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darlingofvalyria · 6 months

Text

vamp!rhae can do all the blasphemous things she wants me and i'dthank her, hehe ily fae tysm for reading <33

As the Princess of the Realm's most favoured maid, there are certain liberties you are privy to demand. Jealousy of the people surrounding your lady is not one of them. Amused, Rhaenyra wishes to show her jealous little darling that there is nothing to worry about.

╰┈➤ PROMPTS ❝ MIND MANIPULATION, BLOOD PLAY ❞

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 2,763 ] [ masterlist ] | Vampire!Rhaenyra Targaryen x Maid!Reader

contains— smut, fluff - monsterfucking, hurt/comfort, jealousy, allusions to murders and kidnapping (not reader), mind manipulation, mentions of blood - this is a darkish fic - nsfw: monsterfucking, v and v sex, blood play(?), thigh riding, dubcon - no betas.

a/n— countess bathory rhae version. + Quick note: I don't actually remember/know if a crown princess is higher in stature to a queen consort. I know a queen at least is higher than a crown princess... but in this fic, i'm making it so that a king's direct/crowned heir is higher in status to that of a queen consort, as in what i want you to understand here that a king's chosen heir has bigger power than someone who is only married to royalty and title. this is of course different than the show but eh. + comment, reblog & like at will, mi luvs, mwa!

You understand why they salivate after her like starved dogs for a hunt. Prowling, on the verge of humping the very ground she walks on.

Your princess is every consonant and vowel of her royal visage and title, adorned in jewels and gold, Valyrian steel interlaced across her throat and waist. Fat rubies in her ears, weighted layers of gold gleam across her collarbone with a Valyrian steel necklace that strung an almost black amethyst drop nestled in her bosom.

Rings of all kind adorned her fingers as she held a goblet, amused by whatever topic the Riverland Lord was saying with gusto, fat stomach straining against a leather belt.

In any feast, she is the star, unable to be shadowed by her enemies now that her confidence had bloomed. She presided every conversation, lords and ladies following her red mouth as much as her words, dominating circles of power with ease that surpassed her gender.

The Heir to the Iron Throne. The Realm's Delight.

You had never been prouder to say you serve such a woman, body and soul.

And at the same time, you cannot help the feeling of jealousy to flash like a quick strike of a dagger. It is not your mistress' fault that people stave off the attention she gives them. It isn't their fault either as you understand the sentiment. Once you've played in her hand, you are evermore enraptured by her.

But you're different. In a way.

As soon as the lord— a Lord Erodd Mudd, a vassal of House Tully who had proudly proclaimed to be an eager follower of the future Black Queen, henceforth his vassals flooding gifts and compliments to your princess — had gotten too close for comfort and too red from the overflowing Arbor Red, that as soon as you see the quick flash of Princess Rhaenyra's comfort threatened, you spring into action.

You move about dancing bodies and beautifully crafted ladies to get to her, your eye meeting her sword shield, the Ser Strong, with a nod. You know your strengths and weaknesses; wrangling a drunken lord physically is not one of them. Neither is a violent drunk, and there had been enough unsavoury gossip of the Lord Mudd for you to be on edge the minute he approached the princess.

You take a low bow in front of them at your sudden interruption, your voice calm but firm. "My princess, the Prince Joffrey is ready to be put to bed."

Rhaenyra smiles, gladdened of your quick feet and quicker thinking. "Thank you—"

"Audacious!" Lord Mudd squeaks, the spittle and stench of alcohol almost makes you grimace. Almost. "The princess is talking to a lord, she does not want—"

"— the princess does not permit others to speak on her behalf, much less about what she wants or thinks," you can't help but snap. "Please refrain yourself from doing so, my lord."

He purples in offence, fist shaking that you sidle up to move in front of the princess. "Oh why, how dare—"

You let out a breathless exhale at the appearance of Breakbones and his meaty hand on the lord's shoulder. "My lord. I'm afraid you've enough to drink. The night grows long." As the lord opens his mouth to retort, Harwin's smile sharpens is enough of a warning that he swallows and jerkily nods.

He bows to Rhaenyra. "G-good night, your grace."

Rhaenyra smiles amusedly, as if she is letting you in on a joke. "And to you, my lord. I will have a maestre prepare a concoction my... little brother uses in a time of head aches. He so prefers the sweet Red such as you."

As he bows again gratefully, Lord Mudd manages to shoot you a final glare before being escorted by Ser Harwin. For a brief moment as the revelry continues on, most guests now well into their cups and dreams to kiss your princess' arse, she laughs quietly in the privacy of your closure.

You snort softly. "I am glad the night has amused you thus far, my princess."

She giggles again. "How can I not? You had been glaring at the poor fool for the better time of the night. He had thought that he had offended me in some way, and was trying to appease with all sorts of ridiculous promises."

"Hm. What can a small vassal house by the name that means 'wet dirt' could possibly offer the princess of the realm?" You can't help but be haughty. Though you do recognise you are being a bit unfair to the lord, for he isn't just the only one who had pried the attention of the princess all night.

"A pretty new maid," Rhaenyra muses, making your blood freeze. "He said he's got a pretty collection of wenches, all well trained by his mother, whom I do know has a heavy teeth with her servants. Lord Tully has endorsed them so. Lady Tully as well. Oh, and that he has daughters fit to be ladies in waiting, should I want for more... high browed ladies."

You inhale deeply. "It is indeed... a good idea to expand your ladies. You are the Heir, higher in stature to the Queen Consort who has an army of ladies both in Great Houses and Vassals." You nod jerkily. "It is a smart idea, my princess."

Rhaenyra smirks, enjoying far too much the inner turmoil of your little head. You don't notice it, as you had perfected serving her for such a time and she is sure onlookers would see only a lady conversing with her maid, but when you are upset and trying not to show it, you blink three times as if wrangling your thoughts in order. There is only a small dip in your serene mouth that always makes her want to press it. Move it around. Then maybe bite you.

But if she touched you now, she would not stop. She knows her hunger very well, and in preparation for the three-day celebrations as well as handling her duties between council meetings and audiences with the common folk— she had not drank in a while.

If she touches you now, there would be no care for titles or eyes.

When she shudders faintly at the image, your keen eye sees it immediately. You see the faint pallor, the inch of peakiness. She had been consuming more and more raw meat, but animals barely curb the thirst.

"Shall I prepare your feast, my princess?"

She blinks at you, surprised. "My feast? Surely this is enough."

You're unable to stop your sigh as you look away. "My princess, surely, you don't think such a feat should go unrewarded? Lords of Great Houses are swayed to your cause. Their vassals are following suit. Even if a Great Council is demanded once more in your reign, the tide will turn for your favour."

"You do not know that." Rhaenyra laughs lightly as you are already shaking your head. "We should not tempt fate."

"You had been doing your duty unto the realm as its heir and its delight. We are tempering any whisper of revolt. Your win is marked in stone," you insist. "A reward is only just."

You scoot closer, pinching your voice low. Rhaenyra holds her breath with a sharp intake of air, a coil, nothing but a whisper, of your scent finds her nostrils and her hunger tightens in her stomach that her fangs sharpen. She bites her bottom lip hard.

"My apologies," you whisper. "But I know your hearing turns mortal when you have not eaten in a while. You must eat. The bustle for the celebration has been a good excuse to hire more alongside what we needed."

Her eyes flash. "... Maidens?"

"At least four of them, my princess."

She gasps, inhaling quickly and your scent comes first, the sweet imprint of your blood hums her own, but her eyes widen at the thick stench of maidens right in her room. Your gift. For your beloved. You smile, despite the niggling, pinch of jealousy that has a thick hold on your neck and Rhaenyra can smell it.

"The revelries will continue on," you say with finality, bowing. "The Prince Jacaerys is doing well with the Northern delegates thus far, and the Young Prince Lucerys has charmed the pirate lords from the Free Cities, as well as the Dornish Prince and his... mistresses. We are well here. I will keep an eye on your heirs. Enjoy yourself, my princess."

The revelries go well into the Hour of Owl before you give nod to the last of the guards and servants tasked with ensuring the more raucous guests find their way to their beds, moving along the quiet flutter of candlelight and sharp, slanting shadows like a wraith. Or a ghost. No one pays you any mind, and they know better.

