followed it anyway, his eyes black and his throat hoarse as he released into you with a series of sobs and bites.

You stroked his scar as he came, barely registering the action past the involuntary shakes of your own release – white hot, powerful, older than time itself. Aemond watched you as you came, a creature, the goddess Syrax herself. Made for him, whatever he was now. Kinslayer. Made for you.

Aemond held you flush against him in the quiet aftermath, your head nestled into his shoulder. You continued to ride him slightly, slowly, wanting to drain him fully and feel it deep within you. He groaned softly as you did, attempting to get his shaking muscles under control before his grandfather came to find him. His eye felt sharper, his head clearer, and his heart lighter. Something had shifted.

You lifted your head with great effort, noting the long tear tracks on his cheeks. You have never seen Aemond cry, and you never would. But this was close enough. He met your thoughtful gaze with a serious look, searching. Almost as if he expected a recoil from him after the lustful haze. He found none, hoping his eye conveyed his gratitude — it was a weight his tongue couldn’t possibly manage.

Instead, you did as you always did. Unmake him and whatever wisdom he thought he had, while you gripped his hand in yours.

“You cannot control a dragon.”

He huffed.

“You control me well enough, my love.”

#song prompts #my fics #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader smut #hotd #hotd fics #unbowed unbeta'd unbroken #mine

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lady-phasma · 1 month

Text

Hen embār masti (From the Sea We Came)

Part 1 of ? 2.7k words

Daemon Targaryen x Elaenya Targaryen (ofc) additional characters and family tree here

Warnings: none yet, slow burn, will be 18+ in future chapters

Prologue: In his 25th year, Prince Deamon Targaryen, with Corlys Velaryon, arranged to take the Stepstones from the Triarchy. Their forces succeeded and by 109 AC Daemon, age 28, styles himself Daemon Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea. He is to be crowned by Corlys, the Sea Snake, and then return to the Stepstones to take possession of the island Bloodstone. The coronation is to be held at Driftmark, celebrating both Daemon’s and the Sea Snake’s victory.

The sound of the waves crashing against the cliffside calmed Elaenya when her thoughts wouldn’t settle. She could listen to the raging water for hours, watching the fishing boats in the distance, the gulls swooping and swarming around them. She would slip away at the first opportunity, before her morning studies or while the rest of the castle lunched. She and her older brother had duties and obligations, but were allowed free rein of Driftmark and its shores. Her mother, Maela, was the youngest of Corwyn Velaryon’s four children, and Elaenya and Laerys, his youngest grandchildren. They had fewer expectations thrust upon them. There were times when their station demanded they behave as a prince and princess ought, but that didn’t hinder them from exploiting unsupervised moments.

She thought back to times she and her brother had explored the cliffs and caves along the beach, how they would return to the castle with sand covering them from head to toe, pockets filled with pebbles and shells. She had a fortunate childhood in some ways, though not perfect, and had been spared the boring days at court in King’s Landing and the machinations of the royal family.

She stood up from her seat on the rock and dusted the sand from her breeches. The wind caught her silver hair and lashed it around her. She closed her eyes and relished the salt spray on her face. The sun was low on the horizon and the air had become chilled.

Elaenya turned back to the castle, walking slowly up the beach. She still wore the leather pants and thick tunic from her training that afternoon. Being far from King’s Landing had many benefits, not the least of which was the small glimmer of freedom she was allowed. With a plethora of male cousins and her brother she had fought, quite stubbornly, to learn everything they learned. When her mother had finally acquiesced to Elaenya’s demands to learn swordsmanship, she had been inwardly overjoyed and outwardly unbearable for weeks. She wasn’t allowed to train as frequently as the boys, nor as fervently, but she had a natural talent and practiced on her own. She had held a sword in her hand nearly every day since she was three and ten years of age. She fingered the grip of Elēdrar as she started up the stairs. They were rough-hewn on this cliff face and weather worn and there were many of them. She took her time climbing, enjoying the changing hues of the sky presaging sunset. Well before she reached the top, a screech jerked her attention skyward. Crimson, almost black, against the orange sky, Caraxes dove and announced his arrival. Elaenya bounded up the remaining steps, paying no attention to the exertion.

The stair landing opened onto a flagstone courtyard. She was dizzy from her strained breathing but had room for only one thought. Daemon turned at the sound of her footfalls

“Cousin!” she nearly squealed, sounding much younger than her eight and ten years. He smiled at her as he removed his helmet. He ran a hand through it, mussing it after having his helmet on for hours. Elaenya stopped short.

“Yes, cousin?” Daemon grinned at her.

“Well, you,” she stuttered, then smiled back at him. “You seem to have lost some hair, my prince.” She winked at him. He closed the distance between them and scooped her up in an embrace that lifted her feet from the ground. She hugged him back. Still trying to catch her breath, she looked toward Caraxes. He was eyeing them both passively. The dragon was exhausted.

“Shall we get you both settled?” She took his helmet from him, freeing his hands to unpack his saddlebags. She looked at the soot and blood on it and smoothed the plume down. It too was filthy. She would summon a squire to take care of his armor for him.

Daemon patted Caraxes’s snout as they walked off. Their hair and clothes whipped in the air as the dragon ascended and left the courtyard. He would find plenty of sheep or goats to eat before he rested. Elaenya walked ahead of Daemon as they entered the castle.

She doled out instructions to a waiting maid and requested a squire to assist the Prince with his armor. Daemon watched her with a prideful smile, but his eyes were tired. The journey was two days by dragon.

“I’ve had a bath and supper sent to your room. I trust you remember where it is?” she asked. She beamed upon noticing the way he looked at her.

“You’ve become quite a Lady since I saw you last. It wasn’t so long as a year ago though it seems much longer,” he was genuinely impressed, but teasing Elaenya was something of which he would never tire.

“Lady!” she scoffed. “Hardly.” She grinned and gestured to her filthy clothing. “I suppose I need a bath as well. I forget how to be a Lady unless we entertain guests. And if the rumors are to be believed, we will be having quite a few guests tomorrow.”

“Perhaps.” Daemon’s mouth twitched up at the corner. “I shall see you when we break our fast tomorrow?”

“Of course,” she replied. She kissed his cheek before departing for her chambers.

The fire helped to dispel the chill in the room but not entirely. It must have not been lit long. Steam rose from the bath water. Elaenya undressed impatiently. The evening sea air had seeped into her bones. She loved the way the water felt as if it burned when she first stepped into it. As she sank down into the tub, letting the day slide off her, she mulled over Daemon’s comment. She supposed she had become more confident with the servants and had learned more from her mother about her duties this year. This was inevitably the result of her mother’s intention to make Elaenya a desirable prospect as a wife. She groaned. She glanced to the corner near the hearth where Elēdrar was propped. Her Valyrian steel sword. It had been her father’s. There weren’t many in the family so when her brother had given it to her for her eighteenth name day she had been speechless. By all rights it should be Laerys’s.

