#pre asoiaf fic

[sweetestpopcorn]

It f_cking happened

#help #HELP! #the blacks & the greens #dance of the dragons au #daemyra #daemon x rhaenyra #valyrianscrolls #pre asoiaf fic #btw new chapter is out and its more than 10k words #enjoy?

[onthesandsofdreams]

6SS: Lyanna x Jaime: Discovery

"You?!"

Lyanna freezes at the sound of that voice, with her heart beating so loud, she turns to find Ser Jaime Lannister staring at her open mouthed, she stands tall and proud, "Aye Ser, it is I, the knight of the laughing tree."

Jaime shakes his head, then laughs, "Oh but the King would never had expected this! Do not worry my Lady, your secret is safe with me."

She frowns, "And why is that?"

"Because the King's convinced that this is a ploy against him," Jaime says, suddenly serious, "and should anyone catch you, I do not think the King would find it amusing."

She can feel herself blanch, she had not thought that at all, "Then, you have my thank, Ser Jaime, my eternal thanks."

#lyanna x jaime #jaime x lyanna #lyanna stark #jaime lannister #pre asoiaf #pre asoiaf fic #au: canon divergence #pre relationship fic #six sentence sunday

[theothermaidoftarth]

Exposure

T | pre-Cregan Stark/Nettles

Takes place between chapters 1 and 2 of World on Fire. A small ficlet in Cregan’s pov.

Word count: 1,444

Cw: ableism, angst, complicated relationships, family dynamics

When would he stop for breath?, Cregan thought, looking at his son in mild amusement. An amusement which waned as he heard Rickon speak of ‘Missus Nettles’ for the third time in as many minutes. It would have been of little note had he not also done as much the day before while visiting his grandmother. Cregan could feel Lady Gilliane glancing at him with increasing amusement. 

She laughed at the last thing his son had said, hands flapping in his excitement, a gesture she never thought twice of from him. Had it been Cregan... “The undercrofts. Fine place for snares. But would our guest think so? Do you mean to send her running south so soon, my lad?”

Cregan only just held back a snort, though he knew his mother to be japing. Of course a young woman who claimed a dragon the size of a small keep was not faint of heart. Mistress Nettles’ diminutive stature belied her mettle. On the first night of her arrival he saw as much firsthand, many times over. Much of that in his study as she sat before his desk in that ridiculous dress which hung from her like a set of drapes, or a shroud. And he, cold-hearted scoundrel that he was, chose to proceed as if she were not the spirited girl from Jacaerys’ last letter, giving free reign to his ire when their circumstances were no more to her liking than his. He looked at her in the way which had made grown men quail since he was four-and-ten and she looked back with not so much as a startled blink.

It was his undoing. He only acknowledged as much to himself after she came across him in the hot springs. And by then it was too late. He had fallen, hard; his every other thought of her, her wants, her needs, her comfort. Her hopes and dreams and future plans…

Cregan forbeared to cease his son’s babbling; it would only look the worse for him, fermenting his mother’s suspicions. If he had nothing to fear, why put a stop to the boy’s chatter? It was not as if it reminded him that Rickon still had no mother; that Arra was dead and gone, never again to grace the world with her cutting wit; that the young woman whose kindness had so warmed his son could not stay; that Nettles could not remain a part of Rickon’s life. Not as his mother, not as Cregan’s wife. Why would she want him, Cregan was not Osric; he was not as Brandon had been or even Elric.

It seemed no time at all when the lunch hour approached and Bessa bustled Rickon away, leaving Cregan quite alone with his mother. Terrance Snow would be here soon with her medics and mayhap Hollys to tidy the room but for now it was just them.

“I hear you still seat her to your right.”

And who had told her that? There were too many fucking answers. “Should I not? Last I knew she was still a envoy.”

Gilliane knew every one of his silences, every one of his stony looks. Just as he knew her hums and tuts, mysteries it had taken half his life to solve.

“If you were not you, shall I tell you what I would suggest?” she began and he grit his teeth around his ire. Not the first time she had said so. At least twice in his memory, mayhap not as much as other mothers in her place would have but each time it was a blade in his gut. If you were not you; if you were different. 

His father never said similar when he lived but the way he looked at Cregan told it true. Would that you were the younger son and Willam the elder. Or worse, would that you had died and he had lived. Centuries before the dragons came, Northmen used to leave unwanted children out in the snow to die, exposed upon the mountains. Cregan wondered sometimes if Lord Rickon would have done so, had the practice still thrived by the time of his birth, a too-quiet babe who squirmed away from all touch as if being branded, who hardly responded to his own name or smiled or laughed or babbled. He knew this because of his mother, some from servants’ whispers but mostly his mother who told him straight to his face. He wasn’t sure if he loved her more for such honesty or not.

“You will tell me all the same,” he said now.

“Take her to your bed. Or go to hers, whichever.”

He stood at once. “Good day to you, Mother.” He did not even stop to bow as he crossed to the door. A few paces from the door, he halted but only to turn and say, “Do not think that Mistress Nettles is only her dragon.”

His mother affected a look of mild affront. “Oh now you insult me. I thought nothing of the sort. But such a look in your eye, as if you’d fall on even your own sword in defence of her… Is this how it is then? Ah, fine, do not answer. But you know as well as I, he would turn in his crypt to see this.” Father. The man he’d tried to honour all his life. Had he been proud of him at all at the time of his death, even a little?

Cregan flexed his jaw. “Then let him do so. He does not dictate what I do, how I live my life.” He’d accept if Nettles didn’t want him and let it be, but to cease for the sake of a ghost? To never be touched by her, body and soul for the sake of a dead man who half despaired of him in life? No, Cregan would not live his life so. He might well be dead himself then.

Gilliane smiled then, small and sly. “No son of mine ought do any less.”

“Are you winning?”

He turned from the mannequin, startled, to see Nettles just at the edge of the training yard. She had seen him naked and he had not been as flustered. He was in his element here, steel in hand and muscles aching. He did not need to worry she’d be impressed; most who saw him were. But still he was flustered, like a boy at his first bout. She had not seen him here before; he had not expected to see her now. And they were alone, as they had been by the hot springs. It gave the moment an unexpected weight. There were no judging eyes to stare, or mouths to smirk behind hands if his wits proved too dull, his tongue too graceless.

He did so want to say something to make her laugh. He wanted to see those dimples of hers again. Laughter limned her voice more oft than not but rarely lit her eyes; she was more serious than she first appeared. Less so now than her first night here. He had been happy to see it, to bask in the rays of her joy. To be touched by her again.

“If you came afore midday, you would see me win against men of flesh and blood.” He rolled his shoulders backwards but she did not look at his muscles, did not giggle, bite her lip, glance up at him through her lashes with a smile. Was he doing this wrong? He had not done so with either Arra or Jacaerys. Things fell into place differently with them both. He had been different; with her, and with him and now.

“Tomorrow then,” her smile was small, sad. “Tomorrow is…” her last day. His stomach roiled. So little time. Nettles smiled brighter, counterfeit gold. “Tomorrow is a fine time for me to experience the north in full. Bring everything full circle. I shall see your finest sword,” she tipped her head to him and he felt hot blood sweep up his neck to his cheeks, “dance my last jig, mayhap find a shadowcat to tame.” As she walked backwards, she grinned at whatever look must have passed across his face. “Think I couldn’t?”

“I think you could. That’s what worries me.”

“And then when I triumph, you will feel awe instead.” 

She was too far away to hear when he said, “I already do.” Do you not know what you have already won? He would tell her, would overcome his clumsy tongue and find a way to tell her until she knew without doubt. In my eyes, you are crowned in glory.

Read on ao3

#asoiaf #f&b fic #f&b au #cregan stark #nettles #nettles x cregan stark #cregan x nettles #cw: ableism #pre relationship #rating: t #rare pair #rarepair #oneshot #part of a series

[asongoficeandfirehistoryau]

Lord Vimond Targaryen [158 B.C.--135 B.C.]

Lord Vimond Targaryen was the first-born child of Lord Vaellar Targaryen and Lady Naelarys Aereneos born in 158 B.C. and the presumed heir until his early death in 135 B.C.. Unfortunately, it is unknown which specific battle or war he died in. Lord Aenar’s records, however, make it clear that he looked up to his eldest brother, naming him the fiercest dragon rider of their generation, claiming that it was the reason he was targeted during the battle and from this it can be inferred he was indeed a brave warrior, not shying away from the front lines. In addition to his prowess in battle he also carried a Valyrian steel blade known as heartfyre. Aside from these specifics, like his father, Lord Vaellar, very few details of his life were known aside from his wife and their children and grandchildren.

Lord Vimond was born in 158 B.C. and was a strong and healthy child as was predicted when his mother claimed a dragon while pregnant. However, unlike most Valyrians, he was born with bright red hair, earning him the nickname “Fireborn”, he did however have the dark brooding violet eyes of his father. As the first born child and son, his mother Lady Naelarys, doted on him and they had a very special bond as he grew up. Lord Aenar claimed in his journals that Vimond grew to be incredibly handsome and could have had his choice of bride but did his duty by his mother’s traditions and married his sister Lady Velaenora (still a beautiful woman but was more athletic and lither than feminine and delicate) in 142 B.C. They were happy during their short marriage, but they weren’t ever truly at peace together. Aenar recorded that his sister would often complain about the way women would stare and throw themselves at Vimond leading her to mistrust him. However, according to Aenar, Vimond remained a dutiful and faithful husband during their 7-year marriage, but it was with little enthusiasm for his chosen wife. As a result of their tensions, it would lead Vimond to spend a lot of time away from home serving as a commander in the Valyrian army, spending most of his days in the saddle of his dragon. Vimond loved to fly, he claimed his dragon when he was young, at just 5 years old. In 147 B.C. he claimed Cytu “the Eternal Fire”, a borderline wild young dragon whose coloring made it look like a shimmering flame. They had a deep bond and Lord Vimond could control his wild natured dragon better than any of the dragon tamers and mages that belonged to the Targaryen’s.

[Lord Vimond and his dragon Cytu "the Eternal Flame"]

 Lord Vimond, like his brothers, was schooled in the ways of war but their father, Lord Vaellar, saw to it that they were also studying the history of Valyria, the cultures of their colonies, and expected them to be leaders in the next generation and lead with honor and chivalry. Vimond, according to Aenar was the very epitome of these things and was riding his dragon into battle by the age of 14. Lord Vimond also spent time with his brothers studying with their father on how to rule their own house, their own territories as governors, and the politics of court. Lord Vaellar wanted to make sure that even if he was not accepted by the Great Lords, his sons would be. Part of their tutoring involved their duty to the family and how important it was to put the family above all else. Lord Vimond took these lessons to heart and when it came time to marry, he married his younger sister Lady Velaenora in 142 B.C.. Within the first two years of their marriage Velaenora was pregnant with their first child, Rhaesella Targaryen, in 140 B.C. Rhaesella was named for Vimond’s and Velaenora’s younger sister Relaenna, whom they were both close with. Lord Vimond remained at home for the first year to welcome their first child, Rhaesella, and as a result Lady Velaenora quickly fell pregnant again within that same year however, her joy at being pregnant was cut short when their mother passed away from childbed fever 5 moons later. Every one of Lady Naelarys children took her death hard but for Vimond and Velaenora they were particularly afraid of what that could mean for Velaenora’s pregnancy. They were both also extremely close with their mother, being her first son and daughter respectively, and they mourned her loss deeply together bringing them somewhat closer together through tragedy. Thankfully, due to their support for one another during their grief, Velaenora’s pregnancy went smoothly, and in the first few moons of 139 B.C. she gave birth to another girl, Naeresa, who they named in honor of their mother. Unfortunately, despite their renewed relationship, Lord Vimond was not able to stay away from the battlefield any longer and left to fight for the next two years. In 137 B.C. he returned for 6 moons and left just after it was announced that Lady Velaenora was pregnant again, he was able to take leave to see the birth of his first son, Daemion, in 136 B.C., but unfortunately he was only home for three moons before having to leave again, and tragically this would be the last he would see of his family. He was killed in an unspecified battle somewhere in the empire when an enemy scorpion bolt took out his dragon and he plummeted to his death in 135 B.C.. His loss hit the Targaryen family hard, Vimond had been the clear heir to his father, Lord Vaellar, and House Targaryen and he was everything his father wanted. He was charming, charismatic, thoughtful, and careful in his actions, he was a smart and confident leader and above all else was an excellent warrior and dragonrider having been known to fight even upside down cutting down foes on castle walls and mountain ledges. Lady Velaenora took his death the hardest, not stirring from her bed for almost a month. However, one visit from the crying 6-month-old Daemion roused her from her deep depression and she moved forward for the benefit of her children. Surprisingly her father never required her to remarry, seeming to understand how deeply she felt her loss for Vimond. Eventually however, Velaenora overcame her heartbreak and remarried however, while she remained in Valyria she would always visit his tomb in the family mausoleum on the anniversary of his death and paid her respects.

#ai art #asoiaf #au #game of thrones #got #got au #midjourney #asoiaf fanart #fan art #ai artwork #pre asoiaf #valyria #house targaryen #targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd #game of thrones au #game of thrones fan fic

[elizxbethofyork]

a rhaena targaryen story ♛ a dragon doesn't fear 1/2 inspo and gifs by @queensend

warning! depictions of incest, harsh language, murder, violence, abusive relationships, and mentions of rape

She would later learn what had driven him to her bedchamber that notable evening. Her husband was either gentle or caring, and only came to her when he deemed it fitting to leave his seed within her, but other than that he had barely spoken a word to Rhaena. He was never a man of words, even as a child she would remember how her uncle barely acknowledge her or her siblings existence. The only incident that she can recall was when the Dowager Queen Visenya demanded that she should be given to as wife for uncle; stating the bloodlines of the conquerors uniting will strengthen our hold on Westeros as well as maintain our pure Valyrian blood. Maegor would take Rhaena as his wife, but many years as well as many wives later. She remembered that horrid day when she stood between beautiful Jeyne and sweet Elinor because one wife was not enough for her uncle. He had taken three to the marriage bed that evening, whilst his sorceress witnessed it all clutching onto Rhaena’s daughters as the precious hostages they were.

Tyanna.

Rhaena did not know it was her blood Maegor was covered in whilst when he held her; had she known she would relish knowing the witch had met a horrific end. She recalled that night by the fire, for it was only in that moment did she ever felt something for him, and it was pity. She sat by the fire in her empty chambers with a small book in hand, reciting the same poetry that had brought her comfort as a child. The sounds of the fire crackling echoed against the stone walls of the room, the rooms she use to share with her sister wives but Jeyne died bleeding out Maegor’s son, and Elinor prayed to gods for she also carried his child. That only left Rhaena, she was the last of the brides that her uncle has not left with a child. The twisted irony was not lost to her, for Maegor’s first wife remained barren for him and as his last wife so would Rhaena, she would make sure of it no matter how hard he fucked her.

She remembers muttering the Valyrian words against her lips when she heard the echoing of his boots, as she squeezed her eyes shut as if she could make him disappear. Rhaena was the only wife remaining for her uncle to take to bed tonight. And though it was not the first night alone with her husband, she had little comfort in the fact that he would visit his other wives the next. But all of them were gone, she bitterly reminded herself, leaving Maegor all to herself in the coming darkness. The sound of his thundering steps grew louder by the second until they didn’t, the locks that kept in her prison turned and the great oak doors opened. She felt the hairs on her skin rise in goosebumps: she could feel his presence a few feet away, she could hear his heavy breathing, and his smell always filled the air with rosemary, ash, and blood, always blood.

“Rhaena”, his voice was low and coarse when it spoke. It was the first time she ever heard him utter her name, for it acknowledged her person, it made her into a human being, it gave her power. And when it came to Maegor, it was him and him only that was allowed to hold such power.

