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this-insidious-dawn · 7 months

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This Insidious Dawn is a dark fantasy IF wherein you play as a vampire, employed under the clandestine League of the Third God to hunt down anything -- everything - that does not belong in this world. But you do not belong here either, Warden. Demo tba.

☼ SYNOPSIS

The League saved you. Rewrote your life- gave you a chance to be more than a bloodstarved vampyr. Or did they?

You remember nothing of your past before the League; nothing but blood and indescribable agony, nothing but the thrumming of your heart stilling- and then beginning again, stilted and wrong. That was over a decade ago, the memories now faint and the connection quivering. They've been replaced, overwritten by years of blades clashing, body aches, and hollow hunger.

You started out weak. Starving, skin-and-bones, desperate for any reprieve you could get your hands on. Now, you're strong, each hunt -- each cut - giving you just enough energy to keep your worn body going. Some people would call it cruel, to keep a sentient being on the edge of death. Most people, though, would say that you're a vampire, so you hardly count as sentient.

Regardless of the morality of it, the method was effective. You were one of -- no, the most - efficient Warden the League had to offer.

And then a hunt went wrong. And now you're dead. But- a vampire (no, not a vampire; a vampyr) can never truly die. So you're back. But is it really you?

☼ FEATURES

↠ Customize your Warden. Appearance, gender, pronouns, and personality are all up to your choices as the player.

↠ This is a psychological horror first and foremost. It will have themes of dehumanization and derealization, amongst others. CWs will be offered.

↠ A character-driven plot where your choices impact the story.

↠ A cast of four consisting of The Acolyte, The Commander, The Savior, and The Forgotten, any of which you can optionally romance no matter your Warden's gender.

☼ CAST

↠ THE ACOLYTE

As with any vampire, you are accompanied by an acolyte to keep you in check and ensure that your hunts go well- as well as to mend any Gorges that riftspawn might crawl out of. Constantine Nimecidus fills this role, in your case (ae/aer). Ae is sharp-tongued, with a chronic lack of patience towards the people and world around aer, and can come across as snappy or rude. In other instances still, aer sarcastic, dry, and often untimely humor can offer a quick relief from the tension of any situation- or make it several times worse. Despite aer casual, laidback nature in the face of most events, ae places utmost importance on aer job, and quickly becomes intense whenever ae feels as if ae or aer position are being in any way threatened. You've spent years going on hunts with aer at this point, but the connection has never transcended the necessary 'I save you, you save me' exchange. Ae seems wary of you.

Constantine is a bit shorter than most, standing at 5'3. Ae has broad shoulders and hips, and is thickset with both muscle and fat. Aer amber skin is dappled with symmetrical pale patches, especially prevalent around aer eyes and mouth, and the lack of pigmentation has bled into aer hair in some spots, giving the dark auburn eye-catching streaks of white. Said hair is curly and cut shorter along the sides than the back is, and ae spends an awful lot of time preening it. Aer eyes are a striking, slightly luminescent bronze, and aer pupils appear instead of black as molten gold, shifting slightly in color to match aer emotions at any given moment. Ae has full lips and slightly upturned, monolid eyes. Ae favors shades of brown, tan, and orange in aer outfit, and ae near-constantly dons a rich red capelet with fur trimming around the hood.

↠ THE COMMANDER

Ex-commander of the Serpent's Guard-turned vampire. You'd personally never had a run-in with Alvaros Vepir until just recently (he/him). He's gruff, jaded, and withdrawn- exactly what you'd expect out of the man who gave his life for his queen only to nearly die (again) for it. It's hard to say, though, how much of his time as the commander he truly remembers. Alvaros is a poet's dream, the hero in an epic-turned-tragedy. He keeps everybody at arm's length, never allowing them to learn more than what the stories and theatrics tell of him. This is especially true of you- the vampire who was sent to reign him in, turn him from a rogue vampyr into a soldier of the League. Despite his emotional avoidance of you, though, he seems quite interested in you. Maybe it's the fact you're one of the few to have bested him in combat. Maybe it's just that 'vampiric charm' that old legends tell about (but that never seems to work outside of fights). Maybe it's because he remembers you.

Alvaros is intimidating in every manner. He stands at 6'4, his whole body is lean and scarred, and the black sclerae encircling dark green irises certainly does him no favors in lessening the effect. Before you were dispatched to retrieve him, you couldn't have said what he looked like; as the commander, he'd worn the veil regular of high-ranking members of the Serpent's Ring, leaving nothing but the back of his head exposed. Now, you know of his face well enough that you could probably recognize him in a crowd. With fawn skin dotted by freckles, hooded eyes, and a distinctive hooked nose, Alvaros is exactly what one would expect of a native of southern Ghel- save for his hair. Instead of the expected brown or black, his hair is a muddy blonde, and it has slight waves that turn into full curls at the tips. He maintains it short, never reaching past his chin. His face is scarred (his everything is, really), with a particularly nasty gash reaching from his left eyebrow down to his right jaw. It just barely misses his right eye.