It was a bit small for him. It had more sentimental value to him as he could remember more time with their father. However, Laerys had been bequeathed his own. His had come from the Velaryon lineage; Elaenya’s from the Targaryen’s. It fit her perfectly. She could wield hers one-handed if needed and could do great damage with two hands.

She let her eyes close as she rested her head against the back of the tub. She would wash when the water was cooler. For the moment she wanted to feel the heat. She gathered her silver hair behind her head, keeping it from the water and using it as a makeshift pillow. An unbidden memory floated behind her closed eyes...

Elaenya remembered how her sword had stopped midair, striking an unyielding object. She had turned around immediately and almost dropped it.

"Well, what do we have here?" The Dragon smiled down at her. All black armor and silver hair. He let the blade slide down his forearm, then gripped it, keeping it from falling to the ground. It had struck his vambrace when she had swung inexpertly.

She swallowed and was too embarrassed to respond. She could only blink up at him, then down at her sword in his hand and his helmet in his other.

She had been ten years of age the first time she had seen Daemon Targaryen up close. He tossed the sword in the air, flipping it to catch the grip. He turned it, making a show of inspecting the blade.

“They let you train with this, little one?” He flipped it again and handed it back to Elaenya, grip-first.

“Yes, only a bit, my Prince,” her mouth was dry. He seemed overlarge and certainly his reputation contributed to that.

“You’d do well to pay attention to your surroundings, cousin,” he grinned. “Watch where you swing such a deadly blade.” She laughed at this. They both knew it was a training sword with the dullest blade imaginable. “I shall leave you to it.”

He left unceremoniously. Young Elaenya watched him walk away until he entered the castle.

Elaenya made her way to break her fast the next morning. Her excitement propelled her down the corridors. The skirts of her pale blue dress flowed out behind her as she walked.

When she arrived at the hall, Daemon and her uncle weren’t present. She hid her displeasure with a genteel smile and walked toward the table.

“Good morrow.” She greeted her good sister, Rhanora, and brother, Laerys. She took her seat next to Rhanora as a servant brought her meal.

“You welcomed Prince Daemon last night, sister?” Laerys asked as he reached for the bread. He broke a piece off and handed it to his wife before taking some for himself, then handed the loaf to Elaenya. His eyes sparkled with a bit of mischief as they met hers.

“Thank you. Yes, I was on the beach when he arrived.” She gave him an exaggerated reproachful look. “How is the babe this morning?” Elaenya nodded toward Rhanora’s rounded middle.

“He was quite restless last night, but seems to have calmed today. I am ready for the little prince to make his appearance.” Rhanora stroked her belly as she spoke. It would not be much longer. Perhaps only a month’s time according to the Maester.

“Hopefully you may both have some rest before the festivities this afternoon.” Without meaning to, Elaenya rolled her eyes. She immediately flushed, praying neither of them had seen.

“Do you not approve of our cousin’s new title, El?” Her brother graciously winked at her, relieving her of the guilt that had begun to creep in. Laerys chuckled but it was clipped off when he looked up.

Their mother, Maela, had entered the hall. She smiled at them as she approached the table.

“Good morrow, Mother.” Elaenya and Laerys spoke almost in unison. Elaenya giggled. They had acted like they were still children, caught up to no good. Her mother kissed her fondly on the forehead before she sat.

“Good morrow children, Rhanora. Was something amusing, my son?” Maela didn’t look up from her task of buttering her bread.

“Well… yes, Mother, in fact, El thought Daemon’s coronation a bit of a farce.”

“I-“ Elaenya began in a huff, but her mother and brother laughed.

“Perhaps you should keep your opinions of your cousin confined to this dining table, El, lest someone mistake you for an usurper.” Her mother smiled at her.

Maela was a delicate woman but strong and fierce and kind. Her outward appearance and demeanor were every bit as regal as was required to marry a Targaryen prince. Before their father had died, Maela had smiled more often. Since then these intimate moments were the only times she seemed to slip off the twelve years of mourning which she wore like a cloak.

Maela had loved Gaemon Targaryen, their father, regardless of the marriage having been arranged. She was devoted to her two children, often seeing their father in their humor and playfulness.

“You look lovely today, El,” she said as she appraised Elaenya’s hair and dress. “More excited for the festivities than Laerys would lead me to believe?” She smiled mischievously.

Elaenya shot a sour look at her brother. She would find a way to repay him for exposing her to their mother.

“They will be historic, Mother,” she replied, not attempting to hide her smile.

Daemon and Corlys didn’t join them. Elaenya excused herself after she had finished her meal. She decided to go to the terrace to watch the arriving ships and the dragons. They, too, needed to break their fast and could be seen diving in the sea for fish that they rarely had access to at their homes.

She walked the corridors in no hurry. As she passed the library she heard voices. The doors were closed and she didn’t enjoy eavesdropping but she couldn’t help but hear Daemon’s agitated voice interrupt Corlys.

“-to Bloodstone. Tomorrow.”

Elaenya heard boot heels approaching the door. She moved away quickly, on through the corridors.

The ocean breeze was warmer than she had expected. She took a seat on a stone bench near the parapet. The dragons keened above and below her. Caraxes dwarfed her Saelys by half. Saelys’s teal coloring shifted between blue and green as she flew in the morning light. She watched Caraxes dive and reappear. A couple of newcomers circled and dove with them.

Bloodstone. Elaenya thought. She supposed it had not occurred to her that Daemon would go away so soon. Of course he would. Driftmark was not his home and only the war with the Triarchy had caused him to visit during the last few years. He and the Sea Snake would convene here when they needed to regroup or plan a new offensive. Those times were rare. None of the visits were long but she had spent every possible moment she could listening to them discuss strategy and tactics. More than once she had been their cup bearer in these meetings. The years had seemed to pass slowly with nothing remarkable happening between Daemon’s appearances at Driftmark.

He had spent most of his time there focused on his duties but after the councils he would walk on the beach with Elaenya. He would ask her questions about her training or Saelys or walk in comfortable silence. She didn’t prattle like young women were wont to do. Yet in all that time she had never thought about where he would be after the war ended. He had been a constant part of her life for three years and three years could feel like an eternity when your days were monotonous.

Elaenya gazed out at the ocean and let her mind wander. Soon she would be required to attend her mother and brother. Alongside them she would represent the Targaryens at Driftmark. What an odd predicament, she thought, to be loyal to her uncle and cousin and yet claim to be loyal to the Crown. Surely Daemon’s and Corlys’s actions were treason but she would heed her mother’s words and keep these thoughts to herself.