You sweep straight into the princess' apartments, locking the doors behind you. The iron stench of blood is already thick here, seeping through the corners and clinging to the tapestries. You're used to it, even if the first times had been shaky in your memories. But your actions are a routine, moving to the tub filled thick with blood, almost to the brim, moving a finger through it, beads of blood clinging to you when you raise your hand, falling in slops back to the tub.

You hum along your duties, the actions of a routine is familiar... if not surgically placed into your mind, though the uncomfortable reminder strikes your head in a low, dull thud. Worrisome thought is a blunt knife to the steel guard your princess has wrought in your head.

For your protection, my sweet, Rhaenyra had purred, feeling her nails scratch in the fragments of your malleable brain.

Candles are flickering by the time your princess strides into her room, the heavy door deadbolting with a heavy thud. The stench of blood and her scent— grapefruit and vanille, a touch of something more ancient, cloying and heavy — thickens as you bow, your fingers in unlacing and getting her off the bloodied dress. It’s relatively clean, and she throws you a smirk for it. She knows you hate having to share just as much as she, and knows even better you would never make much fuss, but your chest warms at her thoughtfulness regardless.

She sinks with ease, a low, satiated hum escapes her lips.

“I will assume this is another present?” she teases. “No maidens?”

“Not after the Lannisport incident, no.” You regard her weightily but she only laughs. Sunk in blood, her paleness almost makes her glow. A goddess if nothing else. But her cheeks are also fuller, vibrancy clinging to her gold spun hair and gaze. “These were just as much eager to serve the crown as the young women were eager to serve their princess.”

Rhaenyra’s laugh is spoilt as much as it is indulgent. “And I am assuming you never told them the length or width of their servitude?”

She really does feel much better if she is in such a teasing mood.

“No,” theres a petulant, almost offended notch in your tone that you dont hide as well, if youre ever truly trying to hide it. The day wanes and the moon waxes, and you have been obedient all day.

Rhaenyra bites her lip. You have been good. And deserving. She leans forward, pressing herself back. “Come.”

You still, holding onto her oils. “I still have to wash your hair, princess, it has been an arduous day."

“It has, and you have done so well in pleasing me that I require you here, with me.” Her voice pitches, irises molting to a startling black. Your spine straightens and your gaze glosses. She hums, delighted to see that the full force of her prowess is back. Though it isnt truly much. The strings from your mind and body is one that she has owned long before. “Take off your dress, sweet girl, thats it, faster— and here, right on top of me.”

You are awake and dreaming, its a state you know quite well, but you move where she wants you, your strings hers for the taking, and you are up to your navel in blood before your mind catches up with thought that you are bare, bare before your princess as she looks up, her hands, soft and cold and wet with blood, moulding against the divots of your soft flesh.

She pulls you down with ease, so careful with your skin. Her hunger though fulfilled, the remnants of the creature within her still breathes. Your heartbeat is a siren song and the urge to devour you, to sink her teeth right in that throbbing, fluttering pulse— four maidens down her belly and her hunger for you is still so strong.

Your mind is your own when you have settled righto n her thighs, bracketing her between your own. A shuddering gasp leaves your mouth as she draws her hands from thighs to your centre to your breast to your jaw, pulling you to meet her mouth in a soft exploration between tongue and teeth.

It is kissing for beasts, for creatures trying to find pleasure unknown to them but hungering for it; her tongue tangling with yours, licking at the roof your mouth, her teeth, sharpened, tugging and grating against your soft lips. It is gluttonous as it is guttural, and you feel debased. But you like it, you like the clouding of your mind from pleasure, chasing the hums from her throat and smiling from her little laughs.

It is no wonder that your body craves, hips moving in an insistent, errant sway against her thigh that she laughs once more, finish suckling a bruise on your arched neck.

"Sīr needy hae iā līve, So needy like a whore," she purrs against your skin. "Are you my," she grips your buttocks and pulls you to her, though you stumble, you are still relatively on your knees and your pearl that is craving for attention hits against her stomach and you gasp, "little whore?"

"Yes," you murmur, arms wounding against her neck as she adjusts you more comfortably on her lap, watching intensely at your pleasure as she sits you down and starts moving your hips in a rhythm. "Y-yes I am."

She snakes a hand between you to pinch at your clit. You jolt.

"Manners."

"Yes, my queen!" You sob, head falling on her shoulder as your hips go faster, the blood is spilling, the smell of iron is so strong it fills your lungs, but your first relief is near and Rhaenyra hates denying you pleasure.

Even her punishments have always been to over feed you your own pleasure, indulge in the staccato wails broken by whines as your last peak has barely finished before she is making you reach it again.

"There she is, my sweet girl."

She helps your thighs, moving you faster and faster as she drinks in your skewered brows and hanging mouth, taking a breast into her mouth and laving it with her tongue, groaning at the blood and suckling deep. You will be blooming with bruises come morn and she cannot wait to see the spring she has created on your skin. You are so delicate, so... human. Your fragility is a beauty she enjoys.

Like right now, when your pleasure catches up to you fast and she has made it a mission not to touch your cunt at all, maintaining your movement even as you whine deep in your chest, your forehead falling to her shoulder as you twitch and shudder. When you garble her name, falling your please, p-please, 'smuch, she stops, running her hands instead to your sides, cupping your breasts faintly before she's nudging against your nose until you give in with what she is silently asking: soft, tugging kisses.

"Deep breaths, sweet one," she whispers against your mouth when she pulls away, "I will take more of your pleasure. All the sweet maidens in these lands are nothing to the taste of you." For emphasis, her other hand is already between your thighs, brushing insistently against your pearl.

Teasing, always teasing. You shudder.

"Your pleasure is much your reward as it is mine. Now, once more. On my fingers." She bares her fangs, another light laugh that tugs at your core because it is full of promises. "Then against my cunt."

Because Rhaenyra gives as much as she takes.

And she wants everything you... 'willingly' give.

#(๛ ˘ ³˘ )♡ lovely comments

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darlingofvalyria · 6 months

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Yikes!

I've been a bit MIA, got down with a flu bug that targeted nearly everyone at my office and got admitted at the hospital for an alarming fever lol, and I only just started to feel better... I still feel like absolute shit so I can't make promises with writing. I do feel bad because there are set goals I wanted to finish... at the same time I'm forgiving myself because boo self-stressors, it's not going to help anybody.

Anyhow, I miss writing and can't wait to finish up on a couple of things. I'm writing this on my boyfriend's tablet while he's peeling me tangerines and I haven't stopped teasing him from not having Tumblr on the ready.

What an uncouth gent.

#elle's radio show 💋🐇#it has been a Week

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darlingofvalyria · 6 months

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my darling cristi please, thank you so much for reading and enjoying vampy!rhae 💖💖💖

╰┈➤ PROMPTS ❝ MIND MANIPULATION, BLOOD PLAY ❞

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 2,763 ] [ masterlist ] | Vampire!Rhaenyra Targaryen x Maid!Reader

You understand why they salivate after her like starved dogs for a hunt. Prowling, on the verge of humping the very ground she walks on.

Rings of all kind adorned her fingers as she held a goblet, amused by whatever topic the Riverland Lord was saying with gusto, fat stomach straining against a leather belt.

The Heir to the Iron Throne. The Realm's Delight.

You had never been prouder to say you serve such a woman, body and soul.

But you're different. In a way.

You take a low bow in front of them at your sudden interruption, your voice calm but firm. "My princess, the Prince Joffrey is ready to be put to bed."

Rhaenyra smiles, gladdened of your quick feet and quicker thinking. "Thank you—"

"Audacious!" Lord Mudd squeaks, the spittle and stench of alcohol almost makes you grimace. Almost. "The princess is talking to a lord, she does not want—"

"— the princess does not permit others to speak on her behalf, much less about what she wants or thinks," you can't help but snap. "Please refrain yourself from doing so, my lord."

He purples in offence, fist shaking that you sidle up to move in front of the princess. "Oh why, how dare—"

He bows to Rhaenyra. "G-good night, your grace."

You snort softly. "I am glad the night has amused you thus far, my princess."

If she touches you now, there would be no care for titles or eyes.

"Shall I prepare your feast, my princess?"