↠ THE SAVIOR

An acolyte? You think so, anyways. Suri Revlece is the woman who saved you (she/her). You don't know whether or not she's even with the League, but she certainly looks like an acolyte. You don't know what she was doing there, either, but she seems willing to answer any of your questions while you recover- as long as they aren't personal. She's kind enough, but seems a little...off. She's finicky, always looking over her shoulder. She's running from something, but she doesn't seem to know what. She appears to believe that she and you have some type of camaraderie, although you've never met. But there's something to be said for the sheer strength of her magic- you've never seen an acolyte's shimmer burn a riftspawn like that. Never seen one with an eye glowing that bright, either. She's an anomaly- one that you're sure the headman at your partner's spire would be more than glad to have amongst their ranks, but then the mere idea of it had her denying it with vehemence. It seems like she has a history with it.

Suri has a mesmerizing look to her. The deep brown of her skin, near-black of her hair, and dark garb are contrasted with bright pops of color. One eye is a brightly glowing orange, the pupil nearly white, and the other is a misty grey, its almond shape deformed by the burn scars warping the left side of her face. That dark hair, braided and reaching down to about her hips, is decorated by light brown and gold beads engraved with runes that seem to serve to channel her magic. Her frame is lanky and she's long-limbed, reaching just above what most would think of as an 'average height', at 5'8. Below a brown leather cloak, more runed jewelry decorates her wrists and fingers, and her hands are tattooed in shades of bronze. The burn upon her face is not the only such injury she has suffered; her palms are burnt the slightest bit, and similar scars wrap around her arms. She has a broad nose and thick heart-shaped lips, and light stubble sits above the top lip.

↠ THE FORGOTTEN

You don't know who they are anymore. Who are they? (he/they/she)

A shadowy form, the silhouette of a memory. There's something not quite right about them. What have they become?

☼ LINKS

Demo - tba

Other blogs - @azraels-bad-choices (main IF blog) and @a-firsthand-murder-ballad (other project)

#interactive fiction #writing #interactive novel #if wip #twine game #if intro #this insidious dawn if

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 21 days

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1968 [Chapter 2: Hera, Goddess Of Childbirth]

A/N: Enjoy Chapter 2 a little early! See you on Sunday for Chapter 3 🥰

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.4k

Tagging: @arcielee @huramuna @glasscandlegrenades @gemmagirlss1 @humanpurposes @mariahossain @marvelescvpe @darkenchantress @aemondssapphirebussy @haslysl @bearwithegg @beautifulsweetschaos @travelingmypassion @althea-tavalas @chucklefak @serving-targaryen-realness @chaoticallywriting @moonfllowerr @rafeism @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @herfantasyworldd @mangosmootji

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

You are buzzed at a private party in the Rainbow Room of Rockefeller Center, Midtown, February 1966, chandeliers and candlelight, pink and red hearts made of paper hanging from shimmering strings and littering the floor. Your roommate Barbara Nassau Astor—yes those Astors, Astor Avenue in the Bronx, Astoria in Queens, “the landlords of New York”—brought you along tonight, and the chance to be swept up into her glittering existence is precisely why your father sent you to a school like Manhattanville College of the Sacred Heart. Barb knows people who know people who know other people and every single individual in that grand design is wealthy and worldly and could possibly lead you into the generous arms of your future husband. You are from Tarpon Springs, Florida, heiress to a sea sponge fortune, and your father nurses powerful ambitions of intermingling his blood with the Northeastern elite.

You scan the selection as you sip your Pink Squirrel. You could marry a doctor and sit in the living room waiting for him to come home at 9 or 10 or 11 p.m., fix him a Whiskey Sour or a Sazerac, listen to him bemoan the complexities of nerves and veins before accompanying him to bed and repeating the whole process the next day. You could marry a lawyer or an advertising executive, and your fate would be much the same. Your own parents are partners in life and business, but you have seen enough to know how rare this is. These men of the Rainbow Room, 65 floors above icy streets radiant with headlights, want a wife whose hands will stay manicured and idle: nannies will tend to the children, maids will clean the house, mistresses will massage the knots out of the muscles of his back. And you—a relative upstart, new money among ancient bloodlines—will have no right to demand otherwise.