In an instant, she rose and faced her husband, lowering her eyes and placing her hands in front of herself. “Your Grace”, she said meekly. Rhaena was disgusted with herself, whatever happened to the girl that dared to take a dragon into the skies, what happened to the fire that burned in her veins? She knows, she remembers for it had died when Aegon did when Maegor ripped open her husband's throat.

Rhaena tried so hard not to flinch when he walked toward her, she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing she was afraid. For she was a dragon, and dragons do not fear. A dragon doesn't fear, she repeated the words over and over again in her head trying to remain calm. He towered over her, leaving her in the shadow of darkness like the wings of Balerion. She could feel the tension, the fear, the agony thick in the air for it made it hard to breathe. Maegor began to trace her exposed collarbone with his hard calloused hand as she felt his cold gaze burning down at her.

“What do you have in your hands?”, he questioned noticing the small book she held, her grip tightened around it .

Rhaena felt her mouth go dry, she flicked her eyes up at him for a second and lowered them instantly when they met his lavender eyes and quickly answered, “A book of poetry, your grace”.

Maegor sat upon the couch, his burning gaze never leaving her, he hummed and reached out to take the book from her hands. Rhaena simply obeyed and gave him what he desired. He began to flip through the pages, thinking he could find treason within its words. “A cup of wine, wife”, he simply said as his eyes continued to search for whatever delusions plagued his mind.

She walked away from him toward the tray of wine, she can feel her entire body trembling as she began to fill the cup with the sweet burgundy drink. A dragon doesn't fear. She tried to calm down by taking deep breaths. A dragon doesn't fear. She must face her fears like a dragon would, head-on. Rhaena turned around and returned to her husband's side with the cup in hand.

When she approached Maegor, he shut the book close and threw it to the side. She handed him the wine he had asked for. She watched as he finished the entire goblet, “Dornish shit”, he murmured before dropping it onto the floor and once again his attention turned towards Rhaena.

Before she could move, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her onto his lap. Holding her under his firm grip, Maegor stared into her eyes. “So much like Aenys in the love of pretty words and songs. But unlike him, I can see the dragon hiding beneath your soft flesh”, he pushed a strand of her silver hair behind her ear. He pressed his head against her body, and then placed his face in between her breasts as he inhaled her scent. She forces herself to hold him then, trying to stop herself from repulsing against his touch.

“You were always meant to be my wife, and now you shall be my last wife. For the dragon in you will burn away Tyanna’s poison and you shall give me the son I was promised”, he mused. She never thought him to be the nostalgic type. No, he wasn't, he was making a vow, acknowledging the cards fate has dealt him.

“You honor me with such a duty, Your Grace”.

“The others were unworthy with their polluted blood”, he spat with hatred in his voice. Maegor turned his head and once more stared into her eyes. “You, however, have proven that you are fertile by giving our house not one but two children. Ours is true, ours is pure and it will be our son who is a true dragon worthy of the name Targaryen, worthy of the iron throne”.

“A true Targaryen prince” — you are unworthy to have such a son, Rhaena thought.

“A true dragon to carry on the legacy of the conquerors. Uniting the bloodlines of Aegon and his wives. They have built us this empire, but your father was weak and allowed our enemies to grow. But I will burn them out leaving behind steel and strength allowing the house of the dragon to rule for centuries to come”. He spoke of legacies, of weakness and strength, of the future as if it belonged to him and him alone. Or maybe Maegor finally understood that his reign of terror was coming to an end. No, he wouldn't of understood for that was the only thing he was oblivious too.

“Will you sing for our son?” he asked as he once again pressed himself against her. He closed his eyes and leaned deeply into her touch.

“Sing?”, she asked confused. As if you would ever let me hold him, as if Tyanna would ever let him call me mother, as if I would ever give birth to that son you so desperately desire.

“Aye, sing. Father always beamed with pride for your talents, for it reminded him of his favorite wife and you do have a lovely voice. Will you sing for me, wife?”. Rhaena stared down at her uncle in utter shock, it was usually his action that left her in this state, and now it was his words. She felt his strong arms snake around her waist as if he was a little boy holding onto his mother.

Rhaena forced the words from her lips and began to sing. It was a common Valyrian song, one that her father would sing to his dragon. A song fitting to put a wild dragon to sleep. She ran her fingers through his short-cut silver hair, and she felt his muscles relax under her touch. His breathing lightens but she still felt it heavy against her skin. Time moved slowly or fast, she couldn't comprehend for there was a beast between her breasts. A beast that looked so much like a scared little boy. A trick of the mind, Rhaena reminded herself, he was no little boy, he was a monster. She would finish singing the song, but he did not move. His arms tightened around her and she continued to hold him, cuddle him, allowing her fingers to continue touching him. The room was quiet if not for the wood burning and crackling, she turned her face to the fire and stared at the dancing flames. A dragon doesn't fear. She told herself as she felt the tears roll down her cheeks. A dragon doesn't fear.

Rhaena closed her eyes for a moment and she shot them open when she felt the presence of another. She looked towards the doorway and saw her Uncle Daemon staring at them. Traitor — she thought, he was the reason Maegor took her for his wife. She glared at him with utter hatred in that moment.

“My King”, he said.

Maegor opened his eyes and stirred, his grip loosening but nevertheless still there. He turned his head and shot an angry look towards Daemon. “What is it? What is so important that you dare to disturb me?” he growled.

“The small council gathers, Your Grace. We have news of the traitors” Daemon replied cautiously as his eyes flicked from Maegor to Rhaena. She knew then, they have news of the rebellion, of her family.

“Hmmm”, he grunted at his words. He finally let Rhaena go, allowing her to stand and walk a few steps away from him. Maegor nodded and rose from his seat, he once more towered over her. She felt her knees go numb and instead of averting her eyes, she dared. Rhaena started back into those cold lavender eyes and saw a grin form on his face. “I will return to your bed tomorrow, wife”.

“As is your right, husband”, she replied stoically, that was the first and only time she addressed him as such, her husband.

Maegor gave her a short nod of acknowledgment and turn leaving the rooms. However, Daemon continued to stare at her, though he dared not to look her in the eyes. She followed her uncle’s gaze to her nightgown. The white cotton gown was utterly ruined, covered in stains of deep dark red. It took her a moment to realize it was blood and she thanked the gods it wasn't hers. Daemon’s eyes finally met hers, and they looked at her with pity. He gave her a soured smile and closed the doors behind him as he left.

Leaving Rhaena utterly alone in the darkness covered in blood and tears, whispering the words. A dragon doesn't fear.

#game of thrones #house of the dragon #asoiaf #gotedit #hotdedit #pre asoiaf #preasoiafedit #pregotedit #fire and blood #rhaena the black bride #maegor the cruel #tyanna of the tower #the black brides #asoiafedit #hotd #a short story #fireandbloodedit #maegorthecrueledit #blackfyre #fan fic #houseofthedragontedit #targaryenedit #house targaryen #visenya targaryen #visenya the conqueror #*myshorts #valyrianscrolls #lit

[synkverv]

(Jaehaera & Daenaera modern metal band AU; playlist)

Introducing the Little Queens, an up-and-coming duo with their unique blend of doom and groove.

Vocalist and bassist, Jaehaera Targaryen (17), and drummer, Daenaera Velaryon (14), are eager to prove their "metal" in the scene and empower other young women to do the same.

#syncreates #jaehaera targaryen #daenaera velaryon #metal band au #jaehaera au #daenaera au #asoiafedit #hotdedit #f&bedit #gotedit #pre asoiaf #fire and blood #f&b au #f&b modern au #the little queens #all the jaehaera vs daenaera stuff on twitter was driving me nuts so here's this lmao #i want to say they sound most like konvent but with harper's vocals and gojira-esque grooves #and maybe aegon iii plays guitar with them sometimes but isn't actually in the band #or baela instead idk #anyway probably going to write a fic abt this at some point #look out for that maybe? lol

[viscardiac]

A season left of summer - XIV

𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍 𝐗 𝐎𝐂

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: “But know this,” she rose an eyebrow. “I think Ceryse Hightower a poor match for the prince.” “And should Aella, a babe, suit him better?” He shook his head with a smile, pulling Visenya closer. “She just might.” “Let her be. Soon, Lady Ceryse shall give him an heir to care for, and this shall be long forgotten.” “I do hope you’re right,” Visenya sighed, leaning on his chest. But I don’t think you are, she thought.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2.535

𝐗𝐈𝐕 - 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 '𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐔𝐓

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕 || 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓

"Dear Rhaena... And all the rest of you, who will, no doubt, read this letter. I hope you fare well, and know I will not return until I see fit.

I write in good spirits, later, perhaps, than I should have. My child came to this world safe and alive, as am I now. A boy, large and beautiful, whom we named Viserion, after the queen. I am confined to bed by the midwife until she sees fit, or as she calls it, "until I am fully recovered". My son has occupied the better part of my days as he grows. When he sees me, it is with his father's eyes, that which brings me great joy. Had this senseless exile been lifted, you would meet him sooner, but alas, you shall wait. I trust all is well with your dear friend Alayne, as well as with our brothers and sisters. I shall tell you more about Viserion as he grows and finds his footing, but for now, he sleeps on my breast.

Your sister, Aella."

***

"Dearest daughter, I am overjoyed in receiving word of your successful labor, albeit through Rhaena.

She told us you found offense in your mother's letters, and therefore, I write it in her stead. Though the situation is unsavory, to say the least, I am nothing if not proud of your accomplishment, proud to say I am Prince Viserion's grandsire. I would like you to keep us apprised of his development, and look forward to meeting him, as you said, when you see fit to return to Westeros.

Your father, King Aenys."

"I am still livid that you married the prince, but I should tolerate him for as long as he should treat you with the due care. I am sure my nephew is a beautiful boy, or else he would not be my nephew, after all. Father needed days to recover from the news of Viserion's birth, but he will be well. You know how he always was, fainting any time he would need to make a decision. Mother wants me to tell you to return — but I tell you to stay put. 

Vaella is unwell, though I don't think any of them want me to tell you. I don't think she will survive the year, and Alysanne is the saddest of children. She looks forward to meeting her nephew, though, as do I. 

Queen Visenya has returned safely, as I'm sure you already know.

Your sister, Rhaena."

***

"Dear Rhaena, I am distraught over the news you have for me about Vaella. We all hoped she would have fared better, and she is often in my prayers. I hope for the best, as I do for Viserion, though he was never as frail as Vaella is. Relay my sympathies to mother, as I am sure she will be terribly sad, as am I, and surely you too.

However terrible the times are to do it, I have news of my own to give, as I am once more with child. Maegor insists he is to have another son, but the fate belongs to the gods. I will be glad with however many children the Mother deems right to give me, and I should love them all the same. Viserion has learned to laugh, and will do so at any given opportunity. You must visit me soon, to know him, to tell me the gossip of the court.

Your sister, Aella.”

***

“ALREADY?

Your sister, Rhaena.”

***

“So will the gods. And my husband.

Tell me news of Vaella, Rhaena. Queen Visenya tells me she grows fainter by the day. It guilts me to see my own son so well and have news that my sister is to die.

Your sister, Aella.”

***

“I delayed sending this letter. Unlike you, I have no sort of good news to relay. Dark wings, dark words, though no crow carried this. Vaella continued to sicken. The maesters say there was nothing that could be done, and I think they just didn’t do enough. They seldom do anything that does not align with their agendas.

She was burned, as we all are. Father had Quicksilver do it, and there is a gloom over our heads. The court says she was an infant and infants die more often than they do not, and I pay it no mind. These are the same people that spread out vicious lies about me and my travels, of how my maidenhead is gone, given to a common man. Mother has finally convinced father to do something about it, and now they wish for me and Aegon to be married.

The High Septon opposes it, as he opposes everything — I'm sure he would have me wed to his Hightower nephew as he did with Lady Ceryse. I don't believe either me or Aegon feel anything about the subject. We always presumed we would be wed after all, as I was closer to him in age than you were.

I forbid you of dying on your new child's labors as much as I did the first.

Rhaena."

***

"I never knew what to write you. Grief written doesn't seem like enough of a word. Is it ever, even spoken? Fool that I am, I pictured Vaella grown, perhaps even betrothed to my son. Mother would never allow it, but one can dream. The gods will have her, they must. She was but a babe.

The court is comprised of liars who know nothing about anything that matters. When they find no gossip, they invent it at our cost. They wouldn't dare say it to your face, though.

The maids have managed to convince my husband I am to have another son, but I am not so sure this time. It feels different. This child grows at the same rate Viserion did, likely, I will be just as huge when the time comes.

I do not intend to die in childbed anytime soon, Rhaena. I will be back to haunt the halls of our home. But it seems like our fate is to be wed without the other.

Your sister, Aella."

***

"It appears that fate has nothing but annoyance in its schedule. It'll be fine, I believe, however much of a nuisance the High Septon has decided to make himself.

As far as courtly gossip goes, I must tell you, Lord Celtigar has married that Harroway girl, in hopes she might yet give him the son he seems to need. I feel sorry for her. For a valyrian, Lord Celtigar certainly lacks a character to love or hate.

As for a son of your own, well, it would be terribly lucky. Does the lighting strike twice on the same spot? We must see. Would it not be a beauty, to give Viserion a sister to wed?

Your sister, Rhaena."

***

"I presume it would be all the easier, if there was a sister to wed Viserion to. As much as everything ought to be less complicated if we were men. The court wouldn’t mind something so trivial as whom we choose to bed, for one.

Mother seems to have given up sending patronizing letters that do nothing but sour my moods when they arrive. She has taken to tell father to write them, and however much I may know he means no harm, it is also due to his indulgence of her will that we stand as we do now. As much as I love them there is some share of it which will never stop being unforgivable.

When is the wedding planned to happen? I must send you and Aegon gifts.

Your sister, Aella.”

***

“Mother claims our wedding should be as soon as possible, but father seems tired enough, his lords wish to make an event of it and he has the bad habit of failing to tell them no. It is yet to be announced, and all hell will break loose, I’m sure of it. Mother is sure Viserion will be spoiled by your husband, but I trust you will do a fine job with them.

I will be expected to bear children, and I regret not being able to do it with the same joy you do. I don’t think I ever will. One will suffice. It will be enough for me, and it will be enough for Aegon, he may face Dreamfyre if it displeases him. I expect my nephew is growing strong, both of them, if your maids and husband are to be believed.

Your sister, Rhaena.”

***

“Viserion will outgrow me faster than I could ever imagine. He is not a year old, and yet, he is terribly big. His nursemaids have a hard time carrying him around, and so do I. The babe grows at the same fast rate Viserion did. Maegor has agreed to let me name it after our grandmother, after you. Should it be a girl, she will be Rhaella. If a boy, we are to name him Rhaegel.

I regretted you wouldn’t be here when labor came for Viserion, and for this new babe it shall be the same, for you need to focus on your own wedding. And Aegon has more to fear than just Dreamfyre’s breath if there’s a demand for more than you will to give. You must give me notice of how things went if I cannot be there myself.

Your sister, Aella.”

***

“As I predicted, things are at odds.

Father announced the match between me and Aegon, and the Faith… did not like it. I’m sure that hateful High Septon would rather I marry one of his Hightower nephews, as he did with Lady Ceryse. They were not all that happy with your wedding either, might I say, but the match you made seems to be… acceptable in face of wedding brother and sister. None of us cares the least for the High Septon’s opinion on the matter, valyrians did it for millenia, and so did the Targaryen. We will continue to do so long after they’re gone.

For once, father took a stand about it, and there has been talk among the court of things I shall not repeat. It is all the better that you need not hear it.

Your sister, Rhaena.”

***

"The court speaks because father serves no justice for their words. Maegor says this High Septon ought to be burned to the ground, and I tend to agree. His meddling has caused enough trouble as of now. Burn you, yourself, this letter if you must, but should you face trouble for that miserable old man's babble, I will be more than happy to ask of my husband to go and fulfill that wish with Balerion. And he would oblige.

