#wings of fire not wall of flesh

[acornmaybe]

That whole thing with jerboa iii was really fucked up huh.

#acorn original #wof #< #wings of fire not wall of flesh

[konigbabe]

heavenly sin

Pairing: RE4!Leon Kennedy x fem!reader

Word count: 3.4k

Tags/warnings: smut (pure unfiltered filth, no plot); voice kink; p-in-v sex; unprotected sex; female gendered anatomy; female masturbation; fingering; cunnilingus; established relationship; no y/n; references to Christianity and ferocity; extensive wordplay

Summary: It's been known that Leon is one kinky bastard.

A/N: Written as part of my A to Z kinks game. N is for narratophilia aka being aroused by sexual storytelling.

Tried something a little bit different to explore my knowledge of English. A wordplay of sorts (I basically threw random words together in hopes that it'd make some sense). Bon Appetit.

masterlist • navigation • faq • AO3 • ko-fi

“You enjoying yourself?” As Leon discards his gloves, casting them aside like insignificant relics, you feel the pillow crumple beneath his weight. A testament to the force of his being. The air feels sizzling hot, thick with heat and suffocating in its intensity. “If I knew my words would get you so riled up,” his other hand cups your breast, thumb circling the erected nipple and watching as goosebumps rise over the sensitive skin, “I’d do this much sooner.”

It started as a joke, a fleeting spark in the sea of banter. Leon’s flirtatious nature entwined in perfect harmony with his tender heart.

Fresh out of the shower, your heart longed for the man whose sudden departures have become routine. A standard in your life.

The sun made its final descent below the horizon, the sky painted in shades of amber and gold – the bedroom awash in a warm and inviting glow, as if every object was kissed by the sun's final rays. The light filtered through the sheer curtains, creating patterns on the floor that danced like flickering flames.

And in the midst of it all, Leon's call came through, cutting through the stillness.

The conversation began innocently. Calling to let you know he’ll be home soon. It was as though his tenderness was butterfly's wings, fluttering in your chest and making your heart skip a beat.

His sincere words slowly spilt over into something else. Something more. Something promising.

It’s now that the phone lies next to your ear, and Leon's voice, like a silk ribbon, unwinds into your consciousness, stirring a deep and primal desire within you. Building the anticipation need inside you.

“After that, I’d bent you over the table. You’d already be naked and dripping,” Leon’s voice a song of Solomon, “but I’d be far from done with you.”

A gasp, soft and quiet, escapes your parted lips. Every fibre of your body, every cell is set on fire. The setting sun casting flames over your naked skin of yours. Flesh burning. Body wrapped in a cocoon of passionate flames – your palm pressing against the sensitive nub, the pressure light as a feather. Slow, languid strokes of your fingers follow Leon’s words.

Muscles tightening as the pressure keeps adding with each sentence. Slow and steady. With a pace of a gentle stream. Dipping one finger deep inside your slick walls, only to stop when you reach fully inside.

A stream of docile moans flows from your throat.

“Just to feel you take my cock. Hear those gorgeous gasps as you beg me to give it to you,” hand gripping the messed-up sheets underneath you, squeezing tight as you add another finger, curling them upwards.

“Rough, just how you like it. Pretty sure we’d break the table,” Leon’s words are accompanied by a light chuckle, hiding much more sinister and vivid ideas inside his head.

The way his name rolls off your tongue makes him cuss. Your voice carries the weight of longing, desire, and devotion. Making Leon wish to finally be home.

“Fuck. Could spend all day between those lovely legs of yours.” Leon’s voice descends to a low murmur, tinged with raw, feral hunger.

With a touch as tender as a butterfly’s wing, thumb circling the aching nub of nerves; it ignites a wildfire of ecstasy within your body. As you lightly graze your opening, feeling the softness of your slick walls, a delicate gasp escapes your mouth, akin to a prayer of submission to this moment of pure passion and pleasure.

“Just to taste that pretty pussy of yours on my tongue.”

Leon's voice pours into the phone, rich and sinful. You hear the front door open with a soft creak, the sound echoing through your body. He's finally home, his presence filling your senses with a heady aroma of musk and lust, a tantalizing potion that you can't resist.

He gazes at you with eyes like storm clouds brewing with desire. The air is thick with the scent of sex and your yearning, hanging in the dimly lit bedroom, resembling a heavy fog. You keep your gaze locked with his, transfixed as Leon strides in, his figure outlined by the glow of light seeping in from the hallway.

You don’t stop–

–instead, your fingers delve deeper. Nails grazing the tender walls, the slight discomfort only adding to the pleasure. Like a deer caught in headlines, your eyes stay on his.

The sound of your slickness echoes in the room as you thrust in and out, unconsciously matching the rhythm of Leon's steps – left in, right out, left in, right out – a dance of carnal desire.

And just like that, he stands on the side of the bed.

Leon’s eyes gleam with a fierce intensity. A perfect blend of predatory sensuality and effortless ease. With the grace of a pather; clad in a black henley shirt, the first two buttons undone, exposing the slight curve of his clavicles. It molds to his chiseled form as though it was a second skin, making Leon exude a primal magnetism that draws you closer to your high.

Spellbound by the scene in front of him – by you; fingers deep inside, eyes glazed over with orgasmic ecstasy as your work yourself to your high.

The air is thick with the sweet scent of your desire, a heady aroma that fills his senses with an overwhelming urge to indulge in your rapture.

He steps closer, placing one knee on the bed. The mattress creaks under his weight, but his gaze never leaves yours. It's as if you're the only person in the world that matters to him right now. The heat emanating from his body is palpable, and you feel your heart race as his presence commands the room.

“You enjoying yourself?”

His tone is low. A seductive purr sends a wave of electricity through your veins. Hot like molten lava. Dripping like honey, sweet and luscious. They linger in the air, coating everything around you with a sticky warmth.

His name leaves your lips in a deep sigh. Soft walls squeeze your fingers.

As he discards his fingerless gloves, casting them aside like insignificant relics, you feel the pillow crumple beneath his weight. A testament to the force of his being. The air feels sizzling hot, thick with heat and suffocating in its intensity.

Leon’s arm flexes, the sinewy muscles bulging when put to work. Your eyes lock onto his, drinking in the raw masculinity and primal allure of his being. A contented moan escapes your lips, an instinctive reaction to the overwhelming sensuality of the moment.

“If I knew my words would get you so riled up,” his other hand cups your breast, thumb circling the erected nipple and watching as goosebumps rise over the sensitive skin, “I’d do this much sooner.”

His towering form casts a shadow over you as he leans closer. Lips so close you can almost taste the desire that emanated from him. The heat of his breath dances across your skin, making your senses swirl in a dizzying haze of lust; igniting a fire that burns with the intensity of Samson's strength.

“Wanna gimme a kiss?” he whispers, his lips almost brushing against yours. You’re still able to feel the soft graze of the plump skin atop of yours, sending a fluttering sensation to your heart.

You can't help but feel intoxicated by his voice, each word rolling off his tongue with a silky smoothness that sends shivers down your spine. It's almost like he's casting a spell, using his voice as a weapon to ensnare you in his grasp. And you willingly surrender, caught in the web of his honeyed words; like Delilah, powerless to his will, swept away by the power of his seduction.

Lips grazing his, you push your face upwards to be closer. The kiss is both gentle and fierce; a tantalizing dance of lips and tongues that leaves you breathless and wanting more. The taste of him a mix of mint and spice. You stop the movement of your wrist between your legs. Stilling, feeling the wet squeeze around your fingers, your mind becomes a blank canvas, a vast expanse of nothingness.

The taste of him lingers on your tongue as he pulls away. Thick fingers wrapping around your wrist, he nudges your fingers out of you. A displeased grunt leaves your lips at the sudden emptiness. Only to have your breath stop; watching as Leon brings your hand, fingers visibly sticky with your juices, tongue swirling around the tip of your index finger before taking two of the fingers in his mouth. It’s as if he’s tasting the forbidden fruit, savoring the flavor of your arousal like the sweetest nectar.

Feeling the wet tip of his tongue swirl around your fingers, you can’t help but let out a soft moan. The rough texture brushes over the pads of your fingers. Licking every drop of you off of your fingers, leaving them clean before he licks his own lips.

“Missed that taste.”

His eyes never leave yours, dark and intense with desire as he slowly releases your hand.

“Missed you almost that much too.”

His words wash over you like a warm embrace, seeping into your pores and settling deep within your bones. As his body moves over yours, his hands glide across the burning expanse of your skin, tracing patterns of passion that leave you breathless in anticipation. The soft touch of his lips on your navel sends ripples of pleasure through your body, each sensation building on the last until you're gasping for air.

Leon sinks to his knees at the end of the bed; his movements smooth and graceful. Years of never-ending training left him in full control of every muscle. Arms sliding underneath your knees, he holds you firmly as he grips your hips with unyielding strength.

A single tug. Confident in its prosecution. He brings you to the edge of the bed, your glistening cunt hovering in front of his face. The sight of him there, between your legs, both captivating and overwhelming.

The wet tip of his tongue peaks from within his kiss-bruised lips.

Before you know it, you’re completely undone. A mess. Leon's tongue turns your body into a temple of pleasure; his movements sinuous and calculated. With each flick and swirl of his tongue, he's coaxing you to heights of ecstasy.

His tongue traces every inch of your throbbing cunt, flicking and teasing your clit as you squirm beneath him, one hand grasping his soft hair while the other squeezes your breast. His fingers, thick and rough, plunge deep inside of you, finding all the right spots to drive you wild. Each thrust of his hand sends jolts of pleasure through your body, making you moan and writhe with need.

"Such a fucking filthy little thing," he growls against your skin, the heat of his breath making you shiver. He devours you with his mouth and hands, taking you to the brink of ecstasy and back again; fingers scissoring and pumping, working you over until you're a quivering mess of desire.

The blunt pressure of the tips of his fingers pressing mildly against your inner walls sending pinnacles of bliss across your body until you’re mewling at the sharp pleasure that ripples down your spine.

You claw at the sheets, unable to control the waves of sensation that crash over you.

And then, with a final, shuddering gasp, you let yourself go, your body convulsing in waves of pure pleasure. Ecstasy; Leon’s name a sweetened melody on the tip of your tongue.

He stands up afterwards, a towering figure before your eyes. Your aching legs fall from his shoulders onto the bed. Leon looms over you, appearing almost god-like, a divine being sent to ravage you with its passion.

Disposing of his shirt, you lay on the bed motionless, senses on high and in anticipation as you watch the man strip. With every article of clothing that comes off, Leon’s body reveals itself in all its glory. Shoulders and chest sculptured, shaped by years of intense training. Someone who’s worked hard to achieve such a physique. Rippling muscles that flex with every movement he makes. His arms thick with veins and biceps that bulge with raw strength, capable of holding you up effortlessly. You can see every ridge of his abs, each one chiseled to perfection.

“Enjoyin’ the view?” he rasps after ridding himself of the last article while you shamelessly stare at Leon’s sheer size and the strength of him.

“Very much,” you breathe out when he crawls on top of you.

His cock rests atop your stomach, heavy and pulsing with need; leaking as he marks you in his precum. Yet, neither of you moves. Unbothered, you remain locked in his gaze before his lips capture yours in a short passionate kiss. Drawn together by the irresistible pull of gravity, your lips meet in a collision of desire and longing.

Legs wrapping high around his waist, his hand leaves the side of your neck and travels the side of your body, igniting a trail of heat as it goes. Leon strokes the length of your thigh, only stopping when his fingers rest under your knee momentarily. Then you feel the blunt tip press against your aching cunt. The anticipation inside you unravels like a tightly wound spool, releasing a flood of sensations that spreads throughout your body.

“Ready?” he breathes out; his warm breath tickles your skin as his lips brush against yours once again.

The silky texture of his hair brush against your fingertips. Legs tightening around his upper body, you pull him closer to you. “Yeah.”

The pressure against your throbbing cunt intensifies as Leon presses forward. The crown of his cock splits you open with ease, enveloping him. Welcoming him eagerly in your wet heat. As if he belongs there.

Leon’s touch’s electric, sending shivers down your spine as he claims you with each bite and kiss. His teeth graze your chin, softly nibbling at the skin as he lets out a guttural grunt. Keeping one hand on the side of your neck, possessive and tender, surely to feel the rapid pulse of your jugular vein, he hooks his thumb underneath your jaw and pushes upwards.

When your head is tilted upwards enough to his satisfaction, his lips latch on the front of your neck. Small, quick bites decorate the stretched skin. Followed by a wet kiss, he sucks on the skin. Vulnerable and exposed.

Moans cascade from your lips, an ode to his cock splitting you apart slowly. A divine intrusion into your depths, filling you.

He stills when he’s buried balls deep inside of you; bottoms out in your quivering walls, slick with post-orgasmic arousal.

The feeling of fullness, of being completely filled, is almost too much to bear. Your breath hitches in your throat, body trembling with pleasure as it strains to accommodate him; to make enough space to take him in.

Your eyes flatter shut as he waits, face nuzzling into the crook of your neck while his hand cups the underside of your breast with his thumb teasing your nipple in a leisurely manner.

A moment of content falls between you. Bodies molded together; two halves of a whole.

After a few seconds, you press the sole of your feet into his skin, feeling the taunt muscle contract underneath you.

A subtle but unmistakable gesture. A wordless plea for more.

A fuck me of sorts.

Your body speaks volumes, a language he's learned to decipher. And with a low growl, he responds to your invitation. A low roll of his hips. A test of your readiness. It becomes a measured beat that tests your strength, the pressure of his cock firmly pressed against the walls of your cervix.

It has you sent into a harmonious frenzy.

Leon continues with the rhythm. Relishing in the tight squeeze of your cunt, in the way you sing for him, his name a sacred hymn on your lips. Your body responds eagerly to his touch, every nerve ending on fire as pleasure courses through you.

His hands sear a blazing trail on your burning flesh. Every touch feels as if he’s branding you, etching himself onto your skin.

The wetness of his lips causes goosebumps to raise on your skin. Moving like a reverent prayer. Worship of your body as his tongue swipes over your sensitive nipples.

Your name escapes his lips and is met with a low moan.

Tantalizing and peaceful.

Leon’s unhurried movements slowly transform into something more. Rough and hasty. Teeth nibbling at your jawline, feeling the bone underneath the skin, your nails bite into the tight muscle of his shoulder blades. Surely to leave indents that will bloom into bruises and marks. Your back arch, offering yourself up to him as you focus on meeting his thrusts.

As his hand wanders down the length of your body, his fingers dance along the curves of your waist and hips before grazing the globes of your ass; giving it a rough squeeze before wrapping his fingers under your knee and pulling away from your neck.

Meanwhile, his other hand braces his body weight by your face. Leon’s fingers entwine around your ankle. Pushing your leg up and over his shoulder, you moan over the painful stretch of your hamstring as he gazes at you.

He moves with a frenzied urgency. Lowering himself to rest on his elbows, his fingers find their way to your clit.

The way he flicks over the sensitive nub elicits a series of moans and cries from you only to be silenced by his lips crashing onto yours.

The kiss is wet and messy. Hungry. Both of you eager to take and dominate, his tongue dancing with yours in a frenzied manner.

It's like he's a man possessed, lost in the rhythm of his movements and the feel of your body beneath him. You writhe and moan, lost in a haze of sensation and desire as he takes you higher towards that ultimate release. That sweet orgasm. Every motion is a symphony, a perfect blend of power and finesse, as he explores the contours of your body with a deep hunger.

Mind becoming blurry, your senses are consumed by the raw, primal desire Leon elicits with his thrusts. Moving to brace himself better, it feels impossible when you feel the blunt pressure hit even deeper than before. Gasping, you move your hips, trying to take him as deep as possible.

The smell of sweat and sex fills the air, and you can hear the sound of skin slapping against the skin as Leon moves with increasing speed and intensity. His determination to tear you apart only grows each time your hips meet, sending bolts of electricity throughout your every cell. His thumb flicks over your clit, applying pressure and circling the aching bud until you’re quivering underneath the mass of a man above you. Inside you.

The sound of his grunts and moans blends into a symphony of pleasure, each note building up the tension within you. You feel like a volcano on the brink of eruption, bubbling with molten passion until it finally snaps. Erupts.

A tidal wave of pleasure washes over you. Sweeping you in a vortex of delight. A thousand stars explode in your mind, each one brighter than the last, painting your vision with vibrant colors. Your body convulses, spasming in rhythm with the waves of pleasure that ripple through you.

Gasps leave your lips. Desperate for air, you cling to Leon, whose thrusts never wavered. Whose fingers continue to tease your clit, now throbbing and exploding with sensitivity. His eyes lock on yours, lips parted with low moans escaping from between before you bring his face down to you, swallowing each cry of pleasure but eventually, he pulls away.

You watch as Leon’s eyes snap shut, brows furrowing in pleasure as he stills. His full length buried inside of your spasming cunt, filling you up with his cum.

Your body’s spent. Yet your mind’s still reeling from the sheer intensity as Leon remains buried inside; his breath ragged and uneven before he pulls out with measured slowness, teasing your oversensitive clit with a gentle tap. You shudder at the sensation of him trickling out of you.

“Hi.”

The simple word leaves your mouth in a breathless whisper. A mere welcome that was meant to be addressed when he first entered your home instead of now. A warmth spreads through your body, settling low in your belly as you take in the sight of him; the way his blond hair falls across his forehead, resembling a halo of an angel. Cheeks tinted in light pink and lips curved into a small smile as he looks at you.

“Hi.”

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #i feel like i should be ashamed of myself #influenced by sin #leon s kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x y/n #leon s kennedy x y/n #resident evil 2: remake #moni writes #resident evil imagine #leon kennedy imagine #leon s kennedy imagine #resident evil 2 imagine #leon s kennedy fanfiction #leon kennedy fanfic #resident evil fanfic #smut #leon kennedy smut #resident evil 4 #residentevil4remake #resident evil 4 remake

[hwajin]

— slow down

⁺ 𓂋 𓈒 ✦ :: — lee minho | 4k follower event

genre: smut!!

pairing: minho x fem!reader

Drool against your pillows, duvet long wet, with sweat and saliva and tears of pleasure, your body no different. Fluids covering you in a glistening sheet and Minho wasn't any better, shining in the dim of the light, tongue darting out on occassion to catch the droplets of sweat that found themselves on the tip of his lip.

His hands stood steady on your hips, your ass raised up, your spine curving, your face mushed into the pillow - you were careless, if anything, of your appearance, utterly indifferent if filth was written all over you, and yet it was the very thing having Minho grunt out in most possible pleasure. A look at you and he'd burst if self-control wasn't in his strengths, so eyes shut instead, focused on the feeling of you. How your body felt beneath his hands, sweaty, hot, on fire and squirming, how you clenched around him in rhythms unbeknownst to your own, the way his thighs clashed against your behind, flesh bouncing into him. You were fucking into him, hips impatient and the tip of your gut burning in anticipation and you moved past the force of his hands and the barrier of his body and into his core, full of desperation, nearly pathetic. A chuckle from him and he thrusted into you, elliciting high pitched moan, and he bent over chest on your back, lips against your ear.

"Slow down, baby, don't rush."

His voice a deep rasp and you let out a whine that ripped through the room, hips twitching, walls contracting, faster now than before, in shorter intervals. Almost frantic, wings of butterfly and he nearly lost his composure the very moment.

Minho sat back on his knees again, thrusts against you torturingly slow yet compensating in depth. And now he looked at you. Your back glistening, the dimple by your bottom incredibly deep, your hands gripping onto your mattress as far as drawing white knuckles, red fingertips. Cries of his name, of demands - more, deeper, harder, faster - ringing like siren calls in his ears and he couldn't now comply, falling under your spells and giving you what you want; fastening his pace and another moan ripped through the night - it was nearly enough to make him finish, though you finally drove him over the edge when your body contracted, when thighs started shaking and your hand searched for him behind you, dug into his skin, when your walls caged him in with enough vigour, strength that he eventually painted you white, collapsed atop of you, stayed within you for minutes longer, not planning to move, to let the moment pass any time soon.

@es-kay-zee @jeyelleohe @angelwonie @yvniek4ng @ppiri-bahng @bintificreads @svintsandghosts @llunapastell @sensitiveandhungry @minniesvenus @junebug032 @noellllslut @a-cute-french-fry @felixinameadowandthesuniswarm @unexceptional-h @like-a-diamondinthesky @katsukis1wife

#lee minho smut #skz smut #stray kids smut #lee minho scenarios #lee minho x reader #lee minho imagines #skz imagines #skz x reader #skz scenarios #stray kids imagines #stray kids x reader #stray kids scenarios

[amygdalae]

Had a dream the other night where I was infiltrating a castle fortress and I was detected and spikes came out of the walls and I had to sidle between them to hide. The king set a wing of the castle on fire to smoke me out and at one point I looked out over the courtyard and saw like 5 dudes on the ground dressed like Varre from elden ring hunched over on all fours eating from a large pile of flesh

[vampyrsm]

'as above, so below' demon king bakugou katsuki x reader

synopsis: what more could the king of hell want than having ultimate control over everyone who descends into his domain? well, there is just one thing. he wants the silly little girl who thought demons were a joke.

warnings: summoning, mentions of animal hearts (it's brief), female reader, monsterfucking, dubcon to be safe, mind breaking(?) reader is a virgin, rough sex, shibari, size difference, corruption kink, blood, marking, hair pulling, squirting, multiple creampies.

word count: 6174.

The sting against your flesh was nothing, it didn't surmount the bubbling fear in your stomach at the current situation you were in. The rope that was snug around your thighs and calves felt like it was fire rubbing against you whenever you tried to shift, just to ease up the pain enough to let you a moment of reprise in this newfound Hell.

You were utterly, and entirely fucked.

But you asked for this, didn't you?

You're the reason the man stood at the end of the bed filled with expensive silks was here. You just hadn't thought that this was quite how it would go, your friends had said it wasn't even meant to work—so just how did you manage to summon the most powerful of demons? The Demon King no less.

It was meant to be a harmless evening, something your friends had passed off to you as a 'joke'. They said that it wasn't real, that demons don't exist but it was all part of the thrill that something might just crawl out of the darkness in the dead of night. All of them had said nothing had ever happened to them, that the names were too hard to pronounce anyway or that they didn't even do the ritual right.

So just why did you do everything down to the letter? Why did you go out of your way to get your hands on a pig heart, they didn't even sell them in local stores. You shouldn't have even done it in the first place, it was a disgusting practice you realised when you had laid it all out in front of you. The lit candles, the blood that had been smeared on your clean wooden floors in what must be some sort of ancient language because it didn't look like anything but symbols and runes to you. Then the heart sat in the dish, thankfully you didn't have to do much to it other than just offering it up, but still having it sitting there made your stomach twist uncomfortably.

This was ridiculous. You thought as you painted the same symbols and runes along your thighs, down your arms and finally directly on top of your stomach. The blood was slimy and cold, and the fucking smell was rancid. You were going to bitch about this to your friends the second you got this shit off of you, they were clearly messing with you—why else would they get a person to rub blood on their skin?

Of course, nothing happened straight away, you hadn't expected it to but that bit of disappointment in the back of your mind was loud. You at least expected a tiny bit of a scare, maybe something would touch your hair or whisper in your ear but nothing. You spent the next 45 minutes cleaning up your apartment, running the washcloth over your body to rid yourself of the now sticky blood.

And you were content with the fact nothing happened, maybe it was for the better than you somehow fucked up the ritual. You shuddered at the thought of if it wasn't all a lie, just what could be lurking in the deep dark? You didn't want to find out, and so you resigned yourself to just shutting off for the night and heading to bed.

That was the plan of course as you opened your bedroom door, eyes on your phone screen until it felt like you walked directly into a thick wall of heat. Had you left the heating on? No, you didn't need it on today so just what—

You froze on the spot, eyes locked onto the man who was standing directly in front of your wardrobe's full body mirror. If you could even call him a man, that is. He had thick black wings that were more akin to that of a bat's wings, and he was fucking big. You could tell from the way his head was slightly ducked down to stop himself from hitting the ceiling that he was well over 7 feet, at the minimum. The longer you stared, the more details you started to take in.

With only just the small bedside table lamp giving him an amber glow, you could still see that his skin was a glistening tanned colour and he was beyond ripped. His muscles were tensed, large shoulders hunched and biceps bulging as he heaved in heavy strong breaths through his nose. Finally, you looked up at his face, he wasn't what you were expecting when you'd describe a demon. You always envisioned them as creepy little things that had disfigured features or an extra eye, or something. But this man, demon, was the most beautiful person you had ever laid eyes on.

Jaw sharper than any knife as he tensed it, his lips were turned down in a deep frown with his upper lip threatening to rise up like a snarling dog the longer you stared him down like a deer in headlights. A flick of something to the side of his head had you instantly looking at his ears, they were long and pointed but covered in fur, like cow ears. Heavy hoops adorned them both and jingled when they flicked again in what must be annoyance, and finally, you settled on the thick black horns that were most definitely bovine-like, large and pointed upwards, even those had metal rings dangling from them.

The second you met his eyes, your stomach dipped and twisted like it would on a rollercoaster. The red was unnatural, shining brighter than any fire you had seen, carrying the same heat as the sun when it's high in the sky on a summer afternoon. His lip finally curled up in a snarl, a low rumbling growl that bubbled in his throat and perfectly displayed the sharp fangs in his mouth.

"Done fucking starin'?" his voice was like ash, smokey and raspy yet deep it had a subtle shiver sliding up your spine. It matched his appearance perfectly, like every aspect of him had been hand-sculpted by the Gods. Perhaps he was. "Of course, the one person who manages to do the ritual right is too scared to fuckin' speak."

You blink finally, wiping the sweat from the palms of your hands against your sweatpants before you speak. "You're real?" is all your brain can ask in the current situation, and the way his eyebrows dipped in a frown and lip covering up his fangs once again tells you it was a stupid question. "I mean, you didn't show up for anyone else."

"Because they were all fuckin' idiots and didn't do it right," he finally shifts, and it feels like gravity moves with him like you're being drawn into his eyes the longer he holds eye contact with you. "You, however, little innocent you did everything right. Didn't you?" and suddenly he's in your space, the heat coming off of him in waves is unbearable and suffocating but you can't find the energy to move away from him.

"Why is that? What exactly did you wish to gain from summoning someone like me?" this close you can see his own eyes scanning over your face, along your hair and down the front of your body. His eyes linger on the exact places you had recently painted in blood as if he can still somehow see it.

"Speak." A command. A snarling one at that, it shakes you from the spot and has you blinking away the tears you hadn't even realised had started to clump against your eyelashes.

"I-I," you start, throat parched from the searing heat of the demonic figure who's now fully leering over you, head tilted down so the shadows shroud his face. "I don't know, I didn't think anything would happen!"

His eyebrow arches a little, whilst his head tilts as if he's fully surveying you. "You're a terrible liar, you know that?" his tone is demeaning, lecturing you as if you were being scolded by an adult who had caught you with your hand in the cookie jar. "You knew exactly what you were doing when you wrote my name right along here..." his hand raises, a clawed finger dragging along your stomach before it dips down to press lightly against your womb.

The searing heat of his hand disappears just as quickly as it appeared, his hands dropping to his sides as he straightens up to his entire height—the best he can in this room, anyway. "I'll ask just one more time, what did you want from me?" you want to look away from his eyes, but they were like glowing coals against the shadows of his features.

Your silence clearly isn't what he wants to hear as he breathes in a deep breath through his nose, eyes rolling in annoyance before he abruptly turns away from you, you notice something whipping and lashing behind him as he walks, had he always had a tail? You realise he's heading back towards the mirror he had once come from. Is that how he got in here in the first place? You had heard of rumours about it being a bad thing to have mirrors angled towards your bed, a gateway or something.

But just as he reaches the mirror, he freezes on the spot when something sweet hits his nose. It's a rare kind of sweetness, not one he'd often get to indulge in because it usually bared heavy consequences on his behalf if he were to let his greed take over. But something is cementing him to the spot, and his ears flicker again causing the small hoops to jingle with the slight movement.

He's glancing over his shoulder briefly to see the muscles in your thighs tensing, squeezing as if to alleviate something and then the smell hits him again.

Oh.

So he was right in assuming you'd summoned him for that exact reason, he figures you just didn't bank on him being the King of Demons. What a shame, he grins as he turns back on his heel to look at you fully.

...And that's just how you ended up in a room that didn't quite look like yours anymore, the walls were draped in expensive yet old-looking fabrics, dark reds and blacks that seemed to ebb and flow despite there being no breeze. The soft bed beneath you was much bigger than any bed you had ever owned, was this all a hallucination? It sure didn't feel like one when a clawed finger hooked against the black rope that had been tied around your thighs pinning your calves to your thighs.

He was clearly impressed by his own handiwork with the way he kept running his fingers along it, putting a small amount of pressure against your thighs to make you hiss out at the aching pain in your calves but he knew it wasn't hurting you, not entirely. Not when he had you kneeling before him in said bound position, completely bare and dripping for him.

He looks even more sinful in the new light of the room, your lamps replaced by candles, the flickering orange somehow making his eyes brighter and that much more dangerous. His skin is shining, you realise, the sweat sticking to his bare chest and the column of his throat. You're completely fixated on every part of him, allowing him to pull you into this fantasy when he finally leans forward and pinches at your nipples that were already sore and red from his earlier ministrations.

In truth, Katsuki hadn't been able to keep his hands off of you. You smelled so pure, so ripe and ready for the picking and it had been centuries since he was allowed someone who hadn't been tainted in one way or another. He wanted to devour you whole, suck your very essence out of your body until you were quivering and shrieking for him to stop, and then begging for him to take you finally. He wants to lock you away in his own dungeon for the rest of eternity.

"Ready to admit just how fuckin' desperate you are yet?" he taunts, sharp claw stroking down along your sternum and then slowly back up until he hooks his index finger under your chin, forcing your head back to meet his gaze. "C'mon.. it won't be so bad if you just admit to it, tell me how bad you want it."

You do want to, you want to cave to him so badly but this game of cat and mouse has the throb between your legs intensifying. You know you're needy just from the way you clench around nothing when he spreads your legs just a little more to put the strain on your bound form but you can see the impressive bulge in his tight black slacks, the thick outline telling you just how badly he wants you in return.

Clearly, however, he is much stronger in will than you as you moan, breathy and downright needy when his fingers slip back down your body and rest between your legs. He was hardly touching you but the heat that seemed to move around him like an aura felt the same as if his hands were on you directly, and he could tell you were struggling to hold yourself in place. Stopping yourself from lowering yourself despite the ropes digging into your skin and grinding your wet heat against his palm.

He had you right where he needed you, on the precipice ready to fall directly into his clutches. So with a delicate tap of his index finger against your clit, your entire body jolted forward at the sudden stimulation. You figured it might've been a one-time tap, to mess with you, to make you admit all your sins to him but it was as if he were in a trance himself. His fingers move against your slick warmth, long fingers dipping in slightly before dragging back up to your clit to draw lazy but firm circles against it.

The low groan that came from his throat rumbled up through his chest, "Just say it, and I'll give it all to you."

You couldn't do this anymore, you couldn't hold out in hopes that he'd get bored. You figured he's a man with an infinite amount of time and just as much patience when it comes to getting what he wants.

"Please," you whisper, you're worried he might've not heard you when he remains silent. So you tilt your head up to look at him, certain you look every bit the mess he's made of you but you can see his nostrils are flared, eyes honed in on your lips. Waiting. "I can't wait anymore, please, I need you."