A man interrupts your reverie. He wants to know about the pendant you wear around your neck. You sigh before you turn to him; you resist the instinct to roll your eyes. And then you see him. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed, with a curious intensity and a teasing little smirk, an Old Fashioned in his grasp like molten gold. You don’t know it yet, but he is a senator from New Jersey, very recently elected, victorious yet still hungry. He steals the oxygen out of your lungs. He drowns you in the amber-musk warmth of his cologne.

“It’s Athena,” you say, touching your fingertips to the silver medallion self-consciously; and you are rarely self-conscious. The black polish has been scrubbed from your nails and replaced with a soft, shimmering champagne. You spent two hours this afternoon having your hair painfully teased and arranged into a Brigitte Bardot-inspired updo.

“Goddess of wisdom.”

“And war and peace. And math.”

“Math?” He is intrigued.

“That’s what I’m studying at school. Math.”

“And yet you are not disinterested in the humanities. You know Greek mythology.”

“Well, Tarpon Springs has a lot of Greeks, and that’s where I’m from, so.”

“Studies math. From Tarpon Springs, Florida. I’m learning everything about you.” He smiles, this magnetic stranger who has captured you like a moon lured into a planet’s gravity. He swallows a mouthful of his Old Fashioned, moisture glistening on his lips. “Do you like Greek food?”

You can’t seem to follow his words. Blood is rushing into your face, hot and dizzying. “What?”

“Greek food. Have you tried it? Hummus, tzatziki, gyros, spanakopita, horiatiki, baklava.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve had it. It’s great.”

“My family owns a house on Long Beach Island,” he says casually. “We eat a lot of Greek food there. You should join us for dinner sometime soon.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Very soon. Maybe this weekend. Are you free?”

No, you’re not; but you’ll cancel plans until you are. “Um, okay. Sure. And who…sorry, I might have missed it, but…who are you…?”

“Aemond Targaryen.” And he shakes your hand like you’re someone who matters. “I’m a senator. I’m trying to end the war.”

