#his pale skin against the rich black velvet

[larrylimericks]

Raven hair, raven suit, raven flower; Red sequined cropped jacket, high trouser; Unbuttoned silk green; Black tank and black tweed; Four fits, tits, and BRITs — sir, the power!

#larry #harry #harry styles #brits #2023 brits #every look a slay #his red carpet look is burned into my eyeballs #his pale skin against the rich black velvet #the giant oscar wildesque flower #the bustle of the nina ricci suit #the flared trousers #it was brilliant #the silk shirt looks gray-blue but the designer description says sage #limerick-hs #february 11 #2023

[junkdrawerfics]

Hi, first of all, I am obsessed with your Jasper fics they make me feel all warm and fuzzy.

If you are taking requests, can I please request Jasper gifting the reader an old heirloom from his human family? Thank you and have a nice day :)

Unexpected Gifts

Hi! Thank you for this really cute request! I hope I did it justice, I literally spent so many hours just staring at the screen, struggling with it. I don't know how I feel about it but I hope you guys enjoy it!

Jasper Whitlock X Reader

Warnings: None, maybe like a tiny bit sad at parts?

Word Count: 1319

---

“I have somethin’ for you, darlin’.”

You glance up from your book to watch Jasper lean over to swipe a wooden box from the nightstand. He holds it tenderly, as if it might break, the box looking so small in his hands. The dark wood appears almost black against his pale skin, the dainty gold latch on the front matching his eyes.

“What is it?” You ask, eyes gleaming with curiosity.

Jasper grins, your warmth spreading over him as you lean into his side, peering at the jewelry box with wide, owlish eyes. And they only go wider when he opens the box.

Inside, nestled in a bed of velvet, is a necklace. It’s a little, silver locket, the front engraved with a simple bouquet of flowers. It looks worn, but in a deeply loved kind of way, where the metal is polished from years and years of touch. The chain is dainty, glimmering when Jasper lifts it out of the box. You can’t help but hold your breath when he settles it in your palm.

“Jazz,” you whisper, running a finger gingerly over the faint grooves in the metal, “it’s beautiful.”

He tilts his chin in a silent request for you to turn around, “May I?”

You bite back a smile, shuffling excitedly to face the wall. He moves slowly, methodically fastening the locket around your neck, fingers tracing over your shoulder as he pulls your hair loose. His touch leaves behind a trail of goosebumps, your heart fluttering wildly in your chest. Then he suddenly pulls you back into his chest, strong arms winding around your waist, and you feel his lips at the base of your neck.

“Jasper!” You squeak, stiffening, face flushing a million shades of red. 

The blond chuckles, the sound rich and deep. It vibrates through his whole body, making your heart leap into your throat as he leans further into you. Stupid, charming vampire. When did he get so cheeky?

“You’re getting too confident for your own good,” you grumble, looking down at the necklace to hide your flushed face, as if he can’t hear your heart racing.

“I know how you really feel, darlin’,” Jasper teases against your neck, lips still brushing your skin. It makes your knees go weak, a shaky hum rattling from your chest as you hold the locket tighter.

That’s when you feel a small engraving on the back. You flip it over gently, eyes tracing over the delicate, looping letters.

‘L.W.’

Initials? Not yours. Not Jasper’s. Your curiosity comes flooding back again. Jasper must feel the shift because he turns more serious, propping his chin on your shoulder to see what’s caught your eye. Before you can even ask the question, he answers it.

“Laura Whitlock.”

His voice is soft, barely a whisper. You glance at him, chest constricting at the new look in his eyes. His composure slips, a mixture of pain and grief swirling with deep affection shining through. They look distant, lost in old memories.

Gently, you lift a hand to his face, and Jasper shutters, eyelashes fluttering as he takes in a sharp breath. Those gold eyes lock on yours again, back in the present, back with you. Your concern washes over him like a summer shower, softening him.

“Don’t worry about me, sugar,” he hums, covering the hand on his cheek with his own. He turns his head, lips pressing to your palm with a smile.

But your frown doesn’t ease. Not with how his voice plays over and over in your mind. Laura Whitlock. You can guess who it is, and the thought makes your whole heart ache.

“It was your mom’s?”

Jasper nods, watching on expectantly. You bite your lip, vision suddenly going blurry as you look back down at the locket. His mother’s. His mother’s necklace. The weight of the realization settles on you like a blanket of snow.

“I don’t know if I can accept this, Jasper,” you breathe out shakily, reaching to take it off.

He doesn’t let you though. The vampire catches your hands, fingers gentle but firm around your wrists, trapping them to your chest. 

“It belongs to you now, darlin’.”

“But-”

“She would of wanted you to have it.”

A lump forms in your throat. 

You wish you could meet her. Tell her how wonderful her son is. How he is the gentlest, most considerate man you’ve ever met. How every breathing moment, you feel so choked with love for him, so overwhelmed with fondness you can never catch your breath. And everything he does just makes you want to know him more, until you know him better than yourself.

“Will you tell me about her?” You relent, keeping your eyes glued to your hands, wiggling your fingers until he interlaces them with his.

Jasper doesn’t hesitate to share this part of his past with you. His voice practically glows with affection as he recounts stories of his mother. Sweet ones, like when he was a child and she would take him to a field and read him stories until the sun set. Sad ones, like when they lost the family dog, and she held him the entire night. You can picture them all, a small Jasper with big, brown eyes, and an even bigger smile, right next to a young woman with sweeping gold curls, just like his, and a gentle face brimming with love.

“We weren’t the richest family, but she never made us feel that way. My father spent months savin’ up to buy this for her birthday.” He taps the locket softly, a low laugh passing his lips. “Nearly lost it the day of. He had us tear the house up lookin’ for it.”

“But you found it.”

“Yes we did,” Jasper assures with a nod, “She never took it off after that night.”

You can understand why. It must have meant so much to her. And to you. It’s more than a necklace. It’s a sign of trust. A sign of devotion. 

“I don’t think I will either,” you say, giving his hand a squeeze, “Somebody would have to kill me to get this necklace. Like, fully dead, never come back kind of kill.”

Jasper snorts, the sound somehow still refined coming from him. You both know it won’t happen, not if either of you had anything to say about it. This might as well be a ring, because in this moment, all you can think about is the rest of forever you get to spend with this man.

All of your nerves and doubts fizzle into the background as you lean into Jasper. You feel lighter, a smile perching on your lips when the blond leans down to press a kiss to your cheek. 

“Thank you, Jasper,” you whisper, “Thank you for trusting me with this. I’ll do my best to earn it.”

“You already have,” he replies, and the seriousness in his voice makes your heart flutter all over again. “I trust you with my life, darlin’.“

Just as you do with him. But he knows that. He can feel it as you snuggle into him, eyes fluttering shut with a content hum. Jasper holds you a little closer, a little tighter, soaking in the warmth of all your emotions. You stay like that for hours, or at least what feels like hours, before you have to go home.

The moment you get there, you go to the mirror on your dresser and look at yourself. Well, yourself with the necklace. Tracing the chain tenderly, you can’t help but envision the picture you can put inside. You and Jasper, maybe on your wedding day, or the day you finally join them for eternity.

Either way, you’ll never take it off. Not when you can simply look down and be reminded of every single reason you love Jasper Whitlock. 

And of how much he loves you.

---

I have a lot more story ideas for 'X Jasper' fics, so keep an eye out! Thank you for reading, your comments and love really push me to keep writing.

Feel free to send in requests!

#reader insert #x reader #reader #jasper hale #jasper whitlock #twilight saga #twilight #jasper whitlock x reader #jasper x reader #jasper hale x reader #family heirloom #I had horrible writers block with this one

[mrs-illyrian-baby]

No Sacrifice Without Blood

Vampire!Loki x Reader | 1.5k

Your God and Master returns to feed, bringing pleasure as well as pain

Warnings: 18+, Vampire Loki, (mean) Dom!Loki & sub!reader in a high protocol relationship, blood drinking, very dubious consent, implied kidnapping, wax play, anal (including anal play & toys as well as implied anal only), cum play, marking (biting), slapping/spanking.

Divider by @firefly-graphics

Masterlist | Loki Masterlist

It was nightfall, the inky twilight giving way to velvet black and rich purples over the city. And your master stirred. 

You’d been up for a few hours already, showering, dressing, lighting candles and preparing for the night when your master would return and you would be alone together in the darkness. 

He appeared in front of you in a blur of movement, the dark curtains of his hair settling to frame his piercing blue eyes. It was a shock every time you saw him, ghostly pale, his old fashioned clothing doing nothing to hide the strength of the lean muscle beneath.His eyes flashed as you took in his tall, tense body. 

“You’re awake already,” he cooed, pulling you closer, his fingernails digging into you where the artful rips and tears in your clothes revealed the unblemished skin below. “My little snack, good enough to eat.” His teeth grazed your skin, touching enough to send shivers up and down your spine. 

“I missed you, Master.” Your voice was high, confused and dizzy, always hazy under his stare, like you’d had too many drinks too fast and didn’t know how to stop. 

Your Master grinned, revealing two rows of perfect, pearly teeth and two sharp canines, catching in the candlelight that illuminated the room. Gripping your chin in his large hand, he tilted your face up roughly, squeezing your cheeks into a pout and kissing you firmly. He pulled when his biting kiss drew blood, the single drop appearing on your bottom lip before he licked it away. 

“Show me how much you missed me.” 

You dropped to your knees in an instant, turning away from him to place your cheek on the floor, and your back dipped, angling your ass into the air. This was how you worshipped your God, supplicant and praying for his touch. 

 In this position your large collar dug into your shoulder and windpipe, covering the puncture marks that littered your skin. The attached leash had fallen somewhere behind you. He would take it off soon, you hoped, but until then you’d remain prone, a sacrifice, ready for his inspection.  

Being a very well-trained familiar, you always wore the clothes your master ordered. Tight, black and rich green, leather and lace, studded with D rings for him to attach leashes and rope, and, crucially, no underwear, to better show off the reason for your prime position as familiar. 

Behind you, a single, cold, finger ran up the sole of your foot, taking its time to explore each inch, up to your bent knees and thick thighs before reaching between your legs. Bent as you were, your holes framed by your bite-marked thighs and hips, your Master could see exactly the effect his presence had on you. Dripping onto the cold vinyl floor below, you clenched and twitched to the smallest movement of his hand. He merely laughed in response to your needy moans, taking his exploratory fingers away and replacing them with a harsh smack to your pussy. 

“Please!” You cried, already desperate from your time spent away, desiring him, feeling his presence in your blood and his release still buried deep inside of you, butt plug firmly situated, waiting for the next time he felt the urge to bend you over the table. 

He didn’t even respond to say no, simply smacked you again and removed his hand, moving around the room. When he returned, you could see the candle, flickering in his hand as it vanished back out of your sight line. The green wax had already started to drip, creating a trail of droplets from the table back to your position on the floor. 

“Be still,” he ordered, placing the toes of his boot against your leash and pulling back until it was taut. Your head moved too, trying to move with the leash and failing, your body angled painfully, tight and unbalanced, but at least you could see him. 

The icy veins that ran up the alabaster skin of his arm bulged as he moved, wax stuck to his fingers like icing from a cake, unnoticed but stark against his otherwise perfect skin.  

You watched, rapt as the candle titled, the wax forming a languid drop before falling onto your skin. The first drop always felt the worst, hot and shocking, but, like being spanked, it became a welcome, spreading, warmth as each further drip started to coat your lower back, over the curves of your hips and bottom, and down the backs of your thighs. Mercifully, he had left the delicate area between your legs alone, this time. 

The wax started to cool, forming a crackling second skin. Your master knelt behind you, running a nail between the wax and your body, patching the cracked areas with barely felt globs of wax, that he fingered from the still burning candle. 

He placed it by your face, your eyes following the hypnotic dance of the flame, your body feeling light again as he eased the plug from your puffy, cum filled hole. It spilt out, stark white against the dark wax and he pushed it back in, rubbing it against your skin and licking the trickle that ran down your leg. 

Placing the glass plug carefully on the floor, he bent over you, his metal tie pin around his leaving freezing spots of lightning against your taut back, unwarmed by his body. His fingers grazed over your collar, reaching for the padlocked buckle at the back of your neck and releasing the lock with a twist of the key he kept wrapped around his wrist. 

Free from the pressure of the thick leather, you sucked in a deep breath and he watched, eyes narrowed as your jugular throbbed with every beat of your heart. 

Your heart beat between your legs too, acutely aware of how he could sense every change in your mood. His lips brushed the sensitive skin around your hole, licking away his own cum and leaving kisses, nipped into the soft flesh, so they stung and made you sigh all at once. 

A rough growl escaped him and he flipped you over effortlessly, spreading your thighs and pushing your knees back until you were almost folded in half. 

From his vantage point above you, he could see you clench again, his cum still running in rivulets onto the floor and pooling beneath you. The wax that had coated you cracked and splintered, leaving you surrounded by shards and splatters, like leaves in the forest. 

Your heart beat faster and he brought the candle closer again, playing with the flame in his fingers, watching them turn black and then pink again as his skin healed. Silently, he held the candle above you. 

“Are you frightened, my delicious little pet?” he questioned, tipping the candle enough that a blob of wax dangled over your spread lips, and then pulled back. 

You had been, once, the first time he’d brought you here, but as soon as his teeth had pierced your skin there had been no more worries, there hadn’t been anything. Just him, just Loki, your Master, your God. Any harm he caused would be healed just as quickly, you had no reason to be concerned, it was only fleeting - 

“No, I’m - MASTER!” you screamed, the wax hitting your sensitive bud and flowing like lava between your lips, cooling quickly. He let another drop fall, coating your pussy and legs, sealing your arousal inside and leaving only your clenching, abused hole free. 

“Good.” He set the candle down next to your face again, now burnt to a stub and dying with each puff of breath you let out.

You were starting to feel cold without the plug. The wax sealing your skin provided some comfort, but you were still so exposed, so open, so - 

“Needy pet, let me help you.” He pushed the head of his cock against your hole, as cold as the metal had been when he’d inserted it earlier. 

He sank in quickly, taking no time for you to adjust to his speed, setting a preternatural pace that had you scrabbling your short nails against the floor, trying to anchor yourself as he drove you backwards with the force of his thrusts. The wax covering your clit started to crack, creating enough friction to push you towards a frenzied, desperate release. 

Sensing the change in your heartbeat, he grabbed your throat, turning you to the side and exposing the bulging vein running up the length of your neck. In a swift movement, he bent his head, latching his sharp teeth into your skin and spilling your blood into his mouth, sucking hard enough to lift you from the floor. 

It was euphoric, being bitten. A delirious smile spread across your face as he finished inside of you, refilling your empty belly after so much had spilt during his inspection. 

He moved the glass butt plug and moved it outside of your field of vision and then back, blunt and firm, stretching you open until your hole tightened about its base. 

"Delicious, as always," he hummed, licking the wound until it sealed, joining the other healing puncture wounds that decorated your neck. 

And then he was gone as quickly as he'd arrived, wax, cum and blood the only bed you had to lie in, satiated, spent, so empty and so full.

#loki fic #loki fanfiction #loki marvel #loki laufeyson #loki x female reader #loki x reader #loki laufesyon x reader #loki/reader #dom!loki #Vampire!Loki #Loki smut #Loki pwp #Loki/You #Loki x You

[depravitycentral]

Phantom Troupe Dick Headcannons

I have nothing to say for myself

tw: allusions to non-con/dub-con, yandere, power imbalances, excess talk regarding balls and cum I am sorry, slapping, degradation, size kink, male genitalia is gross, fem! reader, MDNI

Characters included: Chrollo Lucilfer, Feiten Portor, Nobunaga Hazama, Phinks Magcub, Shalnark, Uvogin

It’s an average size, roughly five or so inches, with an equally average girth. He’s nothing particularly special, but his cock’s so damn pretty – a pale pink, rosy color, perfectly flushed ombre down to his tip. When he’s close to coming the tip turns a rich red color, throbbing and twitching even without stimulation. He’s got very few veins running the expanse, leaving him perfectly smooth and feeling like velvet inside of you. His balls are perfectly symmetrical, too, only a few black hairs out of place. He’s quite confident in himself, and while he’s not particularly sensitive, the one thing he is sensitive to is temperature. If your hands are cold he’ll jump a bit, trying to mask the way his every nerve is alight with the feeling of your cold fingers teasing his slit. Your pussy, too, is so damn warm, the sensation making his head fall forward, black hair covering his eyes every time he first pushes into you. He has to let the feeling pass, otherwise he runs the risk of coming too soon, and that would look horrible to you.

               He doesn’t come much; it’s a small amount, though it doesn’t taste too bad. He dribbles, the globs slipping past his tip and sliding down his length, the white standing out against the pretty red of his cock. He’s super sensitive after he comes, however – the moment the last few drops come out, any touch has Chrollo jerking slightly, his eyes fluttering shut as the oversensitivity overwhelms him. He’s not sure whether he loves it or hates it when you keep going, ignoring his recent orgasm in search of your own as you ride him carelessly – you can only tell by the way he starts twitching over and over inside you, his nails digging into your sides while his breaths grow ever so slightly heavier. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you’ll manage to get a very light groan out of him when you overstimulate him – aim for the balls, and for the area on his underside right below the tip.