She blinks at you, surprised. "My feast? Surely this is enough."

"You do not know that." Rhaenyra laughs lightly as you are already shaking your head. "We should not tempt fate."

"You had been doing your duty unto the realm as its heir and its delight. We are tempering any whisper of revolt. Your win is marked in stone," you insist. "A reward is only just."

Her eyes flash. "... Maidens?"

"At least four of them, my princess."

For your protection, my sweet, Rhaenyra had purred, feeling her nails scratch in the fragments of your malleable brain.

She sinks with ease, a low, satiated hum escapes her lips.

“I will assume this is another present?” she teases. “No maidens?”

Rhaenyra’s laugh is spoilt as much as it is indulgent. “And I am assuming you never told them the length or width of their servitude?”

She really does feel much better if she is in such a teasing mood.

Rhaenyra bites her lip. You have been good. And deserving. She leans forward, pressing herself back. “Come.”

You still, holding onto her oils. “I still have to wash your hair, princess, it has been an arduous day."

It is no wonder that your body craves, hips moving in an insistent, errant sway against her thigh that she laughs once more, finish suckling a bruise on your arched neck.

She snakes a hand between you to pinch at your clit. You jolt.

"Manners."

Even her punishments have always been to over feed you your own pleasure, indulge in the staccato wails broken by whines as your last peak has barely finished before she is making you reach it again.

"There she is, my sweet girl."

Teasing, always teasing. You shudder.

Because Rhaenyra gives as much as she takes.

And she wants everything you... 'willingly' give.

#(๛ ˘ ³˘ )♡ lovely comments #˗ˏˋ꒰ darling cristi ꒱

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darlingofvalyria · 6 months

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— stars & space dividers (moon edition)

[Free] Masterlist Headers & Dividers!

Please like or reblog if you use 💕 [sun edition]

#dividers

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darlingofvalyria · 6 months

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This is such a darling idea, thank you for tagging me <3

My eyes. Any time people ask which physicalpart of me I most like, I always say my eyes. They're big and slightly slanted, framed with thick lashes that are naturally curled! They're also deep brown that looks so nice when the sun hits it.

My hair. Naturally wavy and curly, definitely has a life of its own and though it's explosive and fun at times, I love how I can just toss it in a half updo, or twist it around, braid it a little bit, and look like I spent so much time with it.

My skin. Brown skin that I learned to love because of the eurocentric beauty standards in my country, but now I love it so much because it glows.

My lips. I used to be self-conscious about them, but they're big and plush and I combat insecurity with red lipstick and feel sexy.

My soft curves. I grew up rail thin and struggled so much with food consumption and weight for years, and I'm still struggling, but I'm starting to forgive myself for it because I am healthy, I have bigger boobs and have developed enough of an ass to pair with soft thighs.

Tagging anyone who sees and wants to do it!

Hey, guys!

I've taken a couple days to recoup from the whole ask invasion thing (re: the time a bunch of utter fuckwits decided to obsess over my hands and spam me with super weird fat-shaming hate). I know that my last response might've come on very strong, but I don't think shaming someone for their body is very cool. Thought we were past that as a society, but apparently not, lol.

Anyway! I want to turn this thing into something positive. I'd like to start a little tag game, if that's okay with y'all. Here it is:

Post five things about your body/yourself that you really, really like.

If you're tagged, give it a go and share it for everyone to see! It can be anything - things you've always loved about yourself, things you used to hate but worked to overcome, things you're trying really hard to love about yourself, etc. Just a fun thing, IDK.

I'll start:

I really like my hair. It has a life of its own - it's curly, but it seems to constantly repel itself, so it sprouts a bit chaotically from my head.

I like my hands. They're CUTE, even if they look a bit weird. It's actually a genetic thing! I have smol, puffy, wrinkly old-lady-esque hands.

I like my eyes. They're big and blue and I just really think they're neat.

My skin. It took me a long time (and going on Accutane) to find my love for my skin. But I like how forgiving it's been of my teenage obsession with picking at it.

I like my height. I'm small, only 4"11'. It makes things a bit hard sometimes, but it's one of the first things people notice about me and has made for a great (if uninspiring) conversation starter.

I'm gonna tag some peeps in this. Please feel free to do or not, just wanted to put it out there:

@ewanmitchellcrumbs @valeskafics @barbiedragon @just-some-random-blogger @the-common-cowgirl @safely-in-vhagars-belly @exitpursuedbyavulcan @evisnotok @toms-cherry-trees @alexagirlie @howyouloveyourdragon @reireichu @bottlesandbarricades @targaryenrealnessdarling @flowerpotmage @mini-kunoichi @marthawrites @solisarium @autumnhymns @ripdragonbeans @asumofwords @boundlessfantasy @randomdragonfires @barbieaemond @flowerandblood @asa-do-your-thing @vermithorn @undertheorangetree @emilykaldwen @darlingofvalyria @acrossthesestars

And anyone else who wants to do it!

#ask games 🎀#elle's radio show 💋🐇

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darlingofvalyria · 6 months

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🧡✨SEND THIS TO OTHER BLOGGERS YOU THINK ARE WONDERFUL. KEEP THE GAME GOING ✨🧡

the heart to my sweet, cristi ilysm 💖💖💖 uno reverse this to you tenfold, my love

#୨⎯ “ mailbox ” ⎯୧ ➵ ◛ °#˗ˏˋ꒰ darling cristi ꒱

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darlingofvalyria · 6 months

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Just throwing my two cents on the whole mess that's going on, and I'm going to be curt: you anons who are spreading hate everywhere, you all should be ashamed of yourself. People still have the right to express their opinions, without being harassed by you lot. People can still decide to write or not, about a specific character. If you can't say anything nice about either of these decisions, then the block function is there for you. No one cares about your hate. You are not making this fandom a better place and your policing is not needed!

#💟 gentle reminders 💟#< [ technically this isn't that gentle but eh ]#[ if i've offended anybody in anyway im sorry! & pls tell me. i'd rather we have an open discussion than anything even anonymously ]

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darlingofvalyria · 6 months

Text

╰┈➤ PROMPTS ❝ MIND MANIPULATION, BLOOD PLAY ❞

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 2,763 ] [ masterlist ] | Vampire!Rhaenyra Targaryen x Maid!Reader

You understand why they salivate after her like starved dogs for a hunt. Prowling, on the verge of humping the very ground she walks on.

Rings of all kind adorned her fingers as she held a goblet, amused by whatever topic the Riverland Lord was saying with gusto, fat stomach straining against a leather belt.

The Heir to the Iron Throne. The Realm's Delight.

You had never been prouder to say you serve such a woman, body and soul.

But you're different. In a way.

You take a low bow in front of them at your sudden interruption, your voice calm but firm. "My princess, the Prince Joffrey is ready to be put to bed."

Rhaenyra smiles, gladdened of your quick feet and quicker thinking. "Thank you—"

"Audacious!" Lord Mudd squeaks, the spittle and stench of alcohol almost makes you grimace. Almost. "The princess is talking to a lord, she does not want—"

"— the princess does not permit others to speak on her behalf, much less about what she wants or thinks," you can't help but snap. "Please refrain yourself from doing so, my lord."

He purples in offence, fist shaking that you sidle up to move in front of the princess. "Oh why, how dare—"

He bows to Rhaenyra. "G-good night, your grace."

You snort softly. "I am glad the night has amused you thus far, my princess."

If she touches you now, there would be no care for titles or eyes.

"Shall I prepare your feast, my princess?"

She blinks at you, surprised. "My feast? Surely this is enough."

"You do not know that." Rhaenyra laughs lightly as you are already shaking your head. "We should not tempt fate."

"You had been doing your duty unto the realm as its heir and its delight. We are tempering any whisper of revolt. Your win is marked in stone," you insist. "A reward is only just."

Her eyes flash. "... Maidens?"

"At least four of them, my princess."

For your protection, my sweet, Rhaenyra had purred, feeling her nails scratch in the fragments of your malleable brain.

She sinks with ease, a low, satiated hum escapes her lips.

“I will assume this is another present?” she teases. “No maidens?”

Rhaenyra’s laugh is spoilt as much as it is indulgent. “And I am assuming you never told them the length or width of their servitude?”

She really does feel much better if she is in such a teasing mood.