With him, you could be a part of something magnificent. With him, you could help save the world.

~~~~~~~~~~

Asteria is the goddess of falling stars, but the home of rising ones. On the north end of Long Beach Island, New Jersey—only 100 miles south of the sleek bladelike skyscrapers of Manhattan—lies the sprawling Targaryen estate. The nine-acre property features one main house and another three for guests, a swimming pool, a tennis court, a ten-car garage, a boathouse, a pier, and an ample stretch of beach that abuts the Atlantic Ocean, open water with nothing interrupting the infinite, miles-deep blue from the East Coast to the Iberian Peninsula. It is the first week of July, 1968, and your 23rd birthday. You are lazing in a lounge chair on the emerald green lawn and eating your third slice of melopita, a cheesecake-like dessert made with honey and ricotta. It originates from the Greek island of Sifnos.

“You two can’t murder each other while I’m gone,” Aemond says. He’s sitting between you and Aegon. His stitches have healed, the worst of his pain has subsided, his poll numbers have only improved since the assassination attempt. He has a glass eye that he can insert for public appearances, but he dislikes it; at home he wears a leather eyepatch that still unnerves the children. Tomorrow, Aemond is flying to Tacoma to campaign ahead of the Washington State Convention on the 13th. Most of the family will be joining him, with only three Targaryens remaining at Asteria: ailing Viserys, useless Aegon, and you, officially too pregnant to travel by plane. You are wearing a floral, flowing, two-piece swimsuit. The sun is blazing in a clear sky. The record player is piping out Time Of The Season by the Zombies.

Aegon waves a hand flippantly, then adjusts his preposterously large blue-tinted plastic sunglasses; he is shirtless, flabby, very sunburned. “I’ll barely be here.”

Aemond looks over at him, amused. “Oh yeah? And what pressing engagements do you have to attend to? I’d love to know.”

You take a bite of your melopita and scatter crumbs across the swell of your belly: seven and a half months along. “I’m sure the prostitutes miss him.”

“They do,” Aegon snaps. “I’m their favorite customer.”

“Well you’re a reprieve for them. It’s always over so quickly.”

Aemond is snickering. Aegon says to him: “23, huh? A 13-year age difference. She could almost be your daughter.”

“And 17 years younger than you. She could definitely be yours.”

“That’s how Aegon likes his girls,” you say. “Too inexperienced to recognize end-stage degeneracy. Still stumbling their way through Shakespeare for English class.”

“Why can’t she stay at the brownstone?” Aegon asks irritably. Aemond owns a historic townhouse in Georgetown for when Congress is in session, though he’s rarely been there since he announced that he was running for president.

“Because Doxie is here to make sure she’s taken care of,” Aemond replies. Eudoxia has been the head housekeeper of Asteria for decades, a formidable battleaxe of a woman who speaks very little English and has a seemingly endless supply of patterned scarves to wrap around her ink black dyed hair. There currently aren’t any permanent staff stationed at the brownstone, and Aemond does not trust strangers. “And because my future first lady is hosting a tea party on the 10th.”

“A tea party!” Aegon gasps, mocking you. “Surely that will patch the wounds of our troubled nation. She’s an inspiration. She’s motherfucking Gloria Steinem.”

“She’s Aphrodite,” Aemond says, beaming with pride, his remaining eye fixed on your belly. He’s lost one piece of himself, but in a month and a half he’ll gain another. “Goddess of love.”

“There must be a more appropriate mythological character. Medusa, perhaps. Lyssa was the goddess of rabies, Epiales was the goddess of nightmares.”

“Aegon, I had no idea you were so…” You search for the right word. “Literate.”

“Io was turned into a cow.” He grins at you, toothy, malicious.

“She’s also one of Jupiter’s moons,” Aemond muses. He draws invisible orbits in the air with his long, graceful fingers. “Beautiful, celestial, pristine…”

“A satellite,” Aegon says. “Mindless. Aimless. Going wherever she’s told.”

Aemond insists as he twists the bracelet around your right wrist, a delicate gold chain he bought during your honeymoon in Hawaii: “Aphrodite.”

“Didn’t she fuck around with, like, everyone?”

“Maybe you should be Aphrodite,” you tell Aegon.

Mimi appears, tottering across the lawn with the straps of her sundress sliding off her shoulders and her Gimlet sloshing precariously in its glass. The children are playing in the surf with the nannies and Fosco, who is entertaining them by diving for seashells and delivering his treasures into their tiny, grasping palms. Criston is supervising from the sand, though he steals frequent glimpses of Alicent as she feeds a wheelchair-bound Viserys—much diminished after a number of strokes—his own slice of melopita, one careful, patient spoonful at a time. “Can we…” Mimi bursts out laughing and almost falls over. She claws her way upright again using the back of Aegon’s chair. “Um…I was thinking…”

“What?” Aegon asks, annoyed, avoidant. If they’ve ever been happy, it was a transient epoch that came and went long before you joined the family. It was before the asteroid killed the dinosaurs.

“We should go back to Mykonos. We had such a nice time in Mykonos. Didn’t we? Didn’t we just adore Mykonos?”

Aegon sighs, glowering out over the ocean. “Yeah, we sure did. Ten years ago.”

“Exactly!” Mimi gushes, oblivious. “When can we go? Next week? Let’s go next week.”

“Mimi, you and the kids will be in Washington, remember?” Aemond says. Alicent will have to be her handler; usually it’s your job to make sure Mimi is ready for photos, eats enough to stay conscious, doesn’t trip over her own feet, doesn’t talk too much to the press.

“Washington?” Like she’s never heard of it.

“The state. Not the city. For the convention.”

“Oh right. Right.” She gulps her Gimlet. You could set your watch by Mimi’s drinking. Tipsy by lunch, drunk at dinner, crawling on the floor chasing the dogs around by 8 p.m. The Targaryens keep a drove of Alopekis, small and white and foxlike. “Well…maybe some other time.”

“After the election,” Aemond says with an abiding, encouraging smile. He tolerates Mimi because he needs her: happy wholesome family, American Dream. Down at the water’s edge, the nannies are giving towels to Fosco and the children as they scamper out of the frothing waves, Mimi’s five and Helaena’s three: Daphne, Neaera—no one can ever seem to spell her name correctly, least of all the six-year-old girl herself—and Evangelos.

Mimi departs, on the hunt for a fresh Gimlet. Aegon reaches into the pocket of his swim trunks—Hawaiian print, royal blue—and pulls out a joint and a Zippo. He sticks the joint between his teeth and goes to light it.

“No,” Aemond says immediately, yanking the joint out of Aegon’s mouth and stomping it into the earth. Then he points down the beach towards the sand dunes. “You know journalists will sneak around trying to get photos. You know we’re never truly alone out here.”

“They can’t tell what I’m smoking!”

“Don’t argue with me.”

“You know there are teenagers getting their limbs blown off in Vietnam right now? I think society has bigger problems than me smoking grass.”

“And yet to solve those bigger problems, I have to win in November. And the suburban housewives will not vote for me if they think I support legalizing marijuana. Trust me, I know. I’ve met them.”

“I wouldn’t want those people’s votes,” Aegon says derisively.

“You’d rather Nixon get them?”

Aegon doesn’t have a speedy rebuttal this time. He contemplates the Atlantic Ocean, the wind tearing at his hair.

“It’s hot as hell,” Aemond says to you, gathering up the newspapers he’s been leafing through, never not thinking about the election, never not strategizing. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

As you accompany Aemond towards the main house—and of course you follow him, always, anywhere—Alicent waves you over to where she and Viserys are sitting to wish you a happy birthday again. From this vantage point, you can just barely spot Otto and Helaena strolling through her garden, a jungle of butterfly bushes and herbs. The stricken Targaryen patriarch beams at the swell of your belly. Viserys likes you, you are his favorite daughter-in-law, though perhaps this is not so lofty an achievement. Moreover, he likes that you are carrying the child of his decent son. Aemond has already decided on the baby’s name: Aristos Apollo. If it is in fact a boy, you suppose you’ll call him Ari, but he doesn’t feel real to you yet. He belongs to Aemond, to the Targaryens, to the nation, but not quite to you. He is more myth than flesh.

“Nothing is more precious than children,” Viserys tells Aemond, raspy and frail. “I would have had at least five more if I could.” Alicent bows her head, an acknowledgement of her failure in this regard. Viserys expects it. You and Aemond politely avert your gazes.

“Thank God for this baby,” Alicent says. “After the year we’ve had? That the whole world has had? We all need something to be grateful for.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees, smiling. It must be the promise of a son that has made his maiming go down smoother, and maybe it is his soaring poll numbers too, and maybe it is gratitude that he escaped with his life, and maybe it is even the fact that he has you.

But long after dusk when you’re getting ready for bed—slathering yourself in Jergens, stepping into your chiffon nightgown—as you pass through the sliver of light pouring out of the bathroom, you catch a glimpse of something that stops you. Aemond is standing in front of the mirror with his hands on the rim of the sink, his eyepatch slung over the towel rack, his voided eye socket exposed and gory and irreparably wounded. There’s something in his scarred face that you can’t recall ever seeing before. There is a seething, secret, animal rage. There is fury for everyone who has ever denied him anything.

You remember who you were before you met Aemond at the Rainbow Room in Manhattan at a party you were almost not illustrious enough to attend. You wore your hair long and loose, you downed shots, you smoked, you swore, you slept through class almost every Monday; and then you packed all of this away in your allegorical attic and became someone who could stand beside a senator, and then a candidate, and then a president, someone who could tip the scales of fate.

And you think as you lurk unnoticed in the doorway: Maybe he’s been hiding parts of himself too.