His eyes flick up to your own, and that feeling in your stomach is back as it flips and drops dramatically. Yet this time you don't feel the fear crawling up your spine telling you to run when he starts to crowd into your space, large wings behind his back spreading wide so all you could focus on was him. A large hand splays itself against your chest, carefully forcing you onto your back with your bound legs forced apart to expose yourself to the warmth that is Katsuki Bakugou as he lowers himself between your legs.

"Again," he growls, fangs peeking from beneath his lip as he tries to suppress a snarl. You figure it's not out of anger but rather frustration that he's still having to hold back.

His lips are just above your own, the closest you had been to him all night and it's intoxicating. Having a man so beautiful, a demon so powerful, asking you to tell him just how badly you want him. "Please," it's firmer this time, a little louder than a whisper. "Katsuki, I need you–" is all you manage to say.

The animalistic growl that rips through him shakes the four-post bed you're on, the way his given name rolls off of your tongue is what adds fuel to the fire in his gut. His lips are on yours in an instant, large canines pinching hard against your bottom lip until he draws blood. The kiss is messy, blood and spit mixing as he practically tries to devour you through the kiss alone, a large hand around your jaw to hold you in place whilst he got his fill.

When he parted from your lips you had to take in gasping breaths, with him this close it was like you were on fire beneath him which did nothing to help the aching need between your legs that was pressed snuggly against the heavy outline of his cock in his slacks, certainly leaving a mess behind on the pristine material. Suddenly he leans back on his knees, the space in front of you cold and empty.

Something in you makes you whimper at the loss, and his ears twitch at the sound, twisting and turning until they were pointed in your direction to take in your sounds. "What's wrong? You that much of a slut you can't wait a few more seconds?" and he grins when the same whine bubbles in your throat. His hands slip down to the belt of his slacks, the metal of the belt buckle clicking catching your attention immediately.

He tugs on the belt once and it slides out smoothly, the leather of the belt hitting the floor before he's unzipping his slacks to slip them down and off to reveal the black boxers that were tight on his thighs, and even tighter around the cock you could now see had a thick vein running on the underside of it, a darker wet spot near the waistband from the pre he'd been leaking all evening in anticipation of finally having you.

Despite your better judgement, you reach out a hand and half expect him to grab at it and burn you for daring to touch him out of turn but instead he lets your fingers brush against it. From the way you drag your fingers downwards a little too hard, he can tell you've never been this close to a dick before and that little fact has his tail lashing out viciously behind him in excitement.

"Can I?" your question catches him off-guard, his eyes look up at your own and for the first time you see something more than the hard glare, instead he looks rather... dazed, softened molten lava red eyes that take in the doe-eyed look you're giving him. You're so painfully innocent it has his cock twitching, he wants to ruin you.

"Be my guest," he offers, hands moving away from the waistband of his boxers as you, albeit awkwardly, pull down his boxers from the position you're in. The weight of his cock causes it to fall out once freed from its confines, and it has you clenching around absolutely nothing. He's much bigger than a human, you know that much for sure, the tip is big and looks irritated from how red it is—was he just as needy as you were?

His eyes were locked onto your own the entire time, drinking in the way your pupils dilated fully when you saw the very thing you had summoned him there for. He's about to take back the reigns when he feels a soft hand wrap around his length, it doesn't quite fit the entire way around and that has a pearl of precum leaking from the tip. Finally, he looks down, watching how you delicately stroke him as if he's going to somehow end up hurt if you're just a little rougher with him.

He thinks it's adorable.

But his patience has been worn thin all night long, he didn't make you crumble for no good reason. He wants to be buried deep inside of you as soon as possible, he needs to be or he thinks he might just go insane. His fingers curl under your chin, tilting you upwards to meet your gaze before he's ducking in once again. Your body is forced once again to succumb to his weight as he climbs back over you, big thighs spreading wide to force yours apart so he can nestle himself right where he needs to be.

A large hand meanders its way between the two of you, gripping at the thickness of his cock before he glides it along your slit eliciting a full body shiver in him at the copious amount of slick that had accumulated so quickly. His lips parted from yours just in time to hear the shaky intake of breath, and his eyes finally break away from the string of slick that was connecting the two of you.

He can see the fear in your eyes, something he hadn't expected in someone who would summon a demon. Unless—

"You're a virgin?" he asks in hardly a whisper, almost like he's confused by the idea of someone that pure trying to lose their virginity to a creature made up of pure sin. It's given this whole game a brand new thrill, a new prize that can be captured. The essence of a virgin is hard to come by nowadays.

You can't find it within yourself to answer him verbally, be it from embarrassment or fear of rejection that you're not going to be quite as easy as he first thought so instead you nod to his question. And his ears lower just that little bit more, eyes darting all over your face to take in your expression.

Purity.

"I'll be gentle," he says, it's a half-lie mostly but you don't need to know that. You chew on the bottom of your lip, causing more blood to spill from the previous two puncture holes he had left there from his kiss and he can't stop the automatic response to lean in, his tongue dragging along the plumpness of your bottom before he presses his lips against yours, small pecks slowly growing more heated with each passing moment until he was crowding over you, his weight settling a little more against your hips whilst his hand continued to drag the tip of his weeping cock up and down your slit until he angled it just so.

Your lips parted from his, his own opening in a silent gasp at the way you're squeezing the life out of him already and he had hardly pushed the tip in. You're panting into his mouth, and he can hear the start of a pained whine starting to build in the back of your throat the more he continues to bully his way through your walls. "Relax f'r me, please–" he pleads, unsure if he can withstand anymore of the clenching. "I need you to relax."

It's impossible to relax you think, you had never had sex before and yet you were practically being split in half by the biggest man you had ever seen. You squeeze your eyes shut, tears rolling from the corner of your eyes and you can feel the burning of his gaze on your face when you continue to whine, whimpering in pain at the shallow thrusts he's giving. You feel full already but you know he's hardly made any progress on ensuring he was buried to the hilt deep inside of you. "P-Please," you murmur, what were you asking for exactly? You had no idea, but Katsuki seemed to have some sort of idea as his hand drifted between the two of you again and the heat of his fingertips against your clit had your hips bucking upwards.

He hisses, teeth gritted at the pulse of tightness around only part of his cock when he taps a finger against your clit before running smooth yet tight circles on it. But it seems to be working, your legs relax as much as they can in their binding and your walls relax just enough for him to fluidly roll his hips back and forth until he's seated deep against you. His cock is twitching against your walls, bumping into the spot that has your stomach tensing and thighs trying to clamp closed around his trimmed waist.

You half expected him to start as soon as he was buried inside of you, but when you reopen your eyes you're met with his own being tightly closed. His body is hunched over your own, two large forearms caging either side of your head and his head is ducked down just enough so the hardness of his horns is touching the top of your head. If you didn't know any better, you'd say he was in pain from the scrunch of his nose and the furrow of his eyebrows.

Unsure if you were genuinely hurting him just as much as he was hurting you, you decide to try and comfort him in some sort of way. Can demons even be comforted? They didn't seem the type who needed comfort in any way but nonetheless, you slid your hands up along his neck until you cupped his jaw, the muscles jumping each time he tensed and untensed his jaw, teeth grinding.

His eyes fluttered open when your thumbs rolled over his cheekbones, but instead of that deep red you had been staring into the entire evening you were met with black. Even the white of his eyes was no more, but you could tell he was staring directly back at you, just something in your gut telling you so.

"Don't look at me like that," his voice a thunderous growl, involuntarily making you clench around him and his nose screwed up once again.

But you weren't looking at him like anything, were you? "I don't— like what?"

"Like I'm the one who hung the moon, it's makin' it so much harder for me to hold back." You hadn't realised you were looking at him in such a way, what did that even look like? But the thought of him holding back after all you had endured, all the teasing and the unfulfilled promises of something more, didn't sit right with you.

"Then don't," you reply automatically, his eyebrows raise up in surprise and despite looking every part of the soul-consuming demon that he was, you think he looks somewhat softer as he observes you. His ears twitch a little, angled towards you, he almost looked cute. "Don't hold back."

Katsuki gives an experimental roll of his hips, the drag of his cock against your gummy walls has both of you moaning. His with more timbre than your own before it tapered off into a gravel-like groan when he ruts his hips forward, the entirety of your body bouncing off of his hips. He leaned down further, his hands locking together on the top of your head to make sure you stayed in place for what was to come.

"You asked for it, sweetheart."

The pace he picks is instantly fast and extremely hard. The clap of his thighs against the back of yours is loud but the sound of just how wet you are for him is louder, it has your cheeks heating and the tips of your ears burning in embarrassment because he must know just how desperate you are for him, creaming all over his length until a delicate little white ring is starting to form at the base of his cock. Katsuki finds it all that more exciting, just how much can he make you do?

Suddenly he leans back up onto his knees, large clawed hands grabbing at your knees and spreading you impossibly wider whilst his eyes are glued to the length of his cock disappearing and reappearing from the sticky warmth of your cunt. It has him feral, the way there's a clear yet thick sheen to his cock from your shared arousal and the way it strings every time he pulls back. Can't help himself when one of his hands slides down along your inner thigh until his thumb presses hard against your clit, tight and firm patterns being drawn against the nub until he can feel your walls fluttering around him.

"Let go," he moans when you clench the second he speaks, his pace not faltering now that he has your walls stretched to his size but he can feel the telltale signs of his cock twitching, his balls aching with the need to release. "Cum for me."

The command has you vaulting off of the cliff you had been teetering on for the entire evening, your stomach tensing as your entire body locked up under his ministrations. The way the tip of his cock drags deep inside of you consistently has your brain unable to think clearly, the prolonged orgasm effectively melting away every thought you had ever had until all you could think about was him.

Katsuki watched the way your lips remained parted from your loud, long moans until it fell silent, just the sound of your panting breaths each time his hips slapped against your own forcing the breath out of your body. He couldn't hold back anymore, his upper lip curled into a nasty snarl and his eyes shot down to look at the way his cock twitched hard when he saw just how much you were gushing around him.

The first wave of his cum was molten hot, it felt like it was burning—no, it was more like branding—your walls, and it didn't stop as he continued to roll his hips albeit a little more sloppy in comparison to his previous rhythm, his claws were dug into the fat of your thighs, holding you perfectly still as he continued to pour more and more of his seed deep inside of you.

Slowly he pulled out, the hefty weight of his cock slapping against his thigh. His hands travelled down the back of your thighs, thumbs pulling apart your swollen lips just in time to see you clench around nothing and force his cum out of you and down between your asscheeks until it pooled on the silk sheets beneath you. "Oh fuck, you might just be my undoing," he whispers more to himself, but the words have you yearning for more.

You want more of him, all of him.

In your post-orgasm state, you fail to notice when his claws grab at the ropes on your legs and seamlessly slice through the thick bindings to free your legs. He's quick to manhandle you further up the bed, his frame hitting the sheets this time before he's hauling you up on top of him on all fours. It's a big stretch for your thighs still with how much bigger he is than you, his cock twitches when another thick glop of cum drips from your pussy and directly onto the length of his cock.

"We're not stopping now," he breathes, gripping himself to angle the tip of his cock back against your entrance and this time the way he slides into you is with no struggle at all, your body naturally melting down into his own as you sink all the way down until you're flush with his hips. "You're mine, gotta make sure everyone knows it too."

He gives a rough thrust of his hips, forcing you to fall forward on his chest and crush your chest against his own, your face is inches away from his and you see the vicious smile slowly take over his features. He looks devilish. "You got that?" he says whilst stroking his hands down along the expanse of your body, long fingers grasping at the meat of your ass.

"All. Mine." the growl of his voice makes it hard to hear him properly, but you don't have much time to focus on anything else when his legs prop up on the bed and he's fucking into you with reckless abandon.

The squelching is much louder, and the slap of his balls hitting against the curve of your ass from the force behind his thrusts deafening but you can't focus on anything but the whines coming from his throat. He sounds wounded, panting and heavy breathing between his moans each and every single time you clench around him.

You're so focused on him that the feeling of your second orgasm of the evening hits you a little too late, your stomach tightening unbelievably so but the pressure in your pelvis is nothing like you had felt before. You scrambled to try and get your hands under you, to try and push yourself up and off of him before anything bad happened but Katsuki had other plans. His arms locked around your body, forearms pinned against your spine and hands latched onto your shoulders whilst his hips and thighs did all the work.

"Give it t'me," he moans against your cheek, your moans feeding directly into his ear. "Give yourself to me, sweetheart, c'mon."

You couldn't deny him even if you wanted to, he must shift his hips just slightly before thrusting up impossibly hard so he hits directly onto the pressure point that had been building inside of you. His moans grow louder, rumbling in his chest as he keeps trying to fight against the pressure of you clenching around him until he's inevitably forced out of your pussy when clear liquid gushes from you in harsh streams.

You're twitching atop of him, your mouth having latched onto his shoulder at some point to stop the scream that wanted to rip through your throat as you squirted all over his length. You're mortified, had you just—

Katsuki, however, is elated. He got you to squirt all over his cock, and he wastes no time realigning himself to thrust himself back inside of your hole that's still twitching and overcoming the shock of your previous orgasm. You moan against his skin, teeth threatening to break through the skin. "So fucking good, did so well f'r me." he mumbles against your hair, a deep kiss being pressed against you that almost seems too intimate for the situation you're both in.

His pace is a little slower this time, still aggressively hard but he seems to be revelling in the way you're still occasionally gushing around him. With a pop of your mouth, you finally release his shoulder and meet his gaze, his eyes are back to that shade of red that draws you in. He doesn't stop you when you push against his chest this time, planting your hands firmly against his broad muscled pecs, drawing absentminded patterns over the various scars that littered his chest.

You raise yourself up, gently dropping yourself back down and it has Katsuki pressing the back of his head against the pillows, eyes fluttering. You do it again, and again until the pace is starting to pick back up and his hands are clawed against your hips, marking your body once again as his. He looks beautiful beneath you like this, blonde hair ruffled and sweat dripping from his browline, his entire body glistening with it and large black wings splayed out wide in all their glory. It felt invigorating to have a deity such as himself beneath you, quivering each time your walls fluttered and whining when you rolled your hips delicately back and forth.

When Katsuki reopened his eyes, he raises a hand up to your cheek and guides you back down towards his face. That same hand cups the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair until he had a firm grip and that was the only warning you got before he yanked hard on your hair, forcing your head to the side to expose the expanse of your neck. His mouth opened wide before latching himself onto you, large fangs digging firmly into the skin until he knew he was drawing blood.

His cock twitched again deep inside of you, that sudden warmth coating your insides as you rolled your hips back and forth involuntarily to try and ease the pain you were feeling in your neck, your nails dug into his chest leaving behind thick red welts. His groan vibrated against your throat, and he remained like that until his balls were drawn tight and a sense of completion finally settled deep into his bones.

Deattaching from your throat he relaxed back into the bed, blood dripping from his lips. His body curled naturally around your own, large arms holding your smaller frame to his own and shifting slightly to ensure he remained buried deep inside of you. It felt oddly intimate once again, but something in your stomach told you it was right. He had said you were his, had he marked you as such?

Part of you hoped so, you think you could live with this for the rest of eternity if it meant you were his.

"Sleep," comes his raspy voice, his fingers now stroking along the back of your head where he had pulled a little too harshly on your hair. "We're not done here yet."

#tw dubcon #bakugo smut #bakugou x reader #bakugo katuski x reader #bakugo katsuki smut #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki smut #bnha fanfiction #bnha x you #bakugo katsuki x you #bakugou katsuki x you #katsuki bakugo oneshot #bakugo katsuki imagine #bnha x fem!reader #bnha oneshots #mha smut #bnha x self insert #bnha smut

[chaosfae-writes]

𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞

premise: a crowded marriage of three, a suffocating marital bed, and one must go — and it’s the meddling husband.

pairings: Alicent Hightower x Targaryen!woc!reader, Targaryen!woc!reader x Vaemond Velaryon (arranged)

ao3 // 15k words

warnings: birth/labor, wlw romance, infidelity, jealously, arranged marriage, misogynistic Westerosi views.

a/n: for my Alicent, my little meow meow. Alicent really said, “look at me, look at me, I’m the husband now.” prepare yourselves, it’s long, please take your time.

do not repost my works.

The birthing bed is a woman’s battlefield.

Choppy breaths of agony, quivering and irate as a wounded animal. Squelching wet noises mildly echo, the scent of copper is nauseating —- the terrain of your neck is damp with sweat. Nostrils flaring, baring teeth as a snarling dragoness.

White hot fire licks along your uterine walls, sore pelvis aches as if it’s cracking, bloodied thighs shaking, chest heaving, throat parched and dry as unforgiving Dornish sand, and the Queen’s tender fingers interwoven with yours.

Alicent’s knuckles baring white, milky fingers clutching tamarind tart fingers as in one fist. She’s perched on her knees behind you, as your spine laid against her bodice hanging off a chair; not caring that blood has now stained her dress — embroidered emerald fabric now adorned with murky brown stains.

It’s been a few hours into the long night, guttural groans rip through your throat, stings as if shards of glass live there —- by now the entire realm of King’s Landing has heard your wails. Trembling teeth, mouth wet with tears and sweat.

Your dizzied skull falls defeatedly upon the crock of Alicent’s neck; sweetly she lays her cheek on your temple. Alicent is a mess, heaving and panting from the stress.

She’s on her knees ungracefully, her thick midnight auburn hair in messy tresses, no longer does she don the regal guise of a queen, but as a soldier in war.

Murmuring under her breath, pleading to the Gods for you and the child to survive the labor -— the ichor that slowly trickles and seeps from the cave of your womb terrifies her as it pools and stains down your thighs.

Prayers recited as hymns, as chants, pleas to the Gods for your life. You have been a life-line to Alicent, been her anchor at each of her births —- throughout her entire life. And she too, will be by your side.

As your hands shook in pain, entering into the new world of motherhood, Alicent witnesses it as not your step-mother, but as your entrusted companion—- as lovers, with ease, she assimilate to the role of husband, as if it’s her babe too who is struggling to breathe life into the new world.

“Push, princess! Its crown is near!”

Throat nearly torn, you muster the strength to push, a high-pitched scream pierces through; a wounded animal using all her strength to bring her unborn cub to the world. A babe’s cry comes as a crackle of thunder, an unforgiving war cry — the fight is won! What a shrill, fiery dragon unfurling its wings.

Relieved gasps, your abdomen a tad bit lighter, but still a little swollen flesh. The umbilical cord still connected, the connection still strong.

“A daughter, princess!”

Exhausted cheers as the baby is swathed in a blanket, sore fingers out-stretch for her. You sob in relief, face wrinkling with a wavering smile, as Alicent kisses your cheek, inches away to your lips. The maidens say nothing over the gesture, too overjoyed — it’s all too familiar. It has been for years.

Clumps of blood clots rest upon Valyrian pale tufts of hair, you cradle the delicate neck of your snuffling babe, your baby’s little chubby fingers curl mindlessly in the air. The babe’s spine lay on the flesh of your thighs, sinking into yourself on the bed.

Doe violet eyes blink, and stare at you, curious and innocent. Alicent is truly over-joyed, her sore shaky fingers reaching for the newborn’s cheek. “Hello there, we’ve been expecting you.” Gently your thumb caress your daughter’s cheek. Alicent’s stroke the ends of your daughter’s hair —- pale as fresh snow.

“What name shall you bestow her, Princess?”

A beat of silence, you smile as a name rings in your mind. “Alysanne, beautiful Alysanne. Named after our late good queen.” A joyous moment, all basking at new life— maidens, the mother, the mother queen all awe at little Alysanne, her arms wiggling in mid-air.

All glee at new life.

All but a missing husband.

-

The journey from Driftmark to King’s Landing was a blur. It took two days by ship for the return. His trip back home was cut short by the caw of a raven.

‘Ser Vaemond, come with haste to King’s Landing, as the princess is in labor.’

Vaemond tiressly demands for the chariot rider to speed up his horses on the kingsroad, all under the blanket of the night sky —- with the letter still in his grasp, wrinkled.

Anxiously clicking his heels against the wood, scoffing furiously at himself for ever leaving. Bouncing in his seat, his back hunched.

His fingernails digging into the velvet stitching of his cushion, his teeth seeping out, as if he hisses in anxiety.

The Red Keep towering into the night-sky, stars twinkle and shine; the driver couldn’t utter a word, clumsily Vaemond shifts to the door.

His feet bolts out the luxurious carriage, dashing up the castle’s stairways, knees bowing inward, nearly slipping onto his face. The palace slumbers with only few sworn shields roaming on duty, and the many more counting roaming in the streets down below in Flea Bottom.

All move in the presence of Vaemond, clearing the path for him. His feet twisting, and twirling upward the grand stairway, his sweaty palms gripping the railing.

His wife’s chambers are not too far, inching closer and closer by footfall. His heart beats as a wild war drum against his chest, so many thoughts swim in his mind—— what does his child look like? Is it a daughter or a son?

Hurried steps softly echo, closer and closer now to the chambers. The hallway seems as a stretched maze, mocking him as if he could never reach his end.

With a flick of his wrist, the golden knobs are tugged, and yet it’s silent.

The shared quarters glow in dark ambience. The scent of incense is faint. Vaemond straightens his wrinkled cloth, and takes a step closer.

The silence breaks.

A bitter scoff, more as a bite, “By the Gods, he has arrived. What husband doesn’t even accompany the birth of his first born?” Alicent sits across from the bed, posture now rigid.

Her fingers curl near her chin, as in deep thought. The low crackles of flames illuminate her face, wickedly cold as stone. The marigold hue casts upon Alicent’s face —- ever so strikingly benevolent.

Vaemond’s nose flares, cheeks puffing up, walking on edge, inches more closer to Alicent now, his tongue ready to lash out.

“I’m quite baffled, your Grace — from how high you reign on that horse of yours, it’s a miracle from the Gods that you haven’t fallen yet.”

“She was nearly at the Stranger’s door.” Alicent nearly shouts in a hush — bolting from her chair with a dull screech, and the clicks of her heels -— maintaining her volume to make sure she doesn’t awaken you; peeking over her shoulder.

Not even a stir from Alysanne and yourself, a soft smile adorns Alicent’s face. But as quickly as it came, it quickly went, muffled footsteps grating Alicent’s senses, coming closer behind her.

“I arrived as soon as I —-” His hurried footsteps halted clumsily, the crackle of the flames echoing piercing the silence.

There he sees it.

The splotches of blood that splatters across the green flourish, Alicent’s mouth is pursed, her eyes calculating and cold. Staring him down with such distaste, her lips twist as if to spit poison, with a hint of a curled smirk.

And he sees it all, he sees her spite.

Alicent never changed into clean nightwear, but remained in the soiled dress, wearing the stains of your blood that slipped from your warm womb —- proudly so. Just moments after your birth, you nearly slipped away to the Stranger, too much ichor spilled.

Despite edging on death, you drowsily clung Alysanne against your damp breast —- if you were to draw your last breath, at least, your little girl was the last touch you felt before departing from this realm.

The sight of your body succumbing to unconsciousness nearly sent Alicent’s soul to the heavens, she felt as if she could crawl out of her skin; your bodice crumbling back into her chest.

The handmaidens quickly grabbed your crying little girl, one of them dashing to fetch the maesters —— all the while amidst the chaos, Alicent’s cradles you, her hand stroking your jaw, pleading for you to awaken. Nearly shrilling on the top of her lungs.

For the last two days, Alicent had been by your bedside, hawking over the maesters —- no woman can trust the maesters, the very ones who cut through the belly of the late queen.

Maesters only follow the word of their king—- but for you, Alicent ensured all the hand-maidens and maesters listened to her strict commands as knights on a battlefield.

She snarked, and nipped, scaring all of them away and even your devoted maidens who were reluctant to leave you —- to the point of herself solely attending to you as your care-giver, as Ser Criston Cole guards the chamber doors outside dutifully.

For sparse moments Criston would leave his post, and see Alysanne. The moment his rich brown eyes fell upon the sight of Alysanne in your arms, he swore to the Gods that he will protect her till his last breath.

Alicent served you the milk of the poppy by hand. Cradling Alysanne when you were in deep slumber, and when you would awaken, in and out of consciousness, Alicent would softly help bare your breast for Alysanne to feed.

Alicent would gently cuddle your baby in your exhausted arms, guiding little Alysanne’s plump cheek against yours, both heads on the pillow.

Alicent wants him to bear witness -— for him to see that even as your husband, that mere title means nothing, it never held true value, nor never will.

How boldly she is—- impudent even. Raised to be modest, to uphold duty, it’s never been in Alicent’s nature to be cruel, but something has changed in her over the years.

Perhaps it’s the manipulative lessons from her father, the loneliness that iced her heart to become this unhinged cornered animal.

That’s who Alicent is now — cold and hardened as an uncut emerald gem.

Another knot formed these past fortnights, tighter in the tether of your two souls, it’s her who gets to see the scars, to bear your blood.

A badge of honor.

No marital vow can diminish this bond.

“Your Grace, it’s quite late. I must retire for the night, to tend to my wife.” The formalities bundle in Vaemond’s mouth as pit seeds, biting his tongue from lashing out.

He sees it, the condescension that vibrates off of Alicent, pursuing her lips in deep thought. Alicent hums with a tone, sneering at him with just her eyes, but as a drop of a coin, her mood shifts in such trained manners.

“Of course, Ser Vaemond.” She turns her back to him, walking to your sleeping body, bending over to gently kiss your forehead, and little Alysanne’s forehead.

“Oh— please do make sure to provide her with the milk of poppy in the morrow.” Alicent doesn’t look him in the eye, as if doing so is tedious, that he is beneath her.

“She still aches. Here,” Alicent points strictly at a bowl that rests nearby on a table, “rag soaking in warm water, she runs a little chill. As well, do make sure not to ale her as she feeds Alysanne by her breast.”

‘Alysanne? By the Gods, he has been blessed with a girl! The babe has been named?’

Vaemond swallows his confusion and surprise, awaiting for Alicent to leave his chambers—- although, if he could, he would throw her out the door himself. She tells him what to do, as if instructing a child, that he couldn’t merely comprehend basic tasks to take care of his wife.

From the corner of her eye, Alicent senses Vaemond’s shame. Shame for missing the birth of his child, his first daughter —- more so, rage, and she feeds off of it like a starved animal.

“Goodnight.” Alicent’s hand gestures to Vaemond dimessively over the shoulder, quietly shutting the door shut. Vaemond stands rooted in the middle of his chambers, his fists coiling by his sides—- he mutters under his breath, cunt.

Alone now, Vaemond steps close to the bed. Both Alysanne and yourself undisturbed, deep in slumber. The babe tucked in your arms, cozy under the thick blanket.

Vaemond’s hand shakes over your cheek, stroking a damp strand of your hair. Breathing frustration through his nose, his knuckles graze the cheek of his newborn child.

His anger simmers, he missed it—- the birth of his first daughter.

-

“Prince Lucerys has been officially declared the heir to Driftmark— how absurd.”

House Velaryon has been blessed by the Realm’s Delight fertility once more, a new babe, a new heir. The silver beauty birthed yet another boy with rich brown hair, and dark brown eyes. A gleeful time for House Targaryen … and a grievance upon the queen. A son, healthy — and strong.

It has been three days now since the birth of Alysanne Velaryon, not yet presented to the realm; your inistience of wanting Rhaenyra and Daemon’s presence in the royal court.

Despite your uncle living in far Pentos, and your sister residing on the island of Dragonstone with Laenor, and her children —- just for a bit, due to tensions arising once again between the queen and the heir.

Before Rhaenyra’s departure, she had just been in labor, delivering her second child. You were hoping that sending ravens detailing the new birth of your firstborn would help bring your favored loved ones back home, and bask in unison over new life.

Cooked platters sliced pheasant, steamed vegetables, bread, and gallots of wine. But even the sweet tang of wine cannot tame the sour disgust that weighs on Alicent’s tongue. A hovering presence looms across the table, ever so snide, ever so thinking. A selfish void that will devour any in its path.

Across from Alicent is her father.

At times, Alicent would have her private dinners with Otto, when even his affections are twisted, and against Alicent’s well-being, she still seeks his love, and advice. Despite the filth he has taught her, what child doesn’t crave their father’s love?

“The disrespect that Rhaenyra harbors for her own kin, parades her bastard son as a true born.” Alicent scoffs, leans back in her chair, her cuppee resting in her palm, her nose scrunches in distaste.

“Corlys has his daughter wedded to Daemon, and his son —” Alicent titters a bitter chuckle, “A pillow-biter claiming bastards as his own. Corlys’ claim no longer upholds.”

Alicent doesn’t stop her bitter poison, and her father relishes in it, seated across his daughter with a small proud smirk. Her fueling rage will guide her to uspur Rhaenyra, for her son to ascend the throne. How proud he is, as his daughter falls deeper into her spite.

“Alysanne is true blood, she deserves her inheritance in Driftmark.” Alicent impatiently takes a gulp from her wine, the sweet tang trickles down her throat, but it doesn’t quell the brewing venom.

“Rhaenyra claims to care for her younger sister, the gall of it all.” Alicent doesn’t stop, she can’t, she has to release this anger, even in her quiet solitude with a man whose tenderness only reaches so far.

Blinding affection has Alicent turning her perspectives away from her obvious hypocrisies, but no taught honor or ideals in her mind can truly touch you.

Otto Hightower sees women in power as a preposterous notion, a sin against the order — women cannot provide value to the natural law; only if aided by a man.

Otto prides himself on the molding he persisted upon his daughter over the years, a Hightower as Queen of all seven kingdoms —- the last Hightower to rule, fell to her demise to Maegor the Cruel. And he vows to never let that fate fall upon his only daughter.

Indeed, Otto has his strict opinions but —- even he has his exception; under his benefit. He has admire your tenacity since you were a little child, bright-eyed and naive once.

Yet intelligent, claiming that you wanted to do good for the people as princess, despite your inheritance being knocked down behind your siblings.

He can see you are a woman grown, determined and ambitious, making plans as the new lady of Driftmark to contribute for the land to prosper; just perfect for his molding.

Otto can perhaps reach his hand into the political dynamics of Driftmark through you, carefully craft your black and red dragon scales to a lovely shade of emerald.

“Vaemond is a proud man, too proud —- but, a better fitted heir for Driftmark. Corlys is weak, he cares more about names than honoring heritance.” Otto cuts into his meal, the warm pork melting in the cave of his mouth.

“If Vaemond were to become the new Lord of the Tides,” Otto clicks his tongue, “Alysanne will be named his heir.” His tone lingers, a hint is thrown in the air; calculating his thoughts.

Alicent hums in agreement, her mind twisting in her murky thoughts. Nodding along, hell-bent, her motives aren't as ambitious as her father. Her belief is solely molded by you, but that this is what’s best for you, for Alysanne.

‘Alysanne must become the new heir of Driftmark. Tis only fair.’

The silent tension breaks.

“She will soon expect her sister to return.” Alicent mutters in her wine, her fingers unlock, as she gazes down at her porcelain plate, her finger tapping against the silver engraving.

“And her uncle.” Otto speaks in a hush.

It’s no hidden secret, the rogue second son harbors deep affection for his younger niece. Most of your childhood was spent on dragon back with your uncle, and older sister—- your uncle is a rather protective creature.

When Daemon departed on dragon’s back to the far Pentos with Lady Laena, he hugged you tightly the day he left. You sobbed for long days, alone in your chambers, aware that you won’t see your favored uncle and cousin for a time.

But exile is no more than a word to Daemon.

Often leaving Pentos with his wife, and children, gallancing around the court with Rhaenyra and her children, as Viserys allows it.

And that worries Otto.

To have your alliance, he must first go through the turmoil with Daemon, and Rhaenyra. To convince you to forfeit your loyalty, in favor of your youngest siblings.

The seven hells can freeze over in frost-bite, and you still won't turn your back against the menace of a prince. Prince Daemon will rip through the realm with the flames of Caraxes before he lets his niece support the Hightowers.