Father should be controlling all this nonsense instead of planning a wedding. The gall! Talk about a princess, a prince in such a manner you yourself dare not repeat. Father should have his tongue at the very least. How does mother even tolerate it? It's absurd.

Aella."

***

"The High Septon has no use for that tongue of his, it would seem to me, except to cause discord. And yet, the plans for the wedding stand strong. They preach on the streets, ridiculously, might I add, calling us abominations as if they themselves were not so for the sheer boredom they cause me. 

Aegon is more worried than I am. I advised him to take a dragon for himself, and he will not do so, for no reason I can ascertain. He should. If anything happens to me, you have my leave to send that terrible husband of yours atop the Black Dread to reduce the Starry Sept to ash and gravel.

Your sister, Rhaena."

***

"It gladdens me to see you accept the help I can offer, even if it breaks exile. What will father do, exile us?

Sometimes I think he and mother wish for an early grave. They must. Else, why do they have so little regard for what happens right in front of their eyes? Things are not fine, nor will they be until this behaviour is excised. But of course, who am I to give an opinion? The midwife says much of my anger must be to blame on the babe, but I think her wrong. I am justified in wanting things done right.

Don’t allow them to place you in danger of becoming something you’re not. I was so close to it, and I would regret it my entire life.

Aella.”

***

“The wedding was… eventful. I’m sure you already know. Queen Visenya left it in protest, and no doubt has either sent you letters or told you in person. The Sept of Remembrance was full, and the streets were even fuller with all that hateful mob that listens to the High Septon’s detestable discourse.

We then had the banquet. I’m sure this was mother’s work, no doubt, and yet… Father has taken the title you and Prince Maegor carried, Prince of Dragonstone, and laid it upon Aegon. He cares not for the title, it is no more than words to him. I cherish it, but it is in truth his, not mine, as it was your husband’s, and not yours. It is bound to stir worse trouble, as Queen Visenya keeps this court in one piece. I’m afraid father cannot manage it on his own. Never could.

I feared these news, who are sure to anger your lord husband, would cause you or the babe harm. Even if I were not the one to give them. You are well within your term, no doubt just as big as the last time I saw you, if not bigger still. Please be well.

Your sister, Rhaena.”

***

“I delayed this one letter for one too many reasons.

For the first, Maegor was livid father would do such a thing after sending us into a senseless exile. I was, too. I will not lie to you, we took offense, and for long, I was angry at you for taking something that belonged to me. But you’re right. It was never mine to begin with, it was his, just as now it is Aegon’s.

For the second, labor came earlier than I thought it would. Perhaps it was the anger, perhaps it was the babe that wished to leave on its own accord — and I wouldn’t put it past him. Maegor blames father. He will not hear it otherwise — though he will still take any chance to burn the hateful mob you tell me of to a crisp. No doubt there are many more hateful words to my own children, who are babes at arms.

And it would seem the maids were right again. This babe is a boy, Rhaegel, as I have told you he would be called. While his brother was calm, he is fretful, and will make noise at all things he can. Not all cries, mind you, but I think he will hever tire of using his words when he learns them. Rhaegel reminds me of the paintings of our late lady grandmother, Queen Rhaenys. I wished she could have met them, the two of them. With enough hope, you still will, though.

Your sister, Aella.”

#my writing #my art #a season left of summer #oc/aella #maegor #maegor i targaryen #maegor the cruel #maegor targaryen #maegor x oc #oc #asoiaf oc #got oc #pre asoiaf oc #pre asoiaf #asoiaf #targaryen #house targaryen #targaryen oc #targaryen fic

[fat-walda-lannister]

art by my beautiful @greenie-slag

#nedsei #ned stark #cersei lannister #ned x cersei #ship meme #rarepair #asoiaf #got fic #asoiaf fanfic #asoiaf fic #rare ship #game of thrones #i ship it #otp ship #house lannister #house stark #pre asoiaf

[rosieofcorona]

Any Man’s Bride

A little fic about my OTP (Tywin x Joanna) and the lengths they would go to for their house and their relationship. Also on AO3. <3

Joanna’s fingers wander lazily down the pathways of Tywin’s skin, grazing every now and then against the golden curls on his chest. She traces fine lines along his collarbone, over the empty hollow of his throat where his heavy chain of office usually rests. In the corner of her eye, she can see it on the table at his bedside, set aside but never forgotten, starlight from the window making it shine in the dark.

Beside her, Tywin is still and comfortable, his sharp features softened into something close to peaceful, or as peaceful as he is capable of being. His eyes are closed, but Joanna knows he is awake. She can always tell by the way his breathing deepens, his heartbeat slows.

It seems a shame to trouble him in this state, when he has finally set down the burdens of the day, but she has held the bad news long enough. A better time will never come. 

“Tywin?” 

He only hums in reply, a low and weary sound, and waits for her to speak again.

Suddenly, she doesn't know how to begin. No matter that she has rehearsed this conversation many times in recent days, rolled the words over and over on her tongue until they are worn smooth as river rocks. She knows it will make no difference in the end. Even polished stones bruise when thrown.

“A raven came from the Rock,” she says, exhaling the words in one long breath, making certain that her voice does not waver. “From Stafford?” “From your father.”

The air seems to go still within the chamber. It is rare enough that Lord Tytos writes to his eldest son and heir, much less to any of his other children—and never, never to Joanna.

Tywin is immediately suspicious. He sits up on his elbows and twists to face her, his brows furrowed in an expression that is equal parts aggravated and concerned. “And?”

“He hopes I understand,” she continues cautiously, reciting the words as clearly as if she were reading them on the page, “That in accordance with my late father’s wishes, I am to be married by year’s end.”

The stare that Tywin gives her is one of genuine disbelief, hard and unblinking, as though he is waiting for Joanna to explain herself, as though it has never crossed his mind that this day might eventually come, as though it is utterly incomprehensible that she should become any other man’s bride.

Several long moments pass before he decides it is not merely another of Joanna’s attempts to vex him. When he finally speaks again, his voice is dark. “To whom?”

At first, she says nothing.

It feels wrong to speak of marrying anyone else when she is still naked and warm in his bed, when she wants nothing more than to pull him close to her until he is tangled in her arms and her legs and her hair. Her hesitation hangs heavy in the space between them, and only makes him more impatient.

“To whom, Joanna?”   “Lewyn Martell,” she answers, too quickly this time.

The silence that follows seems to stretch between them, widening like a crater, like a maw.

Tywin rises from the bed and crosses to the farthest window, looking out over the city below.

On the surface, the match seems suitable enough. Lewyn Martell is young and strong and handsome, the glory of Sunspear, and quick with a blade. The son of a great house, and already a knight at his age. A fine suitor for any woman, by all appearances.

But Tywin, at least in his own mind, knows better.

They called young Lewyn a prince of Dorne, but he is no true prince at all. The Dornishmen, Tywin thinks, are fond of their titles, false though they may be, and fond of their vices. Gambling and whoring were not least among them.

By rumor, Lewyn Martell is no stranger to the Dornish way. He could take as many consorts as he chose, even when married, could fuck and fight like a wild dog in the streets, could fill a dozen bellies with half-bred pups, could cast Joanna aside for his own pleasure.

Joanna does not belong there, in their foreign city with their foreign customs, was not born to share her bed with whores and heathens. She is proud and noble and beautiful, and a Lannister overmore.

Above all, she is Tywin’s, has always been Tywin’s. That alone is enough to deem any other match ill-made.

Finally, he draws a long breath. “Have you accepted?” “Not yet.” “Yet?” He turns his head toward the word, his profile cutting a sharp silhouette against the night sky. “You plan to?”

It is more accusation than question, and Joanna knows there is no sense in lying now.

“Yes.”

The way Tywin looks at her makes the heat rise in her cheeks. His eyes flicker with the kind of fury that crackles like a forest fire, uncontrolled and spreading. “So this is what you want.”

“Don’t be absurd, you know it isn’t.”

“Then refuse.”

“I cannot.”

Tywin’s patience is stretched taut as a drumhead, and every word she speaks threatens to strike a thunderous blow. “Very well, then. You may go. I require no further use of you.”

“Use of me?” Joanna’s anger is kindled by her cousin’s, and she struggles to smother it before it catches flame. “Take care how you speak to me, ser. I am not your whore.”

“No. But you mean to be Lewyn Martell’s.”

For a moment Joanna is dumbstruck, as if Tywin has just slapped her across the face.

He moves as far from her as possible, pulling on a tunic and doublet and breeches even though it is the middle of the night. Joanna, unwilling to let him have the last word, scrambles from the bed and slips into her shift, following close behind.

“Have you lost your mind?” She demands. She catches him by the arm, forces him to look at her. “Do you know how it will look if I defy your father? Will it inspire confidence in his allies or fear in his enemies if he cannot even command his own house, his own niece?”

With a scoff, Tywin turns away, but Joanna is never so easily dismissed. She overtakes his long strides and spins around to face him again.

“Would you have me deny him this alliance, and Dorne as well? You know as well as I do the Martells will not bear such a slight.”

They’re near as proud as you, she wants to say, and twice as stubborn, but she thinks better of it.

Tywin does know. All reason tells him that Joanna has the truth of it, but he cannot bring himself to admit that, not yet, not aloud.

The next time she reaches out to touch him, he does not recoil, does not turn away.

“Tywin,” she urges, taking his face in her hands, her eyes wide and pleading and honest. “You must understand. It is not for love of Lewyn Martell that I would accept this offer. House Lannister cannot lose what respect you have only just won back.”

Tywin sighs, and waits. Waits. Waits.

At last, he takes Joanna’s hands in his, sets them down at her sides.

“Fine,” he says, in a tone so impassive it makes her stomach drop.

Tywin has never been one for surrender—especially not where Joanna is concerned—but now it seems there is no fight left in him. Briefly, she considers taking it all back and assuring him that of course, of course she would never wed another, that she would let houses and cities and kingdoms fall if it meant they could be together.

But in the end she says nothing, leaving Tywin to break the silence, and her heart with it.

“You must leave me now. I have work to do.”

In the weeks that follow, Joanna takes great care to avoid her cousin. She does not seek him out, does not look at him or speak to him or draw attention to herself on the rare occasions when he passes her by. It is not such a hard thing to do, she thinks after the first few days, but if she is being honest with herself, it is only because Tywin is also avoiding her.

                                                      **********

It is a full moon’s turn and a half before she gets a good look at him again, and all the while the city fills up with visitors. They trickle in slowly at first, a few caravans at a time, but then come faster and thicker, in droves and hordes and masses.

Most of them are copper-skinned and raven-haired and beautiful, dressed in the sleekest Dornish silks. By month’s end, Joanna imagines that there must be more of Prince Lewyn’s kin in King’s Landing than there are left in Dorne, but it comes as no surprise. They have come to celebrate with him, to honor him on the most important day of his young life.

On the morning of the ceremony, Joanna’s nerves are as tangled as a sailor’s hitch.

It does not help that the Great Hall is overwhelmed with spectators, lords and ladies, merchants, princes, singers, knights. As the vows are spoken, Joanna finds herself praying for the whole thing to be over, for the High Septon to cease his dreadful intonations, for the crowd to disperse, for a chance to be alone.

And then she sees him.

Ahead of her on the dais stands King Aerys’ faithful right hand, Lord Tywin, all in black, a stark, defiant contrast to the knight that kneels before him in gleaming white plate.

It is Tywin himself who descends the stairs to present the white cloak of the Kingsguard to Lewyn Martell, who smiles and bows as if there is purely honor in the gesture, as if he has not just committed himself to a life of loneliness, celibacy and servitude.

Lewyn does not know what Joanna knows.

He does not know the dread that filled her, body and soul, as she wrote and rewrote the letter that would bind her to a man she did not love, in a land she did not know.

He does not know the relief she felt the day he took her by the arm and led her through the queen’s gardens, full of apologies for why he could not marry her after all.

“An appointment from the king himself,” he’d said, his honeyed voice dream-laden, consumed with thoughts of glory. “You understand, I hope, why I could not refuse.”

Of course she understood, she’d told him, such an honor must be acknowledged and accepted, and he’d smiled and patted her hand sympathetically. Joanna had pretended to be sad.

He does not know of Tywin’s wrath that night, when he learned that his beloved would be stolen from him. The wrath that convinced King Aerys that Lewyn Martell was the most worthy, the most able, the most skilled knight in all the Seven Kingdoms to protect him, should such treachery ever come to pass. The wrath that robbed Sunspear of her darling son, and her only male heir. The wrath that doomed Prince Lewyn.

He will not know how Tywin kisses her tonight, harder and hungrier than ever before.

As Tywin turns to climb the stairs once more, Joanna catches his gaze and holds it for one small moment, each recognizing the familiar glimmer that so often accompanies a secret between lovers.

And Tywin Lannister smiles.

#tywin x joanna #Joanna Lannister #Tywin Lannister #house lannister #game of thrones #asoiaf #pre-canon #pre-asioaf #I'm obsessed with them #my fic

[mneiai]

Cos your other fic got me intrigued maybe something Jon/Daemon Blackfyre?

Ides of March Themed Fills

"There, in there," the voice echoed in his head and Aemon did as instructed, ducking into the storeroom he wouldn't have even noticed on his own.

Moments later, the clank of armored figures running by sounded. They did not stop to check--they didn't notice the concealed door, either.

He leaned back against the wall, allowing himself time to catch his breath and access the situation.

Something had gone horribly wrong. This was a holy day of Old Valyria, a day for various rituals long forgotten, and his father the king had decided to practice one anew. Whether he through his own mistake or the power of Westerosi magic had interfered, Aemon didn't know.

What had been meant to simply to wipe clean their past, to purge the taint of the last king's rule, had instead pulled their ancestors to them.

The strongest willed of them could reach forth through the veil, yes, but only those with unfinished business had done so.

Unfinished business in House Targaryen was rarely a good thing.

The others had no natural defenses: Aemon was the only warg among them, the only one who could shield his mind from the power-given spirits.

That didn't mean he was alone, of course. As grandfather, and Maegor, and Aegon II stole the bodies and memories of his family, he found Daemon Blackfyre still at the edges of his mind, not making attempts to take him over.

He was as horrified as Aemon was. Daemon had started a war, a series of rebellions that caused untold suffering, but he had believed his cause righteous and when he'd been alive, so had many of the realm. He wouldn't have been a bad King, if he'd been sooner or later he might have even been the accepted, seen-rightful one.

At no point did he want suffering and destruction for their own sake.

Or, Aemon hoped the was true, because he had no one else to trust. Servants and highborn thought there had been an attempted coup, assumed that House Targaryen was pulling itself apart naturally, and he did not know who may be loyal to which supposed side or where they thought Aemon fell.

"To the North," he whispered in his mind, feeling Daemon's trepidation.

"To Dragonstone, this was Valyrian magic," he countered.

Aemon shook his head, already collecting himself to make another go for an escape route few bothered using and fewer still would be able to--past the kennels, where anyone else running by would set the dogs into a frenzy of noise.

He started moving, stretching out his senses. "Bloodraven is in the North."

Daemon's shock was amusing enough to lift Aemon's spirits, momentarily. And then he consented, clearly aware the his brother knew more about magic than most others they could find.

They were stuck together, perhaps forever, perhaps simply until the spell was finished. And they were both reasonable enough to know that meant they had to work together.

The fate of House Targaryen, the realm itself, rested on them.