That afternoon, Elaenya took her place next to her brother in the hall. They stood to the side of the dais. Their uncle Corlys Velaryon sat on the driftwood throne. Every Velaryon who resided at Driftmark was present. The hall was buzzing with conversation. A few younger men laughed, the sound echoing through the rafters. The celebratory mood overshadowed the fact that Daemon and Corlys we committing a minor act of treason. Looking at the faces around the hall, she didn’t see any that showed displeasure. Everyone in attendance reveled in the victory.

A voice was heard above the others, asking for silence, and a wave of shushing flowed through the crowd. Heads turned to watch the young prince enter. His short, silver hair was raked to the side. His violet eyes focused directly ahead, not looking at the spectators. He looked smug even without a grin, but surely that grin lay close to the surface, Elaenya thought. She allowed herself a tight-lipped smile.

Her cousin stopped at the dais, not mounting the stairs. Silence fell completely as the Sea Snake stood. He walked to the edge and a servant met him, holding out the crown. The polished bones curved like those of a man’s ribs. Elaenya swallowed dryly at the unsavory thought. Daemon didn’t kneel, only bowed his head slightly.

“Let all present bear witness,” Corlys spoke loudly to the onlookers. “Daemon Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea.” The Sea Snake placed the crown upon Daemon’s head. Cheers and applause sprang up from the crowd. Elaenya wondered if it wasn’t a bit forced, overly enthusiastic. Surely not everyone was excited to see her cousin become a king.

Daemon raised his head and began to turn to face the crowded hall. As he did he caught Elaenya’s eye and proffered her a smirk that fell away as quickly as it had arrived. Heat rushed to her face but Daemon had already looked away. That single look had confirmed her suspicions: he knew exactly how much of a farce this had become.

To be continued...

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saphig-iawn · 5 months

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Day 2 of my journey of turning into the me I want to be. I think I'm gonna chronicle the whole thing, use a cute lil tag so check below if you enjoy this. Ultimately, it gives me something to look back on, and give hope to baby transgirls like me. So who knows how this thing may grow. I actually hope it gets to a point where I have the confidence to show my progress rather than just say it. I see so many girlies that are doing just that but then the dysphoria hits, the doubt starts to whisper when I consider doing the same. So for now, enjoy the little journal of the walk I took today.

Whenever I went to the city, one of my favourite things to do was to walk through the older parts of the city, the little nooks and crannies made of stone and wood that rest between the glass and the metal of modern buildings. But after a while I stopped. Sometimes the convenience of getting off my train a stop later became the easier thing to do. But today I got off early and roamed. I chose such a good time to do it too. There are a few old arcades in this part of the city, and not your video game arcades, but indoor streets lined with independent shops and delis. I chose such a good time because all of the delis and cafes were prepping for lunch. The smell of fresh baked bread, fried potato, and hot meat and vegetable pastries filled the air. Each shop was framed in deep mahogany wood, the floor lined with hardy flagstones. It made me a little disappointed in my store bought meal deal, so perhaps one time I may sample something homemade and honest when I'm there next. I missed that place.

#saphi's journey #transfem #transfemme #transgender #mtf trans #trans #mtf #transition timeline #trans pride #transisbeautiful #girlslikeus

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 1 year

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ilībītsos (little sl*t) │Costume PREVIEW

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

“What – what the fuck are you wearing?” he questions incredulously, his stare roving from the brown tresses on your head to the plain gown you sport, the tops of your breasts as they peek over the collar and the cinching of your waist.

“I do not know what you mean, m’lord,” you tease in a lilting tone, bending over further to deposit the carafe on the table; conveniently enough, the movement angles you just so to allow your uncle a clearer look at the swell of flesh spilling below your collarbone. His eyes drop seemingly without conscious thought, mesmerised by the sight. “I wear what any maiden of my common station would.”

Rhaenyra, having viewed the entire interaction from beside you, snorts. You grin, tipping down briefly to press a kiss you your husband’s cheek.

“Happy name day party, my Prince,” you whisper boldly, allowing your breasts to press against his upper arm lightly before withdrawing, taking the seat beside him and filling your plate as though nothing has happened. You play a dangerous game – Daemon has affected a countenance of casual interest, belied by the flare of his nostrils and the white-knuckled grip he has on his freshly-filled goblet, a positively threatening glimmer in his eyes as he swallows.

“I think you’ll find I’m a king tonight, girl,” he replies after taking a drink, leering at you haughtily. Your father chokes lightly next to him, looking for all the world as though he would rather be anywhere but here listening to his brother and daughter engage in such obsequious flirtation. “And as your king, I command you to address me as such. Even lowly peasant girls like yourself know the proper title for a monarch, surely?”

You flush, wide-eyed – whatever power you had felt at the exchange has now flipped in his favour as he looks down his nose at you, brow arched.

“Of course, Your Grace,” you say pleasantly, your heart pounding a drum in your chest. Rhaenyra suddenly stands, her chair screeching in protest against the flagstone, muttering ‘I’m not doing this tonight’ and dragging Laenor with her; you wonder what she means.

#terms of endearment │ daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen fanfiction #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x you #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen smut

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ofduskanddreams · 9 months

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You're Lucky I Love You

For @areyoudreaminof <3 The prompt: Canon Elucien. Teasing. "You're lucky I love you."

—this fic contains a shameless reference to What Lies Inside, I could not help myself nor will I apologize—

Elucien ✦ Rated G ✦ 814 words ✦ on AO3

Elain breathed a sigh of relief as the door swung shut behind her. After spending the last six months on an extended visit to Vassa and Jurian to see the newly rebuilt palace and the now not-so-newborn princess, Elain was grateful to be back in her own house. They had arrived home this afternoon, but she’d gone straight into a debriefing with Balthazar and the other court’s emissaries about a potential exchange.

It felt amazing to be home.

She’d missed the sun-warmed limestone walls, the weathered wood floors, the grove of citrus trees in the back garden, and the sprawling bougainvillea climbing around their front door. Having known them for over a decade now, Elain had gone into the trip aware that they wouldn’t get much time alone, but she hadn’t realized how much she’d come to take it for granted since she and Lucien had moved to the Day Court.

Quiet evenings with Lucien as the sun set and painted the kitchen golden—that was what Elain had missed the most. At the moment, however, her mate was nowhere to be seen.

“Lucien?” she called into the house. There was no reply. She couldn’t hear his heartbeat. That was suspicious.

Elain decided to check the garden, though she couldn’t imagine what he would be doing out there alone.

“Lucien?” she asked into the slightly sea-salty breeze blowing inland from the bay.

The flagstone path was warm beneath her bare feet.

“Are you out here?”

He wouldn’t have gone to his father’s palace without telling her… and she couldn’t recall him mentioning any other plans.

Then she heard… panting?

She didn’t know what else to call the rapid and shallow breaths she was picking beyond the grove, near the back corner of the walled-off acre that was her haven.

