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brainrotfm · 3 months

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the world put you in front of me and we aligned

pairing: ryomen sukuna x reader

word count: ~1.5k

short description: the king of curses has never been asked for comfort before, but that doesn't mean he won't indulge you.

notes: no beta barely edited probably ooc; no content warnings just the fluffiest lil thing you'll ever get from me, mwah! manga credit used for header image [nsfw, 18+]!

"Tell me what you need, little one, while I still feel patient."

"Well I-I... I don't know how to ask for that," you reply sheepishly, ducking your head to hide the flush that was starting to prickle across your cheeks at your own discomfort. Two fingers caught your chin, evading your retreat into yourself, tilting doe eyes back into the intense, scarlet-hot gaze of the man towering over you still, not one to back away from an uncomfortable situation so easily.

"Use your words, brat," Sukuna purrs cheekily in return, gravelly and low but warm like molasses, trying to lure you out of whatever self-conscious spiral he was watching you fall into - it wouldn't work. Not when he was willing and able to catch you.

The way he touched you, the way he looked at you, the way he spoke to you: it would sound silly if you tried to say it out loud, but there was no other word that came to mind but reverence. Utter devotion or nothing at all, there was no in between with someone like him. Were you projecting? Did the passion between you two feel too good to be true, not because of him, but because of you?

Because you couldn't handle being seen by him, could you?

It wasn't easy, but it was familiar; you didn't, couldn't, ask for help, because you didn't have the vocabulary to explain what you needed help with, exactly. No one could snap their fingers and make all your problems go away; if they could, you wouldn't ask for that, because a charmed life had no real value. And yet... no matter what you said, there was an unflappable feeling in your gut that Sukuna would scorch the earth to give you whatever you desired, the closest thing to a god you may ever see.

"I just want you to hold me," and the words sounded silly as soon as they left your mouth. He was a CURSE for god's sake, or at least, he was one. By all accounts, he was a monster, a being of the lowest morale, and there was nothing that would make him to succumb to the petty whims of the human he just so happened to have a dalliance with. A blip on his cosmic radar, a temporary satisfaction in an endless lifetime. He didn't have the time to waste, the capacity to care, the attachment to give --

Except as soon as the words left your mouth, the smallest of smirks twitched the sides of his lips. As always, you yielded when given a command, and he was always filled with a silent pride by your willingness to succumb for him. Without a word, Sukuna scooped you from the couch bridal-style, earning him a startled yip that turned his smile wider. You felt the echo of his chuckle rumble deep in his chest as he carried you into the bedroom, a protest on your lips that this isn't what you meant, not everything was a code for sex... "Sukuna, I..."

The complaint died in your throat though, not having time to manifest as you squeaked instead; Sukuna had kneed his way onto the bed, still not dropping you as he set his back against the headboard and gingerly, with all the tenderness in the world, set you down across his lap. It would've brought tears to your eyes, if you hadn't been so bewildered by this side of your lover, one who got you both off thanks to his penchant for sadism, but this time...

This time, he used his immense reach to grab the comforter, pulling it over your bodies. This time, he used the hand still wrapped around your back, propping you up, to begin tucking in the seams of the blanket, bounding you tightly against him. This time, the heat of your combined body warmth overpowered your cyclone spin of anxiety. This time, his free hand came up to cup your cheek for a moment, looking into your watery, hazy hues before placing the most delicate kiss against your forehead. This time, you would even call him chaste, not a word you ever imagined using in reference to Sukuna. This time, he looked for nothing more, wordlessly pulling your face into his chest as the arm around your back tightened its hold. This time, he really did just... just hold you.

It was too much.

By the time your cheek had pressed against heat of his skin, you were a goner. Maybe you were just that obvious - maybe he saw how pathetic and hopeless you felt, and knew that no amount of his usual teasing would cajole you out of your reverie. You're not sure he could feel sadness; you're not really sure he ever had, but you appreciated this act of softness from him. (He could, though rarely, and he did, though oftentimes only because of you, or in this case, for you). Shaking like a leaf in the wind, you curled as far into him as you possibly could, and with a heave, an onslaught of tears began to leave your body like the damn had broken at the end of a wet summer.

Where did he learn comfort like this? A large palm rested against your lower back, splayed open and anchoring you to his lap, not letting you budge an inch, even if you wanted to. His other hand had curled around the side of your neck to its nape, pressing you against him, silently insisting you stay as near to him as possible, to ride out whatever anxiety had taken you so far from him tonight. He would wait. You had only asked to be held, so he remained silently, trying not to focus on the way your pathetic little hiccups would make his heart squeeze, or why the white-hot lick of anger curled beneath his skin at seeing you in this state.

The more you succumbed to your sadness, though, the worse it seemed to get; the riptide of emotion had grabbed you by the ankle and sought to drown you in its depths tonight. Sukuna noticed immediately when your breaths had grown panicked and short, hiccups faltering into staccato sobs, and your heart began hammering out of rhythm with his own.

No, no, that would not do. You were supposed to be soothed. You couldn't see his brow furrow sullenly, confusion flickering behind maroon eyes, a sound akin to a growl unfurling in his chest. His exasperation with your befuddling human emotions was short-lived. The growing rumble in his chest had finally moored all your senses to the same shore, grounding you in tandem with the anchor points of physical touch.

Once he realized you liked it - and he should've realized you'd like it, you often enjoyed his primal sounds in other scenarios, too - well, of course he continued, your emotional fulfillment his main concern at the moment.

You must be dreaming. That was the only thought in your head as your hiccups waned into pitiful sniffles, doe eyes sore and half-lidded in the shelter of Sukuna's chest. "R-ryo...?" you managed to bleat, softer than he'd ever heard his name on your lips before, and the use of his first name had your lover purring again with a low timbre hum, giving your entire form an encouraging squeeze to signify his attention.

"Don't go... please, don't go," you whined, barely above a whisper, and something in chest shattered at your unwillingness to be without him, now that you had let him in to that tightly locked room he'd call your heart. If he had thought dominating your physical body had been pleasurable, there was an absolute intoxication that came from you being this kind of vulnerable with him; where he had always assumed he'd feel disgust, he felt a dizzying delight in pacifying you this way, still a dance of your bodies, just with different choreography than he'd ever known before.

"Oh, little one," the king of curses assuaged in a tone of equal measure, his whisper husked as he ducked to kiss your forehead again, reveling in the enchanting sigh he earned from you at such a simple affection. With that, he began to rustle you into place for sleep, more delicately than he'd ever handled you before; though, it could be noted that he was still a selfish man, and didn't give you any room to move or curl away from him, intent to keep you tucked against his chest for the rest of time if it meant witnessing you like this, at your most docile.

Your pretty face was folded into the juncture where his chest met his neck, and he could feel your breathing settle into dreamy sighs, comforted and cared for exactly the way you'd asked, so trustful that you would dare to sleep in his presence, the sweetest of lambs curled up and comfortable in the middle of the lion's den. He could kill you, right there. He would kill for you, right then.

"There is nowhere I could go that I could not take you," Sukuna promised softly into the darkness of your room, hoping you'd hear his promise in your dreams. Now that he knew this, he never wanted to know anything again.

taglist: @hercskid @sinlillith @marusatonanhin @kentohours @tzuyuswife @yuujispinkhair @luckyracco @forresway @briannafdez10 @vadersassistant @maximumcherryblossomface

disclaimer: i do not consent to my original writing being fed to ai. please do not repost/redistribute. reblogs help original writing reach a wider audience.

#writesfm #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x reader #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #don't look @ meeeeeeee this is the softest thing i will ever write #my ultimate comfort fic. this is where i go to rest <3 #i wanted to share that w the world <333333 #anyway have u ever been touch starved? me 2

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vagabond-umlaut · 1 month

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it's easy to ferry souls, not carry them

deep down in the realm of the netherworlds, there exists a rower who transports deceased souls from the land of living to the land of dead-

and occasionally lends an ear and a hand, in the event of yet another collision between their weary queen and her just as cheery suitor...

[uraume deserves a raise.]

▸gojo satoru x fem!reader; the tale of kore!gojo & hades!reader w a guest appearance by charon!uraume; uraume is a very nice parental figure to you [ooc!uraume but ehh]; the reader is honestly so sweet and hot-tempered...; the cutest doggy cerberus too is there!!!!; gojo satoru must be his own warning...; uraume does not like gojo [no parent [blood-related or not] actually wld]; fire hazards; 2k wc

▸ i've nvr read percy jackson and wtv i wrote here is based on my shaky knowledge of greek myths and stuff 😁😁 anyways, this header's from pinterest, these dividers are by @benkeibear and the characters used ain't mine. pls do not plagiarize, translate or repost this. enjoy reading! ❤️

▸ belongs to series 'wreaths of asphodel' – same universe as the work 'hey, where is the pomegranate tree?' — but you can treat this as a stand-alone fic if you wanna!

"why is kore so set on marrying me, uraume?"

it isn't the ask itself which causes the rower to nearly lose grip of their oar– but the way it is spoken: soft, solemn and faintly tense. they look away from the endless expanse of the styx before, to find you staring at your reflection in the inky waters, features unnaturally crumpled.

uraume holds back a frown. "has her majesty considered asking the god the same?"

"i have asked him," you mumble, "but i did not receive any conclusive answer in return. the imp was being too vague– must be a trait learnt from those shifty nymphs always sticking to his side."

if your faithful follower detects anything except dislike in your words, they make no mention of it. merely humming as they continue to row the boat, "and may this servant know the question her majesty asked the god?"

"two," you mumble even more clumsily now; they take a beat to grasp it, too concerned by the way you drape yourself over the edge, nearly falling into the water as you say, "i asked him two questions— one, if he loves me; two, if he wants to have children should we get married."

shock must not be uraume's first reaction to these queries, yet it is— and for a moment, it isn't you sitting there anymore.

instead, it is a little girl, no older than seven or eight years, cherubic face fixed in a look of deep concentration and fascination while the rower narrates to her stories from times millennia ago–

only for the child to morph into a young lady– no, goddess– the very next beat... slouched under a regal cloak too heavy for her shoulders, under a royal crown too large for her head... that sweet innocence of childhood nothing but traces now, having been withered by the foul, dirty politics of those damned deities high up on that mountain—

"what answers did the olympian offer her majesty?"

"he said he would love me and sire my children if that is what i want— i asked if he wished anything out of our union— he said all he wanted is to be my husband–"

something between a frustrated sigh and an exhausted scoff erupts from you, becoming an opaque fog the moment it hits the frigid air of the underworld. uraume plucks the oar out the water to come sit next to you, letting the boat be driven by magic.

"you're worried," they state, forgoing all formalities in favour of giving you some much-needed comfort. you never much cared for stations anyways, quite unlike your elder brother, the former king.

"an unfamiliar friend poses more risk than a familiar enemy, uraume," you mutter, resting your head on their shoulder, "why do you think kore wishes to marry me so much, if not out of love or the prospect of the powerful offsprings we might beget?"

"marriage is not solely for love or for procreation," the rower starts to explain, mildly amused before it grows into sympathy at your baffled expression.

ah, they muse fondly, not unlike a parent watching their child witness the world seemingly the first time ever since they learnt to walk, you who presides over something as profound as death yet knows not of the trivialities of life...

"it can also be for many other reasons like–"

the remainder of the words skitter away from uraume— cerberus is playing with gojo.

the fierce guard of the netherworlds, the three-headed hound, loyal and dutiful to a fault: hades' dearest canine companion is frolicking with the god of life in a green meadow, that most certainly was not there so close to the stygian marsh, when they last—

"gojo is laughing," your remark draws them away from their musings, only to find a changed shadow over your countenance— pensive yet not thinking at all; almost as if you too are floating in the stale air of your kingdom akin the soft flower petals...

another ring of raucous laughter pierces the silence, mingled with a delighted series of barks— cerberus is busy licking gojo's face now, the olympian reduced to a puddle of giggles as he scratches behind the dog's ears.

his happiness so clear in the stretch of his grin and the crinkle of his eyes, very much the jarring contrast to the last time—

oh. oh, oh, oh–

"escape," the word leaves uraume in a sudden moment of realisation, as quiet as a breath but loud enough for you to whip your head back to face them, confusion engraved into your scowl. "escape?? what is that supposed to mean, eh?"

the rower feels their lips lift into an infrequent smile. "the god of life wishes to marry you to escape— from his mother, or from his many suitors, or perhaps from mount olympus itself."

"wha– how– hah," you breathe out a disbelieving little huff, "that is simply ridiculous. have you even heard yourself? that is ridiculous."

used to such resistance from yourself, even more from your brother, they move to state their points, only to beaten by you as you persist to speak.

"no one in their right mind will decide to come live in the underworld, no matter how overbearing their mother or insistent their suitors are. have you seen this place? it's too, too unlike the lushness of the earth or the grandeur of the heavens he has experienced. and–" you add, a harsh laugh accompanying it. "gojo satoru is a god. a fish might leave the water— but a god never steps a voluntary foot down that horrible mountain. never."

"but the olympian never truly lived on mount olympus," uraume says once they're sure you've completed your tirade, "and you are a goddess as well. why do you speak so ill of the heavens then?"

"why?" you echo the word. they nod, hoping you take the bait they've intended for you. you do.

"why, because that place is nothing but a shining apple with a rotten core!! everything is polished marble and glittering gold there. people constantly wave at each other, lavishing smiles and praises like there is no tomorrow. everything is so warm and bright— what a bunch of lies and liars!"

familiar fire burns in your aura, the immense heat making the waters erupt into boiling— uraume uses their powers to cool the river down, lest anything disturbs you.

you're too far gone in your rage to be shaken, however, continuing:

"but it never can hide the grime and dirt accrued beneath such shine and sheen. nor the vicious minds and crooked hearts of those deities up above– what lame excuses of gods and goddesses, hah. and you might think me to prefer the light and warmth up there— you will be sorely wrong, my dear uraume!! i much prefer the genuine darkness and frigidity of my beloved kingdom to the faux comfort of the awful mount olympus—"

"is there no possibility the god of life too despises mount olympus for these same reasons, milady?"

you open your mouth and close it, then open it again to let out a very aggrieved whine– momentarily transporting uraume to your younger days. the rower merely chuckles when you punch their arm lightly.

"you're the worst, uraume," you cry, getting up and moving to sit on the other end of the boat. the rower too rises but only to resume rowing the boat by the oar.

"you never spoke this way when sukuna was the ruler— only because his baby sister is the ruler now, and you think she is very stupid—"

"as much as i respect and revere lord sukuna, he wasn't one to listen to anyone else," uraume interrupts gently, "you do, though– which is why i spent so much time telling you this. i hope you did not mind."

"hey, no," you immediately wave away their concern with a wide grin, eliciting a smaller one from the latter, "i could never..."

another peal of laughter and barks rings through the otherwise-quiet. you abruptly trail off, the same conflicting expression from before on your face yet again. though not without a spark in your eyes, uraume notes, almost as if you're slowly learning how to solve the puzzle who is repeatedly offering himself to you.

uraume keeps the silence you initiate, choosing to row the boat while you keep staring at the assortment of hues near the stygian marsh...

until you call their name and declare, an odd firmness in your smile, "well then, it is decided. i shall allow gojo to stay here for as long as the god so wishes to, escaping whatever or whoever he is escaping. and i shall protect him from the latter, should it ever come for him."

a beat. your smile falls into something graver. "would it be better if i swore by the dread water of styx, uraume?"

"uh, um," the rower finds themselves at a loss of words, the first time in seemingly forever, and they have been around since titanomachy– but before they can recover themselves enough to formulate a proper reply, a giggly voice joins in—

"well, if my rose does that, i would consider myself the most blessed amongst all mortals and immortals!"

— and the waters surrounding the boat shoot upwards in a scathing geyser-like jet and steam— the ferocious queen of the netherworlds visibly torn between remorse and terror, as they offer uraume a stiff nod and gojo a horrified look, before vanishing in a wisp of fog.

the boiling waters of the river styx calm down only after a twenty-minute-long struggle by uraume, joined at the very end by gojo.

the latter looks positively delighted, when the former collapses to the bottom of the boat, exhausted beyond belief. "hey, charon. was that a result of your queen getting flustered by me, huh?"

yes, it was. it very much was, the sentences nearly slip past the tired rower's crumbling defences... until it hits them– who they serve, and who they don't.

uraume decides to throw back a glare and a lie. "her majesty was not flustered, lord kore. she was enraged at how you invaded the privacy of her weekly boat ride, intended to make her relax."