#ironicallypresant #ask answers #asoiaf fic #this ended up more pre-slash but just assume they slowly fall in love or something over their quest to exorcise the others lol

[sweetestpopcorn]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage Relationships: Daemon Targaryen/Rhaenyra Targaryen Characters: Daemon Targaryen, Rhaenyra Targaryen, Viserys I Targaryen, Alicent Hightower, Otto Hightower, Rhaenys Targaryen, Corlys Velaryon, Harwin Strong, Criston Cole, Valaena Velaryon, Laenor Velaryon, Arryk Cargyll, Erryk Cargyll, Steffon Darklyn, Lyonel Strong, Syrax | Rhaenyra Targaryen's Dragon, Caraxes | Daemon Targaryen's Dragon, Helaena Targaryen, Aegon II Targaryen, Aemond "One-Eye" Targaryen Additional Tags: Genderbending, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Story: The Rogue Prince (A Song of Ice and Fire), Story: The Princess and the Queen (A Song of Ice and Fire), Book: Fire and Blood, House Targaryen (A Song of Ice and Fire), Targcest | Targaryen Incest (A Song of Ice and Fire), The Dance of the Dragons | Aegon II Targaryen v. Rhaenyra Targaryen Era, This story is based on the canon asoiaf events and has no link to any adaptation Summary:

AU

Prince Rhaegar Targaryen is the Pride of the Realm. Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne, there is not a maid in the Seven Kingdoms who does not dream of conquering the heart of King Viserys's son and heir. And still, barely do they know another one already owns it... Princess Daena Targaryen, the King's sister.

Based on the characters and events created by GRRM.

#daemon targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #the rogue prince #the princess and the queen #fire and blood #genderbend au #dance of the dragons au #pre asoiaf fic #sweetest fics #for alinahams #daemon is daena and rhaenyra is rhaegar #if you ever wonder what I am doing that not updating my main fic this was amongst those things lol

[onthesandsofdreams]

Happy News

Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire Pairing: Rickard Stark x Rhaella Targaryen Summary: "I love you," she whispered. "So very much." She felt Rickard smile against her chest, "And I you, my she-dragon. With everything that I am."Words: 1078 Prompt(s): 29.- You Love This, Don’t You - from @fictober-event

Read @ AO3

Rickard all but collapsed on her chest.

Rhaella felt sore and tired, but deeply satisfied. Her marriage had been a good, passionate one so far. She cradled Rickard to her chest and felt his arms wrap around her, pulling her even close. She loved moments like this, when their gave each other to the passion that had been bubbling so close to the surface, thankful that they were now wedded and able to express the love they held for each other with their bodies.

"I love you," she whispered. "So very much."

She felt Rickard smile against her chest, "And I you, my she-dragon. With everything that I am."

She purred with contentment and kiss the top of Rickard's head. "I am so happy. I don't think I could ever be thankful enough to my grandparents for this betrothal."

If anything, Rickard's smile widened and he placed a kiss between her breasts. "You love this, don't you?"

"Yes." She admitted without shame. "I love it here. I am far away from Aerys, from my parents, I love being your wife and being addressed as Lady Stark. I am so happy. The North and its people has been so kind to me."

"You have been no slouch in winning the North to your side, my love." Rickard said and twisted so they could be laying side by side. His whole face was so different than the one he wore while shadowing his father, from attending the needs of Winterfell and its people. It was a face he saved for her, and her alone. "And I consider myself a blessed man to have such a wonderful lady at my side. You know, you have charmed everyone so thoroughly, that my own mother has told me she would disown me should I ever hurt you in any way... well, beyond the birthing bed. That is something unavoidable."

It was her turn to smile, "That is sweet of mother. I love her too, you know? She has been kinder and gentler to me than my own mother was." Her face clouded for a moment. "My mother heard the prophecy and she and my lord father were ready to marry me off, I was a child. And now that I am here, and I am a woman grown, I can see how terrible that would have been for me."

"And we owe it all to your grandsire," Rickard said softly. "To the late Queen too, but ultimately, it was the King who made it possible."

"That is true," she said just as soft. Then, she leaned forward and gave her husband a kiss. "And how fortunate I was that I got to have you? You are a good man, Rickard Stark. And you - and my grandfather - have given me the time to grow and learn. That way, I can appreciate what I have all the more. I have found family, friends and love here."

"And I have found a woman worth dying for."

"You had better not, else my bed will be very cold indeed."

Rickard laughed, and kissed her with renewed passion. And she let the fire she had on her blood to grow and gave herself into the desire that she felt for her husband without shame.

*

They have been married for three moon turns when she realizes that her moon blood has not come. She knows what that means, but she is frightful that she is simply late. So, she goes to Marna first.

"I think I might be with child, mother."

Marna, who is going through the things they will need for the coming winter, freezes on the spot. A second later, her head snaps to look at her, "Think, or know?"

"Think, I have not seen the maester yet. But I missed two moon bloods now."

Marna stands, leaving behind everything and rushes to hug her, her grin wide and her eyes are wet with tears. "Oh, Rhaella, that would be fantastic news! Come, let us see the maester now."

And they do, and yes, the maester confirms that she is with child.

She and Marna weep holding onto each other.

"You ought to tell Rickard, and I shall have a feast prepared. Oh, a grandchild. Gods be good, I am so excited. Off you go, Rhaella, find that son of mine and give him the news. And your ladies too. We shall feast tonight."

*

She finds Rickard in the training yard.

She watches him for a while, admiring the grace and strength in his movements. She has been getting better at the bow and arrow thanks to Lady Mormont and Lady Flint had taught her to use a dagger. Rickard had given her one when he found out. She takes a deep breath, "Rickard, may we speak for a moment?"

Rickard and Rodrik stop at once. Rodrik bows to Rickard and to her, "My lady," he says as he leaves them alone.

"Is there something wrong, my love?"

She shakes her head no, "No, I would say that thing are better than ever."

Rickard looks perplexed at that. "Then, what is it? You seldom interrupt a training."

"I know, but what I have to tell you is simply more important than that. Well, at least, I think so. But you will have to decide about that." Rickard waits, and she smiles, takes a hand of his and gently places it on her stomach. "I am with child, my love."

Rickard blinks and then, his whole face lights up. "A babe? We are to have a baby? Am I to be a father?"

Her own face breaks into a wide and happy grin, "Aye, my love. We are to be parents. The maester has confirmed with. We're having a child!"

Rickard sweeps her off her feet in a bridal carry, and laughs as he spins her around. "A baby! We're having a baby!"

She laughs, and throws her arms around his neck and kisses his cheek. "A baby. We are to have a baby."

*

That night during the feast, they make the announcement. Edwyle hugs her gently, as if he were afraid to break her. Her ladies cheer her the loudest, Marna beams like a proud mother and Rickard ends up with a sore back from all the congratulatory pats.

But life is good, and if the Gods bless her, she will have a healthy baby boy. A little Starkling to one day sit on his grandfather's sit.

#fictober22 #rickard x rhaella #rhaella x rickard #rhaella targaryen #rickard stark #asoiaf #asoiaf fic #pre asoiaf #pre asoiaf fic #au: canon divergence #the rhaella stark chronicles

[thesilverlady]

“Daemon praised her beauty, declaring her to be the fairest maid in all the Seven Kingdoms.”

please do not repost without permission

#rhaenyra targaryen #hotd #pre asoiaf #asoiaf #daemyra #house of the dragon #fire and blood #gotedit #house targaryen #targaryensource #hotedit #asoiafedit #emma d'arcy #milly alcock #my edit #do not repost #if you want to use it for a fic or edit ask permission and credit me #hotdsource #hotdcentral #targnation #gotdaily #thesilverladyedit #canon rhaenyra targaryen

[luckylucerys]

Right Hook Collision

Summary:

Luke hasn’t seen Aemond since the man tried to murder him nearly five years ago.

Little does he know that they’re about to run into each other again.

Literally.

#my fic #hotd #asoiaf #lucemond #house of the dragon #pre relationship #aemond targaryen #lucerys valeryon #series: terminal velocity

[theragethatisdesire]

perzītsos - bakugou katsuki x afab!reader, 18+!!

uh....surprise! i really love asoiaf, and i've seen so many posts about barbarian!katsuki, but i wasn't really successful in writing him, so here's my take on a fantasy au with katsuki. this takes place pre-fire and blood, really in the "medieval" days of the targaryen dynasty, with a targaryen heir!reader. i took some creative liberties with targaryen marriage customs, but i think they're sorta fun.

this is a beast of a one-shot, but there's lots of lore preceding this (do i smell a prequel?), including that reader asked for katsuki's hand in marriage, and neither of them were really expecting to wind up in a marriage bed together. i normally don't write virginity loss, but i made an exception for these two, i really do love them!!! fair warning, there's lots of high valyrian in here, which i don't speak fluently either, so i'm going to add some translations at the end :)

"perzītsos" - "little flame"

enjoy <3

pairing: bakugou katsuki x fem!reader

wc: 13.5k (told ya it's a beast)

DISCLAIMER: this post contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. if you are a minor, please do not read below the cut. bakugou is roughly twenty-eight in this fic.

cws: virginity loss, aged-up characters, fingering, oral sex (fem!receiving, male!receiving mentioned), reader has female anatomy, smut, pretentious amounts of high valyrian pet names

𖤓

Leaving the raucous merriment of the great hall behind, its stone walls bursting at the seams with the raunchy, jeering calls of Bakugou’s soldiers and the titters of the ladies of the court, only seems to emphasize the echoing silence of your chambers. The servants had completed the arduous job of transferring your things into your new apartments today; you recognize the tapestries that had decorated your walls since you were a child, now dwarfed by the massive dimensions of your new quarters, and the candelabra you’d been gifted by a nobleman at your seventh name day sits upon a newly constructed ebony desk.

Nearly every hard surface in the room—desks, tables, even small areas of the floor—has been covered in the fat, yellow beeswax candles crafted in the kitchens many stories below your feet, flames dancing and casting shadows this way and that over the stone walls. Many a night have you forgone sleep in favor of losing yourself in the waltz of a small fire on a wick, the sometimes-frantic, sometimes-untroubled rhythm of the flame in the breeze of an open window. Tonight, though, not even the hundreds of flames, these little extensions of the hot, ancient blood that flows through your veins, can distract you from your fate.

“I remember these rooms,” you say offhandedly, bringing one hand to the fine curtains that hang around the tapestry bed, “they were my mother’s.”

Bakugou stays stock still where he stands, letting you examine the marriage bed. The wood was brought into these chambers several weeks ago, alongside a handful of master carpenters. The bed is enormous, easily large enough for three people to get a full night’s sleep without touching each other. It had been built inside of the room so that the intended dimensions could be fulfilled without the worry of actually fitting it through the door, which it would not. The sight of it makes an apprehensive shiver rock through your frame.

“You were born here,” Bakugou says gruffly, catching you by surprise. “I remember.”

You turn to face him, eyebrows raised cautiously at his decision to speak. Considering what lies before you both, the breach in his silence is appreciated, if unexpected. He’s hardly said two words to you all night; two words besides the lengthy wedding vows you’d exchanged before gods and men alike, speaking them practically into each other’s mouths in the purring, labyrinthine cadence of the Old Tongue. The metallic taste of his blood, brushed onto your tongue by his own thumb, is still nestled between your teeth, worryingly permanent.

“You remember?”

“Hardly.” Bakugou diverts his gaze from you to where your marriage bed lies, squinting his eyes as if he’s trying to remember what it had looked like more than twenty years past. “I was three.”

It shouldn’t be as much of a surprise as it is, given that you’d practically been raised alongside Bakugou, taken your first steps, tasted your first victories, had your first stumbles under his watchful crimson gaze. The required distance had been there, as you’d always been more of an heir than a little girl, and Bakugou had been busy with his training anyhow, but he was a steadfast part of your memories, even if he had been mostly in the blurry peripherals until the most recent years. This confession, that he had stood in the same room as your howling, bloodied form had been brought into the world, makes you feel more exposed than you already do in your thin gown.

Bakugou must take notice of how your shoulders unintentionally tense up, because his lips pull into a small frown, not one of anger, but seemingly guilt. You sigh, rolling your shoulders back and squaring yourself to face him, trying not to let your cheeks burn hot as your nipples peak under the singular layer of fabric hiding the finer details of your body from him. He’s intimidating, and both of you know it, but considering that you’re the reason you two find yourselves in this room, you think that maybe you should be the one to guide him along.

Bakugou approaches you slowly, making a noticeable effort to dull down the soldier’s swagger he normally walks with, holding your gaze with what you surmise is his best attempt to look open and mild-tempered. You notice how he pointedly avoids looking at your body, how it’s silhouetted by the candlelight and showing itself as a dark, shapely shadow in the white fabric of your gown. He’s close enough to touch now, toes only inches from yours. You’re reminded of how close you stood during the ceremony, how he had sworn to give his life for you, to you. Ānogar ānograro.

“They’re waiting,” you say quietly, eyes darting to the four servants in each corner of the room. Bakugou follows your gaze, and his frown grows deeper.

“May I speak freely?” It’s a laughable question coming from him, but it’s a kindhearted gesture, so you bite into your lip and nod your acquiesce.

“You’re my husband,” you say, trying not to feel discouraged at the pink tinge that rises to his cheeks, “I always want you to speak freely.”

Through a stiff nod of understanding, Bakugou lets a deep breath exhale through his nose before pinning you in place with a scrutinizing gaze. “Have you been…kissed, before?”

“Of course I have, Bakugou.” You can’t hide the breathless chuckle that comes fluttering from your lips, the dangerous hint of a relieved smile that begins to carve into your cheeks.

“Katsuki,” he says, the corner of his own mouth curling when his simple request for familiarity wipes the glimmer of smugness straight away from your face. “Your husband, remember?”

“Katsuki,” you repeat, letting the letters make a home for themselves on your tongue. Something flashes in his eyes, and he clears his throat. You can’t make out the shape of what’s flickered across his face, but you can feel the heat thrumming from his eyes to yours.

“What else?”

“What do you mean?” Your nose wrinkles in confusion, entirely lost on what point he’s trying to make. Katsuki narrows his eyes, clears his throat uncomfortably.

“What else do you have…experience with?”

Oh. He wants to know if you’ve been touched, where you’ve been touched, possibly even by whom. It’s your turn to shuffle your bare feet on the cold stone floor, to look solidly ahead at the v in the collar of his loose tunic, the slope of his neck, anywhere but his eyes. Your stomach begins to roil at the implication of this, of baring yourself to him wholly. It won’t be the first time you do it tonight, and certainly not the last.

“I’ve– um, done most things.” You somehow summon the courage to meet his gaze again, staring up defiantly. “I hope that’s not a disappointment to you.”

“You had no obligation to me before today.” Katsuki shakes his head, as if to dispel the very notion that you even have something to refuse to apologize for. It brings a spark of warmth to your heart, a hum of satisfaction pulsing through you that you’d chosen your husband well, at least in this regard. “But you are a virgin?”

You can’t control the way your eyes go wide, blinking hurriedly at him when he asks the question. Your fingertips grow hot, and you aren’t sure which potential answer would be the least mortifying, so you opt to stick with the truth.

“Yes,” you say, so lowly it’s near a whisper, “I’m a virgin.”

Katsuki swears quietly in the Old Tongue, and though you’re more focused on your feet than his face, you can see the awkward repositioning of his feet, how his hands clench and unclench at your confession. He’s your husband, you scold yourself, you have no need for fear. You jerk your head up to look unflinchingly at his face, unapologetic in your stance. Despite the way he had voiced his indifference to your prior experiences, you can see some strange mixture of relief, nerves, and that same undefinable heat rising to his face, coloring his features and darkening his eyes.

His eyes run over your consummation gown, long, loose, and traditional as they come, lovingly hand-stitched by your longest serving lady-in-waiting. Your handmaidens had taken the liberty of freshening you up after the feast, scrubbing most of the heavy, ash-black ceremony makeup from the bridge of your nose, wiping the kohl from your eyes until you were bare. Your elaborate wedding hairstyle had been let down and reworked into a long, singular braid down your back, loosely secured by a knot of cowhide. That, amongst other things, is for him, and only him.

“After this,” Katsuki wets his lips with his tongue, “we won’t share a bed again–”

“Katsuki–”

“Not until you’re ready,” he amends. His fingers twitch by his sides, a boyish gesture for a man of his massive stature.