“Marriage.” Otto perks up, his finger tapping against the table. His tone is ominous, and yet it leaves a heavy weight in the air. “You have given birth to Aemond moons ago,” Otto’s eyebrow raises, goading his daughter’s reaction, with a knowing nod, “—- and one day, he will be in need of a bride.”

Alicent’s eyes are moon-wide, but with a silver of agreement, she’s tittering on the idea. “Aemond will learn under our wing, be wed to Alysanne —- perhaps, the fresh air of the sea is healthy for a boy.” Alicent’s lips curl into a devious smirk.

Hightower blood on the Iron Throne, on the seat of Driftmark——how marvelous.

“Indeed.” Otto’s pride gleams into a wolfish grin.

-

Devotion.

All Alicent has ever been in her life is devoted. A devoted daughter, a devoted wife, a devoted mother, and a devoted queen. But alas, in all of King’s Landing, no one truly took Alicent’s side, despite her efforts to maintain peace. To engrave her voice within the council.

At first, before she grew as a child bride, and a babe herself who bore children; she thought perhaps her father was her aide, since Rhaenyra shunned her the moment King Viserys announced the engagement — but he is not, he never was.

But despite the sorrow her father gifted her in this life, she still harbors love for him.

But no, never her father.

Is there still peace from Rhaenyra? No — Rhaenyra doesn’t see Alicent, and Alicent doesn’t see her, it’s as if they speak different languages.

Perhaps the king?

No, never her husband, who never showed affection for his younger children — in his heart, he has only one child.

No, never the king.

The court shall see to her efforts?

No, the lords would rather entertain themselves with the king’s sickly rambles and her father’s greediness than to solely hear a woman’s thoughts and ideas.

Only through her father as her mouth-piece, would the court take her efforts into consideration. At birth, Alicent was a woman marked for sorrow. A loneliness so deep, simple kindness would send a jolt.

A young Alicent would pray and pray to the Gods for a love she can hold onto every night — just herself. Selfishly would cling to her heart, stuff and sew it herself.

For a while, Rhaenyra band-aided the wound, but it wasn’t enough. Rhaenyra was once a true friend, and Alicent would sometimes catch herself missing those lost years in the quiet of her solitude.

Especially when she holds the ripped piece of paper from the historical text of the late Queen Nymeria.

But it wasn’t Rhaenyra, it was never her.

It was you.

Tamarind tart skin that shines under the sun, silver pale hair that curls at the shoulders, violet eyes and plump cheeks. Velaryon and Targaryen descent, inheriting your late mother’s complexion, and the aquiline nose you share with your older sister.

So pretty, with your braids interwoven with your waves of silver. Wispy lavender, and red dresses, and gem rings that adorn your fingers. Such a peculiar creature, so dainty, yet fierce—- digging your heels as a young girl in the training grounds.

Alicent used to watch your private lessons in the training grounds with your uncle, and or with Ser Harwin from time to time. Or rest under the trees’ shade, as you practiced your archery in the gardens, much to your septa’s dismay.

A deep friendship blossomed, years spent reading under the hovering weirwood, late conversations as young girls, attending tourneys, and even inviting Alicent to your chambers, to sleep in one’s embrace.

A beautiful bond—- soon challenged by a beast.

Your mother had passed, taken by the Stranger, just as the late Queen Aemma had many moons ago; died in labor, trying to birth a son into the realm.

A piece of yourself died with her, a void that could never be filled. Late fortnights, wailing at the sept, head bowed, pleading to the Mother for mercy, whispered prayers for her to carry your mother safely to the heavens.

Consoled by Rhaenyra, and Alicent, as you all kneeled at the fire pit. Your forehead connected to your arms, wailing, as Alicent’s and Rhaenyra’s heads rested on your shoulders. Your sobs echoing against the sept’s walls.

The faint memory of copper still lingered in your nostrils, to see your mother’s lifeless body coated in her own ichor—- dry-heaved and wailed over her.

It took all the maidens and maesters to pry you off of her.

It was the king’s duty to wed, and bring heirs, you knew he had to marry again. Word spread among the court, advising with much encouragement for Viserys to remarry—- not all were enthralled at the prospect of a girl crowned heir for all the realm.

And the beast conquered as he pleased, just as his ancestors.

The day came, months after your mother departed from this realm. And you can recall the day vividly, the pang to your heart still fresh.

The day Viserys announced that he will take Alicent as his new bride, she can still remember your solemn face, quickly blinking away tears, smiling through the restraining pain —- how you dashed as fast as light after Rhaenyra who couldn’t bear to stomach the anger within herself.

Alicent can still feel the empty ache, witnessing you flee away in what she mistook as disgust, rage, and heartbreak. Pacing through the keep, trying to follow your trail, as a puppy galloping after a scent. Trembling fingers cling to the engraved walls, balancing herself.

Faded voices loomed from the heart of the gardens. Under the Weirwood tree, two pale silver heads now barking at one another, crying. Pacing after one another, hands flying in the air—- trying to understand this grievance.

Rhaenyra sobbing, angry tears stained her flushed pale cheeks, as you tried to soothe her down. Alicent hid behind a pillar, picking at her cuticles.

It felt the garden soil unearthed itself, caving inside —- ready to swallow you. Collapsed onto your knees, your mind buzzing. Sniffling, as your fingernails fully scratched at your skin.

Timid footfalls echoed nearby, slowly your eyes peeked through your wet lashes. Before you, Alicent walked to you, her auburn hair haloed by the sunlight.

Kneeling before you, her lip quivered, her hands fearfully hovered over yours. Afraid that you might reject her, but you took hers into your hands wholeheartedly.

“I don’t desire him. My intentions were not for pleasure.” Alicent spoke in whispers, heavy with sorrow. “My father sent me to his chambers, I —” Alicent’s breathed quickened, as if her cavity was tightening.

“I simply gave comfort for his loss.”

You believed her immediately, for months, Alicent had been aiding you through your grief over your late mother. All Alicent ever does is tends to anyone in need.

You embraced her in your arms, shushing her, apologies slipping from her. Shaded by the Weirwood tree, consoling each other.

Duty had to be upheld, autonomy isn’t a woman’s right. Resentment coiled itself as eels—- loathing the very man who is your father.

Father Time felt rushed yet the atmosphere felt slowed—- the preparations to integrate House Hightower into the royal reign was tedious and buzzing, causing you to spiral.

Days and nights spent weeping in your bed, hugging Alicent tight. Time blurred. Ceasing down to the atoms, time was not your companion. You didn’t have the space to breathe —- one blink, and the day of the wedding ceremony came bursting violently.

Dressed Alicent in her ivory wedding gown, accompanied by Rhaenyra—- but you possessively took over, fixating on her hair pieces, and tying the spinal laces.

An ivory dress, with gold threading of dragons against her chest, her brown hair pinned in curls, with a creamy red jeweled crown. Cleaned her bloodied fingers with a warm rag.

As you leaned against Alicent’s spine, brown fingers clinging to her shoulders, your cheek resting against the crock of her neck. Her face glowing with a dew from fresh dried tears.

You whispered in the shell of her ear, “In another life, blessed by the Gods, I shall take you, Lady Hightower as thy wife. Under the Weirwood tree, wed you in Valyrian tradition.” A tear escaped your eye, staining her skin.

Alicent sniffled, droplets falling down her milky cheeks, onto her lips.

“We shall wear marital crowns as our ancestral women before us.” You sniffled through a weak smile, under your puffy eyes. “I shall wear green, to honor your house.” You whispered.

“And I shall wear shades of red and black.” Alicent whispered back, nearly sputtering through her tears. Her chin wobbled.

A marital ceremony, a splendor to the realm, but a horror. A malevolent man, tightly his hand gripped your love, Otto Hightower walked his child to her death, with a proud smile.

Rhaenyra wore lavish black with intricate threads of crimson red, hair pinned into a jeweled headpiece—- truly a delight. A reminder of her inheritance, no matter of your father’s new marriage. In her own terms, it was her way of grieving.

But not a grief that rivals yours.

The High Sept blessed the union, with a shaky gesture of his ailing hand, reciting the scriptures of the Faith, as Alicent stood in a pure innocence—- sold for the price of power.

Recoiled underneath your skin, at the sight of Viserys’ hands engulfed over Alicent’s. Leaned inwards for a kiss, his chapped lips nearing those familiar pink lips you have tasted—- sweet, and tender.

Alicent’s brown eyes filtered slightly, twitching with disgust.

Screaming internally, as the claws of the Seven hell’s demons scratching raw at your throat, fists tightened shielded by your fabrics.

That’s not how she likes to be kissed! Don’t hold her, not as that! Be gentle with her! STOP DEFILING HER!

A kiss to seal this matrimony hailed from the seven hells.

Rhaenyra and yourself bowed dutifully, stiffly and rigid; before your father— the king, and his new wife, the new Queen of Westeros—- your new step-mother, your love.

Slurred and drowned in wine, engorged in feast to only vomit over a balcony —- throughout the night, Alicent’s eyes broke at the sight of your head bobbing tipsily, eyes closing one slowly after the other.

Dizzyingly watched the acidic chewed food stained in burgundy spirits fall along the palace wall.

A dainty hand stroked your back, pulled you into a warm embrace. Rhaenyra tended to you, caressing the slope of your spine, as you wailed over the balcony.

You couldn’t bear to prolong your presence during the wedding feast, Rhaenyra guided you to your chambers that night. Helped clean you, and shed you of your gown into your sleeping wear.

The cushioning of your bed sunk you into a hard sleep, as your sister tucked you under massive blankets.

Awoken that fortnight, by a slight shake of the shoulder, a heavy grogginess pulling you down as rocks in one’s pockets.

Blurry vision cleared, strained a bit in the dark, to see a sniffling figure by your bed’s edge. Those big brown eyes—— gleaming wet. A gasp left you, without a second, you enveloped her into your arms, as Alicent bursted into wails. Her cries pierced your heart.

Your hands stroked her back, guiding her into your blankets, as your fingers caressed her, you felt sticky wetness, causing Alicent to whine.

Your hand shook, in the gleam of the moonlight, crimson stained your fingertips. Tears showered your face, mouth shivering, as Alicent cried, muffled words into the crook of your shoulder, “It hurts.”

Your mouth agaped in silent agony, both arms encased Alicent, cooed her. Rocked Alicent to sleep that night till her weeping quite down to silence —- you vowed in the dead of night, that you will do your duty, you will honor Alicent; do right by her.

Stood by her, and kept her company —- and plotted. Your father will not have the oath of being Alicent’s husband, it felt wrong.

Built the courage to go against taught beliefs, over moons—- until one day, you lured Alicent to the gardens, with a soft note left in her chambers.

‘Meet me by the noon hour, in the gardens.’

Waddled down to the gardens, carrying her first born, Alicent found you pacing, burning a hole in the grass. A soft mutter, my dearest. Alicent’s fingers stroked the jut of your elbow, she didn’t enjoy seeing you overwhelmed with stress.

With a deep inhale, and wild wide eyes, only a few words could be muttered.

“Let us be wedded.”

A disbelieving chuckle escaped Alicent, but by the glimmer of your eyes, it was nothing short of a joke. Alicent’s face drained, with a teary wavering smile.

Slow nodded, and a hasty smile, Alicent accepted the proposal.

A warm day it was, the sun beamed upon King’s Landing—- a little white lie to escape the palace, to seek refuge.

Accompanied by a sole witness, your beloved Grey Ghost—- as he flew majestically upon the sky; as Alicent and yourself rode on one of those long boat to Dragonstone.

Silver steel, ichor staining bottom lips, and the slope of your foreheads connecting. A caress of Alicent’s swollen bump.

United in blood, as one.

Devoted —- all your life, you have only been to Alicent. Loyally by her side, despite the growing pains between Alicent and your sister; trying to be the voice of reason.

Alicent’s grief suffocated her, a girl enduring a woman’s sorrow. Being Alicent’s shadow in each of her births, defending her against all odds.

Cherish and care for her children —- your siblings —- as your own. Cared for your brothers and sister more than your father ever did.

A child bride who everyone said should be grateful to be queen of all seven realms—- not given grace to be seen as a girl, not even a woman, but a mere object.

Only one did. You are her companion, the only one who desires her body wholesomely, who yearns for her mind. You plague her thoughts all through the hours, at night, and in her sleep.

Itching possessiveness tingles at Alicent’s fingers, flooding her veins. How she yearns to box you in a jar, and gaze upon you, a beautiful treasure that no one can have.

Unimaginable acts she will do—- just to keep you.

-

Dearest sister,

New life has been welcomed to the realm, a babe with ripe cheeks, and a soul kicking as a goat. Beautiful bronze skin, and pale Valyrian hair.

A girl, by the Gods, she is magnificent!

I yearn for you and uncle to be home — I dearly miss all the children, how they would love the babe. Her name is Alysanne, named by our great-grandmother, the good mother.

Please return home. I pray to the Gods that the animosity will soon be seen to end. We are family, by blood and marriage.

Love you dearly, sweet sister.

May the Gods be with you, and the children.

A letter freshly written, ready to be sent to Dragonstone by raven. Given to Alicent by you, praying deep down that one day the broken bond between Alicent and your sister would be mended.

Tirelessly over the years, attempts to cease Alicent’s emotional humiliation upon your sister, weaponizing the crude word ‘bastard’ against your nephews.

Continuously in-between Alicent and your sister, being forced to choose who’s side to be in. Nearly straining your relationship with Alicent at one point of time.

Alicent’s lips purse into a scowl, crudely folding the letter once more, instead of packaging the letter for the awaiting raven, Alicent simply stashes it within her library.

Rhaenyra doesn’t get to savor the joy of your motherly glow, she doesn’t deserve to see Alysanne. To pretend to be the doting aunt. Not after snatching away Alysanne and your future, the blatant disregard of loyalty, usurping Driftmark.

Alicent will not see to such treason.

-

Sunlight twinkles, and illuminates the king’s chambers. A warm day, the sun swelling with joy.

Sweet hands pat Viserys’ chest, arising him from his slumber. He awakes with a small cough. His eyes blink open, to see his wife kneeling before him.

Viserys sighs with a small smile, with a whisper of Alicent’s name.

“Viserys,” Alicent’s kindly whispers your name to gain his attention. Tenderly her hands reach for the joints of his elbows, guiding him to sit up right from his rest. “She and the baby have recovered.”

A soft cough followed by a relieved chuckle emits from Viserys, now with the will to move on his accord despite his ailing pain.

For a while now, the sickness has bestowed more ache on the king. The milk of the poppy and the maesters hovering over his well-being has become more of the normal routine.

Alicent points to the wooden chamber doors, there you stand with little Alysanne clutched in your arms. Viserys’ lips stretch into a wide smile.

You are a vision of your late mother. With your hair brushed back into a braided crown, as waves cascade down your spine, with various woven braids decorated with little gold ringlets, with a gold chain across your forehead.

A pant of guilt and endearment blooms in his chest.

“My sweet girl.” He outstretches his arm, beckoning for you to come sit beside him.

An odd jolt of happiness is in your step, taking a spot next to your father, Alicent assists you to make sure Alysanne doesn’t fall from Viserys’ weak grip.

For once, in such a long time, you felt seen by Viserys. For once, you are not the spare.

“Father, her name is Alysanne.” You softly cradle the sleepy babe in your father’s arm, a toothy smile stretches his face, his cheeks plump with joy.

“By the Gods, she is beautiful.” He strokes her little cheek with his thumb, her little chubby fingers grab his index finger. Viserys glees with a laugh, “We must fetch a dragon’s egg for her cradle.”

A joyous occasion, as Alysanne is held by her grand sire. Viserys coos at her little sleepy mumbles. A lovely family unit, a mother, a grandfather, a step-mother and a step-grandmother —-- a lover.

All but a husband.

-

Awoke the morrow with a sleeping wife, and child—- went on his morning walk for his own time.

Returned to an empty chamber.

Vaemond walks with a stride, such speed to his step along the pathway to the king’s chambers. As he nears the doubled wooden doors, a hand halts him at his chest that is followed by the clink of armor.

With a heavy breath of annoyance, Vaemond doesn’t have to turn his face to see who has the nerve to stop a father from his child’s presence. The sworn shield, the queen’s loyal dog.

“Ser Criston, my wife is in the chambers with my child. You dare stop me?”

“The queen has instructed that no one enters.” Smugly Criston stands digiantly with a snide smirk, the implication is snarky, and bold — ‘and that means you’.

‘Pitiful and pathetic.’ Vaemond mulls, his lip twitching.

“I do wonder…” Vaemond tilts his head mockingly, back-peddling his steps, calculating his next move. Criston arches his brow.

“I’ve always forethought the queen leashed your head as her pet, but now I truly see, I mistook the wrong one.” Vaemond’s eyes trail for a second —- Criston’s face scrunches in offense.

A chorus of spewed shouting and pushing ensues. Shoving each other, declaring for the other to throw the first blow.

Even before the marriage, when it was simply courting—- the decision of marriage being made by Viserys upon your behalf, Alicent was always near in the shadows.

Putting her thoughts on how the ceremony should commence, only letting you decide what you want—- even going so far as to suggest to Viserys to end the bethroyal that ‘there are more suited men for her hand. Ser Vaemond is only a second son, what is there that he can offer her?’

The courting phase was always interrupted with Alicent stringing along. Vaemond would try to isolate you, converse with you, sweet-talk you —- but never once asked you of your interests, only boosted himself, and what he can provide.

And to Vaemond’s displeasure, Alicent would whisk you away at any given moment, hushed whispers among each other, and girlish laughter; with a sly eye over her shoulder at him.

Vaemond admits he didn’t fall in love for the sake of romance as those fairytales that young maidens read. He was the peruser, convincing Viserys for your hand, that ‘pure valyrian blood must be in union.’ You are his cousin. A cousin he barely saw over the years, but enough encounters to be familiar with one another.

It offended Vaemond greatly when Alicent rebuffed him, stating it was unfair to you to not have the choice to choose your betrothed, like Rhaenyra once had. Alicent was furious, her face scrunched in fury.

“It seems that our grace has forgotten that Princess Rhaenyra was bestowed the choice —- do you recall how she squandered it?”

Alicent’s lips pinched shut, turning to Viserys, hoping he would consider her decision. But Viserys’ allowed this, claiming that it is best that his second born be close by, not married off to another foreign house —- in a far away land.

Alicent has been a thorn in Vaemond’s rib, she made it her life’s purpose to torment him. Never could he be alone with you during the time that bridged between the proposal and wedding ceremony.

Vaemond was surprised Alicent didn’t sneak in their marital bed the fortnight of the ceremony. But she took full control anyways —- and Viserys let it happen every time.

Now, he sees another ploy of Alicent’s. To isolate him as a husband, and now as a father. He cannot even present his own child to the king as a man, the pride and honor of such an act stolen. Alicent has pilfered this opportunity right from under his feet.

To add salt to the wound, her sworn hound is restricting him from entrance.

“Vaemond?” Your muffled voice beckons for him through the door, he tries to inch closer but Criston doesn’t relent his intrusive hold, earning a growl from Vaemond.

“Vaemond, that you?” Footsteps closer behind the chamber doors, the latch clicks, with just a sliver of a crack the door opens.

“Vaemond, why all the shouting?”

“Ser Criston refuses to let a father enter.” Vaemond interrupts, pacing from heel to heel, agitated to the brim. Chest puffing, trying to intimate Criston.

You breathe a sigh of frustration, furrowing brows in disheartened dismay —- your gentle arm curls around the edge of the doorway, delicate fingers with the gentlest touch on Criston’s armored shoulder.

“Ser Criston, please let him enter.” The knight’s hardened features soften at your request, no longer bristling with entitlement, bowing his head, and finally steps aside, with a sweet-honeyed, ‘As you wish, princess’.

You sweetly thank him, and extend your hand to grab Vaemond, pulling him inside to partake in the joyous celebration. As Vaemond walked through the chamber doors, an exchange of distaste was thrown through dagger glares.

Alicent’s eyes sharply pierced his heart, if looks can kill, Vaemond would drop dead on the spot —- preferably with his heart cut out.

Alicent sits perched with Alysanne in her arms, swathed in an emerald blanket, as you provide your father his milk of the poppy; his joints were aching, and needed to rest back on his chair.

Alicent’s fingers caress his child’s little toes, purposefully her knuckles graze the stitched fabric—- peeking up at Vaemond subtly through her lashes.

Green cloth?

On his child?

On pure Valyrian blood?

Vaemond nearly wretches in his mouth. He notices your dress is a light shade of evergreen. A dragon brooch on each shoulder that ensembles a gold chain across your chest.

Green? Have you gone mad, woman?

Orchestrated performance, the movement, the positions —- you tending to your father, as the dutiful daughter, the wife and now newly mother. Viserys, the illustrious king, the father, the grandfather, weak but strong, overlooking the new life of his bloodline—- and her.

Alicent held little Alysanne, observing it all with a proud smile.

As if Alicent is the husband.

And Vaemond is merely a stranger trespassing.

Alicent’s eyes, methodical and smug. Vaemond sees it, he sees it all. He’s dying inside to snatch his child away from Alicent, but who knows—- Alicent would probably fall prey to the act of victim, cry to her husband that she has been wrongfully accused —- of what exactly?

Vaemond doesn’t have any evidence to his brewing resentment.

What can he say? The Queen has been trying to meddle in his marriage for the last two years? That she won’t let him near his own babe? That she has to be everywhere with his own wife?

Every soul in court will say how crude he’s being, that it’s all nonsense, merely preposterous.

‘The Queen is a good woman.’ The court will proclaim, ‘That she’s only performing her duty as the princess’ mother.’

‘She is no mother to you.’ Vaemond thinks. ‘Not even you can see through Alicent’s games.’

“Ser Vaemond, bless be. Sired me a beautiful granddaughter.” Visery sits as a jolly aging man, hair thinning to the point of some of his dome visible, and even a little pot belly protruding through his embroidered fabric.

Vaemond smiles, “Thank you, Viserys.”

“Truly, she’s beautiful.” A voice stabs Vaemond, swallowing down his loathing with a strained tight-lip smile.

Alicent is gazing down at Alysanne, rocking her against her breast, “She has her mother’s beauty.” Her tone is innocent, a demure smile to Viserys, and he falls for it, nodding along.

‘Fool. She plays you for a fool, Viserys.’

Vaemond walks to you, with the same forced thinned smile. His fingers reach for your long thick hair, caressing the curls, kissing your cheek.

No doubt in his mind, he can sense Alicent’s irate, and for a moment, it delights him.

-

‘Alas, the charade has ceased.’

Vaemond feels lighter, finally getting solace between himself and you. Time to part from Viserys and Alicent, Vaemond desires to eat a morning meal with you. To break fast together with Alysanne in her cradle, gurgling happily.

Recovery from birth has left you famished, craving for a hearty meal.

Departing from Alicent gave a shiver up your skin, it felt wrong to be away, she has been so attentive during the labor, and the after birth. Always holding Alysanne, as if she was Alicent’s blood.

Alicent hesitantly restrained herself, as Vaemond took control like the reins of a horse. Alicent wanted him to leave, to befall in the pits of the seven hells, so she can have Alysanne and you to her own.

But, an outburst couldn’t be made.

Ser Criston swiftly dashed to your aid, his arm jutted out for you to hold on to—- conveniently occupying the space that was meant for your husband. But at least, Vaemond was able to hold his child in his arms back in Viserys' chambers.

Trailing behind Vaemond and yourself is your handmaiden, Elinda Massey—- who is also your sister’s handmaiden. You summoned her to help you, still a bit achy at your step.

A mousey, loyal, and gentle woman. In her arms is Alysanne, letting your daughter’s small chubby hand grab at her slender creamy fingers.

Vaemond walks behind you as if a lonesome man, a mere man trailing behind a princess, and her sworn shield, watching you and Criston laugh and converse—- excluding him is your second nature.

The dining chambers are filled with platters of food—- the extended polished wood covered with meats, eggs and fruits.

See Criston bows, taking his post at the door, his darkened gaze shadowed by a brow.

“At last, we are alone.” Vaemond’s hand holds yours, his thumb stroking your fingers. Crawling with disgust within yourself, forcing a genuine smile to appease him.

“I have missed you.” Vaemond leans in, speaking against your cheek, his warm breath nearly making your skin recoil in a shrivel.

“And I, you.” You spoke in a formal, practiced infliction.

Vaemond’s lips connect to the skin of your cheek, daringly near the corner of your mouth. In times to display marital affection, to keep from shriveling away, you close your eyes, and a vision of Alicent soothes your mind.

Whenever you were to ‘perform’ your bedding duty as his wife, you lay limply on your back as a spread eagle, and imagine Alicent ravaging your body—- as she has done many times. Years now of this affair, suppressed away in the dead of night, hidden behind closed chambers with only whispers.

Edina cradles Alysanne close to her chest, prepping your little dragon for her slumber.

Vaemond pulls a chair for you, “This food looks divine.” He says, his hands caressing down your shoulders. An innocent smile forms on Edina’s face. “Queen Alicent has ordered the feast.” Her tone was gentle.

Vaemond chews the soft wall of his cheek, but wrinkles his mouth to a feigned smile. Nodding with a sardonic scrunch of his nose.

Edina breathes a smile, her eyes in your direction, “The Queen has also extended an invitation, the children desire to see little Alysanne.” She speaks, with adoration in her eyes on Alysanne.

Before you can speak, Vaemond interrupts. “Ah, yes, the king’s children shall see their niece,” He boasts. “We’ll present Alysanne after our fast.” Vaemond turns swiftly in his seat, almost lifting his fork, but your hand-maiden stammers.

“The Queen has not requested your presence, Ser Vaemond.” Edina’s voice lowers to an anxious stammer.

Vaemond’s mouth wrinkles, limbs frozen stiff. He slowly turns with a sharp shark eye. “I am their brother by law.” He says matter-of-factly. His eyes narrow a little, small and spiteful.

“Yes, of course, Ser Vaemond—-” she’s flushed with embarrassment, you nod your head that it’s okay, she hasn’t spoken out of turn. “But, Queen Alicent has only requested our Princess, and Lady Alysanne.”

Vaemond brews in silence, his eyes pierce and burn into the void. His breathing became heavier. Anxiously with a brave face, you instruct Edina to take Alysanne to your quarters, and give her your thanks for the delivery of the news.

Edina whisk away with Alysanne, patting her little bottom, exiting the shared room, leaving behind Vaemond, yourself and the cooked food that now grows cold.

A pregnant pause earns a tired eye roll from you, you can feel the vibrating stewing.

“When will this madness end?” Vaemond speaks, staring into his porcelain plate. You turn your eyes to him, your mouth hitches up for a moment in confusion, “What do you mean, Vaemond?”

His eyes look upon you desperately, “Alicent…” He says, shaking his head in disbelief, “She always meddles. She is a thorn upon me.”

Vaemond’s fingers grip the cloth of his stitched clothing, his fist poking at his chest. You roll your eyes in annoyance, a placid sigh, just hoping he can drop this.

“Do not speak of her in such a manner.” You spread through gritted teeth. “Alicent does not bear any ill will.” Your resonance is firm, no budging can waver it.

Your fingers curl in a gesture for him to stop. Jaw clenching, opening your napkin, just wanting to eat, and move away from this useless conversation.

“She prides herself as if she carries the cock!”

“Vaemond!”

“It is true!” He points at you with such fury, his eyes blood-shot red, “I cannot even hold my own blood without Alicent hovering!” Vaemond nips, his hands shaking, thrashing in the air.

You shush him again, his rising voice grating your ears. “Alicent is good, and kind. I do wish you could be respectful—-” Vaemond’s scoff interrupts you. Your face contorts with offense.

Vaemond’s face softens, furrowing in desperation.

“If you carry any love for me, you will distance us from Alicent.” Vaemond pleads, his hands clasping over yours, his voice irks you, it’s so pathetic.

“Tell her to go, flee from our presence.” Closing your eyes, your face resolving to an exhausted state, you shook your head in defiance, not even daring to look into his gaze, restraining to wretch your hands away.

“I will not.” Your voice is low, and firm, with your dead shark eyes. It’s been like this for the last two years, Vaemond complaining about Alicent, and as usual, your response defies his wishes.

“I understand Alicent was your childhood companion, but—-” Vaemond tries to ease the burdensome tension.

“Is. She is, Vaemond.”

He hums with annoyance, head nearly falling in exasperation, “Do you love me?” Vaemond asks in disbelief, questioning your faithfulness.

He leans back, offended and forlorn that he must ask such a question. You shake your head, with a sympathetic strained smile, “I care for you.” Patting his hand, a gesture often used to calm whining children.

“My wife does not harbor love for her husband?” He speaks through his teeth, wrenching his hand away from your touch.

A scoff escapes your lips, inhaling deeply, with a harsh swallow. Why must he make matters so difficult?

“This is an arranged marriage, marital vows spoken for the sake of allyship between our two houses. I care for you, Ser Vaemond, but I do not love you.”

“You love another?”

”No.” You spoke too quickly.

A pregnant pause.

Vaemond’s anger dissolves, fading to a blank stare, his breathing becomes shallow. His burning stare earns an uncomfortable shiver, uneasy in your own seat.

Jagged puzzle pieces twisting, slowly forming together —- all the times of Alicent’s shadow lingering. Whenever he dares utter a mention of Alicent, all you do is brush him off, as if he was the mere nuisance.

“You do.” He speaks in a hush, bolting to his feet, he huffs under his breath, such a petulant child. Stepping back a few steps, sneering.

As if the pieces finally shape and move, the thought pushes through the crevices of his mind. A deadpan chuckle scuffs from his mouth, his eyes just staring into you.

“The Gods made man and woman….” Vaemond trails off, unflinching, boring into you. No, no, no… your throat clenches in a swallow. Your brows compress into what seems as hurt and confusion, but truly it is fear.

“A man and woman shall share thou bed, and—” Vaemond’s eyes widens, motioning you to finish the well-practiced verse.

“And?” He prodes, he tilts his head, clicks his tongue. Your face morphs to silent anger, staring up at him with lavender daggers, breathing harder now.

“You are well taught of this verse. Have you forgotten your teachings?” Vaemond mocks you. Your glare at him through your lashes, your nose flaring into a snarl, muttering a spiteful whisper.

“One shall not lie with the same sex.”

Vaemond nods mockingly, his eyes never leaving yours. Muttering under his breath, “ Yes, yes. ”

Violet optics stare with fury.

A screech of a chair follows.

Vaemond begins chanting, spewing zealot verses, as a delirious septon. Pacing back and forth, hands twirling into the air.

“A sin against the Gods!”

A crack of a slap echos, so hard his face is swacked to his side, his mouth pouted. The sting of your rings vibrates against his cheek. Vaemond stares at you in disbelief, but your spine straightens, what once was gentility in your eyes, is now just disgust.

“I am your wife.” Your throat tightens, unable to swallow down the tears. No tears wasted on your husband —- no, never. Tears for that the truth could bleed out, such a scandal it could be!

The Princess and the Queen in a twisted love affair—- the shame it would bring to the names Targaryen, and Hightower.

“And you will respect me as such.” You spoke with an edge, with a firm finality. You whisk away from him, Vaemond believing that this was the end to the conversation.

The rough edge of the wooden table digs into the heels of your hands roughly. Tinkering your body back and forth by the grip, yearning to scream. Throat burning raw, splintering.

But the longing inside of you is violent, changeling. To vomit the ache that has been brewing —- Vaemond’s foot has been tinkling the pot, and now it has spilled.

You just want him to understand —- that a young girl to be married to her cousin, a cousin she has no grown affection for, to be ripped from her autonomy, to have hidden her true love secretly—- that this isn’t what a girl should be subjected to.