"oh, puh-lease," the god makes a face. the rower is certain he would have been punished in the pits of tartarus for all eternity, then some more were he to pursue you this way during your brother's reign, let alone disrespect you thus.

ignorant and insolent, he continues, "in few days time, i'll be allowed into the privacy of her living quarters; what is the privacy of her boat th—"

"you're lucky you did not make such outrageous remarks in front of the queen," uraume cuts him off, none too kindly nor gently, "if you did, her majesty would have certainly burnt you along with the boat to a crisp–"

"i know," comes the defeated reply within the instant. and while gojo is still not in uraume's good graces, the latter decides to notch him a level higher, considering the god of life accepts their queen's powers.

not many do.

he strikes a pathetically pitiful figure, uraume reckons, seeing him sit then slouch on the bench. "was she serious when she said she would protect me?"

your loyal subject nods, certain and solemn. "yes, she was. the queen is never careless when it comes to making promises."

"oh, that's reassuring," gojo says quietly— only to recline even further in the very next beat– an anguished, grating wail tearing from him to the stifling silence looming near the stygian marsh. uraume wonders if it is worth it to steer the boat towards acheron... then push him into its waters of woe...

they decide against it on catching the desperation worn by the god.

for all it is, it might nothing more than a ploy. yet something tugs at their mind to pause and listen when gojo howls, "why does my rose always scurry away after tilting my world on its axis? why does your queen always torment me like this, charon?"

uraume stares pensively at their face in the sacred waters of styx for a while. then heaves a mighty sigh.

certain, this exchange between the goddess of the dead and the god of life will impact not only your and gojo's respective worlds— but the general world and everyone else in it, as well.

did you know, in the actual greek myths, persephone was never called so before her marriage to hades? she got it only after, w the name meaning "bringer of death". her initial name was kore, referring to her being a maiden & the spring goddess.

the river styx was called the "dread river of oath" by homer– in both the iliad and the odyssey [greek epic poems], swearing by its waters is the "greatest and most dread oath for the blessed gods" -> this shows how serious the reader is towards ensuring gojo's safety and freedom, and how deeply this affects gojo as well [source: wiki 😇]

also: the reader is totally ready to jump into the water to swim away when she realises gojo was listening in on her conversations- but then she remembers she can js vanish away and so she does js tht— the queen of the underworld, and of escaping, hehe

also also: the reader is slightly jealous when she is talking of the shifty nymphs always sticking to gojo's side. [uraume identifies it; you think it is js your usual dislike to such frivolous things and ppl as flowers and nymphs etc.] [hades is emo imho 😊]

▸ masterlist

#gojo x you #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #satoru x you #satoru x reader #jjk x you #jjk x reader #gojo fluff #jjk fluff #kit posts 📝

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 10 months

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terms of endearment │ Part I: The Princess and the Rogue

See the Series Masterlist for the correct order!

“The marriage between the second daughter of King Viserys I and his own brother, Prince Daemon, raised eyebrows upon its first announcement. Many assumed the match would echo the Rogue Prince’s unfortunate first union with the late Lady Rhea, despite his wish for a Valyrian bride being, finally, fulfilled. It surprised all who took witness to see the intensity of Daemon’s devotion to his second wife, a regard that would persist through a long and happy union between uncle and niece.”

- ‘Fire & Blood, Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros’ by Archmaester Gyldayn

The story of Prince Daemon Targaryen and his brother’s second-born daughter, as told through the many terms of endearment he calls her by.

Thank you to @my-justreblog for the header art!

Queen Aemma brings a new child into the world—you. As the second daughter of King Viserys I, you experience firsthand what it means to belong to the House of the Dragon.

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 (COMPLETE!)

Daemon returns to King’s Landing after ten years in exile, intent on rekindling his affair with Rhaenyra. He wasn’t expecting you—the revelation changes everything.

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 (COMPLETE!)

As the second-born daughter of Aemma and Viserys, you never expected to be married off to your uncle Daemon. The wedding is here—and the wedding night.

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 │Chapter 11 │Chapter 12 (COMPLETE!)

Scenes from a marriage—you receive an education from your Uncle Daemon. Lucky for you, he is all too happy to teach you.

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 (COMPLETE!)

Childbirth is the duty and dismay of all highborn women. Together, you and Daemon experience the trials, tribulations and triumphs of expectant parenthood.

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 │Chapter 11 │Chapter 12 (COMPLETE!)

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little-diable · 1 year

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Holy Realm - Priest!Tom Riddle (smut)

Father Riddle will always be my favourite dark character to write for. Please remember, don't like it, don't read it. But please, like and reblog if you did enjoy reading this! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: (Y/n) has found her way back home, spending her summer vaction with her overly religious mother, who introduces her to a man that is set on blemishing her once pure soul.

Warnings: 18+, smut, sex in a church, oral (m), religious connotations, heavy power play, dub!con, degration, praying a rosary

Pairing: Father!Tom Riddle x nonreligious!fem!reader (3.2k words)

Header by @deathofpeaceofmind

“Hurry, I don’t want to miss the service!” (Y/n) had to bite down her groan, hurrying after her mother, taking two steps at a time. The sun was about to set, drenching the horizon in a dark red, symbolic of the pain they’ll pray about, the suffering the son of Christ had endured. Mere stories (y/n) could pay no mind to, not believing in the bible nor the religion her mother clung to.

The church was filled, only two spots in the first row were still left empty, forcing yet another groan out of (y/n). She had returned home only a day ago, cursing herself for giving in, for following her mother’s call to spend her summer vacation at home. Deep down she had missed her family, the small town she had grown up in, but after only a few hours of being back home, (y/n) was ready to leave once again.

Her tired eyes took in her surroundings, the familiar faces that smiled at her, forcing a fake smile to widen on (y/n)’s lips. She could only hope that the service will pass quickly, allowing her to hide away in her old room with her book and some music to distract herself from her parent’s bickering.

(Y/n)’s wandering thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a door being pushed open, exposing a man she hadn’t seen before. He carried himself with a dark gaze and an almost too straight posture, eyes set ahead, focusing on the cross towering over the altar. “That’s father Riddle, he joined the community last September.” (Y/n) couldn’t pay her mother’s whispers a thought, fully mesmerized by the handsome man that left her heart racing.

“Good evening, I’m glad to see so many of you in our holy halls, please, pray with us.” His eyes met hers, only for a few seconds, and yet (y/n) felt herself trembling in her seat. There was something about the man that left her yearning for more, hoping that his gaze would wander back to her frame soon. Like a school girl crushing on her professor, hanging onto his every word, (y/n) felt herself being pulled into his grasp.

The man didn’t smile once, he had nothing sweet to him, making her question how a man like him had found the love for caring for those that shared the same beliefs. He didn’t strike her like a man of God, appearing like a demon that had crawled straight from hell, with eyes that still reflected the flames of suffering, threatening to burn those that stared for too long.

“Stand up.” (Y/n)’s mother tugged on her elbow, forcing (y/n) to her feet. Father Riddle was already staring at her, without any emotions lingering in his gaze, and yet (y/n) found herself shrinking away, hoping that he wouldn’t call her out on her state of distraction. She didn’t speak the prayers, didn’t give in once, perhaps she was trying to provoke a reaction out of the father, wondering if he’d stare at her long enough to wordlessly communicate with her. But he didn’t, not once did his gaze linger long enough to make (y/n) feel the heat his eyes reflected.

“For the Lord is a great God, and a great king above all gods. Come, let us worship and bow down and kneel before the Lord our Maker.” The prayer echoed through the church, words (y/n) didn’t speak, keeping her mouth shut even as her mother gave her a small push, hoping that her daughter would give in. It was pathetic, really, but she couldn’t help but search his gaze, too intrigued to back down just yet. The man’s trap had forced her to her knees, abiding to his every command, he could toy with her body and soul, and she’d blindly give in. Darkness had touched her soul, seeping into her every pore, one with the call of the underworld the son of God had once wandered.

“May you rest well knowing that He will hear your call. Have a good evening, thank you.” The shadow of a smile found its way to the man’s lips as he ended the service, closing the bible with his eyes still set on the community that hung onto his every word. (Y/n) had to snap herself out of her mesmerized state, embarrassed by the way she had to press her thighs together, feeling her panties growing damper by the second.

“Come, I want to introduce you.” Before (y/n) could try and protest her mother had already tugged on her hand, pulling her towards the line of people that wanted to speak to the man. Once again (y/n) allowed herself to take in his tall frame, the white collar that perfectly pressed against his throat, the jaw muscles that ticked whenever he listened to the ones praising his service.

“Father Riddle, what a glorious service it has been. This is my daughter, (y/n), she’s sadly not a follower of Christ.” (Y/n) had to bite down her snort, breath hitched in her chest as his eyes found hers once again. It took her a moment to snap out of her state, shooting him a small smile as he shook her hand, squeezing tighter than she had expected him to.

“It’s good to finally meet you, (y/n). Please, if you ever find the need to strengthen your belief, our church will always be open for you.” Her mouth felt dry, unable to reply to the words that had a teasing undertone to them.

“Oh, what a lovely idea! She will definitely visit in the next few days, if somebody can reassure her of God’s love it will be you, father.” (Y/n) didn’t find the strength to protest, couldn’t ignore the excitement buzzing through her at the thought of crossing paths with the man again, without her mother near. With a small smile lingering on his lips the man nodded his head, murmuring a soft “I can’t wait” before he bid the two goodbye.

And with a heavy breath exhaled, (y/n) followed her all too oblivious mother out of the church.

—

It was the next evening when (y/n) found herself walking up the stairs of the church once again. She had her hands clinging onto the strap of her bag, needing to find something to hold onto, unsure what to expect. Her mother hadn’t stopped talking about the man, begging her daughter to give in and go talk to him, praying that she would find her way back to God. And even though (y/n) hadn’t paid her mother's rambling much attention, she found herself thinking about the man, the way she wanted to be touched by him.

Hours after the service had ended her hands had started wandering, hiding away in the darkness of her room, following the call those believing in God would curse. Her thoughts had raced through her mind, painting pictures of the tall man, wondering how he’d touch her, if he’d allow her to drop to her knees for him. Mere thoughts that have pushed her closer and closer to the edge, giving in with a heavy gasp rumbling through her.

“Hello?” (Y/n)’s voice echoed through the empty church, met by nothing but silence. Slowly she walked further through the building, up to the altar, eyes taking in the colourful glass windows, the paintings that told the story of Christ, and the heavy cross hanging over her head. Her gaze found the door the father had walked through yesterday evening, spots of light were reflected through the milky glass, calling her closer.

“Father Riddle?” She called out, knocking on the door before she pushed it open. Her eyes met his, pushing the same heat she had felt yesterday through her system, smiling at the man.

“(Y/n), what a joy. I hadn’t expected you to find your way back here so soon, please, sit.” She shut the door before she sat down on the chair near his table, taking in the shelves filled with books, feeling the cold that lingered in his office, a clear contrast to the warmth that had filled the halls of the church. “Tell me, how is it being back home? Your mother told me she hasn’t seen you in years.”

“It’s different, I now remember why I have stayed away for so long.” The words rolled off her tongue without thinking twice about them, grateful for the raspy chuckle that rumbled through the man. His eyes didn’t stray from her features once, taking in every inch, every imperfection he found himself intrigued by. As if he was the last truth humankind had to cling to, his presence filled the room, luring her further into his trap.

“Do you remember why you lost your faith? Your mother told me about your struggles with God.” He rose from his seat, walking towards the small desk nearby to fill a glass with water. Her gaze followed his every step, drawn to him like a sinner following the devil’s call, one with the darkness those that believed in the creator of all life feared.

“I don’t think I’ve ever truly believed in God, how can you, when all this pain and suffering is happening?” He placed the glass of water in front of her, not moving away as he leaned back against his table, knees almost touching (y/n)'s. The man was now towering over her, wordlessly communicating the power he held over her, as if she was a puppet he guided, tugging on the strings that forced her to sit still.

“You see, (y/n), God works in mysterious ways, it’s not on us to question him. I fear you have been tainted, you’ve been lured in by the devil’s call. Your mother is suffering, because of your disloyalty to God, don’t you want to see her happy?” She didn't know how to reply, would normally start laughing about words like these and run from those that dared to abuse their power, but she couldn’t move, glued to her seat with trembling thighs and a racing heart. “Speak up when you’re asked to.”

“I,” (y/n) heavily swallowed, pondering over the words that burned on the tip of her tongue. “How do I find my way back to God when I’ve pushed him away for so long?” His hand found her jaw, tilting her head up to keep looking at him, not giving (y/n) a chance to move away from the man. The father had a tight grip on her, leaving marks she’d have to hide from her mother when morning rose over the small town that had been brainwashed by the one that was now guiding her.

“Put your trust in me, show me how much you want to find your way back to Him and I shall show you the way.” His voice grew raspier with every spoken word, waiting for the small nod of her head before he spoke up once again. “Good. Follow my command and you will be freed from the devil's grasp. Kneel for me, (y/n).”

She dropped to her knees, jeans rubbing against the rough carpet. Her eyes didn’t dare stray from his dark ones, unable to think straight, unable to realise that the man was playing with the power he held over her. This is what she had been dreaming of last night, wondering how he’d manhandle her, and who was she to deny herself of her needs?

“Here, take this.” (Y/n) took the white rosary from him, fingertips absentmindedly rolling the wooden pearls. Her eyes followed the movements of his hands, watching him unbuckle his belt, freeing his hardening cock from his dark trousers. “Keep holding onto it for now. Open your mouth for me, and prove to me how much you love God.”

Her lips parted, welcoming his cock into her mouth, swallowing around him. The father was ruthless, tugging her closer with his hand finding the back of her head, making (y/n) gag around him. Tears salty like the body of water the son of Christ had walked upon ran down her cheeks, dropping one by one like the sinners that had fallen from heaven with Lucifer.

The corners of her mouth burned, saliva dripped from her chin, onto the rosary she was holding in her hands. His moans guided her, silently praising her for the pressure she used on his cock, how she bobbed her head with the right amount of speed, slowly adjusting to his size.

Their eyes kept holding contact, reminding (y/n) that there was no running from the man that perfectly embodied the darkness she had been warned of since she had been a mere child. A darkness she was intrigued by, hoping that the grasp he had on her wouldn’t grow loose just yet, curious to find out what else he’d do to her.

“Atta girl, fuck, such an eager whore, ready to please me.” His words left her moaning around him, finding pride in the way he was praising her. (Y/n) felt herself dripping, walls clenching around nothing, needing to be filled by him.

His cock twitched in her mouth as the man started fucking her mouth, abusing her with his tip meeting the back of her throat, leaving her heaving for air. She didn’t dare move away, greedily swallowing as he released himself in her mouth, painting her cheeks and tongue white. His groans left her trembling, praying that he’d finally give in and touch her like she needed him to.

With too much force the father pulled her off his cock, taking a step back to let his gaze wander over her features, taking in the saliva still clinging to her skin, the swollen lips of hers, “Against the desk, spread your legs for me.”

(Y/n) rose with quivering limbs, front pressed against the table top. He worked on her jeans, pulling them down her legs with her panties following, allowing (y/n) to step out of them before he pushed her back down against the wood. Cold fingers brushed through her folds, silently chuckling as he felt her arousal clinging to her skin.

“You’re soaked for me – you see, from the moment I first saw you, I knew you had to be treated differently.” He plunged two fingers into her, pressing himself against her back to cage her. A surprised gasp left her, eyes squeezed shut, hands tightening their grip on the rosary she was still clinging to, reminding her of the mission she was now supposed to follow. “Tell me, (y/n), do you remember how to pray the rosary?”

“I think so.” Her whispers left him chuckling, he kept fucking her with his fingers as he murmured to her, leaving her torn between her arousal and the commands he was speaking.

“Show me then, pray.” The father let go of her, leaving her empty, and yet she didn’t dare question him. A shaky breath was inhaled into her lungs, eyes squeezed shut to force herself to remember the prayer she had once known by heart – as a child too young to question the belief she had been growing up with. She heard him fumble around, ripping open what she assumed to be a condom, sounds (y/n) desperately needed to distract herself from if she wanted to please him.

“Our Father, who art in heaven hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.” The second the prayer had left her lips, the man had pushed into her, cock forcing her walls apart. (Y/n)’s moans filled the room, eyes still squeezed shut as she breathed through the pain, not used to being filled by a cock of his size. But the father paid no attention to her uneasiness, pulling out only to push right back in, fucking her against his table.

“Keep on praying, don’t disappoint me.” The mere thought of disappointing the man left her panicking, trying to snap out of her lust drunken state. The first Hail Mary rumbled through (y/n), trying to remember the words she was supposed to speak, calling out to those who shall help her when in need.

“Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee.” Her moans kept interrupting her, wondering if she’d eventually snap the rosary apart from the amount of pressure she used to hold onto it. Her mind was racing, unable to focus on anything but him. His thrusts grew more ferocious, forcing her hips to meet the table with every movement, sure to leave bruises that would linger for days on end.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, Pray for us sinners, Now and at the hour of our death.” A sinner she was, and yet it didn’t feel like she was sinning, as she was guided by a man of God, a man that understood the miracles mere human minds weren’t made to pick up on. Tears of desperation welled up on her eyes as his hand found its way around her middle, cupping her core. He circled her clit, coaxing another moan out of her.

“Don’t give in just yet, use your strength.” He murmured the words, adding more pressure to her touch to taint the girl even further. The man had crawled from hell, only to blemish her once pure soul, leaving holes of darkness that could no longer be filled by the light her belief had once pushed through her. Her walls fluttered around his cock, teeth finding their way into her lower lip to try and stop herself from giving in just yet.

“Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.” The moment the prayer had left her bloody lips, he breathed out a small “Cum”, a command almost missed by the moaning woman. (Y/n) came with a gasp, letting go of the rosary to hold onto the edge of the desk, trying to claw her fingernails into the wood. He kept fucking her through her high, following moments later with a deep groan filling his fleshcage.

For a few seconds they were trapped in a thick fog of silence, catching their breaths before he pulled out of her, letting go of his tight grasp on her. No words were spoken as (y/n) tried to put her clothes back on, still trembling but now shying away from his dark gaze. Only as his hand found its way back to her chin, tilting her head up, did she give in.

“I expect you to come back tomorrow morning for our service. Don’t disappoint me, (y/n), remember that I’m your only way back into the holy realm.”

#Tom Riddle smut #little-diable priest #Tom Riddle imagine

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 1 year

Text

Perzys se Rūkla (Fire and Flowers) - Chapter One

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x original female character (Melessa Tyrell) Warnings: Sexual themes. Word count: ~2k

Chapter summary: Daemon returns to King's Landing after a long absence and finds himself captivated by Aemond's pretty bride to be. Series summary here.

Endless thanks and all the love to my absolute ride or die @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for cheerleading, beta'ing and just generally being the bestest fandom boo a gal could have.

Header by the insanely talented @em-writes-stuff-sometimes

It has been fifteen years since Daemon has set foot in King’s Landing. Following his departure from the capital on the night of his niece Rhaenyra’s wedding to Laenor Velaryon, he has kept himself busy. Splitting his time between Dragonstone and Pentos, wine, women and war have served to push the thoughts of what might have been from his mind.

He has ignored all ravens from his brother, Viserys. Invitations to celebrate name days, the births of Rhaenyra’s children, the marriage of his niece and nephew, Helaena and Aegon, and the births of their children have all gone unanswered. He has been privy to all family gossip; Aemond claiming Vhagar and losing an eye at the hands of Lucerys, Rhaenyra’s alleged infidelity and her three children’s parentage being called into question. He has chosen not to acknowledge any of it.

Viserys had made it abundantly clear time and time again that Daemon was not worthy; not worthy of being his Hand, not worthy of his daughter, and so he kept his distance. Let the bloody fools tear themselves apart.

Daemon rolls his eyes as he enters his study on Dragonstone, noticing the rolled up parchment sitting on his writing desk. What joy. Yet another frivolity to be avoided.

As he unfurls the note he is immediately struck by the difference in penmanship. This is not his brother’s handwriting, yet it still bears the Royal seal of the King. This is the doing of that Hightower cunt.

An invitation to the announcement of Prince Aemond Targaryen’s betrothal to Lady Melessa Tyrell. Spare me. But the allure of why Otto has written this and not Viserys is too strong to ignore. Something must have happened. Before he has time to fully comprehend his actions, Daemon is mounting Caraxes and flying southwest towards the Red Keep.

It hardly surprises him that it no longer feels like home when he returns - he has spent more than a decade avoiding it - but now it feels particularly unfamiliar. Alicent’s presence can be felt everywhere, from the removal of the tapestries, to the iconography of the Seven adorning every available space. He scarcely recognises it.

He bristles with disgust at the Seven-Pointed Star before making his way to his brother’s bedchamber. The smell of decay hangs thick in the air as Daemon pushes the heavy wooden door open. He wrinkles his nose, taking a moment to compose himself against the acrid bile that rises in his throat, threatening to make him retch.

Daemon knew Viserys was in ill health, but how on earth had it been allowed to get this bad? He steels himself as he approaches the bed, knowing what he is about to look upon will not be pleasant. He swallows thickly at the half-rotted man that lies before him. He is not even lucid enough to register Daemon’s presence. He bows his head, not trusting himself to speak. He knows a response is not likely anyway. Poor bastard.

He finds Rhaenyra in the gardens. His last memory of her was on the night of her wedding to Laenor. She had asked him to take her away and make her his wife. He had left her and never returned. His heart hammers in his chest at the thought of seeing her again. There is so much that has been left unsaid between them.

And yet when he sees her the words die on his tongue. He feels foolish for expecting her to be the exuberant young woman he’d abandoned in the Great Hall all those years ago. The years have not been unkind to her, though she is thicker around the waist from bearing her children and her face has aged. It is not that that quells the fire in his blood for her. She is no longer his; someone else has staked their claim to her, and the three dark-haired boys that linger nearby are proof enough of that.

He stands silently beside her and she glances sideways at him.

“Daemon,” she states simply, her lips curving ever-so-slightly upwards.

“Rhaenyra,” he responds. He does not smile, though it is clear in the way that his eyes soften as he looks at her that he is pleased to see her.

They stand in comfortable silence for a few moments before she speaks.

“What are you doing here?”

“Can a man not simply feel homesick?”

“It has taken you fifteen years to start to feel homesick?”

It’s then that Daemon smiles at Rhaenyra - it’s small, but genuine. He has missed her quick wit and unwavering ability to call him out.

He sighs, casting his gaze downwards before back to her. “I hadn’t realised how bad your father had gotten.”

Rhaenyra nods solemnly. “You would have, had you not stayed away all this time. They are giving him milk of the poppy to manage his pain.”

“They, meaning that Hightower cunt and his doe-eyed mook of a daughter?”

“Mmmm.”

“You’re his heir, Rhaenyra. Surely you cannot allow this?”

“Until I am Queen, I have no say in what is and is not allowed. Besides, I have Laenor and the children to think about.”

Daemon cannot help the dry chuckle that escapes him. “Ah, yes, the pillow biter. I had quite forgotten.”

Rhaenyra rolls her eyes. “Daemon…”

He smirks. “Well, I’m sure those vile accusations have now been put to rest considering how much your brood looks like him. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Stop it,” she chides quietly, not wanting to draw attention.

“Speaking of bastards, where is my youngest nephew? I hear congratulations are in order - he has plucked himself a rose from Highgarden.”

Rhaenyra gestures to where Aemond and Melessa stand on the other side of the gardens, flanked by Alicent, Otto and Melessa’s father. The entire exchange looks tense and uncomfortable even from where they are standing.

“She arrived today. The official announcement is in three days,” Rhaenyra tells him.

Daemon surveys the scene in the near distance, taking in the appearance of Aemond. He was a mere babe the last time Daemon laid eyes upon him. Now he is tall, slender and a patch covers his left eye, with a ragged scar running the length of the same side of his face. Dressed all in black, he cuts quite the chilling figure, and Daemon can’t help but feel a little sorry for the poor girl that’s going to have to marry him.

“Gods, he looks like a fucking wraith…” Daemon mutters, more to himself than Rhaenyra.

It’s then that he sees her. Small in stature and slender in build, her long flaxen hair is so pale he’d almost mistake her for being of Valyrian descent if he didn’t know any better. Her blue eyes are wide, bright and full of innocence. Her upturned nose and plush rosy lips only serve to add to her girlish charm and beauty.

Daemon stares at her with predatory hunger. He has not felt himself come alive like this since he last laid eyes on Rhaenyra. He knows he has allowed his gaze to linger for far too long - and yet he cannot, will not look away. The desire to conquer this sweet little maiden, to tear her apart and make her his own is simply too strong.

“Don’t.” Rhaenyra’s bluntness snaps him out of his reverie and he looks at her, an expression of faux innocence plastered across his features. But she knows him. She knows that look. She has been on the receiving end of it many times before.

If only he had any intention of stopping.

Throughout the day, Daemon’s attention falls solely on Melessa; the sheen of her hair as it catches the light, the way her delicate rose petal mouth shapes around words as she speaks. He ponders what it would feel like to push his cock past those lips while her wide blue eyes look up at him filled with innocence. He stirs in his breeches at the thought.

He has to have her. It would be an injustice to marry her off to his scarred, frigid wretch of a nephew. A flower such as her needed to be tended to. She would surely wilt under Aemond’s inexperience and lack of care, he is sure of that.

Opportunity strikes when he sees Melessa admiring the tapestries unaccompanied. Daemon strides purposefully over to her, admiring how delicate she appears just standing there. It occurs to him that he could do whatever he wants to her and there is little she could do to stop him. He stands behind her, easily a foot taller than her and leans down to speak directly into her ear.

“Enjoying yourself?”

The scent of almond oil and rosewater causes him to take a sharper inhale than he would ordinarily, and he enjoys the sight of how gooseflesh appears across her pale skin at the sensation.

She turns, clearly startled, before making an effort to compose herself, curtsying to him.

“Prince Daemon, forgive me! I did not see you there.”

Pride wells in his chest at how she addresses him. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he takes in her flustered appearance, the flush of her cheeks and the surprise in her eyes. It is an image he commits to memory and will absolutely make use of later.

“Please, Lady Melessa, spare me the formalities. We are to be family.” He cocks his head as he stares down at her. “How are you liking King’s Landing?”

“It is nice,” she says shyly. “It…”

“Smells like shit?” he offers with a wolfish grin.

He watches with amusement as she attempts to hide her giggle behind her hand. So innocent. He would have fun with this one. It is clear that him making her laugh has broken some of the tension. Her shoulders relax, pulling away from her neck as she smiles up at him.

He presses on, deciding to be bolder with his probing. “You must be excited about your betrothal to Aemond.”

Melessa nods, though her response is hesitant. “...Yes.”

Hardly the image of a blushing bride. Daemon watches as she squirms with discomfort, averting her eyes. Oh, this was almost too good. He cannot resist prodding further.

“Do I detect some trepidation, my lady? Are you unhappy with your match?”

“No!” she answers too quickly, fear returning to her gossamer features as her eyebrows shoot upwards and her eyes widen.

“Liar.” he states with a smirk. “Tell me how you really feel.”

She shakes her head, looking away. “I cannot… it is improper.”

He tuts, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilting her face back to his. “You may speak freely with me.”

Melessa opens her mouth, drawing in a deep breath and then closes it again. Her cheeks turn pink and when she finally speaks, her voice is a mere whisper. “He frightens me.”

He smiles warmly at her response. Excellent. This is precisely what he wanted. Not releasing his soft grip on her face, he prods further. “And do I frighten you?”

“A little,” comes her breathy response as she gazes up at him, the very image of childlike wonder.

“Hmmm,” he muses thoughtfully, dragging his thumb across the plushness of her bottom lip. “Such a soft little petal. Tell me - are you this soft everywhere?” If she understands the crassness of his words, she does not show it. Her expression remains placid and innocent.

All too soon, he is breaking away from her, the sound of her father’s voice beckoning her from down the hallway interrupting his moment alone with her. He turns without a word and leaves, eager to shut himself away in his chambers and relieve the aching hardness that presses itself painfully against the confines of his trousers.

Daemon is certain now that he simply has to have her. He has to move swiftly, to capture his prize before the betrothal is officially announced. He has just three days to make his claim.

Three days.

#daemon targaryen #daemon #the rogue prince #daemon stannies #pro daemon targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x reader #hotd #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen angst #hotd smut #hotd angst #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen fan fiction #daemon targaryen fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd fan fiction #hotd fanfiction

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ijuststareatstuffhereok89 · 7 months

Text

Title board created by the wonderful @mochie85! Thank you again for this beautiful header!

Epilogue: Next Christmas

Three-hundred and sixty-five days go by...will Loki return?

**MASTERLIST HERE** Pairing: Soft!Dom!Loki x F!Reader Content Warnings: smut, extensive mentions of death, euthanasia, and death-related philosophy, some dark content (though the characters won't be), exile, moodiness, smut, kinks of various flavors (look for specific chapter warnings), trauma and mental illness, reader is a captive, reader has a body count

“You let them drink?” you moaned, rolling your eyes at Brunnhilde, who was already barely capable of figuring out how to use a bar stool, swiveling unstably left and right as you confronted her with only partial seriousness. “You do realize most of them are still young girls, right?”

“Oh, shove off, it’s New Year’s!” she replied, swigging from a silver stein in front of her. “Plus, I know you don't get Asgardian biology, but our livers are a good degree better than humans. I’m sure the girls are fine.”

“Uh, Dagmar just puked on her horse,” you continued. “Hilds, I was so optimistic when I started the New Valks with you, and now it looks like I already have to start an AA.”

The King dismissed this with an awkward hand wave. “Oh, Dag’s never been the best rider.”

You grunted. “She wasn’t riding him. She was…trying to milk him.”

“Y’know, I miss the quieter, more frightened you sometimes,” Brunnhilde mumbled, finishing her drink and slamming it on the table.

“No you don’t,” you said, tapping your finger on the bar and looking at the clock again. 11:32pm. Loki had 28 minutes left to make his deadline.

It wasn’t as if you expected him to come barreling back at 12:01 the previous night, but, of course, a part of you hoped that he was so maddened with desire to be back in your arms that he couldn’t wait until the last minute. Every minute that passed that day made your heart drop a little more in your chest.

“I meant what I said the other day,” said Brunnhilde, “If he flakes, he’s banned from New Asgard forever.”

“I told you not to go that far,” you scoffed. “There will be no regrets, no matter what happens…aside from maybe regretting allowing our recruits to be teenagers.”

Establishing the New Valkyries was no easy task. After a month of recruitment and bribery, you were only able to assemble seven young women, all under the human equivalent of twenty-two years old. Apparently, the Valkyries had a bit of a reputation not unlike a motorcycle gang, and some of the residents thought they were going to be more trouble than they were worth.

Sometimes, you agreed with them.

The “New Valks” all had great hearts and courage, but when the King procured horses for them, and it took the better part of a month just teaching them how to ride, you began to realize the two of you were in over your heads, just a little. Still, some slow progress had been made over the year, and by the time Christmas rolled around again, at least four of them could wield a broadsword without pulling a muscle.

Brunnhilde pounded on the bar with her fist, and the bartender at the other end of the counter immediately drew a rune in her direction, instantly refilling her stein.

“If you want to go out there now, I can tell the girls to cut it out and go home,” she sighed. “Killjoy,” she added with a murmur.

Twisting your lip, you felt a small pebble of fear roll around in your stomach. “You’d have thought he’d be here by now.”

“That god always liked to make an entrance,” the King explained. “You should have seen the ‘worship me’ shit he pulled at Ragnarok. I’m not surprised he’s planning to make his grand return at 11:59.”

“You think he’ll show up?” you asked hopefully.

Your best friend shrugged. “Who's to say? I guess I’d rather put up with His Heinie-ness lurking about if it makes you happy.”

You looked at the clock one more time. Only four minutes had passed.

“Yeah, I can’t wait any longer,” you admitted. “Tell Dag she’s got stable duty tomorrow, hangover or no. She needs to learn some self control already.”

“Will do, Cap.” Brunnhilde nodded and raised her stein in a mock toast. “Good luck, Y/N.”

The night was crisp, the air clear, a gentle snow falling from a browned-over sky absorbing the ambient noise from the village. You still preferred a warm, gentle summer shower, but this kind of winter’s night had its own stillness, its own kind of petrichor that made you feel at home.

The year had rewarded you well, even though it wasn’t exactly easy. The New Valks, ragtag as they were, looked up to you, and knowing that you belonged somewhere, with friends to seek out and people who depended on you in spite of your terrible gifts…it was home. You were happy.

Katja was beginning to fade, and you especially could sense it. She was still around, but her energy was lower than it had been the last year, and you had the solemn feeling she would be reuniting with Ivar in the coming months. You were thankful, however, that her expiring seemed to be rolling in like a peaceful evening wave, which meant you likely wouldn’t have to visit her bedside to send her off as you had with Ivar. You still hoped you would never need to do that again.