“I’m your wife,” you say, puzzled and looking up at him, “I may be a virgin now, but I’m no stranger to what that entails.”

A heavy breath shakes through Katsuki’s frame, and his brows knit together in an expression of comfortingly familiar exasperation. You almost want to smile back at him.

“I expected as much,” he says, one hand reaching forward ever so slowly to brush tentatively through your fingers dangling at your side, to pinch at the thin fabric of your gown and rub it between his fingers, “but that’s a matter for the morning.”

You catch the implication in his tone, in the way he’s holding the sheet separating you from him. There’s something to be taken care of. Your palms turn clammy, fingers beginning to tremble by your sides. It takes everything in you to set your jaw and look up at him, shoulders rolled back and expression carefully schooled into something that you can only pray approaches a warm neutrality.

“Would you like to take it off?” Your eyes flit from your gown to his face.

Katsuki considers you, dragging his eyes over your frame at an agonizingly slow rate, still maddeningly rubbing that fabric between his fingers. Suddenly, his face crumples into a scowl.

“You’re shaking,” he says matter-of-factly. Your cheeks warm, wishing he wouldn’t have brought it up. “Are you nervous?”

“Not of you,” you answer him truthfully, willing the tension in your spine to melt into pleasurable anticipation. Katsuki catches your meaning instantly, the concern in his eyes glittering into something more akin to the anger that settles so comfortably into the frown lines on his face, that strikes his sharp features so suddenly and beautifully you almost gasp.

“Turn around,” he barks suddenly, his posture straightening into that of the formidable general you’ve known him as all your life, not the surprisingly gentle husband he’s shown himself to be in the last few minutes. You start in his arms, beginning to spin on your heels to follow his command when his hands catch you by the shoulders, an apology writing its way into the fine features of his face.

“But you said–”

“Them.” Katsuki jerks his head towards the servants posted in each corner who are, miraculously, turned away from the two of you, heads down and poised towards the corner. You look up to Katsuki in amazement, and his eyes soften. “I wouldn’t speak to you that way.”

“Oh.” It’s light and not enough when it falls from your mouth, and you want to apologize, but Katsuki’s already loosening his grip on your shoulders, urging you to spin.

“Now you,” he says gently, “turn around.”

Too stunned by the duality of him to argue, the whetted and wartorn angles of him contrasting with this unbearable softness, you turn your back to him, urging yourself to relax under the weight of his hands. Katsuki’s hands subtly squeeze your shoulders, as if to warn you of their departure, and the next time you feel his touch, it’s on the end of your long braid, his scarred fingers fumbling with the cowhide tie.

You hold your breath as you feel the tension along your scalp go slack; he’s gotten the tie off of your braid. Katsuki’s fingers begin to methodically comb through your long hair, starting at the bottom and working his way up, deftly avoiding knots and keeping the lightly-oiled strands from tangling themselves as he undoes your braid. He’s surprisingly good at it, and an unexpected pang of pain accompanies your curious thought as to whether he’s had much practice undoing a woman’s hair, something so sacred. Before you can ruminate on the hurt beginning to come to a simmer in your chest, Katsuki’s spinning you back around, causing the calming perfume of your hair oil to cloud around your head as your hair fans out. It centers you, gives you the wherewithal to look up into his eyes.

Katsuki’s face is candid, beautifully so, in the way he regards you. Crimson eyes dart over every feature you have to offer him, now so wild and unbidden compared to your usual state of being, and he reaches a tentative hand towards your hair, before flinching and pulling back. You shake your head, bringing a hand out to catch his and pull it back towards the part of you he so clearly wants to touch before you can think better of it. Katsuki’s eyes widen, only momentarily, before his face settles into an expression of quiet approval, and he runs his fingers through your hair again, less purposeful this time and more for the simple pleasure of memorizing the feel of you under his hands. You blink up at him, waiting.

“Gevie,” he mumbles under his breath, watching how his fingers card through your unruly hair. He mistakenly brushes your nipple, still peaked under your consummation gown, and realizes what he’s done when you gasp lightly. 

“It’s okay,” you say hurriedly, surprising yourself when you realize that you mean it. Your back has already begun to arch unwittingly towards him, as if your body has accepted him as your husband while your mind is still trying to wrap itself around the idea. “Touch me.”

You can see the thought cross Katsuki’s face before he even reaches for your gown, pinching it at the hips on either side of you.

“Do you want to take it off, or would you like me to?” Katsuki says, hardly louder than a whisper. You blink, still trying to marry this man with the outspoken, ruthless general you’d invited to the altar with you.

“Traditionally, the man–”

“I know,” Katsuki says, a bit of an agonized bite behind his words. You bite your lip, worried that you’ve finally overstepped, but he sighs, heavy and surrendered. “I know what happens traditionally. I don’t care. We’re doing this on your terms.”

“My terms,” you repeat slowly, trying to gather his meaning.

“Yes,” Katsuki affirms, “your terms. Now, do you want to take your gown off, or do you want me to?”

You want to run to the washroom to realign your expectations, is what you want to do. This is supposed to be quick, you remember your handmaidens preparing you with monstrous stories of being unceremoniously bent over the bed, gown ripped to shreds or simply shoved above your hips instead of carefully pulled between a considerate thumb and finger. You study him, study that freshly sincere affection on his face, his willingness to bring you through this unscathed and…dare you say it, satisfied. Your hand, which, so lost in your thoughts, you hadn’t even noticed drifting, comes up to cup his sharp jaw, plush palm giving against the angle of his face.

“I want you to,” you say, nodding when his eyebrows raise in surprise. “I want you to take it off of me, please.”

Katsuki only answers you with a curt nod of his own, schooling his momentarily bewildered expression back into one of careful concentration, more for your benefit than his, you think. You can feel a slight tremor in his hands when he brings them to the strings that suffice for your gown’s sleeves, little more than strips of fabric tied in loose bows over your shoulder. Despite the painstakingly beautiful embroidery in the stiff linen, curling flames and stars rising from the hem of your gown, everything else about the design of the garment reveals its purpose: to be removed.

You hold your breath while he works at the tied strings, partly because you feel like you should and partly because the slightest brush of his fingers over your skin feels so climactic that you feel that it should make a sound, maybe that of pottery breaking or lightning clapping across a dark sky. It’s silent, the slip of the linen through itself, three cautious pulls and your gown is sagging on one side, the collar falling until your nipple is almost exposed. You gulp and try to look up to Katsuki, but his jaw is set, even grinding a bit in concentration as he keeps his gaze centered firmly on the bow he’s set upon on your right shoulder. You study him, looking for any indication that he’s anxious, or pleased, or disinterested, but he’s an unreadable mask of focus as his large fingers tug on the bow. It slides loose as easily as the first one had, and your gown slips from your body and crumples around your feet on the floor.

Katsuki sucks in a sharp inhale, forced to take in the sight of your naked body now that he’s finished his task. You watch intently as his eyes drag over every part of you, slow and savory, nostrils flaring and pupils dilating. You’re so exhilarated by his wild eyes taking you in, you almost forget to be insecure, to be nervous. This is something you might grow to enjoy, you think; Katsuki’s carefully concealed appetite.

“Am I alright?” You feel your mouth form the words, hear them float into the charged air. You don’t think you meant to ask, but once it’s out, you’re glad you did. It may be a politically-made marriage bed, but as fate would have it, your crown sits upon the head of a young woman, a young woman looking into the eyes of the man that would have her for his own, wanting to be thought of as a thing to be admired. Katsuki’s eyes flicker back to yours, and his brows knit together.

“Alright?” Katsuki’s eyes leave yours once more, and he meets his own gaze with a bold hand on your hip, thumb rubbing circles over your hipbone. “You’re more than alright, but you already know that.”

You feel so small, so silly when you tell him: “I was hoping you’d be the one to remind me.”

Katsuki understands then, meets your fixed look upon his face and lets that molten desire cool into something more digestible, easier to hold, and then he speaks. “Iksā gevie, ñuha ābrazȳrys.”

When you’d learned the Old Tongue as a child, you’d been taught to purr the sounds, to run them together like the slow, controlled flow of ink from the end of a feather. You learned to curl the consonants behind your teeth and let them breathe the same air for a beat, to birth the sounds into the world off of your tongue instead of simply pushing the air out. But when Katsuki speaks the Old Tongue it’s…a growl, forceful and quaking with restrained power. Raw and godlike, the words sound like they were written with his low rasp in mind.

Wife. His beautiful wife. Your breath hitches in your throat at the same time as a vicious swell of desire rips through you, mouth beginning to hang ajar. Katsuki frowns slightly, tilts his head.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Take me, then,” you say, breathless from your own courage. Katsuki’s eyes widen, and if you could see clearly through your own sudden lust, you’d see the corner of his mouth twitching. “Make me your wife.”

“I will,” Katsuki comes closer, speaking not smugly, but matter-of-factly. He slides one hand around your waist, thumbs at your chin with the other. “But there’s an order to these things.”

No sooner have you opened your mouth to protest Katsuki’s condescension than he’s closing the wide gap between his height and your plush, open lips, pressing his mouth to yours, and your mind goes quiet. You’ve been kissed upwards of a dozen times at this point, something you were proud to remind your ladies-in-waiting of this morning while they giggled and squealed about your big night with the general. A few princes, a handful of noblemen’s sons, the expected suspects. All your ladies had said in return was “Those are boys. The general is a man. You’ll see the difference.”

There’s nothing demanding or unkind in the way his fingers are pressing into the plush curve of your hip, but it’s firm, steady in a way you’ve never dreamed about being held. His hand spreads across your jawline, keeping you tilted up and open for him to move his mouth against. There’s none of the hurried pecking, no errant tongue forcing its way between your teeth before you can even offer– Katsuki’s a man. You understand now, understand your handmaidens’ flushed cheeks and the way they fanned themselves theorizing about whether your new husband was as ruthless in bed as he was on the battlefield. Katsuki makes a fire catch behind your ribs, a desperate urge to impress, to keep your now horrifyingly-apparent lack of experience under wraps.

You bring a hand to the back of his neck, willing yourself not to tremble, and card your fingers through the close-cropped hair, smiling when Katsuki’s lips stutter against your own. His grip on you tightens, one big hand slipping to the nape of your neck and pulling you flush against him. His tongue slips into your mouth, tasting like ceremonial wine and something mannish and mature; you’re hardly able to swallow the gasp that threatens to reveal how the pit of your stomach is beginning to curl in on itself. Your breasts are pressed tight against his chest, only separated from his skin by his linen tunic. The fabric kisses your sensitive nipples, brushing against the untouched skin, and despite yourself, you whimper pathetically into his waiting mouth, cheeks warming.

Katsuki pulls back, to your disappointment, and you begin to chew at your lip, frantically thinking through the last several minutes to wonder what you’ve done wrong. Had you been too forward, touching him back so quickly? Your fretting dies down quickly when you see that Katsuki’s only stepped back to finger the hem of his tunic, ripping it over his head. You only have a moment to catch a blurry flash of honed muscle and scarred skin before he’s back on you, calloused hands wrapping around your hips. It only takes a few moments of him kissing you, of your fingers dragging absentmindedly up his veiny forearm, before you ask him for what you want, palms pressed flat against his chest and pushing lightly.

His brows knit together, and his eyes flicker over your face, searching for any sign of discomfort. You take a deep inhale, hoping to hide how rapidly you’ve lost your breath to him, steeling yourself to look him in the eye.

“I want to see you.”

Katsuki’s face screws up almost comically, and he tilts his head.

“See me?”

“See you.”

You take a step back, keeping your hands on his arms, holding him just where you want him and– is it a sight. He’s sharper than you would have imagined, deep grooves carving into his skin where his muscles bulge beneath it. You suck in a sharp breath as you let your eyes move slowly from his hardened stomach to his broad chest, little nicks dotting his skin where a stray swordtip had punctured armor, and a particularly nasty gash cutting across his front, stretching from his shoulder to his ribcage. It looks like it should have been fatal. Katsuki crosses his arms over his chest, maybe in an attempt to stop you from ogling him like you are, but it’s counterproductive; all he’s done is give you a golden opportunity to watch the skin of his arms stretch to accommodate the way his biceps swell and shrink with the movement, the twitching and flexing of each individual muscle laid bare for you to see clearly.

When your gaze finally returns to his face, you almost want to snort at his expression: pink cheeks, a scrunched nose, and eyebrows lifted to indicate just how entirely unimpressed he is with your drooling.

“Done ‘seeing’ me?” Katsuki asks, mouth lifting in just the smallest hint at a smile. Your heart flutters lightly in your chest; it’s the first attempt either of you have made at humor since your betrothal, and it’s hugely relieving to have something to smile about.

“It was only fair that I take my turn,” you say, gesturing down at your bare skin. Katsuki’s lips lift a little more until his gaze lowers; his eyes darken as he lets himself take you in. You can see the same thought crossing his mind just as it occurs to you: you belong to each other now, every bit of skin, muscle, heart that you’re bearing to each other isn’t just your own anymore. That scrunch in his nose, the scar across his chest, the way he narrows his eyes to study you. It all belongs to you now.

Katsuki steps forward, letting his hand interlace with yours, fingers hanging in the spaces between your own.

“Are you ready?” His question is no more than a puff of air against your forehead, both of you mercifully standing so close that you aren’t forced to look in his eyes when he asks.

“Yes.” Your voice shakes despite your attempt to be resolute in your answer, and you tighten your fingers around his in apology. It’s all new.

Katsuki kisses you again, slower and warmer than last time. It’s not desperate or hurried, but it is sensual, a promise of what awaits you when he lays you down on your bed. You sigh into his mouth, growing comfortable now with the feel of him on you; so comfortable, even, that you don’t notice he’s been backing you up until your back hits the poster of the bed, effectively pinning you between the hard, ebony wood, and Katsuki’s strong chest.

Your confinement does something to him. It’s immeasurably minute, the way his breath seems to puff out a bit heavier, the sudden jerk of his fingers into your hips, but it’s there.

“When you said you had experience…” Katsuki says, voice gravelly and dangerously close to a pant, “what did you mean by that?”

“I–” you pause, swallowing thickly around the growing lump in your throat, “I’ve been kissed, and I’ve…been touched.” You settle on that, hoping he grasps what you’re suddenly too shy to say.

“Did he make you cum?” He asks it so quietly, you almost wonder if you’ve heard him correctly, but you do hear him, and your chest caves in on itself as the breath leaves your lungs. You’ve snickered over such things with trusted girl friends, your ladies in waiting, but to hear it so gruffly, from the lips of a man—your new husband, no less—is a shock to your system.

“I think so,” you murmur, hardly able to form the words. You can’t see him, his head hunched over your shoulder and his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear, but you can practically feel him frown.

“If he had, you would know so.” Katsuki presses a soft kiss on the cartilage of your ear, travels down to bring your earlobe between his lips. He moves farther down, kissing gently down the slope of your neck, so slowly as if not to scare you.

“How would I know?” You can’t believe you’ve even dared to ask the question, not entirely sure you’ve prepared yourself well enough to hear his answer. Katsuki sucks in a sharp breath against your collarbone, pausing his ministrations where he’d begun to lick and suckle at the prominent angle of it. Your face warms as you realize how deeply his faint touches have begun to affect you, how your chest is beginning to swell and sink with heavy breaths, how your skin tingles and sparks in anticipation of the next absentminded swipe of his knuckles, of the light pressure of his mouth.

“I can show you,” he whispers, and the world stops turning for a moment, “if you’d like.”

“Yes,” you breathe out before you can think better of yourself. You trust his hands, the steady way that they graze the curve of your hip and splay out against the small of your back. He’s stable and unwavering, keeping you afloat.