Rhaenyra bites her lip. You have been good. And deserving. She leans forward, pressing herself back. “Come.”

You still, holding onto her oils. “I still have to wash your hair, princess, it has been an arduous day."

It is no wonder that your body craves, hips moving in an insistent, errant sway against her thigh that she laughs once more, finish suckling a bruise on your arched neck.

She snakes a hand between you to pinch at your clit. You jolt.

"Manners."

Even her punishments have always been to over feed you your own pleasure, indulge in the staccato wails broken by whines as your last peak has barely finished before she is making you reach it again.

"There she is, my sweet girl."

Teasing, always teasing. You shudder.

Because Rhaenyra gives as much as she takes.

And she wants everything you... 'willingly' give.

#srb !! ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀🌹

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darlingofvalyria · 6 months

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🧡✨SEND THIS TO OTHER BLOGGERS YOU THINK ARE WONDERFUL. KEEP THE GAME GOING ✨🧡

sweet bel of my heart, you're wonderful please

#୨⎯ “ mailbox ” ⎯୧ ➵ ◛ °#˗ˏˋ꒰ darling bel ꒱

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darlingofvalyria · 6 months

Text

ok so, some updates!

buckle up, mi luvs♡

I've decided to keep kinktober in October, when I originally planned it to extend by November since I started late but now I'm just... eh about it. So it'll end with Cregan's piece by the last week, but the Daemon and Alysmond piece will still be written and posted! Just normal pieces.

The last part of TSHBFT will be up soon as well, so I can start on the next Aemy series hehe. But I will hopefully make a dent with in bastards of blue before then— I've started it and it's true, it's a heavy piece ahahaha, both in word count and the emotion.

So that's where I am, it's been such a busy month that the so far highlight of my October is playing badminton with my cousins, ahaha!

#elle's radio show 💋🐇#elle teases 😘

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darlingofvalyria · 6 months

Text

╰┈➤ PROMPTS ❝ MIND MANIPULATION, BLOOD PLAY ❞

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 2,763 ] [ masterlist ] | Vampire!Rhaenyra Targaryen x Maid!Reader

You understand why they salivate after her like starved dogs for a hunt. Prowling, on the verge of humping the very ground she walks on.

Rings of all kind adorned her fingers as she held a goblet, amused by whatever topic the Riverland Lord was saying with gusto, fat stomach straining against a leather belt.

The Heir to the Iron Throne. The Realm's Delight.

You had never been prouder to say you serve such a woman, body and soul.

But you're different. In a way.

You take a low bow in front of them at your sudden interruption, your voice calm but firm. "My princess, the Prince Joffrey is ready to be put to bed."

Rhaenyra smiles, gladdened of your quick feet and quicker thinking. "Thank you—"

"Audacious!" Lord Mudd squeaks, the spittle and stench of alcohol almost makes you grimace. Almost. "The princess is talking to a lord, she does not want—"

"— the princess does not permit others to speak on her behalf, much less about what she wants or thinks," you can't help but snap. "Please refrain yourself from doing so, my lord."

He purples in offence, fist shaking that you sidle up to move in front of the princess. "Oh why, how dare—"

He bows to Rhaenyra. "G-good night, your grace."

You snort softly. "I am glad the night has amused you thus far, my princess."

If she touches you now, there would be no care for titles or eyes.

"Shall I prepare your feast, my princess?"

She blinks at you, surprised. "My feast? Surely this is enough."

"You do not know that." Rhaenyra laughs lightly as you are already shaking your head. "We should not tempt fate."

"You had been doing your duty unto the realm as its heir and its delight. We are tempering any whisper of revolt. Your win is marked in stone," you insist. "A reward is only just."

Her eyes flash. "... Maidens?"

"At least four of them, my princess."

For your protection, my sweet, Rhaenyra had purred, feeling her nails scratch in the fragments of your malleable brain.

She sinks with ease, a low, satiated hum escapes her lips.

“I will assume this is another present?” she teases. “No maidens?”

Rhaenyra’s laugh is spoilt as much as it is indulgent. “And I am assuming you never told them the length or width of their servitude?”

She really does feel much better if she is in such a teasing mood.

Rhaenyra bites her lip. You have been good. And deserving. She leans forward, pressing herself back. “Come.”

You still, holding onto her oils. “I still have to wash your hair, princess, it has been an arduous day."

It is no wonder that your body craves, hips moving in an insistent, errant sway against her thigh that she laughs once more, finish suckling a bruise on your arched neck.

She snakes a hand between you to pinch at your clit. You jolt.

"Manners."

Even her punishments have always been to over feed you your own pleasure, indulge in the staccato wails broken by whines as your last peak has barely finished before she is making you reach it again.

"There she is, my sweet girl."

Teasing, always teasing. You shudder.

Because Rhaenyra gives as much as she takes.

And she wants everything you... 'willingly' give.

#srb !! ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀🌹

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darlingofvalyria · 6 months

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Another piece done means another piece to tease hehe

Cregan's coming (in more ways than one, badum tss) 👀

[ Right, so I really, really wasn't planning on joining kinktober all for the fact that writing everyday is just not viable for me... but then I got massive fomo and I realised, when else can I launch my monsterfucking agenda? I'm very loud about it in my main account, but haven't properly launched it here. . . so. Yes. I'll be writing a piece once a week, all varying in length. Here's to finger crossing, monsterfucking, and serious moral ambiguity. Delicious. ]

︶꒦꒷♡ This gets progressively darker, please check warnings per piece. ♡꒷꒦︶

WEEK 01—

Oh, Jeepers!

Aegon Targaryen II, Exes, Intoxication

As lovers, you and Aegon were the best. As exes, you and him might be the actual worst. But he can't help himself, and you're powerless to your own desires. A Halloween Party, hard liquor, and glances that attempts to stifle stares of want— everything comes to a catalyst.

WEEK 02—

Ghost Bride

Osferth, Cock Worship, Orgasm Denial

An abandoned church made most of broken wood and whimpering winds becomes a momentary resting sanctuary for Uhtred and his men— Osferth finds himself with a crooked root in the shape of a hand, a gold ring, and a full, blue moon.

WEEK 03—

Her Favourite

Rhaenyra Targaryen, Mind Manipulation, Blood Play

As the Princess of the Realm's most favoured maid, there are certain liberties you are privy to demand. Jealousy of the people surrounding your lady is not one of them. Amused, Rhaenyra wishes to show her jealous, little darling that there is nothing to worry about.

WEEK 04 (10/29)— Cregan Stark, Werewolf, Mating

You had been told, time and again, that you were bred to be the wife to the Lord Stark. The kindness of your lord husband had shadowed you of your duty. . . until the night of the full moon comes. It is time to follow through with what you were actually made for.

WEEK 05— Daemon Targaryen, Witch, Mind Manipulation

WEEK 06— Aemond Targaryen & Alys Rivers, Addams!AU, Threesome

#elle teases 😘

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darlingofvalyria · 6 months

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╰┈➤ PROMPTS ❝ MIND MANIPULATION, BLOOD PLAY ❞

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 2,763 ] [ masterlist ] | Vampire!Rhaenyra Targaryen x Maid!Reader

You understand why they salivate after her like starved dogs for a hunt. Prowling, on the verge of humping the very ground she walks on.

Rings of all kind adorned her fingers as she held a goblet, amused by whatever topic the Riverland Lord was saying with gusto, fat stomach straining against a leather belt.

The Heir to the Iron Throne. The Realm's Delight.

You had never been prouder to say you serve such a woman, body and soul.

But you're different. In a way.

You take a low bow in front of them at your sudden interruption, your voice calm but firm. "My princess, the Prince Joffrey is ready to be put to bed."

Rhaenyra smiles, gladdened of your quick feet and quicker thinking. "Thank you—"

"Audacious!" Lord Mudd squeaks, the spittle and stench of alcohol almost makes you grimace. Almost. "The princess is talking to a lord, she does not want—"

"— the princess does not permit others to speak on her behalf, much less about what she wants or thinks," you can't help but snap. "Please refrain yourself from doing so, my lord."

He purples in offence, fist shaking that you sidle up to move in front of the princess. "Oh why, how dare—"

He bows to Rhaenyra. "G-good night, your grace."