               His favorite way for you to touch him is with hesitant, unsure touches. He likes the way you look all shy and reserved when you initiate touching him (something he very much enjoys, more than you can imagine), your eyes flicking to his to make sure it’s feeling good for him. It makes him feel loved, and the airy light brushes of your fingertip against his sensitive skin makes him suck in short, sharp little breaths, the fleeting pleasure teasing him. He likes to guide you through it, grabbing your hand and telling you to hold firmer, squeeze tighter, to not be afraid to get a bit dirty. Spit on his length, drool on it, grind yourself against it and get him all slick with your arousal. He doesn’t care – there’s just something about your constant unsureness of your movements that gets his heartbeat racing, his fingers twitching at his side and his cock twitching, a drop of precum pearling at his tip, waiting to get inside you.

He’s a little over four inches long; not too terribly much to show, but he compensates with going harder and faster. He’s moderately thick, very proportionate, and the combination of width and the animalistic pace with which he fucks you will have you seeing stars, despite his shortcomings in size. He’s a bit insecure about his cock, and as a result avoids having you look at it whenever possible. He’ll fuck you from the back, spreading open those pretty cheeks and sinking himself inside until his pelvis is flush with your ass. He likes this position because you can’t see him, but he can see you – and god, what a sight it is to see his cock appear and disappear inside you, over and over again. Plus, this way he can stare unabashedly at you and mouth sappy shit he’d never willingly say under his breath.

               He comes kind of quickly, all things considered, but does his best to prolong the experience. He’ll fuck you for a few minutes, then pause or pull out to slap your ass or make you suck on his fingers a bit, anything to kill time and reduce his sensitivity. Ends up edging himself nearly all the time you’re together, but he’d rather delay his pleasure than run the risk of you laughing at him for coming too early. He shoots, and it goes a surprisingly long ways – easily six or seven inches away from his tip, landing in a wet pile on your back. He doesn’t come a huge amount, and it’s a bit sticky – it’s hard to clean up, and most of the time Feitan doesn’t offer you any assistance, kind of entertained and aroused by the idea of you just always having his cum on you.

               His favorite way for you to touch him is quickly and frenzied. It’s not uncommon for him to just grab your hand and put it on his cock, telling you to get me off and letting you do your thing. He still doesn’t want you to look at it too much, but he’ll let your hands roam and grope, to squeeze at his balls and flick a thumb over his tip. He likes it when you explore him, even if it makes him feel a bit uneasy – it feels nice, like you actually want to touch him, like you’re almost enjoying it as much as he is. Prefers for you to use a combination of your mouth and hands at these times, but knows he’ll eventually end up in your cunt so it doesn’t matter all that much. Always secretly hopes you’ll touch him too roughly/squeeze him too harshly so that he can throw you onto the bed and climb over you, pushing your face into the pillow and mounting you from the back, fucking into you until you’re shaking and crying his name.

He’s about six inches and pretty skinny, definitely fills you up in the sense that it’s deep enough to reach parts of you you’ve never felt before. He’s not too terribly sensitive, though he doesn’t tend to last too long in bed – but his stamina is such that he can normally be up for round two after a few minutes of eating you out. He bobs a lot, his whole cock bouncing out of the blue, feeling strange when he’s got it pressed up against you – as if it has a mind of its own, dictating how badly it wants to be inside you. His balls are pretty sensitive though – he likes pressure on them, so squeezing them, or especially sucking on them is a favorite of his. (He’s harbored this fantasy or cockwarming for as long as he can remember – except, instead of his cock inside you, it’s his balls in your mouth for hours on end, keeping them warm and cushioned and sensitive.)

               His cum is, unfortunately, pretty salty; definitely not the best you’ve ever tasted. But he’s willing to share the bad taste – he really likes spitballing, and so as soon as he’s come into your mouth, he’s pulling your lips to his and kissing you, cum slipping past your lips and into his mouth, moans in the back of his throat because it feels so raunchy and erotic to be sharing this with you. However, no matter how many times you pass it back and forth, you will be the final recipient, the one expected to swallow. He spurts, but it’s a pretty weak stream – only coming out an inch or so before splattering down onto his navel. It’s a white color and pretty runny, but easy to clean up. He also produces an ungodly amount of precum – before his kimono is even off, there’s almost drips running down his length and pooling at the head.

               His favorite way for you to touch him is gentle, slow touches to his most sensitive areas – his balls, and his tip. Likes firm squeezes to his balls, kneading and lightly pulling on them, especially if your hands are wet or sticky from your own arousal. He likes it when you run your thumb along his tip, shuddering and fluttering his eyes closed when you run it along his sensitive slit. His hips buck if you play with his foreskin; pull up then back quickly and rub at the newly exposed skin, and he’ll actually whimper.

               He’s five and a half inches, with plenty of girth. Overall, a very masculine cock – a bit veiny, slightly leaning left, heavy enough to sag a bit. He’s decently sensitive, but god, his balls – one touch and he’s shivering, cheeks blooming pink in pleasure and embarrassment. He’s extremely sensitive there, and even though he’s a bit ashamed, if he’s right on the edge of orgasming, a few massages of them and he’s thrown over the edge almost violently. He won’t tell you about his heightened sensitivity, but it’s easy to tell when he’s groaning into your neck and bucking into you every time you brush against them.

               His favorite way for you to touch it is just having you grinding against him. He likes the pressure of your body in his lap, weight on him as you grind and swivel your hips, scooping against him rhythmically. He likes the way the stimulation is a bit dull, coming from all different directions, and he likes to watch the way your hips work against his, even seeing wet spots appear in his boxers and your panties. He likes the feeling of your pussy against him, all warm and soft and wet, and would literally kill to get a pussy job from you, to get his tip sliding along your folds, teasing and feeling good but not quite good enough. He likes having both your hands free, along with your mouth – he’s surprisingly a big fan of kissing, and most of the time will have his face buried in your neck or a nipple in his mouth.

               His cum is thick, opaque and an off-white color. It tends to glob up, rolling down your body slowly, shining a bit in the light. He comes in spurts; shooting out of his tip quickly over and over, never seeming to end, as if too much has been stored up and it’s all just bursting out. It splatters all over his stomach or you or in you – His favorite place to come is across your ass, seeing the soft globes stained with him makes his knees weak and his breathing ragged.

He’s just shy of six inches, with immaculately trimmed dirty blond hairs framing it. His cock is honestly a bit pleasing to look at – soft lines and a set of pretty, perk balls sitting behind the shaft. It’s always a baby pink color, and as he gets closer to coming it turns a brighter red, standing out against his pale skin like a homing beacon. He takes pride in his cock; a slightly upwards angle lets him hit all the right spots when he’s got you under him, and god does he love when you’re crying out and orgasming around him; your pussy all tight and wet and spasming all for him…

               His cum honestly doesn’t taste too bad – it’s still a bit bitter, but it’s manageable. Which is great news for you, because Shalnark really likes finishing on your face, and inevitably some will get into your mouth, no matter how hard you try. He likes it when you scoop it all up with your finger, licking your finger clean and making a show of opening your mouth and letting him see that you swallowed all of it. Makes him giggle and plant a sloppy kiss on your lips, complimenting your abilities to suck him off and making a cheeky joke about how you’re just such a natural, maybe you really are a slut! He’s a dribbler, but there’s a decent amount of it, so it just keeps flowing out – you’ve got to be very close to get it on your face, though. Shalnark doesn’t mind, however – you look good all cozied up with his cock on your knees, after all.

               His favorite way for you to touch him is to give him head. There’s something about the sight of you below him, worshipping his cock with your pretty mouth and cute little hands that makes him not only throb in your hands, but also get a power trip like never before. He likes to prolong it, too – he’ll play with his cock on you, holding it at the base and tracing his tip along your lips, occasionally pushing past them with no warning just to watch your eyes widen. (Plus, the surge of warmth and wetness from your mouth certainly doesn’t feel bad.) He’ll slap your cheeks with it, the dull thud noise making his spine tingle, seeing the way you look so small and weak with his cock all over your face. He likes to fuck your face, and he’ll thrust particularly deeply every once in a while, just to feel you choke and gag, your nails digging into his thigh where you’re holding onto him for dear life.

He’s a big man with a big dick – it’s a solid seven inches and thick, the girth alone requiring extensive foreplay for you. He’s aware of it though, and while it prides him to know he’s big enough to surely be satisfying you, he doesn’t mind making you come on his tongue a few times before he sinks inside you. His cock’s a tan color, the tip so heavy it sags between his legs, his balls heavy enough to droop a bit too. He feels lighter after he’s come, particular if that cum goes inside you – which is part of why he fucks you so often. He’s not the best at trimming, and more often than not you’ll have to deal with a forest of dark, unruly hair – but on the bright side, he doesn’t expect you to groom at all, either.

               He comes a lot, nearly buckets full, to the point where you’ll be left to wonder how it’s possible it all came from just one man. It’s not the best taste (too bitter), but he prefers to come on your body more anyways, so you rarely ever have to taste it. He likes painting your tits in white, seeing the way the thick cum dribbles down onto your nipples, pooling up and sometimes dripping down to your thighs.  He shoots, almost violently so – the force is strong, spurts coming so fast that it feels like one continuous stream. Groans the whole time he’s coming, a deep sound that’ll have you rubbing your thighs together subconsciously. He doesn’t really like it when you clean up afterwards, but he won’t say much – anything that goes inside you, however, will be staying there, with a plug to keep it all nice and neat inside your little cunt.

               His favorite way for you to touch him is when you give him head and have to use both your mouth and hands. He likes the way you look all small and petite in the face of his monstrous cock, struggling to fit as much of him into your mouth as possible, using both hands to cover all the rest. It makes him swell with pride to see you with watery eyes as you occasionally choke on him, the sensation and sound of you gagging making him throw his head back and hiss. It makes his size kink flare up, thinking of how small you are and how easily he could manhandle you and fuck you until you break – something he very nearly does, often. He’ll card his fingers over your hair and coo down at you, all the while watching you struggle but offering no reprieve. He’ll finish on your tits and collarbone, painting your pretty skin with the thick, off white, giving you a wet, messy kiss afterwards and telling you to buckle up, ‘m not letting this pussy get away without getting stuffed, angel.

#yandere hxh #hxh smut #lee thirsts #_hxh #_chrollo lucilfer #_nobunaga hazama #_feitan portor #_phinks magcub #_shalnark #_uvogin

[lattaeyongs]

the trojan horse (hrj): teaser

original gif

↳ pairing: huang renjun x reader

↳ teaser word count: 1.7k

↳ genre: royalty!au, historical (late 1700s)!au, heavy angst, fluff, smut (will go under major revisions before posting)

↳ summary: in which the boy you fall in love with isn’t who you think he is.

↳ teaser warnings: political unrest, may contain historical inaccuracies

1788

Today, you would be meeting the Prince of Neo, Huang Renjun. Neo is a small kingdom that neighbors your kingdom, and they are known for their ample craftsman class who commission some of the finest weapons and are the source of skilled fighters which could be of advantage if they have a suitable marriage alliance.

As much as you hated being auctioned off like an antique vase, it was something that couldn’t be helped as a royal woman, particularly the princess of the largest kingdom around, Ambrosia. You only hope that this Huang Renjun isn’t like the other suitors you have met, who are snooty and stuck up, ruthless as if they are miniature versions of your father. More importantly, you wish that they won’t cast you aside, using you as a pawn to get their hands on the better prize, the Kingdom of Ambrosia, the largest kingdom in the area.

There’s already tension in the air when you are escorted by your mother and lady’s maids into the drawing room where you first lay eyes on Huang Renjun.

His raven-colored hair is neatly gelled and combed, and his skin is pale in contrast. He stands up politely at your presence, and you get a good look at his clothing: rich, exactly what you expect for a royal from another kingdom. He wears red robes with delicate, intricate yellow designs, and you suspect the material is velvet. He has white frills at his neck, and milky white socks that compliment the black shoes at his feet, which have a gold flower at the center of the foot to match the gold designs on his robes. 

He is also observing you with the same tenacity as you do with him: You’re wearing a crown of pink flowers on your head, which matches the pink flowers on your sky-blue dress. Your skirt is large and trails at your behind, which shows your royal standing, and the sky-blue sleeves of your dress slowly become white lace as his eyes follow from your shoulders to your wrists. The sleeves of your dress are cone-like, and the edges are able to reach your knees. 

For a few seconds, you meet Renjun’s gaze. His eyes are a beautiful dark brown, and they offer you a friendly look, which puts your heart at slight ease. 

“Princess Y/N, this is Renjun, Prince of Neo,” your mother introduces in a voice that made it seem like she has known Prince Renjun for a long time (which she hasn’t).

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, your Highness,” Renjun says. His voice is absolutely magnificent, song-like, and dreamy. He steps forward and bends down on one knee, taking your right hand and kissing the back of it. 

His lips feel warm against your skin. 

There are a few other men by Renjun’s side. There are his personal guards, who came with him on the five-hour carriage ride from his castle to yours, and another man in fine clothing, someone you failed to notice due to your observant study of Huang Renjun. 

“And this is the King of Neo,” your mother continues, gesturing. He bows down and takes the time to bend down and kiss your mother’s hand (which has her bubbling with pleasant, polite words) and your hand, which you give a curt greeting. His black robe shuffles as he steps back, and you study Renjun side-by-side with his father. 

“Pleased to meet you, Your Highnesses,” he says. 

A few maids come in bearing silver trays piled with bite-sized sandwiches, in the shape of a pyramid. You and your mother take one, while Renjun and his father take one each, all four of you being overly courteous to the help in an effort to keep appearances. 

“Your daughter looks like a lovely young lady, perfect for my Renjun,” the King of Neo comments, giving your mother a gracious smile. “So elegant and full of grace, she will make a fine queen and wife, Your Highness,” he addresses your mother. 

“Thank you for your kind words,” Your mother responds back, her eyes crinkling as a part of her practiced genuine smile. “May I escort you to the King? He has some matters that he would like to discuss with you.” 

“Of course, my good lady,” the King of Neo responds back courteously. Your mother leads the way out of the room, and a few maids look like they are going to follow her, to make sure that she is okay, but she only needs to give a flick of her wrist for them to disperse back into the drawing room. Now, you and Renjun are alone, except for the help, but they don’t count as ‘people.’ You’re grateful that your mother has left you both alone because you absolutely hate being chaperoned during meets with suitors – it makes you more nervous having that extra company. That just shows how important this alliance is for the Kingdom that your mother understands your weakness and tries to put you on the best possible foot to make a good performance for Huang Renjun.

“Please have a seat,” you say to Renjun, gesturing at the plush pink-and-green sofa that he abandoned when you entered the room. There is a small ottoman opposite of the sofa, and there is a glass table in between with the pyramid of sandwiches that the maid brought a few minutes ago. You’re ready to bring up something about the weather and other practiced lines you have prepared for occasions like this when something catches your eye on the table, a leather-bound book. It is a copy of The Oresteia by Aeschylus. You remember reading it back when you were still being taught by a governess. 

“Excellent choice,” you start off, gesturing to the volume on the table.

Renjun smiles at you, a pretty sight just as beautiful as his voice. 

“Thank you. You have a wonderful library, larger than the one I have at home,” he says in awe. The library room is in the next room, and it is dark and paneled with fine wood; it would not be a good choice to meet a suitor, for it is a major turn-off if a woman is too well-educated, enough that she would love books more than making an heir for the family.

Personally, the library room is your favorite room in the house.

“You don’t have Oresteia in your library?”

“No,” Renjun says sheepishly. “It’s been on my list of books to read for a long time, but I just haven’t had the chance to get a copy with all the suitors my father forc–” Renjun suddenly stops, realizing who he is talking to. His face turns into a bright beet red, thinking that he has messed up more than he ever thought he could.

Your face doesn’t shrivel with offense the way Renjun thought it would. He met a royal woman once who after he said he didn’t like blueberry scones, escorted him out of her castle. Instead, he is greeted by a smile. You experienced the same feeling.

“It’s okay,” you say lightly. “I wasn’t exactly that happy to meet you too.” You’re glad that your mother isn’t chaperoning, or anyone in your Court is either because hearing those words from your mouth would earn you a slap across your face. ‘A lady isn’t supposed to tell someone what she thinks,’ you can hear your mother’s and governess’ voices ringing in your ears (they practically had the same voice… all high-class women had a high pitch, sultry yet innocent voice). 

Renjun finds your words refreshing; this is the first time he’s met a royal who actually says what she thinks, and that sort of directness is what he craves in someone – he hates having to analyze every little word in a woman’s sentence in order to find out what she truly means.

“How far are you?” You ask. 

“Not very,” Renjun sighs. “I wished you came later so I would have had more time to read.” You titter a little, and Renjun is glad that he is able to see a real, genuine smile from you.

“But Clytemnestra’s lover has just killed King Agamemnon.” You nod, remembering how shocked you were when you read that part. You’re trying to think of something to say that will contribute to the conversation when Renjun’s voice becomes lower. 

“Do you think he deserved it?” 

Initially, you’re not sure if you should answer the question. On one hand, you do want to answer the question because you can’t believe that you have a suitor who wants to intelligently discuss literature with you, a complete dream that you can’t believe is happening in real life, but there is another part of you that wants to follow your mother’s advice she gave you a long time ago when it came to meeting suitors: to not let him know too much about your opinions too early. 