Katsuki nods against your shoulder, almost imperceptibly, and brings one of those strong hands up between your shoulderblades. He spreads his fingers out, forcing your back to arch for him, and brings his free hand up to your chest, pausing when he’s only a hair’s breadth from your breast. His eyes meet yours, a concentrated divot appearing between his eyebrows as he searches your face for any signs of discomfort. You arch into his touch, surprising even yourself with your boldness, and your jaw drops a bit at the sensation of his rough palms on your soft, supple breast.

Your eagerness spurs him to action, and he bends at the waist, scattering a litter of kisses across the top of your chest. You hold your breath as he dips lower, but your attempt to remain silent fails entirely when he closes his lips around your peaked nipple. A horribly broken whimper slips from your lips, and you squirm, though whether your body’s trying to push you into or away from the wet heat of his mouth you can’t tell.

Katsuki’s mouth stretches into a ghost of a smile around your flesh, or so you think, until his teeth graze your nipple properly and a quiet cry bursts from you. He smiles fully with your breast still between his teeth. His hand holds your back firmly in its bowed position as he moves to your other breast, twisting his tongue around your nipple there and kissing gently along the fat curve of the underside. He continues his descent, grazing his lips over your stomach, and you don’t realize he’s on his knees until he’s suckling softly on your hipbone, one hand now sprawled over your stomach. Katsuki rubs his thumb over the top of the thatch of hair between your legs, almost reverently, and it makes you regain your bearings, gulping.

“W-what are you doing?” You nearly cringe at the sound of your own voice, words syrupy and thick on your tongue.

Katsuki raises a cautious eyebrow, pulling back from the slight bruise he’s begun to place upon your hipbone. He’s still moving carefully, ghosting over where he wants to touch you as a warning before pressing his skin fully to yours, unwilling to spook you just yet, but something’s quickly changing in him. His jaw ticks as he considers you, looking down on where he kneels between your legs with wide eyes.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Katsuki asks back, looking genuinely confused. Your cheeks are aflame.

“You’re on your knees.” It sounds too simple as it leaves your mouth, an insult to your own intelligence, and you scowl in frustration, looking off to the side. The quiet chuckle between your legs snaps your attention back to Katsuki.

“I’m on my knees,” Katsuki agrees, leaning in and brushing his lips against your inner thigh, sending a full-body shudder racking through you, “for you. Do you…not like it?”

Your mind, foggy in the places you’re accustomed to using and glaringly sharp in useless departments like, for example, the way Katsuki’s eyes are glinting dangerously in the low light, struggles to find an answer for his question. You do like it, seeing this hulking, powerful man kneeling before you, tucking his chin up to the supple flesh of your thigh and blinking up at you curiously, but not for any reason that you can put your finger on.

“I didn’t say that,” you say carefully, willing your senses to come back to you. “I just…you look like you’re planning something.”

Another cutting half-smirk flashes across his face, gone as soon as it appears. “You’ve never been tasted before, have you?”

“Tasted?” You try to keep your face from showing your shock and confusion; surely he’s not about to do what you think he is. Katsuki hums an affirmative, placing another kiss to the clammy crease of your thigh and your cunt, a gasp ripping from your throat before you can stop it.

“Do you not want me to?” Katsuki tilts his head, expressionless. You try to find the answer to his question on his face, but he’s blank, leaving the decision entirely up to you. “It’ll help with the pain.”

The pain, that’s right. Soon, he would be taking you for his own, stretching your body in a new way that you’d heard the whispers about: bloody bedsheets, sore between the legs, pleading for the end. You chew into your bottom lip, considering your options.

“Do you want to?”

“I do,” Katsuki says, eyes dark and unreadable, “I want to make you feel good. But we’re doing this on–”

“My terms,” you finish for him, nodding, “I remember.”

“Good.” Katsuki nods, and you try desperately to ignore the heat that thrums through you. “So, if you don’t want it, I won’t. Simple as that.”

You think for a brief moment. Katsuki’s admitted to wanting something of you, of your body, perhaps for the first time since you’d gotten him wrapped up with you. You repeat his words over and over in your head, trying to make sense of them. I want to make you feel good.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Katsuki knits his brows.

“I want to try it,” you say, and add with a shaky exhale, “being tasted.”

If you’re not mistaken, Katsuki’s shoulders shiver between your legs, his eyes glazing over a little at your words. You feel pride ringing in your chest, seeing him uncoil, even if it’s only the slightest bit. You’d chosen correctly. Much as he did when you asked him to undress you, Katsuki nods tensely, and he moves deeper between your legs, nudging your knees apart for himself.

“It’ll feel good,” he murmurs quietly, picking up one of your legs and draping it over his shoulder, “but if you want me to stop, tell me, alright?”

You nod down at him, knowing that every bit of your nerves at being so exposed is showing all over your face. Katsuki flits his gaze down to your cunt, glistening in the candlelight and humiliatingly wet from his touch, and you can see him bite into the inside of his cheek, see his eyes flutter closed. Despite your embarrassment, you’re keen on watching, learning from him. Katsuki leans in, and his tongue slides between your wet folds, but even over your choked noise of surprise, one thing rings clear in your mind at the startling new sensation.

Katsuki groans, louder than you’ve ever heard, languid and gratified, face pressed so firmly into your center that you can already feel his shadow of stubble scratching the insides of your thighs. His hand, wrapped around the thigh over his shoulder, suddenly tightens, fingers digging into the meat of your leg much harder than he’s touched you yet. You focus on the muscles of his jaw, tensing and straining on the side of his face, while he licks into you like a man starved.

The way he eats you is such a deviation from his feather-light touches that you almost can’t believe it’s the same man, lewd noises echoing throughout the room as he suckles on something between your legs that you hadn’t even discovered properly for yourself, only swiping at it blindly in the darkest hours in your chambers. Your back curves viciously, breathy moans spilling from your lips, fingernails clawing into the ornately-carved posts of your marriage bed. Katsuki holds you tight against him, eyes hooded in bliss and mouth moving ceaselessly against you.

You’ve snuck a hand down between your legs before, rubbed shyly at the growing wetness, at the swollen skin, and experienced maybe a glimmer of the feeling that’s now glowing hot in the pit of your stomach. You would almost feel panicked at the spiraling, swooping sensation; that is, if you weren’t so wholly consumed by the white-hot pleasure coursing through your veins.

“Katsuki– I, it’s so– oh,” you trail off, losing your words as Katsuki establishes a rhythm of flicking his tongue between your legs right on that damned spot that you wish you’d known about before, maybe you could have prepared– “Oh, Katsuki, it’s– so good.”

Katsuki elicits a sound that’s closer to a snarl than anything else you can think of, tightening his iron grip into your skin. One of your hands absentmindedly fists in his hair, and before you can find the presence of mind to rip it away, he moans, openly and unashamedly, eyes screwing shut. He likes it, your foggy mind realizes, and you dig your fingers in harder, anchoring what’s left of you to the earth using the straight, sandy locks.

The heat, the sparks that are flying around every nerve ending in your body, begins to pick up an overwhelming speed, and all of the sudden, you feel like you need to kick out, to curl in on yourself, to scream so loud the windows blow out.

“Katsuki,” you say desperately, making watery, scared eyes at him. Katsuki’s brow furrows, and he only holds his pace, red eyes glaring into yours. You’re trying to warn him, but no words will form, and you can’t catch your breath, panting and clawing at his hair and almost sobbing until–

Everything peaks. A broken cry comes shooting out of your throat, your standing leg threatening to give out under you, and you writhe and twitch on Katsuki’s face, shamelessly surrendering to the most intense tidal wave of pleasure you’ve experienced in your life. From the fuzzy peripherals of your consciousness, you can hear Katsuki groaning encouragingly into your wet cunt, still dutifully moving his tongue against you and smearing the evidence of your arousal all over his cheeks. When the world comes back into focus, it’s dazzlingly harsh, your muscles weakening as soon as Katsuki’s face clears into its typical arrangement of sharp angles and hard lines.

“Oh–” you gasp, your one good knee finally buckling underneath you. Luckily, Katsuki has already begun to stand, and one of his strong arms darts out, catching you around the waist. You wish he wouldn’t look so smug.

“How do you feel?” Katsuki asks innocently enough, but even in the aftermath of that,  you don’t miss the twitching at the corner of his shining mouth, the expectant arch of his eyebrow.

“Good,” you pant, willing your cheeks to lose even a portion of their heat, “it was– fine.”

“Fine?” Katsuki’s eyebrow raises fully, disbelievingly.

“It was good,” you reaffirm, glaring at him. Katsuki grins brightly, the most light you think you’ve ever seen enter his face. It makes you blush almost as hard as the orgasm he dragged you through. Something wild and wicked flickers in your mind, and you look up at him curiously. “Do you…do you want me to do that to you?”

Katsuki’s smile drops as quickly as it came, and his cheekbones darken, a deep flush spreading over his face. You almost wonder if you’ve misstepped, upset him in some way, until you catch him palming over his pants. Your throat tightens.

“No,” he says, all the mirth drained from his face, “no, you don’t have to– no.”

“Alright,” you acquiesce, transferring your weight from Katsuki’s firm grip around your waist back to your feet, finding your legs weak and shaky beneath you. Your gaze floats over your shoulder, back to the plush sheets of your marriage bed, and Katsuki clears his throat, backing away a step so you have the room to climb into the bed, lay yourself down.

You’d expected to feel shyer, but there’s surprisingly no urge to curl in on yourself, not even Katsuki’s eyes take you in, darkening in the candlelight. The aftershocks of pleasure— white-hot, addictive pleasure he’d introduced you to— are still echoing through your limbs, and you’re just curious enough to bite back your initial trepidation. You want to know what else he has to teach you.

Katsuki begins tugging at the laces keeping his pants snug around his waist, loosening them and shooting you one final look, one last assurance. His eyebrow is cocked questioningly, and if you didn’t know better, you’d think he looks a little nervous. You nod, holding a breath deep enough in your lungs that it aches, and his pants hit the floor.

You’ve seen naked men, here and there, over the course of your life, and your ladies had described enough of the act before you that you can’t find yourself shocked at the sight, but more so at the wanton aching that ricochets through your limbs, chill bumps erupting over your arms and shoulders rolling of their own accord. You don’t have much to go by, but you’re fairly sure he’s big comparatively, so hard that the tip is an angry shade of red. Katsuki climbs over you before you have much chance to look further, but the damage is done; a fresh wave of arousal courses through you, and you widen your knees to let him situate himself.

“I’m going to get you ready,” Katsuki says between chaste kisses to your lips. “Is that alright?”

“But you already–,” you feel frustrated at your own inexperience, knitting your brow at him, “I’m ready.”

“You’re not,” Katsuki assures you, and before you can bite back another retort, his battle-scarred fingers are rubbing softly through the mess between your legs, and your jaw falls slack. Katsuki’s monitoring you for any signs of unease, eyes bright and focused on your face. You’re wet enough that he’s sliding through your folds easily, meeting little resistance as he rubs tight, concentrated circles into that spot that he’d used to make you see stars earlier. “Do you trust me?”

“Mhm.” It’s all you can manage to hum an affirmative, biting back the breathy noises trying to break free of your throat. It’s a wonder, how so little effort from him has your blood molten in your veins, limbs pliant and muscles twitching.

Katsuki’s fierce gaze doesn’t let up, but you understand why when you feel it: a finger, presumably, stretching you in a new, uncomfortable way. You’re unable to contain the gasp that bleats out of you, eyes flying wide, and Katsuki’s hand stills, eyes squinting as he tries to determine the nuances of your reaction. It’s novel, and admittedly, makes you a bit restless, but it isn’t unpleasant, and embarrassingly, your hips cant up into his hand, answering for you. Katsuki works slowly, never ceasing the small circles he’s rubbing into you, letting the discomfort align with the deliberate, savory pleasure that’s now ever-present in your core. When he begins to move his finger in and out of you, working you open, you realize it feels good, more than good, even.

“Alright?” Katsuki asks, distrusting of the whimpers and shaky moans beginning to fall from your lips. “Talk to me.”

“It’s strange,” you admit, words fragile and breathy in the space between your lips, “but I like it, it feels good. Really good.”

Katsuki hums approvingly, teases your entrance with the rough pad of a second finger. He arches his eyebrow at you, the question hanging silent, but clear between you. The prospect is daunting, but you welcome it; he’s already shown you so much, made you feel so much. You trust him, nodding eagerly.

“Please.”

Katsuki works his second finger in, grinding his jaw when you choke on a moan, rolling your hips into his palm. He nods, letting you wriggle your hips around as you need to, to ease the stretch of him inside of you. You can feel the power behind the lightness of his touch, eyes flitting down to the strained, corded muscle of his forearm as he pumps his fingers in and out of you. He’s holding back, and when you think wildly of what might happen the day he doesn’t have to anymore, your body clenches around him.

Katsuki pulls a face at you, amused. “What is it?”

“What?” You pant, feeling that knot begin to tie in on itself tighter and tighter behind your bellybutton.

“Y’liked something, thought of something,” Katsuki studies you, mouth quirking up into a little half-smile, “I could feel it.”

If you were any more present, you’d be mortified, but all you can do is reach a hand to stroke along the bulge of his bicep, dig your teeth into your bottom lip.

“Was thinking about you,” you admit shyly, trying to force your words to come out a little less broken than you know you sound, “you’re strong.”

“I am strong,” Katsuki agrees, curling his fingers against something inside of you that makes you jerk, makes him smirk at you.

“You’re holding back on me.”

“I am,” he says, placing a kiss to your shoulder, “you’re not ready for it. Need to go slow this time.”

“One day you won’t,” you say, mustering all the strength your hazy mind has to offer to look him squarely in the eye, watch his reaction. Katsuki inhales sharply, eyes widening at your boldness, only to narrow at you, predatory and curious. His fingers have stilled momentarily, and you pull your stomach muscles, jerking your hips up against his hand, frustrated. Katsuki only glares down at you, jaw ticking.

“One day I won’t,” he finally answers you, pulling his fingers from where you’re throbbing and needy. You almost whine, but bite into your lip before the admission of desperation flies from you. “If that’s what you want.”

You don’t have the chance to answer before Katsuki’s sucking his own fingers into his mouth, sucking you off of them. Your jaw stutters, and you gape at him as his eyelids flutter, a low groan rumbling in his strong chest.

“Taste good,” Katsuki says, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world, “sweet.”

“Can I try?” The question flies from your lips before you can even think to contain it, and your eyes grow even larger, shocked at your own debauchery. You’re seconds away from stuttering out an apology when Katsuki’s massive hand appears in front of your face, fingers glistening in the candlelight.

“Here.” Katsuki offers his fingers to you, eyes dark and hungry. You only stare at him for a moment, trying to discern if you’ve done something horribly wrong, but he’s completely sincere, brushing his wet fingers along your bottom lip. You open your mouth, suck him in. It’s more viscous than you would have imagined, sticky and thick on your tongue, but it’s pleasantly gamey; a little bitter, a little sweet. You don’t realize that you’re suckling on Katsuki’s fingers until he groans again, deep in his throat, gritting his teeth.

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly, pulling his hand free from your lips.

“What’d you think?” Katsuki regains his composure quickly, tilting his head at you with something impish sparkling in his eye.

You’d chosen your new husband due to his unwavering dedication to the kingdom that he’d sworn his life to protect, his kingly attributes that had set him so far apart from your other, softer suitors. You hadn’t even thought to consider what other sides to him might be lurking beneath the formidable exterior of decorated general; could it be so that the red-cheeked, boyish creature above you, so intent on helping you explore your body, was the fierce warrior that had supposedly cut down over a hundred enemy soldiers entirely on his own?

“I liked it,” you say, biting into the smile starting to grow on your face. The way his eyes light up makes you feel like a vixen, like somehow, you can be a woman after all. “Everything is…it feels good.”

Something virile glints in Katsuki’s eyes, but you don’t shy away, holding his gaze. “Good.”