~~~~~~~~~~

July 10th, 10 a.m. He’s snoring on a couch in the living room, the one patterned with sailboats. He’s hugging his acoustic guitar like a child clinging to a teddy bear. Sometimes he plays it for the kids: Get Rhythm, Twist And Shout, Stand By Me, You Can’t Hurry Love. That’s about the extent of his involvement in their lives. He has a law degree from Columbia that his father bought for him. Aside from a brief and disastrous stint as the mayor of Trenton, he has never been gainfully employed. You pour the cupful of ice cubes you collected from the freezer all over his bare chest.

“What the fuck!” Aegon screams as he startles awake. “What is wrong with you?!”

“The guests are arriving in two hours. And you’re going to help me host.”

“I’m not slobbering at the feet of those manicured elitists.”

“It’s easy to say ‘vive la révolution’ from your family’s mansion that you reside in as a professional failure.”

“Yeah, you’re right, I’m so worthless. If only I spent more time hosting tea parties.”

“I can’t small talk with governors and congressmen, so I have to charm their wives instead. That’s how it works, you idiot.”

Aegon rolls off the couch and rubs his forehead, wincing, hungover. In the dining room, Eudoxia is readying cups and plates, polishing silverware, folding napkins. The caterers will be here soon, and there are also three dishes that you made yourself: stafidopsomo, a bread with raisins and cinnamon; rizogalo, Greek-style rice pudding; and baklava you spent hours chopping walnuts for. At least one show of domestic prowess is an expectation, two is impressive, three is above and beyond, something for the other political wives to chatter about. You know the importance of making a good impression on them. They are as much a part of their husbands’ careers as the speech writers, communication directors, fundraisers. “I need a Bloody Mary,” Aegon groans.

“You need to pull your goddamn weight. Everyone else is working to get Aemond elected. Your five-year-old kid is out on the campaign trail and you can’t walk around with a tray of hummus and mini spanakopitas? Are you serious?”

“I’m dead serious,” he says, standing with some difficulty and then shoving by you. “Fuck off, Miss America.”

“Aegon!”