S.H.I.E.L.D. was good on their word to leave you and New Asgard be, as was the Flock. Last February, you mysteriously found a large delivery of flowers, fruits, and candy in the town square, along with a single Bible addressed to you specifically. Brunnhilde concluded this was their odd way of thanking you for sparing their ‘queen,’ and that the truce was solidified. The Bible made good kindling for your fireplace, but the children of the village appreciated the treats (after you and Brunnhilde made sure they were safe, of course, and they were).

You made your way up the hill with just under ten minutes until midnight. Looking back to the faint glow of New Asgard down at the shore, you smiled.

Even if you found something better out there, Loki, so did I, you thought. We both won your wager in the end.

However, you knew that if he missed his deadline, you’d still go back to your cabin (indoor toilet included) and weep for days. You craved Loki more and more with each hour. Your braid, still tightly tucked behind your ear after a year of careful maintenance, only provided so much. As he’d warned, it was only a projection of Loki not unlike the ones you’d seen in Star Wars.

Of course, you’d still kept it out for hours the many, many nights you were alone in bed, with only your hand for lustful company. However, you never brought it out around another person. Loki, even as a simple image, was yours and yours alone to cherish and admire.

The daisy he’d woven into your hair had remained fresh and full all year long thanks to the magic embedded within it, and it hadn’t begun to fade until Loki’s birthday several weeks ago: December 17th. After then, it was as if the flower was a countdown clock, the petals had begun peeling away, once a night, at exactly midnight. Tonight, a single petal remained in your braid, and it was hanging on by a single fiber to the rest of the stem.

Your breath formed curling tendrils in front of your face, perfectly resembling the death energy that lay beneath your skin, dormant nearly all the time, only ever used in defense as a nuclear option. But you no longer saw yourself as a beast meant to be locked away. The Universe itself seemed to have bestowed its greatest, most constant power onto you, and however that happened when you were young,it was finally a part of you that you were willing to embrace.

You took a deep breath. You didn’t have a watch with you, but you knew you only had a few moments left. Each one that passed without any indication of a spacecraft landing made your heart sink a little lower.

Loki, if you really are planning to make a last-second entrance, I may actually kill you, you grumped from within.

Then, the ten-second countdown to the new year began. You could tell from the collective swelling of cheers and counting from New Asgard below. You held your breath and looked to the skies.

10…9…8… C’mon, love…

7…6… Nothing. No lights, sounds,or deep, sexy voices.

5…4…3… Goddamn it, Loki…

2… A tear pricked the corner of your eye.

1! Happy New Year! There it was.

The last petal fell from your hair and slowly floated down toward the pile of snow at your feet that you’d nervously been kicking up as you waited. Biting your lip, you wish you had more alcohol, and you decided before sinking into a sad cry, a few dozen beers would numb the fresh heartbreak to start off the year.

What was so damn great about space that was more attractive than you, anyway? Was there some three-titted space whore he’d latched on to?

I suppose I could go out there myself and try to find him…and to kill that three-breasted alien slut who kept him from coming back!

Then, you heard four words calling to you from the bottom of the hill. Four words in a deep, sexy voice. Four words that you’d been waiting three-hundred and sixty-five days to hear:

“Sorry I’m late, love.”

At last.

Your mind was racing, son your feet spoke up for the rest of your body, turning and practically throwing yourself down the hill into Loki's extended arms. The impact of you against his chest threw Loki over his heels and back into the snowdrift, where you pinned him down at the shoulders. Tasting his cool, delicious lips after an entire year suddenly felt like not a moment had passed at all.

Loki returned your passionate kiss by wrapping his arms around you and holding you fast to him. You were covered in his safety, his fulfilled promise, with a renewed sense of love that neither of you had felt in a long time, but that you could now share with one another for eternity.

You never felt more alive.

The END The Beginning

Than you to my taglist of wonderful readers, mutuals, and supporters! Please visit my main masterlist for updates on my next WIP and more Loki stories!

As always, I hop you enjoyed my story! Please comment/reblog!

@kats72 @violethaze @cheekyscamp @javagirl328 @yelkmelk @mischief2sarawr @buttercupcookies-blog @lokidokieokie @fictive-sl0th @jaidenhawke @caothicshit @holdmytesseract @anukulee @joyful-enchantress @simplyholl @meowmeow-motherfucker @huntress-artemiss @lokisgoodgirl @loz-3 @mjsthrillernp @alexakeyloveloki @linaax @noideakitten @evelyn-rathmore @lovingchoices14 @itzcomplctd7 @praq123 @the-fantasy-loving-angel @alexakeyloveloki @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @admiralatthebowofnails @vanilla-daydreaming @technicallysassyfox @ozymdias @fall-myriad @sititran @lokisdeadcat @blog-the-lilly @satrkovaza @wolfcyanide

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marvelmusing · 2 years

Text

His Name

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova x Fem!Reader

Summary: A soulmate AU where your soulmate’s name is on your wrist. As the Sun Summoner, you’ve been in hiding, whilst the Darkling rules Ravka. Connected by the tether between you, you pay him a visit, and he makes a revelation that will change things between you forever.

Warnings: canon level of violence and war (not graphic, only mentioned)

A/N: I wrote this in one sitting since I just had to get the idea out there, so sorry if there’s tons of mistakes. Also I’ve made some new headers but I’m not sure if I like them so I might change them at some point

My Masterlist

The Darkling is sitting on the edge of a table when you appear. As always, the tether makes everything around you blurred. Everything except him.

You don’t know what room you’re in. If you’re in the Little Palace, or the Grand Palace. You hadn’t given much thought as to where he had chosen to live now that he was king.

A sickening lurch tugs at your heart as you observe the deep red gash at his side. You can breathe a little easier when a Healer comes into view and begins to knit the skin back together.

His shirt lies crumpled on the floor, perfect white forever stained with red. The Darkling’s eyes stay fixed on you, and you can only hope that he can’t read the concern on your face. You don’t want to be concerned about him. You can’t be.

You watch his jaw tense as the healing finishes, his head tilting back slightly, and a stray strand of dark hair falls over his forehead.

He waves the Healer away, and they hesitate only momentarily before leaving.

“There’s something I’ve been wondering,” he says, his voice low in the quiet, empty space between you both. You wait for him to continue. “The night that Baghra told you what I intended, the night you fled the Little Palace, did you hesitate?”

Your gaze falls to his chest as he picks up a dark shirt that had been folded beside him on the table.

“Yes,” you whisper.

“And in the days after you left, did you ever think of coming back?”

His fingers are delicate as they do up a casual number of buttons, leaving his shirt loose and some of his chest exposed.

“Yes.”

His hands return to the edge of the table, his fingers curling firmly around the carved wood. Something darkens in his expression.

“But you chose not to.”

You don’t know why you decide to speak. But for some reason, you want him to understand. That you hadn’t wanted to leave him. That you had loved your new life at the Little Palace. You had loved learning about your power, your friends, and luxuries you had only ever dreamed of. You had loved him.

Which is why it had hurt so much when you found out it was a lie. That he had lied. So, you tell him as such, as you move closer to him.

“It wasn’t just what Baghra said. You lied to me. You tricked me. You made me think that-“

You stop yourself quickly. You made me think that you wanted me. Almost as soon as the thought crosses your mind, the night of the Winter Fete replaces it. His mouth against your skin, and the frustration in his eyes. The problem with wanting, is it makes you weak.

He sighs softly, running a hand over his face.

“I needed your loyalty. I needed you bound to me by something stronger than duty or fear.”

Despite yourself, you can’t help but trace your fingers over the site of his wound. You can feel his eyes on you, as the room comes into sharper focus. There’s only a faint redness in the shape of the gash.

“How did this happen?” you ask softly, and the Darkling tilts his head aside to watch you.

“A skirmish with West Ravka.”

You nod faintly. You had known that the rebel forces had regular encounters with the Darkling’s army. What you hadn’t thought possible was one of them getting close enough to wound him. The concern must be obvious in your eyes, because the Darkling’s fingers curl around your wrist.

Even under so many layers, the sleeve of your kefta and the binding you always keep around your wrist, you can feel the warmth of his skin settle against the name tattooed on your wrist. The name of your soulmate.

You swallow hard, and the Darkling changes the subject, his fingers still curled around your wrist.

“There are rumors that your Lantsov prince has been sighted.” You lift a brow at him, attempting to feign casual interest.

“Where?”

He glances up at you, a smirk touching the edge of his lips.

“Do you like him?”

“Does it matter?” you say, firmer than you intended. His expression softens slightly.

“It’s harder when you like them. You mourn them more.”

You can feel the truth behind his words. You’ve already lost so many. The small group of friends you have, brought together by hardship and survival. How would you cope if you lost them all? How many people has the Darkling lost? Does he still mourn for them?

“Tell me,” he says, leaning back casually. “Has he claimed you yet?”

You breathe out a sharp laugh. Sometimes the Darkling’s age frightens you. When you see the toll eternity has taken on him, when you see the ache of it all in his eyes. Then there’s times like this. When his old phrases and ideas bring you amusement.

“Claimed me? Like a peninsula?” you remark with a smile. He cocks his head aside, laughter sparkling in his own eyes.

“No blushes. No averted eyes. How you’ve changed.” He adjusts his position, leaning closer as his face hardens slightly. “What about your faithful tracker? Will he sleep curled at the foot of your throne?”

Mal wouldn’t stay if you took to the throne. You know it. He has only ever wanted a simple life. If you became Queen, he would spend every moment he had with you attempting to convince you to run away with him. To go back to being the boy and the girl you used to be.

“Why do you have such disdain for otkazat’sya?”

“Not disdain. Understanding.”

“They’re not all fools and weaklings.”

He shakes his head.

“You misunderstand me.” You wait for him to explain. “The people may love you now, but what will happen when their king ages and dies whilst his wife stays young and beautiful?”

You take a moment to think about it. If you accepted Nikolai’s proposal, you would rule by his side. You would sit and watch him grow older by the day, until he could no longer fight, or run, or joke as he does now. Then you would be alone.

People have always been suspicious of Grisha. You yourself were guilty of it. Can you really hope to change people’s opinions within Nikolai’s lifetime. Even if you did, suspicions would linger. People might think you had cursed him, or stolen his youth for yourself. You remember the stories of Grisha, passed around in the First Army. You would have believed the worst of Grisha.

“You never considered it, did you?” he says, his words soft and low. You shake your head.

He pulls you closer, nestling your body between his legs. With one hand still curled around your wrist, he settles the other one against your lower back. His fingers are strong and solid against your body, despite the fact that you’re not even with him. That you’re actually lying on your bed at the Spinning Wheel, up in the mountains. Far away from him.

“You were meant to be my balance. You are the only person in the world who might rule with me, who might keep my power in check.”

“And who will balance me?” you muse quietly. “What if I’m no better than you? What if, instead of stopping you, I make you even worse?”

He studies you for a long moment. He hadn’t been expecting that from you. But your words are true, and these thoughts have haunted you ever since you had left the Little Palace. What if he is what is right for Ravka, and you are the one who will tear your country apart?

You glance up, and meet his eyes. There’s something resolute there, as if he has decided on something that has been weighing on his mind for some time.

“I want you to know my name,” he says softly, and your breath catches in your throat. “The name I was given, not the title I took for myself. Will you have it?”

No one knew the Darkling’s name, aside from, perhaps, his mother. At some point you had believed he might have forgotten it. How long had it been since someone had known his name?

His fingers brush against the clothed skin of your wrist, and you shiver in his arms.

“Yes,” you breathe out softly.

“Aleksander.”

Your world stops.

Aleksander.

The skin on your wrist tingles, and tears prickle in your eyes. His brows crease together as you attempt to pull away from him. He lets you go, but the tether tightens and you know that if you try to slip away you won’t be able to.

A shuddering breath rattles through your body, and you attempt to swallow the lump in your throat. You force a sharp laugh to the surface, and if tears weren’t clouding your vision you would see the bewilderment in his eyes. You do see him reach for you.

“No,” you say, taking a step back.

He hesitates.

“Stop it,” you plead, shaking your head. “You’re being cruel. I know what you’re capable of, but I never thought you’d stoop this low.”

“And what exactly have I done to make you think so poorly of me?”

There’s no cruelty in his voice, no teasing, or mocking. Still, you laugh bitterly.

“When did you see it? Was it when I was unconscious and you were searching for the Sea Whip? Or before that even, when I was at the Little Palace? Did Genya tell you?”

“Did Genya tell me what?” he snaps, and you huff in exasperation.

You tug your kefta off, throwing it to the floor. His eyes widen but you’re not looking at him. Instead, you pull at the binding around your forearm.

He’s there in an instant. Hand curling around your wrist, stopping you from removing the fabric and revealing the name there.

“What are you doing?”

You look up at him. He looks almost frightened, his mouth agape, and he keeps his eyes resolutely away from your forearm. The tradition has always been that your soulmate should be the first person to see the name on your forearm. Your face softens, and some of your anger leaves you.

“You don’t know,” you say in a whisper.

“Don’t know what?”

You guide his hand away gently, and his eyes stay fixed on yours as the fabric falls from your skin. He doesn’t look down, and you grasp hold of his hand, allowing his fingers to brush against the skin of your forearm.

“Aleksander,” you say softly, and he swallows hard. “Please look.”

You can see the fear and the longing in his eyes. Then he looks down.

He breathes out a startled laugh. It’s soft, and uncertain, but you hear it. His fingers trace over every letter of his name, and you shiver at the feeling.

“Mal has my name on his wrist. I know he does.” Aleksander continues to trail his fingers over your skin as you speak. “When we were kids he showed me, but I had always been a romantic. I wanted my soulmate to be the first to see it.”

Aleksander withdraws his touch, and begins to roll up his sleeve. There’s a jolt of realisation, as you understand what he’s doing. You suddenly feel exceptionally sick. What if your name wasn’t there? What if someone else’s name was there?

He unties the slip of fabric covering his forearm. Dark green cotton falls to the floor.

You step into his arms, your side pressed firm against his chest as you smooth your fingers over the name on his skin. Your name. Once again, tears well in your eyes, but for a wholly different reason.

Aleksander looks down at you, watching as you admire the delicate cursive that has been his only source of hope for hundreds of years.

“Your name didn’t even exist when I was a child,” he says softly, his voice muffled as presses his face into the crown of your head. “My mother wanted me to carve it out.”

You flinch violently, and your heart races. You look up at him.

“Why?” You whisper.

“It’s what she did to my father’s name.” He must see the horror in your eyes, as he pulls you closer and attempts to explain. “She knew he wouldn’t live as long as she did. She never believed that I would find someone that was my equal.”

“But you must have believed,” you say softly, your finger tracing over your name again. You feel him nod.

“I always believed I would find you.”

You press your forehead against his chest, and for the first time in weeks you feel like you can breathe. His arm curls around your body, holding you against him. Then you stiffen.

“Baghra knew.” He frowns at you. “She knew it was my name on your wrist. She knew, and she drove me away from you.”

You press your hands to your face, squeezing your eyes shut tightly. You had believed her. You had believed all the horrible things she had said about Aleksander - about your soulmate.

His fingers curl around each of your wrists, prying your hands from your face gently. His expression crumbles when he sees tears gathering in your eyes.

“I’m so sorry.” He shakes his head.

“I should have been honest from the start. I should have told you everything.”

Your heart aches as you realise what could have been prevented if you had stayed at the Little Palace, if you had waited for Aleksander to explain. The lives you’ve lost, the damage you’ve done to your country. The damage you’ve done to each other.

You cup his face in your hands, thumbs smoothing over his cheeks. The scars on his face aren’t as prominent as they used to be. All that remains of them is a few thin black lines that run across his features. The right corner of his lip, down to his jaw. His right cheek. Another, on his temple, which reaches down towards his ear.

His fingers trace over your collarbone, nudging the collar of bone away so that he can run his hand over your skin. It’s as if his thoughts are mirroring your own. Imagining the life you could have had together.

Make me your villain. That’s what he had said. But he was never your villain.

He tugs you closer, engulfing you in his arms. A small laugh escapes your lips, as you look down at the two names sitting together. Aleksander raises a brow at you, the corner of his mouth curling into a small smile.

“What is it?”

“Do you know how ridiculously common your name is?” He laughs as well. “I’ve known maybe eight Aleksander’s throughout my life.”

“Did you ever think any of them were the one?” You shake your head.

“The majority of them were idiots,” you remark, remembering Aleks, the boy at the orphanage that had fallen in the river trying to catch a squirrel. “Although, my Aleksander can be a bit of an idiot too.”

His lips part in astonishment, and he feigns offence for a moment, but he can’t stop the smile growing on his face.

“Your Aleksander?” You hum in agreement. “And you’re mine?”