“I want to…I want you to have me. I want to have you.” You’re not even sure if you’re making sense, tongue heavy and useless in your mouth. Katsuki’s hand has wandered back down between your legs, rubbing lazily at the wetness there, and it’s got that steady heat creeping back through your limbs, setting your nerves on fire.

“You’re sure?” Katsuki asks, raising his eyebrow at you. All the mischief has drained from his face as he examines you, and while you appreciate his caution, the craving for something more is growing uncomfortable.

“Please,” you say, tilting your chin up to press your lips gently to his in reassurance. Katsuki is finally convinced, it seems, because he rolls off of you and settles his back against the headboard, reaching an errant arm over to tug you on top of him.

You hadn’t anticipated this; Katsuki’s set you right on top of his hips, your dripping cunt placed firmly against his hard cock, back ramrod straight from the sudden exposure, nipples peaked in the charged air. The feel of him pressing insistently against where your body needs him most makes your head spin; you hadn’t expected it to be so distinct, hard and thick beneath you.

“What are you–”

“It’ll be easier this way,” Katsuki says, looking very much like he’s putting all his effort into appearing unaffected, but only a moment ago, you felt his hips twitch upwards into yours, “you can control it.”

“I don’t– I don’t know how to do it. Not the right way, I mean.” You’re burning in your humiliation, hot in so many different ways now you aren’t sure if you could even count them, but you’re bared completely to him, and you figure your dignity was left somewhere crumpled on the floor with your consummation gown.

“Don’t worry about that,” Katsuki says sternly, looking so unbelievably flustered that if you were any less preoccupied, it would make you giggle, “not yet. You need to get used to having something inside you, first.”

Something inside you; him, thick and hard and drooling wetness onto his bellybutton. That’s right. You take a deep breath to steady yourself, doing everything in your power to ride the wave of exhilaration going through you. You roll your hips experimentally, once, twice, swallowing the gasp that aches to leave your jaw.

“Just like that,” Katsuki mumbles, so quietly you almost think you hadn’t heard him, “take your time.”

You take his advice, bracing your clammy hands on his neck. You grind down on him again, feeling sparks of pleasure shoot up your body. With each swipe of your hips, you can feel your cunt grow wetter, feel that bottomless want in your stomach open a little more. The growing hunger in you is primordial, some hidden part of your mind directing you. The urge to have something inside of you, to feel full in a way you can’t begin to imagine, is causing you to grow restless, fingers drumming anxiously on Katsuki’s shoulders. When you meet his eyes, a muscle feathers in his jaw, but he stays silent, hands placed gently on your hips as he watches you grow accustomed to his girth, the weight of him between your legs.

“I think I’m ready. Can I?”

Katsuki stays silent, only nods sagely in assent. His grip on your hips grows tighter as you lift yourself up, reaching down blindly to grip him. He sucks in a breath when your fingers wrap around the length of him, and your eyes flit to his in alarm, but he only shakes his head, brow furrowing.

“Go ahead.”

You nod back, wincing at the anticipatory trembling of your thighs on either side of his hips, pulling his cock up from his stomach. You rather like the smooth feel of the skin in your hands, and you think briefly that maybe this will be something to revisit later, having him needy and in the palm of your hand. The swollen head catches, and you almost gasp at the surprise of it, how a dull thud of satisfaction rings through your body. You inhale deeply, and begin to sink down.

Katsuki’s fingers dig into your hips even harder, but you hardly feel it over the incomparable stretch between your legs. You’re sure now that he’s big; he has to be, the way it feels like your very insides are moving to accommodate him. You’re trying not to huff at the feeling, but a whine escapes you, and Katsuki’s tight grip stops you just as you’re nearing the halfway point.

“Okay?” He’s tense, coiled like a snake, all the muscles in his strong body locked, but his eyes are concerned.

“Uh huh,” you manage, wiggling your hips around and dropping yourself down a couple more inches, making you both gasp, “s’just big.”

“Fuck,” Katsuki hisses, throwing his head back. You pause, body contracting around him in your attempt to take him wholly, only a short distance from the blonde hair at the base of his cock.

“Is everything alright?”

“Can’t say shit like that,” Katsuki grits out, voice hoarse. You realize with a slow, muggy blink that you haven’t yet heard him swear, not in the Common Tongue, haven’t yet seen him become so unraveled and yet, at the same time, so rigid. It’s affecting him, that instinctual part of your brain supplies, it feels good for him.

If you were any less dazed, you’d smile. Katsuki Bakugou, High Commander of the fiercest army the world has seen in over a century, famed warrior an ocean over, is practically twitching trying to bite back his own pleasure as you take him inside of you. The rush of adrenaline that thought sends through you gives you the motivation to let yourself go, nestling the entirety of him deep inside yourself and meeting his hips. You choke on a moan, eyes prickling with tears.

“Oh,” you pant, lifting yourself just a bit, trying to squirm away from the discomfort.

“Does it hurt?” Katsuki grunts, eyes running over every bit of your body.

“No, it’s just,” you keen again, interrupting yourself with breathy, whiny little noises, “full.”

Katuski makes a noise that you think was meant to be a hum of agreement, but only comes out as a growl. If the white in his knuckles and the sharp, tense bone of his jaw is anything to go by, his arousal is only barely being held back, restricted to a tight leash. You’re not his first, not the only wet warmth he’s buried himself in, and this isn’t at all the first time he’s experienced this white-hot, carnal pleasure that’s licking up your veins. You find the strength to blink back the budding tears in your eyes, to really look at him.

He’s holding it together well, fingers grounded where they dig into your fleshy hips, crimson eyes looking you up and down, taking you in, but like the quiet snap of embers in the background, ruining the illusion of the room’s heat emanating from you and Katsuki, his body betrays him. His muscles are jumping under his skin, twitching involuntarily like the hide of one of the cavalry’s prize stallions, ready to run. Katsuki’s fucking a princess in his mind, you think, a future queen, and he’s proceeding accordingly, trying to keep his caresses light and his infamous temper in check.

You blink at him, vision watery, and realize suddenly that, for the first time in your life,  you want to be a hot-blooded, wild, mortal. You want only to be a woman with a man inside of her, and you want to be regarded as such.

“Still doin’ alri–” Katsuki cuts himself off with a grunt when you roll your hips, biting back a wince at the unfathomable pressure in your stomach, the depth of him snug inside you. “Wait–”

“I’m fine,” you say, surprising even yourself at your sharpness. Confidence swells in your chest as he squirms under you, kissing away the burn of how he’s worked you open.

“But–”

“Eminna skoros iksis ñuhon,” you say down to him, looking upon your new husband with hooded eyes as you grind your hips down into him, adjusting to the strange stretch that accompanies his body inside of yours. Each movement of your hips into his makes it easier, soothes the slow throb of your body trying to make room for him. Pleasure begins to ignite again along your fingertips, and when you scoot forward a bit, pushing your hips back, his cock nudges something inside of you that makes your jaw drop.

Katsuki’s eyes widen momentarily, but you can see the moment he loosens the leash, succumbs to his baser instincts. His grip on your hips loosens, shoulders slackening, and his eyes darken, lids dropping a bit just to cover the tops of those crimson irises. He’s beautiful, godlike even, planes of hardened muscle at your command, the flames from the candles reflected in his eyes. Katsuki drags his gaze over you, nostrils flaring, bringing one hand up to the back of your neck and pulling you to him, pressing your foreheads together. The shift in him makes you gasp; the calm force with which he chooses to exert his strength.

“Lo emilā nyke, emagon nyke,” Katsuki says against your lips, all trepidation gone. You shudder in his arms, letting pleasure wrack down your spine like fire catching. “Yn eminna ao, hae sȳrī, dārilaros.”

Your blood sings at the low purr of the Old Tongue, poured into your mouth like a fine wine, but you curdle at Dārilaros. Princess. “Eman daor pāletilla skori iksā iemnȳ yno. Iksan iā ābra, iksan aōha ābrazȳrys.”

Katsuki nearly snarls, swears under his breath. “What did I tell you about saying shit like that?”

“You call me your wife,” you say, thoroughly pleased with yourself at his rapid unraveling. It’s never been like you not to have the upper hand. “Treat me as your wife.”

Even a hair’s breadth away from his face, you can see Katsuki’s last shreds of honor, that warrior’s heart, dying out. His eyes flicker over your face as you fruitlessly roll your hips, not able to get to the full extent of your pleasure with him gripping you so tightly. For the first time, you can feel his hands tremble against your skin. He’s only steps away from joining you in your damning mortality, finding the raw, primal humanity deep down inside of him. You rut your hips at him again, useless against his resolute grasp.

“Please,” you sigh against him, not even thinking to be ashamed of the breathy, needy plea you let out, not even wholly sure of what you’re begging him for, “make me feel good again.”

Katsuki groans, low in his chest, and nods, a covenant you’re building in the hot air between your mouths. His hands grab into your hips more fully, and he lifts you, only part of the way, before sliding you back down the length of him. You gasp into his mouth, caught off guard by the punch of him back up into the space he’s carved out for himself. It feels like he’s in your lungs, your breath coming out labored and pinched.

“Move,” Katsuki commands, settling back a bit and forcing you to sit up straight, hands on your ribcage. You’re bared completely to him again, and it’s still horrible, but the arousal dims any humiliation that threatens to rise. “Move.”

You wiggle your hips again, moving shakily along his cock, but Katsuki’s not pleased, evidently, as he digs his hands back into your hips.

“Like this,” he says, using his iron grip on you to correct your movements. Katsuki drags you up and down his cock in smooth, fluid motions, and despite the slowly-easing discomfort, your nerve endings come alight, the molten want finding a new peak as he rips a moan out of your throat.

“Oh–”

“Better?” Katsuki huffs, a vicious grin cutting across his face. Your arms flail a bit as he moves you, rolling you along his length as if you’re nothing more than a doll to him. Katsuki notices your awkwardness, takes one of your hands and places it firmly on your breast. You follow his lead, thumbing gently over one hard nipple, and, at the jolt of pleasure, you quickly bring your free hand to match on the other side, letting your head fall back.

“Katsuki,” you pant, quickly losing your composure and falling victim to the sensations devouring you, “it’s– that’s so good.”

“I know,” Katsuki breathes, still pulling you this way and that, “you’re perfect, so soft around me.”

You’ve never gotten to be soft; iron princess on the iron throne, made of embers and scalding steam, but for him? You bloom, pretty as a petal, letting your body meld into his like it was always supposed to be here. You’re not soft like silk, you let yourself be soft like candlelight, like magma, like the crashing of the ocean when you’re far enough away that the waves won’t get you, drag you under. Soft like doom.

“I feel– fuck, I think I– I need more.”

Katsuki’s lips twist at the breathless curse that flies from your lips, so foreign and funny-sounding in your regal mouth. You want to tease him right back, but he slides you off of him, and the loss is so devastating, your bottom lip nearly juts out as it did when you were a child. Before you can protest too much, Katsuki’s laying you on your back, hands sliding along your thighs, and you follow your instincts and bring your legs up to wrap around his waist.

“If it’s too much…” Katsuki trails off, losing his words when he goes to brush your bottom lip with his thumb and you suck him in voraciously, nibbling on his finger.

“I’ll tell you,” you promise, spitting him out and letting your own hand flutter across his cheekbone. He’s almost glaring down at you; so intense is the desire in his eyes that a small part of you wants to shy away, but you don’t. You wiggle your legs that much wider, arch your back, lean into the burn of him. You were born for the heat.

Katuski’s mouth quirks up in a little smile, already so fond it makes your chest ache, and he slides back into you, groaning when your cunt sucks him in greedily. You try to embrace the novelty of it, the dull throb of his cock splitting you wide, digging your nails into his arm by mistake. Katsuki swears in surprise, and you jerk your hand away, until he looks down at you admonishingly.

“Go ahead, perzītsos,” he hums, leaning down and pressing a kiss to your hairline, “I won’t break.”

He pulls back and thrusts back into you, harder than you’d expected, and your nails return to his wrist beside your head, digging half-moons into the pale skin. He’s different from this angle, not so agonizingly deep in you, but nudging against something inside you that renders you incapacitated, fuzzy-minded and pliant in his arms. Katsuki’s not faring any better than you, eyes hooded and little grunts slipping from his lips each time his hips connect with yours.

“What does it feel like?” Katsuki asks, beginning to look out of his mind with need. “Ivestragon nyke.”

“Deep,” you choke out, letting your jaw drop when he leans down to lick into your mouth, “full, I feel– full.”

“Good,” Katsuki mumbles, “good. Doesn’t hurt?”

“No.”

In answer, Katsuki moves his hips faster, snapping them against you with brute force. He’s keeping that ever-cognizant eye on you, monitoring you for any indication of pain or panic, but even through the haze of the tightening knot in the pit of your stomach, you can see him tumbling over the same edge that you have, lost to your baser instincts. You’re soft to him, your warm walls hugging him snug as he chases an end for you both, but sharp in the way your fingers claw into his skin, your teeth nip into his shoulder. Mine. Mine. Ñuhon.

“Katsuki,” you warn him, the balloon of pressure welling in your belly, growing so large you feel as though you might choke on it.

“I know,” he says, leaning down to press his forehead to yours. His voice is broken and ragged and tastes like hot coals, like copper and bronze and prophecy. You drink him down eagerly, so out of your mind with want that you’ve transformed. You’d entered the room as a blushing virgin of the highest, most noble bloodline, and here you are, twisting and keening under him, all molten limbs and whorish pants. Sweat dapples your forehead, drool smeared over your chin, and you’ve never felt more beautiful.

“I’m so– it’s the, the same,” you gasp, familiar words devolving into nonsense, “but it’s not enough, I don’t, I–”

“Here,” Katsuki growls, closing one strong fist around your wrist and sliding your arm between your writhing bodies, “just like I did it, remember?”

You find the same sensitive spot that Katsuki had shown you quickly, swollen and raw with pleasure, and try rubbing shaky circles over it, try to maintain some semblance of a rhythm and imitate his earlier movements. It’s uneven and inconsistent, but the added stimulation rockets through you, and your back pulls taut as a bow, arching off the featherbed.

“Close?”

“Yes,” you gasp, still not grasping what you’re close to, but feeling very much as though you’re teetering on the edge of a cliff, that same rushing building in your ears. You somehow had the presence of mind to register that what’s building inside of you now is different than it was with his mouth between your legs; it’s faster, wetter, fuller, and it feels like it’s choking you.

“Come on,” Katsuki urges you, bordering on a snarl as he pants desperately into your mouth, “want to feel you cum around me, feel this little cunt milkin’ my cock.”

“Kat–” you try to call out for him, so overwhelmed the edges of your vision are going dark. He’s grinding his hips into you forcefully, pinning your fingers to the apex of your cunt, forcing you to rub yourself harder. 

“You can do it, raqiarzy, come on–”

You cut him off with a loud sob of his name, thighs caging him in and the innermost walls of your body clamping down on him. Light bursts behind your eyelids, the white-hot flames of dragonfire and the embers of a burning forest exploding as your body is racked with wave after wave of bliss. Katsuki’s skin breaks under your fingernails, the slight dampness of tearing flesh familiar even in the haze of your orgasm. He works you through it, driving his hips into you despite the vicious tightening of your cunt around him, whispering affirmations into the pallid skin of your shoulder. Every muscle in your body contracts painfully, and you’d feel ashamed of the sounds escaping you if you could find enough wherewithal to care.

“Close,” Katsuki grits out, rolling his hips into your still-contracting cunt as your high begins to dwindle, “you ready for me?”

“Uh-huh, please, I– yes,” you babble nonsensically, interlocked ankles bouncing at the small of his back. As your orgasm drains from your veins, your muscles go lax, zapped of the fervent energy that had overtaken you. You find your body to be pliant and receptive, but your mind solely focused on watching that same ethereal pleasure that had possessed you wash over Katsuki. “Yes, I w-want you to cum.”