You snort softly. "I am glad the night has amused you thus far, my princess."

If she touches you now, there would be no care for titles or eyes.

"Shall I prepare your feast, my princess?"

She blinks at you, surprised. "My feast? Surely this is enough."

"You do not know that." Rhaenyra laughs lightly as you are already shaking your head. "We should not tempt fate."

"You had been doing your duty unto the realm as its heir and its delight. We are tempering any whisper of revolt. Your win is marked in stone," you insist. "A reward is only just."

Her eyes flash. "... Maidens?"

"At least four of them, my princess."

For your protection, my sweet, Rhaenyra had purred, feeling her nails scratch in the fragments of your malleable brain.

She sinks with ease, a low, satiated hum escapes her lips.

“I will assume this is another present?” she teases. “No maidens?”

Rhaenyra’s laugh is spoilt as much as it is indulgent. “And I am assuming you never told them the length or width of their servitude?”

She really does feel much better if she is in such a teasing mood.

Rhaenyra bites her lip. You have been good. And deserving. She leans forward, pressing herself back. “Come.”

You still, holding onto her oils. “I still have to wash your hair, princess, it has been an arduous day."

It is no wonder that your body craves, hips moving in an insistent, errant sway against her thigh that she laughs once more, finish suckling a bruise on your arched neck.

She snakes a hand between you to pinch at your clit. You jolt.

"Manners."

Even her punishments have always been to over feed you your own pleasure, indulge in the staccato wails broken by whines as your last peak has barely finished before she is making you reach it again.

"There she is, my sweet girl."

Teasing, always teasing. You shudder.

Because Rhaenyra gives as much as she takes.

And she wants everything you... 'willingly' give.

#rhaenyra targaryen x reader #rhaenyra x reader #rhaenyra smut #rhaenyra targaryen fanfiction #kinktober 2023 #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra x you #rhaenyra fanfic #hotd smut #hotd x you #︶꒦꒷♡ elle tries kinks ♡꒷꒦︶#elle writes !! ꒱ ↷˗ˏˋ🍒

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darlingofvalyria · 6 months

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Your stories are so good I might just have to eat your butt

help me, nonnie omg ahaahahah!! Thank you (?) so much, I'm so glad you're enjoying them to this degree!

I got home bone-tired from a long drive and recent issues, but this made me absolutely giggle, wiped my exhaustion for a beautiful moment, thanks so much 💟💟💟

#୨⎯ “ mailbox ” ⎯୧ ➵ ◛ °#for sour & sad days ☁🍋

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darlingofvalyria · 6 months

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😉😉😉

❝Dragons do not seek permission, niece of mine. Dragons take.❞

[ Betrayal clouds your judgement, for when Jacaerys' indiscretion takes the form of a child, your anger lands in the palm of the Rogue Prince. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 3,412 ] | Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen Niece!Reader, Jacaerys Velaryon x Manipulative Aunt!Reader | this set in an au inside of in hightower green. | this is able to be read as a oneshot.

contains— canon divergence to the second power - an au of an au - targcest, use of 'bastard', infidelity, profanity, revenge, violence, pureblood Valyrian bullshit - thinking about death as a revenge but no suicide/suicidal ideation- angst, smut - two wrongs apparently make a right - mentions of children, pregnancy, childbirth - nsfw: rough sex, biting, degradation, breeding kink, smidge dacryphilia, creampie - no kinslayers, no kings, no betas.

a/n— special thanks to @ahristata and @hiraethrhapsody for kicking my pursuit of this thread!! i woke up (almost literally) to this line of inquiry, & though writing for daemon is difficult, i had a way, way too much fun with this one m'fraid. Ihad so much fun I started laughing at the absurdity. + comment, reblog & like at will, mi luvs, mwa!

You can't breathe.

You stand there, your daughters by your sides, no more than five or so name days, dutiful as ever, the princess of the realm— the heir's wife, blindsided. Betrayed. Lied to. And you can't show them your grief, your anger, your shock— you smile, not betrayed, not realised, stupid.

Your act of stupidity protects you, for you can just tell that others, sharp-eyed as they are owning of sharper tongues, calculate the similarities between your husband and the child he is cooing at, at the arms of the Warden of the North's sister.

His bastard fucking sister.

You can't blink away as the facts, the threads, make a beautiful web in front of you. The conclusion is unmistakable. Jacaerys' consistent travels to the North, despite the campaigning for his mother's seat had not required the frequent stretches of long travels. How Aemond had remarked that the bastard is doing twice as much work in doing so, "as he should," Aemond murmurs darkly. "He casts a disgusting shadow on the Iron Throne, 'tis the least he can do."

The insistent of personally greeting the delegates from the North, you thinking it is just his wondrously formed friendship with the Lord Stark, had you dressing up and bringing your girls with him. So that your daughters can meet their father's fucking friend, one that occupied his time when he could have been at home, tending to his duties, his heirs.

And the woman who follows after the Wolf, the bastard Snow, his beloved sister. Dyanna had told you beforehand, as Lord Stark adores his only sibling. Their parenthood is unmistakable, dark hair and sharp chins. A Northern Beauty.

And then you stop, as there is a babe in her arms, no more than two name days at least.

And you see Jacaerys in his gaze.

His beautiful, warm brown eyes in the child in her arms, and as he stands there, your Prince of the Realm, too close for comfort, too close for platonic friendship, a familiarity one cannot deny— and that fucking, sweet-edged, tender smile on his face...

The same one he wore when you had given birth to his daughters. Soiled sheets, bloodied babes— it didn't matter. He held them to his arms with the very same smile, thanking you for birthing his babes.

A gut punch, a sharp inhale, an anger that coils and burns and roars.

Your bastard of a husband had fucked another bastard, and made himself a bastard little fucking family.

Life can ever be so cruel as it is humorous.

Daemon could have laughed at the prediction you found yourself in.

He sits to the left of his wife, the Queen who— in enough of itself, the evidence of the turmoil the court is about to get under, amusingly is talking quick with her Lord Hand; Corlys and Rhaenyra had not stopped pointedly looking at her heir, words too fast but unmistakable what the topic is if their gestures, the knot between their eyebrows, and unmistakable sighs and determined noises.

He, on the other hand, is pointedly staring at you.

You, who tries so hard to piece together an armour of stupidity, an air of nonchalance. As if there is no anger in your visage at your husband's attention completely stolen by Wolf's little sister and her son... who looked completely like him. Dark colouring, the First Men blood thick in his nose, his hair, at the curled edges of his baby-cheeked giggles.

When standing so close, faces to each other, there can be no doubt a mirror.

Or the lovesick smile on the mother's face, watching the Prince of the Realm interact with her son.

Together, the trio of them don't hint as much as a bead of Targaryen blood. One is able to pretend they are nothing more than a small... brown haired family.

Daemon presses his lips, trying desperately not to laugh so loudly.

He admired the boy, truly. Rhaenyra loved each child from her bosom with equal fervor, and Daemon was prepared take him as purely one of his own... but after he broke the betrothal with his daughter (though Baela could give lesser of a shit, though mildly dissatisfied as she was to become Queen, and the girl held her duties between canines) to marry a Hightower cunt... he had distanced himself from the boy.

Daemon viewed it as a sign of weakness, for he knew you. You were just like your mother, prodding into softened parts of his family— that green whore with his brother, young as she had been, his good sister Aemma had not been cold in their memories before she had found herself weightily pregnant with new heirs, and then Jacaerys, new to womanly spells, new to cunt, and you had him making vows in the ways of the dragonlords.

Though he can surmise that much of your mother's movements had not entirely been her own... Daemon knew that calculative look you got in your eye. Blink and it's gone, but your gaze sharpens, your mouth curls in a winning, prideful little smirk.

You were Otto Hightower's granddaughter alright, and you had wanted the Heir's Heir.

But now, it seems like, once a vow broken, it didn't really matter if it was a betrothal or a marriage to Jacaerys.

It brings a sick pull of satisfaction in him, that tugs him to look at you. Every time.

You laugh, tither, still evermore the gem of the feast— a feast you organised with the Lord Hand for your husband's absolutely exceptional diplomatic achievements in the North, truly, Daemon is laughing in the sidelines as the jests and songs make themselves — but Daemon is overtly familiar with dragons. And anger. And you simply stink of it. The way your eye twitches, the occasional grind of your jaw to how your fingers dig crescent moons into your palm. He catches blood in one blink then smeared, then gone, in another.