“I apologize,” Renjun says hesitantly. He just broke all rules when it comes to meeting suitors. He is also not supposed to ask questions like these. It was okay to ask, ‘What do you think the author meant by this event?’ but not what a woman thought about the event herself.

“You don’t have to,” you say more confidently. “I think I understand Clytemnestra’s fury. Imagine finding out that your daughter was sacrificed so that your husband can help his brother get his wife back. There’s a line that has to be drawn between your family and someone else’s family, and Agamemnon failed to do so. Menelaus had other allies from various kingdoms that could help him, and Agamemnon could help in other ways than sacrificing his eldest daughter to Artemis. But Iphigenia only had Agamemnon. She was his daughter. He was supposed to protect her. He wasn’t supposed to auction her off to her death. So he must pay with his life,” you explain rationally.

Renjun is pretty sure that you’re not only talking about Oresteia anymore. And he’s right. Maybe you feel a little like Iphigenia, but the free will that you are sacrificing is for the good of your kingdom and not someone else’s. 

The way you passionately discussed literature was endearing to Renjun. He didn’t want to be stuck with a bimbo for the rest of his life, who was only interested in parties and pleasure. You have substance. 

The two of you continue to discuss other Ancient Greek literature since much of the literature includes myths that are implicitly referenced in other works that people in those days would have understood. The conversation is entertaining, and you freely give your opinion and Renjun does the same, and you appreciate the candidness more than anything in the world.

“I’m glad for one thing,” you say during the conversation.

Renjun raises an eyebrow. 

“That the Greek Gods don’t meddle in our lives.” 

#nct #renjun #huang renjun #nct fluff #nct scenarios #nct angst #nct imagines #nct dream #nct dream angst #nct dream fluff #nct dream scenarios #renjun smut #renjun fluff #renjun scenarios

[violettduchess]

A/N: Cyran and Gilbert tied for second place in my poll. I was originally going to put them together in one headcanon but the styles were too different and it felt very disjointed, so they each get their own little fic.

Suitor: Gilbert, prompt: strawberry

An entry for Aqua and my Summer Days Sultry Nights CCC

WC: 854

Oh how excited you are, running through the dark stone halls of Obsidian, your treasure cupped in your hands. An angel on a mission, flying on invisible wings. Up the winding staircase you go, heart hammering, breathless with anticipation at showing him your miracle.

You burst through the dark Mahogany doors of his study. He’s at his desk, black quill in hand. You can tell by his posture he’s been here for hours: the tired roundness of his shoulders, the lax lay of his left hand beside the parchment he's perusing. The sound of your entrance turns his head and the sight of you is like the warmth of a sunbeam through glass on a cold winter’s day. He sets his quill aside without a second glance, holding out his arms in invitation.

“My Häschen comes bearing gifts,” he murmurs as you slide onto his lap, hands still cupped protectively. He anchors you against his body with one arm, bowing his upper body to rest his forehead against your shoulder, breathing in your scent like it’s as essential to him as oxygen. 

“Look, Gil.” Although he could stay curled against you for eternity, he raises his head to look down at what you have brought him. Slowly you open your hands to reveal the riches you’re holding: A single, large, perfect strawberry. It still glistens from the water you washed it with, its size and ruby red color speaking volumes about the abundance of flavor it carries. He also knows the other reason you are smiling so brightly.

“It…..is from here?” You nod eagerly. You have been experimenting with gardening, working hard to try and find a way to get crops to grow in the arid Obsidian climate. How many nights has he come to bed to find you asleep, surrounded by botanical treatises and guides and lexica. Determination drove you and now you have managed to unlock the soil’s secret to provision. At least for strawberries.

“For you.” You hold it up in offering but he tilts his head. “Have you tried any yet?” Your silence confirms his suspicion. He reaches for the precious fruit, plucking it from your palm with deft fingers. “Seeing as how this is the first one, I believe the one who devoted so much time to its care should be the first to taste, oder?” 

His eye is an even richer red than the strawberry and all you can do is smile in sweet defeat, knowing he won’t take no as an answer. Your gaze never leaves him, as if you were nothing but a speck of iron drawn by magnetic force. Not even when he raises the strawberry to your lips. “Open,” he commands, although his voice is practically a purr, soft and near the edge of rough. Your lips part and he holds the fruit to them. He watches, a man hypnotized by the white of your teeth as they sink into the flushed, succulent fruit, pale red juice immediately running from the broken flesh, over the curvature of your lips, across your tongue. 

“Mmmm,” you sigh as you’re hit with the full-bodied taste of the strawberry. It’s  the sweetness of summer, of sunshine, of long days and warm nights. It’s cool wind and cooler water. Shoeless feet tickled by green grass. It's fireflies and full moons. It's bare skin and sweat. Your eyes close as you savor the sensation. Gilbert watches your face, the euphoria that has your body going lax in his arms, the way your eyelids drop, stealing your gaze away from him. Your soft exhale of pleasure. Something hot and jagged suddenly bolts through him. He doesn’t want you looking like that, sounding like that, for any reason other than him.

He takes the half-eaten strawberry and sets it on his desk, rising suddenly, with you lifted into his arms. Startled, you cling to his neck as he carries you over to the large black velvet couch. “Gil?” Ever so slowly, he lays you down on your back, his expression alight with sharp intent as he leans over you. “I will have my taste now.” 

You’re about to tell him that he left the strawberry on his desk when his body drops to press you into the softness of the sofa, his hands sliding up to hold your face as he lowers his head, his mouth capturing yours with all the swift resolve of a triumphal conqueror. He licks the leftover juice from your lips languidly, leaving not even a millimeter of them untasted. You gasp as he guides you, tilting your head so he can plunder your mouth, devouring you until he has lapped up every single essence of strawberry that lingered there. He is merciless, chasing that ghost of summer flavor until you are left breathless beneath him. 

He breaks contact for a moment to look down into your face, now painted in shades of want and yearning and red-hot desire. And he smiles, satisfaction riding the blistering current of pleasure that rushes through his body. 

Much better, he thinks. And then your hungry hands are in his hair, pulling him back to you and all thought is abandoned, much like the poor, half-eaten strawberry.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly @joiedecombat

#ikemen series #ikemen prince #ikepri #gilbert von obsidian #ikepri gilbert #ikemen gilbert #summer days sultry nights ccc #ikemen fanfiction #ikemen fanfic #violettwrites

[praetorqueenreyna]

Every year, the Fairy King demands a sacrifice from the humans in exchange for peace and prosperity: a human bride.

For Tamlin Week, Day 6: Fairy Tale AU. Not any specific fairy tale, just a generic "fae king who makes deals with humans" kind of vibe. Click here to read on AO3, or continue reading below!

@tamlinweek

*************************************

The forest was a dark and gaping maw. Feyre shivered as a cold breeze tickled her skin. Her only protection against the cold was the thin slip she had been given to change into. She clasped her hands together, determined not to shake again. The entire village was standing behind her, including her sisters. She didn’t want them to see her fear.

Movement in the trees. The branches themselves were lifting and curving, forming a magnificent green arch. Out from the arch emerged an imposing figure: tall and pale, clad in sumptuous velvet and a spiked crown made of obsidian. The crowd gasped. Though they saw the Fairy King once a year, his cruel beauty stole the breath from their lungs every time.

He approached the altar where Feyre waited for him. She had to tilt her head back to see his face; he was easily over eight feet tall. Blonde hair cascaded down his shoulders. She couldn’t see his eyes.

The head bishop of the village stepped forward. “Great Fairy King, we offer you a sacrifice: a human bride. Do you accept her, in exchange for your bounty and mercy in the coming year?”

It was an ancient tradition that had spanned multiple Fairy Kings. The first fairies had been fierce warriors and pillagers, who ravished the human villages and kidnapped their women. They had come to a compromise. Every year, the village would give the Fairy King a beautiful young maiden to be his wife, to do with as he pleased. In return, the attacks would cease. In the past, the prospect of being the bride was a terrifying one. The women who entered the forest never came back. More recently, with the newest Fairy King, the family of the bride would come into great riches. There was now extensive political scheming in the village, families putting forward their pretty daughters to be picked as the annual sacrifice in the hope that they would flourish in the coming year. Feyre’s father had never participated in the scheming, but she knew that they needed the money. She had volunteered to be the bride before her sisters could. Whatever happened to her, her family would be safe.

The Fairy King looked down at her. His eyes were startlingly warm, green with flecks of gold. “I do,” he answered the bishop’s question. He leaned down, way down, to press his lips against Feyre’s. The kiss was dry and quick, but it was enough to seal their marriage. He led her by the hand into the forest, under the archway he had created. Feyre risked a look over her shoulder at the life she was leaving forever. Nesta and Elain were holding each other, crying. Her father was watching, grief lined in his weathered face. He raised one hand in farewell. It was the last thing she saw before the trees moved to block her view.

Resolute, Feyre kept her gaze forward. Rumors about what happened to the previous brides swirled through her head. Stories of rape, torture, dismemberment, and magical manipulation that went back as long as she could remember. There was no proof behind any of these claims. But everybody knew how wicked the fae were, and the Fairy King was the most wicked of all. Still, Feyre would not weep or beg. She would do what needed to be done.

One moment, they were in the forest that was as familiar to Feyre as the back of her hand. The next, her stomach lurched unpleasantly and her vision blurred, and they were somewhere completely different. The air was warm and fragrant, the grass lush and thick. The plant life around her was so vibrant green it hurt her eyes. Ahead of them was an enormous stone castle draped in ivy.

Her companion had changed too. He had shrunk, so he was now just barely taller than her. The imposing black crown had been replaced by a delicate pair of antlers. The elaborate cloak was gone, in its place was a worn tunic and pants, overlaid with a baldric. If Feyre didn’t look too closely, he could almost pass for human.

“Don’t be afraid,” he spoke to her for the first time. “I won’t hurt you. I’m Tamlin. What’s your name?”

Still wary, Feyre regarded him closely before answering, expecting a trap. “Feyre. Feyre Archeron.”

“Welcome to the Spring Court, Feyre Archeron.” He made as if to place his hand on her elbow, and she instinctively flinched. Cursing herself for her show of weakness, she waited for the punishment that would fall on her for defying him. Instead, he pulled his hand back. “Apologies. Please, follow me.” He strode towards the front gate of the castle, not looking back to see if she had obeyed. She did a full turn, her mind racing, searching for any avenue of escape. There was none. With no other options, she followed the Fairy King.

The castle was full of every size and shape of fae. Some scuttled about near the floor, too fast for her eye to catch. Some were tall and thin, stretching up towards the ceiling, moving in long, fluid strides. They greeted Tamlin cordially, and he replied in kind. She sensed dozens of eyes appraising her, watching her every movement. There was no malice in their gaze, but she found herself drawing closer to Tamlin anyway.

“I’m sure you’ve heard many terrible things about the fae,” Tamlin said as he guided her deeper into the castle. “And about the fates of the previous brides. Sadly, most of those stories are true.”

Well, that was precisely what Feyre didn’t want to hear. “They are?” Maybe she should run for it. Maybe being killed in an escape attempt was better than the fate that awaited her as his wife.

“My great grandfather was the Fairy King who initially negotiated the terms of the sacrifice. He was a cruel male, who saw humans as mindless cattle, undeserving of kindness. My grandfather and father before me were of a similar mind. They kept the sacrifice going for centuries. I won’t tell you what they did to those poor girls.” His mouth tightened and he looked away, as if ashamed of his predecessors. Feyre still didn’t exactly feel safe, but she continued padding along behind Tamlin, captivated by the tale he told.

“And now I am the Fairy King,” Tamlin continued. “I won’t bore you with the details, but rest assured I had never intended to rule anybody. I’ve tried to undo the damage that my family has done, with…mixed results. When I was first crowned, I approached your bishop. I told him I wanted to stop the yearly sacrifice. He thought it was a trick, and refused. Humans are afraid of change and deeply superstitious. Nothing I did could convince them that I didn’t want a human bride. So now I go along with it, play the part. It’s easier this way.”

Tamlin stopped so suddenly that Feyre ran into him. They were in front of an ornate double door that was currently closed. Tamlin raised a fist and tapped his knuckles on the painted wood. A muffled voice from within ordered them to enter, and the door opened by itself. Inside was a cozy sitting room, filled with chairs and couches and cushions. Tables scattered around the room were filled with plates of fresh fruit and bread. Against one wall was a row of windows. The curtains were open, flooding the room with sunshine and treating them to a view of the garden outside.

The room was full of women. Dozens of human women, lounging on the furniture, eating, and chatting. Some were as young as Feyre herself was. Many were older, the eldest being a group of silver-haired women sitting in a circle, their wrinkled hands occupied with knitting needles and yarn. Every single woman looked up when Tamlin and Feyre entered the room.

“Ladies,” Tamlin said, bobbing his head in respect. “This is Feyre. Feyre,” he gestured with one arm, sweeping across the unbelievable sight. “These are my wives.”

#acotar #a court of thorns and roses #tamlin #pro tamlin #feylin #feyre archeron #tamlin/feyre #tamlin/feyre archeron #fanfic #my fic #tamlin week #tamlinweek #tamlin week 2024 #tamlinweek2024

[thevelaryons]

Adam: The Snake & The Tree of Knowledge

Or rather, Addam and the Sea Snake. These two characters have certain connotations in the dynamic written between them. Addam is referred to as “the Sea Snake’s heir” and as expected of that title, his position as the heir to Driftmark defines much of his arc as a Velaryon, his relationship to characters around him, and his connection to his family.

The story goes as follows: The snake tempts Adam & Eve with the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge which invokes God’s wrath. This leads to them being cast out of Heaven as a result.

Well…. The Driftmark succession during the Dance of the Dragons actually follows a rather similar pattern for Addam.

Any man who could master a dragon would be granted lands and riches and dubbed a knight. His sons would be ennobled, his daughters wed to lords, and he himself would have the honor of fighting beside the Prince of Dragonstone against the pretender Aegon II Targaryen and his treasonous supporters.

— Fire & Blood, The Dying of the Dragons

The promise of social advancement is allowed (as were many other foods in Heaven) but anything beyond that is the forbidden fruit in this allegory.

It was Laenor’s own father, Lord Corlys himself, who brought the boys to Prince Jacaerys for the Sowing.

— Fire & Blood, The Dying of the Dragons

The Sea Snake brings forth the offer:

Not long after Addam of Hull had proved himself by flying Seasmoke, Lord Corlys went so far as to petition Queen Rhaenyra to remove the taint of bastardy from him and his brother. When Prince Jacaerys added his voice to the request, the queen complied. Addam of Hull, dragonseed and bastard, became Addam Velaryon, heir to Driftmark.

— Fire & Blood, The Dying of the Dragons

The power dynamics between Corlys and Rhaenyra actually fluctuate throughout the Dance, even before the war began. They are mutually aligned and they are also using each other. Both those statements hold true for them.

In regards to Addam, Corlys is able to push for the Driftmark succession in his favour because he holds the power over Rhaenyra at that point in time (he can threaten to abandon her cause if his decision is not adhered to). Whereas previously, it was Rhaenyra who held power over him (Corlys on his sickbed is easy enough to force a decision out of regarding the succession).

Rhaenyra has been described by GRRM as someone who never forgets a slight. The same woman who previously had a man fed to her dragon to ensure the Driftmark succession for her son now has to see her other son passed over as heir for her dead husband’s bastard (it does not matter if Laenor was the biological father of the boys; what matters is the public perception that her husband has fathered bastards on another woman and these boys now stand to inherit the position that would otherwise have fallen to her younger son). Still, she can’t do anything about it because it is Corlys’ will that overrules her now (as we see in several instances throughout the war).

But, being as much of an opportunist as Corlys, Rhaenyra can just bide her time for that perfect moment.

Yet Queen Rhaenyra did not act at once, but rather sent for Mysaria, the harlot and dancing girl who was her mistress of whisperers in all but name. With her skin as pale as milk, Lady Misery appeared before the council in a hooded robe of black velvet lined with blood-red silk, and stood with head bowed humbly as Her Grace asked whether she thought Ser Addam and Nettles might be planning to betray them. Then the White Worm raised her eyes and said in a soft voice, “The girl has already betrayed you, my queen. Even now she shares your husband’s bed, and soon enough she will have his bastard in her belly.”

Then Queen Rhaenyra grew most wroth, Septon Eustace writes. In a voice as cold as ice, she commanded Ser Luthor Largent to take twenty gold cloaks to the Dragonpit and arrest Ser Addam Velaryon. “Question him sharply, and we will learn if he is true or false, beyond a doubt.”

— Fire & Blood, The Dying of the Dragons

Addam is the heir to house Velaryon, who is of course loyal to Rhaenyra. Everything Addam has is because of house Velaryon (which Rhaenyra has allowed) so there’s really no incentive for him to be a traitor. Yet he’s still accused of treason. An often overlooked detail though is that Mysaria never made any accusations against Addam. It was Rhaenyra herself who passed judgment on him.

The words spoken by Corlys right before Rhaenyra decided whether she would take action against Addam actually reference his position as house Velaryon’s heir:

Lord Corlys went much further, declaring that Ser Addam and his brother, Alyn, were “true Velaryons,” worthy heirs to Driftmark.