But he’s padding off towards the kitchen with his bare feet, tiki print boxer shorts, bedraggled hair. You follow after him in your spotless white heels and sundress patterned with common blue violets. Your earrings are pearls. You’ve wrangled your hair into a tidy French twist. Aegon is getting a pitcher of tomato juice out of the refrigerator, a bottle of vodka from a cardboard Apple Jacks box. He keeps booze and pills hidden everywhere; you’re always stumbling across his caches.

You open your mouth to unleash something hurtful, something hateful, but then you feel the cold flare of liquid on your thighs as the ocean breeze gusts in through the windows. My dress, you think, alarmed. What did I spill on it? One of the ice cubes you threw at Aegon must have caught on the skirt somehow and melted. That’s your first guess, and it is welcome; water doesn’t stain, and you aren’t sure if you have another outfit that is both formal enough and will still fit you. But when you reach down to touch your leg—now the liquid reaches your knees—your hand comes away red.

You look up at Aegon. He’s staring back at you, thunderstruck, horrified. His Bloody Mary ingredients are now forgotten on the countertop. He shouts for the housekeeper: “Doxie?!”

There is indistinct, cantankerous Greek grumbling in return.

“Doxie! Call an ambulance!”

“I don’t understand,” you say to Aegon, bright clotless blood dyeing the whirls of your fingerprints. I ruined my dress, you think nonsensically. “It doesn’t hurt. Shouldn’t it hurt?”

“Don’t move, don’t do anything, just wait for the paramedics.”

But the edges of your vision are going dark and hazy, and the room spins like a flipped coin. Your knees and ankles fold, bones turned to paper. As you drop, Aegon dives for you. You clutch at him, but there’s nothing to grab onto, no suit jacket, no tie, only skin that glows with sunburn. “If I don’t wake up, tell Aemond—”

“You’re not dying, bitch. My luck’s not that good.”