Your hold onto your armour— the Darling of the Realm, curated so painfully by a young, sly girl moving about the cesspit they call a crown's court — is breaking in pieces and tatters at each hour the feast went on.

It snarls. Like a dragon locked in the pits, tugging at reins, wishing to burn cities.

Maybe you aren't just another Hightower cunt after all.

Not purely at least, he thinks in distaste, staring at the dark green of your gown.

It is a childish tantrum, more than anything, for what is your Hightower green will do now? A bastard has been made, worse, a son. And though Jacaerys himself has muddied blood, he is still a Targaryen. His mother is Queen, prepared to make him an Heir to the Iron Throne as he had been legitimised as Laenor's son. A Velaryon. He bears the name, the crest, and the support of its house.

What is stopping him from marrying the Snow Bastard, legitimising the boy as his own, surpassing your own daughters?

Targaryens marry siblings, they also marry multiple wives.

It is a thought that he can see it dancing in your head— raw, enticing rage and bloodlust that tightens his breeches.

It is an interesting thing.

The green is disgusting, but Daemon can appreciate a young, fertile, Valyrian beauty.

Something your mother had ingeniously provided you and your siblings with, reining in her muddied blood to produce unmistakable Valyrian children. And as a smart little tart, you understood what to do with it.

When Daemon first met you, you were just one of the Hightower spawns that his brother had made to further his line. His brother's daughters—apart from Rhaenyra — were quiet things as babes and children. Odd the two of you were, but not really hostile. When you were introduced to him, your fat babe of a twin brother was teary-eyed and clinging to you, a quiet child with round eyes, staring at him inquisitively, as if challenging.

Then and there, Daemon disliked you so.

Even as you grew, the little of what he could see as he paid no mind of Viserys' other children, you grew up a fine royal, a princess of every word and sung note. Mentions of your progressive fight for the small folk, your charitable heart, your sweet nature that even his brother had made a note once or twice—

He thought it had been Otto Hightower who put you up to such machinations. Wouldn't be below him.

The night you bedded Jacaerys Velaryon, he was pleasantly surprised to find out it had been you all along.

And now here you are, betrayed as you had betrayed his daughter, delicious in your righteous anger and ripe (two babes before the year ended, Jace is an inglorious fool) for the taking. And youthful still. Smooth, soft skin, pretty lips and bright-eyed.

All your scheming, going as far as throwing your grandsire to Oldtown, it is obvious no one has wrangled the clever, spoiled little brat out of you.

As he sips his wine, amused and pleasantly hungry, he muses he might do a job or two of being the strong arm to do so.

He snorts, eyes straying back to the little First Men family.

There it is again. The jest that keeps on giving.

It was pride, truly, that kept you for most of the feast. That kept your gritted teeth to yourself, ducking into corners whenever your anger burned at your eyelids, stubbornly brushing stray tears away.

All is not lost, you stubbornly thought. You just had to plot.

But when Jace had taken your daughters, your Daenera and Aemma, gently tugging them to his bastard whore and his actual bastard to meet— finding your eyes, at that very moment as Daenera's precious, pureblooded hand shyly took the hand of her bastard brother, a fool's tender fucking simpleton of a smile on your husband's face —

Something in your head had snapped. A clean break.

And your armour had fallen. Like limestone from a fortress. Caved in ruins at the pool of your feet. Dark, furious loathe unfurled in your chest. Unable to handle it anymore, you had taken your dress and got out of the feast, for you could feel the urge of unsheathing a sword and going on a bloodied massacre, crowns and titles be damned.

You may not have a dragon, but you have its bloodlust.

Just as you are rushing to your chambers, you stop and make a different turn, knowing that if your husband had caught wind of such an ugly expression on your face, he would try and find you, talk to you, and you don't have the patience to cater to him at the moment— you find what you know of is an empty chamber, reserved for guests at the Keep.

It is a simple room with all the usual accruements. Most of the fanfare, the sheets, are in storage.

You start with a candelabra.

Raise it high before you are violently smashing it against the dresser, shrieks and guttural screams out of your mouth as you tear through the room like a typhoon, cursing Jacaerys, the North, and bastards to the Seven Hells.

None will be the wiser, for you had built your network well. Your spiders will pivot guards and strangers from this area, ensuring you a reprieve where your anger and grief can unfurl and manifest.

So you lose yourself, a dragon untethered. You get so into your rage, quiet in your thoughts, that you don't hear an intruder entering until there is a low, amused laugh too close for comfort.

You whirl around, tear-stained and rage-filled, and though the Rogue Prince expects you to fall into stutters, your eyes slit and you grip— when had you picked up a tome? — the tome tighter to your chest, snarling, "Get out."

Instead of surprise, or even offense, Daemon laughs as if you are the most amusing thing to him all night. Jesters and whores alike.

"I shall not." He makes a noncommittal hum around the dark room. "I rather like it here. It seems this chamber holds a much better entertainment than anything beheld at the feast."

You let out a dark, incredulous laughter. "I have no time for your toying, uncle, get out!" You toss the tome with fervour, but he's a warrior and he anticipates your anger, sidestepping easily before he's back to casual prowling.

"I do not have time to play jester for your entertainment," you hiss, unable to stop the hateful tears from spilling, brushing them away harshly as you watch him watch you.

He raises an eyebrow. "I am not asking you to."

"Are you here then for my humiliation? Press a bitter wound while it's still bleeding, is that it? Is that what would make the glory of your night?"

He snorts. "What would make the glory of my night is a warm body and a tight cunt."

Your face scrunches. "You are disgusting."

He barks out a laugh. "Not as disgusting as your brother."

"Aegon is no longer—"

"— or as stupidly naive as your husband."

A sharp intake of breath before you're once more cracking in broken rage and ghastly pain.

"Of course you would notice, who would not, he looks so much like his fucking bastard."

"Watch yourself, girl," he barks. "You are still talking about the Queen's heir."

A beautiful guard dog, you think, you snort. You push past him, gasping into the crisp, cool air, holding onto the balcony for dear life.

"His already diluted blood makes this conversation entirely hilarious to me I'm afraid." You look down and wonder how fast you will fall. How messy would such a death be? How much care there is left in your wake? Will your husband even care, now that he has his heir? Borne out of true love no doubt, despite such bastardly blood— or is that what makes it thrilling for them?

Mangled bone, spread thin blood— if you die such a way, it should be pretty. You hope it haunts the Keep of so many before you.

But if you die now, you will be replaced so easily. So prettily.

And your daughters—who will care for them? Will Jacaerys even care, if his bastards soon no doubt fill your once home, your mother, your brothers— your daughters pushed aside to make way for fucking dogs.

There is no satisfaction in such a plan.

There are many others.

The Rogue Prince makes his presence known by standing close to your back, close enough that you can smell him, that his heat is your own, as he hums, peering below as you have.

"Have you been drinking, zaldrītsos little dragon?" he whispers, tangling his fingers through your hair, running a lone finger down your neck, up and down in a tantalising movement. You can't help it, it feels comforting, leaning close to it despite such a breathy huff out of your lips.

"Since when am I dragon, kepus uncle? Haven't you always likened us muddied blood, filthier than dragonseeds?"

"I see that I am wrong," he says, almost idle as if he isn't devouring you in his gaze. How you feel soft, pliant under one finger after weighted in wine and the ruins of your anger, how you're almost purring and sweet like this, your fire alive but consistent. "Aōha perzys burns jehikagrī. Nyke hae ziry. Your flames burn bright. I like it."

"Hm. You've had sons, don't you uncle?"

"I have," he replies, amused.

"And many a children." You reach for his chin, your thumb rubbing his bottom lip. He's old, sure, but men don't have the same bodily issues as women. You know he could reach your father's age and be able to produce five more brats.

But his shoulders are strong, spry only as a swordsman can be.

And he isn't like he's loyal to Nyra, turning fully to you with a hand caressing your side.

His hand comes for your neck, halting your movement as he tests a squeeze. There is only much hatred as there is lust. And his cock is winning over his mind, for when your free hand, watching him intently, reaches for the hardness straining against his breeches, giving it a stroke, his breath stutters into a groan whilst his hips push into your hand.