— Fire & Blood, The Dying of the Dragons

The snake presented the temptation of the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge (Driftmark) and in doing so incurred the wrath of God. In the end, Adam fell from grace.

Of course, as is the case with parallels GRRM makes in his writings, it’s not always 1 = 1. There’s a twist. Similarly, in this comparison, the snake is a bit more sympathetic figure who seeks to help Adam. There is even a means for Adam to “redeem” himself before his God:

Ser Addam flew far and fast, descending on castles great and small whose lords were loyal to the queen, to piece together an army.

— Fire & Blood, The Dying of the Dragons

For Addam, the Tree of Knowledge (which exists as a temptation), would be a connection to his father’s side of the family (claiming Seasmoke, having the Velaryon name, being made heir to his family’s seat).

Speaking of trees, there are in fact literal trees in ASOIAF that are said to impart knowledge:

“The chosen ones are not robust, and their quick years upon the earth are few, for every song must have its balance. But once inside the wood they linger long indeed. A thousand eyes, a hundred skins, wisdom deep as the roots of ancient trees. Greenseers.”

[…]

“The singers of the forest had no books. No ink, no parchment, no written language. Instead they had the trees, and the weirwoods above all. When they died, they went into the wood, into leaf and limb and root, and the trees remembered. All their songs and spells, their histories and prayers, everything they knew about this world. Maesters will tell you that the weirwoods are sacred to the old gods. The singers believe they are the old gods. When singers die they become part of that godhood.”

— A Dance with Dragons, Bran III

In the book, Addam does seem to have some connection to these trees of wisdom:

Singers say Ser Addam had flown from King’s Landing to the Gods Eye, where he landed on the sacred Isle of Faces and took counsel with the Green Men.

— Fire & Blood, The Dying of the Dragons

In the south the last weirwoods had been cut down or burned out a thousand years ago, except on the Isle of Faces where the green men kept their silent watch.

— A Game of Thrones, Catelyn I

There is also the detail about Addam being buried at Raventree Hall (the Blackwoods are known to bury the dead beneath a dead weirwood tree):

At moonrise the riverlords abandoned the field to the carrion crows, fading back into the hills. One of them, the boy Ben Blackwood, carried with him the broken body of Ser Addam Velaryon, found dead beside his dragon. His bones would rest at Raventree Hall for eight years.

— Fire & Blood, The Dying of the Dragons

Very fitting for a character whose name means ‘son of the earth’ to be laid to rest in the ground. Even with his later burial at Hull, his bones remain beneath the earth.

The words said to the other Adam by God, upon his fall:

“By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread, till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for you are dust and to dust you shall return.”

Velaryon burial typically happens at sea, as appears to be the case for other seafaring families too:

“We came from the sea, and to the sea we must return.”

— A Feast for Crows, The Prophet

It’s notable that Addam, who is written to be ‘the most Velaryon character’ in life, is given a burial in death that is neither of house Velaryon practice nor Valyrian in nature (such as cremation). It’s just another way GRRM chose to depict him as distinct from the rest of his family.

#valyrianscrolls #asoiaf #addam velaryon #corlys velaryon #rhaenyra targaryen #meta

[unusual-raccoon]

Lady of the Tides | by Unusual_Raccoon (Luke Rivers/Lucemond AU) - Part VI

Warnings: Alternate Universe, Explicit Sexual Content, Established Relationship, Uncle/Nephew Incest, Anal Sex, Light Bondage, Light Dom/Sub, Mutual Pining, Slight Power Imbalance, Under-negotiated Kink

Summary: Members of the extended family have arrived and Aemond does all in his power to hide his secret.

WC: 12k+

___

A/N: Here is part 6, finally. There a big parts of the story that follow Episode 8 "Lord of the Tides" and certain dialogue is borrowed and as such is not mine.

___

"Stay," Lucerys had pleaded all morning, after they had eaten and after Aemond had dressed.

Stay, had become the mantra, the promise left unfulfilled as Aemond stowed his dagger within the leg of his boot, eyepatch pulled over the ragged seam of scar tissue and the gemstone window that resided in the socket.

Aemond had seen fit to dress the boy, affixed each button up the tall collar with steady fingers, felt the jump of the boy's pulse beat against the sharp peaks of his milk-white knuckles. He passed his hands over the rich black velvet of the ornate doublet he'd chosen for Lucerys.

"There," Aemond had hummed contentedly, it seemed a waste to dress the boy in such fine clothes only to keep him captive within the walls. But there was a small comfort to be found in having witnessed his little dragon dressed in black.

He tenderly gathered a few curls behind Luke's ear, savored the tremble of the boy's body as he leaned into the touch.

"How comely you are, Lucerys." Aemond purred, wooly dark curls spilled over ivory fingers like splashes of ink. Full lashes fanned against the paleness of his skin.

"Not comely enough to make you stay..." The boy muttered in a dejected whisper and Aemond merely replied with a sigh.

'Tis not wise to tempt a dragon, the prince thought to himself.

"Where will you go?" Luke asked after a breath, a small alabaster hand tugged upon the leather of Aemond's sleeve.

"Just to the courtyard, Darling, I'll be visible from the winow there," Aemond gestured and Luke shifted, greedy for the warmth of the prince's palm.

"What will you do?"

"Train, appear fearsome," he added with a small laugh only known between them, "at least until the petition of succession is heard."

“And then?”

“And then I will attend the proceeding alongside the rest of my family. The Queen and Lord Hand will render the final decisions. With any luck they should be quick and the matter settled…and I shall be your prisoner before long.”

The boy offered a weak attempt at a smile.

“Dyana will be with you, should you need anything.”

“I only need you.” Lucerys replied, batted thick lashes up at the prince.

“Hm,” Aemond huffed, rubbed a tender thumb against the soft flesh of the boy’s mouth out of habit. Longing brewed in his chest as that mouth beckoned him closer, soft lips parted to accept the callused pad of his thumb.

“Sorcery,” Aemond accused short of breath as Lucerys’ coy mouth pulled his thumb deeper, worshipped the bite of every callus with a wicked tongue.

“Mm,” the boy hummed around his thumb, the copper of his eyes turned molten and the dirt fertile.

“Release me,” Aemond commanded, heat had lurched in his stomach.

“Never,” Luke panted rebelliously even as Aemond’s thumb came loose, and dragged wetly over the plush surface of the boy’s red mouth.

“Never.” Aemond echoed, a small pleased smile on his lips as had lowered himself to plant a kiss to the boy’s forehead. He had become imprisoned in the unrelenting tangle of Lucerys’ arms as he allowed his mouth to stray lower, groaned at the insistent crush of Luke’s lips upon his.

“Witchcraft,” Aemond murmured fondly against the slick seam of the boy’s mouth. He railed against the instinct to have his conquest splayed against the tangled sheets, to have him for what erroneously felt like the last time with threats looming overhead.

Lucerys flopped against the messy bedding in his velvet doublet, a streak of black against the pale linens.

“I will return before the night is through, love.” Aemond swore before he had departed.

The courtyard had been predictably sparse when Aemond descended into. His blood had been alight, something that Lucerys shouldered part of the blame for.

The prince paused before the rack of blunted training swords, a tremble had resided in his hand as he brushed the wooden frame of the rack.

His remaining eye was inevitably drawn towards the open mouth of the prince’s window that looked down upon the courtyard - his darling dragon, so close, yet so very far.

He had turned his attention back to the rack of swords just as he had glimpsed Ser Criston Cole descend into the courtyard through halved vision. The member of his Kingsguard was lacking his usual plate mail in favor of a more maneuverable white, quilted gambeson.

The knight was adjusting his gloves, the faint curl of a smile on his lips as he neared Aemond.

“I’m surprised to find you here, my prince, as you are usually rather…distracted in the morn.” Ser Cole had said with a knowing slant to his mouth.

Distracted, Aemond mused to himself, he supposed that was one way to describe the ritualistic way he was usually buried down to the hilt in his lover each morning, sweating and snarling until they’d grown satisfied - only having managed to tear himself away each time out of a sheer sense of duty than out of any desire to be without his Lucerys.

“Your mother will be pleased to hear it.” His mother’s sworn protector added and the prince had felt the sting of nausea in his throat and the burn of rage at his fingertips. The informality had set his teeth on edge. Ser Criston carried himself with all of the Queen’s malice, sauntered about, her weapon to wield and the prince felt the line between friend and foe blur ever more.

“I’ve no doubt.” Aemond replied smoothly, as far as his mother was concerned, any time away from Luke was time well spent.

Aemond avoided the blunted swords upon the rack with nimble fingers.

His fingers had idled above his own blade stowed upon the rack, wickedly sharp.

“It’s been too long since we’ve trained, Ser,” Aemond commented absently, lone violet eye raised to meet Criston’s gaze.

“Would you do me the honor?” The Prince drawled as he pulled the pristine length of his blade from the rack.

Ser Criston’s smile widened cruelly, head tilted towards the balconies, and Aemond knew what the knight sought - freedom, freedom to rebel, to misbehave - as luck had bade, the Queen was nowhere in sight.

“It would be my pleasure, my prince.”

On that I have no doubt, Aemond thought to himself with a cold curl of his lips. A snap of his fingers had summoned a squire to provide a shield, while Ser Criston had exchanged his own sword for his preferred morning star.

They had paced around each other, a predatory grace in the slow slink of their movements.

Aemond had adjusted his grip upon his weapon, familiarizing himself with the weight of the weapon as he had given it a flourishing twist over his wrist, long ivory fingers tightened with resolve around sword's grip. It sat a tad lighter than the dull iron of the training swords, but he nonetheless allow it to be an extension of his arm, held straight as Ser Cole advanced with a rattle of his morning star.

At the first, nearly playful swipe of the knight's weapon, Aemond had felt the bubbling of adrenaline in his veins.

Sweat gathered over his nape as sunlight leered into the courtyard.

Criston smoothly avoided the pointed slash of Aemond's sword, a smugness about him as he had glided into the prince's blindspot.

Aemond spun quickly, in a flash of white-gold, reorienting himself, his adversary the only thing in his halved-vision.

Criston grinned, "Shall I slow down, my prince?"

Aemond bristled, throat dry.

"If you were moving any slower, Ser, you'd be dead," the prince drawled, heat lapped to the tips of his fingers as the knight's smile faltered.

There had been a time when Aemond had both adored and loathed training with his mother's sworn protector. When he'd been nothing but a boy who'd been prematurely crippled by his own hubris and loneliness, the knight had pressed a sword into his hand and had hammered the barbs of his ferocity into a weapon.

A time when riding the largest dragon alive meant naught to the man that had lived by his mother's side in father's absence, if Aemond could not so much as hold a sword...

They had proceeded, Aemond narrowly dodged the increasingly devastating swings of Criston's morning star as the knight pressed on his blind side.

The weight of his shield had been nothing but a hinderance until his mother's sworn protector pushed on, a biting swipe tore a chunk from the buckler in a spray of splinters.

Aemond abandoned the broken shield to the ground, his breath left him in a curl of steam. Their family's coat of arm's painted upon the shield's surface had been missing a dragon's head in the spot when Cole had struck the wood...

Aemond tightened his grip on his sword with renewed resolve, his throat burned and the leather of his arming doublet clung to his heated skin.

A shower of sparks erupted where his sword clashed, deflected a blow from the spiked head of Criston's morning star. Aemond slunk back, pulse beat hot in his veins, the sound roared to his ears.

The corner of the prince's vision darkened as the space around he and his adversary shrank.

A small crowd had gathered around them and a feeling that screamed trapped trapped trapped redoubled in the prince's gut.

The haven of his own chambers loomed mockingly above the courtyard.

Aemond spun, his heart had raced as his adversary's weapon swiped too close, the spiked head of the flail split the air with a whistle and bit into the ground with a crash. To his credit, Ser Criston recovered quickly.

He shook the tangle of his own hair from his lashes, sword held up as two heads of white-gold gleamed in his periphery.

Ferocity surged in his blood, panic curled in his throat, Ser Criston lunged forward with a hard arc of his morning star. Aemond danced around it, hair stuck to the damp skin of his cheeks and throat as he boldly rushed the distance between them, one misstep would've meant shattered bones beneath the spiked head of his opponent's flail. He blinked, throat tight, as the crowd erupted into applause when the tip of his sword was held close enough to the exposed swarthy skin of his throat to cause the knight to yield.

"Well done, my prince. You'll be winning tourney's in no time." Ser Criston offered, sweat gleamed in his dark hair, his morning star sagged in his grip with a rattle.

White-gold consumed the prince's halved vision...

His remaining eye had pierced through the crowd with ease, and spotted the faces of his family.

More dragons, he thought to himself.

"I don't give a shit about tourneys," He spat to his mother's sworn protector as he stared at Baela and Rhaena Targaryen where they resided, side by side as always, "Cousins," he greeted coolly with a twirl of his blade.

"Have you come to train?" Aemond asked smugly, pleased in the way Rhaena's mouth puckered in a little frown, and Baela, ever her father's daughter, had fixed him with a murderous glare.

A chuckle lifted in his throat. He was not oblivious to the fact that the lady Baela trained in swordplay upon Driftmark, unlike her bookish twin. Though it appeared she was fit for court and court alone, dressed in a long gown of Velaryon aquarmarine.

A shame, Aemond thought to himself with a smirk.

"That would hardly be a fair fight...for you, Cousin," Baela replied innocently and Aemond's smile sharpened.

"You've never bothered yourself with fairness before, no need to start now," Aemond hummed, as he recalled childhood spats where he fended off both girls, "I fear I should warn you - I shan't make myself such easy prey as when we were children." He said smoothly, pleased to have found that no amount of time living by the sea had cooled the dragon blood in his cousin's veins.

Baela's expression had been wrathful and Aemond was nearly certain they might come to blows when she stepped closer, before the gate's of the courtyard were drawn open...

Velaryon banners were carried into the courtyard, heralding the arrival of Ser Vaemond Velaryon, himself.

The man offered Baela and Rhaena a loathsome glare in passing.

"Another time, perhaps," Aemond offered in a whisper as he dipped towards a silver ringlet that danced upon the copper of his cousin's delicate neck, "it appears you've more pressing matters to attend to."

Baela's balled up fist nearly struck his throat had Rhaena not pulled her sister away.

"Another time indeed," Baela spat, full of fire and fury as Rhaena led her elsewhere.

"As if I needed a fucking invitation to cross swords with that dragon-stealing prick-" She continued heatedly with her sister, who only mollified her twin in timid whispers and agreeing "I know"s that had grown quieter and quieter the further they traveled.

A bumbling squire had come to collect the prince's sword and ruined shield, before Aemond had departed the courtyard.

. . .

Any and every intention of returning to the safety of his chambers had been dashed when the court proceedings had unfurled and the queen had requested all of her children be present to witness the dispensing of justice.

Justice, Aemond had mused humorlessly, mother's idea of justice was three abandoned babes.

In a stroke of luck, the prince had been fortunate enough to avoid his half-sister and her prince consort thus far, but his mother's request had offered him no such reprieve. Rhaenyra had been across the throne room, in an embroidered gown of black and red, Daemon beside her, pale and picturesque. The more he looked upon his sister, the more he could see her beautiful bastard son, pieces of Lucerys shone through in the curve of her mouth, the size and shape of her eyes, the faint cleft of her chin...

It was a vivid torment.

Aemond had witnessed as Vaemond Velaryon had taken to the court, swanning and posturing.

Grandfather sat upon the throne, poised as to avoid every blade that seemed gleam in ravenous warning. Mother's expression was neutral during the proceedings, resigned in a way, Aemond supposed.

Rhaenyra had stepped forward on behalf of Daemon's daughter, his children loved like her own.

Aemond felt a twist in his abdomen, a tightness in his jaw.

It was only as his sister had began to speak, that the doors of the throne room swung open. Kingsguard had marched through, flanked alongside something Aemond had not seen since his youth - the king. With an infallible pride, Ser Erryk Cargyll heralded the arrival of the head of their dynasty.

"King Viserys of House Targaryen, the first of his name, King of Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

Aemond, along with the rest of the court had been stunned by the sight.

The prince had witnessed as his father struggled across the room, a miserable figure that hobbled beneath ornate robes and the weight of his crown with the aid of a cane. To see his father, Viserys Targaryen, frail and weak, yet still alive despite the odds inspired the kind of awe he imagined had been only known when the Black Dread last took flight...

The might of House Targaryen resided upon the shoulders of a creature too tired to bear it.

There was envy and pride wrapped in his chest as his father clawed his way across the throne room, he who had pulled himself from the grave in Rhaenyra's defense.

Where was this rage, this fight when her children were taken from her, where were you, father, when he was taken from me? The prince thought to himself.

Beside him, their mother's mouth twitched in an expression torn between agony and helplessness and Aemond was reminded that Balerion was no longer the largest dragon in the sky...

That honor belonged to someone else.

Viserys had idled beside Rhaenyra with labored breath as Grandfather had slunk from the seat he coveted above all, an alarm written on his face at the sight of that old dragon.

"I will sit the throne today..." The King commanded. And so he did.

He had climbed the steps with audible effort, too proud to accept the help of his Kingsguard.