Elain took off at a furious pace, brushing past the flower and vegetable beds and through the stand of citrus trees.

“I can hear you,” she made no effort to disguise the ire in her voice.

It had been six months since they’d had a nice evening just the two of them. She’d been looking forward to it from their second week in Scythia onwards. Even though it had been years since they accepted the bond, she still had needs. Obviously Lucien had enthusiastically sated some of those needs while they were abroad, but Elain missed the simple domesticity of their life here. And now he was off doing Cauldron knew what?!

Elain emerged from the trees. “Lucien—”

She stopped short.

Lucien was crouching on the ground, pointedly not looking at her. His white shirt and tan trousers splotched with rust-colored mud. The same colored mud that coated the limbs of the gray puppy whose head he was stroking.

“Lucien Daanan Spell-Cleaver. What in the Mother’s name is going on?”

Ducking his head, Lucien murmured under his breath and the surrounding air stopped shimmering, the sound of his heartbeat filling Elain’s ears.

“You know I love you with everything I am, right?”

Oh, the guilt in his voice was quite apparent.

“Lucien.”

“She tried to dig her way out of the garden just now, I was figuring out the best way to stop it from happening again,” he said sheepishly, gesturing to the rather obvious hole in the earth along the back wall.

“She?”

“Eris came by earlier?”

“Eris came by earlier, and?”

“This is Safira,” he scratched behind the puppy’s floppy ear and her tongue lolled. Lucien cleared his throat. “Apparently Cinder—the alpha of Eris’s pack of hounds—had a litter while we were in Scythia. He… uh… summoned Safira right before winnowing away. You know how Eris is—always minimizing anything he does that could be considered nice. He, quote, ‘didn’t want this one because his pack was already too large and she was the runt’ so he, quote, ‘figured that, after almost four-hundred years, I could handle the responsibility of having a smokehound of my own.’”

“Did he now?” Elain tried to make the words sharp and stern but the puppy—Safira—was looking over at her with pleading silvery eyes, kneading the ground with her large paws like she was trying to contain her excitement.

“Yes? Look, Elain—my love, my sunshine—when I was a boy, I spent every spare moment with Eris’s smokehounds and I always dreamed of having my own.”

Now both of them were looking at her with imploring eyes and Elain had already known where this exchange would conclude so she let out a long sigh, striding over to kneel beside him.

“You’re lucky I love you,” she withheld a huff of laughter, stretching out her hand for Safira to sniff.

The hound rewarded her with a slobbery lick. Elain couldn’t help her smile.

“Does that mean we can keep her?”

Elain did laugh then, “Yes, I suppose we can. Welcome to the family Safira.”

✦ ✦ ✦

tagging: @ablogofsapphicpanic @iftheshoef1tz @damedechance @panicatthenightcourt @moonpatroclus @octobers-veryown @foundress0fnothing @talons-and-teeth @kingofsummer93 @wittyrejoinder @bagelfyre @velidewrites @krem-does-stuff

let me know if you want to be added to/removed from my Elucien tags :)

#elucien #elucien fic #elucien fanfiction #elucien fanfic #elain x lucien #lucien x elain #pro elucien #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #lucien spell cleaver #elain acotar #pro elain archeron #pro lucien vanserra #acotar fanfiction #acotar fanfic #acotar fic #kate's celebratory drabbles series

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emyn-arnens · 6 months

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trick or treat!🎃

Happy Halloween! You've got me in my Finduilas feelings now thanks to your fic, so here's a little Finduilas and Faramir ficlet for you. ❤︎

The door to Finduilas’ room creaked open, and Faramir’s dark head peered around it. He closed the door carefully, so that Denethor, a little way down the hall in his study, would not hear and worry that her rest was being disturbed.

“I brought you something,” Faramir said. In his hands was a small bouquet of moss roses plucked from the little plant that grew in Finduilas’ garden. He placed the flowers in her lap. They were slightly wilted from the long walk from the garden to her chambers, but Finduilas cared not.

“It was very kind of you to bring me these,” she said, smiling at him. She brushed the bright petals with her fingertips, and longing swelled within her for her home by the sea.

Moss roses had grown wild and tumbling along the cliffs and shores of Dol Amroth and in her family’s gardens. They had been her favorite flowers since she was a girl, running freely upon the shimmering shorelines and dancing upon the windswept cliffs. Ivriniel had cultivated new colors and kinds, just for her sister, and they had grown in a wild tumult amongst the hydrangeas, geraniums, lilies, yarrow, and lavender that filled their family’s gardens.

Denethor had sent for Ivriniel’s seeds at Finduilas’ request, for she had longed to have some small piece of her home. But the seeds had been planted in too much shade (everything was in the shade when one lived in a city of towering stone), and the plant had struggled to break through the stony soil of the Citadel. And when it had, it had been a sparse, spare thing, drawing what little life it could from the cold stones of the city. She had thought it would not live past a year, but it had, clinging to life as she did in this city of deepening shadow.

“Do you feel any better?” Faramir asked, as he always did. His eyes were large and serious, too serious for a boy of but four years.

She cupped his cheek, warm from the sun and the life that thrummed through his veins. Her hand was cold against his skin. “If you bring me some of these flowers each day, you will make me feel much better.” She pressed a kiss to his brow and closed her eyes. How many more times would she be able to kiss his brow or touch his face? How soon would it be until the flowers he brought her were to be laid upon her tomb instead of her lap?

“I will,” he promised with a voice too solemn for a child his age.

Finduilas smiled and touched his cheek. “I shall look forward to it.”

When he left, the heavy silence of stone filled the room, and Finduilas bowed her head and wept.

— — —

Faramir walked down the marble flagstones of Rath Dínen between the pale domes and echoing halls that lined the street. In his hand he held a small bouquet of moss roses, taken from the little plant that grew on his windowsill.

His mother’s moss rose had outlived her, and when the plant had at last withered nigh unto death and had only one branch that yet lived, Faramir had taken a cutting and consulted the city gardeners and herb-masters. They had told him to plant the cutting in a place of ample sunlight, and so Faramir had placed it in a pot in his window that faced to the West, where it would spend many hours in the golden light of the afternoon sun. The plant flourished as it never had in the shadows of his mother’s garden.

He entered a wide, vaulted chamber where lay the wives and daughters of the Stewards. Many marble tables filled it, and on them lay the sleeping forms of the women of the House of Húrin, carved into stone.

His mother’s tomb stood near the center of the room, marked from the rest by the flowers that lay upon her breast. Her marble likeness was veiled, and her eyes were closed as if she were lost in dreamless sleep.

Faramir removed the dead flowers and brushed his fingertips over her stone hands. They were as cold as her hands had been in her last days, when she had brushed his hair from his face and bid him to have courage. He little remembered now the color of her eyes or the sound of her voice, but he remembered the feeling of her hands, cool and gentle upon his skin.