"Dragons do not seek permission, niece of mine," he hums darkly. "Dragons take, or do you have too much of your Hightower cunt of a mother that you—"

You curl your hand over his cock until his breath hitches.

"I want a son. Surely you'd rather want for your true blood to sit on the Iron Throne? Your wife would remain Queen, her and her heir none the wiser. Any son of mine would be King regardless." Your voice is barely above whisper, stroking him as your squirm in his hold, his breath heavy by each promise, each tale you spin so tall. "Wouldn't you like that better? I am a Targaryen, as are you. Our blood would be pure."

"I have pureblooded sons, riñītsos little girl."

"But will they be king? With my husband as your wife's heir?" When his hold softens on your throat, you push yourself forward, pressing yourself against him. "Wouldn't you want your family's legacy, your legacy, unsullied with prettier blood?

"I want a son, uncle," you whimper, thickened with need and desire, willing him to bend and fold because men like Daemon are easy, because a loving marriage is one thing, a man who holds his house as his pride in another fist is another. "I want your seed to take root in me."

And it isn't like you're asking him to betray his Queen.

Daemon is surprisingly a soft lover, prone in a way to worshipping you even as you had gotten impatient and tried to get your way. His punishments are quick and precise, a hit on your thigh, a tighter squeeze in your throat, a firm bite in your breast enough to draw blood. He's soft but by choice, almost as if he is amusing you in each caress while one hand is holding you by your hair, fucking you down into the sheets.

His words aren't better, spun in hisses and spits, mocking laughter and groans.

"Do you want my seed, you little whore?"

"What would your husband say now, his pretty wife mewling for another? Or would he even care?"

"Your tears are pretty, if you want my seed, I think you need to be sobbing, hm?"

When he finally spills inside of you with nothing less of a broken, guttural roar, hips chasing the high, meeting your sensitivity once, twice, again— you are shattered in pieces and contradictions, floating and wide awake, pleasured and in pain.

He slaps your face gently after he's cleaned himself up, tucked his flaccid cock back in his breeches as he comes to your eye line. "Come to me again when you want my seed, hm? I shall prioritise your wants for the good of the realm but I dare say—"

He cocks his head with a smirk, feeling stirrings at the sight of your fucked out state, his seed spilling from your pretty hole that he can't help himself as he chases it with a finger, forcefully pushing it back in while your body trembles and twitches.

"— you may be with child soon enough, niece. I shall congratulate you and my son with the happy news."

Your eyes flutter close at the echoes of his disappearing footsteps.

Nine moons later, through a hearty, blood-soaked birth that rocked the keep with your wails of pure pain— much more painful than when your girls had come into the world — a baby boy is born of pure Valyrian colouring.

A fat babe who cried murder in his first seconds of life, and it is Caraxes who snarls and screeches into the high noon sky.

"I shall name him Daemon," you say to your husband beside you as you beheld the babe with a wondrous smile and a full heart.

"After your brother and my father," Jace says, smiling. "That is wonderful, my wife. He does look much like them."

Your smile curls, a finger rubbing your babe's fat cheek. "He does. And he will be strong swordsman." Your lashes flutter to Jace, poisoned vowels in each word that he blinks, startled. "Just like his father."

TAGGED @inkareds @marihoneywk @caterina-caterina @ahristata @xxvelvetxxxx @but-i-write-so-i-must-count @bunbunbl0gs @yazzzmints @bellstwd @hiraethrhapsody @watercolorskyy @fulla02 @menaosama @cookielovesbook-akie

#(๛ ˘ ³˘ )♡ lovely comments

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darlingofvalyria · 6 months

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Cristi my love, I swear sjdhjshd. It's such an honour (and a wild thing) to be both your first Jace and Aegon! And yes, that's his contact name lol. Definitely not a personal quip, having the name Block Him but not blocking him sjdhsjdh

Ahahah! Thank you so much for reading, and you know what, this is a judgement free zone, the things we have done are a thing of an embarrassing past 😉😭

As lovers, you and Aegon were the best. As exes, you and him might be the actual worst. But he can't help himself, and you're powerless to your own desires. A Halloween Party, more than hard liquor, and glances that attempts to stifle stares of want— everything comes to a catalyst.

╰┈➤ PROMPTS ❝ INTOXICATED, DOM/SUB DYNAMICS ❞

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 2,359 ] [ masterlist ] | Modern!AU Aegon Targaryen II x F!Reader

contains— smut, angsty - exes to lovers, frat parties, college au!, possessive, cheating (not you or aeg), intoxication - messy sex for the messy exes, sorta toxic if you squint - petnames: sweet angel, sweet girl, sweetheart - mention of drug usage, slight hint addiction - nsfw: fingering, overstimulation, marking, dubcon + enthusiastic agreement, degradation, praise kink, dom!aeg— dom/sub dynamics, daddy kink if you squint, creampie - no betas.

a/n— hopefully this works for the request! it's a little... sadder and smuttier, but hey! ahahah! this is why i don't do daily kinktober. as an overwriter, it's just not possible to be quick jsdhjsh. comment, reblog & like at will, mi luvs, mwa!

It starts with, "Don't look, it's your ex."

And you pause. You freeze. You physically feel the adrenaline course through each and which way vein in your system, finding the end of your epidermis and hairline. It's a lot and you still have yet to land your eyes on him. The punch you've been offered not long ago that's slowly been condensing between your fingers register in your brain as cold, a drink, alcoholic— that you toss your head back and chug.

You sputter and choke afterward, your friend slamming her hand on your back in sympathy. "F-fuck. That's gross."

"Dude," she nervously giggles. "I don't think you were supposed to throat shot that."

"It tastes chemical, like chugging a nuclear reactor. I don't recommend it either." You exchange each hand to wipe the wetness on your skirt and holding your glass, trying to settle your nerves. "Where is he?"

"Got waylaid by two frat brothers, Dumb and Dumber, I think... think he's chatting up— yep, Frat President, with... an Olsen Twin on his lap. Fuck. I'm sorry, bestie."

You try to laugh but it comes out strangled. Because of course. Aegon is a pretty comet who streaks by, just as pretty and just as infrequent, coming to pass like a godly miracle and people just devours him.

Because he's Aegon, always the shiniest star, the bestest friend, somehow everyone's first something. First kiss, first messy hookup, first 'and he did this thing with his tongue, oh my gods, I saw five stars and the moon!', etcetera.

You aren't his first love and you sure as shit aren't going to be his first heartbreak. You wonder how many heartbreaks it'll be tonight; there's a running tally of three heartbreaks within one party, a fantastical rumour, a proud, mysogynistic chidding between male friends— before you got together with him, before your sphere ever clashed with Aegon Targaryen when he too was just a comet to you, a moon, an asteroid— always on orbit but always outside, unknown to the taste of his lips when he giggles between kisses, nor the pretty sighs when your fingers find the bulge in his pants.

Fuck. You're getting teary and you're in your first Halloween party since breaking up with Aegon. You got dressed up and had gotten your makeup done by your more creative friend.

You need to stop wasting emotions and cruelly painful thoughts for the star haired boy.

"Fuck it. Where's the hard drugs?"

Your friend snorts. "I'm not letting you do hard drugs. I am going to do very nice grass with you from very nice people on the sofa already hallucinating."

"Fine. But we're doing shots."

Aegon didn't see you the first time he arrived, but he will always, always find you in a crowd.

It's your laughter that triggers it this time, a sound embedded in his bones that he turns like a dog at the sound, as if finding his master. And then you're there, loose and happy, his heart stuttering at the pure joy and fun in your face, in your body, as you swayed slightly the beat, holding a freshly emptied shot glass.

He swallows. Fuck. You're still so pretty.

Your makeup is done sharper, your lips glossy and bright— a cherry red. His mouth watering when you pout dramatically at your friend, the pulsing lights caressing every dip and bow, every curve and edge of you. Your hair is loose, framing your face with a fake, paper halo over your head that sparkles in glitter, matching the body glitter across your shoulders and collarbones, even the peeks of your thighs under the white, silk dress that, with a jump in his throat, has his cock standing at attention.

He knows that dress.