Your fists bang against the dining table, stinging the wound tight flesh. Twirling so fast, it startles Vaemond in a flinch.

“I have only been dutiful, sacrificed my body… for you. ” Your voice in a hoarse whisper. Peering at him over your shoulder, nearing a sob. Dutiful not in the traditional sense, but you have defended him, even when you couldn’t stand the man.

“I am a second born, but I am a princess, no less. My title is your prize.” Heavily restraining your breathing, the sorrow transforming into anger.

“I am merely a token for your status. A pawn for the purity of your bloodline.” Speaking through tears, frustration from your wounded core spewing. “Yet, I have not begrudged you, nor humiliated you.”

Vaemond flinches back, his pride stomped on under your pretty foot. Grinding the heel into the splatter.

“I have done what was expected of me!” You shrill, your breathing becoming haggard, “And here you stand, demanding me to throw away the only companion I have!”

“You have me, darling.” Vaemond’s faux sweet tone does nothing but disgust you.

“You’re more like my father than I thought.” Your nose recoils in shame. That left a sour twang on your tongue. “I had no say in this— this —” you’re stammering, dry-heaving as tears collide down your cheeks, but the fury is boiling over.

Murmuring under your breath, ‘I didn’t want this. I didn’t desire you.’ Vaemond huffs a breath, stepping closer, his presence suffocating.

Vaemond goads you, ‘say it, say it!’ Nearly hovering over you, his nose inches away from yours, but the blood of the dragon that soars through you snips back against the weak feeble sea snake.

“—- THIS MISERABLE CHARADE OF A MARRIAGE!”

Both of your voices shrill higher, mangling over each other in volume, alarmingly. Vaemond screams that he is your husband, to obey his word as law, but you follow no man. Vaemond corners you into the wooden table, trying to scare you, but you bark right back at him.

The roaring echos so badly, it may have reached all through King’s Landing.

Criston barges inside the chambers, the carved doors nearly thrashing against the wall pavement. Bolting towards Vaemond, thrashing him by the jut of his arm, standing in-front of you as a shield.

Vaemond shrills, “How dare you lay your hands on me?!” Criston seethes his sword, the sharp steel’s reflection blinking at Vaemond, catching his eyes within the reflection.

“I will not permit insults upon her grace.” Criston’s teeth are grinding, he hissed through his clenching ivories.

“No offense has been made, Criston.”

Criston’s face peeks over his steel shoulder, you assure him with a smile. “I am quite alright, thank you.” The warmth in your eyes melt to cold ire regarding Vaemond.

“My husband lost himself briefly, I assure he will refrain himself from a spectacle.” Cold, dead violet eyes blink at him, Vaemond hums with disbelief.

Criston lowers his sword, swiftly into its leather sheath. His rich brown eyes never leave Vaemond, as he walks back to his post.

The doors shut.

The silence hangs tightly.

“Vaemond, I don’t desire an argum—” You sigh, turning around on your heels, but your words die in a gasp, his hand grabs your jugular, a weak attempt of intimidation by a small man.

Vaemond’s fingers clutches the terrain of your throat, pulling you into him by his grip. A startle overwhelms you. Your fingers hovering over his wrist, gripping onto him. Offense melts into mockery.

A small laugh leaves you, tittering at Vaemond. Snide eyes blankly stare at him, daring for him to continue. Embarrassment floods him, releasing your throat.

“Such affections will not be tolerated.” Vaemond hisses, his face morphing between stoic and hostile. His ego is bruised and bitten off at the edges.

“Will it? ” A soft insulting chuckle emits from your lips, your face cold yet devilish. “Who will believe such tales?” You breathe another chuckle, more harsher now, your lavender eyes leering at him.

“My father will never believe such fabrications . His dear wife, and his daughter—”

“Soiling each other. ” Vaemond’s voice grats, and gruff, his voice looms low. You shake your head in disbelief, your pale curls bouncing against your cheekbones.

A sick, derisive smile, “You will become ill with your unfounded paranoia.” Coyly your hand plays with his cloth that rests at his shoulders.

“Why do you insist on such vile lies?” You ask him, your hand rests upon his shoulder. Caressing his shoulder through his luxurious vest.

“By the Gods, Vaemond—- why can’t you see that Alicent means no harm?”

The shells of Vaemond’s ears burn, his voice cracks into a groan, he refuses to submit to your ‘seduction of sweetness’ . Twirling his body in a circular pacing —- as if he was possessed by unholy madness. Your feet peddle backwards, rather smug at his insolence.

Vaemond turns his body, composing himself.

“We will leave for Driftmark.” Vaemond’s index finger menacingly pointed at you. “By the morrow.”

His hand strikes the air with every word he utters, “That is my word. ” And another, “ That is my law. ” Vaemond spins in haste, his heels clicking against the marbling with vigor.

You watch him depart and disappear, your head held high indignantly, but as he disappears through the chamber doors, you nearly collapse to your knees.

Your fingers fidgety and twirling the gold bands of your jeweled rings, clutching your belly —- your torso nearly hunching over from the rush of anger, and fright. Your belly is trembling.

The familiar emerald gem resting on your marital finger, fiddling your fingers against each other. You kiss it to ground yourself.

Criston waltz back inside your chambers with an irate gait.

“Princess, are you alright?”

You nod hastily, clearing your throat, already hoarse from the screaming. “Yes, I am quite fine.” You hesitantly move back and forth, feet bobbing from toe to heel, not sure if you want to sit for a moment or run to get Alysanne.

Criston steadies you, before you fumble to pieces from the overwhelming stress. He guides you by the joints of your elbows, seating you down on the velvet dining chair.

Criston’s admiration bleeds profusely. A rarity these days to acquire a male companion, who doesn’t yearn for your womanhood, but seeks out your mind—- and approval.

Criston mounts Alicent and yourself on a pedestal akin to those carved idols in the sept. A peculiar affection, Criston seeks to mold himself to be worthy in your eyes. As a pleading mortal prays to the Mother.

Beyond his rich brown eyes, he sees a being holy. A girl, who accompanied Alicent, saved him from the edge of his own sword, from the filth of his sins.

Your sworn shield since you were a young girl. A bond built on the fragments of trust, and pain.

“Does he often yell at you?” Criston asks. His eyes shadowed under his dark brow. Big brown oculus glistening with newfound frustration.

Your mouth gaps open, trying to find the words, but Criston is bristling as the hairs of a cat’s spine. “He dares abuse you?”

An airy inhale catches your throat, as tears sheen your eyes. “Abuse, that word weighs too heavy—- he’s an entitled man, who believes a woman should kneel in obedience.” Shaking your head, with a forlorn smile.

“In all the Targaryen bloodline, has there ever been a mousy woman?” You giggle, shoulders shaking. “He prides himself as a conqueror.” A boisterous laugh escapes Criston.

“A conqueror? Barely a knight.” Criston speaks cruelly, a mean smirk curling at his lip. “In the battle field, his armor is polished.”

A moment as this, a wife should display shame to discuss her husband with disdain, but Vaemond is not a man. Your hand was forced to wed a spoiled brat—- your father has no qualms on arranged marriages.

-

The Red Keep has many secrets. A plethora of hidden away chambers —- fit for two people. Alicent’s chambers were your favored choice of solace.

Alicent entrusted you with her secrets, and her fears, as you have done as well.

Her fingertips graze against your skin, tracing softly against the curve of your wrist, to the underside of your palm. Stroking the healed scar, the very one Alicent gave you many moons ago.

Just two bodies lying together, in bliss. The warmth of the fire pit and body heat encases you both. Flesh dew and scented from a shared bath of oils and soaps.

It wasn’t always so pleasant through the early years of shared girlhood. The guilt, the shame of harboring such affection for a woman. There isn’t a word in the western tongue for this affection.

There were days as young girls, Alicent would lock herself away, reading over verses, deep in prayer. As you spent hours with septas reciting prayers in unison, under the cloth of your dress, pinching and scratching the flesh of your thighs till splotches of deep purple formed.

Alicent mutilating her fingernails, gnawing or pinching away the redden cuticles.

Many suns and moons passed in the early days, but the love kept growing. The perpetual denial, the discreet glances, the graze of fingers tantalizingly touching—-ever so close, ever so far. How lost you become in Alicent’s moon-brown eyes.

The guilt was far too great, keeping distance between each other, but the ties thread only stretched painfully. A desperate longing, a raw human feeling.

Harbored tenderness finally exploded, blinding tears, and dashing feet carried you through the corridors of the sept, one day. There, as a holy vision, Alicent knelt in prayer, crying silently.

Clicks of hast feet alerted her, turning her watery gaze over her shoulder, as her fingers rested interlocked. A lost little babe under the towering marbling of The Mother.

This separation was a death sentence, vile and cruel. No longer, could you stay away, you needed her touch. And she did too for yours.

Without a word, you collapse to your feet before her, as you would in worship. Kneeling against her green silks, sniffling as your head falls against her thighs, her gnawed fingers wove themselves within your pale tresses.

‘Why did the Gods sew my heart to you?’

Alicent’s lips peppered kisses on your scalp, sniffling as her hands clung onto your back, cradling you. Rocking you back and forth, a rhythmic cradling, as a mother would.

If you were born a son, perhaps life wouldn’t be so cruel, so unfair.

Haunted by then the guilt of loving one another when your father took Alicent as his new bride. By the eyes of law, Alicent is your step-mother, but she never was, nor ever will.

The rings you both bear, is a reminder that your union isn’t recognized by the law of man, but the law of the Gods. Biting down on your bottom lip, sucking it into your mouth as a child, you couldn’t bear to stomach today’s charade.

“He suspects.”

Alicent’s head rises from your shoulder, confusion and fear creeping into her brown eyes. Her brows pinch, her fingers stroking the silk of your nightgown.

“Your father?” She asks in a whisper, so hushed as if scared anyone could hear beyond the walls.

“Vaemond.”

“How?” Alicent shakes her head, her beautiful face morphed with concern.

“As we were breaking our fast, he threw a fit, that your invitation didn’t extend to him.” You wearily laugh, “He went mad, raving on about how you seek to keep me from him.” Alicent sits up, her hand sinking into the mattress, darkness enveloping her eyes.

“Did he strike you?”

“No, thank the Gods. Criston came to my aid,” You wipe the tears that spill over your eyes by the back of your hand, “If he were to strike me, I would’ve gutted Vaemond as a fish.”

Alicent became quiet. “It worries me, so.” She says. Her thumb flicks against a cuticle. Quickly, you cease the harm, engulfing her hand in yours.

“My love, please.” You whisper, tapping her fingers gently. A sweet whisper stops Alicent’s assault.

“He will not have us seperated.” Alicent swallows, her face shrivels, the mere images of you being whisked away —- as she would be left behind to drown in this loneliness.

Shaking her head, speaking through wet inhales, “The Gods answered my prayers as a child,” Alicent’s head fell in a bow, her forehead connected to your knuckles, “I will see to it that you shall stay.” Alicent spoke through her tears, muttering now as a prayer, you must stay.

Rocking back and forth, hunched over as she would be in deep prayer—- stripped raw for you to see.

Alicent holds your inner wrist, kissing it against her lips. Her eyes were dilated, stammering under her breath. Your arms encase Alicent in a tight, warm hug. Cradling her as a babe.

“Oh, my love,” You croak, voice hoarse, laying your head on her spine. “The Gods have blessed us to still have one another, I have no doubt that I shall stay.”

“You have blessed me with a daughter.” Alicent says in a hush. “In another life, she is ours.” Her eyes gaze upon you.

Cupping Alicent’s cheeks into your palms, leaning for a kiss. Kissing her eyes, the bridge of her nose, between her eyes getting a titter from her.

Alicent strokes her nose against yours, her lips capturing yours. Lips melting, wet tongues fondle —- Alicent suckles your tongue, her milky fingers untying the cotton, slithering fingers underneath the flaps, cupping your swollen breasts.

One of Alicent’s hand trickles mischievously down your belly, caressing your sore mound, through the white night wear. A gasp slips from your lips. Her teeth nip at your cheek, open wet kisses trail across your skin down the slope of your throat.

Flesh singing alive, and Alicent whispers to be gentle, a little fondling, but no penetration. Unlike Vaemond, who sought for your body just merely days from birth.

Intertwining bodies cast shadows by the dim candle light, and girlish giggles echo against the chamber walls.

-

The hour is late.

Alicent and yourself departed for the night, begrudgingly to upkeep the reputation of dutiful wives.

In comfortable silence, Edina helps your achy bodice, in your night routine. Brushing your hair, and assisting you with Alysanne. You bathed her, and clothed her. As you held her against her chest, Edina brushed your hair.

It’s restful, and Vaemond isn’t near to ruin such bliss. You weren’t sure where he had run off to, but you didn’t muster the strength to care.

A quiet knock on your chambers alerted you, and for a moment, a growl nearly slipped. “Edina, can you please see who that is?” You ask sweetly. She mutters, Yes, princess.

Edina opens the door gently, with only a silver opening. As you rock your daughter against your breast, Edina breathes in a relief, turning back to you. You stare at her through the reflection of your mirror.

“It is Ser Criston, Princess.”

You sigh with a smile, grateful it isn’t your husband. You shuffle carefully in your stool, “Please, let him in.” Patting Alysanne’s little bum.

Edina moves the door wider, and Criston bows his head respectfully. “Hello Criston.” You greet him with a hum, “Is everything well?”

“A meeting has been called, Princess.” He says, almost with a tone of urgency. Your brows pinch in confusion, “The hour is late, why has the council been summoned?” Titling your head, eyes tired.

“I saw Alicent, and Otto accompany your father in the council chambers—-” Criston exhales with frustration, “— along with Vaemond.” His jaw clenches.

Stoned fury cements itself on your face, swallowing down, breathing becoming more heavier.

“Edina, please take Alysanne. I must tend to my imbecile of an husband.” The courtesy of graciousness, and taught manners are long gone, seeping out of you with the urge to bark.

Edina shuffles with quickness at her step, her hands out-stretched for Alysanne. Carefully Edina took your little bundle in her arms, you kissing her little furry head, as Criston helped you get to your feet.

“Criston, please take me to see Vaemond.” Your hand cupping Criston’s extended forearm, guiding you, his other hand on-top of your fingers.

A malicious smirk curls at the corner of his mouth, as you mutter obscenities under your breath along the path of the keep.

-

A meeting has been summoned.

An invitation only for Viserys to join Vaemond in the council room, but Alicent and Otto have come forth as Viserys’ shadows.

“I see your grace, and the Hand has come.” Vaemond says, rather annoyed. Alicent’s gaze subtly searches the room, but you are nowhere in sight.

“Whichever you must say,” Viserys says with a smile, “can be spoken among my wife, and my hand.” Viserys limply walks to the council table.

“Of course.” Vaemond strains with a formal smile. He clears his throat, his hands behind his back. “It’s time for my wife to reside in Driftmark.”

Silence commences. Alicent’s eyes widen.

“My daughter has just been born, and I would like my blood to enjoy her home.” Vaemond continues. A sullen look drags on Viserys. “So soon, my granddaughter has just been born.”

“Of course, not yet. Out of respect, we will stay for a little longer, but once we are ready—” Vaemond’s words are snuffed out, by Alicent’s scoff.

“No— - she cannot leave. King’s Landing is her home.” Alicent speaks anxiously, turning to Viserys. Vaemond scoffs under his breath. Alicent’s head twists in his direction with such haste, any faster her head would have spun and fallen off her shoulders.

“Two years we have stayed, not once has my wife visited Driftmark.” Vaemond puffs his chest, “She has not seen the seas of my home!”

Alicent chortles, a wet growl. “Viserys, please see to this.” She turns back to Viserys, “The children will miss her, you won’t see Alysanne for a time.” Alicent’s slender fingers grasp Viserys’ clothes forearm with a tightness. An exhausted sigh escapes him.

“Or you will miss her.” Vaemond spits.

“She is my friend, of course I would.” Alicent hisses through her teeth. Vaemond’s feet walk one by one, with sardonic thumps; leaning into Alicent’s space.

Alicent’s eyes squinted, “And where is she? It would be preferred to have her presence.” It didn’t feel right to not have you in this meeting, yet Vaemond is here overseeing a decision on your behalf.

“It is her right to choose where her home is! This should be her decision!” A vein slightly protrudes at Alicent’s neck, her throat straining.

“Your peculiar need for my wife is —- disturbing.” He says spitefully.

“Enough of this!” Viserys shouts, shutting both Alicent, and Vaemond to silence. “Two moons of this insufferable fighting—” He wheezes, “from the both of you!” He clicks his cane against the marbling, declaring his authority.

Vaemond towers over Alicent, nearly cornering her, but she doesn’t back down. Holding her head up high, staring back at him with such hate. A vision of silver, and a shuffle of metal enter the room.

Criston wedges himself between the two, his feet in stance for a brawl, but Vaemond only chuckles at the notion.

“Alas, the sworn mutt has come to protect his consort.”

“Must we have another go?” Criston asks, his dark brows shadowing his eyes. Venomous snake eyes, as his hands itch to slice Vaemond into an carasses.

”Would you liken I tell the king how you disrespected the princess?” Criston’s throat is hoarse, vein bulging. The seething rage within him is reaching a high.

Vaemond sucks his teeth at the notion. “My wife and I merely had a disagreement.” Alicent leans into Criston��s side, her lowered eyes twitching in a hooded glare.

Viserys shouts your name, his voice echoes within the room, beckoning you to him by his shaky hand. He caught you peeking from the chamber doors, watching the speckable.

Alicent’s eyes flooded with relief at the sight of you. You waltz inside with a determined gait, but as Vaemond opens his arms for an embrace, you swiftly pardon him with a worried smile, for Alicent and your father.

Vaemond’s feet bobbles, rooted into the marbling, still staring at the direction you walked through. Criston laughs to himself, at the pitiful sight.

Alicent holds you by the shoulders, shielding you away from your pestering husband.

“My sweet girl,” Viserys says, “Vaemond is declaring for you to leave.” He’s wounded. Viserys truthfully doesn’t want to see you depart, but you are a wedded woman now.

By law, a wife must accompany her husband, and it is two years late for your leave for Driftmark, such as Rhaenys had when she became lady of the sea.

“Yes, my love!” Vaemond says with a sardonic boast. “Our daughter has been born. It is our time to depart for home.” He steps closer, preparing to pry you away.

“The decision shall be done, only by my daughter’s permission.” Viserys casts a gaze at you, with such a kind smile, entrusting you to choose the ‘best decision’, to tame this spectating chaos.

Vaemond is repulsed at the notion of Viserys allowing you to make a decision on such matters.

You nearly stutter as a jester before everyone, terrified. Out of nature, your fingertips fidget with your ring. Not the ring bestowed to you by Vaemond, but the very ring shared between Alicent and yourself.

Blinking tears back, all eyes fall upon you. Alicent’s distressed wet eyes stare into yours, silently pleading with you.

You do not wish to prevent your daughter the opportunity to enjoy Driftmark, it is her home just as King’s Landing, but your heart is torn —- to be separated from Alicent is a murder.

Your soul won’t bear it, it would be felt as death. Worse than the pain during the wedding between Alicent and your father, the grief caused you to nearly fall ill. To separate the children—- hopes of being a family again shattering before you.

Hesitantly, your mouth quiver, but your mind was set. Driftmark is simply just a dragon’s ride away.

“I wish to stay here,” you proclaimed, standing with a firm posture. Vaemond’s eyes wide and enraged, gawking at you.

“Alysanne has just been born. There is no need for hast, I shall stay here in King’s Landing.”

A weak smile stretches just a little on Alicent’s face. All the fury seeps away from her face. Vaemond sputters in disgust, and rage. Nearly foaming at the mouth as a rabid dog.

“Then so be it.” Viserys proclaims, walking towards you with his cane, the ache of his body weighs on him, causing a limp, and a cough.

With no hesitation, you dash to his side, as does Alicent. You whisper to your father with a kiss to his cheek, a firm yet gentle ‘thank you, father’.

The pin drops. The hinges snap.

The Sea Snake breaks through the bubbling sea foam. A man cannot take anymore of this.

“ Viserys,” Vaemond pleas, shoulders shaking, fingers curling, “she plays you for a fool. Don’t you see that Alicent has bewitched your daughter—”

“Enough!” Viserys stomps the end of his cane, the clank startling you, as a frightened little girl, you cling onto your father’s forearm. His aging face distorts, his eyes leering into Vaemond.

“I respect you, Ser Vaemond, but you shall hold your tongue.” Viserys waddles closer, “Alicent is your queen, and respect is in order.”

Otto leans by the pillars, arms crossed against his chest. A spectator enjoying a theater play.

“Alicent is my daughter’s childhood companion, and I will not see them separated.” Viserys declares, stomping his cane onto the ground, echoing against the keep, its thud emphasizing his decision.

His word is law.

“I love your daughter, Viserys—”

“Then act as such!”

Vaemond sighs loudly, nearly stomping his feet in defeat.

“Vaemond, for the nearly twelve moons, you have made me mad with your judgment.” Viserys huffs. Shaking his head at Vaemond’s childish attitude. “Ridiculous bickering with my wife.”

Viserys softly tilts his head, “No more of this.” He whispers to Alicent. She swallows down, holding onto Viserys’ arm, mouth wrinkling into a frown, as if reprimanded as a child.

“Alicent ploys against me—-” Vaemond’s words die into a groan as a fist punch at his chest. A series of grunts and thrashing. You bellow for them to stop this thrashing.

Vaemond and Ser Criston tussle on top of each other, Viserys declaring for both of them to cease. Your pleas fall onto deaf ears. Your feet carry you near them, trying to tug Vaemond off of Criston, fruitlessly.

A clash of limbs, a tug of war. With one miscalculation of his elbow, a crunch and airy gasp of pain breaks. A collision against the floor, you softly whine in pain.

Shouts of your name, and feet running.

Nose welting as a smashed berry, seeping into the cave of your mouth, copper embedding on your palate. Your vision is blurry, colors of fabric and candle flames are translucent murky strings before your eyes.

Sensations of hands picking up your limp body in marital fashion, your mind too deep in a daze to connect with reality. Not sure who has you, muffled shouting becomes clearer.

Your lavender eyes are blank, and unblinking, as your vision begins to unclog the fog—— auburn hair stands before you, and trembling fingers caress your swollen lip.

Out of habit, your tongue glides over the top cage of your teeth, stinging the swelling flesh of gums, but you don’t stop the brushing of ivories.

“Fetch the maesters!”

You inhale a small gust of breath, a deep one that fills your lungs to an odd relief; as if you haven’t breathed in ages. Such vacancy etched in your pupils, gazing through your lashes to witness a faded vision of Vaemond staring in surprise.

He tries to come near you, but your father barks in his face. You don’t seek his affections, he has committed enough damage for a fortnight.

Sweet palms encase your cheeks, dabbing the spilling blood that coats the bridge of your nose, its sticky. Scared breaths escape Alicent, hyperventilating, as your eyes become loopy, one closes slowly after the other. The maesters all encircle you, muttering that your nose may be broken.

A wounded dragon rests upon the shores of Oldtown, crying for help. A roaming sea snake is lurking, snipping. The tower shines green. Alicent’s eyes catch Criston’s spare dagger —- the banners have been called.

Alicent charges at him, hatred and spite feeding off of each fiber of her being, taking the dagger that was seethed in Criston’s satchel, woven in her grip.

Dashing feet clamor against the flooring —- an ungodly manic shout roars from Alicent, frightening all men. Viserys haggers a few steps back, calling out to Alicent.

“Have you gone mad?!” Alicent’s voice is hoarse, snarling at him as a devilish beast. Her arm raises up, ready to strike through his flesh.

Quickly, Vaemond’s arms fling high, freeing himself, catching Alicent’s wrist in his. Alicent can’t even hear pleas from her husband, nor her father —- the stain of red has engulfed her vision. All shouts for her died in the distance, as blood rushed to her ears.

Murderous thoughts plague her mind as grave rot, to gash Vaemond’s skull open, feed his torn limbs to your dragon, imprison him as a suffering lame —- his delayed death will only sedate her fury.

Harming the only soul she can confide in, the only being who understands her fears, who shares her guilt for possessing love for another woman, but oh —- such a sin is delightful.

You’re the only one who can hear her voice in this wretched hell procreated by the Gods —- you can still hear her heart-beat in a crowded room.

You see her, as she sees you.

Not as your step-mother, more than a childhood companion, but as your lover, another-half of your soul. Stolen moments when the realm is asleep, both crying, laughing as if the world outside doesn’t exist—- ushering fantasies of traveling on dragon’s back to East, exploring the colorful lives of the Free Cities, as young girls again.

Praying on your knees, caressing each other.

Love, this is her love, to be seen in a room of shattered shards of glass that reflect the children you both once were. You won’t leave her alone, to slip away from each other. To be inside each other’s skin, to be inside each other.

Two women tangled in the realms’ webs. Forced to marry men who make their skin crawl. A matrimony in misery together.

“Alicent, put away the dagger!”

“What have you done for her?” Alicent’s whispers, with malice. Her eyes wet with an unshed sheen. Her voice is so low, just enough for Vaemond to hear, as a chorus of shouts fade in the distance.

“Besides take her body as ownership?” Alicent’s voice cracks into a broken wail, “Wedded her to claim her nobility as yours.” Her nose scrunches as a hound, “She is not a pawn in your games.” She hisses through her canines.

“Own her? I, a man, cannot even enjoy his marriage without interference. Meddling in affairs you have no qualms with.” Vaemond’s thrashing causes a slip of fingers.

His veiny hand tussles with Alicent’s arm, a futile attempt tugging by the jut of her elbow, to try to take her to safety, but she doesn’t relent. She thrashes her arm away, with a grunt.

The dagger’s sharp curved tip inches hairs away from Vaemond’s exposed glossy ocular.

“It is my right to be concerned.” Alicent’s teeth bore into a scowl. She’s unrecognizable, edging on her last thread of sanity. “Who will care for her?” Her voice carries the weight of concern, affection, a crack of desperation.

Disoriented voices fade in and out from the distance, a stand-off brewed from loathing, and jealousy. As many try to break apart Alicent and Vaemond—- others flock to your limp body, and the sprinting maesters.

Vaemond leers through his lashes, turning his attention away. Your ichor staining Alicent’s fingernails, and wrists in splatters. Vaemond’s venomous spite inflates akin to spikes, his eyes daringly bore into Alicent’s, sneers low under his breath, ‘suffocating’.

A disgruntled growl slips from Alicent’s lips. “ I am her companion. Her only friend. ” Alicent inches closer, nearly barking in his face. Such a declaration in her bellowing voice, her brows pinching in sorrow.

A moment stills.

He smirks, nose flaring.

“The very friend who bedded her grieving father.”

An ungodly screech rips from Alicent, raw and animalistic. Strength and sheer adrenaline. A scream that echoes the thousand unheard cries of her depraved girlhood. A release of her festering sorrow all in one strike.

By the Gods, what a fleeting delight.

With a swift glide of her wrist, the dagger just inches from the bridge of his nose, but the sharp tip rips a slice on his cheek.

Clamor of voices die in the silence.

Alicent slowly backed away, with such wild rage glistening in her eyes, her fingers trembling loose from her grip. The dagger clanks at her feet, her breaths are haggard.

Vaemond’s fingertips dab against the bleeding slash. Stricken with astonishment at the drips of ichor —- and great offense, Alicent has gathered the nerve to commit such a heinous act.

A suffocating figure comes near as a shadow.

Otto comes to his daughter’s side, his shoulder patting her shoulder to quell the tension that tightens her muscles. His vacant palm grips her wrist, softly squeezing, comfort? A warning.

Towering behind her, with such an ominous categorical glare, Otto breathes through his nose, a frustrated sigh. If no one will take the reins of this masquerade, he will. He always prided himself to be the solver of any problems.

Calculating his next move, to not only pacify Vaemond down, but to not frazzle the feathers of his child.

“Let us handle this bickering with grace.” Otto’s head tilts down, gaze downcasted at his daughter's dome, caressing her thick waves—- whose face was still twitching with lingering tears, exhaustion draining from her.

“We will all discuss our —-” Otto pauses for a second, turning his sight to Vaemond, feigning an inch of sympathy, “troubles in the morrow.” As a master manipulating the strings of its puppet, dancing to his rhythm.

-

Dull pain weighs on the bridge of your nasal, the milk of the poppy soothing most of the inflamed ache. The maesters claim it’s the luck of the Gods that your nose wasn’t shattered, with being the brunt of brute strength.

Resting in your chambers, deep in the massive blankets, boneless bodice sinking into the mattress, but your hooded eyes never leave Alysanne’s cradle.

Even in a moment of enduring the strain of this wound, the motherly instinct within you is overtaken. Awaiting any gurgle, or cry, any excuse to hold her in your embrace.

An uncomfortable whine vibrates low in your throat, nearing a snort, by the joints of your elbows into the mattress, you lift your heavy body up. Groggy muscles tighten and burn as you dig within yourself any inch of remaining strength.

Slow steps inch closer —- one and two, one and two—- your fingers grip the cradle. Carefully, your open palms dive into the blankets, grasping Alysanne’s little neck, and back; by the bent of your knees, you hoist her up.

Small gurgles emit from her heart-shaped mouth, you coo her, connecting her small body against your chest. Rocking her back to slumber, you shuffle back to your bed, hawking your balance, so that your feet don’t catch the loose end of your silk night-gown.

You gaze at her, what a beauty she is.

Despite loathing her father, the miserable masquerade he performed not only before your father, but to the sworn shield, the king’s hand to bear witness —- and above all else, in-front of your dear Alicent.

Vaemond’s outburst of demands, proclaiming you to be taken by his force, to reside the end of your days in Driftmark.

Aware of how tedious Otto is upon his reputation that extends upon his daughter, he will chastise any witnesses to keep tight lips. No whispers of this dreadful night. For once, you hope Otto weaves his fingers —- there is no need for anyone to speak such haughty gossip about Alicent.

‘My love has suffered for too long.’ You mull quietly. Softly grazing Alysanne’s button nose. Alicent doesn’t deserve to be the subject of the talebearers—- to be humiliated as such.

Alysanne mewls in her sleep, but your essence lulls her, caressing her cheek with your nose. Tracing the bridge of her nose with the grace of your finger, admiring her innocence.

“I will not let him have you,” You whisper in a hush, “And I will not have him take me away.”

-

“A mere scratch.”

The head maester dabbed Vaemond’s cheek, as the white cloth soaks in splotches of his blood.

“If it was closer, it would have been a gash, and the loss of an eye.”

Vaemond sits with his fingers digging into his clothed knees, as an insolent child. Vaemond is marinating in his seat, brooding in his pathetic defeat.

His fingers clenching onto the arm-rests, the intricate gold dragon engraving digging into the flesh of his fingers.

A handful of maesters flocked to Vaemond’s aid with haste, as Alicent was whisked away without a word from her father.

Humiliated, that his own wife would not defend his honor, that he was cut down by a woman’s hand, that the king himself would not see the impending shambles of his house.

A shush falls upon the maesters, quietly bowing.

Vaemond’s eyes gaze up to see Alicent at the doors. Mute, and regal, despite losing herself in her anger. The maesters all bow, one after another, taking their leave — all scurry out of the door, as rats.

Alicent walks inside, stoned silent, her palms clasped on top of each other against her belly, her lips pursed — restraining herself, her eyes still red at the rim from dried tears.

No less, her father sent her to mend the peace. Alicent stares Vaemond down, even through her display of vulnerability, she sees him as nothing. As if he is the dirt beneath her feet.

Vaemond stiffened his spine, his chest puffed out to ready brace himself against her wrath. But Alicent doesn’t move… her feet stay rooted. Her eyes are distant, as if reflecting quietly.