When his crown clattered to the ground with a clang. It seemed such a mundane thing then, a crown, a piece of metal the realm bowed to...but Aemond was not concerned with the realm when he already presided over his own kingdom, his kingdom of one.

It was Daemon, the uncle that had only ever been described as more akin to Maegor than to Viserys the Peaceful, who had knelt and had retrieved his own brother's crown - a thing never destined for second sons...

Daemon had placed his brother upon the throne, each sword of Aegon's enemies stood erect around the pale, old King like thorns upon the delicate stems of a rose. The crown sat rightfully upon Viserys' head, and try as he might, the prince had not been able to imagine his own brother in their father's place...

His own words for Aegon rang within his head, You are no king.

Daemon descended the steps, Dark Sister swayed at his side as he returned to Rhaenyra's side, her small hand in his. Aemond's chest felt too small.

For all the years their father had spent away from his seat, Viserys had not dithered upon the throne.

Vaemond's claim was denied and the lady Baela Targaryen's succession was cemented as the true heir to Driftmark, though not without the expected conditions for a lady of her standing.

A dragon to rule the sea, Aemond mused curiously to himself at his father's decision.

He pondered on his mother's words, merely a day before, if High Tide is not ours, it is theirs...

Though as Vaemond Velaryon raged against the authority of a king, it appeared his dignity was not all Ser Vaemond was destined to lose, for when he spoke against the princess Rhaenyra, he had earned the wrath of all.

Father stood from his throne, his remaining hand wrapped around the leather-bound, dragonbone handle of his dagger. He wanted the man's tongue.

Your hands, 'tis the price a thief would pay for his crimes, his own words once again haunted him, his mouth had tasted sourly of ash.

Instinct urged Aemond to take a step back as Helaena spiraled toward him with a gasp, hands clasped over her ears, as Valyrian steel cleaved the Vaemond's head in two suddenly. Attending lords and ladies had shrieked in horror.

His body slumped to the ground, with a splatter of red and brains.

"He can keep his tongue." Daemon announced smugly, large hands settled over the pommel of the sword. There was a pride in the set of his uncle's broad shoulders, a mania in the violet of his eyes. Aemond recalled the weight of his dagger in hand, the torn Meereenese carpet in Aegon's room, the six holes his rage had plunged into the wood...

His temples had begun to ache.

Grandfather bellowed for the guards to disarm Daemon, but the Rogue Prince merely sauntered about, Dark Sister in hand, as he cleaned the ancestral blade with the fabric of his cape.

"No need," Daemon replied as he stowed his sword and happily returned to his wife's side.

Aemond swallowed thickly, uncertain as to whether it had been awe or fear that chilled his blood...

. . .

There was to be a family dinner at the behest of the King. Crawled fresh from his deathbed and father had not been shy about making demands of his fractured family.

They had all acquiesced.

Aemond had been given leave to prepare before supper, as were they all, when he had finally had a proper opportunity to sneak off to his quarters.

"Try and remain sober until supper," Aemond reminded Aegon who had replied with a lackadaisical wave as they climbed the stairs to their apartments.

"Of course," Aegon drawled greasily, "has mother asked you to keep an eye on me? Or are you simply currying for her favor?"

"Neither," Aemond replied tightly.

"Hmm," His brother hummed, "Do you suppose there's room for a new favorite now? Given your...affliction?"

Aemond pinned his brother with an icy stare that only earned a cruel cackle from Aegon who still leaned upon Aemond for support as they took the stairs.

"I suppose if there is availability, the claimants are myself, obviously," He said, pleased to continue spouting his drivel, "and the other cripple she favors-"

Aemond seized his brother sternly by the front of his embroidered green doublet in a trembling ivory fist.

"Alright, alright," Aegon panted with a wide, wheedling smile and Aemond allowed his grip to loosen, "If it's any consolation, she probably won't bed him...lest she have any strong boys herself."

Aemond's grip tightened and he slung his brother's weight to the edge of the step they had resided on, Aegon held his head back madly with a laugh as they teetered upon the step, hand's braced upon Aemond's forearm.

"She is our mother," His teeth gnashed together and his voice trembled, "you will not-"

"Speak of her in such a fashion?" Aegon recited in a stern tone to mock Aemond, "It's a bit late for that, brother. Careful now, you sound more cuntstruck than, Ser Criston,” Heat had snagged in the prince’s throat and his brother’s mean smile dimmed to one of curiosity, “Besides, why do you care?"

Why, it was such a curious question, why had Aemond still defended her honor, why had he still vied for a mere scrap of her affection?

Why, indeed, the venomous voice in his head that spoke the cruelest of truths, hissed.

Aemond's breathing trembled as he extended his grip, jerked the fist clenched in the fabric of his brother's doublet, further forcing his brother upon the edge of the step, the sinew that kept Aegon aloft strained and sweltered.

His brother pursed his lips with an annoyed sigh, and the sight of Ser Vaemond's corpse flashed through his mind; he could simply let go. The fall might not kill Aegon, but it might relieve Aemond of his presence until Rhaenyra and her brood departed for Dragonstone and he could breathe a bit easier.

He stared at his brother, as the messy drape of his choppy white-gold hair in his pale violet eyes. He pictured the six holes that existed in the floor of his brother's chambers. His chest tightened.

“She is our mother,” Aemond said finally, his tone brooked no room for argument.

"Gods, you are dull." Aegon announced as Aemond hauled his brother flat to his feet.

"I can still push you, if you'd like."

"It would save me from having to attend supper." Aegon replied easily, his mouth set in a little frown.

"Hm." Aemond agreed as they climbed the remainder of the steps in silence.

They parted and went their respective ways as Aegon meandered to his chambers and Aemond to his own.

The prince had clung feebly to the hope that he might bask in a few hours of Lucerys' warmth before he was forced to endure a strained supper with the rest of his family.

He realized how foolish he'd been when he completed the short journey to his chambers and found a slight figure beside his door...

A slight figure dressed in black, the spill of white-gold gleamed like a sheet of silk down her back.

His throat tightened and panic filled his chest.

"Sister?" He had managed, heart pounding like the drums of war in his throat.

"Aemond?" She greeted gently, hands folded over the faint swell of her belly.

"A-are you well? Should I fetch the maester?" He asked, sweat coated his temples and his lungs burned for air.

"No, thank you, I'm fine. Actually, there is a matter I was hoping we could discuss..."

His mind screamed and his stomach curdled with the feeling of trapped trapped trapped, that had never truly left him throughout the day.

Do not reach for the door, he thought, felt the burn of his dagger within his boot as Rhaenyra idled beside his door, do not force my hand, sister.

"I - of course." He nodded primly, "walk with me?" He suggested quickly and extended an arm to her.

Rhaenyra eyed him with an alarming smile that reminded him far too much of Lucerys, his cheeks had grown warm.

"Very well," She agreed, small hand draped over his arm as Aemond led her down the hall, each step he took he envisioned the slick cleave of Dark Sister in their uncle's hands, though it was his corpse that fell to ground with each blink and ragged swallow of air.

They approached the end of the corridor, arm in arm.

Their wandering had led them past the library out of the Keep and into the Godswood.

The fresh air beat against the heat of his skin, the crimson leaves of the Godswood ruffled above them.

Rhaenyra appeared rather radiant under the soft glow of sunlight and Aemond felt his stomach tighten.

"Did you think I would not find out?" She asked with a poised lift of a delicate silver brow, as she had turned to face him wreathed in sunlight.

Her voice was tender and disarming and pierced the prince's composure like a sword to the belly, panic oozed out of the wound her words had wrought.

"The whole of the court whispers about you, brother..." She added, voice husky. His panic climbed, each pound of his heart struck his breastbone like a hammer to an anvil.

"Rhaenyra, sister-" He pleaded in a small, desperate voice.

"I've spoken to father and he agrees-"

"Father knows?" Aemond asked with mortification that threatened to rival Vhagar in size.

"Of course, father knows..." Aemond was certain his fate was sealed then, his execution would not be carried out by the Lord Confessor, but by the King's brother no doubt, "and he and I are of a like mind - it is time you were wed."

Her little hand squeezed fondly upon his forearm and Aemond sputtered out a breath, dizzy.

"Begging your pardon?" He balked, throat dry and tongue stiff.

Her thumb rasped over the knuckles of his shaking hand, large violet eyes creased with a small, hopeful smile.

"You are nine and ten years of age, brother. It's time, don't you think?"

Aemond had been left reeling by the turn their conversation had taken.

"To marry?" He echoed in disbelief.

"Yes."

His mouth pursed as he considered her words, there were not many marriage pacts made for the disfigured second son of a dying king. Aemond had always viewed marriage as a duty, as a maneuver to gain wealth or land, a gambit reserved by his mother for when they were truly in dire need.

It had never been a desire before...

Before him, he thought to himself with a tightness in his throat. The words he had uttered in the pleasure-filled frenzy upon his first night with Lucerys to warm his bed, rang in his head, I would take you to wife if I could...

"You have spoken to father?" Aemond asked finally, rewarded with Rhaenyra's gleeful nod.

"Yes and he - we would like to see you wed before long."

Before he dies, Aemond gathered, his jaw tensed and Rhaenyra's hand tightened upon his forearm knowingly.

"Why? We have never been close, why this, why now?" Aemond asked despite himself and his sister's face had softened.

"What you say is true, we have never been close, and mayhaps that is as much my failing as it is your mother’s…” she took a meaning pause, “but, you are my brother, Aemond." She enunciated slowly and with purpose.

Yes, but I am her son, he had thought to himself.

"My blood." She added and guilt writhed poisonously in his chest.

Aemond had nodded and blew out a breath.

"If this is to be soon, surely this girl of yours must be close?"

He'd heard the Lord of Storm's End had a host of unmarried daughters. He was not delighted by the idea, but he supposed there were worse prospects. Rhaenyra had received their father's blessing and Aemond would not shirk his duty.

They walked together through the Godswood, copper sunlight gleamed like the shafts of arrows through blood red leaves and frowning white limbs of the weeping tree.

"She is already here." His sister explained carefully, her eyes so very round and large and it took a blink to dispel the imagining that they appeared copper as opposed to violet.

They paused in their stroll when it had dawned upon him...

"No," He said sternly and suddenly "no," he scoffed a second time, "I would sooner await the babe in your belly to come of age than wed her."

"Aemond," his sister had sighed in a tone that was decidedly maternal, "It was Baela's idea."

"And that was not a cause for alarm? Sister, surely you realize, she means to kill me."

At this Rhaenyra had laughed, a swat had been delivered lightly upon his arm.

"I am aware you two have history..."

"History? Sister-"

"But," Rhaenyra interjected, waggling a little finger at him, "Baela is of unimpeachable Valyrian stock. She is to be the next Lady of the Tides, as her Lord Husband you would rule alongside her at Driftmark. There is room enough at High Tide for Vhagar, and should you desire it, you would have the means to build a proper dragonpit. You could have wealth and power, Aemond. Is that such a terrible thing for me to want for you, brother?”

He had opened his mouth to speak when Rhaenyra's finger had returned, waggling just the same.

"You need not answer now, merely think on it."

He gave solemn nod, “of course.”

. . .

Aemond had wandered through the Keep after he and Rhaenyra had parted ways. He had escorted his elder sister back inside. To return to his chambers after such a near disaster was to invite chaos; a calamity Aemond was not so eager to court. Instead he had taken burning his restlessness through every stride he had taken through the Keep. His aimlessness had inevitably pulled him back beyond the Keep and into the Outer Yard. He had arrived upon an awning that overlooked the courtyard.

A flash of silver curls had swirled through the air like a tidal wave.

Baela, he recognized. His cousin stood in her long gown, a blunted training sword in hand.

Hardened leather gauntlets were laced overtop the delicate aquamarine of her sleeves. Such a curious contrast, his cousin. Part high society lady, and part not.

Aemond had followed the steps down the awning and into the yard.

Baela's hair whirled again as she brought her sword down upon a stationary target, jabbed crude holes into the straw with a curl of her lip and thrust of her sword.

She rained blows upon her target, hacked at limbs and spun with a flare of her gown, the rounded tip of her sword aimed for Aemond's throat.

Silver ringlets swayed in the breeze, buoyant as a cloud. Dark amethyst eyes glared up at him.

"Cousin," She greeted stiffly, eyes ablaze. Her small copper fist was white at the knuckles curled around the leather-bound grip of her sword.

Aemond merely hummed in greeting, unbothered by the blade poised for his throat.

"If you're done lurking, I'd like to return to training."

"Training?" Aemond echoed, thick pale locks of his white-gold mane spilled over the dark leather of his doublet as he tilted his head.

"Is that what that was?" He asked with a coy crook of his lips, feeling a twinge of joy at the murderous gleam in his cousin's dark eyes.

"'Tis not wise to insult the person with the sword, cousin." Baela admonished as she had rested the rounded tip of the dull blade against the point of his Adam's apple.

The threat was an empty one, but Aemond was glad there was minimal presence of guards in the courtyard as the hour.

"Wisdom has never been a talent of mine," Aemond replied in a wistful, if a bit of a stilted tone that by the squint of his cousin's eyes, she had seen through.

"As opposed to thievery," Baela replied smoothly, her full lips pressed into a cutting smile devoid of warmth.

Aemond chuckled, unfeeling as the lift of Baela's lips.

"I don't see your sister around," Aemond hummed, making a show of looking around the Outer Yard.

"I imagine there's quite a bit you don't see, cousin." Baela added.

"Hm, I suppose you are right. Do give Rhaena my best, though, will you? I do hope she's finally claimed a dragon of her own-"

Aemond's laughter reverberated against the blunt iron as Baela pressed the blade to his throat with more intent.

"She would've if not for you," Baela spat full of vitriol, her breath warm where it danced over the width of her sparring sword.

"Forgive me, I wasn't aware I had claimed all of the dragons in the realm," her sword pressed horizontally beneath his chin.

His cousin turned away with a hiss, hacking angrily at the straw-stuffed target as Aemond behind her.

"On the topic of claims," Aemond hummed, and Baela rounded upon him with a gleam of sweat along the copper column of her throat.

"A condition of my father reinstating your claim to Driftmark was that you marry, and soon - what I cannot fathom, dear cousin, is why you've asked for me."

Baela flexed her grip around her sword, breathing labored, the faintest hint of redness on her cheeks.

"I suppose, you are comely," He reasoned through gritted teeth, she was an exotic beauty with sharp Valyrian bone structure, copper skin and silver hair, amethyst eyes - none could accuse Daemon Targaryen of producing unattractive offspring, "you could have any lord you desire. Why ask Rhaenyra for me?"

Baela's lips pursed as the breeze billowed beyond them, whisking her silver hair and his, the skirt of her gown fluttered gently.

"I can think of no better way to punish you, Aemond."

The prince gave a lazy nod. His gaze inevitably drawn toward the mocking maw of the window that overlooked the Outer Yard. The barest hint of dark curls bobbed beyond the ashlar framing and his throat had grown tight.

Lucerys, Aemond thought to himself, his body burned with equal parts horror and blazing desire.

He had faced his cousin, mortified to find her gaze squinted curiously upon the very window Aemond, himself had been watching.

Amethyst eyes suddenly appraised him with open fascination.

"Enjoy your training, cousin." Aemond said in a clipped tone before he had marched off.

. . .

Dinner was a sordid affair that they were all forced to endure. Should any have dreams of escaping, father had no qualms about abusing his sickness if it meant wringing enough sympathy to force his family into one room for one damned meal.

Aemond had paused before the door to his chambers. The day had come and gone and he'd yet to find a moment to visit his darling boy, to his own detriment. He rested a large palm against the wood of the door.

After a moment he had succumbed enough to his own longing to press his forehead to door with a groan.

Give me strength, he prayed, not to any Gods, but to the boy that he risked all for.

"Aemond?"

The prince's remaining eye snapped open, pleased to have found Helaena standing in the corridor. It was a rare thing to find his sister without her children. Yet, she had stood there, a sunny smile upon her face at the sight of him.

"Hela," He hummed softly, a hand extended out to her.

"That's my job," Aegon objected from behind their sister, who, ever their peacekeeper, settled the matter swiftly and offered an arm to each brother.

They remained as such, arm in arm, until they arrived in the dining hall. Servants fluttered about, and for a moment, they had felt remarkably like children again, like a family.

That was until the rest of their family had trickled in...

Baela and Rhaena arrived together, unsurprisingly. Helaena's easy smile dimmed as Aegon's eyes wandered at the sight of their cousins. Her eyes, a pale lilac the same shade as Aegon's, had taken a far off look.

Soon after their mother and grandfather had arrived as well, garbed in green and gold.

Grandfather, for all of his faults, managed to coax Helaena out of her shell and into conversation.

Save for the King who was truly the last to arrive with the assistance of household guard, it was Rhaenyra and Daemon that had swanned into the room together just moments before him.

They had arrived, arm in arm, a pleased smile upon his eldest sister's face as their uncle murmured in her ear, Dark Sister swayed at his hip, his dagger at the other.

It was a disjointed sense of reality that Aemond looked upon them with longing.

He longed for what they had. He longed to lavish the offspring of his sibling with affection as his uncle did...

Father had been carried in, appearing exhausted by all accounts, but pleased at the sight of his family.