“I’m all yours.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, and your entire body warms as your power sings within you. You had always been afraid of the pull you felt towards him. You had tried to explain it away: he was the shadow to your sun, the tether has been created with merzost, that he only wanted you for your power.

None of those reasons mattered now that everything made sense. Your bond made sense. He was your soulmate.

“Tell me where you are,” he requests in a quiet voice, and you shake your head.

“No. I’ll come to you.”

He sighs, pressing his forehead against your own.

“Still trying to protect your little band of rebels from me?”

“Their hearts are in the right places.”

“And what of my heart?”

“Your heart,” you say softly, brushing your nose against his as you lean even closer. “Will be in Os Alta within two days.”

Then you kiss him.

#the darkling #the darkling x reader #the darkling x you #the darkling x y/n #aleksander morozova #aleksander morozova x reader #general kirigan #general kirigan x you #shadow and bone au #shadow and bone x reader #netflix shadow and bone #shadow and bone

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airbendertendou · 6 months

Text

FROM NOW ON! ♥︎ bonten!kakucho

synopsis : keeping a promise he made, long ago.

content warning : reader referred to as izana’s younger sibling, but no looks stated ; mikey slander ; reminiscent of the cat scene from mockingjay pt ii ; reader is annoyingly stubborn

song inspo ; from now on by the features

if you have a blank blog [no bio, no user, no header or profile pic, nothing reblogged, etc] do not interact with my content. you will be blocked.

A knock on the bar causes you to raise your head, bleary eyes glaring at the bartender. She sighs, sliding a glass of water to you. “Closin’ time, [name].”

“Already?” Your voice is garbled, scratchy as you sit up slowly. There’s a line of dried drool on your mouth ; the shape of the bar’s coaster imprinted in your right cheek. You take a sip of the drink and scowl. “There’s no alcohol in this.”

Magic clicks her tongue, not intimidated by your glare one bit. “Go home, kid. Sober up.”

“Not even a kid,” you mutter out. She watches as you stumble out of the seat you’re in, knees knocking together and ankles twisting like a newborn deer. Both of your hands flail, slinging out on either side to steady yourself. Magic flinches, meeting you at the end of the bar with her hands ready to catch you. “M’fine!”

“Let’s get you home.” She waves to the owner, her hand returning to its place in yours. Her left arm is wrapped around your waist, balancing you as best as she can. With a huff, you’re placed in the passenger side of her car, half-way asleep again. The ride is a blur of nothing — a blur of pearlescent hair and frigid eyes. You awake with a jolt, seeing your apartment in the distance. Magic eyes you worriedly, “get some sleep, [name]. And no more drinking.”

“Whatever, see you tomorrow.”

After only three mishaps, your door finally swings open. You slump into the doorway with a sigh before trudging inside and flicking on the lights as you go. Your keys are slung who knows where, and your shoes are kicked off as the door shuts behind you.

Groggily, you search through every cabinet and every hiding place. But, there’s nothing there. No whiskey ; no wine ; not even a little seltzer is hidden away! Finally, in the very back of your fridge, a sip of vodka welcomes you. You savor it, drop for drop.

A knock causes you to jump, the bottle falling to the floor in pieces.

Without waiting for you to welcome him, Kakucho rushes in. He’s quick to set you on the counter and away from the glass, steady hands picking up every shard he can see, sweeping when it isn’t deemed clean enough.

“Were you hurt?” Frantic, two-toned eyes dance over your hands before locking into your legs. “There’s no blood, so I think you’re okay. That’s good.”

You simply stare at him. His hair is longer — he hadn’t visited in months, after all. You thought maybe he left ; maybe he died, too. Your tongue is heavy and cotton-like as you speak. “What are you doing here, Kakucho?”

His eyes meet yours, surprised at the words you chose. “To take care of you. Like I have been. Why?”

“No,” you don’t know when you’d held his hand. All you know is that you’re gripping onto it so hard that your fingernails are piercing the skin on the palm of his hand. He doesn’t even flinch. “What are you doing with them? With him?”

Kakucho parts his mouth, but no words are set free. He looks down to avoid your gaze — to avoid the eyes of his former king, even if the iris doesn’t match. Your grip tightens again, “why won’t you leave?”

“I have to—“ he clears his throat. Shaking his head, Kakucho smoothes his expression. He looks at you once more, “I’m here to take care of you. Like I promised.”

The silence in your kitchen causes your ears to ring. You watch as he rubs soothing circles on the back of your hand all while you’re wounding him. It’s how it’s always been, you guess. Kurokawa’s have a habit of bringing everyone down with them.

Your nose wrinkles into a snarl at the thought. Anger burns inside you at the remembrance of him ; of your beloved brother who was taken from you.

“He’s dead.” Your voice is hollow as you speak. Ripping your hands from Kakucho’s touch, you stare him down as his face falls. “He isn’t coming back. My brother is dead and he’s never coming back!”

Kakucho can only watch as you seethe his way. Your hands tremble ; jaw clenches with words you hold back for his sake. You meet his gaze, “that thing you follow killed my brother. And you just let him lead you like a dog on a leash.”

Your feet slap onto the floor as you stumble off of the counter. Kakucho reaches to help you, but you shove him away. “I don’t want you here!”

“[Name]—“

“I don’t want your help,” you wipe at your eyes. The alcohol in your system is running low — maybe those small naps you took weren’t good for you, after all. Pushing past his still figure, you begin your search for more to drink once again. “You feel some sort of obligation because of a stupid promise you made when we were kids.”

Kakucho reaches a hand out, merely grasping at air. You shove past it once more to shuffle through more hidden places. Finding no more liquor, you glare his way once more. "Why are you still here?"

Instead of getting angry or pushing you away, Kakucho remains calm. He fills a glass with iced water, putting it in both of your hands and making sure you keep it steady. "You need to rest now, [name]."

Halfheartedly — you were really fighting sleep now — your frown deepens. "Don't tell me what to do."

You stumble until you reach your room. Only taking off the most uncomfortable clothing items — your pants and socks — you fall into your bed. It only takes three minutes for you to drift off, dreaming of lilac eyes and snow white hair.

——♥︎——

Waking up, you smell freshly brewed tea and soup. You stretch before leaving the comfort of your bed, stepping into the kitchen with a yawn. You immediately want to leave — feel the need to run as you spot someone standing in front of your oven.

Kakucho turns at the sound of your footsteps. His face is sullen ; hard to read as he gazes at you. He clicks the oven off, stirring something in the pot in front of him. Pouring it into a bowl, Kakucho gestures to yours small table with his chin. "Sit. I'll get your tea."

You feel tense ; awkward as you recall the words you yelled his way. Shuffling over to the table, you slide into a seat and wait quietly. A steaming mug is placed in front of you — your favorite one — and a bowl is slid your way.

The spoon you hold clings against the ceramic with every spoonfull you take. Kakucho simply washes the dishes he used, sitting in front of you when he finishes. He stares, watching every move you make and every face you hide.

"Kaku—" the old name runs a hit of nostalgia through you. Briefly, you frown before staring down at the table. "I shouldn't have— I'm sorry for what I said."

But I don't take it back, you add to yourself.

He stares for a bit longer before the tip of his foot brushes against your own. It's a reasurring touch ; one he repeats as he sets his chin in the palm of his hand.

"Mikey," you flinch at the name, "is getting suspicious. That's why I haven't been around."

You chew the small vegetables in your soup and let the broth sit in your mouth until it burns. Swallowing it, you glance at the man before you. He's calm ; soft as he stares your way. "I don't need you to check on me, Kakucho."

He hums, foot brushing against yours once more before he sighs. "You're not taking care of yourself, though. How often are you drinking now?"

Scowling, you stare at your half-empty bowl of soup. "I'm allowed to drink — I'm of age."

"You do it too often."

"But it's not your business." You need to argue against his care ; need to make him realize this is how you express your hurt. Kakucho still thinks of you as Izana’s innocent little sibling, even if you hadn’t been that for years now. "Even if you were close to my brother. Even when you promised him you'd watch me. It's my business."

“I just—" Kakucho sighs. The spoon you’re holding clinks against the now empty bowl as you stare his way. He faces the table, pointer finger scratching at the cuticle on his thumb. "I want to keep you with me — keep you safe. Maybe put you in my pocket so no one can even think about hurting you. Because I won’t let them hurt you — not again. Physically or otherwise.”

You swallow, “I don’t need you to do that.”

“I want to,” he insists. Kakucho looks up, eyes down-turned and soft. The way the light hits makes them sparkle ; makes them look tear-filled and regretful. “I’ve always wanted to.”

As his hand brushes against yours from across the table, you think you could start over. You could leave Japan and spend your days elsewhere with Kakucho. If only you could convince him to leave Mikey and the organization he lives for.

——♥︎—— this came to me on a whim lmao hope i portrayed this concept well <3 if youd like to b tagged / untagged in any tokyorev content, let me know! ♡

🍓FOREVER TAGS : @star2fishmeg ♥︎

🍓 TOKYOREV TAGLIST : @thatpoindexterpixy @night-shadowblood-writes2 @muichirouswifeandhusband

airbendertendou © do not copy, plagiarize, repost, or translate my content on any platform. if you see my content under any other name than my own, let me know. i only have this tumblr and an ao3 account under the same name.

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silentmoths · 1 year

Text

Fragile as a brick wall

Masterlist || Next

welp, I was originally going to start posting this one on Ao3 but seems they're doing some maintneance, so the tumblr crowd is the first to get chapter 1.

I havent felt this...energized about a story in a while, and while I doubt it's updates are going to be daily like my first batches of longform, here's hoping I can keep the energy up.

Zhongli x Afab (fem pronoun) Reader

NSFW elements in later chapters

Multi-chapter, Royal AU, angst, mentions of death, eventual fluff, eventual smut, idk more tags when they happen ig?

(Beautiful header made by the lovely @ainescribe ;w; i am not worthy)

Ch:1

The night is quiet, peaceful.

Unassuming.

A small group of travellers pass through the gates, silent save for the echo of hooves against cobble as their horses ascend the path towards the castle. It’s been many years since any of them have returned, and for some, they had never once set foot into the kingdom; now only following their leader, hopes of a better life for themselves and all these unassuming villagers.

They expect resistance from the guards, but as their leader removes their hood, any and all step aside, staring with wide eyes, as if they’d seen a ghost, some of them even bowing in reverence; they remembered.

They all remembered.

They all know why he’s here.

They say nothing. Turning a blind eye to the newcomers' approach, hushing any of the younger guards who had never laid eyes upon the man at the head of the party as they pass, for this, he is glad, he didn’t want to hurt any of his old friends.

“M’lord…this is almost too easy.” Xiao mutters, eyeing off the guards from beneath the safety of his hood. “This must be a trap.”

“This is no trap, Xiao.” Zhongli responds easily, turning his head to give one of his strongest and most loyal a reassuring smile. “These are old friends who are tired, just as I was.”

“Things truly are worse than I thought.” Ganyu mumbles, eyeing off the village down the hill, rundown and falling apart “Are you sure we can save this?”

“I am.” He responds with confidence “I cannot do this alone, but as you can see, the guards are on board, the villagers will be swayed easily…with all your help…this can be turned around.”

He does not mention the one other person he can think of that could truly turn the tides, she isn’t even here right now, sent on a goodwill mission to the kingdom she had been promised to, no matter, any political promises from the king would be dissolved before dawn.

He sends Xiao and Ganyu to the prince's chambers first. Despite their glaringly cruel outlook on their subjects, he needed those two alive, and he knew Xiao and Ganyu could do that. Finally, at the screaming of one of the princes, the alarm is finally raised that there was indeed something wrong in the castle, guards mobilise, yet all seem to actively avoid where the actual problem is, vanishing to other wings of the castle, dragging confused new recruits with them as Zhongli waits.

The twin’s are deposited at his feet, bound and gagged as he sits upon the throne that will soon be his, hood pulled back up to conceal his identity as he waits. The king was a proud man, and he loved this horrible gilded throne more than anything else. His mind turned feeble, greedy and tyrannical after the death of his wife, if there was anywhere he would go first, it was here.

What bothers him more are the smaller thrones, set either side. Two…one for each prince, completely disregarding their older, far more capable sister.

No matter, Zhongli would see to fixing that soon enough.

But before then, the drunken, thunderous shouting from down the hall signalled the approach of the one man he absolutely had to see.

The king shouts obscenities and profanity at him, demanding his sons be let go, that he would have Zhongli hung for his crimes. Zhongli listens silently, letting the oaf bluster himself out before rising.

“You have forgotten me…” He sighs with a shrug of his shoulders as he unclips his cloak, allowing it to fall away. “Quite a shame.”

There is a burning satisfaction Zhongli feels well in his chest when the tyrannical king he had once served so loyally, realises who it is standing before him. Despite the many years, Zhongli still looked very much the same; well kept, fit and strong despite his thin physique, and his eyes, to the king, it was the eyes.

The molten amber-gold was unlike anything he had ever seen before, and had not seen since the death of the captain of his Royal guard some five years ago.

“You-” For all his thunderous bellowing earlier, the sight of a ghost had the horrid man stunned to silence, unable to move, unable to speak, as Zhongli draws his sword, face hardened to stone.

“Me.”

–

Blood stained the throne room floor that morning as dawn breaks and the villagers slowly meander to the gatehouse. The guards, once sullen and imposing, step aside, welcoming the common folk into the castle grounds proper for the first time in over a decade.

The people begin to talk, to flock and to question as they approach the castle, once cut off, once a place of fear; anyone who had been summoned to the castle prior had never been seen alive again.

And yet the sight they are met with at the main gates is of a pyre, of the king’s body, cremating and the two princes bound, forced to watch their father’s corpse burn in the morning light.

They see Zhongli, standing tall and proud, a man none had seen since he and his battalion had been sent into battle five years prior, the only man to not return. A good, and honourable man who, despite his loyalty to the throne, oft rebelled against the king’s order, who tried his best to help the village, to sneak any excess food from the kitchens before it went to waste, to help farmers in their fields on his off days.

The people point, and the people shout. They cheer and they cry tears of joy.

After over a decade of fear and uncertainty, a new king had come in the night and usurped the throne with such vigilance and grace, that no one had even known what had happened until morning.

It was heartbreaking to him in a way, to see how absolutely no one, save for his two remaining sons, grieved the death of the previous king. When Zhongli had first joined the guard, he had been a firm but kind man, and to watch him slowly fall to the clutches of insanity was painful.

But what’s done, is done.

He is not officially crowned until the next day, but he has his small resistance group already beginning to set up and settle in, he tells the castle staff to take time off, to go home with their wages for the week and be with their families. Some do, most refuse, citing that there was much work to be done, and that the small handful of people he had would not a castle make.

It takes a week of hard labour, on both the staff and his own parts, to finally clean the dreary, grey walls and floors, to re-light the torches and to bring a touch of finery back to the neglected palace.

The king’s chambers in particular, were a testament to just how horrific the times had become. Filthy and strewn with empty bottles and papers. The staff tell him that they had not been allowed into this wing of the castle for years, and they insist on attempting to push him out so they may clean it themselves.

He doesn’t allow it. It’s his chambers now, he should have a hand in clearing out the old mess. Just because he was king now does not excuse him from dirtying his own hands.

(That and he just…couldn’t watch these poor men and women clean all this on their own)

As things settle into an easier rhythm, his attention turns to proper, administrative duties.

With Ganyu on the case, everything is already lined up, ready for him to read over and sign, she has already sent correspondence to neighbouring kingdoms that they, under new ruling, are no longer a threat; Zhongli’s ultimate goal is nothing but peace and prosperity for his home. He listens to the requests of his new tentative allies, and he allocates funds to fix parts of his new kingdom broken down under the old reign. He does his best to have everything kept fair, but this is where he falters; fierce in battle he could be, but paperwork was always taxing.

And then the villagers come again one morning. Almost all of them present to the throne room, hardened looks upon their faces, and at first, he think’s he’s done something to wrong them.

They ask first about the fate of the twins, citing that they had still been alive at the burning of the old king. At first, he’s surprised, having not expected any of them to care about the pair of delinquent royals who had caused them nothing but pain, but he tells them anyway.

“They are currently being held in the dungeons, they are still being cared for.”

“Then what of the princess? What do you intend to do with her upon her return?”

At the merest mention of the princess, the crowd begins to shout, to beg and to plead for her life to be spared, multiple different villagers of different status’ all coming forward offering to take her into their homes should he choose to banish her from the castle.

Zhongli finds himself proud of his new people, and glad that they too, held such fondness for the princess. Far more like her gentle queen mother than she ever was her father. He recalls his days before war broke out, of the fondness he’d held of her.

He would never bring her harm.