She hums.

“His grief doesn't bear a flame to mine.”

#chaosfae writes #alicent hightower x reader #queen alicent #Alicent Hightower fanfic

[underdark-dreams]

I'm a slut for hurt/comfort and I'm obsessed with this trope tbh: Can we get Rolan/Tav where Tav gets downed in battle? (Obvs they can be brought back bc scrolls and revivify and what have you, I just want that sweet sweet angst.)

Rolan x Unnamed Fem!Tav: she/her

Whoo boy, we may have angst'ed too close to the sun with this one. Can't say much else without getting choked up--just love Rolan even when he's in pain. Thank you for this request!

Life, Death, Resurrection

During the ambush at Last Light Inn, the young wizard stares down the very real possibility of his dear one's death. A bittersweet night seen through Rolan's eyes.

Tags: Fem Unnamed Tav, Angst, Major Injury, Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 2,430 [Read on AO3]

It was like the very skies above had cracked open to let the hells stream through. 

Everything roared around Rolan all at once—nightmares on wings descended in ambush through the roof of Last Light Inn, the din of screams and ripping flesh and thudding bodies against the floor overwhelming his senses before he could gather them.

Only reflex saved him as a winged horror stretched its claws high above to strike—then was pushed backwards by the thunderous force from both his hands. An arrow from Lia’s bow whistled past his ear, close enough that he felt the rush of air against his cheek.

“Fuck is happening—!” She yelled aloud to no one, another arrow already notched against her bowstring. Lakrissa sprinted in to form a line with her despite the bleeding gash on her bow arm.

Jaheira burst through the fray with eyes like steel. “Harpers, to the cleric!” The druid hit the ground on four paws—powerful teeth tore through one hellish creature’s translucent wing like it was parchment, its shrieking figure hurled against the back wall by the panther’s jaws—

Rolan wasted a precious second glancing to Isobel’s quarters above. He saw the flashes of rapid-fire spellcasting, heard the vicious scrape of metal against metal, and grasped Jaheira’s meaning in an instant. All the chaos on the lower floor was just a diversion to occupy their forces—the cleric’s room was the true focus of the ambush. And she was up there somewhere.

“Die and I’ll kill you both,” Rolan shouted to his siblings as he broke for the stairs. The blunt end of Cal’s spear swung past him in response, landing a killing blow on the ghoul Jaheira had just flung past their heads.

Supportive forces from outside the inn walls were rapidly gathering. Harper Skywin's crossbow bolt sang true through the wide front doors, piercing one monster's throat a moment too late, its claws already dripping with the warm blood of the disemboweled Harper on the floorboards.

Dammon rushed across the threshold just as Rolan's boots reached the first step. Their eyes met for only an instant as Rolan dashed upward. Behind him he heard the sharp sizzle of flesh as the smith’s blade, still glowing from the fires of his furnace, seared through the belly of the creature standing over its kill. 

Rolan reached the balcony just as yet another winged ghoul touched down outside the cleric's room. He threw handful after handful of icy shards through its chest, overcome with impatient fury. Finally its impaled body fell back over the railing with a death rattle. He wheeled round in the doorway to face the scene within.

The colossal Flaming Fist's greatsword swung outward in a reckless circle—his face was disfigured by necrotic energy, dark unnatural wings sprouting from between his shoulders. 

She and her companions flanked him on all sides—Rolan watched her face reflect the radiant magic of her own sword as it slashed for Marcus's shoulder. Shadowheart's arms guided a blinding bolt into the Fist's back, while from the corner Isobel called down healing energy upon her allies as rapidly as she could. The fight was nearly theirs.

Rolan joined to aim a spell through the fray, channeling every bit of the Weave he could reach to bind and weaken the monster. Marcus roared in frustration as he felt their numbers rapidly turning the tide against him.

Several things happened all at once. With a raging strike, Karlach swung her battleaxe down upon the Fist’s neck to cleave at the exposed gap in his armor, landing the death blow that would bring him to his knees. 

And in the same instant—maybe because his savior was closest, or just the last face Marcus glimpsed in death—Rolan saw the Fist's hand raise toward her too late to intervene. A final burst of necrotic magic pushed out from his collapsing body, rushed through her chest, exited like black smoke from between her shoulder blades.

Her mouth formed a soft “oh!” of surprise. In the next moment, Rolan watched her figure crumple and fold over itself on its way to the ground, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

“No—” The hoarse word barely escaped his throat. The Gods couldn’t be so fucking cruel to take her now, not after she’d just given him back the only family he’d ever known—

Rolan scrambled toward her through pools of cooling blood, kneeled where she lay. An iron fist gripped around him. "Wake up," he ordered her limp and unresponsive body, even as he gathered it in his arms. "Damn it, wake up!"

All the rest of them standing around him were forgotten. Somehow he was stumbling down the stairs with her, rushing into the barracks that had rapidly begun filling with the other wounded and bleeding. The rest of them could wait; she must be the first.

He laid her body out on the nearest empty bed. Not body—he corrected his mind in a wild panic—her eyes would open and she would live. Right now, her features lay so still it filled him with dread.

Why was no one descending instantaneously to heal her? He would’ve shouted if he could find his voice. Isobel was practically on death's door herself—Rolan watched her slump against the wall and wipe dark blood from her mouth. He turned away, unable to bear the fucking sight of her anyway, not after what her life may have just cost him. He cast around desperately for the Sharran.

Shadowheart was beside him in a second, already peeling off her bloodied gloves. 

"Please," he begged. "Tell me she's not—"

Shadowheart's hands gripped his shoulders, vice-like. "If you want her to live, go. I need to concentrate." Her words broke through, and Rolan stumbled backwards in mute obedience.

Only his other fears for Cal and Lia could have drawn him from the room. He found them gathered around the central hall with the rest of the able-bodied, wiping the infernal blood from their weapons and taking stock of the casualties in a daze. The three of them all held each other wordlessly. Through the heat rising from the open hearth, Rolan glimpsed Alfira and Lakrissa doing the same.

With that concern eased, his mind was consumed with the one that remained. He paced across the hall in an effort to follow her companion's warning to stay away for as long as he could stand.

Once he couldn't, Rolan returned to the makeshift infirmary to stand helpless at the foot of her bed. Shadowheart took no notice of him; her eyes glowed blank as her hands directed a powerful flow of magic into her patient's chest. In this wan light, Rolan found her features more fragile and delicate than he’d ever seen them.

As the ritual came to an end, Shadowheart leaned across the unconscious figure to check the pulse at her wrist.

"How is she?" Rolan asked, terrified of the answer.

“She’ll be all right,” the cleric told him as she rose to take her leave. “But that was powerful magic; her body needs time. She probably won’t wake for hours.” He ignored the note of suggestion in her voice.

"I'll stay with her," Rolan said, final. Shadowheart didn’t question him as she moved away toward the next injured.

Rolan slumped cross-legged on the floor near her shoulder. From this angle, he could see the rise and fall of her chest under her tunic. Her bloodied half-plate lay against the wall behind him; no doubt Shadowheart had removed it to heal her wounds. Her breaths were shallow but steady. 

Rolan found his own chest rising and falling in tandem, as if he might lend her some of his strength by doing so.

At the long table near the center of the room, he heard Jaheira's Harpers grouping around her in deep conversation about their next move. Marcus had been with them since the beginning, Rolan was aware—which meant that Ketheric Thorm had been one step ahead of their strategy this whole time. Rolan heard her name brought up several times in urgent excitement. She was their secret weapon. She could infiltrate Moonrise Towers this very night, and she still wouldn't be expected.

Rolan closed his eyes against the incessant discussion. He couldn’t care less about Marcus, or Thorm, or Isobel, or the entire Shadow Curse itself for that matter. There they all stood alive and well, plotting the next bloody feat she was meant to undertake, as if her spent body wasn't fighting for life in the bed a few steps away. Angry disbelief rose in his throat.

"For fuck's sake," Rolan interjected through them, "can't you all just let her rest for one fucking night?"

Surprised faces turned toward him. He didn't care if it branded him a traitor to their cause, didn't care what they thought of him at all, as long as she was left in peace for once.

It seemed Jaheira was the only one wise enough to understand. "The cub's right," she decided. "We regroup at dawn. Tonight, we rest."

Once the Harpers had filed out of the room on her orders, Jaheira turned back to him from the doorway. “Look after her,” she said, almost with gentleness. Rolan didn’t need the druid or anyone else to tell him that. But he said nothing as she left the room.

Rolan was finally left alone with his thoughts as the fire in the stone hearth behind him burned down to coals. Before long all the other infirmary occupants were sound asleep, drifting away to join the one beside him. From across the dark room Art Cullough whispered the same snatches of his halting song.

Rolan’s weary back ached despite his resolve to keep watch over her. He’d only rest his head for a little while, he told himself. He folded his arms on the edge of her mattress and lay his cheek across them so he could still face her, one hand brushing against hers. He took it without thought.

Her hands were cold. It didn’t worry him; he knew by now that they usually were. Many times in the past she’d laughed with embarrassment whenever her hands met his skin for one reason or another. Nevertheless, he wrapped her fingers under the warmth of his palm.

Rolan closed his eyes as he listened to her soft breath rise and fall.

-

He awoke some hours later to the sensation of something tickling his hand. Rolan raised his head groggily, realizing through the dark that it was her thumb brushing across his knuckles.

“Rolan?” Her voice whispered.

“I’m here—” He straightened up, trying to see her face through the dim light. His bent legs had gone painfully numb under him.

“What time s’it.”

He had no clue, just having awakened himself. “Past midnight,” he guessed, judging by the spare red glow of the coals in the hearth.

“Where’s Isobel?” She croaked out.

Rolan’s relief at hearing her voice again was colored with disbelief that she was already asking after others. “She’s fine, asleep upstairs. How do you feel?”

“It was Ketheric’s orders,” she explained, ignoring his question. “Taken alive…why he sent Marcus.”

To Rolan’s mind that didn’t begin to explain the attack, but he couldn’t care about all that now.

“It’s over,” he assured her. “Your companions are all safe. Everyone’s sleeping off the fight. You should too.”

He heard her sigh in relief, and then the sound worked itself into a pained cough. “Feel like Karlach clocked me in the ribs,” she winced.

“Should I get Shadowheart?” Rolan was ready to wake her friend without delay. He had half-risen before her fingers clenched against his to keep him where he knelt. 

“Stay,” she requested, then added almost shyly, “please.”

Rolan was back beside her in an instant. Wherever she wanted him, that’s where he’d be. He settled himself against the edge of her bed once more, their hands still connected.

She was quiet for a long moment. “I suppose now we take the fight to Moonrise Towers.”

“By all the Hells,” Rolan muttered. He wasn’t upset at her—just at every other circumstance that weighed and pressed down on her shoulders. “Don’t you think you can take one night for yourself before you have to rush off and save us all again?”

She shifted against the bedding. “The element of surprise won’t last forever, Rolan. You know that as well as I do. The sooner we dispatch Ketheric, the sooner we can finally make our way to Baldur’s Gate, all of us.”

Rolan knew she was appealing to his personal motives, but he resisted. “Think about yourself for once,” he instructed her. “Just rest for now. Sleep. Gods know you deserve it.”

She fell silent for a while. Rolan tried to make out her expression in the dim light; he wondered if he’d been too harsh.

“Oh, just come here,” she said suddenly. “My back hurts just looking at you.” With a soft grunt of effort she scooted to the far side of the bed; Rolan realized she was making a spot for him.

He hesitated only for a moment before climbing up beside her. The mattress was firm and lumpy, but after the unyielding wood floor, it felt soft as a cloud against his stiff limbs. She settled on her side to examine him up close.

“Your face is all bloody,” she said. Her eyes reflected just enough firelight that he could make out their expression of concern.

Rolan glanced down at himself, realizing his skin and clothing were still flecked and stained head to toe from the night’s battle. His face must be in a similar state. “I don’t think it’s mine,” he answered honestly.

“Goodness,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “What a dashing hero.” Rolan couldn’t make out if she was teasing or serious, and wasn’t sure which possibility made his heart thump faster. He deflected by bringing her knuckles up to his lips.

Rolan felt her sigh again in reaction, more relaxed this time. 

“Rolan?”

“Mm.”

“Hold me for a while?” She asked quietly. 

He didn’t need to be asked twice. Rolan’s arms slid under and over her, drawing her frame near to him. Her head bent to his chest as he held her close. Her brave, reckless, kind, vulnerable self.

Before very long, her breathing reached the heavy cadence of sleep. Rolan drifted toward unconsciousness not far behind her. It was dreamless; his arms held all he could want.

#rolan x tav #bg3 rolan #rolan bg3 #bg3 fic #angst #hurt/comfort #injury #fem unnamed tav #underdark-dreams #soitbe-soitis #bg3 spoilers #baldur's gate 3 spoilers

[upheavalofmemory]

PAC | Your Love Story in Song

Someone who received a reading from me once said that I tend to write scenarios as if I'm writing a whole fanfic. While I'm not a fanfic writer, I do love writing so... This pick-a-card is about your future love story based on songs!

This can apply to your future spouse, for your future partner, etc, although it is intended to be the most impactful relationship you have. I will be using shufflemancy and intuition, plus there is a bonus moodboard/image section!

♢ There are three piles to choose from, all are CDs with writing on them/quotes. Pile one is "Songs to listen to when you're in love", pile two is "You're the only thing in life that I got right", and pile three is "Everything I could never tell you." ♢

Pile One ♢ "Songs to listen to when you're in love"

Walking on a Dream by Empire of the Sun

C'mon - Single Version by Panic! At The Disco & fun.

Capsize by FRENSHIP & Emily Warren

A heaviness. Two people who refuse to believe that they're in love, but rather continue to wallow in their own problems until they realize that there was someone there all along. Youth. They both take baby steps until they realize that someone has been there alongside them the whole time and together they bring themselves up. Unfortunately, the highs are high and the lows are low, and sometimes it leads to explosive fights, crying, and the neverending cycle of breakups.

It's blue. It's in the dark, two lovers holding hands as you both sob over the destruction you have caused together. You both think to yourselves "Maybe this is why we are meant to be?" A combination of hail and rain, the worst thunderstorms, and the brightest sunny days after them, but mostly because you know that others would not be able to handle your violence (not literal).

On the worst days, you almost melt into each other. On the best days, you blend and ebb with each other's flows. There is no fear in either of your depths. They can get terrifying, yes, and from an outside perspective it can be seen as a toxic, violent cycle, but it is far from the truth. It's bittersweet, it's growth, it's pulling out hair like pulling weeds and sharpening knives to cut out rotten flesh. It's painful, yes, but it's the most invigorating ride you both have ever been on, and it's the most growth you've ever had. You trigger each other in the best and worst way possible.

It's pain and ascension. Growing your wings, pulling out the flightless feathers. Scratching away dead scales, shedding and spitting up venom. Like an animal learning how to breathe again. Poetic misery.

Pile Two ♢ You're the only thing in life that I got right."

Nineteen by Dylan

Joan of Arc by Arcade Fire

Stop Making This Hurt by Bleachers

Good morning kisses and back hugs. Shared memories and shared coffee mugs, cuddles, and long movie marathons, but something is changing.

The love you shared is changing. Neither of you has gotten this far, you have no idea how to react. The passionate morning kisses become awkward side steps, the cuddles become awkward and suddenly you hate the color of the walls. You still love them, yes of course, but it's changing it's hue. Your chameleon lover is changing its colors and you haven't adjusted to the change in saturation. The giddiness goes away and becomes...comfortable. You fear that the passion is gone, you've never felt this way before. You're afraid they'll leave you.

You both lay on the duvet, staring above at the ceiling fan. Suddenly, you're both older. "How did we get here? Where has the time gone?" You both look at each other with a somewhat sad, but tender smile. The love hasn't gone away, it's just changed forms, and you're finally adjusted to the slower love you always deserved. You kiss, it's awkward and cheeky, but it brings a warmness to your body you've never felt before, a warmness you want to keep forever, and so you both do.

BONUS: While looking for images, Boreas by the Oh Hellos was playing in my head, it definitely matches the warm energy of this pile.

Pile Three ♢ "Everything I could never tell you"

East of Eden by Zella Day

Oh No! by MARINA

Mine Forever by Lord Huron

It was a hook-up, it was a fling. You never pictured that you'd actually love your goofy lover. You couldn't imagine them being serious about anyone until one night you looked into their eyes and realized it wasn't lust. Out of fear, you left, and you were terrified.

This wasn't the type of person you would bring home to your family, but rather show off to your friends and your Instagram stories, but now things are changing. They aren't the person you expected to be, and you're slowly falling in love with their dopey smile and messy hair. "Nothing can get better than this," they say with a smile, and fall asleep in your arms. You feel the same way and it scares you.

You run from it, you ghost them and break their heart just for a moment until you look at yourself in the mirror and see the person you've never wanted to become. You take off your mask and realize you're just a scared child who never knew you were worthy of love or desired love. You put in the work, you change your face, and break your old mask.

You show up to their house to apologize and try to start fresh again, and whether or not they accept your apology is up to them, but you'll never forget them regardless.

Thank you so much for reading! Feel free to check out my masterpost with more readings, or you can support me by purchasing a reading by clicking here. Thanks for the support, let me know which pile you picked and if it resonated or not :)!

#pick a card #tarot reading #oracle reading #pac #pac tarot #pick a picture #pac reading #tarot pac #pick a pile reading #love tarot free #love reading #fs reading #future spouse tarot #future spouse pac #future spouse pick a card #upheavalofmemory #uomTAROT

[call-sign-shark]

Day 2: Cut Your Wings || Alfie Solomons x Reader

Requested by a lovely Anon 🖤

TW: Kinktober prompt- cut, dubcon, blood, inflected pain, masturbation?, enemies with sexual tension, canonical violence, dirty talk, sexual torture, kidnapping

Words: 2K

Notes: This work is a part of the Peaky Kinktober Event you can find here. Comment on the event post if you want to be tagged in the future works for Kinktober. Also this one ain't as smutty as I thought because I got carried away by the narrative?? Shark please, that ain't the goal of Kinktober??

A grunt escaped from your lips as you desperately tried to free yourself from the heavy shackles imprisoning your wrists. You moved them back and forth, then left and right, turning your hands in every position possible, and yet nothing worked. The handcuffs were too tight for you to slip from them. Another painful moan echoed in the damp and dark room of the distillery in which the jew's henchmen had locked you a few hours ago. The cold metal bit your flesh again. "Fuck". When loud footsteps resounded behind the heavy wooden door of your prison, you swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat and prayed to God for a quick and painless death because you knew that Alfie Solomons wasn't a forgiving man. Quite the contrary, his quick temper, and frightening antics only fueled his reputation as one of the most dangerous criminals in London.

"So that's the fucking little rat my men told me about." He stated, standing in the middle of the open door, both of his hands resting on the handle of his cane and a black hat hiding one of his hazel gray eyes.

"Fuck you, fucking cunt! When Tommy will know about this y'all going to regret it!" Words passed your thoughts, spitting their venom at him and yet the man remained silent. You even wondered if he had paid attention to what you just said or if the voices in his head were louder than yours. His gaze, intense and unfathomable, was observing you attentively as if he was trying to decipher the secrets of the most unique precious stone he had even held in his palm. After what seemed to be an eternity, Alfie Solomons pursued his lips, stroked his scruffy beard, and nodded, coming to an agreement with himself.

"See, my mates here told me that Tommy Shelby had sent a few men to London, but here's the problem – He said 'men'. And not 'little girl', which is definitely what you are. A bloody and nosey little girl. Hmhm." He agreed with his own statement before walking to the dusty furniture that was leaning against one of the brick walls. Then, he took off his hat and his long dark coat, and put the cane aside before walking towards you. He stopped in front of you, tattooed arms crossed on his muscular chest. The unusual amount of greenish ink deeply engraved in his skin caught your attention for a short while, you curiously observing the pattern it formed. Of course, both Tommy and Arthur had tattoos, but not as many as the mad baker.

"Would you look at ya. Haven't you something else to do instead of following a Birmingham scumbag's orders? Like finding yourself a man or something like this, y'know. 'Cause I don't see why such a young lass like ya puts her own life into danger for Tommy fucking Shelby." As he talked, Alfie had closed the distance between you and him. He was now leaning above you, so close that his scorching breath was fanning over your skin and the hairs of his beard were almost tickling your face. "So can you tell me why? The only reason I see is that Tommy Shelby sticks his cock in you and it has magically bred some loyalty." The right corner of his full lips curled into a mocking grin when he noticed how his words had lit a fire of rage in your eyes. Bang on, he thought, "No. It's more complex than that, innit? He doesn't want you and yet you remained devoted to him in the hope that one day, maybe, he'd look at you differently. He'd look at you like a woman to fuck senseless and not a pawn of his game."

"Kill me, Solomons. Kill me now or I'll fucking cut you once I'll be out of this shit-stinking place." You hissed, baring your teeth like a cornered animal, the truth hurting you more than a gunwound. For a split second, Alfie swore you would have dug your fangs into his throat, sinking them deep until you tasted blood if you hadn't been restrained by chains and handcuffs.

"Cut me?" The baker repeated these two words, pretending to be surprised while the tone in his voice betrayed how amused he was, "And what kind of tool would you use to cut me? This?" As he said so, Alfie pulled your grey beret out of the large pocket of his trousers, holding it to have a good grip at the base of the razor blades that were sewn to the fabric. "You Peaky girl like to cut people with this right? So come on, threaten me again little bird, I dare you." He said with both of his eyebrows raised in a taunting expression.

"D'ya think you're scaring me? I'm not scared, I'm a Peaky Blinder and I'm going to make things clear again: you better kill me now because if you miss this chance, I'll fucking cut your face the next time we meet–" You didn't finish your sentence, your words replaced by a scream of pain when Alfie, without a single warning, slashed your arm with your peaky cap. Blood soon filled the gash and overflowed from it, soaking the white fabric of your shirt in a crimson stain.

"Go ahead, dove. Say it again." This time you remained silent, staring at him in horror. He had cut deep, deep enough for you to feel the sickening pulse of your own heart in the wound. Your refusal to obey led Alfie to burst into an unexpected rage. His face reddened, and his brows furrowed, casting their shadow eyes. With one strong and brutal movement, Alfie's free hand grabbed your face, his calloused fingers sinking into your cheeks until your jaw hurt. "SAY IT AGAIN AND I'LL CUT YOUR FUCKING WINGS!" He barked, a bit of spit spilled in his beard and bloodshot eyes staring at your very soul. "See, you don't stand a chance here my sweet dove. You're just a little girl playing gangsters". In an unsettling mood swing, his temper had gone quiet again.

"I'm not gonna kill you peaky girl, that would be too easy. I see your eyes, and what I see in them is that you ain't afraid of death and I reckon this is a trait I particularly fancy in someone. So what should I do with you? We might..." He made a short pause when he noticed a tiny detail he hadn't spotted before. Alfie's hazel grey eyes abandoned yours and dropped to your bosom where he could see the round shape of your hardened nipples pointing through the fabric of your shirt. Licking his lips, Alfie's iris darkened with mischief and something you never expected to witness in the eyes of an enemy – lust. An unpleasant shiver ran down your spine as the baker's smirk suddenly turned into a wicked and threatening smile, "I know, dove. I know what I'm going to do with you. Everything's clear in my mind". A sparkle of pure madness enlightened his face, just like an artist struck by inspiration. With his words followed his hand, that came meeting your trembling body. His strong palm roamed all over you, the friction it created snatching a whimper from your tight throat while you understood his obscene plans.

"No, no! Please! Alfie--" You wanted to scream but you couldn't, petrified from the moment his fingers trailed down your belly and ended their exploration between your legs. The noisy juggling of the chains you produced by struggling sounded like a melody in Alfie's ears, who hummed in satisfaction at your cunt's warmth he could feel through the fabric of your trousers. His fingers pressed a bit more against your core, shooting a wave of forbidden arousal through your entire body and making your legs shake.

"You're in heat, lil' dove." He noted with an amused tone before closing the distance between your ear and his lips. You squeezed your eyes shut at the overwhelming scratching sensation of his gruff beard against your skin and the blazing blast of his breath. The room spun as you found yourself intoxicated by the fragrance of his cologne. Musky, and with a dab of cedarwood. His scent was as raw and wild as him. "I'm pretty sure you're all wet, aren't you?" He cooed in your ear. His rough fingers, applying pressure at the exact spot where your throbbing clit was, started to rub it in slow and circular motions. As much as you hated the thought of it, his skillful caresses lit a fire of desire within you, so much that you felt your own wetness soaking your panties, "How long since a man stretched that lonely pussy?"

"Don't touch me!" You growled, but as convincing as you had tried to sound convincing you still failed judging by how Alfie's brow arched. He let out a dark chuckle. Doing the exact opposite, his fingers kept fondling your sensitive bud but this time his wet and warm tongue licked your neck just like a predator would do to get a first taste of his freshly caught prey.

"Oh I'm not gonna touch you dove." The muffled sound of your cap falling on the concrete ground made you open your eyes again. You had barely lifted your eyelids when your gaze met Alfie's other hand, who was kneading his massive bulge. As afraid as you were, you could not help but let out a soft yet needy moan "I'm not gonna touch you. What I'm going to do cannot be described, no no it can't because I don't want God to hear it. What I can tell you though is that you'll never come back to Birmingham once you'll know the feeling of my cock buried deep inside you." His words' immediate effects upon you had your teased pussy clenching onto nothing and reminding you how desperately empty you were. An emptiness Tommy would never fill, "Are you thinking about him now?"

You weren't.

Alfie didn't need you to answer, for the way you brought your hips closer to his fingers and grind against them was enough. The mad baker's mouth sucked on the sensitive flesh of your neck, pinching it between his lips to leave a bright red mark on you, claiming his newly acquired property. All these sensations soon became unbearable: the friction of your shirt against your erected tits, the cold bite of the handcuffs on your wrists, and the increasingly faster rubbing of your clit destroyed what remained of your will of fighting. Never in your life you had been touched for you had always kept your virginity unspoiled for Thomas. A stupid and fruitless devotion.

You gave in to the pleasure and surprised yourself by thinking about how big Alfie's dick looked, unable to look anywhere else.

"Don't s-stop." You muttered under your breath, your climax building as Alfie kept assaulting your sweet bundle of nerves: he was nothing but gentle with it, almost hurting you with how rough he rubbed you. With your mouth parted and your breath quickening, you felt the delightful warmth of an orgasm coming but, all of sudden, Alfie stopped.

"Enough for today. We'll see if you deserve more tomorrow." He said.

If you have appreciated what you've just read please take the time to reblog and/or comment. Your reactions are the real fuel and motivation of writers.

tags: @emotionalcadaver @peakyswritings @mollybegger-blog @hwangrimi @munson24 @tommyshelbywhore @devotedlyshadowytheorist @stevie75 @brummiereader @triplethreat77 @sebastianstangirl01 1 @izzy10369 @kimvolturicullen @peakyltd

#Peaky blinders #Alfie solomons #Alfie solomons x reader #Tom Hardy smut #Peaky blinders x reader #Alfie solomons smut #Peaky blinders smut #alfie solomons imagine #alfie solomons fanfic #Tom Hardy #Tom Hardy x reader #Peaky Kinktober #Tommy Shelby

[brisquad-unit-4402]

sitting with vox and the truth

(spoilers obvs)

happy the demon hungers everyone :D i did two watchalongs with my friends i hope we all show our appreciation to vox. he’s worked very hard and he’s very considerate of us his fans

this is all just to say that after a long, long, long two weeks i would like to rest so nicely on his chest. naturally i walked into this planning to write that but it turned into another vox breakdown fic which, really, couldn’t be a better description of unit 4402 if you tried

tags: gender neutral reader, angst, themes of self-hate, vox has a breakdown, spoilers for the demon hungers and the truth, ambiguous relationship (romantic intended but can be read as platonic; reader says “i love you”)

⚠️ spoilers for the demon hungers / the truth, vox akuma.

⚠️ contains self-deprecating dialogue

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

wings of melded leather and flesh writhe in the home of vox akuma. a dethroned lord, a wretched infernal. such a a wide reach. the talons of the wing threaten to scrape the ceiling with his greater height, while the membranous tatters hang loosely. if he represented Hell it would be a king’s robe. under wall and lamplight the sheet of skin is his chain.

gravity weighs down his voice all the same. it sinks his shoulders, drips off his hair and down his back. seven feet tall, with a shadow to cast over your body so small in comparison, and yet wind could knock him over as he stands his ground. the familiarity of gold within his eyes is gone but the guilt behind it is all the same, tainted in burning-coal. the smoke around his mouth and the embers along his tongue match the char. there is no fire. he’s put that out long ago. but what was scorched refuses to dwindle down to ash, remaining orange and red and that pink you swore you could see when there was nothing good on his mind.

nothing good, you thought, jokingly and enticingly. lightly. you see now that you were right, but without the fortune of intimacy.

he is scared, if he would be willing to admit it, and he is protective which he does. it’s why his hands are buried close to his chest, the swirling black-red, clasped together as if they were weapons. they are.

“do you understand?” vox asks. “i don’t deserve your pity.”

his frame is full with rage and power held dormant.

“i don’t deserve your attention, or your patience. or your love.”

a bead of ember rises from between his teeth. it fades to room dust as he grits them together.

when they snap apart an arc of flame accompanies it.

“It’s never been deserved. It’s never been okay. I have never been okay!”

the flames curl out of the air, following where the ember once went, room dust and hot air. without his hair in his face he can’t hide from the firing squad.

he can’t hide when you step forward, either.

“Don’t.” that’s what gets him to quit yelling. it’s replaced by inhaled cinder under his breath. “No, no, don’t. Don’t. Don’t.”

and quiet, you say, “you’ve held me before.”

“Don’t. Don’t. You can’t. No. Don’t.”

“and i’m nowhere near death.”

he backs away. “You don’t know that, you don’t know that, you don’t know, you don’t.”

“we don’t choose the bodies we’re born in. or the biology we function by.”

another step back. he doesn’t trip on anything. it’s the pure magma under his blood that sends him to his knees. “Get back.” a hiccup. “Get back!” his hands form tighter to his body. “Get away from me!”

“i trust you.”

“Don’t! Don’t! No! Away!”

“you aren’t hungry anymore. and i’m not in danger. i love you.”

vox’s back thumps against the corner of the wall. his hands tear apart. a prominent vein glides down the oil-slick arm. they tangle themselves into his hair. pale fingertips along bloodied streaks. white knuckles pulling at black locks.

he screams.

he screams again when you place yourself next to him, up against the wall, and bump your leg to him.

“if you could hurt me…” your eyes lower to where your legs are placed upon his. “then this would count. but i’m still alive.”

you look up to the ceiling. his talons didn’t scratch it but his horns certainly did. “and i’m still alive, and my soul is where it should be, with me.”

you cannot recognize the sound the voice demon emits.

“so i’ll stay with you. and we’ll figure things out.” with river under your hands you rub his arm. “do you remember this? it’s what i always do when you want me to help calm you down.

“that’s what i’ll do. just let it out. and i’ll be right here, and i’ll always be here no matter what.”

it’s a guttural, throaty cry across his register. a frog scratch.

“come on.” his blood twists under your touch. veins alight as live wires. “i have all the time in the world.”

“But I have been nothing but a blight.”