He had found enough vigor to rise, struggling between mother and Rhaenyra at either side of him.

"It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow," father said amidst labored breaths, "to see these faces around the table, the faces most dear to me in all the word...yet grown so distant from each other in the years past."

Helaena's eyes were far off once more, and Aegon merely stared into his empty goblet. The prince felt the sting of Baela's gaze from across the table.

Aemond's fingers drummed along his silverware, imagining how his father might react to know there were faces still lacking from around their table; three to be precise.

Father had bowed over the table, breathing harsh before he had reached for the clasp of the mask that covered one side of his skeletal visage.

The clasp had come undone, the gilded mask laid in father's remaining hand.

He lifted his head, the lank bits of what hair he still possessed swayed thinly.

Their father had faced Rhaenyra with a shuddering breath, but Aemond had still seen it...

The socket that sat rotted an empty in their father's head, missing an eye. His stomach tightened. Tendons in his cheek lay exposed by an open source of rot along his face.

Some around the table struggled to look, Rhaena kindly diverted her gaze. Baela politely looked at her plate.

"My own face is no longer a handsome one," father said with a self-depreciating wheeze that was meant as laughter from eroded lungs, "if indeed it ever was, but tonight, I wish you to see me as I am. Not just a king, but your father, your brother," anguish bled into his voice as he looked upon Daemon, "your husband," mother only offered a sad smile, "and your uncle...who may not, it seems, walk for much longer among you."

His mask had clattered noisily upon the table, making some of the silverware jump.

"Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts," the sickly king pleaded, his gaze rested upon his queen, his wife who struggled to meet his gaze, "the crown cannot stand strong if the house of the dragon remains divided. But, set aside your grievances," father's frail fist knocked upon the dining table, and Aemond felt Baela's gaze on him once more, fleeting and accusatory, thief, her dark eyes said, "if not for the sake of the crown, then for the sake of this old man, who loves you all, so dearly!"

Father held his mask to his chest, breathing labored as he inevtiably sunk into his seat with their mother's help.

Rhaenyra stood abruptly from her seat, goblet in hand, emotion thick in her voice as she toasted to the queen...

As Rhaenyra had taken her seat, Aemond had not missed the way their uncle leered expectantly from behind his wife. The image of Vaemond Velaryon's corpse flashed through his mind.

Mother cleared her throat, "your graciousness moves me deeply, princess, we are both mothers...and we love our children"

Those of them you allowed her to keep, the prince thought instantly, a thought no doubt shared as he witnessed the smile Aegon struggled to fight off.

Aemond flinched at the insensitivity of her words, the callousness as father nodded along none the wiser, believing he was a grandsire to two babes, as opposed to five.

Since the removal of her first babe, the court had been abuzz that the Princess Rhaenyra took after her mother when it came to birthing heirs, the late Queen Aemma had been notorious for her difficult pregnancies. Aemond supposed the rumors had only resurfaced when his sister had arrived, with two white-haired babes and a third on the way. All clever lies to cover his mother's own treachery.

Their mother had finished her toast with a raised glass and shaky voice and such longing in her gaze as she stared upon their eldest half-sister.

Dishes were served following the arrival of the king. Drinks were served, to the delight of Aegon, a light summer wine preceding their first course.

A thin, refreshing broth was first, followed by a small serving of savory frumenty alongside red strips of thinly sliced venison.

Steamed fish steeped and served in spiced milk was placed before each of the scattered inhabitants of their table.

More plates were passed along as servants flitted in and out throughout the evening.

In a sense it had been easy to melt into the conversation, to witness the small intricacies of family that were little more than strangers after so many years apart. Rhaena pushed a bit of roast duck onto Baela's plate with a wrinkle of her nose.

Such children, Aemond mused to himself.

Helaena painted a colony of fire ants in mulberry sauce served with the roast duck along the stained satin of her napkin.

Aegon downed a goblet full of summer wine in a two stiff swallows.

Mother grimaced through it all. On occasion he'd catch the heat of her gaze upon him, a tightness in the set of her mouth at the distance between them.

Aemond only offered a small contrite lift of his lips to her.

Laughter echoed from the other end of the table as uncle Daemon offered a bit of duck smothered in mulberry sauce to his wife from his plate, adoration in his violet eyes. A large thumb wiped the crimson remnants of the sauce from Rhaenyra's pale skin, his finger held up in offering to his wife; mischief in their uncle's eyes. And for a moment, the prince had envisioned a head of dark curls, wearing a smile identical to that of his sister, as Aemond held an overly sweet grape from Qaarth between his lips in offering, he recalled the sweetness of the boy's tongue in his mouth and his moans that had tasted sweeter still...

Aemond stared down at his plate, ears hot as he pushed a carved bit of duck breast around with his fork as servants arrived with the next course.

In a way it was all their father had asked for, unity amongst his family.

Halfway through supper father had retired, his agony no longer kept at bay. Household guard had carried him from the dining hall to his chambers, and despite it, their shared meal had persisted.

A large, whole roasted boar was placed upon the table and Aegon sniggered, emboldened by their father's absence, but Aemond had chosen to ignore his brother's taunts.

Mother was the next to make a sound, choking on sip of water that been served between courses. Both grandfather and Rhaenyra cast concerned glances her way.

Aemond leaned forward in his seat, brow creased as her dark eyes had gone wide and panicked.

Bodies poured from the kitchens in the bustle of servants. Some bore pitchers of water, others bore wine, fresh serviettes. The prince's mouth had gone dry as a sleeve brocaded with a pattern of dragon scales came into his view, a sleeve belonging to a doublet he had handpicked in the early morn, a garment much too fine for any servant.

Nausea burned in his gut as his gaze lifted to the high collar with buttons he had affixed with his own hands...

He had blinked his remaining eye in disbelief at the soft, boyish face that stared down at him from beneath wooly dark curls.

Small hands held a jug of thick spiced wine intended for the boar.

"Wine, my prince?"

Aemond had been spellbound, mute as he stared at his Lucerys, heart screaming in his chest. Luke appeared just as mystified, helplessly trapped beneath icy violet stare of his prince.

"Here," Aegon called with a clank of his cup. Even as Luke had shakily moved to Aegon's side, in his finery and jewels, his gaze never strayed from Aemond. Aegon had whispered something as Lucerys poured the wine in a practiced motion.

He has worked in an inn, Aemond reminded himself, as he willed his breathing to be anything other than panicked.

Aemond knew his brother's words to be crude as Luke's cheeks turned ruddy, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

A hand lingered upon the velvet of Lucerys' sleeve and Aemond's hand had tightened around the knife that had been placed alongside the rest of his silverware.

Copper eyes lingered on the white-knuckled clench of his fist, a furled mouth opened for him as it always had, a savory pink tongue wetted the plush surface of his lower lip as Luke briefly looked upon Aemond - terribly short of breath.

Aemond felt as desire had licked down his spine, white-hot.

All delicacies present and you are all I wish to devour, the intensity of the one-eyed prince's stare screamed as he held Lucerys' wanting gaze. The shuddering hitch of the boy's breathing was all the answer Aemond needed to divine his little dragon felt similarly.

Mother's eyes were hatefully alive as Lucerys dutifully rounded the table as any servant would.

Aemond’s throat had cinched shut and sweat prickled upon his nape.

The Queen had silently refused to meet the boy's gaze as she shielded her goblet with a shaking hand. A vein pulsed along her temple.

Lucerys had walked on coltish legs to the next member at the table - Rhaenyra. Aemond couldn’t breathe.

Lucerys persisted as he demurely offered the jug of spice wine to the realm's princess.

Delicately, Rhaenyra lifted her cup and in as practiced motion as all cups prior, Lucerys had filled hers with ease - none the wiser. Guilt wrenched like a fist tangled in his innards, pulling and pulling; Aemond had not been entirely certain how much more of it he could endure.

“Thank you,” Rhaenyra replied civilly and Lucerys gave a timid, but handsome smile in return. And Aemond had wondered, nonsensically, if the princess had seen her own reflection staring back at her.

Yet, it was as the boy had moved to the next chair at the table that the prince’s heart had truly stopped.

Daemon…

As meekly as all times prior, Luke offered wine to the Rogue Prince.

His uncle’s shrewd violet eyes observed the queer, little finely-dressed cupbearer, while Aemond had observed him all the while — knife in hand.

Daemon's expression had been chillingly unreadable. His gaze only deviated from Lucerys but once, and that was to stare upon the profile of his own wife, visible just beyond the boy's shoulder, dressed in their house's colors; sconce light framing her aquiline nose, soft lips and the faint cleft upon her chin...

Lucerys had dutifully filled the prince's cup. When the boy had lifted the jug of spiced wine, a large hand glittering with jewelry bearing Targaryen heraldry, caught the finery of Luke's sleeve. Daemon's eyes squinted, Aemond's grip tightened around the knife in his grasp, his uncle's broad thumb rasped over a single velvet dragon scale...

He exhaled a small amused sound through his nose, the interaction startlingly brief yet simultaneously never-ending before Daemon had released Lucerys' sleeve.

Luke rounded the table towards Baela and Rhaena, carefully filling Baela's cup, though Rhaena had politely declined with a small smile that creased the corners of her dark eyes.

More servants moved in and out of the dining hall as Lucerys vanished back through the doorway that connected to the kitchens.

The roasted boar was beginning to be carved when Aemond excused himself.

"I have no stomach for boar," He had explained, to which Rhaenyra made a sympathetic noise as the large cuts of steaming pork belly were doled onto platters.

"I fear your niece agrees with you, brother," Rhaenyra added, a hand rubbed at the faint swell of her belly.

He offered a small smile.

Still, there was no avoiding the vitriolic glare of his mother when had risen from his seat, nor the knowing quirk of Aegon's mouth hidden in his cups, nor, curiously, the leer of his cousin's amethyst eyes as he stalked from the hall.

Aemond had moved quickly through the halls, strides long and footsteps ringing when he had discovered a little silhouette. Wooly dark curls gilded copper in the flickering warmth of sconces that lined the walls.

He locked a hand around Lucerys' arm, before he promptly dragged the boy to a tucked away corner, just beyond the influence of a lit torch.

They were swallowed up in the dark when he turned the boy to face him.

Lucerys' expression had rippled from fear to one of delight in an instant at the sight of Aemond.

"Are you utterly mad?" Aemond hissed, though Luke's little hands clambered for him, for his shoulders, his hair, his face.

"You were given very clear instructions, were you not?"

In truth, the boy's unrestrained glee made it very difficult for the prince to remain anything but wanting.

"You were to remain in my chambers, Lucerys, you swore-"

"I know, I know-" Luke protested vainly, lower lip stuck out when Aemond held up a single finger in warning.

"So, you have disobeyed me deliberately?" The prince challenged, to which the boy offered a succulent little pout.

Luke's mouth opened, "Dyana-" be blurted, before falling silent, having divined that Aemond had not yet finished.

"Dyana? Dyana was to see that you remained in my chambers. Do you mean to tell me, that this is her doing? She will be flogged-"

In that instant, Aemond had seen the fire return to the boy's eyes.

"This, was my doing. If you are to have anyone flogged, my prince, it should be me."

Aemond exhaled a long sigh, a hand had curled around the edge of the boy's jaw, feeling the harsh leap of Luke's pulse.

"I have been too good to you," Aemond murmured even as Lucerys's lips opened for his, "too gentle," he hissed upon the boy's supplicant tongue, swallowing the starved sound he crooned "that you would welcome my wrath so willfully."

Little hands tugged upon the prince's hair, crying out for the ardor of his mouth.

"Must I tie you down to ensure you will obey, hm?" Aemond growled against the boy's ear in their little corner of darkness.

"If it please you, my prince."

A sticky, sweet squeal of delighted laughter poured from the boy's mouth as Aemond kissed and sucked knowingly at tender flesh along the boy's neck.

The prince pressed his weight down upon that of his headstrong little bedmate.

"You please me," Aemond muttered hoarsely as he licked into the warmth of the boy's mouth.

Lucerys had all but melted in Aemond's arms, a wanting little mess.

He seemed extraordinary desperate for the prince's touch, there was a solace to be found in the ravenous need Lucerys bore, that mirrored Aemond's own.

"Gods, Aemond you are so handsome I might die," Luke hissed hungrily, as he had reached for the prince's angular face, "You haven't touched me in hours..."

By Aemond's calculations he had not lain with the boy since the morn prior - far, far too long for his liking.

"How cruel of me," He murmured, offering his mouth in concession.

"Is that the reason you have wandered out here, Taoba? You need to be filled?"

Lucerys had sucked in a sharp breath as Aemond pressed the sharp cut of his nose into the boy's wooly dark curls, inhaling fragrant scent of lilacs.

The boy's lips gleamed wetly, his throat had bobbed and his round eyes of copper and dirt blinked at the prince, glazed with want.

"'Tis as I said my prince, I only need you."

Aemond groaned in audible desire, body wrapped around that of his bastard bedmate, chest painfully full.

The embrace had lingered. They held one another as moments had passed, time was marked by the exchange of fond, tender touches.

Lucerys had burrowed against his chest, face pressed against the dark leather of his doublet as though he had wished to crawl beneath the layers and exist within Aemond's own flesh. His chest throbbed as he pressed a kiss to the boy's dark curls.

He hadn't the heart to tell Luke that there was little room left in the cavities of his chest, when all territories, aching heart and all belonged to the boy already.

"Dyana had heard other servants whispering about a man being killed and I-" Lucerys voice had emerged small and muffled against Aemond's chest. The prince stroked a tender ivory hand overtop Luke's curls.

"I was worried. I hadn't meant to-" he paused considerately, "disrupt. A servant had forced the wine into my hands, and I hadn't the luxury to deny."

"Hm, my darling boy." Aemond murmured, his anger had long since passed, a result of their time apart no doubt.

Luke's face lifted from Aemond's chest, the prince found himself spellbound by those copper eyes.

"Your...family?" Lucerys hesitated, only continuing once Aemond confirmed his suspicions with a brief nod, "they are very beautiful."

Aemond had swept the curls from the boy's brow with long ivory fingers, noting on the slight tinge of spite that darkened the boy's voice. 'Twas the envy of a bastard.

His thumb had lowered to brush along the apple of the boy's cheek, supple and full of youth.

"More than you know, Taoba."

Aemond's fingers held the point of Lucerys' chin firmly, not having allowed the boy's gaze to avoid his as he spoke.

His touch had softened, "Are you able to find your way back?"

Lucerys had given a small nod, face hidden in the warmth of Aemond's palm.

"Good. Hide yourself away. I will be with you soon."

With that, he had watched as his little dragon skittered down the large, empty halls of the Keep, under the copper glare of lit sconces. Dark curls flounced about as he turned every few steps to cast a coy little glances at Aemond.

It was after Lucerys had disappeared from his sight that the prince had made to return to the dining hall.

. . .

Their dinner had concluded with desserts, trays piled high with cakes and custard tarts and wine-soaked fruit.

Rhaenyra had eaten a few candied lemons from the powdered tops of several lemon cakes, much to the amusement of her husband, who had merely observed her all the while, chin propped against his palm like she were the most captivating thing he'd ever seen.

Helaena had enjoyed other sweetmeats happily, much to the disapproval of their mother. Hela's pale, plump fingers were colored with chocolate imported from Pentos.

Aemond had enjoyed a small handful of honeyed almonds, before most of the family had seen fit to retire for the night.

Aegon had risen from his seat, utterly sloshed. Wobbling about with a mad cackle, until Aemond had steadied his brother. Mother for all of her scowling, had looked nearly grateful when Aemond vowed to see his brother to bed.

It wasn't until both brothers had departed entirely that Aemond addressed his brother.

"We both know you're not drunk, brother."

"Not nearly," Aegon replied, voice lilting near laughter.

"So, would you care to clarify the point of your little charade?" Aemond asked, maintaining Aegon's arm pulled over his shoulders.

"It is two-fold," Aegon explained, holding up two fingers, "Firstly, I needed to get the fuck out of there. If I had to watch mother stare at you besotted for another moment, I'd gouge my own damned eyes out."

Aemond's cheeks had grown warm.

"And the second reason?"

"I needed a moment to speak with my brother, whilst you're unoccupied."

Aemond squinted curiously at Aegon, his wastrel brother whose mercurial violet eyes were incredibly knowing for man so deep in his cups.

"Well, speak, then." Aemond replied.

"Mother will kill him, Aemond." His brother said bluntly, Aegon had never been one for flowery sentiments.

"She will do no such thing." He gritted in reply.

"Not now, perhaps, but there will be nothing to stop her when father dies - think of all she has accomplished while the king drew breath."

The squalls of a child being torn from the arms of his mother rang in his head...

Aemond's jaw tensed.

"Why are you telling me this? You bear no fondness for the boy, nor myself."

"We are family, you twat. And I suppose, he is my nephew too," Aegon snapped incredulously, "You have never seen mother clearly, Aemond. Not as I have. You do not know her as I have known her my entire life. But, I suspect you are beginning to see her - truly."

"Aegon-" His elder brother help up a finger as they approached the long stretch of steps that led to their apartments. The gesture reminded Aemond so very much of their mother, as his did Aegon's waxen face, as though he had been carved from marble in the Queen's image.

His brother hung off of him melodramatically at the click of a cane against the floor and the approaching sound of shuffled footsteps.