But his eyes are panicked; and they are the last thing you see before you black out.

~~~~~~~~~~

Arteries of cement, bones like lead, heavy eyelids opening to reveal strange white walls.

Am I dead?

But no: you hurt all over. Heaven isn’t supposed to hurt. There are needles pierced through the backs of your hands, a splitting rawness in your throat.

Was I intubated? Did I have surgery…?

You try to sit up. The pain is blinding; the severed and sutured latticework of your abdominal muscles is a pit of glass. You gasp, moan plaintively, fumble for the nurse call button on the wooden nightstand.

“Will you stop moving?” Aegon says as he walks into the room. He’s slurping on a straw that pokes out from a Dairy Queen cup. The fluid inside is clumpy and red. Instantly, you think of blood, and a wave of nausea punches through the shredded gore that was once your belly. Aegon flops down into the salmon pink armchair beside the bed and props his combat boots up on the ottoman. “They sliced you up like the Black Dahlia. You’re gonna rip your stitches.”

“They did a c-section…?”

“Yeah, you had some kind of uterus…thing. I don’t remember.”

The baby?? Is the baby alright?? “An abruption?”

More slurping. “No…I think it started with a P.”

“Previa?”

“Yeah, that one.”

You remember waking up a few times: on the kitchen floor as men were lifting you, in an ambulance as the siren shrieked. Someone said you were being taken to Mount Sinai in Manhattan. And that makes sense, that would have been Criston’s plan. Mount Sinai is one of the best hospitals in the country. You look around the room for a bassinet or a crib. Instead you see a wheelchair and a myriad of flower bouquets; word has already gotten out, and so the customary well wishes are pouring in. Lady Bird Johnson sent bluebonnets, the state flower of Texas; Abigail McCarthy sent lilies of the valley; Muriel Humphrey sent roses, traditional, safe, uninspiring; Pat Nixon sent blood orange gladioli. Mrs. Wallace, newly deceased, neglected to call a florist. “Where’s the baby?”

“He’s fine. He’s downstairs in an incubator.”

Ari, you think, though he still doesn’t seem real yet. “What…?”

“His lungs are underdeveloped. But the doctors think he’ll be alright. You want a Mr. Misty? There’s a Dairy Queen like two blocks from here.”

“No, I don’t want a Mr. Misty,” you say, incredulous. “I want to see the baby.”

“Well they can’t move him and they can’t move you, so you’ll have to wait.”

“I’m going to see him—” You swing your feet off the bed and feel daggers, fire, a splintering like someone has taken a hammer to your bones. You almost scream; it takes everything in you to choke it down and only gasp as your flesh becomes an inferno. I want a joint, you think randomly, an urge you’d believed you had exorcised from yourself, an archaic relic of a past life.

“Told you,” Aegon says smugly.

You lie panting, helpless, glancing at the phone on the nightstand. “Aemond knows?”

“Oh yeah, I’ve called everyone. He knows.”

“Good. So he’ll be here soon.”

“Sure,” Aegon says, perhaps a tad noncommittally.

“Okay.” You’re still trying to catch your breath. Tacoma is a six hour flight away. Even if Aemond doesn’t leave until morning, he’ll be here by sundown tomorrow. “You can go now.”

“Go?!” Aegon exclaims, then laughs, one of his reckless, taunting cackles. “Oh no. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You definitely are.”

“No, I’m not,” he insists, grinning. “For once in my life, I’m the person who’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. I’m the honorable one. The sacred heir of the favorite son has just been born, and the blessed mother has been sawed in half like Saint Simon the Zealot, and where is Aemond? Where is literally everyone else? Across the continent shaking hands and forcing smiles to win him the great state of Washington. I’m not going home. I’m collecting every second I spend here like coins from a slot machine. I won the jackpot, babe. No one is ever going to be able to call me the family fuckup after this.”

The pain is horrible, insurmountable; you can’t think through it. You close your eyes and try not to sob, to wail, to split yourself open in body and soul. I can’t let him see me break down.

“What’s up?” Aegon asks. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I want a Mr. Misty. Go get me a Mr. Misty.”

“Okay,” Aegon says doubtfully. “What flavor?”

“I don’t care. Not red.”

“They have orange, lemon-lime, grape—”

“Just pick one!” you shout, tears brimming in your eyes. Get out, get out, get out.

“Calm down, psycho!” he yells back, heading for the door.

As soon as he crosses the threshold, you snatch the call button off the nightstand and press it frantically until a nurse arrives. You get more morphine and sink into a stillness like deep water, down, down, down.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s dark outside, stars and a crescent moon. On the television is grainy footage from the Battle of Khe Sanh. American soldiers younger than you are dragging their wounded brethren to a Chinook helicopter for evacuation: bandages, burns, missing limbs and faces. Aegon had dozed off in his chair—assisted by an ample amount of Vicodin, surely—but is stirring awake now. He blinks groggily at the screen.

“It’s so fucking awful,” you say, and Aegon’s eyebrows shoot up; it’s the first time you’ve ever sworn in front of him. You trained yourself to stop when you met Aemond. “30,000 Americans dead, God knows how many Vietnamese peasants, Buddhist monks setting themselves on fire, and for what? So we can say we did everything we could to stop communism? So we can humiliate the Russians? There is no liberation of Vietnam. All we’re doing is making those people hate us. And we’re destroying ourselves too.”

“I didn’t know you cared about the war.”

You look at him, mystified. “Everything I do is about the war.”

“But you never really talk about it.” Aegon yawns and stretches, reaching up towards the ceiling. “You talk about Chanel dresses and tea parties.”

“Well yeah, because it’s…it’s unseemly, I guess. For me to speak on the war. Me specifically.”

He snorts. “Because you’re a woman? Who told you that? Aemond?”

You hesitate, watching the television again. Now there are napalm bombs incinerating villages and rice paddies. “I had a boyfriend before Aemond, you know.”

“What, in kindergarten? Chasing each other around the playground? Illicit snuggles beneath the slide?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “A real boyfriend.”

“No way. You did not.”

“I did,” you insist, smiling a little. “We met at a party my freshman year of college. He was at NYU studying…oh, I always forgot, that was one of our jokes. It was either archaeology or anthropology. I actually thought I was going to marry him for a minute there.”