“Fuck,” Katsuki swears, hips stuttering, “take it, take it all–”

A guttural groan accompanies a sticky warmth flooding your insides; you squirm in his tight grip and moan at the sensation of being filled, feeling a fresh rush of arousal flow through you as you feel his cock twitching inside of you. You bite deep into his shoulder to muffle the pathetic mewls slipping from you at the feel of both his and your cum leaking out of your body, pooling in a little puddle underneath you. Everything is so earthy and musky; Katsuki’s salty skin between your teeth, his bruising grip into your hips, the stink of sex and sweat permeating the bedsheets.

Katsuki’s chest heaves against yours as his hips rock into you one last time, the thatch of blond hair at the base of him pressing against where you’re swollen and achy hard enough to make you whimper. When you wriggle around underneath him, he seems to snap back into himself, propping his upper body up on his elbows and bringing a hand to your face, thumbing over the arch of your cheekbone.

“Y’alright?” His carmine eyes are still glazed over, words gummy between his teeth, but the tenderness of his hand as he strokes your cheek lets you know he’s there.

“I’m alright,” you say, and you mean it. Something so deep in you that you don’t even have a name for is throbbing, and your body is still clenching and fluttering around where he’s softening inside of you, but your limbs are heavy and your head is in the clouds.

He’s a sight to see, a sight you commit to memory; sweat glistens on his pale skin, his eyes are hooded and sleepy, and a contented, lazy grin is starting to tug at the corner of his mouth. Katsuki pulls his hips back, pressing his lips to your temple in apology when you murmur something unintelligible, but hinting at discontent. You feel empty in a way you had never known you were supposed to, not until you’d learned what it meant to be fulfilled.

“Anything hurt?”

You shake your head, not sure how to verbalize that you’re not feeling any pain, but a deep-seated satiation that hints to the fact that you might never be able to lift yourself from the bed again. Katsuki’s still caging you in, heavy body crushing yours, when a jarringly unwelcome sound floats over his shoulder.

“Ah, um– Princess? I need to confirm–”

“I know,” Katsuki, sliding back into the skin of a general with ease, growls over his shoulder, “that you’re not daring to speak to my wife while she’s naked underneath me.”

Even given everything, your cheeks flare, and you shove at Katsuki weakly, making apologetic eyes at the attendant despite your humiliation. “It’s his job, Katsuki–”

“They can’t send a woman for this shit?” Katsuki cages you in even further, glaring at the servant who’s nearly shaking in his slippers. “Well?”

“I–I can fetch a female servant to confirm the consummation of the–”

“Do that, then.” The attendant’s soft footsteps as he scuttles away are hardly overshadowed by your breathy, tired giggles.

“You didn’t have to terrorize the poor man,” you swat lightly at Katsuki’s chest, “it’s his duty to confirm that the marriage has been consummated. The priests won’t have it any other way.”

“I’m sure he heard enough,” Katsuki grumbles, flopping onto his back beside you. He opens one eye, notices the sheet dragging dangerously close to your nipple, and tugs it up to your chin, closing his eye again and humming contentedly. His arm pauses for a moment, like he wants to stretch it over your shoulders, but he pulls it back by his own side, thinking better of it. You aren’t sure if you want to be held, if the intimacy outside of your duty as his new wife will be too grating against your already-raw nerves.

“My ladies will be here soon,” you say quietly, “to bathe me and help me prepare for bed.”

“Figured,” Katsuki grumbles, sounding entirely displeased at more people disrupting your peace. Something about it warms your heart, some small part of your mind hoping that his displeasure is rooted in a desire to keep you all to himself, hidden beneath the sheets.

“Your own attendants shouldn’t be far behind.”

“My what?” Katsuki sits up on one elbow again, looks down at you disbelievingly. “I don’t need any…ladies.”

“You’ll get used to them,” you tell him offhandedly, wondering if you’re being truthful. You’re just beginning to get acquainted with the intricacies of the man behind the title, but the general seems fiercely independent to you, and the image of him getting his hair scrubbed by a flock of servants is enough to make you chuckle to yourself.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you assure him, “I’m sure you’ll be a perfect royal specimen.”

Katsuki’s eyes narrow in irritation. “You didn’t inform me that ladies would be a part of my duties.”

“We can get men!”

“That’s worse.” Katsuki’s face screws up in an ugly scowl that makes you laugh outright. The lightness of your laughter makes his face fall a little, the hardened exterior giving way to the same man that had kissed reverently up the inside of your thigh, had been so achingly gentle with you when you weren’t sure what you would need to get through the night. A man you think you could love.

You look into each other’s eyes, something like starlight, like candlelight, like true, gods-given warmth buzzing between you, when the door creaks open, a gaggle of ladies and one priestess entering the room. Katsuki groans, tugs the blankets even further up your chests, the moment broken.

Ignoring his grumbles of protest, you pull yourself from the blankets with ease, baring your nude body to your ladies. There’s no shame in front of these women who have raised you, much to Katsuki’s astonishment. You don’t miss the way their eyes catch on the purple blooms on your hipbones, the way they squeal with excitement when you lay back and spread your legs for the priestess, displaying the thin trickle of Katsuki’s seed still steadily leaking from you. The priestess nods solemnly and leaves in the same manner; at least that’s done.

Your ladies do an absolutely dismal job of trying to appear subtle as they stare at Katsuki’s still-heaving chest, his narrowed eyes darting around the room suspiciously, his round biceps– your closest lady, Alanna, whisper-squeals in your ear about how huge your new husband’s arms are, and you have to pinch her cheek harshly to get her to stop, sensing Katsuki’s tangible discomfort from across the room. He behaves well as they bathe you, sitting up in bed and watching silently as you’re preened and fawned over, as your tangled hair has a brush torn through it and is twisted neatly into your nighttime braid.

A group of women hovering silently by the door, eyeing Katsuki nervously, appear to be his newly-appointed handmaids. You do both Katsuki and the women the favor of dismissing them for the night, unsure of how Katsuki, who is still gripping the sheets to his chest like a young, blushing maiden, will react to being pampered and scrubbed by foreign hands. 

“You can dismiss those serving girls for good,” Katsuki says gruffly, clean and ambling over to a looking glass to swipe a brush through his hair. “‘M not a boy, I don’t need any help getting myself to bed.”

You conveniently slide past the omission on the tip of your tongue– before Katsuki’s anxious staff had left, you had requested them to bring a hot bath, all of Katsuki’s bathing things from his old chamber, a freshly-dried sponge from the Narrow Sea for him to wash himself with. It’s enough to keep it to yourself, seeing how content he is in his new living space now, that you could do something for him amongst the chaos you’ve now thrown his life into.

“We’ll see,” you hum, picking at a stray cuticle over the covers and trying not to ogle him too obviously.

He’s still blessedly nude, unabashed in his swagger around the room as he dries himself with the strips of soft, woven cloth your ladies had left behind per your request. When he approaches the bed you’re laying in, you stiffen, unaccustomed still to these small intimacies. Royalty has proven to be a lengthy and lonely existence in your experience, and sharing it with someone is foreign to your solitary nature. Your own parents had had their own separate chambers, as every monarch before them. It was Katsuki’s one condition to accepting your proposal; you were to share bedchambers, like a common husband and wife.

“Princess?” Katsuki is hesitant when he approaches you, as if he already senses your trepidation. You will yourself to unclench your muscles, to relax your shoulders. You have no right to make him feel unwelcome in his own bed– the bed you now share.

“I told you I don’t want you to call me that.” You try to offer him a playful smile, but it only glimmers across your face. This is yet another bridge you need his guidance over.

“You did,” Katsuki nods sagely, the corner of his mouth twitching as he remembers the circumstance of that particular conversation, “I’m sorry, perzītsos.”

“Come to bed.”

“Are you sure?” Katsuki cocks an eyebrow at you, looking down at the huge bed warily.

“It was what you wanted.”

“Only if you want it.” Katsuki sighs deeply at your look of not-quite-belief and sits on the bed a respectable distance away from you. He reaches for your hand, a question, not a demand, and you slide your fingers into his calloused palm, humming contentedly when he runs his large thumb over your knuckles. He stays like that for a moment, contemplative and looking at your hand, bare of all of its usual finery and rings. “What did I say earlier?”

“When?”

“Before.” Katsuki raises his eyebrows enough that you catch his meaning.

“That we were doing things on my terms.” Something in your chest, warm and wet and laden with flowers, swells big and tight enough to pop.

“That didn’t just apply to, ah, earlier,” Katsuki coughs uncomfortably, flicking his eyes up to you, “that’s for all of this. Our…our lives are…the same now, and I don’t want you to think I need you– seven hells, that’s not what I meant–”

“You’re not very good at this, are you?” You interrupt him suddenly, a saccharine smile curling the corner of your lips. Katsuki flushes a vicious red, frowns and shakes his head in confirmation. “Neither am I.”

“No?”

“I haven’t suddenly found myself married before, so no.” It feels silly, all of the sudden, to have guarded yourself at all. Katsuki is many things, but above all, he is steady, a resolute rock against an angry ocean. “But while I feel many things about our…unexpected union, one thing I do not feel is alone. We can do this on our terms, not just mine.”

Katsuki nods again, looks back down to your hand in his, and cracks a wry smile. “This is why you’re the politician.”

“I’m a princess,” you deadpan, “not a politician.”

“But I can’t call you that,” Katsuki scoffs, rolling his eyes. The lightheartedness lifts the atmosphere in your bedchamber, oppressive with marital expectations and the stuffy heat of candles left burning too long, and it gives you the needed weightlessness to have your eyes slowly blinking closed.

“Exactly,” you agree matter-of-factly, stifling a yawn. “Will you call someone in to dispose of the candles?”

Katsuki snorts, pushing himself off the bed without answer. Before you can protest or feel hurt by his sudden abandonment, he crosses the room and bends at the waist, blowing out one of over two dozen candles. You can only watch in growing fondness and amusement as he huffs at each little flame, the room growing darker by the moment. By the time he’s finished, your eyes are hardly open, drifting shut as you sink into the pillows. A satisfied throb echoes through your body as you wriggle down beneath the sheets, the lingering evidence of Katsuki’s presence on and in you bringing a warmth to your cheeks even in the now-dark room.

The last thing you register as you slip into the beginnings of a heavy sleep is the dip of the bed behind you, and a thick, muscled forearm creeping stealthily over your waist.

“This alright?”

All you can muster is a tired mumble of acquiesce, nuzzling into the firm chest behind you. Katsuki chuckles quietly into your hair, a dark, soothing sound that has your mind careening towards sleep, eager to melt into this world of warmth and comfort in his arms.

“Ēdrū sȳrī, ñuha perzītsos.”

───── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ─────

as promised, high valyrian translations here :)

Ānogar ānograro = "Blood of my blood."

Gevie = "Beautiful"

Iksā gevie, ñuha ābrazȳrys. = "You are beautiful, my wife."

Eminna skoros iksis ñuhon. = "I will have what is mine."

Lo emilā nyke, emagon nyke, yn eminna ao, hae sȳrī, dārilaros. = "If you will have me, then have me, but I will have you as well, princess."

Eman daor pāletilla skori iksā iemnȳ yno. Iksan iā ābra, iksan aōha ābrazȳrys. = "I have no crown when you are inside me. I am a woman, I am your wife."

Perzītsos = "Little flame"

Ivestragon nyke. = "Tell me."

Raqiarzy = "Beloved"

Ēdrū sȳrī, ñuha perzītsos. = "Sleep tight, my little flame."

#this was a labor of love #truly took forever #but i LOVE it so i hope you guys do too #aged up character #aged up characters #bakugou katsuki #aged up katsuki #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou katuski x reader #bakugou katsuki smut #bakugou smut #katsuki smut #mha x reader

[gffa]

Over the last week, I decided to go ahead with bookmarking all the fics I've recommended over the years on AO3 since I abide by tumblr poll results always (and man pour one out for all the fic that never made it to AO3 or has since been deleted, sooooo many gems lost to time!) and it was a bit more than the ~3,000 I was expecting:

Hopefully, this will be easier than browsing the hundreds of recs posts I've made, since you can filter for any of the author's tags now! These are mostly focused on Star Wars and DC fandom, but I did my time in the anime mines and occasional tours through some TV fandoms or movies. You can dig into everything unfiltered and start your own filtering, or the bigger fandoms you'll find:

MAJOR FANDOMS: Each of these should have 100+ at minimum and, in the case of Star Wars, literally almost half of them are in that fandom. Look, Star Wars fandom might be a trash fire in a lot of ways, but it is ON FIRE with some good fic. (Older bookmarks not guaranteed to match my current sentiments, especially re: the Jedi, but they did catch my fancy at that point in time!)

STAR WARS: - All Star Wars -OR- All Star Wars minus the Obi-Wan/Anakin ship - OR- Nothing BUT Obi-Wan/Anakin

BATMAN/DC: - DC can sometimes be tricky, but you can do a Batman* search and get most of them (though, sometimes Nightwing* or Young Justice* or Superman* will catch some of the others). Honestly, though, you might want to just do a search for what character or dynamic you like and have fun from there, because otherwise you're getting a face full of my Dick Grayson Is The Center Of The Universe And I'm Making That Everyone Else's Problem agenda. ;)

MARVEL/MCU: - Marvel* will probably get most of the various properties, though you may want to filter for Defenders* or Guardians of the Galaxy* if you're interested -OR- Marvel* without the Thor/Loki - These focus a lot on the Thor* fandom if you want to witness the results of like 8 years of constant voracious reading in that fandom (Minus the ship), because, seriously, I read a LOT of Odinson family fic. - Bonus, just do a search for Maximoff* to find some really good X-Men: First Class-verse because, listen, I have been ALL ABOUT the Maximoff twins since long before the movies or MCU brought them over and I will DIE ON THE HILL of "Marvel, make Magneto their bio-dad again or I'm never reading another comic of yours ever".

TOLKIEN/LORD OF THE RINGS/SILMARILLION/HOBBIT: - Tolkien* -OR- Hobbit* -OR- Lord of the Rings* searches will turn up most of my Elf-hunting, I primarily focus on the Sindar Elves, but look I can't resist my problematic Feanorian faves or that I will die on the hill that Fingolfin is the best ever. (You have NO IDEA how sad I am that so much fic on Stories of Arda or FFNET is not easily bookmarked on AO3, sob. I externally bookmarked a few of the bigger ones, but sooo many shorter faves are missing from my recs tag.)

CLAMP: - X/Tokyo Babylon legitimately bums me out because it's not a huge fandom and yet so much of what was written was pre-AO3 and lost when CLAMPesque went down or was never brought over from Livejournal, yet this fandom (well, the Seishirou/Subaru pairing) still burns brightly in my heart.

MINOR FANDOMS: Ones that probably only have under 100 bookmarks (often around the 20-30 bookmarks range), but will at least give you a place to start! ANIME/MANGA: Bleach | Cardcaptor Sakura | Dragonball | Finder no Hyouteki/Viewfinder | Katekyou Hitman Reborn! | Kuroko no Basuke | One Piece | Sailor Moon | Madoka Magica | Naruto | Princess Tutu | Trigun | Weiss Kreuz | Yuri!!! on Ice

BOOKS: Chrestomanci | Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint

DRAMAS: Nirvana in Fire | The Untamed -OR- Modao Zu Shi

TV SHOWS/MOVIES: Community | Game of Thrones -OR- ASOIAF | Good Omens | Hannibal | Highlander | The Old Guard | Our Flag Means Death | Stranger Things

VIDEO GAMES: Dragon Age: Inquisition | Final Fantasy 8 | Genshin Impact | Okami

BANDS: Arashi

All right, whew, that was actually a fun project, despite how much work it was to hunt down a lot of older faves to see if they were on AO3, hopefully you'll find this useful!

#lumi.txt #fic recs #star wars fic recs #batman fic recs