“i love you as you are.”

you place your head over his chest.

the first thing that happens is the draft from his wing wrapping around your face. your vision colors red. branches of uneven membrane along the wing’s flesh. so tight around his chest you don’t see a glimpse of the outside.

the next is how vox wracks himself over the lava within his throat.

your free hand takes over attending to him as much as you can, swaddled close to his chest.

through the wing, you can see how he forces his head away when he spits a flamethrower.

when the unpredictable flames raise to you and the wing-shield, it suffocates against the flesh. you don’t feel a shred of heat.

each fire is a bellow of pain gone unacknowledged for years. you don’t think he realizes his instinct to cover you. it would be a welcome validation if he weren’t lost in his own grief.

you spend the night beside the voice demon, listening to the shred of his screams. when he finds the courage to open his eyes, he shrieks for every moment that passes with your hand upon him, and soul within your confines.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

✧. ┊ masterpost ✧. ┊ kofi

#vox akuma #vox akuma x reader #vox akuma angst #the demon hungers #luxiem #luxiem x reader #nijisanji en #nijisanji x reader #4402 writes #vox akuma headcanons #vox akuma imagines #the demon hungers spoilers #wrote this so sleepily… i hope. snnrk. hope it makes sense… nodded off a few times almost #it’s funny bc i told my friend i would go to bed early so i could take a break after all this hecticness! #…and then i wrote this. i’ll see if i can get a cuter monsterfucker appreciation post out at some point since clearly that was the goal #and failed

[dragongirl642]

H-heya! Could i ask for an shy female dragon shifter reader with Lady D. and Donna? Like she's heavily injured by hunters and had to crash/land into their home because of it? How would they react or would they even help her?

(I Love Dragons but see most of the time only male dragon shifters uwu

I feel like both their initial reactions would be very similar to the other Male Dragon Shifter meeting post, (a.k.a: This post).

Alcina Dimitrescu

At first, all Alcina sees is the giant hole in her castle walls and the giant lizard in her hall and she goes into attack mode.

She aims for your injuries, so you curl into a spiky ball of scales and flame.

Turns out your scales are Alcina proof so unless you uncurl and she can get at the flesh beneath, she can't hurt you.

She may lose a limb to your flames.

She is incensed at your presence and forbids her daughters from going near the hall.

But you are very warm, you're inner fire counteracting the cold winds coming in through the hole in the wall, and the Dimitrescu daughters are attracted to the giant warm cuddly lizard.

You warn them off a few times, but they keep spouting curious questions and attempting to come close that eventually, once your natural regeneration has sealed the surface of your wounds, you allow them to sit between the spines on your tail and examine your claws. (You can easily turn and burn them if they pose a threat.)

Alcina is furious that her daughters disobeyed her and approached you, and yet equally furious that you are entirely different from the mindless beast she'd warned them against.

When she sees your human form for the first time, I see Alcina doing a complete 180, (compared to her reaction in the other post).

Oh, you're a Pretty Maiden?!?!?! Well why didn't you say! Come closer, let me look at you Darling. *bites you! bites you! bites you!*

Yeah, she will pretty much try and get you to let your guard down and then go for the CHOMP.

You fight her off of course, half-shifting is easy for you.

Now you can be a fire-breathing menace AND roam the halls.

You have gone hunting a few times, and you brought your kill back to the castle. Dripping blood on the carpet and sitting in her great hall tearing into carcasses like an animal. (Her children love that you let them feast on the leftovers after they've sat for a few hours.)

Alcina is sulking. She can't kill you, she can't eat you, she can't just sit back and let you stay without at least making a show of removing you without losing the respect and support of Mother Miranda.

But then said Mother Miranda shows up and is promptly sent off with burned wings.

Okay, now she's a little worried. She is not certain she could beat you even in her full mutant form and her daughters adore you for SOME REASON.

After several weeks, she looses it, storms into the hall and unleashes a verbal lashing her ancestors would be proud of. The effect is only slightly reduced by the fact that she bursts into frustrated tears and flees the room to go dramatically wallow in her sorrow.

Okay, now you feel kind-off guilty. You did crash into this woman's home, burn her boss, monopolise her daughter's attention, and ruin the carpets. Maybe you should do something to make up for all that.

You repair the walls the best you can, replaster over scratches in the walls, hunt down the castles cleaning supplies and soak the carpets in a potion of bleach and foaming soapy water before hanging them from the battlements to dry.

Your final act of apology comes in the form of draining the blood from your kills and leaving them in sealed jugs by her bedroom door, handwritten notes tied to the handles.

You are a new exciting variable and her daughters try to help by going to their mother and telling her about what you're doing.

Every day, you wait outside her doors for hours waiting for her to emerge.

When she finally does, it is to your offer of a truce. You are being hunted and will not leave this very conveniently guarded hiding spot, however, you can be useful and help her with her food supply.

She is doubtful when presented with the blood of animals, but when you acquire human blood through negotiating trades with the villagers she slowly starts to change her tune.

You're a smart pretty lady and you have presented her with a charming little solution to the problem of the future dwindling supply of villagers to feed from.

Alright, Alcina has come to the decision to be the merciful, graceful mistress of the castle who allows a poor hunted lady to stay with her. (Keep telling yourself that Alcina).

After a few months, it starts to feel a little more comfortable.

After a few more, it starts to feel normal.

She caught herself running her hand down your scales once, marvelling at how the light reflected, (she will forever deny that she did that).

You start to lay down your claim and soon have built up a new hoard of trinkets, and maids, and mutants. The glittering gem crowning your hoard, is Alcina herself, not that she knows yet.

Once you've established yourself and Alcina doesn't outwardly reject your claim, you become quite the homemaker.

You are fierce and strong and loving.

You provide the warmest cuddles known to man, or mutant.

You cook for your new family, catering for their 'special' diet is a little easier with your own predilection to a carnivore diet.

Alcina will brag to the other Lords about "her darling", "the dimitrescu dragon", "the second dimitrescu lady," but only out of earshot of Mother Miranda.

Donna Beneviento

Pretty much the same reaction as the other post...except she's a bit braver about approaching you due to seeing your obvious injuries.

She has several dolls in attack mode ready to go, (not that they would work against your flame.

You know you could easily incinerate this woman but you attempt polite conversation through gritted fangs. You ask about her hobbies, favourite foods, favourite colours, etc..., and offer your own answers in return.

The talk calms her and she seems less frightened and more welcoming.

It takes a few days for her to really trust you.

Oddly enough you get the feeling she liked you a little more after Mother Miranda visited and berated her for not eliminating the threat (you) before being quickly chased of by a living flamethrower (also you).

When you shift to your human form to make it easier, she's surprised and immediately more comfortable with you.

Donna knows a lot about medicinal plants but zero about dragon biology. You know all about dragon biology and zero about medicinal plants. Together you make one whole doctor...and figure out how to make medicine for your wounds. It's patchy and a little funny-smelling but it does the job (at least you both think it does). To be honest, your natural regenerative capabilities take care of most of the damage.

Angie tries to play doctor too but is, admittedly, more of a hindrance than a help.

Your injuries are haphazardly patched and a good long sit by a lit fireplace does the rest.

You know your hunters are still out there, but this remote village is hidden and safe for now.

You decide to stay just until you need to move on.

Okay, Donna was not prepared for guests but now she has one.

She makes you some basic new clothes to cover you up and you collect firewood whenever she needs more.

After a while, she feels inspired by the way your scales gleam in the firelight and excited at the prospect of having a new friend to play dress up with, Donna offers to make you some dresses. Dresses with holes and pins to accomodate your wings and tail, delicate lace fingerless gloves allowing your claws to shine through.

You accept the gifts only because she seems so eager and it would be rude to deny your host, (not because she's cute).

You do what you can for her in return. As it turns out you can cook more substantial food than tea party sandwiches; which Donna definitely appreciates.

The dolls unnerve you, but you learn to live with them.

You install more lights in the manor and fix leaks in the roof.

There are long talks by the fireplace. She reads to you sometimes.

After a few months, you and Donna starts to build a comfortable rhythm.

After a few more, it starts to feel homely.

You attend a tea party she holds for the other Lords. When someone (Heisenberg) makes a comment that has Donna cringing, you growl, a loud deep vibration that (along with the glow in your eyes and fire shining through the skin of your chest) instills fear in all attending. Donna now has scary dog (dragon) priviledge.

You tell yourself your protectiveness is because she's your benefactor (totally not because you have a crush on the pretty, shy dollmaker with a voice like honey and temperament to match).

Okay, who are you kidding, you want to claim a new hoard here...you want to stay with her.

After a few accepted offerings of food made from your hunted game, a few accepted cuddles, and the painstaking labour of building and decorating a new conservatory with an unfolding roof cover for stargazing, (which Donna immediately hugs you in thanks and immediately outfits with a planter full of herbs), you consider your claim accepted.

You are fierce and strong and loving.

You provide the warmest cuddles known to man, or mutant, (or doll).

Once she feels comfortable enough and like she has permission, Donna is so sweet with you.

You compliment and build her up, and soon her confidence soars.

Donna goes from one of the weakest Lords to the strongest.

You burn the creepy baby monster in the basement, it's the one thing you couldn't live with.

#re8 headcanons #re8 #lady dimitrescu #alcina dimitrescu #re8 lady dimitrescu #re8 alcina dimitrescu #re8 donna beneviento #lady beneviento #re8 lady beneviento #donna beneviento

[glittergelpensblog]

In the Dark (I)

Eventual Azriel x Reader Witch!Reader Word Count: 3,009 words Summary: You were a witch made into High Fae by your family, kidnapped by the King of Hybern. After he attempts to use your power, you are saved by the Night Court Warnings: Kidnapping, murder, canon violence, graphic descriptions of death, torture, fire, scars, please let me know if I forgot anything! Note: Thank you so much for all of the love on this story! This is a lot of world building and seeing where the reader came from, but I have big big plans for this story, and have never been so excited to flesh a work out! Thank you again :)

Prologue

Chapter One

You sat in silence, swishing your fingers in the giant tub in what Rhysand called the Townhouse. 

The water was now cold, and tinged dark from all the dirt you had accumulated over the months in that cell. It took almost an hour to scrub off the caked dirt and blood that seemed to tattoo onto your body, and your skin was now red and felt raw. 

You couldn’t avoid speaking to the others for much longer.

You arrived at the Townhouse, after Mor dropped off the two Fae ladies she had grabbed, Nesta and Elain, at another home in a mountain. She gave you a brief explanation of who she was, and what had happened at Hybern, before she winnowed you to the Townhouse to meet the others. 

As soon as you arrived they all began bickering, and two wraiths, Nuala and Cerridwen, gently guided you upstairs, taking you to a room more extravagant than you had ever seen in your witch village. Nuala set a plate of food on the small desk in the corner before gesturing to the bathing room, then she walked through the wall and disappeared. 

The way you ate the dinner was embarrassing, the first real meal you had eaten in months. You devoured it so fast that you had thrown it up into the toilet. Your body wasn’t used to real sustenance after being fed stale slices of bread and water laced with fae bane for months. After you were done being sick, you found a note on the desk, telling you to come downstairs after you bathed and changed. 

You sighed, stepping out of the cold water and drying yourself. You made your way to the bed where you found an outfit laid for you on the bed, a knit sweater and a simple pair of jeans. You quickly dressed, and stepped into the hallway, unsure of which way to go before Cerridwen appeared, and guided you downstairs into the main living area. 

The bickering court was now silent as you entered the living room, and before you sat three of the people from Hybern. Rhysand, the High Lord sat next to Mor on the couch, and to her left was the man who had an arrow in his chest earlier, who you hadn’t had the chance to meet before he was whisked away by healers, along with the male with shredded wings. The latter  was absent, his injury too serious to be out of bed by now. In the armchair next to the sofa was a woman who appeared to be High Fae, but you knew wasn’t. You could sense her power from where you stood at the entryway, and her eyes gleamed pure silver, like mist moving behind glass. 

All of their eyes were on you as you stepped foot into the room.

“Y/N, come sit,” Rhysand spoke gently, gesturing to the plush sofa across from him and the others. You did as asked, sinking into the cushions before a plate of tea and pastries appeared on the table between the couches. Your stomach grumbled, but you ignored the pastries, pouring yourself a cup of tea in fear of the sickness that hailed your body from when you ate earlier. 

“This is Azriel,” He gestured to the winged man to the right, “And Amren.” He leaned his head towards where the silver-eyed woman sat.

You quietly spooned honey into the cup, stirring it as you sat back into the couch before meeting everyone's expectant eyes. “What do you want to know?”. You internally cringed at how weak you sounded, your voice shredded and raw from all of the screaming earlier.

“Tell us what you can bear.” Mor spoke softly, her warm brown eyes meeting yours, filled with such compassion you almost teared up, the most emotion you had seen in months.

“I don’t even know where to start.” Your voice cracked, and heat filled your cheeks. Embarrassment washed over you. You are not weak. You told yourself. You are not afraid. 

“The king said you were a Witch,” Rhysand prompted, “How is that possible?”

You swallowed, pushing down the lump in your throat, “Witches were never extinct,” You told the High Lord, “Yes, we were mostly gone after the war, our population was decimated. But we still exist.” 

“How did no one know?”

“We kept hidden,” You took a sip of your tea. “After the war, our ancestors migrated to an island off the coast of the mortal lands. We hid the island with magic, similar to a glamour. We– they wanted to stay hidden, and were tired of getting caught between human and Fae conflict.”

Fae, witch, the words felt lost in your throat. What even were you anymore?

“Then how did Hybern find you?” The one with wings asked. Your eyes snapped to him, and his hazel ones flickered in the reflection of the roaring fire to the left. Shadows swirled and danced behind him, blending in with the web of light and dark emanating from the flames. 

“I still don’t know, to this day.” You paused. “He would taunt me about how easy we were to find, but never how he did so. He invaded in the middle of the Night. He took me in my sleep, and made me watch as he killed my sister. Then he burned down my village, he made me watch that as well before I was knocked out. When I woke up, I was in the dungeons.” Blood roared in your ears at the memory, full of anger, your sister's mutilated body on the kitchen table, the screams of your village as they realized they were trapped inside the flames. You felt your power gurgling in your chest, and you shoved it down deep inside, trapping it behind the iron doors you imagined sat under your heart.

Not here, not now. 

They tensed at the pulse of power in the room, before Amren spoke, changing the subject, “The king said you were made into Fae, but not by the High Lords, nor the Cauldron. He said you were made by magic, girl. I’ve never heard of magic that can do that.”

You froze, images flashing in your mind from that night, that terrible, horrible night. You felt nauseous, but you swallowed down the bile rising in your throat, and held your chin high.

“A few years ago, my mother died of a strange illness, one we did not know how to treat with magic. While she was sick, my father searched for answers, and even went to the continent to try to find them. He went mad searching, trying to find any sort of magic that could heal her. But there was nothing he could do to save her. 

“After her death, he spiraled. While searching for a cure, he stumbled upon dark, ancient magic. Magic we didn’t know existed. After she died, he kept studying it, and began practicing it. My sister and I didn’t even realize that it was consuming him until it was too late, until we couldn’t pull him back. I tried to help, but she was scared that I would get hurt. She tried everything to stop him, but she couldn’t. He had become a different person, and was no longer the male that raised us. We could barely recognize him.

“He would practice the spells in the woods behind our home, always attempting to master his newfound magic. It was dark, and evil, and my sister didn’t know what to do, how to stop it.” 

You paused and took a sip of tea before you spoke the next part, before you told the court, complete and utter strangers, of the night that haunted your nightmares, of the night when you became an outcast from your village.

Your screams from the night that still echoed in your mind.

You can do this. You are not afraid.

“He found a spell that would turn the dead into Fae, and he wanted to use it on my mother, to try to bring her back. I don’t believe it would have worked on her, she had been dead for almost a year when he found it. But he had gone mad at that point, and nothing could stop him from trying to use it. But, he wanted to make sure he mastered it first, before trying it on her. So he decided to test it on me.”

Mor gasped, her slender hand reaching to cover her mouth. Azriel and Amren stiffened, and Rhysand stared at you, eyes wide with horror. “He killed you?”

You let a deep sigh fall from your lips. “Yes, he killed me. He knocked me out while I was sleeping, and took me to the woods. When I woke up, he was explaining the spell to me. There was nothing I could do. He paralyzed me by magic, and I was too weak at the time to undo it.”

You took in a harsh breath before you continued the story. “The spell required for the body to be drained of all blood, so it could be filled with blood of the Fae. I don’t know where he got the Fae blood from, there were none living on the island.

“So he killed me– he killed me by draining the blood from my body. He cut me from my jaw all the way down to the end of my wrist, and let me bleed out.” You pulled the neck of your sweater to show how the scar continued down your shoulder, the puckered skin disappearing under the knit fabric.. A constant reminder of your slow, painful, death, and the look in your father’s eyes as he watched.  “I begged him to stop, I tried to fight. But there was nothing I could do but watch him kill me. I was too weak to fight back, my magic wasn’t strong enough yet.”

Tears streamed down Mor’s face at the story, and you blinked back yours.

“I don’t know how he did it, but he replaced my blood with that of the Fae. When I awoke–  or came back to life, I was so angry, so, so angry. That he killed me, that he chose to use me as an experiment… I was blinded with rage.  But he did the spell incorrectly. Along with life, he breathed the magic into me– magic I didn’t know how to control. He could feel it, and as soon as he saw me…” You took a pause, attempting calm, deep breaths. 

“He knew what he had done, and tried to run away from me. But I was out of control, with new power I didn’t know how to get a hold of. Before I knew it, before I even knew what was happening, I killed him.” 

The group paled, and you sat in silence as they absorbed your words, your story. 

Your curse.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You sat at the luxurious dining table at the townhouse, slowly spooning porridge into your mouth in between sips of tea. You longingly eyed the coffee that sat in a metal carafe at the center of the table, the tendrils of steam dancing in the morning sun so temptingly. You were tired, and had yet another sleepless night. Coffee would keep you awake, keep you alert, keep you from falling into another nightmare-filled sleep. 

You gave into the temptation, reaching for the carafe before a wave of nausea rolled over you, and you dropped your hand to the table, pushing away your bowl of porridge. 

You had been at the townhouse for two days, and could still barely keep a meal down. 

Amren chuckled from the seat across from you, and flicked the page of her book with her mind. “You’re going to need to eat if you wish to fight.”

“I’m trying.” You retorted, gulping down the rest of your tea. 

The night after you explained everything to the inner circle, Rhysand offered for you to stay at the Library underneath the House of Wind, where dozens of Priestesses lived after being displaced from their homes, similar to you. It was a safe space, a refuge from the world as they healed from the traumas they endured. 

You immediately turned down his invitation.

“I’ve spent ten months locked in a cell, tortured by Hybern’s soldiers with orders to break me. I am not going to give them what they want. I am not going to run and hide.” You spoke, meeting Rhysands violet eyes before looking at the rest of the Inner Circle. He and Mor nodded at your words.

To their left, Cassian, whom you had just met that morning, smirked. “I certainly don’t expect you to. You put up one hell of a fight in that throne room.” Azriel nodded next to him, his shadows that were before lazily curling around his form now tucked tight against his body.

You tensed at the sentence, “I wasn’t going to let him whore out my magic.”

You wouldn’t allow him the victory of breaking you.

After that, Amren had offered training, a way to harness and hone in your power, to control it. She was also made, and although her powers were different from yours, her training was helping, or it felt like it did. 

You needed it to.

Because if it didn’t, if you couldn’t gain control of yourself… then maybe Hybern had succeeded. 

Maybe you were broken. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“You’re not focusing.” Amren’s sharp voice cut through the silence. 

It was a simple task, something that you had done many times before you were turned. All you had to do was set a simple piece of paper on fire. 

But what once easily came to you now felt impossible to grasp. 

“I am focusing!” You snapped, and the paper fluttered to the floor from where it was hovering in the air. Gods, you couldn’t even keep the paper afloat.

“No you are not.” Annoyance laced her voice, and you could tell she was getting fed up. And so were you. 

You had never felt so weak. 

Amren sighed, and your cheeks flushed as her eyes filled with what seemed to be pity. 

You didn’t need any more pity, you felt it at dinner every night with the Inner Circle. You weren’t sure if you could take anymore of it, the pitiful looks from Mor, the softened gaze of Rhysand, and sometimes even Cassian.

Amren and Azriel were the only two who hadn’t looked at you like a wounded animal. You couldn’t lose that. 

“Try it again.”

You closed your eyes, using your magic to make the paper float. You breathed, and searched, for minutes that felt like hours, until you found the power, deep inside you, and brushed against it, awakening a tendril of the dark magic.

You opened your eyes, keeping them locked onto the paper, and willed it to burn. 

The curtains to your right erupted in flames. 

A shout from the doorway gave away the secret audience of Cassian in the entrance, and he quickly grabbed the carafe of water on the table, dousing the fire that was filling the room with smoke. 

Anger and embarrassment took over your body as your face turned red. Had he been watching this whole time? As you failed the most menial of tasks? The flames erupted again at the thought, bigger and brighter than before. 

This was so humiliating.

Amren quickly extinguished the flames with her magic before turning to you. “Well, you set fire to something, girl.”

You let out a shaky breath, and your shoulders slumped in defeat. “What’s the point? What is the point of having all of this power, if I can’t even control it?”

“It comes with time, girl.” Amren said softly.

“You need to wield your power like a weapon,” Cassian said, his eyes meeting yours. “Picture a sword, how you would strike it. Where you’d point it. Focus all of that energy into it, then release.”

You blinked at his advice, eyes wandering to the siphons atop his hands, the ones that he told you helped control his power. He too, had once not been able to control his magic, and he also had to learn to hone it. You nodded slowly at him, and used your mind to raise the sheet of paper on the floor. 

You closed your eyes as you slowed your breath, picturing the sword in your mind, pointing towards the paper in front of you. You gathered the magic, honing it to flame, the flame that had once burned your village down, the ones you hadn’t been able to stop. You focused that flame, breathing it into the sword, the anger burning through it. 

Then, you released it. 

Smoke filled your nostrils and you opened your eyes, to see the flames licking the edges of  the paper, the corners turning into ash. Tears welled into your eyes, and you pushed them down. 

But you didn’t push down the smile that now graced your lips. 

“Thank you Cassian.” You whispered, and let go of the flame. 

“Why don’t you come to training with me and Az?” 

You quirked an eyebrow at Cassian’s offer. “Training, like, learning how to fight?”

“Training your body, gaining control over it, it helps with controlling your power, easing your mind.” Cassian said. “It also doesn’t hurt to know how to defend yourself.”

Defend yourself, as you hadn’t been able to months ago. Defend yourself, if your magic couldn’t.

You looked to Amren, who nodded her head in approval. “I’ll try it.”

“We meet at sunrise every morning at the House of Wind, you’ll find me and Azriel at breakfast to take you there. I’ll have Rhys get you some leathers.”

“Okay,” You nodded your head, and he smiled before bidding goodbye. 

You looked at the ashes on the ground, the burning piece of paper that lay before you. It quickly disappeared, and was replaced with a pristine, unburnt sheet. 

“Again.” Amren ordered.

You closed your eyes, and pictured the sword.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Tag list: @lizziesfirstwife @waytoomanyteenagefeels @starryhiraeth @knmendiola @bionic-donut @caosfanblr @lena-davina @starriestarlight @younxii @starsdoulikedem @lucyysthings @esposadomd @naturakaashi @carolinaflicker @missusbarnes-rogers @vlysseve @lollipop974 @whydohumansss @spaxxxi @graciereads @dumb-sailor-jay @jesssicapaniagua @we-were-beautiful @judig92 @littlemisslovestoread @toriluvsfics @nightless @cassiefromhell @in-luvais @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @poshestpigeon @alainabooks143 @princesslolaasworld @thelov3lybookworm @vickykazuya @fussel9913 @hayley-jadee @cleverzonkwombatsludge @hereticdance @kodokunarisu-blog @alainabooks143 @forsiriussake @fussel9913 @marvelouslovely-barnes @blurredlamplight @i-am-infinite @hells-sluttiest-new-arrival @the-hidey-hole

#acotar #acotar imagine #azriel #azriel imagine #azriel x reader #cassian #cassian imagine #cassian x reader #rhysand #rhysand imagine #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel x you #azriel fanfic #acomaf #amren #amren acotar #mor #morrigan #morrigan acotar #nesta archeron #elain archeron #feyre archeron

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note:

Chapter 10: Spool of green, spool of black.

Helaena did not tell you why your uncle had asked after you, and you spent the rest of your day pondering his intentions. You knew that if he truly wished to know of your wellbeing, there was nothing stopping him from breaking into your chambers again.

Your feet, although for the most part healed, were still sensitive to walk upon, though it was now a more manageable pain rather than the excruciating agony before.

The large gashes were now shallow wounds that no longer split with every step, or seeped blood into your bandages. The smaller cuts were now shiny pink scars, raised on the delicate flesh of your soles when your brushed you hands against them.

Your day was spent like most others, lounging in your chambers, reading, pacing and imagining the sweet images of the Hightowers demise. You found that the days spent in your chambers had made you grown more bitter and resentful of them.

How much longer would you hide away in your chambers? How much longer would you cower? Are you not the blood of the mighty House Targaryen? Are not not the blood of Old Valyria? You paced as you worked yourself up.

Approaching your door, you asked the Knight of the Kings Guard stationed outside to summon the maids to prepare for you for dinner. No more hiding, you chastised yourself.

Once Aella arrived first, you asked her to send word to your mother and father that you would be joining them to sup for the evening and not soon after, Saria arrived to tidy your appearance, re-braiding your hair and helping you to put your shoes on. 

The sun's last rays shone through your window, casting a soft warmth into your chambers. The fire was lit and crackled softly into the room. The air felt cool on your skin, and you were thankful for the long sleeved gown.

As Saria and Aella began to tidy your room, you dismissed them, asking for them to be back in your chambers later in the evening to ready you for bed.

Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon's chambers were not far from yours, sitting in the same wing of the Red Keep as you. As you walked you thought of the chambers. You had grown up in them and spent much of your time there. You wondered if Alicent had changed them to spite your mother or if it would be untouched like yours.

Once you arrived, your mothers knight announced your arrival to the room as you entered. As you looked about, you noticed the room was the same as before, unchanged by time or petty grievances, and was still how you remembered it as a child.

The furnishings were worn, deep reds, yellows and oranges adorning the decor. A large fireplace sat in the front of the room, its fire crackling loudly into the space, flames licking at the wood inside.

The windows and balcony were all open, letting a cool breeze pass through the room, the white curtains blowing softly with each caress of the wind.

The chambers layout was similar to yours. Sitting room at the fire, chaise and armchairs with a small table sat in front of the heat, an intimate dining table further back into the space, then towards the very end of the room was the bed, large closets on each side and towering art upon all the walls.

Your mother was sitting on a chaise, Joffrey on her lap whilst young Aegon III and Viserys II silver hair shone on the floor. Both of your younger brothers seemed to have fallen asleep whilst your mother had been reading to them.

Looking up at you, Rhaenyra gave you a wide and warm smile. Gently she placed Joffrey next to her and stood, walking towards you to hold you in her arms.

“My sweet girl, how are you fairing?” She asked, holding you at arms length looking you up and down, gently leaning in to kiss your cheek thrice.

“Far better than I was before, I found I've spent most of my days sleeping.” You kissed her cheeks as she began to slowly walk you over to the chaise.

Two of your mothers maids walked into the chambers and Rhaenyra asked them to put your younger brothers to bed in the conjoined room.

Scooping the two sleeping babes, the maids quietly walked them to their bedroom, whilst Joffrey kissed your mother goodnight and gave you a rough hug. Joffrey had always been a little shy, but his love for his family was shown in his actions rather than words.

“Come sit, there is much to discuss.” You mother spoke, patting the spot beside her.

“Prince Daemon should be here soon. He has been hovering around the King all day.” She chuckled, sitting gently against the plush pillows pulling you to sit next to her.

“I know Grandsire has missed father, you could see his eyes light up when the Prince entered the room. For all their faults, their bond is unbreakable.” You spoke gently. You knew the tension between the King and the Rogue Prince has been a long one, but deep down, they both loved each other dearly.

You observed your mother. Her dress was a deep black this evening, with yellow embroidery on the sleeves and hems. Her hair was more relaxed today than her usual tight braids, instead opting to have it flow down her shoulder with two simple braids pulling some hair to the back.

“Yes, well, faults not of our own….” She trailed off, thinking before continuing, “It is strange to be home at the Red Keep," She paused, "I am not even sure I can call it that anymore. Everything has changed. A once warm Keep is now cold. Even the air around us has changed.”

“My chambers have not changed too much, it has been kept mostly the same. I was expecting to enter and have the entire walls and ceiling painted green for my enjoyment.” You sarcastically hummed.

“I would like to think that it was the Queen's kindness that left our little pieces of home the same, but I feel as though it was most likely done out of cowardice, or lack of care.” Shaking her head your mother looked at you a bit more seriously, deeply sighing at you.

“How are your feet?” She asked, voice unwavering and stern.

“My feet? Mother, th-" Your heart started to race in your chest. 

“Do you think I am stupid?” She interrupted gently, her head cocked to the side.

“Of course not mother, I am j-“

“I know my daughter, and I can see when she is hurt. Although the Greens may not have caught on at breakfast, I certainly did. Then to have Jacaerys come to me concerned...” She trailed off, shaking her head before she reached forward, placing a gentle hand on your knee looking at you.

“You cannot lie to me. I did not come to you sooner as Jacaerys swore to me it was not serious.” She gave a soft smile, “Tell me this, was it Aemond who harmed you?” Tone serious again.

“No, of course not mother.” You lied, “He is nothing but empty threats. I broke a glass, and cut my feet the evening of our dinner. I had far too much wine, and was likely in the same state as Aegon.” 

Your explanation was stiff and felt rehearsed, “I promise you mother, he did not touch a hair on my head, lest he feel the wrath of father.” You smiled.

“He should be more worried about me rather than his uncle Daemon. You however, would do best to avoid your uncle.”

“I have been in my room for days, mother, I am not seeking him out.” You argued, your patience waned.

“Yes, but much like your father, you do goad him. Do not poke the beast my sweet, lest you feel his fangs. I suspect Alicent is still holding onto some twisted notion of justice for his eye.”

“I thought I saw that you were both trying to make amends?” You steered the conversation away from Aemond.

“I will admit, I have missed how we used to be when we were younger, but she is not the same girl. I fear the Hightower’s carry blood that is easily tainted.” 

Clearly wishing to change the conversation, you steered away from talks of the Queen and her son. You asked her how your siblings have been without you, and if she had been on dragon back around the Red Keep. She insisted you take Lucerys out to fly with Sȳndor, and you swore that you would.

Your father joined you shortly after, not announcing himself as he snuck into the room through the back of a painting near your mothers bed. You nearly shrieked when you heard him behind you.

People would often say that your father moved like smoke, quietly, quickly and then gone without a trace.

Prince Daemon placed a soft kiss atop your head, murmuring 'daughter', before coming to kiss your mothers face. The Rogue Prince continued on, walking to the dining table where he poured himself a large goblet of wine, gazing at you both as he sipped deeply before pouring another, handing it to you. 

“Prince Jacaerys has been hysterical these past days without you y/n.” He drawled, gracefully sitting in a large red armchair opposite the chaise you and your mother sat.

“With the way he behaved, one would think that something terrible had happened.” He raised one brow at you and sipped at his goblet, “Dont tell me my drunken cunt of a nephew has been harassing your chambers?” 

Your mother snorted. Shaking your head he continued, 

“No? Then what about the one eyed wretch?” 

Shaking your head once more you spoke “Neither father, Jacaerys is just overly protective.” 

He hummed, speaking as though he was almost uninterested, “Regardless of what your uncles did or didn't do, my brother has been complacent, letting them grow into whining cunts like their mother. Aegon is a coward, but Aemond is emboldened in his treason knowing he has that green cunt of a whore standing behind him, whilst she feeds my brother full of milk of the poppy."