He placed the new flowers upon her breast, over her folded hands. “I have brought you something of your home, Mother,” he said. And he bent to kiss her brow.

[ask box trick-or-treat]

#so. this was meant to be a double drabble. as you can see it got away from me #lotr #finduilas #faramir #my fic #asks #hobbit wrangler

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tendertenebrosity · 4 months

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Prev.

It was night when Raidan came to visit me, but I was awake. I hurt too much, was too filled to bursting point with misery and resentment and fear, to have slept.

It was stupid of me to be lying there, feeling each one of my lashes, shamed down to my very bones, and fretting that the royal family was defenceless. They had the entire rest of the guard! Why did I feel like there was something I could do that everybody else couldn’t?

You know someone’s out there. Some THING. And nobody else does.

My Prince exchanged a few words with the healer’s assistant at the door; then he came in, taking off a long cloak and laying it on the edge of the bed, as I craned and tried fruitlessly to see him.

“Stop it,” he scolded. “You’re hurting yourself.”

There was a chair; he dragged it around to beside the bed, where I could see it where I lay on front with my face turned to the side.

I propped myself up on my elbow, trying to wipe the pain off my face for him. “Rai!"

For a moment I just held myself there and looked at him. He came. He came to see me. I knew he would! For a moment, despite it all, I was happy. Even now, in the middle of the night, with darkness under his eyes from not sleeping and his hair still in its style from the day - he was lovely enough to make my heart turn over. I ached to brush my thumb over those hollows, kiss the crease away from between his eyes.

“The healer-priest says you’ll scar but it shouldn’t impair your movement,” he said, after looking at me for a long time. His gaze flickered away from my face.

I didn’t know how long they’d let me languish here before they made me leave the palace. I wasn’t a guardsman anymore. I had no right to its medical care, technically. Guess I should be grateful they hadn’t thrown me into the street as soon as the formalities were all done.

“I won’t be allowed a sword again,” I said. “Not in palace grounds.”

His gaze dropped to his lap. “No. But you’ll need to move for… other things. I assume.”

“Who’s come with you?” I found myself asking. In my mind, sticky black shadows rose up out of the flagstones to grasp at him, and I couldn’t disguise the fear in my voice. “You didn’t walk through the palace alone, did you? Your apartment is ages away! At this time of night! You should have guards with you. You should - ”

“I have to answer to you even less than I previously did,” he said, sharply. “You’re not still jumping at shadows? Fuck’s sake, Keldin!”

“I’m scared for you,” I said desperately. “They were there, Rai, I - ”

“Enough,” he said, enunciating the words clearly, the warning note of command I’d rarely heard. “Besides, you shouldn’t want others to see this, any more than I do!”

Abruptly, I realised the cloak he’d come in was his winter one, with the deep hood. The one nobody could see his face in.

He didn’t want anybody to know he was here visiting me.

My heart twisted. Had I truly almost forgotten that pain? Just because he came, and sat, and looked at me for a moment? “You wouldn’t admit to me in court,” I said. “When Tell asked the Queen if she knew, and you said - ”

His mouth pressed flat. “Oh yes, everybody likes announcing their dalliances to their mother in front of -”

“Dallian - ”

“Seriously, are you going to..!”

“You’re ashamed,” I said, pushing myself more upright even though it hurt. Hurt in horrible throbbing waves from the base of my skull down to my hips. “Ashamed of me - a common guardsman, how low - ”

“You killed four people, Keldin!”

He was standing, suddenly pushing the chair out of the way and looking down at me with his face all creased and taut. Like he could hardly bear the sight of me. The thought that he would look at me like that hurt more than my back, more than the pull of stitches in my leg and my cheek.

“You seriously can’t imagine why I might be reluctant to have it known how close we were?” he demanded, furious. “This is a relations nightmare as it is. Not that I expect you to understand that kind of thing!”

I could feel wetness trickling down my shoulder; I’d pulled something open. I ignored it.

“For you,” I said, lost. “I killed - I didn’t - They would have killed you. They said it. You’d rather believe that I did that on purpose, for no reason, than that I - ”

He put his hands up to his face, groaned and turned away. “Fuck, what am I doing here,” he mumbled behind them. “I don’t think you did it on purpose. I think - I don’t know what I think. You were wrong, Kel. Just wrong. You can’t sit there and tell me you did it for me and expect that to make it - do you know how that feels? That kid was thirteen! Gods, I feel sick. Fuck.”

“He wasn’t human anymore. Why won’t you believe me?” I could feel tears building behind my eyes; no. No. “You won’t even consider - Rai, please - ”

“I did consider,” he snapped. “We closed the whole street, searched the inn top to bottom on your say-so! Captain Cora even had those people’s houses searched, because I asked, and that didn’t endear us to anybody either! I went out on a limb because I thought you had to have a reason, and there was nothing there.”

“I don’t know why,” I whispered. “I don’t know why there was nothing. But I saw… I saw…”

My back hurt too much; I had to let myself fall forward again. Tears pooled on the pillow underneath my cheek when I let it rest there for a moment. The stripes on my back throbbed and burned; I'd disturbed at least two to bleeding, probably more. How was it possible for skin to hurt this much?

The silence had gone on a long time. Rai let out his breath in a huge sigh, and dropped back to sit on the chair.

“Look, I didn’t come here to argue with you,” he said. “I just came to tell you goodbye.”

“Goodbye?” I echoed, lifting my head.

“I thought - no matter how it’s ended, you were… you deserve that much from me,” he said, in this sad, gentle way that made my hand ball into a fist underneath the sheet. “You were exactly what I needed, for a while. In a difficult time of my life. And I’m grateful for that much. I hope you - I hope you get the help you need out there. Whatever it is that’s caused you to do this. Really.”

“I - ” I closed my eyes. Each sentence out of his mouth was like a wave knocking me further off balance, one after another. I made a huge effort to pull myself away from it - hadn’t there been something I wanted to say, too? A goodbye? “Raidan. Could you look - there should be something in the drawer, there, the - the bedside table - ”

He gave me a long-suffering look that was almost my old prince back again. After a moment, he leaned forward and fished around out of my sight. He came up holding my charm, dangling from its broken cord. It spun in the air as he held it up.

“I want you to take that,” I said, wincing and hissing in pain as I propped myself back up again to face him. “Please.”

I hadn’t forgotten, the way the assassin had tried to cut it off me during the fight; or the way things had squirmed and shone in my vision when I’d been holding it yesterday, before the whipping. I should have told him all of that - I would have done, a week ago. I would have told him anything, everything - every thought that passed through my head, if he’d have borne it. He owned everything I had, in my head and my heart.

The fact that I couldn’t do that now stuck in my throat and hurt, hurt, hurt.