"-unhand me, you knave, d'you have any idea who I am?" Aegon howled abruptly, words slurred.

His brother's performance continued over the eerie approach of the Lord Confessor.

"Unhand me, I wish to see my mother, guard, guar-" Aemond clapped a hand over his brother's mouth to muffle his shouts.

"My princes," Lord Larys greeted in his wheedling way, expression keen and amused at the sight of Aegon's thrashing as he paused to stand before them; leaning upon his cane, golden firefly framed between his fingers.

"Shall I fetch the queen?" He asked with a brittle kind of concern.

"Yes-" Aegon barked between Aemond's fingers.

"No," Aemond said in return, "He simply needs a bed."

"Of course," The Lord Larys agreed.

"Sleep well, my princes." He bid farewell, cane clicking away.

Aemond had dragged his brother up the steps toward their apartments, unease coiled in his stomach.

He had thrust Aegon into his chambers, the door shut behind them.

"You should've been a minstrel," Aemond had murmured, and Aegon offered a small bow and a laugh.

"I was made for the pleasures in life, brother. Yet, our mother would have me on the throne, regardless of my desires, simply to spite Rhaenyra. To damn our dying father who has been damned since before we were born."

Aegon had strutted about his rooms, in his peacocking way, gleefully helping himself to a decanter of Arbor Red.

After a long series of swallows, his brother had wiped at mouth crudely, "'Tis a game of strategy and well, that's always been your fancy -- an eye for a dragon. Know this, Father will die, and between the two Queens that will try to fill his absence, only one will try to kill your precious boy-cunt."

Aemond grimaced.

"Do you think I do not know this?" Aemond drawled, an ache throbbed at his temples. Of course he was well aware his mother wasn't fond of Lucerys, but he supposed in some fashion, her own love for him might allow leniency in regard to his choice of lover.

What a fool I've been, The prince thought to himself with growing embarrassment.

"Allow me to impart a bit of wisdom upon you, brother..."

"Wisdom garnered from drinking and whoring?"

"As the reigning disappointment, I have learned this," Aegon paused for another drink and Aemond wished to strangle his brother, "'Tis better to ask for forgiveness than permission..."

Aemond stared down at the carpet upon Aegon's floor, gone was the Meereenese one he had slashed to ribbons and its place was a replacement from Lannisport, gaudy in red and gold. He nudged the gold tassel at the carpet's corner with his boot before he left his brother's apartments.

. . .

Aemond had entered his chambers, promptly pulled from his thoughts as Lucerys had latched upon him without warning. Willowy arms hung around the prince's neck, clinging like a little barnacle.

Their mouths had met in a flurry of snarling, whining kisses and Aemond had felt as his worry begin to drift away, like it had belonged to another.

To his delight Lucerys was dressed in the delicate, ethereal silk of his robe and by the flutter of the sheer fabric, little else.

He swept the boy into his arms, grinning against Luke's little laughing mouth as he was carried off to the prince's bed.

Aemond had been stripped of his clothes, though no article covering his skin had been torn away with more vehemence than the sculpted leather of his eye-patch, which Lucerys had hurled across the room at the first opportunity.

"Do you intend to punish me, my prince?" Lucerys asked breathlessly, the pale length of his throat stained red with a ruddy blush.

"I have entertained the thought, naughty thing. Be grateful that I am benevolent," Aemond said haughtily, which had Lucerys giggling madly. The prince nipped at the swollen sight of the boy's kiss-bitten lips.

"I have considered allowing you to atone for your wrongdoings," Aemond paused, as if to invite the show of approval for his kindness, a storm of kisses were rained upon his throat and cheeks.

"You are too kind, my prince," Lucerys lathed exaggeratedly, far too eager to play into the game as Aemond had settled a knee at the juncture of the boy's thighs.

"Entirely." Aemond hummed with a dry smile as his mouth lowered to rasp along the boy's fluttering pulse.

"Your atonement will demand leal service," Aemond added seriously, lone eye trained upon the slight part of the boy's wanton little mouth.

"Do you think yourself capable of serving?" The prince asked, abdomen clenched tight at the ravenous pulse of the boy's hips beneath him.

"Gods, yes-"

Aemond's mouth bore down on Luke's hungrily, drawing decadent little whines and cries into his gullet to be feasted upon after too long apart.

"Anything," Luke added, voice thick and heavy with want.

"Good." Aemond said with a sharp smile.

Palms adorned with calluses garnered from swordplay smoothed over the boy's pale flesh, catching along the fine silk of his robe. Lucerys sighed deeply into the sweeping touch, throat exposed and eyelids heavy.

"I had thought to tan your sweet little hide," The boy's hips rutted harder, a gasp had lodge in Luke's throat - a vulnerability Aemond wished to suck straight from his lungs.

"However," He purred, hands reaching from the delicate span of the boy's wrists to glide above his flushed face, "it occurred to me that there was a better way to punish such disobedience."

In a swift movement, Aemond had torn the linens from the corners of his bed, the fabric was brought around each wrist. Then, with more deliberate care, once the initial shock had made his little lover squeal with a mix of terror and excitement, the prince secured the makeshift bindings from Lucerys to the posters one either side of his headboard.

"Wiggle your fingers," Aemond instructed, plucking at the length of ragged bedsheets to ensure they offered enough range of movement.

Lucerys obeyed.

"So you can listen, how delightful," He drawled, to which Luke only scowled in response.

"Try to escape," The prince said seriously, and after a few seconds of struggling, sweat glittered at the hollow of Lucerys' throat, yet his hands were still bound.

The two shared a long stare as realization seemed to dawn upon them, the pink slip of Lucerys' tongue mirrored the agile flick of Aemond's.

The prince's fingers ghosted along the boy's sides, heat rushed to his face as Luke squirmed with a gasp - entirely at his mercy.

"Now, Lucerys, you are my prisoner," Aemond lorded.

"Gladly, my prince." The boy panted in return.

Aemond offered a starved grin, mouth lowered to the boy's supine body.

His tongue rasped over the slick taste of salt that gleamed over Luke's neck, tearing free a greedy little sound.

His mouth descended down to the sheer silk that clung to boy's slight frame.

His lips wrapped around the delicate point of a dusky pink nipple, he hollowed his cheeks around the warm flesh, he felt the skin lift tenderly into the heat of his mouth. The silk turned sheer and damp.

Luke cried out, limbs shaking.

"Aemond-"

His little fingers flexed wildly, yearning to touch him, Aemond burned all the hotter for it.

He pulled at the cord of the boy's robe, parting the delicate fabric with long ivory fingers as he suckled upon the boy's other nipple.

Aemond peppered kisses along the exposed flesh of Luke's chest, with its pale complexion and delicate web of spidering blue veins. He had sucked again at both nipples, unobstructed by the thin barrier of damp silk.

Luke had tugged at his binds, whining and crying Aemond's name as the prince's mouth ventured lower. His tongue dipped into the sticky pool of arousal that Lucerys' erection drooled against his own tummy.

Aemond's teeth grazed the jut of the boy's boxy hips. Long ash-white locks spilled over the prince's shoulders and dragged featherlight along Lucerys' bare skin, his whole body had trembled.

The prince dragged a tongue through the crease of the boy's thighs, groaning at the taste of musky sweat and the taste of vanilla.

Lucerys' hips bucked wildly.

"You are mine," Aemond growled against the flushed spasm of the boy's cock.

"Yes!" Luke cried eagerly, and Aemond felt his own mania froth hot as the dragon's blood in his own veins. A firm hand grasped the boy's face.

"Say it," Aemond snarled, "Say it or you will remain as you are, untouched."

Lucerys body thrashed at the mere suggestion.

"Gods, I am yours," he echoed, "I will always be yours, Aemond," Lucerys added rather ingeniously and Aemond rewarded the boy with a kiss.

"Syz Taoba," The prince murmured in a low chant against his lover's panting mouth.

And mayhaps if he approached his sister on the morrow and begged for her forgiveness, and she elected to reward his wrongdoings with the executioner's block upon ascending the throne - he could selfishly take solace in the knowledge that her son would never truly belong to her.

Aemond had procured the flask of oil that remained upon the bedside table, slathered both himself and his lover generously.

The cleft of the boy's rear dripped as readily as a woman's cunt.

"There you are," Aemond hummed, "open for me, Darling."

The wanton little hole relaxed with the loving coax a few fingers that teased Luke to tears.

He seated himself inside his beloved bastard bedmate in a single smooth cant of his hips.

Luke's legs tangled around his narrow waist.

Aemond had nearly been driven to the brink of madness by the hungry clench of the boy's quim around him.

His hips rolled tenderly, in deliberate, deep strokes that had Lucerys slack and gasping in his binds.

Aemond pressed in deeply, hissing between his teeth at the insistent heat of Lucerys' body around him.

"You're pulling me in," He groaned, white-gold hair stuck to the sheen of sweat upon his cheeks and throat as the boy's stretched pink rim clung to the glossy, oiled head of the prince's manhood.

"Have you missed me so terribly, Darling?"

"So badly, it hurt." Lucerys babbled as Aemond's hips ground down burying his cock into the slick cleft of the boy's rear.

The rhythm of his hips hastened, every hungry plunge drew them closer to the shaking inevitability of release.

Aemond leered down upon his lover who blubbered large tears of bliss and rampant desire.

"Oh gods - Aemond, I need to hold you, please-"

Aemond surged harder, dripping sweat and oil, the stern muscle of his buttocks flexed tightly upon his every stroke. He lowered his forehead, slick with sweat to press against Luke's.

"You will, love, you will."

The boy's hole tightened snugly as Aemond angled his hips to press along that blessed spot that wrung out tears and staggering climaxes.

Hard sinew pulled tight in the prince's abdomen and thighs, his lower back burned from the strain of striking that uneven terrain upon every sink of his hips.

Lucerys' release was a fitful fiery thing, with thrashing legs and a painfully arched back and tears.

The prince gathered the boy into his arms, against the tacky expanse of his chest, hips pumping once, twice, thrice before he had spent himself inside of his shaking lover.

He had still been buried to the hilt when he tore away the binds at Lucerys' wrists with shaking hands.

Soon thereafter, limp willowy arms wrapped around the breadth of his back and Aemond returned the embrace.

They laid upon sticky sheets tangled up in one another as Aemond stroked at the wild mess of wooly dark curls.

"You did so well, Luke," He murmured, "So well."

. . .

It had been terribly late when Aemond had arranged a bath for the pair of them, and they had laid in the waters until they turned tepid.

The prince had been the first to exit the tub, sitting along the edge and tenderly massaging supple oils into the boy's alabaster skin, paying mind to his dainty, chafed wrists.

His lips pressed kisses to the tender skin of both wrists.

"Thank you," Aemond murmured against the crown of damp dark curls.

"What for?" Luke hummed, utterly sedate in the warm water and beneath the caress of the prince's palms.

"For indulging me."

The boy's dark eyes appeared so round and full of youth, a small, bashful smile spread slowly across his face.

"Mm, I live to serve, my prince."

You are mine, the prince thought to himself as he stared longingly at the coy shape of the boy's profile, soft pretty features, Mine and mine alone.

Wordlessly, Aemond had begun to tie off a delicate section of white-gold. He twined the hair into braid, the movement practiced.

Lucerys wore a little dreamy expression as he watched Aemond.

"It looks pretty," He hummed, little alabaster fingers grazed the section of white-gold hair.

"I'm glad you think so," Aemond smiled as he reached for the platter of tools means for grooming within the bath, amongst which was a plain little razor.

Swiftly, without thinking twice he cleanly sliced away the neat braid.

"Aemond-" Lucerys gasped, fingers grazing the the lock of hair that curled subtly, shorter than the rest.

"Gods, why did you-"

The prince had already moved about the clawfoot tub. With deft fingers, Aemond had begun coaxing coils of dark hair to merge with his own severed braid.

"Hold still," He instructed to Lucerys who had immediately began squirming when he divined what Aemond's intentions were.

Before long, his darling little bastard bedmate bore a streak of silver amidst dark curls and the sight was enough to set the prince aflame.

"There," He hummed proudly, "now you will have a piece of me with you...always."

He'd been foolish in his admiration because soon there was water frothing over the lip of the tub and small hands grasping for him, a warm mouth upon his.

"Do not celebrate so soon, Darling, I shall be needing some of yours as well."

They laid upon the carpet, before the maw of the hearth. A stout black lock of hair that curled coyly at the ends had been braided dutifully into the prince's white-gold mane.

Luke toyed endlessly with the streak of silver that had been woven into his rich curls; a silly smitten smile upon his face.

"You are part dragon now," Aemound purred to which Lucerys' cheeks reddened.

Septon Barth's Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns laid beside them.

"Would you care to learn more about your history, Taoba?"

Luke nodded vigorously, dark curls and silver braid bouncing as he settled happily against Aemond's smile.

And Aemond had known, regardless of what the days to come might bring, they would always have this.

He would always have a piece of a bastard boy named Luke Rivers.

___

A/N: Any and all comments are appreciated - thank you guys for being patient!

#my writing #my fanfiction #hotd fanfic #luke rivers au #lucemond #lucemond au #lucerys x aemond #aemond x lucerys

[absentmoon]

"i do"

1,725 words // fluff // isekai au // bennybug

notes: this was meant to be a drabble. god help me . practice for description heavy writing also!!

The fingers that grasped his tie tremblingly were small, soft; not quite long enough to be described as lithe but certainly dainty and nothing at all like hands used to clasping at the hilt of a gun. Hands you only saw in pictures, now, though not as clean— there was graphite dust under their nails, and he could tell this now from their proximity.

They fumbled with his tie gracelessly with unfamiliar movements, but he didn't feel much like helping. Warmth from their pale knuckles brushed carefully against the tenderness of his neck. It was cute— certainly it was cute. Just not in a way he was used to; people didn't handle eachother like that, or at least not the people in the Mojave - their gaze was level in a soft glare as they finally loosened the velvety fabric, unraveling the light weight of it with deliberation before gently pulling it from his neck altogether.

"All right, baby," Benny purred. He savored the blatant expression on their face as much he did the sight of them as obviously not knowing where to put his now-removed tie. "Think you can help me out of this jacket now, pussycat?"

That flushed complexion now blinked with an endearing confusion— they played to feign annoyance, naturally, but it was the façade of someone unused to making them, or at least unused to fooling a person like Benny. You can cheat at cards, sure, but once the game's rigged in his favor? Couldn't con your way out even if the big casino itself were on your side. And they weren't a liar in nature, anyways: it was obvious even as he saw them in the corner of one of his booths, some strange, raw genuineness in their face he couldn't get out of his mind. So he slid into the chair across from them. They didn't have the looks of the types that were attracted to him, no sharp jawline or overly confident stature — not really fitting in with the same glamor-glitzy style most of his regulars enjoyed. But he had seen them around here and there (their black jacket was soft-looking and somewhat distinctive), and there was just... something. Something different. It was in the way the looked at everything, everyone, with an expression he couldn't find the words to describe. He only noticed that they smiled at everyone they made eye contact with after they didn't smile at him.

That was before, though, and potent surprise had been something he could play off of besides. He took the tie from their soft hands, just as velvet, and thought better of simply tossing it aside as normal. Instead he reached to the dresser just behind them. The vanity mirror reflected him as he laid the tie atop it and grasped their hands when he pulled back in one fluid motion. They felt small in his as always, but there was a coolness to them. It seeped into his skin, pressed up against his palms, grounding. He grinned at them, winked, and pulled to press their fingers insistingly against the fabric of his lapels.

"You'd think you'd know how to do this yourself," they said in a long breath. Still their hands curled attentively against his checkered jacket; his heart beat against their right fist. "Maybe I prefer it this way, dig?" Benny responded coyly, like the rythm didn't speed at the touch. Like they hadn't been holding their breath since he'd come closer. Like something playful. Like something sincere. Their thumbs traced against the staunch black and white, coasting down along the fold of the suit before finding the buttons of it. His breath caught a little bit too, even though it was only them. Just the two of them, eachother. He watched, transfixed, as their deep brown eyes — almost black, like a rich bourbon — flicked up towards his buttoned collar before back down to their lingering fingers. They pushed delicately against the jacket until it unfastened before settling their hands uncertainly on his hips.

He let his head fall forward to press against theirs; he could feel the rise and fall of their chest under the thin barrier of his shirt. Chapped, he noticed, their lips were chapped and pink as they let out a slim sigh, eyes closed as they moved their slight hands back up to his lapels, thumbs hooking under the fold and pulling lightly. There was something almost fragile about them. In the low lighting in his bedroom, he could see a how their cheeks flushed at the smallest of touch. He wondered how they would react to his mouth over them; their lips, neck, a pale shoulder... A little shiver stole across his spine.

He leaned back. The fabric was pulled over his shoulder, firmly over one arm, then the other, the palm not holding the edge of the coat steadying itself on his shoulder. It's lifted like a weight from him, settled somewhere between the curve of his shoulder blades. They go to drape the cloth over their arms again, but he catches their hand with his own to bring it back to him. His fingertips linger over their wrist before taking the coat from them, turning it around and draping it across their shoulders. Their eyes met his. They looked shy. It was adorable— not in the least because its his checkered number they were wearing, a charming yet durable piece that's hung off of him since he first got on the Strip. The coat fitted snug over their frame; the sleeves were long and draped loosely against them. It's very fetching, he thinks, how it fits them in some ways and yet not at all. He ran his fingers up the length of the sleeves, feeling the material and pressing against the skin under it. "Like it, sugarplum?"