He remembers the ghostly echoes of the lace detailing atop your chest, how it feels under his palms when he skates his hand over to squeeze your tits, the feel of the silk against his stomach when you lean over his body as your pussy flutters, clenching, while you roll and grind against him, trying to find pleasure—

"Fucking hell," he downs the punchy, mysterious liquid that's just straight vodka with rum, soda and strawberry syrup (absolutely disgusting but good enough for college students on a Friday), because he's fucking hard, and you're just there, oblivious, dancing, looking gorgeous, and his heart is aching. You're everything he's ever want, desired and should have kept better care for— fuck all the arguments, all the fights, all the stupid little reasons that he can't remember anymore why you two broke up —

And his stare is heated, penetrative, because the next thing he knows you're looking back at him. A thread of swallowing gaze, of empty thought but the baseborn sound of a Halloween party and two people who can't look away. Their past is twisted between them, their future uncertain, but their present is here and the want is certain.

The shared heat is gone when a hand is on his shoulder and he is forcibly turned. Qoren Martell shakes his head, lips turned down.

"No, dude. That's a bad idea."

And Aegon smirks because that's what's expected of him. His fingers tingle as he clench and unclench them. He can't be seen mooning over an ex.

"Not if she wants it."

It's a douchebag reply, an Aegon Second of His Name reply, but Qoren knows him better than that, even Jason who's not even looking at him, staring at Solana who was grinding against some frat bro from Beta Theta while staring directly at him.

Aegon snorts when Qoren smacks Jason's head.

"So that's why you didn't bring Johanna, you fucker." Aegon takes another beer, itching for the paraphernalia hot in his pocket. You've turned away and the itch is back, low but steady.

Jason shrugs. "I don't know what you mean."

"I am not babysitting both of you, motherfucks," Qoren mutters. "You're both responsible of your mistakes tonight I'm meeting Somi tomorrow and neither of you messy fuckers are going to ruin that for me, alright?" With that, he slaps a hand on both of their backs, making Jason curse as his beer spills.

When Aegon watches Qoren leave, he turns back to you and see you're already staring, irises too wide, full lips slightly open, and the thrum of heat, nice and striking, runs down his body.

He's going to fuck you. Or you're going to fuck him. It's set in stone, written in fate's ink. When you move away, his stare hooked on you, he smirks the moment you turn back to see if he's still watching, starving, and cocking your head as if asking,

Not going to follow?

But of course he does, it's you and him.

It doesn't start with a kiss. It's a hungry stare meeting in a bathroom mirror spotted by dry water, and he knows what you need, taking your hair in his hand as he stands beside you, tugging you toward him as a gasp leaves your lips, your hands winding to his hips, anchoring yourself.

"How much have you had?" he asks, moving his hand to your neck, stroking the edge of your jaw, watching your wet lashes and licking lips. "Come on, sweet angel." His other hand moves to the edge of your white silk, running his nails across your thighs.

"Does it matter? I want you." A breathy whimper leaves your lips as his mouth latches on your neck, tugging your hair to the side to start sucking bruises as his hand finds your panties and a groan rips out of him.

"You're this wet, sweet angel? All for me?"

"I was grinding on, hhh— Jon, don't flatter your—" You yelp, a sounding slap on your wet cunt and your wetness clings to his hand. You squirm in his hold, but he tightens, cupping your centre with his thick hand.

"This is my pussy," he hums sweetly, cheekily, but you know better. Aegon got sweeter when he was jealous. He smiled brighter when he got angry. He goaded when he hears warning in someone's voice. Daring them. Daring you. "How fucking dare you let someone— Snow, that creepy, depressed asshole, really, sweetheart? — my pussy?"

A flash of heat in your eyes meets his mullish blue gaze. Heat and hurt. "We've broken up, Aeg. You don't get to own me."

His heart thrums, head swimming— but not much as yours. You don't do drugs as hard as him, and you've been hitting something tonight. Your irises are wider, blacker even when you're turned on. You kept wetting your lips even as slick already covers your gloss. With a hum, he thrusts two of his fingers inside without preamble and you keen, arching against him as he kept a steady, fast pace, using the meat of his palm every few chuckles to rub your clit until your leg shakes.

"F-fuck, fuck, Aeg—" Your hands hold onto him for dear life as you feel your orgasm tide but he doesn't let up, continues his humming with his fingers, his mouth sucking your neck until you feel slobbered through the haze, until it starts to hurt with your overstimulation, forming bruises continually sucked on— and you cum again, too fast and too painful the second time. Pushed rather than pulled into the peak and he coos as he slows once you start crying out, tears in your eyes, mouth agape, patting your pussy and even you can hear the squelch.

His last pat is more of a slap, making you jolt and wail.

He smiles as he meets your watery gaze in the mirror, leaning back against the tiled wall to pull your skirt up, bracing you against his knee so you can see your wet and abused fluffy folds.

"What'd I tell you, darling? This is mine. Even she recognises me when you couldn't. For being an angel, you sure do got a mean streak."

You sniffle, nodding along in your hazy mind. "S-sorry. I'm sorry, Aeg."

"Aw, it's okay, only hurt my heart a little." He gives you a sweet peck on the cheek, fingers running down the wet path of freshly forming bruises on your neck. "I've missed you s'all."

"Me too. I-I've missed you too, baby," you say, eyes burning as you blink at the sincerity, smile turning a little softer, more real. "Wanna feel you."

"You already did, sweets, you did well too. How many special grass have you had?"

"Just okay." You twist in his hold, his knee straightening as you turn to him with your hands on his chest, looking up, pouting. "But I want you."

His cock throbs and you feel it against your thigh, but his face remains neutral, tinged with amusement as if he doesn't want to hoist you and fuck you into oblivion.

"It seems such the angel has forgotten her manners." He presses his thumb against your lip until he pushes it deeper, pressing it against your tongue before letting you suck on it, lashes fluttering.

"That's not what we say when want something. Use your words properly, baby," he mock, heat sizzling inside you, cunt throbbing. Though pleasing him has always been how your dynamic works, enjoying the way your mind blanks, filled only with the desire to be his sweet girl, his good girl while he relishes in dominating you.

Physically manhandling you was one thing, puppeteering your wants to mould his was another.

Loss of control was a soft tissue in Aegon's armour. And though you had gotten close, he had never opened up that part of him.

It was one of the reasons you broke up.

Your intoxicated-addled mind comprehends that, to a level, this is bad, but b, he's close, distracting you with his presence, his thumb on your mouth a familiar action, and you never get just one orgasm from Aegon so it doesn't linger long. The thought vanishes like a salt-licked ghost from a too recent past before you're holding on his hand and you're smiling sweetly.

"I want you to feel good too, Aeg," you whisper. "I want your cock inside me."

And he smiles— won, lost, who knows anymore. "There she is."

The next events are truly hazy. All you can remember is that he's close, closer than he's been in months, in you and stuck to you, snapping his hips against yours while your legs are up and jelly, bunched up in his arms while you hold strong against the wall.

The world is mush of thought, tongue, and messy kisses that are more spit and moan between your familiar, favourite cock driving into you again and again. A steady, almost sweetly, rock of his hips driving into that spongy, hard part of you that makes your toes curl and the pleasure to overwhelm. There's sweat and there are tender presses of his lips on your face when you both calm down, almost too sweetly, too needy for the Aegon that you know.

But every time you're about to come down from that high, he's rocking into you again, squeezing your thighs, your tits, using the mess of your cum and his to rub against your clit, and you're gone again.

The pleasure, driven again and again, wipes your memory of the more tender words he murmurs against your skin.

"L-love you so much, baby, god, you don't know how much I've missed you."

"You cumming again? T-that's a good girl, so sweet f'me, fuck, so good."

You don't know how you got to the room the morning, but you're dry and clean and the morning is stale but not head pounding. And you wake up alone, no trace of Aegon at all.

If it wasn't for the trail of bruised kisses against your throat, the throbbing between your legs, full of shared cum when you dip a finger in— you could've said he was nothing more than a ghost of the past, a pretty little dream.

Hooking up with your ex ends with a toughened heart, too empty to cry as you read a message from him.

BLOCK HIM: i'm sorry.

#(๛ ˘ ³˘ )♡ lovely comments

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