But he wouldn’t have believed me.

“This is your lucky stone,” he said, cupping it in his hand. Did his face soften, looking at it on his palm? Or was it my imagination? “Kel, you wear this every day. I can’t take this.”

“Yes, you can,” I insisted. “I want you to. Just humour me. Put it in your pocket or around your neck under your clothes. If I’m - I’m not going to be here to take care of you. I want to know you have it.”

He shook his head, wrapping the cord in neat loops around his fingers. “Kel… no.”

“Please?” I said, desperately. When I’d hit upon this idea, I’d still thought - I’d pictured a version of this conversation where I could tell him I suspected the charm had saved my life. What a joke! Fuck, I was just as stupid as Tell had said during the trial. “Please take it. It’s my goodbye. I want you to wear it. Would you do that for me?”

He put the charm on the bed beside me, the cords springing out of their folds. I tried to pick it up with the hand and arm I was holding myself up with, and almost slid forward onto my face. I held it out to him, fingers clumsy.

“Stop it, Kel, I’m not going to - ”

“If you ever loved me at all,” I said, my voice shaking, “Take it. Please.”

And I watched his face still. And harden.

He stood, ignoring my hand.

“You presume a lot, Keldin,” he said, coldly. “Too much. I don’t know why you think I’d have any use for your superstitious love-token.”

“Wait - ”

He was already moving, picking up his hooded cloak from where he’d thrown it, wrapping it around his shoulders.

“Please, Rai - don't go - ”

“I meant what I said,” he said, mouth tight and angry. “You’ve always been devoted. Thank you, goodbye, and take my sincerest good wishes for wherever life takes you next.”

“Wait! Rai!” The charm slid forgotten out of my fingers as I tried to sit up, push my legs out of bed - my voice was climbing, high and distressed, and I couldn’t make my stupid body cooperate. “Rai, I love you!”

The cloak hid his face; he yanked it angrily into place. “Goodbye, Keldin.”

And then he was gone.

#post-whipping scene #whump writing #fantasy whump #emotional whump #it's fine Raidan just pour some metaphorical salt on Keldin #heartbreak #royalty/commoner romance #the fucky kind #Keldin #Prince Raidan

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sarahscribbles · 2 years

Text

On The Throne

Summary: Yet again Loki has allowed a security council meeting to run late. You decide that, this time, you'll go and help hurry it along.

Genre: Fluff, smut

Loki x f!reader

Word count: 3.8k

Loki Masterlist

One hour.

Two hours.

Three hours.

You slammed the heavy tome in your lap shut with a resounding thump, causing two songbirds resting nearby to startle into flight. The early evening breeze tousled your hair, bringing with it the sweet smell of wild jasmine and magnolia; a scent you would always associate with your wedding and with Loki.

He had told you, he had told you multiple times this morning, that his audience with the security council would likely last the entirety of the afternoon and that you shouldn’t expect to see him before sundown, but still you burned with impatience. You were hungry for his company, for the rich, safe sound of his voice and the soft feel of his lips on yours as he kissed you hello.

You missed him.

From your perch on the open balcony, you watched the setting sun bathe Asgard in a golden glow, the shimmering city appearing almost iridescent in the evening light. Usually, your husband would be by your side by now, a goblet of rich Asgardian wine in his hand while he kept you abreast of state affairs or told you tales of every inch of Asgard to the Bifrost and beyond.

This evening, though, you were alone.

Loki had been King for a few short months, your husband for only a little while longer, but you could count on one hand the number of times he had concluded a security council meeting when he should have. He was close to fanatical about the security of Asgard - why, you weren’t certain - and his meetings tended to run well overtime, no matter how much a singular issue had been discussed.

Despite the centuries you had been together, you still ached for his presence, for his embrace and his touch, after only a few short hours apart. Centuries behind you and millennia before you, yet you still couldn’t get enough of him.

You would never get enough of him.

In your chambers behind you heard the distinctive soft click of the double doors opening, a small, unassuming sound that relaxed your whole body.

Loki had returned.

Your ears pricked for the dull thud of his boots against the flagstones and the telltale clink of his golden helmet on mahogany; your body braced for the feel of his strong arms wrapping tightly around your shoulders and his warm, sweet kiss pressing against your temple. You were practically vibrating in anticipation of his touch, counting down the seconds it would take for him to cross the chamber to the open arch of the balcony.

Five…four…three…two…

“Your Majesty?”

Oh.

Masking the bitter disappointment that had settled quickly over you like a sudden spring storm, you turned in the direction of Åse’s voice. Loki’s return was likely a few hours away yet; he only ever sent Åse when…

“His Majesty has been delayed again, my Queen,” she said, her timid voice drifting softly on the evening air. You still weren’t sure why the girl feared you so. Was it because you were Loki’s wife? “He sent me with -”

“With his apologies, yes,” you interrupted her, moving the heavy volume from your lap to stand. Instantly, you regretted your sharp tone. Åse stood in the wide open arch, nervously twisting her hands in front of her, as though she believed you blamed her for Loki’s delay. “I am not angry at you, child. Don’t fret,” you softened your voice, touching a hand to her burning cheek as you passed by into your chamber.

Her light footsteps echoed along behind. “Would you like me to bring a message back, my Queen?” she asked, the quiet swish of her skirts filling the silence of the room.

You paused to think for a moment. “Yes, you can tell His Majesty that…” you stopped short, a wicked thought beginning to take shape in your mind. “No, Åse, dear, that’s all. You may retire for the rest of the night. I’ll retrieve His Majesty myself.

oOo

“...we can’t possibly hope to strike a deal with the Vanir before Midwinter. There remains scores of bad blood between their King and my father. If we are to truly try and build a bridge between the realms then a diplomatic envoy will need to be sent from Asgard before Midsummer…”

Loki’s deep, commanding voice drifted from under the heavy oak doors to the throne room into the small antechamber where you lingered impatiently. He had been speaking without pause for ten minutes, providing no opportunity for interruption as he laid out his plans to restore the frosty relations between Asgard and Vanaheim. It had been the biggest thorn in his side for all of his short reign and one that he was decidedly determined to pluck out and flick to the dirt.

His muffled voice continued to float through the imposing wood, only heightening your impatience with each slowly passing minute. You waited…and waited…and waited, until a natural pause in his monologue gave you the chance to heave open one of the doors to the throne room. They had been built to appear ominous, to deter any trivial interruption into state affairs, but to you they were but a minor obstacle standing between you and your husband, Loki long having told you that no matter of state was more important than you were.

His eyes, cold and stern as they addressed his council, flickered to you the second that you stepped through the doors, filling instantly with open warmth. Holding his gaze you leaned against the cool stone of the wall, folding your arms across your chest and cocking an eyebrow at him. Loki’s lips twitched with the beginnings of a knowing smile and his eyes suddenly twinkled with mischief as he turned back to the men gathered before him.