You stiffen. Daemon paused, took an angry sip of his wine, then continued, "Put that boy in his place, or take his other eye.” 

“Daemon.” Your mother growled.

Your father held one hand up in surrender, changing the subject to tell you both of how the King's health continued to deteriorate.

“I would not be surprised if the Hightower cunts are slowly poisoning him.”

“That would be treason.” You suggested.

“Indeed, but never have I witnessed my brother so weak of mind and body. They keep him complacent on the Milk of the Poppy, making decisions for him, ruling the Kingdoms in his name.” 

You sniffed. You had been given milk of the poppy every evening. Did the Hightower's know? Were they keeping you complacent? Was this Aemond showing his hand? You knew from that moment on, you would refuse milk of the poppy, lest you become like the King.

“Have you been rotting in your chambers all this time Princess?”

You give your father a dirty look, “I have been ill.” 

He huffs out a small laugh. He sees straight through you.

“So you say, but Sȳndor has missed you greatly. His temper has been almost unmanageable,” A beat, “quite like yours.” He added teasing you. 

“Oh, and I am sure it is not from seeing your great, ugly face, hovering around him daily, father.” You teased back.

You knew the Prince had a deep love for Sȳndor, much like his love for you. Your father would have been checking him daily whilst you were healing. 

Putting a hand on his chest, “You wound me daughter, after all I have done for you. Perhaps I will marry you off.” 

“You two are insufferable.” Your mother added.

Maids began to bring in your dinner and you all went to be seated. You three sat and ate, speaking lazily of the day's events, your parents catching you up on the days passed.

Your father asked you to join him in the future to read in the library. There were many books you had no access to read for years, and you both planned to do some revision. Your father asked about your mother and Alicent spending time together.

“And what of Alicent? You two have been cozy as of late.” Your father mocked, swirling his cup, and brushing silver strands behind his ears. “Anyone would think that you have made amends.”

“We have not made amends,” She spoke in exacerbation, “but I can see that she is trying… In her own way. Only a fool would continue to irk her and her kin,” she sharply looked to you, then back to your father, 

“She has my father wrapped around her finger.” 

“Yes well, it’s unfortunate that it’s not the finger on the arm that he lost.” Daemon replied, his sarcasm ever present, despite all knowing the grief he has seeing his brother so ill. 

“Do not jest. We all know that the whispers at court come from her. That she is not so secretive of her disdain for us. They all still question our sons' blood. She still declares war on us daily! Do you not see the castle is donned in Hightower Greens instead of Targaryen Red?” And for the first time in your life, your mother looked nervous. 

“I fear she may question Jace, Luc and Joffrey's legitimacy. Even yours y/n. Aegon and Aemond openly call them bastards because their Dowager Queen mother does. This is something we should all be concerned about.”

“My Lady Wife, as long as there is still air in my lungs, and blood in my veins, no harm will come to you or our children. As useless as he is now, my brother will not allow those righteous cunts to question anything. We are safe.” 

“For now.” Your mother says grimly. “That is why I must stay close to the Queen, attempt to mend what has been broken. I see no other way.”

“Then it must be done, by any means.”  Your father added, eyes sliding over to you.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Tag List:

@izzicle @ej-shitchats @may-machin @alegria1580 @witchy-jadda @videovampire @inkdelicious @queteimporta39

#aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond x reader #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond smut #hotd smut #dark!aemond targaryen x reader #dark!aemond x reader #dark!aemond targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #dark!aemond #dark!fic #fic #series #aemond one eye #aemond the kinslayer #aemond #rhaenyra targaryen

[sapphire-writes]

I have a request. I’m thinking Aemond x Rhaenyra’s daughter. She is a sword fighter and beats him. Do whatever else you’d like I just love this concept.

An Unlikely Opponent ~ Aemond x Velaryon(Strong)!Reader

note: I love the idea of Aemond getting humbled, especially by his niece 😏 hope you enjoy lovely! 💚 masterlist word count: 0.6k disclaimer: reader is described with Strong features (hair/eyes)

Aemond does not believe it at first when he sees her in the training yard early one morning. Her dark hair was braided expertly down her back, and her dark eyes narrowed in concentration as she swung her sword. 

The blade clashes against that of Ser Criston, who is covered in a layer of sweat. The daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen smirks, before lunging at him once more. She is always the aggressor in her movements, a lithe snake cornering a mouse. 

“Come to train, Uncle?” she calls, spotting Aemond’s harsh glare. The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk, as he walks over to where she stands. He glances down at her and watches her chest rise and fall with her breath. It is this close that he can see the resemblance to that of Harwin Strong. 

“Fight against you would be little challenge, niece,” he sneers and the girl before him blushes scarlet with anger. Ser Criston sheaths his sword, backing away from them. She points her chin up at him. 

“Pick up your sword then, uncle,” she challenges, and so Aemond does. He retrieves a sword and jumps from one foot to the other, preparing. Aemond enters every fight as though it shall be his last, even in the training yard. 

He turns and watches his niece, sword held in front of him as they begin to dance around one another. As he expects, she strikes first, slamming her blade into his. The sound echoes off the walls of the training yard in the early morning air. 

Aemond must admit, she is a fast little creature. She moves like quicksilver through the air, not letting up for a moment. All Aemond can do is block her attacks, and hope she tires quickly. But she does not. The blood of the dragon runs thickly within her veins, the fire within her only further stoked during her years at Dragonstone trained by her stepfather Daemon. 

“If you are on the defensive,” Daemon had told her, “you put yourself at the mercy of your opponent. Shall you put your faith in someone’s mercy, daughter?”

Aemond twirls away from her, her sword nearly missing his head. He spins behind her, swiftly kicking her so she tumbles to the ground. His niece releases a frustrated growl, before pushing herself back to her feet, facing him in a crouch. 

The pair circle each other, and Aemond prepares to attack, having put a pause on her offensive strategy. His sword clangs against hers as he forces her to back up, defending herself. As he spins his sword ready to hold it to her neck and end the fight, she spins, braid flying like a whip behind her. She slams her legs into his and Aemond falls to the ground. She is on him in an instant, her cloak fanning out behind him as though wings. 

She locks his sword-wielding hand under her boot, pinning his wrist to the ground. Her sword is aimed at his neck, the sharp tip of the blade pressing into his flesh. She smirks wickedly. 

“Shall we duel till first blood, uncle?” she asks in a raw voice, as the tip of her blade digs deeper. Aemond’s chest rumbles with a growl, his face a mask of rage. This only makes her grin widen. 

“Surely you do not mean to give up so easily?” she challenges, leaning into him. Her boot nearly cracked the bones in his wrist. A faint blush coats Aemond’s pale cheekbones, his mouth a tight line. Aemond can feel her hair tickling his face as she whispers to him. 

“Shall we spar again?”

#sapphire requests #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond imagine #aemond drabble #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x niece #aemond x niece #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond fic #aemond x strong!reader #aemond x velaryon!reader #aemond targaryen x strong!reader #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #hotd

[angel-of-the-moons]

Local Flavor

Poe Dameron x Fem Twi'lek!Reader

Summary:

On a solo job to Ryloth to pickup a shipment for The Resistance, Poe runs into an unexpected hiccup. With his only transport damaged and BB-8 offline, Poe is forced to stash his cargo and venture out into the harsh Rylothian landscape, where he finds you. Or, more accurately... you find him.

TW/CW: Near death, infection, fever, dehydration, fluff, Poe is a disaster pansexual idiot, BB-8 is his son fight me. Bugs!!! Big!!! Bugs!!! Strip poker (technically), everybody checks everyone out, but nothing explicit happens.

A/N: It's about time I wrote something for Poe! I can finally do the idea I had now that I thought up a plot! This fic takes place before The Force Awakens! (I hope you guys like the reference I put in there! Dun dun duuuun!)

And like, I just wanted an excuse to show Leia being the "team mom".

Asdfghjkl god this is a long-winded one but I didn't wanna break it up into parts; and the ending feels a bit lacking, but i loved writing it.

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It was supposed to be a routine supply run for some extra credits for the Resistance.

Go to the location, pick up the package from the dead drop, bring it to his ship, and go deliver it to his contact for payment, then come on home.

What he didn't anticipate? Was the pack of gutkurr that ambushed he and BB-8, his droid companion after they spent almost a full day digging up the concealed cache.

The large carnivorous insects ambushed them on the way out of a rocky canyon bend, jumping from the well-camouflaged crevices they concealed themselves in and onto the speeder he'd paid next to nothing for.

It was a junker, for sure, but the fuel cells and thrusters were good enough to do the trip he needed it for. He wouldn't be able to fit his ship into these narrow twists and turns even if he tried.

Maybe if he had his X-Wing, but that would have been too high-profile for this run, which is why he had to settle for a simple, tiny cargo freighter.

But while on the ground he needed something more maneuverable. Hence that kriffing speeder.

As soon as one of the gutkurr landed on the hood, the thin metal folded in, the inner workings of the speeder sputtering and erupting into smoke as the sickle-like claws of the creature dug into the metal for better security as it snapped its jaws in Poe's direction.

He had to bob and tip away and try to see around the animal, while BB-8 shocked it if it got too close to Poe. Always his best sidekick, that droid was his partner in crime.

But try as the little droid might, he just was no match when the speedier just died, unable to take the strain anymore as the electrical system short-circuited and send sparks of light arcing every which way, sending the droid's head spinning with a high pitched "beep-wheeeeep!" before completely stilling.

The nose of the speeder was forced down, digging a gouge of dry craggy soil until it pitched forward because of the sheer weight in the front from Poe, the gutkurr, and the cases of cargo strapped to the sides.

Poe was sent flying through the air, just narrowly dodging the snapping maw of the gutkurr as it rolled back to its feet, a piece of jagged metal jabbing into its flesh where the natural armor plating had gapped.

Poe spun around, both blasters drawn as the rest of the pack caught up, salivating at the prospect of a fresh meal.

A big, handsome, juicy one, if Poe actually had to brag about it.

He'd tried to fire at them, but his blaster bolts simply bounced right off their thick carapaces.

Kriff.

He fired again, and once more the red bolts fizzed off the shells and into the canyon walls, sending shards of chalky rock and dust raining down on them.

"Kriff!"

There were three of them.

Three of them versus one of him. It may have been a bit more even had BB-8 not been fried by the overload to his system, but right now it was down to just what little he had on him to fight. And it wasn't much. He had a few grenades... but were they enough to get through their carapaces when his blaster couldn't?

The creatures all hissed as they slowly advanced on him, snapping their maws and growling deeply to intimidate him into turning and running away, just so they could strike at him from behind.

Poe was reckless, but not stupid.

Okay, well maybe there was that one time on Corellia, but--

He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth as he slowly put one foot in after the other, backing away as carefully as possible with no sudden movements.

"Okay, buglies... Easy, there..." Poe said gently to them, his dark eyes darting around frantically for an out.

Firing his blasters was pointless, it bounced right off the ugly shells--

Wait.

His eyes quickly raked up the sides of the craggy rocks towering on either side of them. Maybe...

Ah... screw it.

Poe backed further from the speeder, leading the nasties away from his downed speeder and best pal.

If he timed it right... Then maybe he could pull this trick off.

"Come on, that's it... come get a nice juicy bite of some Dameron steak..." He continued to talk to himself as his hand slowly lowered his other blaster, letting it hang loosely from the worn leather strap. His fingers deftly found their way to the round objects in one of the pockets of his belt and he pulled one out, his thumb flicking the arming switch.

His feet moved beneath him in a blur.

In a second he was able to toss a grenade at the feet of one of the gutkurr, the creatures snarling and hissing at the object before it detonated, sending shards up through the softer shell of the underbelly through one of them, killing the creature with a thunderous boom and crack as the carapace gave way beneath the force of the explosion.

Poe had thrown himself backwards as the explosion tossed one of the remaining two insectoids against the canyon wall, disorienting it as the other lunged for Poe, snatching his leg between his jaws and crunching down.

Either the gutkurr didn't intend to rip his leg off or it was knocked off its senses by the blast, he didn't know. The searing pain as the animal's fangs shredded through his leather boot and ripped into his skin, sending hot gushes of bright red blood out onto the yellowish sand below.

Poe cried out, gritting his teeth and blinking back tears as he raised his blaster again, this time pressing the barrel straight against the eye of the beast; the white-hot bolt burning right through to the brain, killing it with a double-tap of the trigger.

Once it slumped to the side, Poe scrambled away once more, grabbing another grenade from his pouch and tossing it to the last surviving gutkurr.

He rolled into his side and covered his head as it detonated, sending chunks of rock crumbling from the canyon walls, falling and crushing the gutkurr beneath the weight of the stones.

Once the dust cleared, Poe laid back in the sand and heaved heavy breaths, sweat soaking his clothes as the adrenaline coursed through his body.

He managed to force himself to his feet and hobble back to his crashed speeder. His first action was to pull BB-8 free from the socket and proceed to check him over.

Upon seeing the scorch marks, Poe's brows pinched up and his heart fluttered.

"Oh, buddy..." He breathed as he leaned in, pressing his forehead to what would be the spherical droid's face.

"Don't worry," He promised. "I'll get us out of here. And then... we're getting the hell off of Ryloth."

Poe carefully set his droid pal to the side and began scrambling for his medical kit.

When he found the busted metal tin, he cringed when he saw the contents. One singular bacta patch and a bunch of bandages.

Seriously? What had he been thinking! The General told him he needed to keep a fully stocked kit on him, but did he listen? Noooooo.

"C'mon, General. It's me." Poe grinned at her. "How often do I get shot?"

She pursed her slightly wrinkled lips and crossed her arms, her brow quirking upwards skeptically, her bright beautiful brown eyes locking with his own.

"Do you want me to count on both hands or use my toes, too? Because I'd still run out if I tried to count."

Damn, the woman had been right. Again. He had half a mind to wonder if she didn't see a vision of him getting shot before this run, and reminded him solely because of that.

He read in a holo once that Jedi could use the Force to heal wounds, and he was currently fresh out of Jedi.

The throb in his leg sent fresh tears surging up to dew on the edges of his eyelashes as he dropped down.

Taking a piece of the cargo mounting that had broken off during the crash, Poe used his knife in his other boot to slice the remainders of his pants leg away and carefully toe'd the boot off his foot so he could better assess the damage.

And yeah, it was bad. He needed a medical droid or some kinda doctor, fast. With how bad the lacerations to the flesh and muscle, infection would be a death sentence. From a simple glance, even he could tell his tibial and fibular arteries weren't damaged (thank the Force) because of the gaps that were between the gutkurr's fangs.

But the force of the bite alone at least fractured his tibia, maybe even broke his ankle.

Kriff.

Poe ripped the foil packet containing the pitifully tiny bacta patch and pressed it down over the biggest hole in his leg.

Hell, if it couldn't fix it all, it was better it fix some than none.

He winced as the cold gel touched the open wound, and rifling through the kit once more provided him with some much-needed sterile gauze. No antibacterial gel however, so the risk of infection was still there. Especially from the saliva of that nasty critter alone.

"Beggars can't be choosers, Poe..." He grunted to himself as he broke another loose piece of metal from the cargo mounting and lined them both up, struggling to wrap them as tight as possible on either side of his leg so he could make a field splint.

He gripped the sides of his speeder and groaned as he felt his adrenaline wane as he looked at the wreckage.

Well... now he had another problem.

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By another graced miracle, Poe was able to create a sled that he was able to drop the crates of cargo onto, as well as his precious droid friend.

After he stashed and concealed the cargo in a small cave, Poe took stock of what little provisions he had, which consisted of some pre-packaged meals and two or three water capsules.

Barely enough to survive long; but, he remembered the way out of the canyon. There was a forest or a jungle on the fringes of the desert, not far from where he'd come in... Maybe he'd have a better chance of surviving. Maybe...

Poe talked to BB-8 as he dragged the offline droid behind him on the sled, murmuring stupid jokes and ideas about the shenanigans they'd get up to once they were home free. And about the ear-bending lectures the General would give him.

He realized though, after two days, that he was hopelessly, terribly lost. His water was running low, his food rations were okay because of the portions he limited himself to, but once the fever set in, the logical side of Poe's brain told him he was going to die an inglorious death in the middle of nowhere, thanks to a bum leg and a bacta patch that did a piss poor job.

Poe kept going until he lost track of time, walking on and on until he collapsed, face first into his own tracks, shortly lamenting his own life choices as he drifted from the conscious world.

Man, did the universe have a twisted sense of kriffing humor.

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It was a simple day for you. You were on your way back from picking clean a crashed Republic-Era ship for parts to bring back home to improve some of your farming equipment. Maybe you could catch some spare credits to stash in your emergency pouch beneath the floorboards in your bedroom.

Your blurrg, Kari, crooned deeply as she pawed at the rocky sand with her stumpy legs. You sighed, adjusting your sun visor back down to shield your eyes from the harsh light of your homeworld's star. It was an unusually clear day for this time of year, and the sun was especially unforgiving. You couldn't wait to get into the safety of the treeline and back to your meager little farm in the forest.

"C'mon, Kari. The sooner we can get home, the sooner I can get this cart off you." You say, leaning down to pat her, one of your lekku falling over your shoulder to dangle down, the tip curling slightly.

Sometimes you envied how humans could cut their hair, but if you cut your lekku, you were as good as handicapped, with how sensitive yours were to touch. Yeah, your head-tails were longer than average, and irritating, but hey, they were yours.

The sun gleamed off your sweat-soaked skin beneath your fatigues as you nudged Kari with your heel in the stirrup to get her to continue moving.

But once again, the stubborn she-beast refused to move, rumbling deeply in protest as she shook her stubby little head.

You grit your teeth and squint against the harsh sun, and that's when you see it. Your other animal companion, a can-cell, Cviki, circling overhead, his iridescent wings fluttering against the updrafts, the sun glimmering off his bright blue-green carapace as he made another aerial pass.

You frowned. There should be nothing in that canyon except the roving pack of scavenging gutkurr you have long known to avoid. Growing up in Ryloth, you knew Twi'leks were tasty snacks for the large insectoids. So why was Cviki circling like something interesting was there? There couldn't possibly be people, even the smartest smugglers knew it was dangerous in those canyons, all the locals avoided them with good reason.

You click your tongue and jerk the reins, "Alright, ma sareen. We'll go see what has you both so interested."

You bring your fingers to your lips and make a high-pitched whistle. The tune Cviki understood as "I'm coming, be careful" since you'd raised him from a larvae.

Maybe whatever was in the canyon was worth some credits in salvage?

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You carefully marked your path into the narrow canyon as Cviki led you from above, knowing full well not marking your trail was a death wish to the unprepared.

But you were anything but unprepared.

Your lekku flopping in the breeze as Kari galloped through and in-between the canyon walls, you make an audible gasp as you yank the reins on Kari's harness, squeezing your feet instinctively in a command to stop.

A crashed speeder of some sort (honestly it probably looked better in the ground than when it was running) and the rotting corpses of three gutkurr lay in the craggy soil, smaller scavengers already hard at work picking the remains clean.

Living gutkurr smelled bad enough, but their dessicated corpses were horrible.

You dismounted Kari, patting her flank as you walked by, pulling your long blaster rifle from its sling low on your hips as you carefully walked around the wreckage, poking the twisted metal with the barrel of your rifle just in case.

Upon further inspection, you see nothing of value. Not even the droid that was surely busted judging from the scorch marks in the docking port.

Damn shame. A droid was just the thing you were missing to help out on your farm. Parts from whatever droid had been docked there really would have helped finish up the one you had in pieces back in your workshop.

Oh, well...

You kept looking around, noting that there was not only no sign of a droid, but no sign of the pilot of the speeder. You shoulder your rifle again and kneel down, touching the soul with your fingertips as you study the boot prints that had almost been fully covered by the drifting sands.

"Ah, hells." You mutter as you stand. Some poor fool had been sent on a fool's errand by some smuggler.

You turn, pushing your other lekku back over your shoulder as you whistle for Kari to approach. Cviki had stopped his flying to stick to one of the rocky walls, chittering down at you curiously.

You snap your fingers as you mount your blurrg once again, and whistle sharply at Cviki.

"Wachamio!" You shout up at him in Ryl, pointing down the canyon. "Let's go see if that poor sod is still breathing!"

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Yeah, he was breathing all right. Breathing and feverish. Hell, when you caught up to Cviki you had to swat at his beak when he picked up the human man's uninjured leg in his mouth and tugged, playfully trying to see if he would play.

Yeah... he was the guy who fought those gutkurr, all right. He got damned lucky.

"Oh, kriff." You sighed, kneeling next to him as he weakly swatted at you, his eyes dry and crusted closed. You could tell by the sweat and mucus that he was battling an infection, most likely from the deep injury to his leg. He probably got bit by that gutkurr; everyone knew to immediately disinfect any bites--if you survived an encounter with a gutkurr that is--because of the bacteria that lived in gutkurr saliva. It was a death sentence to anyone without proper medical supplies.

And when you'd looked inside of the medical kit at the wreckage, you could see he had none.

'Equal parts desperate and lucky.' You think to yourself as you effortlessly (and gently) wipe the crust from his eyes.

"Nu nala quin-nala wilo?" You ask him.

"Whuh--?" He rasped, his lips cracked and split from dehydration.

You roll your eyes with slight exasperation. The man was delirious, of course he wouldn't be able to understand you right now. And, for all you knew, he couldn't even speak Ryl.

"I'm going. To help. Youuuuu." You emphasize slowly and loudly in Basic as his head rolls around and he mumbles incoherently.

"Ugh, you better be worth it." You grunt, whistling for Kari to come closer so the cart was next to you.

Kriff, that man was all dead weight, you felt your muscles strain as you dragged him onto the cart that was still hooked to Kari. You had to shove your meager salvage off to the side to make room for him and his little BB-model astromech.

At least it wasn't a total bust, if this guy died, maybe you could get his droid back up and running to work for you. But those were thoughts for later.

Right now you had some dumb human to lug back home and try to save.

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Ugh... The only thing Poe knew was that he hurt. He hurt worse than that time he was tackled by that besalisk in that one cantina...

A drunken dare, mind you, but he still got flattened by the man's weight alone. There was still probably a dent in that cantina wall to this very day.

His head pounded, but he managed to drag his eyes open and force himself up with his palms.

His muscles ached and his skin hurt. He was shirtless and dressed down all the way to his undergarments.

Poe dropped back onto the bed he was resting on. It was comfortable, very much so; much more than the bunks on the ships and in the barracks he'd been hopping to and from the past few years.

So someone had saved his stupid kriffing ass, but he couldn't remember anything concrete.

He dropped his hand onto his forehead, the skin on his body peeling and flaking away as the sunburn healed; thinking back hard.

The last thing he remembered was his vision clearing somewhat, and then a bright light.

Wait...

He remembered a voice. A woman's voice, talking in a language he wasn't sure he was familiar with.

"Man... must've been an angel..." He chuckled sardonically, his voice cracked and throat dry.

Poe winced and looked to the bedside, seeing a glass of water next to him on the small table. Instinctively, he grabbed it and chugged it faster than a pint of cheap weequay beer.

By the Force, it felt amazing to finally have something wet his parched throat.

He turned his head when he heard whirring and a rolling sound approach the room, and a grin broke out on his face as the curtain was pushed open and a certain round little astromech rolled into the room with him.

"Aw, I knew I'd recognize the sound of those servos anywhere! BB! C'mere, you little--" He grunted, rolling off the bed and biting hit bottom lip as his injured leg hit the wooden floor.

BB-8 made several high pitched beeps and whirs in a chastising manner.

"I know, I know, but c'mere, you little cannonball!" Poe laughed through the pain, wrapping his thick arms around the round little droid as he trilled happily at his companion's better spirits.

BB-8 chirped and beeped again.

"Oh, my leg? It hurts like hell, where are we?" Poe asked, looking around. This was clearly somebody's bedroom, in some kind of small, prefab house that had been patched many times over. Probably purchased at a scrap yard. Hah. Like that kriffing speeder he wasted his credits on.

BB-8 whirred as he rolled about the room, making various noises as he explained to his human friend the situation.

"An infection?" His thick brows shot up. "Damn. Please tell me I looked beautiful when I went down?"

BB-8 stopped dead in his tracks, and the only part of him that moved was his head, and he made a few beeps.

"Okay yeah I knew you were out, it was rhetorical. Who do you think dragged you through that canyon?" Poe sighed, shaking his head, his sweaty curls dangling.

BB-8 tweeted in reply.

"A woman? Wait, so I wasn't hallucinating that part?" Poe blinked at the tiny droid as he wheeled his way up to him once more, bumping into him a few times affectionately.

"Okay, yeah, I get it. I owe the lady. Definitely owe her if she fixed you up, little buddy." Poe smiled warmly, patting the droid's chassis sweetly.

He was so caught up in the reunion with his partner that he almost jumped out of his skin when heavy bootsteps halted in the doorway and the curtain was pulled back, revealing... you.

Hot, gorgeous, sweaty and badass you. You were covered in grime and dirt from working the field you had and fixing your tiller that had crapped out on you. Hot damn, you were probably the hottest Twi'lek he'd ever seen, even your head-tails looked absolutely luscious.

You had initially sent BB-8 inside to fetch a tool, and when he hadn't returned you came inside to see why.

You tugged off your rawhide gloves and leaned in the doorway, smirking at the human as you shoved your gloves into the waistband of your pulled-down coveralls.

'C'mon Poe, put on the charm...' He chastised himself.

He cleared his throat and gave you his best debonair smile along with his signature quirked brow and squinted eyes; the smile that had won him the companionship from many women (and guys and others in-between) throughout the galaxy.

But he couldn't fathom the fact that he looked positively pathetic with a kriffed up leg, lying half-naked on your bedroom floor.

That is... until you broke out laughing, and BB-8 spun in a circle, joining in on your revelry at his attempt at flirtation.

Poe sighed deeply, dropping his cocky expression. "Eh, so... Uh... you're the lady who I remember from the canyon, right?"

You nod, your lekku quivering from within the soft leather quiver you'd bound them in, "Yana."

Poe blinked up at you. You did speak Basic just then, right? His hearing just messed up for a second? Right...

"So, on behalf of... well, me and my little friend here, thank you for saving us!" He grins awkwardly. "What's your name, miss..?"

You smirk again and utter something, your name, perhaps? And then ask, "Zul nala z'rate nala quora?"

BB-8 speaks to you for Poe when he doesn't answer, merely giving you a concerned look as he began to fear he was stuck with a woman who didn't speak Basic. He really needs to brush up on his xeno-linguistics...

You click your tongue and shake your head, "Su'un na, mesh'e yahte." You roll your eyes and tip your head to the side and tell him your name, this time clearly.

"Oh, man, am I happy you can understand me." Poe grinned. "Uh... Can you... help me off the floor? Please?"

"Yahte." You sigh deeply, walking over to him.

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The man you'd saved was someone called "Poe Dameron" a supposed "master pilot" for some "resistance". When Poe mentioned your skills as a medic and your ability to patch droids, he even hurled the suggestion to you that you join up.

You refused.

"What? Why?" Poe asked incredulously, setting his fork down on your tiny table as you both picked at your humble meal.

"Because I saw enough fighting when the Empire remnants sacked my hometown when I was a small child. They did it out of sheer spite for General Syndulla's role in the destruction of the last Death Star. I lost both of my parents, I lost my grandmother. If it wasn't for Numa saving me from the rubble I would have had nothing." You say, your lekku trembling at the memory of your home being blasted to smithereens.

Poe wilted. The two of you were close in age, the two of you were young enough and old enough to remember the Death Star, the war, the people you loved...

And, yeah, he understood your reasoning. Why get swallowed up by the war that devoured your family in front of you, when you can be a hermit, farming healing herbs and delivering produce and salted meats to one of the smaller towns further north?

"Okay... I'm sorry." Poe said, his eyes downcast as his own sour memories played back in his mind.

"No, no..." You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. "I shouldn't have blown up on you like that. Kriff, I swear, living in the woods shortens my temper."

Poe smiled at you and stretched out his leg beneath the table, the brace you'd rigged up for him squeaking as he bent his knee.

"How's the leg?" You pipe in.

"Oh, it's definitely better. Whatever kinda magic plants you got, they're certainly doing the trick!" Poe grinned at you.

"It's not magic. It's just natural medicine." You waved your fork at him. "And don't forget, you owe me for using half my stash of bacta to help fix your leg. You still got a few weeks to pay off that debt to me, Mor'ski."

Poe held up his hands innocently, grinning sideways at you. "Heyyy... I'm a man of my word! And the deadline on that shipment is... Well it technically doesn't have one."

"Did you ever think that it didn't have one because your contact knew sending people into those canyons was a death sentence? Because they knew odds of one person surviving in that canyon were like, maybe 2 to 20?" You snort. "Sounds to me that the people who hired you have been feeding people to the gutkurrs until somebody could finally nab that cache."

Poe blinked and you could easily tell that the thought had never crossed his mind.

Yahte.

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"Careful, Mor'ski." You snort, leaning on the fence as Kari bucks Poe off her saddle once again; before shuffling on to drink from her trough. BB-8 makes loud beeping and trilling as he spins in a circle, enjoying some humor at Poe's expense.

"Ugh!" Poe groaned.

Kari huffed and made a short bellow, trotting back around to nudge Poe with her flat snout.

Poe pats her as he sits up, "Okay, you like me but not enough for me to ride you? I mean I knew my charm worked on the ladies, but c'mon, I can't even stay on you for five seconds!"

"That's because I've raised her almost directly from birth, Poe." You grin victoriously before clicking your teeth, uttering a few words in Ryl before Kari abandons Poe altogether to rush up to you for affection.

"That's it, ma sareen." You coo at her.

"Uhh!" Poe scoffs as he stands up, dusting off the old worn pants you'd loaned him, his leg brace creaking as he walked over to you.

The damage Poe had sustained to his leg from the gutkurr was bad. Bad enough that even your small stash of bacta patches (some of which were probably past their best by date...) couldn't heal all the damage or regenerate properly. Or perhaps it was from the bacteria eating away at his flesh when you found him. You weren't sure, but the man would walk with a slight gait for the rest of his life.

But of course, knowing Poe, he would use it to his advantage just to cock his hips out to get some attention.

You were almost gonna miss that idiot when he was well enough to leave, and his cute little droid, too. It was nice to have company after so long alone.

"Well what about him?" Poe asked, pointing to Cviki, who had just plucked a fruit from a nearby tree and ate it messily. "I bet I could ride him!"

You laugh and smack your thigh, "Oh, be my guest! But remember, Mor'ski: Cviki is a can-cell. Not a fighter. If he decides he doesn't want you in the pilot seat anymore..."

Poe swallowed a bit nervously.

Maybe he should stick with the blurrg.

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Three weeks had gone by, and you knew Poe leaving was inevitable. He had finally done away with the leg brace and you inspected his healing leg. It was coming along nicely. It would scar, for sure, but he'd be able to walk.

And you were right, before. He did walk with a gait, one he carried with confidence in combination with that aggravatingly handsome smirk of his.

Could this man find a dark side in anything? Other than the First Order? You doubted it, he seemed good at turning bad situations around.

And oh, you would miss listening to Poe dote on that cute little astromech, BB-8. He was like a father doting on his infant child. You even caught him scooping him up and carrying him if BB-8 couldn't flawlessly roll over something (though BB probably pretended he couldn't just to be picked up by Poe).

It's a wonder that droid got anything done at all! You remember when you first brought him online and he assumed you were some nefarious individual who had hurt his pilot and friend.

It wasn't until you physically brought the astromech in to see the unconscious and feverish Poe to earn that little droid's trust. With BB-8's know-how, you were able to fix a few systems in your own defunct protocol droid that you honestly assumed you'd have to fully replace, making it that much cheaper to get the old droid up and running. Once they left, anyway. You weren't in a rush to have the help anymore. You liked having Poe around, his stupid snarky comments and weird giggle of his...