The crowd’s shouting dims at his statement of that very fact; their princess would not be harmed, she had no choice in any of her fathers matters, she would not be banished, or married off for gain. The villagers rejoice, their giddy excitement only growing.

Faintly, he hears whispers from some of them, wondering just how she would react to the new king upon her return, if she hadn’t been told already.

And faintly, Zhongli wonders if she would even return…a thought that hadn’t crossed his mind, despite knowingly waiting until he was sure she was not within the kingdom before he took control.

He hopes, of course, that she does return. If anyone deserved a hand in shaping this kingdom, it was her…and Zhongli, while keeping his intentions quiet from all but his closest confidants, wanted her to become queen.

His queen.

Once the crowd is calmed and sent on their way, he retires once more to his chambers, and finds himself, void of things to be doing, staring out the window as he remembers. A young girl, clinging to the hem of the queen's gown as her mother introduces him to her. He remembers how small and fragile she looked, remembered placing a kiss to her knuckles with a quiet murmur of ‘your majesty’ and how it turned her cheeks pink.

Remembers standing beside her on the day of her mothers funeral, watching as her face remained radiant and smiling as she spoke fondly of the queen mother. Watches as the king slowly crumbled before them all, unable to speak, unable to do anything. His sons, her twin brothers were no aid, too coddled to truly cope with such tragedy.

Despite it all, it was her who picked up the pieces of a kingdom left in mourning, and yet it was her father who took those pieces and ground it all to dust.

Taglist: @stygianoir @meimeimeirin @ainescribe @dustofthedailylife @theheartshaker @alice4wonderland2812 @bel0vedcup1d @rjssierjrie Want to be added to the list? shoot me an ask~

#Silentmothwrites #moth is not silent #Moths Fragile as a brick wall #Zhongli x reader #Zhongli genshin #Zhongli x reader smut #(eventual)

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darkestspring · 1 year

Text

too well entangled in my soul

a/n: i am so excited because i love aemond. he’s such an absolute little shit and im so excited for this request, which you can find here for better understanding and as always the header was made personally by me for this fic. I hope you enjoy!

warning: death, dark content, aemond gets a little quirky, aemond and daemon parallels.

Aemond has only been nine years old when he had been [Y/n] of Dorne, his father had agreed to take her in as their ward for two years in an effort to align themselves with Dorne. She was unlike anyone he had ever met.

He was always considered lesser child, he had no dragon, he was not the first born boy like Aegon. Him not having a dragon often lead his bastard nephews to taunting him and pranking him alongside Aegon.

He had expected her to delight in such things too, to mock him with pretty, disguised words but it surprised him that you smiled at him with an apology in your eyes as you said. “You don’t look lesser to me, Prince Aemond. Strength belongs to he who actively seeks it out.”

Aemond had watched you go with a struck look on his face. From that day, he had never strayed far from you. You often took walks with him in the afternoon as you told him about your day.

Two years went by fast, faster than expected. Tensions had risen in those two years. His sister was pregnant again and there was no doubt who’s child it was. His mother was sad to see their ward go, as was Helaena but none was sadder than Aemond, his sandstone was leaving.

He wishes it was him that she was betrothed to, he had begged his mother to give him this. I won’t complain or act unbecoming of my station ever again. He had pleaded but she had simply made a sad face at him and told him that she was already engaged.

It was only after his eye was lost because of that bastard that a thought came too him. It was rumored that his uncle had killed his first wife to be with his sister, even though she ended marrying Leanor Velaryon, but if his uncle could do that and get away with no consequences, why could he? Son of the king and queen.

It was settled in his mind, he’d kill the wretch taking his beloved away from him but how was the question.

It took him two years of research and planning to actually pull it off. No one would even suspect it, it was just an innocent trip to visit the person that was nearest to his heart, Alicent had melted when he had asked this of her.

Of course, my dear. She had agreen, her hand pressed to his cheek. I’ll arrange it immediately, give her my greetings.

It was so tragic, her betrothed had eaten something that was not meant for him and passed, the cook and five servants were deemed guilty and sentenced top death.

She was his for the taking, finally.

“I’m so sorry.” He had held her close as she cried into his arms. “It’s okay, I’ll always protect you. No harm will come of you.”

“Aemond.” You had sobbed into him, you didn’t love your betrothed but you were great friends. You liked him well enough. You were happy to become his wife. What would happen now.

Aemond felt a sense of victory. The thief was dead and you were his, as you should have been the entire time.

It was almost a surprise that Aemond had kissed you, but your head was spinning too much to think about it. You had always liked Aemond but was it not too soon?

“Marry me.” He had demanded, his hand holding onto yours. “I love you, and I won’t let anyone else have you. I’ll marry you in the tradition of old valyria. I’ll take you as my wife, as it should have always been.”

Maybe such a declaration should have unsettled you but you stared at him with a gaze of awe. “My parents... they would not allow it.”

“It matters not, just agree. I’ll take you away on Vhagar, we can marry in dragonstone. And then once we return to King’s Landing, we can marry in the Faith of the Seven, I’ll handle everything. You’ll never have to worry about anything, I will always love you and treat you with the respect you deserve. I’ll honor you.”

You found yourself nodding to his plea as you held onto him. “Okay. Yes, let’s marry. My aemond.”

It was easy to brush off Rhaenyra and Daemon’s knowing gaze when he had married you on dragonstone, gently cutting your lip with dragonglass, his eye intently focused on you. You were his, his wife. The other half of his soul, it didn’t matter what anyone else thought.

His victory was overwhelming as you kissed him, hands cupping his face. You were bonded to him. It didn’t matter that Daemon suspected that he had followed in his footsteps. It didn’t matter that your parents would raise hell. Vhagar still craved victory over Dorne.

You were his, that’s all that mattered.

“My wife.” He murmured as he held onto you, smiling down at you. “My love. My heart. My soul.”

#yandere house of the dragon #yandere hotd #aemond targaryen x reader #yandere aemond #yandere aemond targaryen #I LOVE AEMOND SO MUCH YOU HAVE NO IDEA THIS WAS SO FUN TO WRITE EVEN IF ITS SHORT

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eldritch-spouse · 2 years

Text

Santi masterlist

The smooth brain incubus.

First appearance (there is no intro post but do we even need one?)

M-M-Motorboat (ignore the balls, I've decided to revoke his balls privileges for a slit instead)

hOw DoEs He PuT cLoThEs On? (He doesn't, he's a whore)

For you? It's on the house.

Santi doesn't want your soul

Can it fit down your throat?

Do Santi's customers die?

Nipple piercings

Getting hugs from Santi

Marriage and Santi- Part 1; Part 2

Random Santi headcanons

Santi with a s/o who just wants be his his housewife

Being Santi’s obsession

Fail sex

Virgin season yeeehaww

Santi's kinks fluctuate according to customer preferences

Santi's s/o has doubts about his love

Santi with a blind client

Santi and parenthood

You make a salt circle because you're upset at him- Part 1; Part 2

A more in-depth look on how his powers affect sexuality

Santi with a frigid client

How far would Santi go without his obsession?

Would Santi sleep with his coworkers?

Sir, this is a Wendy's...

Explaining the bond between Santi and Grimbly + backstory

His client has a bigger dick/more than one dick

What if Admin had the perfect aura?

What does Santi's mark look like?

Santi, Patches and Admin (you) have a good time

Santi's heat

"Centi" + "CUNTY"

NSFW drawing based on a reverse yandere scenario

What if another concubus had claimed you already?

Santi's younger years (*young adult*)

He has a bobble

Can Santi disguise himself as human?

Santi enjoys Nebul's pet

""Santi Claus""

Santi with a s/o that's jealous about him sleeping with clients

Virgin killer

Cover them up, slut

SFW activities with him (and Vesper)

Heeheehoo, you can buy him (AU)

Please don't try to fight him

Santi with a Sherlock-type obsession

How to fluster him

You ask Santi to pretend to be your boyfriend for a party

What does Santi do when you abandon Grimbly during his transformation?

Lust King Santi

What if you met Santi in the past, when he was less... Charming?

How does he like to celebrate his birthdays?

You've been given a marker, raise Hell

Bidding on Obsession

Santi finds you on Morell's chopping block

"Life comes in you fast."

You ask him if you can be his "sex pet"

New Year's (2024) Santi art

You're insecure about your nethers

Santi pitches the concept of possession to you

Lust!King Santi returns for Valentine's Day!

Lust!King Santi header for February

Zombie apocalypse AU

#pinnie's masterlist #pinnie's art #Santi oc

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ian-galagher · 8 months

Note

for your followers: africa spoilers as big as the fucking shadowland.

today's movie that's totally kid friendly and NEVER ever at any point sexual or violent: the lion king 2.

- ian, day one.

- mickey: grumpy. moody. antisocial. ian:

- ian trying to equal mickey's talent.

- "not good?" he asked, taking a second look at what he'd made. "it's shit, red cheeks."

- mickey and ian discovering he's got a thing for portraits.

- mickey's nights prior to ian.

- ian at jan.

- ian x mickey vs jan.

- "mom?"

- them being young and careless and free in chapter six.

- "she didn't tell me. what the feather means. […] she only told me to give it to you." / "it's a long ass story." / "i'm not going anywhere."

- once again, them at god's window.

- pov: you're ian pulling up to mickey's house for the first time.

- when ian set the pan on fire and thought mickey was talking about him. "like i said, cute as fuck."

- pov: you're ian while mickey and mandy fight.

- obscure figures doing their figure shit in chapter eleven.

- "y'think i'm ugly? / "no, i think you're alive." i can't tell you why, it's just the exact eye expression i expect of mickey.

- "you and your stupid face distracted me." / "guess i'll try my best to be less distracting, then." / "impossible."

- "but he can make it up to me, one dress at a time."

- the braai. case closed.

- it's an edited version, but they made me think of inyoni and her grief. someone give her a blanket and a hot chocolate.

- "just tell him, ian." / "what if he doesn't feel the same way?" / "you know he does." / "yeah, i know."

- mickey: desperately trying to get rid off mandy. ian: "breakfast?"

- the words flew out before he could stop himself. "fuck, you're so beautiful." / mickey lowered the camera. "fuck, you're gorgeous."

- ian x mickey, chapter seven and fiften respectively.

- there. you wanna tell me THAT'S kid friendly? anyhow, ian and mickey, day seven and fifteen respectively. (i've been waiting for this one in particular. i think i'm very funny for it. on the ground.)

- bonus: me at jan.

- bonus bonus: you, planning africa.

- bonus x3: i wanted to add more, but tumblr only allows thirty images per ask. which. fucking rude.

ASKGJHAKJSGHAKS NOSHO!!!! 😭 THESE ARE SO GOOD!!!!!

🦁🪶🦒

Ian on day one is SO CUTE 😭😭😭 and THAT SECOND ONE!!! It's SO them! 🥹🧡

awwh Ian on his first days! Trying to be like Mickey 😭

ajsghakjshgk Mickey's nightmares 😭 oh man this one hurts!

there he is 😂 it's never long before Jan gets a mention!

MOM 😭

IM NOT GOING ANYWHERE 😭😭😭

every movie 😂 they all have a god's window shot 😂

I LOVE the idea of Mickey's house being that rock 😂😂😂 and Ian being all excited over it anyway 😂😂

cute as fuck 😂😂

poor Ian having to watch these two siblings fight all the time 😂

THE FIGURE RETURNS! 😁

that EYE being Mickey's 😭😭😭

Mandy and her dreams of dresses 😂😂😂

THE BRAAI!!!! 😂 *SO* ACCURATE!

THE DOVES 😭😭😭

we are ALL pushing their noses together 😂😂😂

"breakfast?" 😂😂😂 that is so cute!

omg 😂 is it hot in here? 😂 should've used that gif as the header 😂

awwwwh they're gonna start a pride of their own 🥹🧡

okay but that IS you fighting Jan 😂😂😂

and yeah that last one 😂😂😂 also the witch in chapter 5 😂

that's SO rude of tumblr 😂

THANK YOU NOSHO 🥰🧡 that was SUCH an amazing post again! 😍🥰💚

calling the gang! @francesrose3 @juliakayyy @thisdivorce 🥰

🦁🪶🦒🧡💖💚💙❤️🤗😎

#i absolutely love this #what do i tag this #theres gonna be spoilers now for people who havent read 15 yet #but not massive spoilers...#gif shenanigans #shameless #africa #nosho growls #willow growls back

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themetalvirus · 9 months

Text

lesbian hey knux header is back (return of the king dot jpeg)

#exoticbutterstxt

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 1 year

Text

Perzys se Rūkla (Fire and Flowers) - Chapter Three

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x original female character (Melessa Tyrell) Warnings: Smut, loss of virginity. Word count: ~6.1k

Chapter summary: Daemon leaves King's Landing as quickly as he has arrived. A wedding takes place. Series summary here.

Endless thanks and all the love to my absolute ride or die @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for cheerleading, beta'ing and just generally being the bestest fandom boo a gal could have.

Header by the insanely talented @em-writes-stuff-sometimes

Daemon surveys the spread of tarts, lemon cakes and tea with a sneer.

“I hadn’t realised your wife would be joining us,” Daemon says stiffly, seating himself across from Moryn in the solar.

“She won’t be, Your Grace,” Moryn replies, his eyebrows pinching together in confusion.

Daemon’s eyes widen slightly. He finds the setting oddly feminine. Had the old fool gotten him confused with Laenor? Fuck, this is going to be awful.

“Just call me Daemon. I’m not as jumped up my own arse as the rest of my family.”

The older man shifts uncomfortably in his seat and clears his throat, obviously not used to such vulgarity.

“Tea?” Moryn offers, the serving girl rounding the table to fill his cup in complement to his words.

“No.” Daemon snatches up the jug of wine from the middle of the table, pouring himself a cup.

Shortly after he had left Melessa in the gardens earlier that morning, he had sent word requesting to speak with her father. He’d been surprised to receive an invitation to the solar less than an hour later. Now he sits opposite the portly Lord of Highgarden, not bothering to mask his disgust at the unsightly residue left behind in his moustache as he takes a large bite from a Tyroshi honey finger.

“So,” Moryn begins around a mouthful of pastry, raising his teacup to his lips. “What was it you wanted to see me about?”

Daemon fixes Moryn with a steady gaze. “Your daughter. I’m going to marry her.”

Moryn splutters around his tea, sending the cup clattering back into its saucer. “Melessa?” The colour in his cheeks has blanched.

“Unless you’ve another stashed away somewhere?” Daemon reclines back in his chair with a smirk.

“She is betrothed to your nephew! That cannot simply be undone.”

“It can and it will.” Daemon leans forward, his hand curling around his wine cup. All trace of humour leaves his face. “When my brother dies, my niece will become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She will make me her Hand. That is a powerful ally for Highgarden to have, I think you’ll agree.”

“But Prince Aegon is-”

“A drunken, useless cunt,” Daemon spits, cutting Moryn off. “My brother named Rhaenyra as his heir. That has not changed.”

The older man fidgets in his seat. The irritating nervous throat clearing has returned, although he is no longer eating any of the food upon the table. Daemon thinks it would be agreeable for him to be kept in a perpetual state of fear, a means to stop his overeating. He chuckles drily to himself, not caring to share the joke.

Moryn sighs. “Lord Hightower is the King’s Hand. He says that His Highness is in no fit state to be making decisions regarding succession. Prince Aemond is a good match for Melessa - he is well-educated and he rides the largest dragon in all of Westeros.”

Daemon’s eyes narrow, his tone becoming icy. “That treasonous prick Otto will find himself fed to my dragon once Rhaenyra is crowned. As will you if you do not strongly reconsider.”

Blinking rapidly, Moryn appears to concede. “What would you have me do?”

“The day after tomorrow is when the original betrothal announcement was to be made, yes? That is when we will have the wedding.”

The elderly man balks at the suggestion, his mouth hanging agape for a moment before he speaks. “That is too soon! Aemond and Melessa were to have a year-long courtship.”

“A year-long courtship that your daughter does not want,” Daemon states bluntly. “She has expressed a desire to marry me. I see no reason to wait.”

Moryn bows his head, clearly beaten. “As you wish. Let us make the necessary arrangements.”

As Daemon strides from the solar, a smug sense of satisfaction emanates from every pore of his body. For once, he has been granted something he wants. He is so pleased by this that he is prepared to ignore the voice in the back of his head telling him that he is rushing this simply so he doesn’t have time to change his mind.

Daemon confines himself to his chambers for the rest of the day. Tempted as he is to seek out his new wife-to-be and share in their happy news, he knows that Moryn is likely having a conversation with Otto that he would do well to keep out of. Being seen with her would serve only to exacerbate tensions. He longs to put the King’s Hand in his place, but that is a side of him that Melessa has yet to see. He has no desire to frighten her away before they’ve even exchanged vows.