“My lords, my Queen commands my attention. We will reconvene momentarily. You are dismissed,” he said firmly.

You watched amused as the men shuffled out, many of them shooting you looks of pure gratitude for providing respite from Loki’s unending peacebuilding quest. When the doors finally shut with a boom that echoed to every corner of the chamber, you turned your attention back to your husband. He had taken his seat on the throne, Gungnir still held proudly in his hand, his legs parting in a wide, inviting V that pulled you in like a bee to nectar.

“Reconvening momentarily, are you?” you remarked, the soft click of your slippers echoing around the chamber as you ascended to the throne. “Is three hours not long enough to keep me waiting for your company?” You stopped short of stepping between his splayed legs despite the nearly overwhelming urge.

Loki leaned forward, resting his hands on your hips and pulling you towards him. A small, startled squeak left your lips as you stumbled, but ended up safely perched on one of his muscular thighs. “Anyone would think I hadn’t ravished you thoroughly last night, my love. You’re becoming quite insatiable,” he teased.

Easily, you looped your arms around his neck, settling into the familiar comfort that came with being close to him. “Perhaps,” you allowed him. “Although can I be blamed when my husband is so exquisite?” you said, delighting in the faint dusting of pink that crept across his cheeks. Unable to wait any longer, you pressed your lips firmly against his, drinking in the taste of him like he was an oasis that quenched your desperate thirst. His lips parted easily for you and soon the only sound in the chamber was that of your kiss.

Against your thigh, you felt him begin to grow hard, something that only spurred you on. You broke from his mouth, trailing wet, open mouthed kisses along his sharp jaw and down the exposed expanse of his neck, occasionally nipping him with your teeth to mark him as he had you so many times before. Loki shifted beneath you, the slight rise of his thigh pushing you closer against him, his arms locking tighter around your waist. You could feel every quiet hitch of his breath, and when you twisted a hand into his hair to tug it gently, he shivered.

“Darling, as much as I relish your attentions, I can’t keep the council waiting,” he protested. It was weak resistance, you knew; he was already angling his head to grant you better access to continue marking him.

“You had no such qualms about leaving me waiting,” you remarked, pushing open the parting of his tunic above his armour to mark his collarbone.

His fingers were instantly under your chin, tilting your head back to make you look at him. “You’re upset,” he stated, his own distress beginning to swirl in his eyes.

You entertained letting him believe it, but your inability to ever hurt him ultimately won out. “I’m not,” you assured him, cupping his cheek in your palm for emphasis. “I know this side of being King is unavoidable. You are only doing your duty.” You ghosted your thumb across his cheek.

“You know there is nowhere in this universe I would rather be than with you, my love,” he replied, leaning in to your touch.

“I know,” you assured him softly. “Which is why I came to you. I can only imagine how you’re wilting from a lack of my affection,” you teased him, warmth seeping through you at the sight of his smile, the smile that was reserved solely for you.

Gently, as though he still believed you were made of glass, he brought your hand to his lips to kiss your fingertips. “Like a flower under the hot summer sun,” he answered.

You adopted a look of serious concern, dusting your thumb over his cheek again. “Well, we can’t have that. Perhaps I can revive you?” You bent in to give him another lingering kiss before easily sliding from this thigh to kneel between his spread legs.

A deep rumble of approval sounded from him, and he leaned forward to grasp your chin between his fingers. “You do look delightful on your knees for me, darling,” he purred. “I only hope you can work fast enough so as not to arouse the suspicions of my council.”

“Don’t pretend with me, my King. I know how much the thought of an audience excites you,” you shot back instantly.

Loki narrowed his eyes playfully at you. “Little minx,” he said softly, leaning back to raise his hips just enough for you to yank his trousers down this thighs, exposing him full to you.

His cock stood proudly before you already hard and demanding your attentions. For a moment you did nothing only watch him, letting him wait…and wait…and wait. When his strong brow begin to knit together and his lips began to part, you bent in to apply the barest hint of pressure with your tongue from base to tip, doing nothing but coat him in a thin sheen of your saliva. Loki’s hips rose off the throne in a silent command for more, but you sat back on your heels and peered up at him with feigned innocence.

His head snapped forward on his shoulders, green eyes glittering darkly with quiet threats when they found yours. “Don’t tease me, my pet,” he said, a faint note of warning creeping into his raspy voice.

“Not even a little bit?” you replied, quickly pressing your lips to his bare thigh, pulling a soft groan from him. You sucked mark after mark into his pale skin, the little patches of red that slowly blossomed underneath sending a jolt of pure power straight to your head. These were your marks, he would be adorned with your marks.

He was yours.

High on the feeling of it, you continued to pepper a myriad of further marks across his skin, wanting his entire body to be claimed as yours. The soft little sounds of pleasure that he released above you in an unending stream confirmed just how much he did love to be teased.

“Darling?” he breathed out above you, his voice now beginning to sound strained.

“Hmm?” you hummed, still not finished with his thighs.

“Put that wonderful mouth of yours to better use.”

“As you wish, my King,” you said, watching his cock twitch at your words. You sucked a final bruise into the flesh of his thigh and sat back on your heels, taking in the beautiful sight of him hard and ready for you. A small bead of pre cum glistened on his tip, weeping temptingly and making something deep within you twist. You ran your tongue firmly along the underside of his cock and locked your lips around his tip, swirling around him and pumping the rest of him steadily with your hand.

“Good girl,” Loki said above you, his head tipping back while his hands on the armrests balled into fists.

You continued to work him towards release, the feeling of his heavy cock on your tongue and the endless stream of his pleasured moans and sighs floating through the air driving you to increase your pace. You flattened your tongue firmly against him, drawing a sharp hiss from his lips as he steadily climbed the edge.

On the armrest of the throne, his fingers curled and uncurled, his breathing now coming in short, broken pants as he braced for the flood of pleasure. “Fuck, darling…I’m close,” he panted out. “Keep…doing that.”

His pleasure was just within his grasp, dangling enticingly before him. He was seconds away…another few bobs of your head on his cock…

At the last possible second before his climax consumed him, you pulled off him, leaving a wet string of your saliva clinging to his red and angry tip when he fell completely from your mouth.

Before you could even draw breath his head was snapping upright on his shoulders, emerald eyes staring daggers when they found yours. “I’m…I’m going to trust…that that was an accident,” he panted, his breath still lost to him.

You gave him an innocent flutter of your eyelashes. “Were you close, my King?” you asked, swallowing a smirk.

“You are playing a dangerous game, my pet,” he said quietly, leaning forward and bunching a hand in your hair to push you back towards his cock.

“And it sounds like you’re rather enjoying it. Perhaps I should drag it out?” you replied, pushing back against the force of his hand, determined that he wouldn’t have any pleasure until you decided.