And you'd be lying if you didn't catch yourself staring, sometimes, too when he was working on helping with your monthly harvest.

He was skinny from lack of decent rations, when you brought him in, but after being with you for a few weeks, getting a proper diet and food in him, he bulked up.

He was muscular, sure, but not that almost scarily-defined tone so many found attractive. Poe's figure had softened out around his muscles, giving his belly a slight pooch and the dimples on his back to become more prominent. The softness was certainly appealing...

He looked handsome healthy.

Why did you just think that? Why did you just--

Your hands stopped as you tied down your equipment for the coming storm system that was approaching from the north, and you looked up to observe Poe for a moment.

Poe was busy helping cover your younger plants so they could survive the tough winds. He'd even helped corral Cviki into his créche so he wouldn't get injured. As thick as his carapace was, all it would take was one piece of debris to shred his wings and he could risk being permanently grounded.

Cviki seemed to socialize with Poe rather well, chittering and purring when Poe would pat his bulbous head, his wings fluttering curiously and excitedly when Poe would launch a small branch in the air for him to fetch and bring back.

Poe was a masterful pilot--if his words were to be believed--but something inside you told him he was also suited for a calmer life. Like yours, running a farm, taking care of the animals; not fighting in a near-pointless cycle you couldn't understand.

But, it was his choice to make, and his life to live. And nobody in the galaxy could take it from him.

But little did you know, that you were already tempting him to...

You rushed then, to tighten the wenches on the equipment bindings as Poe covered the fresh plants, grunting as the wind tousled his hair into his face and struggled to get the tarps down.

You look up at the sky and frown when the angry and flashing storm clouds approach faster than anticipated. It could be a short, fast-moving storm, that was the hope.

But you were worried. If the clouds began to circle...

At least you had a cellar.

"Poe! Come on! The plants are covered!" You wince when a small twig is caught in the wind and smacks into one of your lekku as the wind pushes them about. You forgot to wear your sheath today and were paying for it.

"You sure?" He called out to you.

"Yeah! Trust me, I'm sure! Now we need to get inside before the main storm hits!" You wave your hand. "Wachamio!"

Poe took the spare second to slam the mallet down on the stake for one last measure, before hopping to his feet, BB-8 chirping and tweeting from the threshold of your door, urging you both to hurry up.

Once inside, you quickly spin around and use the metal bar and slot it into place so the door wouldn't blow inwards on you; all your windows had been properly covered and locked with the metal panels so they wouldn't get blown in as well.

Not one moment later, you begin to hear the first fat raindrops pelt the walls and roof of your home from outside, deep rolling thunder announcing the arrival.

"Well, uh... You ever play sabacc?" Poe grinned awkwardly, and you slowly grinned.

BB-8 made a sound that could be universally translated in any language as: "I've got a bad feeling about this."

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It was just downright unfair. Clearly the universe did not favor him, or his hands at this sabacc game...

He was down to his socks and underwear while you were confidently sitting across the table, the only things missing from your outfit was your shirt, leaving you in your breastband only from the waist up, showing off the small scars and loosely defined muscles from your hard-working lifestyle poking through the light softness of your body.

You lean in as you see him begin to sweat, frowning at the cards in his hand. You'd both agreed on a simple game of sabacc, but because there were no credits to be put in the pot, you both settled on your clothes as the storm waxed and waned outside, rattling the walls and making his ears pop. He wondered how the sensitive little cones that were your sensory organs felt in the storm. Could ear-cones pop? It was a thought for another time.

"What's the matter, Mor'ski?" You rest your chin in your palm, grinning like a firaxan shark.

"...Afraid you can't bring much to the table?"

Oh, that was a low blow. He could feel the blush rise in his neck as his face heated up.

"Hah! Please, I doubt you could handle aaaallll this." Poe sputtered as he leaned back and huffed, forcing his confident demeanor back to the surface.

"Oh, I d'nno... I've probably handled farming equipment that was bigger." You toss back, moving a fresh pick between your lips and teeth as you boredly thumb through your cards.

"...Okay now you're just being mean."

"Hmm..." You look back up at him, a cold smile on your soft-looking lips. Poe felt a cold shiver creep up his spine when you looked at him.

And it was even worse when you flattened your cards on the table.

"Pure sabacc."

"Kriff!" Poe groaned, slapping his own bad hand on the table and pushing his hand through his curls.

"Oh, come on! I'm down to my skivvies, here!" He whined.

"Oh, I know." You giggle, batting your eyelashes at him and your lekku curl upwards a bit. "I'm not planning on making you completely strip. I'm feeling merciful..." You purred.

"...What are you planning?"

"The storm's let up a bit for now..." You hum casually, tapping your fingers on the top of your worn wooden table.

Poe blinked at you, his eyebrows raised up on his forehead. "No way..."

"One solid minute." You say, sticking your finger up. "Run around in the rain for one solid minute."

"Oh, come on!" Poe groaned, slapping his fist on the table.

BB-8 chirped and spun in a circle, almost laughing.

"Oh, whose side are you on?!" Poe glared at the droid with a scowl.

BB-8 whistled and wheeled over to your side, beeping and whirring in reply, making you grin even wider.

"You said you're a man of your word, Dameron..." You chuckle.

"....Agh! Kriff, why are women like this?!" Poe groaned, scrambling his hands through his raven curls.

"A bet's a bet..."

"Fine!" Poe scoffed, shooting to his feet and marching over to the front door, where your boots both lay.

He grumbled under his breath the whole time as he shoved his feet into them. Ah, well, at least the view from behind was nice...

You bite your lip as he pulls the metal bar free and the door rattles from the sudden gust of wind. Poe grabs the latch and it takes most of his strength to keep it from swinging open.

Oh, the moment he darted out into the freezing rain was glorious. The yelp he made as the first freezing drops made contact with his skin had you squirming and cackling madly as you clapped your hands and stamped your feet excitedly, BB-8 spinning in place and tweeting loudly.

He ran in a circle with his arms held out wide, shouting expletives the whole time as bumps erupted all over his body as his boots squished in the mud.

Once the minute was over with, Poe scurried back inside, soaked to the bone and shivering, his teeth chattering as he looked at you.

"Happy...?" Poe grunted.

"Very much so." You giggle girlishly.

"Good because I'm never playing sabacc with you again."

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You both sat on the fence, watching as Kari ate from her feed trough, bellowing in between bites, her thick tail swaying as she eats.

"So..." Poe began.

"Hm?" You mused, spitting the weed from between your teeth.

"I still have that cache hidden in the canyon... I mean, I know you've already helped me out and everything but..."

You quirk your brow inquisitively. "You want me to help you transport it to the spaceport."

"...Well. Okay, I mean... Eh. Yeah..?" He said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't have a mode of transportation or anything, and... I can give you a cut?"

You slowly look at him, blinking. "You'd pay me to help?"

"Yeah! I don't see why not... Plus it'll help pay back and replace the bacta patches I used... Might help pay for parts for that droid of yours..."

Your teeth gnaw at the inside of your cheek, thinking hard as you look down at the mud. He made some good points... He has no ride, he still needs those credits or his near death would have been for nothing...

And those credits really could help you out.

"Okay, Mor'ski. I'm in." You reply, slapping your palm into his.

Poe grinned and gave your hand a firm tug.

"Knew you would be, doll. Now let's get to it."

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You watched as Poe slid the last crate into the cart next to BB-8, fastening them down with wench straps so nothing moved. There had been no sign of gutkurrs since the two of you returned to the canyon, but that's also probably from the musk bombs you made to irritate their sense of smell.

Maybe if he'd hired a local guide through the canyons he wouldn't have gotten so screwed in the first place.

But if he did, he wouldn't have met you.

Hindsight is... well. A funny thing when you think about it.

"Do you even know what's in those crates?" You ask him as you mount Kari's saddle.

"Eh... no." Poe cringed.

"Did you ever think to check??" You frown at him.

Poe's gloved hands pat the crate in front of him, and even BB-8 whirs curiously.

"Ryloth is known for its spice production, Poe..." You sigh softly. "Interspace gangs like to use it for drugs, remember?"

"Yeah..." He said, gnawing on his bottom lip.

Screw it.

He popped the latches and peeked into the crate.

There were different objects, all bearing the sigil of the old Empire. Poe felt his blood run cold as he tossed the lid completely open, and began rifling through it.

Several objects had the Empire logo scratched out, some had them painted over. It was clear this cache no longer belonged to them, but...

"What is it?" You ask him.

"...A bunch of old Empire junk. The weapons are pretty much useless, their cells are drained. There's a few other things in here, but... They look like they'd only be useful to a damn collector than anybody of importance." Poe said, his body relaxed slightly. Nothing really dangerous were in these crates...

Except.

"Holy kriff." He breathed, reaching down to a small wooden box. It was half a foot long, and surprisingly, there was an image burned into the lid. A symbol he knew well as a young man, scrawled and graffiti'd on many Empire propaganda posters.

The symbol of the Jedi Order.

"What?" You asked, turning to look at him.

Poe reached in and pulled out a lightsaber. Its once shiny metal surface scuffed and dented, the black tips at the end of the handle flaked of paint, the clip snapped long ago. This lightsaber had been through hell, and had probably even seen action as far back as the Clone Wars...

"Is... Is that..." You stumble.

"A kriffing lightsaber." Poe said reverently. He slowly and carefully set the lightsaber back inside the velvet lined box, closing it and gently placing it back inside the crate.

"Nothing in here is dangerous, except the lightsaber, maybe. But nobody really knows how to use these except..."

"Jedi and Sith." You murmur. "Who would want that stuff if it's useless?"

"Like I said, a collector maybe. Or a dealer in war relics." Poe said, closing the crate again.

"Poe..."

"I know, but c'mon... Let's get going while we still got the sun."

"Right." You say slowly. You pat Kari's flank and jerk your head. "Get on, Mor'ski. We got at least a two hours' ride ahead of us."

Poe seemed wary. He'd ridden in the cart the whole trek out here, and all the failed attempts to ride that blurrg of yours made him hesitant to hop on her.

"Relax, if I'm riding with you, she'll be fine. Unless you wanna ride Cviki?" You smile wryly, the both of you looking up to where Cviki was poking at the rocks with his beak, his mandibles picking up smaller insectoids to munch on here and there.

"...No I'm good." He looked back at you as he stepped up to Kari's side.

As he grabbed onto your open palm with his, he looked at you with curiosity in his dark eyes.

"You good yourself, crazy lady?" He jabbed playfully.

"Rahn fanyo. Er... I'm fine." You mumble as he takes his seat behind you, politely placing his hands on your waist.

It was a gentlemanly thing to do, to avoid grabbing anything he shouldn't... but once Kari got into a good and decent trot, he'd bounce off her haunches faster than a blood fly.

"Poe, you're gonna need to hold on tighter than that. Or I'm gonna leave you in the dust and collect this bounty myself..."

Poe chuckled and awkwardly looped his arms around your waist, carefully adjusting it so your sensitive lekku were draped over his shoulders, so he couldn't squish them on accident.

"Like this?"

You rolled your eyes and tugged his hands until they were almost clasped together and his chin was practically on your shoulder. "There. Because being polite while riding a blurrg is gonna get you a concussion, yahte."

"Okay, you gotta teach me Ryl, doll." Poe chuckled.

You smirked over your shoulder as you snapped Kari's reins, nudging her with your heels.

"That would ruin the fun, Mor'ski."

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You watched as a group of children fed Cviki fruit out of their palms, giggling and laughing when his long tongue unfurled to wrap around their fingers and clean their hands of any lingering juices left over. Cviki was very approachable, for a cen-cell.

Kari on the other hand... She didn't really like anybody other than you. And, well, maybe Poe now, you supposed.

You sighed as you watched Poe speak with his contact, a rather fat Twi'lek man who was obviously well off. A broker, you supposed. One who sets up people with jobs like these. Technically avoiding any trouble with the law because brokers around these parts were simply like bulletin boards for smugglers, you could pick what jobs they conveniently had around, and if you got in trouble, they could disavow any connections to you while still making decent credits.

And it was obviously a very good front he was wearing, judging by the bejeweled rings squished onto the man's fat fingers.

When the two began walking over to you, you groaned softly, Kari huffing when she sensed your irritation. You detested people walking up to you when you didn't want to talk.

Your emotions were high for reasons you couldn't quite place, and a feeling of anxiety gnawed in the pit of your stomach.

Poe was leaving.

Soon, he would load the cargo onto this broker's ship and he would leave Ryloth, possibly forever. You couldn't blame him, after almost getting turned into a tasty snack for a pack of gutkurrs.

"And this lovely woman must be the person who saved your skin, eh, Dameron?" The Twi'lek man chortled, his fat jiggling merrily as he elbowed Poe in the side.

His thin mouth was stretched wide, making his cheeks appear even larger and more plump, his bright yellow skin drawing little attention to his sharp teeth.

"Yep, my savior all right. Worked me right to the bone to pay back half my debt to her after those ugly bugs tried to snack on me." Poe grinned back.

"My my, sounds like a keeper!" The man smirked suggestively at you two.

You rolled your eyes and curled your lekku slightly. The gesture was hidden behind you, but anyone walking by could see the irritation and hostility in the gesture.

Men have tried to get your attention for years, and certainly, a man of status like this was always looking for aides or escorts of some kind. That life wasn't for you, not one tiny bit.

"She's.... Uh. A good friend." Poe said, smiling at you.

His soft eyes eased the tension in you somewhat, but you were still jittery and anxious. One, about Poe leaving; two, all the people bustling about the spaceport; and three, these confusing kriffing feelings regarding the quirky pilot.

The Twi'lek man handed Poe a small box, likely containing his payment, and BB-8 drove into his shins twice.

"I know, I know, buddy! I was getting to that!" Poe sighed exasperatedly at the astromech.

"I'll make sure the dock officials don't snoop, say our goodbyes." The broker winked as he turned to walk away.

"So..." Poe awkwardly began.

"Mhm." You hum.

"I'm glad you dragged my sorry carcass out of that canyon." Poe chuckled, his fingers nervously brushing the sides of the box he held.

"I'm happy my effort wasn't wasted when Kari didn't eat you." You snort in reply, smiling despite yourself.

Poe laughed softly and opened the box, plucking up a few chips into his fist. He held out his hand and placed the silver and gold chips into your palm gently.

"Here. I'm a man of my word, remember?" He smiled at you warmly. "And I promised you a cut. This should cover the bacta, and some parts for that droid of yours. Plus, y'know. To get yourself somethin' nice."

When he winked, you felt a flush rise to your cheeks as you laughed.

"Yeah, well..." You shrugged, not sure what to say.

"...Hey." Poe said, his bottom lip sliding beneath his teeth for a moment before licking it.

"So, I know this is sudden, but--"

"Sir! Your ship is cleared and ready to go! You got five minutes!" A dockhand shouted from nearby, startling Kari to the point she made a concerned bellow and stumbled back a bit.

You shove the credits into your belt pouch, and coo and shush at Kari, patting her down affectionately to ease her sudden fright as Poe shouts back at the dockhand.

"Ah... Great. Fun." Poe sighed as he turned back to you, noticing how your lekku were twitching and swaying as you struggled to calm your blurrg mount.

You didn't turn back to face him, biting your plush bottom lip as you patted down Kari, trying now to calm yourself as much as her.

Poe was leaving.

Probably one of the only people you'd call "friend" was leaving, and then you'd go right back to your boring tedium from before, while he flew headlong into danger with BB-8 by his side.

You couldn't really hear him as he spoke to you, imagining just how many horrible ways he could possibly die out there, at the hands of the First Order, or some pirate scum...

You did however, become aware of how close he was when he slipped an arm around your waist and tugged you against him. You barely had time to gasp and ask what he was doing when he pressed his lips against yours in a rushed, but fiery kiss.

He pulled back from you, winking as BB-8 whirled and trilled, spinning in place a few times.

"See ya around, doll. And next time I'm in town, I'll visit."

You were left, blinking, mouth agape as he sashayed with that new gait of his towards the hangar of his ship, BB-8 hot on his heels, tweeting a farewell at you.

You stayed like that, the tips of your lekku twining around one another twice, your face flushed with a different shade as the ship shakily lifted off, blasting off into the clouds.

...If he did come back...

"Come on, Kari." You say softly before whistling to get Cviki's attention.

"Let's go get some shopping done."

Maybe you would buy yourself something nice to wear.

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Poe sighed as his ship launched into hyperspace, feeling sad as he kissed Ryloth's atmosphere goodbye. It wasn't as beautiful or as sweet as your lips were, for sure.

But it made his heart throb with sadness all the same...

He punched in a few buttons and the hologram of the broker appeared as the message began to play.

"Poe, my boy! Safe travels. I'm sure you and your companion had a lovely farewell, no?" He chuckled gleefully.

Poe rolled his eyes as he continued. "My contact got word back to me, and she's pleased that the cargo was intact and was impressed you were alive! How about that?" The man clapped his hands and laughed again.

"Well, just letting you know," His eyes twinkled. "Miss Kanata sends her thanks and hopes you enjoy the extra credits she left in your pay!"

Poe frowned at the name.

Wait... Miss Who?

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Leia watched as Poe studied the small hologram of a Twi'lek woman in front of him, squinting and mouthing the words as they left her lips.

The older woman smiled as she walked up to him, her long robes shuffling softly as her slippers padded the metal flooring of the base.

"Pick up a new language to learn, Poe?" She asked, her brown eyes shimmering as she sat next to him.

Poe almost jumped, unusually engrossed in the tutorial program he had been watching. He bashfully rubbed the back of his neck and laughed.

"You could say that." He replied.

"I noticed you walking with a limp, now, Poe." Her tone switched to a more affectionate and maternal tone. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah... Someone on Ryloth saved my hide from a bad sitch. Unfortunately I'm probably gonna be stuck with it forever, but I'd trade a limp for my life any day of the week." He grinned.

Leia hummed with a sweet smile as her eyes were drawn to the paused tutorial. "Fall in love with the local flavor, huh?" She grinned mischievously.

Poe stiffened and coughed into his hand, a blush to his cheeks.

"You... Could say that."

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Twi'leki/Ryl translation:

Wachamio! = "Let's go!"

Ma sareen = "My Sweet"

Yana = "Yes"

Wa-janeel = "Follow me"

Rahn fanyo = "I'm fine" or, alternatively, "Don't worry"

Twi'leki/Ryl Phrases I've smacked together/come up with (idk I'm not a linguist):

Nu nala quin-nala wilo? = "Do you know where you are?"

Zul nala z'rate nala quora? = "Can you tell me your name?"

Su'un na, mesh'e yahte. = "Oh great, he's an idiot."

Yahte = "Idiot"

Mor'ski = "Flyboy"

#poe dameron x you #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron x female reader #poe x reader #poe x you #poe dameron star wars #poe dameron #leia organa #maz kanata

[luxlightly]

I Said To You in Your Blood, "Live!" - a Gabv1el fic (AO3 link in the reblogs)

“And when I passed by you and saw you wallowing in your blood, I said to you in your blood, ‘Live!’ I said to you in your blood, ‘Live!’" - Ezekiel 16:6

Gabriel dragged himself forward, slumped against a wall of Hell, wings drooped and dragging on the floor behind him.

Of course he'd returned. Where else could he have gone? 

Where else do angels go when they fall? To die?

And he was dying. It was a strange and impossible seeming notion. Something he would have laughed at the very idea of just a few days ago. How could you kill the Hand of God? Ridiculous. 

As ridiculous as that Hand being bested by a mere machine, built by mortal hands for profane purposes. 

Crude, merciless…

Beautiful. 

He'd grown so used to the beauty of Heaven. Clean, pristine, and perfect. A cold, calculated beauty of carved marble, precise and willful. Flawless and impersonal as the Father himself.

How could a machine, dripping with blood and gore, built of an unholy mix of flesh and steel, with frantic, desperate movements and torn, jagged edges have, at first meeting, been anything but hideous to him? Repulsive in all ways? 

And so how could their fight, and his defeat, have felt anything other than violating? Something that stained him, made him imperfect and unworthy of the Light that was stripped from him? 

And so it had. So he had been at war with himself. Had felt corrupted, defiled. Impure. So he had begun their second fight with hate and desperation to cleanse himself of the stain of their first. 

Then something changed. 

Imprecise movements no longer felt imperfect. They became natural. 

Organic.

Alive.

Life is frantic. Is desperate and uncalculated. Is imperfect and unpredictable. 

His fights for Heaven were about death. About punishment. One sided executions and exterminations. 

Fighting with the machine was about life. The fight itself had felt alive. 

And Gabriel…Gabriel had felt Alive.

More than he'd ever remembered feeling. He'd felt the movement of combat like music, like the pounding of drums and the thrum of blood in veins. Excited and full of life. And so did fighting become like dancing, unable to be lost, only lead.

He'd laughed. 

It had felt so incredible. To fight the way living things do. As animals clawing to survive. To want to bite and scratch and claw and cling to life for every second he could. To be desperate in his desire. He'd understood so clearly, in those moments, how creatures of flesh and blood were in the image of God. How could such fighting, to cling to that living flesh, be anything but the most reverent form of worship? 

And so how could one’s partner in such a dance, be anything but the purest and most true kind of beauty? Blinding and breathtaking?

Then, all too soon, it was over. 

Cast down again, for the second time in his existence, Gabriel tasted defeat and, for the first, he tasted blood. 

And it tasted divine. 

It filled the cold void left behind where the Father's Light had been torn away from him and it tasted so much the same, yet somehow purer. The Light he'd been granted, the metered grace he was allotted by the Council so long as he served their will seemed, by comparison, like a shadow or reflection. The lingering warmth after a farewell compared to the fiery heat of sudden embrace. 

How could it be warmer than God’s Light? If the fire of God was so much warmer in the blood of Hell, then what burned in the Council chambers of Heaven? 

How could he, cast from grace and laid low before the machine, feel closer to the Divine than he'd felt while basked in His Light? 

There could be only one answer: because the Light that the Council had to offer him was not Divine. Maybe it never had been. After all, if God was really dead, how could the Council have His Light to give, anyway? 

And if it hadn't been His Light, His Will, then what had Gabriel been sustained on? Only the Council’s approval. 

He forsook it. Better to die, consumed by the flames of Hell than live sustained by the cold indifference of Heaven. 

At least consumption is akin to embrace, in the way that hunger is akin to desire. 

His legs losing their strength at last, Gabriel finally slumped to his knees, breathing ragged and vision blurry. 

The way he'd cut down the Council, had bathed the chambers of Heaven with their blood, had seemed to rejuvenate him, at least temporarily, at least long enough to finish the grim task. But now, his connection to the Light of the Father severed for good and the last remnants of its warmth drained from him, he felt his end very much at hand. 

Ridiculous as it would have seemed, mere days ago, to contemplate his own death, it would have been even more so to contemplate his own life. 

His existence was a constant. It had no true beginning or end. It could not be covetted or cherished because it could not be quantified. It simply was. He could not want to live any more than the sky could want to hold its place above the Earth. Than the wind could desire to blow or the celestial bodies desire to continue their journey through the endless void of space. 

A force of nature could not want. Could not hope. Could not hunger, not for food, nor life, nor love.

But Gabriel did. For the first time, he faced his future with something other than cold, perfect acceptance. In its place was a hot, bitter disappointment and a gnawing, desperate hunger.

He wanted to live. Damn him, he did not want to die. He wanted to see the Machine again, as he had promised he would. He wanted to fight for the sake of fighting. He wanted to live and to feel alive. 

He wanted to drag the eyes of the God that had abandoned him back to that chaotic dance and dare Him to find it beautiful. He wanted the eyes of God to weep for the beauty they'd turned away from. To mourn every second they'd spent not beholding it. The way he mourned it, now. 

Perhaps it was that desire, more so than anything, that brought him back to the depths of Hell. A vain hope to fulfill his promise and to feel the embrace of life one more time before dying, however briefly.

He did not rouse when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He had no strength to fight. If one of the denizens of Hell wanted to end him now, it would only be speeding up the inevitable. 

With his faith so shattered, Gabriel was not sure if he believed there was any force that could intervene in the affairs of Earth, Heaven, and Hell in the way he'd once called “miracles”, nor did he have any name to give thanks to for such an act, but the gratitude he felt when the owner of the footsteps appeared before him could not have been greater if he had known it to be an act of God Himself. 

“Machine…” he breathed. “We meet again…as I said we would. Sadly…I do not think we shall face each other in righteous combat a third time. Still, I am…glad to see you. One last time…”

V1 dripped with fresh blood. It must have freshly killed. Its wings raised, encircling it like a golden halo in Gabriel’s blurred vision. Blue, gold, and red swam before his failing eyes, shimmering and ethereal.

“Divine…” he whispered. 

V1’s inner mechanisms whirred and it tilted its head, inquisitively. It seemed to inspect him, clicking and humming. Its hands grasped and released its weapons, seeming unable to fully process or deal with an encounter that was not immediately violent. 

It knelt before him, looking him over for some cause for his current state.

Gabriel laughed, weakly, strangely endeared by the robot’s apparent concern. Strange, for a being that had only known him as a threat. 

How to explain the Light of the Father to a machine? How could it possibly understand what it meant for him to be cut off from it, or why he had been? 

“I am…hungry,” Gabriel said. “Empty…dying.”

The Machine stood again, looming over him. Gabriel wondered if it would leave, assured that he was no threat. After all, what use did it have, with its limited time, to stand around and watch him die? 

Instead, as it had nearly every moment he knew it, it surprised him. 

With a screech of metal against metal, the Machine dug a clawed hand into its own chest, peeling back a small patch of the metal plating to reveal the pulsing mass of flesh and mechanics that comprised its innards. 

Hot blood poured from the self inflicted wound and onto Gabriel's helmet, flowing down and dripping into the holes above his mouth. 

Gabriel was stunned for a moment, then almost laughed. 

Of course. Its whole idea of life revolved around blood. Life, health, food; blood was synonymous with all of them. What other thought could it have had to help him, than to try to feed him the way it fed? 

A misguided effort, of course, but nonetheless meaningful. It had to fight for every second of life that blood afforded it, and it likely knew the supply was dwindling, yet it would harm itself and willingly part with its most precious life force, in the hopes it would help him. 

Gabriel opened his mouth beneath his helmet and let the blood trickle onto his tongue. Misguided or not, he recognized a sacrament when he saw one, and he would not dream to waste it. 

Again the taste of divinity alit on his tongue and he shuddered. The hunger is his gut that had first been sparked the moment he'd been struck down the first time by the Machine and that had been kindled by the taste of his own blood, then fanned to flame by the slaughter of the council roared up in him as an inferno.

He tilted his head back and shifted himself to kneel before the Machine allowing blood to pour more directly onto his supplicated form. 

Like liquid fire, it bathed his skin and coated his throat, lighting him up from the inside the way the cold reflection of Heaven had never dreamed to compare to. 

“Machine!” he choked, a desperate plea he hadn't meant to utter for a desire he didn't understand being dragged from somewhere deep inside him that knew what it was to struggle to survive, even if he didn't.

Luckily, the Machine understood what he could not. 

It guided him to his knees, pressed close to it for support, and guided his hands with its own to the wound on its chest, held his hand in its while an instinct Gabriel never knew he could have harbored dug their clasped fingers into the metal and stripped back the plating even further. 

Life blood bathed him and Gabriel cried out with a mix of relief and need. His arms encircled the Machine, clinging to it like a lifeline as he pressed his face to the now gaping wound, feeling its pulsing, churning, whirring insides against his armor and skin, which both seemed to drink up the blood as eagerly as his mouth. 

He wanted to pray, but couldn't. For there was no prayer he had known to fit such a sacrament, nor any that he could conceive of that could be more reverent than the worship he was already partaking in. 

He wanted to reach in with his hands and pull out its innards while it did the same to him. He wanted to tear it open with his teeth and taste where the metal and flesh met. 

He wanted to understand how animals could eat their prey alive.

He wanted to know that only his blood filled it, fed it, while only its fed him, like a heart passing blood between its chambers, like the two raw wounds that they were, pressed together so close they shared a heartbeat. 

He wanted them to hunger for every drop of each other and never be satisfied. 

He wanted. He hungered. He lived!

And yet, a gentle push was all that was needed to unclasp his hands and send him toppling back against the wall behind him, gasping for breath.

Blood continued to sink into his armor and skin and for a moment Gabriel felt the urge to peel off his helmet and lick the fading drops up before they disappeared, but he suddenly realized he could not fully recall what lay beneath that shell of white and gold. 

V1 clutched at its chest as its body began the work of repairing the damage, sealing up the opening and fusing the metal back together. 

Gabriel felt his own body similarly set to work on repairing itself. Energy seemed to return to his limbs and he felt that he once again had the strength to stand. 

“Let Us make man in Our image. In Our likeness…” Gabriel quoted, in a daze.

V1 tilted its head at him again. 

“For the life of every creature is its blood: its blood is its life.”

Gabriel shook his head and laughed. 

“We're so much more alike than I'd even thought possible, Machine. The Father's Light has always fed both of us, hasn't it?” he said. “If God is dead, then what in his abandoned Heaven could be left of his Light that is not lesser than that in the lifeblood of those He made in His image?” 

He looked to V1. 

“You…saved me. I owe you a debt of gratitude. But… I don't understand.”

He shook his head. 

“Blood is finite. It's running out. Why share any with me? Why cut down the little time you have left to save someone who only ever tried to kill you?” 

The Machine turned away, as though lost in thought.

Gabriel wondered if it even really understood, itself. 

At last, it turned to him and, in a garbled, robotic tone that seemed to take great effort for it to produce, it said:

”I A M H U N G R Y”

Somehow it seemed to look past him. This creature of war who never knew a life beyond bloodshed. Whose purpose died before it came to be. Whose life, since its inception, had been a clawing, desperate, and ultimately doomed fight for just a little more time. A little more life  Even in hell, even if it's only ever filled with pain and death. 

“I think I understand you, Machine,” Gabriel said. “I used to think your being here was pointless. A remnant of a dead war that could only know hunger. Could only bring destruction. But this is what you feel, isn't it?”

He put a hand to his chest.

“I want to live, Machine. I want to fight for every bloodsoaked second I can squeeze from this existence, no matter how brief. I'll fight until I'm torn to pieces for one more moment. If it means I get to keep feeling what it is to be alive.”

He looked up at V1.

“And I want you to be alive. I want to fight you again. I want you to never let me forget this feeling. You…make me know what it is…to want something.”

V1 blinked its optic, slowly, as if in agreement. 

Gabriel staggered to his feet and pulled Justice from its sheath. He pointed it at V1 before laying the blade flat across his palms and bending one knee, holding the sword up to V1.

“If the Divine can still live on, even in the blood of His dead and damned creations, then maybe this fight is not one doomed to end once you reach the bottom of Hell,” he said. “Take my sword. And my vow that if I cannot find a way to replenish the energy of the Divine, then I will meet you at the center of Hell and Splendor and Justice will cross one last time as we duel for the last drops of blood in creation.” 

V1 took the sword from Gabriel’s hands and brandished it, feeling the perfect balance of the expertly crafted blade. 

“We will meet again, Machine. Until then, may your woes be many. And your days few.” 

---

Me, pointing at a big blackboard with insane scrawlings covering it: "Here's how gabriel can still live"

I've never played ultrakill but I am not immune to the eroticism of the machine. Written all at once at 3am waiting for my pain medication mo kick in. bone app the teeth

#ultrakill #ultrakill spoilers #gabriel ultrakill #gabv1el #fellas is it gay to fight the homies like animals #blood tw #gore tw #it's ultrakill #v1 ultrakill