They looked stoutly towards the wall. "It... smells like— like you." They murmured softly, the kind of non-answer that says more than if they'd just told him yes directly— that's not their style, not in romantic endeavors anyways, or at least not with romantic endeavors involving him. That was what Benny liked so well. The way they spoke to him, the way their eyes followed every movement of his. No one ever gave him that kind of attention; that kind of concern, where they seemed to care about everything from helping him takeover Vegas to asking him if running the Tops ever stressed him out, the kind of selfless concern where they really, sincerely did not think about asking for anything in return. He wished sometimes they did, though. The coat suited them even as they drowned a little in it.

"Are you gonna ask me to help you unbutton too?"

His eyes flitted over them with amusement curling in his chest. "Well, if you're offering..."

Their eyes met once more; it wasn't even hard to see how the warmth was radiating in waves from them as they tried to maintain an impassive front. He knew that look; it meant he was winning, even if they tried to hide it. Well, it was a good thing he was a master at reading people; if you could call them anything but a perfect little picture book. His hands went around their waist, gripping them and tugging slightly as he guided them back over to his bed. They sat down with an almost hesitance, letting him bring them close, just nearly in his lap. Humming just under his breath as he took their hands again, letting them press against his shirt with an expectant quirk of his lips. He watched with interest as their brows furrowed just a little, watched as they focused more on the task at their fingers than on the closeness of their bodies. He could see their tongue dart out briefly to wet their lips before retreating again. Laughing lightly, he leaned forward to brush his nose against theirs.

"Gotta get a move on, sweetheart…" He mused quietly, brushing his nose across theirs again. They exhaled in a little shudder, but didn't move away from him. "Assuming you wanna get to sleep sometime tonight."

"I'm getting to it," they mumbled. Their eyes shut a little as their fingers finally moved— deft, gentle, they undid the first two buttons while Benny rested his cheek on top of their head. He could feel their breathing quicken, a little shakey. Maybe he should've kept his mouth shut; but he was a guy who talked, and working them up was all too rewarding. The way the tip of their nose brushed against his neck as they pulled the third had him smiling into their hair again; all their attention on him, eyes not wandering... They focused only on helping him out of his shirt. It was intoxicating. He ran his fingers through their hair gently, watching in the vanity behind them as his reflection mirrored him, two hands carding gently through two scalps of mirrored partners.

The last button came undone with a soft touch, and he could already feel their grip on his shirt loosen. Before they pulled away from him completely, he placed a steadying hand on their thigh, leaning forward to brush the ghost of a kiss along their temple. He smiled a little, and felt a tingle race down his spine as he heard a little gasp escape their lips. The heat rose to his face as his nerves did to his stomach. He opened his mouth — an important question on the tip of his tongue — but stopped short when he felt a warm pressure on the corner of his mouth. Their lips met him; warm, soft, sweet, a bit clumsy and nervous and yet so perfect. It was perfect. Perfection had never struck him quite as forcefully as it did like this, like the shy embrace of lips chapped from nervous biting. He chuckled and leaned into them, kissing properly, letting his prior thoughts fade to the back of his mind in favor of the present, what was in front of him. What he wanted.

"Do you think, pussycat," Benny said, "you and me could make this a regular thing?" He looked behind them as he asked this— not meeting their eyes — as the reflection inhaled, long and slow, leaning into his arms.

"I do."

#leave me alone FOR FUCKING WVER ok? #daisy.pdf #🎰.benny #🔮🐈‍⬛.isekai au

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Warmth

Pairing: Thuringwethil x Mairon

Themes: Soft | Fluff

Warnings: Kissing 

Word count: 800 words

Summary: It’s a cold, cold night, and Thuringwethil feels it. Mairon comforts her. 

Minors DNI 

Want to be tagged? Want to know the rules? Read all here.

If you like this, please consider giving it a reblog.

The night had grown cold, the room colder even with a fire crackling away in the hearth.

And there had been a full moon out tonight, its light spilling through sheer drapes.

That was the thing that stunned Thuringwethil the most—that the Valar were able to salvage something from the rotted remnants of the two trees and bring new light into the world. The one that shone bright and golden hurt her eyes, but she adored this pale, silvery disk. She went to the window, content to watch.

The door to their rooms opened, and the air warmed. Thuringwethil felt her heart flutter a little.

"What are you doing, my jewel?" Mairon asked when he came in.

Thuringwethil kept her eye on the skies. "Admiring that, my love."

Mairon came over, his gaze falling on the moon and the countless stars glittering like tiny diamonds scattered all over rich, black velvet. Varda had outdone herself; he reluctantly conceded. "Pretty," he allowed, "but nowhere as breathtaking as the creature standing before me."

Thuringwethil blushed as his arms wrapped around her, holding her flush against him. There was still a spark of warmth in him, remnants of his time at the forge, and she felt it when he held her.

"My jewel?" Mairon asked when she turned and sighed contentedly, her face buried in his tunic.

"You're so warm, my love." She sighed when she felt that spark of warmth still radiating from his body. When the wind blew with more force, the air cooled even more. She trembled, somewhat ashamed that she could possess such a weakness. 

Mairon did not rebuke her for such a thing. He held her to him, letting her draw comfort from his presence. When the air grew even colder, and she shivered, he led her inside, saying, "Do you still struggle with the cold, my jewel?"

She swallowed. The other maiar adjusted to the change much faster. The darkness no longer troubled them. The damp air no longer bothered them. Intense cold and icd no longer troubled them. But her? Oh, how she still struggled sometimes. "I do..." She licked her lips and confessed, "I just want to curl up somewhere warm on nights like this."

Somewhere warm, she said. Vána's meadows, where the world was evergreen and the air was warm and fragrant, a place where it was always summer and never anything else. Here at Tol-in-Gaurhoth, life was much colder now that winter had settled over Beleriand. And Thuringwethil had a more difficult time than most with her new life. 

Mairon asked, "Do you miss the meadows, my jewel?"

Oh, how it shamed her to say it. "I do, still. The flowers, the birds, the warm air." She took a slow, steadying breath before looking up at him. "Are you angry?"

Mairon sighed and shook his head. How could he be angry? It had only been a few moons since she had left everything she knew behind in Valinor. It had been only a few moons since she left all her other companions and the safety of Vána's meadows to come here with him. And those who attended Vána and Yavanna craved heat and warmth, and here, far away from them, they struggled. 

"My love?" Thuringwethil asked as her fear grew. 

Wanting to soothe her, Mairon laid a hand on her hair and let his fingers brush through as he always did. The room grew darker as clouds drifted in and darkened the sky. The air became damp and chilled as the rain fell. They stood there, watching each other silently.

Thuringwethil felt her heart thump frantically with fear as the moments seemed to melt into each other. If Mairon was angry, he said nothing. She certainly saw no anger in his countenance. She swallowed when he took her hands, his fingers interlacing with hers.

"I am not angry, my jewel," Mairon finally said, lifting her hands to his lips. Her skin had grown cold but tasted sweet all the same. Oh, how he hungered to taste more of her. "This new life we have chosen is not an easy one. Of course, we'd have a hard time with it changing."

She shivered again when his lips drifted and lingered over every finger. When he lifted his eyes, she could only see desire and wanting burning bright as ever. Thuringwehtil also saw understanding and something else. Something she couldn't quite place, something that felt light and sweet. When he let go and wrapped his arms around her, she inched forward, closing the distance between them.

When Mairon kissed her, she kissed him back. Kissed him with equal fire and need. When his mouth opened over hers, she sighed and cleaved to him, her entire body warming when his tongue licked past her parted lips and slipped into the warmth of her mouth. His fingers toyed with her hair, and his eyes briefly opened, drinking her in. When his hand glided over to the softness of her throat, he felt it. The chill on her skin, the trembling in her muscles. She needed to feel more warmth, something he knew he could provide.

Thuringwethil pouted when he broke their kiss and chuckled softly at her whine. "Come here, my jewel," he said and took her hand, leading her to their bed. "I will keep you warm." 

Tags: @asianbutnotjapanese​ | @fictionfordays | @edensrose​ | @cilil​ 

#thuringwethil #mairon #sauron #sauron fluff #mairon fluff #soft #fluff #the silmarillion #the silm #ainur #the ainur #maiar #the maiar #fanfiction #writeblr #thuringron

[mellointheory]

Hallowed Devourer

Punz is just one of seven priests in this black-marble room, standing on the steps of the first pool. Yet he stands out because he’s younger than them and his hair is still blonde and not grey, and because of the tattoos threaded in gold across his back.

We are priests of DreamXD, and our bodies belong to It. Any marring of them is destruction of His property.

He committed blasphemy when he got those tattoos; the inks of slender-legged hornets and branching lightning and coiling chains. Yet they stand among their fellow priests and they duck under the water with them, feel its chill on their skin and in their hair. When they all rise he can see it in their eyes: they resent him. They think he’s tainted the holy water and this place they worship in, they think he’s a disgrace to his white robes lying on the other side of the pool.

They hate him because he’s made a mockery of their religion as he walks with marked skin among these sacred halls, and God calls for his presence nonetheless. They need him because he’s been raised and taught these rites, and the ritual ahead of them cannot be completed without him.

Punz can’t help but smile as he and his fellow priests advance out of the first pool, cold water still dripping down their skin. They pass through the corridor of flickering candles. Punz may have spat on the tenets of their faith but they were raised here, and they still move with the calm and slow gait that prevents their passing from snuffing out any of the yellow-white candles that provide their illumination.

They enter the second room, and before them ripples a pool of cherry red wine.

We must wash three times to be fully cleansed, they are taught. Once in water, to cleanse the body.

Punz lengthens his stride and reaches the steps of the second pool before his brethren. It smells rich, of citrus and pressed grapes with an added velvet edge of age that makes the scent tangible enough to stick to the back of his tongue, like he can taste it. He walks down the steps, slowly. Wine ripples around him, clear red against their skin. When he reaches the level bottom he kneels and lets it close over his head, drenching him in the blood of grapes long dead.

Once in wine, to cleanse the mind. Our sins and drunkenness on the world remain within it and we pass on. 

Punz smiles under the surface and parts their lips, just enough to catch a taste of the citrus in his mouth. He stands up and glances to either side of him, where his fellow priests kneel as well.

As he walks up the steps he swallows and feels the wine warm his throat and his stomach. It tastes like sin, and he carries it with him into the citadel of holiness. 

They wait at the top of the steps for the other six to join him, because this is the ritual and even he with his blasphemy and desecration of God’s property wouldn’t dare break it. He may rebel against their tenets, but he still can’t shake that childlike wonder at the glory of the church. They recite the words he’s studied for years as they approach the last pool.

“God of Life, we come to meet thee.”

Punz speaks with words on wine-scented breath.

“God of the End, that which we cannot reach, we come to meet thee.”

They walk in measured step through the last hall and the candles flicker around them. 

“We ask thy permission to approach thy holy place.”

The last pool glimmers in the candlelight. It is velvet-dark, amaryllis-red, and not a ripple mars its surface. Water for the body, wine for the mind. Blood for the soul.

His step does not falter as the blood laps at his feet and his calves and his knees and his waist. It’s warm, like it has freshly spilled from veins pulsing with life. 

Punz kneels slowly and feels the blood rise to cover the tattoos on their back, crimson red washing over the pale of their skin and the gold of their ink.

“We, thy servants, come to prostrate ourselves before thee and worship thee as thou deserve.”

And they all drop to their knees. Warm blood fills Punz’s ears and soaks into their skin. He can taste the iron in his mouth. It mixes with the lingering sweetness of the wine he’s swallowed.

They rise, blood streams down their faces. And as one they speak the words of their rites.

“God of Blessings, we have cleansed and are clean. If it be thy will, take us to thine holy place.”

Blood beads on Punz’s lashes and drips from their lips. He opens his eyes and stares at black marble, ancient candles, and the pool of blood that laps at his waist.

“Come, then,” the voice of God says.

The blood turns to stars and they all sink into it.

Read on AO3 here!

#punz #dreamXD #mello writes #dsmp fic

[natureplay]

୨୧Chapter IX • Oh fuck

୨୧Masterlist

↫Previous Chapter | Next Chapter ↬

Word count: 1k

The night was a blanket of velvet, a soothing caress that enveloped everything in its quiet embrace. The stars glanced down peacefully from the sky and the moon lit up, its brightness unmatched. Its rays sparkle through the darkness, radiating a peaceful and calming atmosphere. It's a serene sight to behold; its pale glow can be seen even from the most remote places on Earth.

His hair moved in the breeze of the night air, creating a seemingly chaotic pattern which still managed to look somewhat good.

You tighten your grip around his waist. In turn, his hand comes up to rest on yours; it’s cold and the skin is rough and calloused. His thumb brushes back and forth on your knuckles. The action is comforting.

You close your eyes, focusing solely on the feeling of his skin on your skin, but something makes you pull away. Leon says nothing and focuses on the road ahead. You remove your hands from him, steading yourself by grabbing the sides of your seat, even if you didn’t feel as safe.

The pounding of your heart reaches your ears; you take deeper breaths to try and calm yourself. You don’t know what came over you so suddenly.

Your hands find Leon’s sides once again when he abruptly stops at a red light.

“Sorry,” he says.

“It’s okay...”

Unlike the ride with Claire, this one is very quiet. Not unusual for you and Leon, it’s almost always quiet when you two are left alone. That quiet feels nice, like a mutual understanding; like you two have a secret code, and don’t feel obligated to say anything. This time is different— it’s almost... awkward?

The motorcycle comes to a stop in front of Claire who is still standing next to Leon’s car. Only, there is somebody talking to her. A woman with a short, jet-black bob, dressed in a beige trenchcoat.

Claire looks tense and not that keen on the other woman’s presence. Do they know each other? If they do, they’re clearly not on good terms.

The woman turns around. She’s stunning. Her face looks to be carved by the Greek Gods themselves; her whole being blessed by Aphrodite personally. Out of worldly beauty. Her night sky coloured eyes scan briefly over to Leon then they set on you. Your breath hitches for a moment.

“Oh?” she says “And who’s your little friend over here?” she smiles with the corner of her mouth. Her voice is soothing, velvety rich, like that of a lover.

Her lips are plump and red, and they look so soft.

You open your mouth to speak, but Leon beats you to it.

“No one you should be concerned with” Leon moves next to you grabbing you by the forearm, “Get in the car, I’ll drive you home”

“Come on, Leon. I’m not going to do anything to her. What’s your name, doll?”

Leon is urging you to get in the car but before he can close the passenger door you shout your name at her. You manage to catch her response: “Such a pretty name” which makes a smile appear on your features. A pretty name; She thinks your name is pretty...

After that, you don’t hear anything else she says, or the others say. From the window, you can see Leon’s and Claire’s tensed shoulders and scrunched-up faces while the woman is calm and confident. She’s so—

You shake your head. You don’t like women, not like that. You’re just appreciating a fellow mate, a comrade. Everyone turns their head at a pretty woman when she walks down the street, grateful to be in the presence of such a masterpiece.

Leon steps into the car, his expression as exasperated as ever, with a clenched jaw and furrowed brow. The tension in the air is palpable. He lets out an irritated sigh before leaning back against the headrest of his seat.

You want to ask about who the woman was, but internally you realize this probably isn't a good moment. You avert your gaze from him, focusing instead on your hands resting on your lap.

The blond revs up the engine. You look out the window, finding that both Claire and the black-haired woman have disappeared. It left you with a strange feeling of unease, as though a mystery was unfolding before your eyes but you could not understand what was going on. Questions raced through your mind about the mystery woman and what she said to get Leon in this mood.

Again, the ride is filled with an eerie silence. Nothing but the gentle hum of the engine and the occasional passing of an outside sound can be heard.

When the vehicle arrives at your destination, Leon brings the engine to a halt. You unfasten your seatbelt and step out of the car, taking a few moments to stretch out your legs. He does the same, emerging from his side of the car.

“I hope you enjoyed yourself tonight,” he says, walking up the steps to the entrance of the apartment complex. You wonder for a moment why he’s doing it, but then you remember his grandmother is your next-door neighbour. He’s probably going to visit her, at this late hour...

“I did. Thank you” You smile at him. His expression remains the same. Stoic and cold. What happened?

Now you really want to know who she is.

Leon steps into the elevator with you, and you're immediately aware of the same tension that exists between the two of you, but this time it's not as strong.

“Good night,” he says while walking away. He smiles.

“Good night, Leon,” you say and unlock the door to your home. Stepping inside, your body is overcome with deep fatigue. You don't even realize how exhausted you are until now.

You trudge wearily across the wooden flooring to your bedroom, feeling the texture beneath your feet. Your mind is heavy as you walk, reflecting on a day that was much too long. Your pyjamas are ready for you, laying on the bed.

You slowly get on the bed, adjusting the pillows and straightening out the covers in preparation for what restful slumber awaits you. But at this moment all you can think about is how exhausted you feel and once again, who the mystery woman is and what’s her connection with Leon.

୨୧Masterlist

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