“Do that and I’ll put you over my knee,” he said, pressing you more firmly still towards him.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, my love,”

His weeping tip pressed against your lips demanding entrance, and with his hand firmly twisted in your hair, you had no choice but to part your lips and take him. A contented groan fell from him when you wrapped your lips back around his cock, running your tongue steadily over his head and pulling a sharp hiss of pleasure from him. His hand bunched tighter into your hair to force you to take more of him, his hips beginning to roll evenly to meet every bob of your head.

The throne room was filled with his soft moans and grunts of pleasure, the noises filling your ears like the sweetest chorus of a melody. A glance up through your lashes saw his head tipped back in ecstasy against the back of his throne, eyes squeezed shut and lips parted to allow your name to fall from them like a prayer from his heart.

He was close. He was so wondrously close.

Moments before he tipped over, you removed your hand from his cock and slowed down your rapid pace until you were doing nothing but running your tongue along his shaft at a slow, tormenting pace, dulling the little waves of pleasure to practically nothing.

His sharp, agonised whine floated through the air as the edge he had been riding once again ebbed away from him. His hips began to frantically roll into your mouth, desperately seeking its warm wetness to tip him over into a blinding release. You allowed him a few frenzied thrusts before pulling off his cock completely, fighting the press of his hand with great effort, and watching his face above you melting instantly from drunken pleasure to disbelieving betrayal.

“Darling…darling, please,” the plea fell quickly from his parted lips. “Please…please don’t leave me like this,” he continued to beg, his big green eyes filled with need and the earlier firmness of his voice long since gone.

Wordlessly, you rose to your feet, feeling heat pool between your legs at the look of utter desperation on his face and the silent pleading in his eyes. “Did you really believe I would, my King?” you asked, smirking at him as you began to hike up your gown.

The desperate look on his face instantly shifted, a knowing smile stretching his lips and mischief starting to twinkle in his emerald eyes. With his assistance you climbed into his lap, a curse slipping from your lips and a hiss from his when you seated yourself fully on his pulsing cock. “I believe you know better, my love,” he said, voice raspy and dripping with arousal.

With the feeling of his beautiful, thick length buried inside you, the temptation to ride him until you both saw stars was close to overwhelming. You could take your pleasure from him right here, fill the throne room with the sounds of your cries of ecstasy. You could…

No.

The opportunity had presented itself too perfectly tonight, and you had already got this far…

“Mmm,” you hummed in apparent agreement, bending in to kiss his weak spot right below his ear. “You’ve kept me waiting all night, dearest,” you whispered. “If you want that orgasm you’re going to have to get yourself there.” You bit down on his lobe, delighting in the sound of him sucking in a sharp breath.

His deep laughter shook your body. “You are very demanding tonight, my Queen. I quite enjoy this side of you.” He turned his head to capture your lips again, his kiss near making you dizzy with need. “As you command.”

His strong hands adjusted you in his lap and slowly, as though he was the one teasing you, he began to roll his hips to thrust his cock into you. You latched your arms around his neck for balance, twisting one hand back into his hair and giving it a sharp tug, making him shudder and momentarily lose his steady rhythm.

“You know…exactly…what you do to me,” he breathed out, his hands clamping around your hips like a vice.

You answered him with a kiss, deep and long and full of raw posessiveness.

He was yours.

One hand slid from your waist to the small of your back to gently press you closer to him, and, steadily, his thrusts became faster, hitting every sweet spot buried within you and making you fight every instinct and primal desire of your body to roll your hips against his. You remained still, clutching his neck and practically drunk on the sight of him edging himself with your cunt.

“Surely…surely you aren’t going to…make me do all the work, darling?” he panted, small beads of sweat beginning to form on his hairline and his cheeks glowing pink.

You gave him another quick kiss. “Maybe for just a little while longer,” you teased him.

A mischievous smirk crossed his face. “As you wish, my Queen,” he replied, instantly switching to thrust into you at a punishing pace and unknowingly driving himself towards an orgasm that you weren’t going to let him have.

His cock was hitting you at just the right speed and just the right angle, pushing you further and further towards your own magnificent release within every upward thrust of his hips. You dug your nails into the back of his neck, peppering little half moons across his skin and desperately attempting to ignore how good he felt filling and stretching you. You clenched hard around him, drawing another strangled whine from the depths of his throat and watching his eyes flutter shut once again. His chest beneath you was heaving, pink lips parted in silent prayer, and his thrusts quickly began more frantic and erratic.

“Fuck,” he cursed again. “Fuck” His teeth were bared, his hips now jerking wildly into you and making your cunt take every inch of him. You could feel him pulsing inside you, so close to painting you with his seed, so close to a shattering release.

For another second you drank in the sight of him coming undone beneath you. His lips parted in ecstasy, every tendon in his throat stretched taut against his skin, loose strands of hair falling forward to frame his face. He looked so beautiful, so drunk on the pleasure that your body was giving him that you almost felt guilty about what you were about to do.

Almost.

Slowly, so as not to alert him to any sudden shift, you placed a hand on each armrest of his throne to brace yourself and, at the very last second before he completely unravelled beneath you, you lifted off him, your cunt clenching in protest as his cock was prematurely pulled out of you.

A tortured shout of frustration left him, his hips bucking wildly in a desperate reach for your warmth. “Darling, please!” he begged, leaning forward in a vain attempt to pull you back onto his lap, but you were safely out of his reach. “Please let me finish!” His breathing was coming deep and hard, his chest heaving from how gloriously close he had been.

You fixed him with a satisfied smirk, feeling your core clench at the sound of his pleading. “Oh, but we can’t leave your council waiting. You said so yourself, my King, and it’s already been close to a half hour,” you said, straightening the skirts of your gown and bending in to give him another blistering kiss.

When you attempted to pull back Loki’s firm fingers grasped your chin to keep you in place. “Finish what you started, my love, or you won’t be capable of sitting properly for a week,” he threatened you, his pupils still blown wide with desire.

“Is that a promise?” you replied quickly.

“Yes.”

You grinned wickedly at him, pulling from his grip and fighting the shiver that threatened to run through you at his words. “Then, my King, I’m afraid I really must go. I can imagine your council is beginning to grow restless waiting for your summons, though I imagine your meeting will be finishing sooner than you anticipated. I hope you don’t face any hard decisions,” you taunted him.

“Darling, if you leave this chamber…,” he continued to threaten, but you were already halfway down the steps to his elevated dias.

“I’ll inform them all that you’re ready for them again!” you called over your shoulder, ignoring his words. “I trust I’ll be seeing you soon, my love.” You heaved open the heavy doors again, Loki’s growl of anguished frustration ringing in your ears.

You gave him thirty minutes.

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#loki #loki x reader #loki smut

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