He cannot scare her off before they get to the wedding night. His thoughts drift to how it will finally feel to touch her as he longs to, to kiss her as he wants to, to fuck her as he pleases. The idea of being the first man to undress her, to be inside of her, to spill within her cunny… It’s enough to push him to the brink of spending in his breeches like a green boy. If nothing else, that alone makes all of this worth it. Political alliances be damned - he will pluck his rose so no one else may have her, defile those soft little petals so that they are only his.

He finds himself fisting his cock to the thought of her once again. Gods, this is becoming pathetic. At least there is comfort to be found in the fact that he will not have long to wait until she becomes the vessel for his carnal appetite.

Just as Daemon suspected, he does not have long to wait to lock horns with the King's Hand. Otto seeks out Daemon the next day as he is preparing to head to the gardens, hoping for a chance to see Melessa again. He has thought of nothing but her since parting ways with her oaf of a father yesterday.

“Are you really so pig-headed that you’d break off your own nephew’s betrothal to sate your lust?” Otto demands, not bothering with pleasantries. Daemon grins at the informality of it.

“Good morning to you, too,” Daemon states with airy indifference.

“This is treason, Daemon! I will not allow it!” Otto retorts coolly, though the anger that bubbles beneath the surface is more than apparent.

“You think that because my brother lays rotting at your mercy that you have the right to decide anything? Your plans to get Highgarden on side are as flimsy and obvious as your attempts to usurp Rhaenyra’s claim to the throne. You will do well to remember who will be named Hand once Viserys passes.”

“Viserys is in no fit state-”

“You will not speak of my brother to me,” Daemon interrupts with enormous irritation. “You have not earned the right. Lord Tyrell has agreed to wed his daughter to me. You will find another match for Aemond easily enough. I’m sure you must be positively overwhelmed by the number of high born ladies all desperate to marry a one-eyed prince.”

Otto clenches his jaw, exhaling heavily through his nose. “You will live to regret your rashness.”

“And you will live to regret your insolence, unless you walk away. Now,” Daemon says darkly, his hand coming to rest upon the pommel of Dark Sister.

With a withering sigh, Otto turns back towards the Red Keep. He halts after a few steps, calling back over his shoulder. “Marry her if you must. However, I’d suggest you seek out an alternative location - the Queen will not allow for your nuptials to take place in the capital.”

You mean you will not allow it, you cunt. Daemon glares at Otto’s retreating form before continuing on towards the gardens.

His strides are more purposeful, his face hardened by anger. He longs to go after Otto, to run him through with Dark Sister. In his youth, perhaps he would have. However, he is aware that there are larger things at stake than his wounded pride.

He feels his heart rate slow and his mood grow lighter as he thinks of Melessa’s clear blue eyes, the scent of almond oil and rosewater, the grin that is just for him. He knows that seeing her will calm him, so he is at first disappointed when he arrives at the gardens to find her usual bench unoccupied. This quickly escalates to anger.

Emitting a growl of frustration, he settles himself upon the bench, bowing his head and rubbing his temples. It is his first time at ‘home’ in fifteen years and the last few days have been more stressful than all of his time away combined. He is sick of needless politicking, tired of family quarrels, disgusted by the Hightower influence that now permeates every crevice of the Red Keep.

He has made a promise to marry Melessa tomorrow and now faces the humiliation of having to disappoint her. Perhaps it is for the best. She is too delicate for the likes of him. Dragons trample flowers underfoot - they do not nurture them.

“I believe congratulations are in order, Uncle.”

Daemon lifts his gaze to the welcome sight of Rhaenyra, his shoulders relaxing as she approaches and seats herself next to him.

“Not if your father’s Hand has anything to do with it,” Daemon mutters, looking out across the gardens.

Rhaenyra shoots him an amused sideways glance. “You couldn’t possibly expect to take Aemond’s betrothed for yourself and marry her here in the city?”

Daemon says nothing. Truthfully, he hadn’t given much thought to anything beyond having Melessa to himself, and the more he considers his oversight of the finer details the more embarrassed he feels. It is not a feeling that sits right with him.

She scoffs. “That is so typical of you: storming in, causing a scene and not thinking about how it affects anyone besides yourself.”

“I get the distinct impression you’re no longer talking about just Melessa.” He raises his eyebrows, turning to her.

Hurt flashes across Rhaenyra’s face, her voice rising an octave. “Why her?”

“You mean why not you?”

“Does it matter?”

“Rhaenyra, you were a child,” Daemon says gently. “I spared you.”

She laughs bitterly. “Yes, because the life I’ve led since you left has been just wonderful.”

“And you think mine is any better?”

“I know little of it!”

Daemon takes Rhaenyra’s hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You have three wonderful sons. Does their father not make you happy?”

The implication goes unspoken, though it is clear he is referring to Harwin Strong and not Laenor Velaryon.

“He does,” she admits with a soft smile.

“Then don’t begrudge me for wanting what you have.”

Rhaenyra sighs, regarding Daemon carefully before she speaks.

“If it is her that you truly want, Uncle, then return with her to Dragonstone and marry her there. It will take a day by boat for Melessa and her family. If they were to leave within the hour, then they’d make it in time for you to marry her tomorrow, just as you wanted.”

Daemon considers this for a moment, his eyes lighting up. This is perfect. A final ‘fuck you’ to that Hightower imbecile, his whore of a daughter and her idiotic children.

“Can I count on my niece’s presence?” he asks with a wry smile.

“On dragonback, Laenor, the children and I can be on Dragonstone in less than half a day,” she says softly. “I am reluctant to leave Father, but I suppose you will need someone there for your wedding.”

“Thank you, Rhaenyra. You have no idea what that means to me.”

They remain seated together, hand in hand, for a few moments longer. Daemon has never felt more grateful for his niece than he does at this moment. As much as he hates to admit it, this is not the first time she has saved him from his own folly. It is unlikely it will be the last.

Rhaenyra and Daemon part ways in the garden. Rhaenyra in agreement that she will ready Laenor and her boys to set off for Dragonstone and aid in wedding preparations. Daemon needs to ensure that Melessa and the rest of the Tyrells currently residing within the Red Keep are ready to leave by boat within the hour. Laenor’s seafaring history means he will be able to aid with securing a boat within the Blackwater Rush to provide safe passage. Finally, the pillow biter has a useful purpose.

Daemon knocks at Melessa’s chamber door. It is answered by a flustered handmaiden, and the room is abuzz with activity. Melessa stands in the middle of the room atop a small stool, a gaggle of women crowd around her pinning, sewing and layering white lace fabric.

“You aren’t supposed to be here!” the handmaiden says exasperatedly. Not quite the welcome he’d hoped for, but he has more pressing matters to attend to than this lowly woman’s over-inflated sense of self worth.

“I need to speak with my betrothed,” he says simply.

At the sound of his voice, Melessa turns her head, earning a tut from a fraught looking older woman attempting to pin together a shoulder of the gown.

“Daemon!” she gasps. “You mustn’t see me before I’m ready!”

His eyes travel appreciatively over the cut of the half-finished gown. It is form-fitting and backless, typical of the style in Highgarden, and far more revealing than the modest and rather frumpy dress sense of the ladies of the capital. His excitement at seeing the finished result is almost as great as his excitement to see her out of it entirely. Almost.

“Forgive me, petal,” he says apologetically, though not actually sorry at all. “There has been a change in plans.”

He explains to her the urgency of the situation and what needs to happen next. She listens wide-eyed with excitement and offers no protest, sweet little thing that she is. He leaves her with a soft kiss to her hairline and the promise that they will be reunited soon. For now, he must speak to her father.

Moryn will be harder to persuade. However, the greater problem, Daemon fears, will be getting the bulk of his weight from the Red Keep to the boat in time for when it departs.

Predictably, he is resistant at first - but when Daemon points out that the Tyrells have likely worn out their welcome in the capital, having broken off Melessa’s betrothal to Aemond, Moryn is much more agreeable.

Having made the final preparations, Daemon finds himself readying to leave King’s Landing once more. It has only been a few days, yet he feels he has had more than his fill of this wretched place. He mounts the great, red beast that is Caraxes, preparing for the half-day’s flight back to the place that actually feels like home: Dragonstone.

The wind whips around him as Caraxes glides in to land on the jagged rocks that make up the island. Daemon is taken aback by how much colder it is here than back in the capital. He wonders how Melessa will fare living here. Highgarden and King’s Landing proffer much balmier climes - there is every chance his delicate rose will wilt in the winds that batter the jagged cliff faces here.

His doubts begin to grow as he sets about making preparations for the wedding that is to take place tomorrow. It is too short notice for the castle’s kitchen to order in supplies for the feast - they will simply have to make do with what is already on hand, though with the meagre attendance that this celebration is to have that certainly won’t pose a problem. He cannot shake the feeling that he is not giving Melessa the wedding that she deserves, nor the husband.

Daemon’s mind settles with the arrival of Rhaenyra and Laenor along with their children and respective dragons. Harwin, not being a dragonrider, is notably absent. It is odd, though not unpleasant, for Dragonstone to suddenly have so much noise and life within it.

With the aid of his niece and her husband, the castle is bustling with activity as servants work to prepare the sleeping quarters for the arrival of the Tyrells, while the kitchen staff work in earnest to ensure enough food is cooked. He pushes his doubts away, allowing himself a moment of optimism. He will have his pretty bride, and she will have a Targaryen prince. There has never been a fairer exchange than this one.

Melessa, along with her father and mother, arrive by boat the following morning. She looks sea-sick. It strikes Daemon that this was potentially her first time ever travelling on a boat, and for her maiden voyage she’d sailed non-stop through the night. The poor thing must feel wretched. Lucky for her, she need never sail anywhere again after this, not now she is his.

He looks softly down upon her, taking her hands into his as she disembarks. Her queasy expression is enough to make him laugh, but he bites it back for her sake.

“I trust you had a safe journey, petal?” he asks, ignoring the admonishing look from Moryn at his choice of pet name for his daughter.

“Mm...yes,” Melessa responds, her voice weak.

He gives her hands a soft squeeze, before ushering her forward. “Come, let us get you settled. The hours pass swiftly and there is much to do before we are husband and wife.”

Daemon does not see Melessa again for the rest of the day. She is swept off towards her chambers to be readied for the ceremony, while he returns to his to do the same.

It strikes him as he looks upon the bed that in a few short hours will have Melessa atop it. The thought excites him. It has been a long time since he has indulged in untouched flesh. He can almost picture the pained expression on her sweet little face the first time he pushes inside. The hours may pass swiftly, but not fucking swiftly enough.

It is early evening as Daemon and Melessa stand in front of the Septon in the Hall of Dragonstone. Daemon has always imagined a traditional Valyrian rite with dragon glass and exchanges of blood if he were to ever remarry after his first wife Rhea. He resents having to go through another ceremony under the Seven. However, Melessa is not of Valyrian descent and he has had to agree to this to even get her here in the first place.

The turnout is poor. Servants outnumber actual wedding guests, though Rhaenyra, Laenor, Jacaerys, Lucerys and Joffrey stand to the right and Melessa’s parents to the left. Daemon is almost too ashamed to look at any of them. She absolutely deserves better than this, yet she is looking at him as though she has never been happier. All traces of seasickness are gone and her blue eyes have recovered their beautiful shine.

She looks radiant, a vision of beauty in form fitting white lace, decorated with elegant hand-sewn roses. He can tell from the gooseflesh that prickles across her bare arms and shoulders that she is chilled to the bone. Dragonstone is absolutely going to be an adjustment for her.

Sad as he is to cover such a lovely ensemble, he is also glad to drape the cloak around her shoulders as they chant “I am yours and you are mine.” At least now she has something to keep her warm until he is able to heat her skin with his own later.

The hours may pass swiftly, but not fucking swiftly enough.

When they kiss it is as though he has forgotten how to breathe. He’d known her lips were soft - a quick glance at those rosy red lips was enough to see that - but it could never have prepared him for how they actually feel. They are tender and plump against his own, yet unyielding. It feels like it has ended no sooner than it began. For the sake of propriety they are forced to keep things chaste.

Finally, she is his.

“Husband,” she whispers up at him as they leave the Hall hand in hand. Her look of pure adoration is enough to make him feel as though his cock will slice clean through his breeches from the speed in which it rises to attention.

“Wife,” he murmurs back, fingertips grazing her delicate jaw.

Mercifully, they are spared the indignity of a wedding dance, though the meal that follows is tense and awkward. With only six adults and three children to occupy the table, it is a far cosier affair than Daemon would have liked and conversation does not flow freely. Rhaenyra and Laenor, to their credit, do more than their fair share of the talking, though it is clear that having to marry his only daughter to the Rogue Prince is still very much a bone of contention for Moryn. His wife is far more gracious, commenting on how much of a privilege it is to sup with the heir to the Iron Throne. Daemon sends a silent thanks to the gods that it’s her mother that Melessa takes after.

He is enamoured with her. Her eyes do not seem to move from him at all. She gazes up at him like he has hung the very stars in the sky for her and it makes his chest swell with pride. Feeding her morsels from his own fork, he is captivated by the way her lips move against the prongs. A flash of her wet pink tongue has him stifling a groan. She has kept the wedding cloak wrapped firmly around her. Despite the fireplace having been lit, it does little to keep the chill from the room, especially when it is so sparsely populated.

Daemon longs to retire to their marital chambers, to unravel her from her layers like a gift. After having felt the softness of her lips against his, he is aching to find out if she feels that way everywhere, to feel the heat of his flesh pressed against hers.

The hours may pass swiftly, but not fucking swiftly enough.

At last, the wedding feast draws to a close and Daemon finds himself alone with Melessa, fighting the urge to leap upon her and stake his claim like a wild animal. He must show restraint, be gentle with her, convince her this is something she wants to do over and over again.

Unlike at the dining table, Melessa’s eyes seem to want to look anywhere but at him. The poor thing is nervous, he can see that from how she shakes.

“You are trembling, petal,” he says softly, taking her hands in his. He steps closer, carefully, a predator stalking its prey. “Are you frightened of me?”

“No,” he murmurs. “Not-not of you, but… of what you are going to - do to me. Will it - will it hurt?”

Daemon chuckles, releasing her hand to gently grip her jaw between his thumb and forefinger.

“Sweet flower. It is not what I am going to do to you; it is what we are going to do together. You will feel pleasure if you allow me to do as I please. Will you allow me?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl.”

He kisses her then. It is not the chaste kiss shared at the altar. His mouth moves against hers, claiming her lips as his own and she lets him. She gasps as his tongue sweeps against her own and he tangles his fingers into her silky hair, holding her in place as he feels her body relax into his. Finally, she is succumbing.

He pulls away, drawing in a steadying breath as he takes in her kiss-swollen lips and dilated pupils. She is perfect. His stones ache at the very sight of her.

“Has anyone ever kissed you like that before, petal?”

“I have never been kissed at all,” she whispers.

Gods, she is going to be the death of him. He inhales sharply through his nose, pushing the cloak from her shoulders and letting it pool to the floor.

“Undress.” His lust filled state gives his voice an edge, and the command is delivered with more sharpness than he intended. He caresses her cheek as her skin flushes with fear and embarrassment. “Trust me, little flower, I will take good care of you.”

“I-I will need you to help me.” Her voice trembles and her cheeks are almost scarlet.

She turns, brushing her long flaxen hair off of her back and over her shoulder to reveal the open back of the dress. It is held together by two fastenings at the back of her neck and lacing at the waist band of the skirt. The open back leaves her creamy white flesh totally exposed and Daemon cannot stop himself from reaching out and trailing his fingertips down the curve of her spine. She shivers beneath his touch and he cannot help the smirk that tugs at the corners of his mouth.

If she shakes at the mere touch of her back, imagine how she will react when I touch between her legs.

He carefully unclasps and unlaces her gown. As it falls away from her body, he turns, allowing her to step out of it as he begins to remove his doublet and undershirt.

The sensation that shoots straight to the tip of his cock as he returns his gaze to her leaves him sure he has just spilled his seed in his breeches. She is completely naked. He feels like he has forgotten to breathe as he drinks in the sight of her. She is small and slight; her breasts are petite, barely a handful with peaks that are the same ruddy shade as her lips. His eyes follow the natural curve of her waist and hips, lingering upon the delicate thatch of blonde curls that sits upon her mound.

“Where are your smallclothes, petal?” he asks, struggling to hold himself back as he battles to regulate his breathing. He is utterly bewildered and delighted in equal measure.

“I...uh… the cut of my wedding gown did not allow for small clothes. I was going to have them specially tailored, but there wasn’t time.”

The flush of her shame has now spread to her chest, a light dusting of pink blooming beneath her collarbones. Daemon now has another reason to be glad of the haste of their nuptials. A most fortunate turn of events indeed. He notices that her eyes linger on the marred flesh of his bare torso, a parting gift from a flaming arrow that punctured his neck during the battle of the Stepstones.

He cocks his head, watching her carefully as she takes him in. “Do my scars bother you?”

His words appear to snap her out of her reverie. She gives him an apologetic look, shaking her head fervently. “N-no… I just… may I touch them? Your scars, I mean.”

Daemon is taken aback by her request. He had expected her to be repulsed. His little flower is full of surprises.

“You may.”

Her small, delicate hand reaches forward with trepidation. He cannot help but smile at the care with which she touches him as her fingertips trace gently over the ruined flesh.

“I am sorry that that happened to you,” she says softly.

He is touched by her sentiment, capturing her hand in his and pressing a kiss to the knuckles.

“Lay on the bed for me,” he says huskily, not wishing to dwell on the past any longer than he has to.

He lets go of her hand and she turns, climbing onto the bedspread before laying back on the pillows. He crawls on after her, bestowing another searing kiss upon her lips. She responds in kind, matching his passion. She is a fast learner.

She eyes him curiously as they part. “Will you keep your trousers on?”

“Eager to see my cock, little flower?” he smirks down at her.

“N-no! I mean… yes… but - I am naked and you are not...”

“Yes, you are naked,” he muses, trailing a hand down her side. “I need to prepare you, and that is easier for me to accomplish if I keep these on - for now.”

Daemon knows the moment his erection is free he will not be able to resist the urge to bury it inside of her, to make her irrevocably his. It is better to keep the barrier between them, to allow her what she needs to be ready for him. It is going to hurt her, there is no escaping that, but he will do all he can to ensure it doesn’t hurt as much as it could.

“I was right,” he muses, his hand giving her breast a gentle squeeze before his thumb rubs against her hardened peak. “You are soft everywhere. A proper little Highgarden rose that is ready for plucking.”

She gasps as he bows his head, laving the flat of his tongue over her breast and sucking on it. Her back arches, and the dulcet sounds that spill from her mouth indicate that she is enjoying this every bit as much as he is. He releases her with a wet pop, shifting his attention to the other. She is mewling by this point, writhing beneath him like a common whore. He wonders if she could peak from this alone, but he is too eager to taste her cunt to find out.

He shifts down the bed, stopping once his face is level with where her thighs meet. He grips her knees, spreading her legs. She is every bit the perfect little bud he’d envisioned; soft, neat and utterly untouched. The sight of the wetness that has gathered between her velvety folds causes him to groan and he runs his tongue through the length of it.

Melessa lets out a shocked yelp, attempting to push him away. “You cannot do that, it is dirty!”

He smirks, his eyes flitting up to meet hers. “Oh little flower, you have yet to learn what dirty truly is.”

He probes and prods with the tip of his tongue until he finds the pearl that is situated at the apex of her sex. She squeals as he circles it slowly and he has to hold her down by her hips to get her to keep still. She cants desperately against his face, greedy little thing that she is, and he indulges her, sucking messily at her. The noises that fill the room are obscene.

His index finger rests against her entrance. He is to be the first to ever breach her and he longs to savour the moment, but with the way his cock presses painfully against the mattress he knows he will spend before he’s even gotten to fuck her if he does not hurry things along. He pushes inside up to the knuckle, lips parting at how warm and tight she feels around his digit. He fears he may split her in two if he dares to add a second.

Melessa claws desperately at the bedsheets, eyes screwed shut as he crooks his finger, locating the spongy spot deep within her and dragging against it as he allows his tongue to focus its attention on her swollen bud. As her inner walls clench and more wetness seeps from her, he takes the opportunity for his middle finger to join his pointer inside of her. It is a snug fit and he scissors both fingers, an attempt to loosen her for what is to come.

Daemon knows he needs to get her to peak at least once if she is to be relaxed enough to take his cock for the first time. Using both fingers to bully at her, he laps at her cunny with renewed vigour. Melessa wails piteously.

“I-I’m going to piss myself!”sShe cries out.

He balks at the sudden vulgarity. Has she never peaked before?

He raises his head, taking in her panicked expression. “Have you ever touched yourself as I am touching you right now, petal?”

She shakes her head against the pillows. “Never. It is a sin.”

He laughs softly. “You aren’t going to piss yourself. You’re going to come, and you’ll like how it feels.”

He continues to work at her with his mouth and fingers until the clenching of her walls turns to fluttering contractions. The desperate cry that Melessa lets out is like music to Daemon’s ears. He laps greedily at the viscosity that floods out of her until she jerks away, too sensitive to take any more.

He moves back up the bed, chin still coated with her slick and kisses her deeply. If she is shocked by the taste of herself, she does not show it. The poor thing looks utterly dazed, as though he has fucked every coherent thought from her mind with his tongue and fingers.

“I think you are ready now,” he coos to her, working open the lacings of his trousers and pushing them down.

He takes his cock in his hand. Looking at her, he sees fear in her eyes.

“That’s never going to fit,” she whispers.

“It won’t at first,” he admits. “But I’ll make it fit.”

Daemon knows he has to act swiftly, when she is still pliable from the aftermath of her climax. If he allows time for fear to set in, she will tense up and it will be unpleasant for both of them.

He presses the head against her opening, pushing forward. Tears pool at the corners of her eyes and she whimpers in pain. Despite how he has worked to prepare her, she still feels like a vice around him and he’s not even halfway in.

He runs a soothing hand down her side, looking down at her pained expression with sympathy. “You aren’t going to like this, petal, but it will hurt less than if I go slowly.”

Thrusting forward with full force, he sheaths himself fully inside of her. She cries out in agony, hot tears rolling down her cheeks as she sobs from the pain of the intrusion and the tearing of her maidenhead. Daemon shushes her with soft kisses to her hairline, gently wiping away her tears with his thumbs.

“It is done now, little flower. The worst part is over.”

She is his. He has done it. She is finally his. He is the first to have her, and will be the only one to have her.

The grip she has on him is so tight he can feel her nails digging crescent moon shapes into his skin. Once she has calmed and her tears turned to sniffles, Daemon allows himself to move. She is so hot, so tight around him that he doesn’t realise he has been holding his breath until he needs to suck in a lungful of air to steady himself. The familiar scent of almond oil and rosewater fills his nostrils as he breathes her in.

His thrusts are slow to start with, dragging his shaft in and out of her at a laggard pace to allow her to adjust to the sensation. Once he feels her grip loosen on him, he senses she is relaxed enough for him to increase the pace.

The movements of his hips speed up and the noises Melessa makes begin to sound less pained and more like she is allowing herself to enjoy the experience. She is enough to drive him to total ruin as she lays beneath him - golden hair spread out across the pillows, eyes wet with tears, cheeks ruddy, and soft, pillowy lips parted in the sounds of pleasure she makes.

“Gods… you are perfect, molded to my cock, mine,” he utters through gritted teeth.

He will not last long. He would have liked to have brought her to peak once more, but he is past the point of no return. She stares up at him with the look of adoration from earlier, the one that places him at the very centre of her world, and he is done for.

“Fuck!” he growls, throwing his head back.

White hot pleasure licks at her lower back, his stones tighten and he falls over the precipice, spilling inside of her as his hips still. His attention lingers on the mixture of blood and his seed that leaks from her as he pulls out with a hiss and collapses next to her.

Eagerly, she seeks him out, laying her head on his chest, doe-eyed and soft. He wraps an arm around her.

“I love you.”

His eyes snap to hers. She means it. Shit.

What the fuck has he just done?

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fizzyxcustard · 1 year

Text

A Rose at Twilight (4)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Masterlist here

Read the most up to date version on AO3 here

Summary: From the series ‘Imagine your Thorin poster coming to life at night’. You notice that someone has been visiting you at night; things have moved and roses start appearing on your dresser. Your nightly visits with none other than Thorin Oakenshield start becoming more intense, passionate, and he is eager for you to return to Middle-earth and be his Queen. However, your abusive boyfriend Ryan stands in your way, intent on making your life hell. Will you and Thorin overcome all the obstacles to begin your new life together as King and Queen? And is your past with an abusive boyfriend the only challenge you now face in a new world? Your new friends and family help you uncover all your strength that you never realised you had. But will it be enough to fight away your past and the rising opposition of you becoming the Queen of Erebor?

Warnings: Domestic violence, emotional abuse, mental abuse, physical abuse, smut, oral sex, fluff, anxiety, depression, reference to suicide, poisoning, hospitalisation, strangulation, nightmares, character death.

Pairings: Thorin Oakenshield x Fem!Reader, Fem!Reader/Original Male Character

Comments/Notes: Originally posted last year on fizzy-custard under the imagine title ‘Imagine your Thorin poster coming to life’. This fic is now 20-odd chapters long over on AO3, so if you want to skip ahead, the link is above and also in my blog header. If you wish to be added to any series, character or fandom tag list, message me or send an ask.

Your whole life seemed to have been torn apart and burned right before you. All of the excitement, hopes and dreams had been smashed, taken from you in one act of anger and jealousy.

As you sat on your bedroom floor, holding the remnants of your poster, you wept. This was the doorway to your future, the very future that you had been planning on beginning with Thorin.

***

The police took your statement about the events, and despite you telling them who you knew had ransacked your flat, and showing them the text message you had received an hour previously, you still knew that very little would be done to bring Ryan to justice. He would probably get away with a slap on the wrist and told not to do it again.

For the first day after crying yourself to sleep, and you sat in disbelief, your hands tracing the ripped poster in your hands. Your world had broken apart, shattered like the glass still littering your hallway. You walked around your flat completely lifeless, breaking into tears on and off throughout the day, your hand curling around Thorin’s ring which was on a chain around your neck. This was the only thing you had left of him, the real Thorin.

It took two days for you to even begin cleaning up the broken glass, to tidy up all the books which had been thrown across rooms and even scrub the smeared human excrement out of your sofa; that was a typical Ryan statement. One of your work mates, Luke, had even offered to help you after hearing of your situation when you had called in work and asked to take a few days to get everything back in order.

“He’s a fucking arsehole,” Luke hissed as he saw all the mess across your living room carpet.

Thanks for that, Captain Obvious, you thought sarcastically to yourself. But you just faked a weak smile and offered Luke a cup of tea and thanked him again for his proposed help.

Luke worked on your kitchen, putting all of your utensils back and cleaning up the food which had been thrown across surfaces and had congealed, whilst you remained in your room, secretly crying again with the door shut. You stood with your back to the wall, your hand against your mouth as you gasped for air, feeling terror hit you. Your whole body began to shake and you closed your eyes, resting further against the wall and praying Luke wouldn’t hear you.

Early that evening and Luke turned to you, both of you having cleaned and tidied the majority of the mess and rubbish away. You could tell that look in his face; he was waiting for you to offer that he stay longer, or maybe even show him some kind of physical sign of interest. You backed away and rubbed your temples.

“Thank you for your help today, mate. I really appreciate it. I need a lie down now. Got a headache coming on, and I think my mom is on about coming round to check on me,” you lied.

“Oh, okay,” he said, disappointment showing on his face.

As Luke left your flat you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. Men! They always wanted something in return for their help.

You ate a take away meal, forcing the food down you as your appetite waned. The pizza seemed quite appealing in the picture on the leaflet that you had kept pinned on your board in the kitchen, but as you opened the box, you wrinkled your nose.

***

On your third day of being back at work and you were sat alone in the kitchen area next to the stock rooms, drinking a shop brought cup of coffee and a cinnamon bun. So far and things had gone fairly well; your colleagues had asked if you were alright, then swiftly started talking about themselves, as always. You just tried to keep yourself isolated where you could sit with your own thoughts, which always focused on Thorin.

Luke came into the kitchen, offering a greeting and then switched the kettle on before pulling up a seat in front of you. His eyes began studying Thorin’s ring around your neck which rested on top of your shirt between your breasts.

“What’s that?” he asked, nodding his head towards the ring.

You remained silent for a moment, fright hitting you. “Erm, it’s a family heirloom,” you said, faking a smile. “My mom gave it me. I think it was my grandad’s.”

Luke chuckled. “I hate to say it, but it’s an ugly bloody thing.”

The smile drained from your face suddenly and an almighty wave of intense anger came over you. “Fuck you!” you shouted, shoving your drink across the table which splashed all down Luke’s chest and arms, covering him in chai latte.

The legs of the chair screeched across the floor as you shoved it back and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind you.

You dashed into the ladies toilet and sat down, sobbing.

***

By the time you got home and it was dark. The street lights illuminated your way as you walked slowly back to your flat, your head low and your eyes stinging with impending tears.

Would this ever get any better? Would you ever truly smile again or feel happiness? It all seemed so impossible, so far away and so out of reach.

In your room shortly afterwards, you turned on the light and began to get undressed into your pyjamas for the evening. However, something red caught your eye on the floor next to your shredded poster.

You gasped.

It was a rose.

***

Erebor, Middle-earth

Nights in Erebor became cold again for Thorin. He looked at the shards of broken mirror on his bed chamber floor, the mirror which had allowed him to pass through to you.

When he discovered the broken mirror, he had felt terror hit him hard and he dropped to his knees on the stone floor, instinctively grabbing pieces of glass, only to feel pain strike as one piece ripped through the palm of his hand. How had the mirror been smashed when he always locked his door, not wanting anyone to fall upon his secret?

On the night that he had found his mirror broken and he remained on the floor, on his knees and with his head bowed. Then he heard your sobs, mixed with calls of his name.

“My love?” he whispered, his eyes red and swollen. “I can hear you!”

However, no matter how much he called to you, you didn’t respond, only continued sobbing, oblivious to your connection.

The sound seemed to be coming from one particular shard of glass which was almost a perfect square in its shape. Thorin picked it up, only to feel his thumb sink through into the reflection of himself.

***

Thorin pushed a rose through the shard of glass each night and kept it wrapped in silk during the day and in a pocket in his tunic, not wanting this one tiny connection to you to ever get lost. After dark and he would listen to you, your voice coming from inside the piece of mirror and he would smile. He could hear you talking to him, your words always beginning with, “I don’t know if you can hear me.” Then you would talk about your day, you would thank him for the rose, and most importantly, tell him you loved him.

Through Thorin listening to you, he discovered that it was Ryan who had caused the break in your nightly visits. Thorin grit his teeth and hissed at the piece of mirror in his hand. “It will give me great pleasure, my love, to cause him intense pain!”

During the daytime and Thorin began asking questions in the library, requesting books on alchemy, and had even found one book that wrote of objects having powerful magic cast upon them to connect to other worlds. On that day and he knew what needed to be done: he must try and get word to Gandalf, the one person in Middle earth he knew that would have answers.

A guard suddenly entered the library, approaching Thorin.

“Council are ready for you, my Lord,” the guard’s gruff voice came.

Thorin got up from his seat, spun around and growled at the guard. “Council is cancelled.” Then he stormed out of the library, carrying the old, leather bound book with him, which held his one hope to get to you. The fact that Thorin was abandoning his Kingly duties often in his frustrating mission to be reunited with you, didn’t concern him. Erebor had its King. It now needed, and would have, a Queen.

Out on the rampart, Thorin waited for Roac after a guard had put out a designated trumpet call for the raven. The bird would be able to fly over all terrain ten times quicker than any man could walk, and get a message to Gandalf, asking him to come as soon as possible.

Once Roac had been told to seek out Gandalf, the raven flew away with a shrill call into the distance, disappearing onto the horizon.

Thorin sighed and closed his eyes, praying to Mahal that his One would be able to come home. There was no doubting that you were his destined life partner and companion; his heart, mind and spirit all screamed it.

Back in his bed chamber and Thorin began to pen a letter to you, his quill scratching quickly and loudly against the parchment.

My dearest love,

I spend each waking moment trying to find a way to you, and I promise that I will get to you.

I have sent word to Gandalf who is our best hope.

Be strong, and live in faith that we shall be together soon.

From my heart to yours.

Your King.

Thorin rolled up the parchment, tying it with a piece of red silk and waited for sunset. Then he would be able to push it through to you, along with your daily rose.

***

Two days later and Roac returned.

“Gandalf is on his way. He is a two-week ride from here, but seems to know of a way to help, my Lord,” Roac told Thorin as he landed on the stone ledge.

Thorin nodded to the bird, thanking him but also requesting that all information which had been shared, be kept between them both.

***

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