“Scandalous.” Aegon is gazing at you with his murky blue eyes, grinning, playful. “What happened?”

“He had a moral crisis about poor kids getting shipped off to Vietnam to be slaughtered while he was tucked safely away in his ivory tower. So he enlisted, and honestly it was shocking how quickly I started to forget about him. We exchanged a few letters, it didn’t last long, I think he was forgetting about me too. But he ended up getting killed in action in October, 1965. His old roommate told me.”

Now Aegon is thoughtful. His crooked grin dies. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s his parents I feel bad for. He was an only child. I heard his father drank himself to death.”

“You’ve been carrying a story like that around with you and you never used it? Not in an interview or an article, not at one of your asinine little tea parties?”

“I can’t,” you confess. “Aemond doesn’t want me to. He doesn’t like to be reminded about…you know. That there was someone else before.”

Aegon throws his head back and cackles, combing his fingers through his disheveled blonde hair. “As if Aemond was a virgin when you met him.”

But it’s not the same. It isn’t to Aemond, and it wouldn’t be to the rest of the world either. It is your eternal disgrace. It is something you will be expected to atone for until you’re in the grave. “Give me a joint.”

Aegon is amazed. “What?”

“I know you have some, you always do. I want one. Give it to me.”

“You smoke grass?”

“I used to. Then I gave it up. But I’m making an exception.”

He gawks at you for a while, then slips a joint out of one of the front pockets of his green army jacket. He places it between his lips, lights it with his little chrome Zippo, and inhales deep and slow. Then he offers it to you.

“I don’t want herpes.”

Aegon laughs. “I don’t have herpes. I swear.”

“Not yet, maybe. Give it time.”

“Are you gonna smoke or not?”

You take the joint and fill your lungs with earth, floral notes, a tinge of spice. It’s been years, but it comes rushing back in an instant as the high hits your bloodstream: calm quiet weightlessness, a sense of wellbeing that fills the honeycomb hollows of your bones. “I need to see the baby.”

Aegon stalls. “The doctors were really insistent that you stay here.”

“And all the sudden you care about rules.”

He considers this, drumming his palms on his thighs. His jeans are ripped; he’s biting his lower lip. Then abruptly, he stands. “Alright.” He grabs the wheelchair and pushes it up against the bed. “Let’s go.”

You take another drag and then discard the joint in your empty Dairy Queen cup. You throw off your blanket and try to touch your bare feet to the cool linoleum floor. It hurts, it feels like razor blades, but you keep going. Then you remember you still have one IV in the back of your left hand. “Wait, how am I going to…?”

“You’re in luck. I am well-versed in needles.” Aegon holds out a palm. Nervously, you give him your hand. He peels off the medical tape, takes a moment to examine the vein, then slides out the needle so smoothly you don’t feel it at all; it barely even bleeds. He balls up a Kleenex from the box on your nightstand and secures it to the wound with the same strip of tape. “You’re welcome.”

“Junkie.” You try to lower yourself into the wheelchair and a yelp rips from your throat.

“Oh, this is pathetic,” Aegon says, but not quite unkindly. “Here.” He leans down in front of you. Too desperate to be prideful, you link your arms around the back of his neck. Aegon’s shaggy blonde hair tickles your cheek; his hands skim gingerly to settle on your waist, steadying you without too much pressure. He helps you into the wheelchair, where you collapse gasping and sweating bullets.

“If you ever mention this again, I will guillotine you.”

He winks. “Relax, little Io. I never kiss and tell.”

“I’d assume you’re usually too plastered to remember the details.”

“Be nice. I could roll you down a staircase.” But he doesn’t; he rolls you into the hallway instead.

The lights in the corridor are dim for night, for dreams. You see a few nurses shuttling in and out of other rooms from a distance, but none seem to notice you and Aegon. He steers the wheelchair into the elevator and you ride it down two floors, then cross another hallway and pass through a set of doors. There must be a dozen incubators, half of them occupied. The nurse on duty—currently cradling a tiny infant in her arms, a girl judging by the pink hat, and feeding her from a bottle of formula—gapes at you.

“Ma’am? You aren’t supposed to be—”

“Shut up,” Aegon tells her, and the nurse doesn’t say another word.

Aegon pushes the wheelchair down the line of incubators until you reach the one with a name card labelled Targaryen, Aristos Apollo. And there he is: unmistakably fragile, impossibly small, blue veins like a roadmap beneath translucent skin, tangled in tubes and wires. In his sleeping face you don’t see Aemond or even yourself, but rather an inexplicable familiarity. You feel like you’ve met him before. You feel like you’ve known him all your life.

You press your hand to the clear, domed wall of the incubator; shadows in the shape of your outstretched fingers fall over Ari’s face. “He’s real.”

“Of course he is.” Aegon is watching you; you can see him on the periphery of your vision, a blur of blonde hair and high cheekbones. When you turn to him, he immediately looks away.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing.” But his voice is distracted, bewildered, like someone fumbling for a light switch in a dark room.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii fanfic #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen ii x you

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sarahscribbles · 6 months

Text

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞

𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤: 𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐡

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐬𝐮𝐛!𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐱 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞!𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: 𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟒.𝟓𝐤

𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“Let me submit to you.”

Loki’s plea is soft against your lips, it’s little more than a whisper and almost lost amidst a heavy haze of unbroken kisses. You’re breathless in their wake - drunk and warm and so dazed from his affections that you can only manage a questioning “hmm?” while you attempt to pull him closer.

He allows it but keeps his lips frustratingly out of reach. A whine tumbles pitifully from yours because the taste of him still lingers on your tongue like salty summer air. You want to drown in this man, but he only rests his forehead against yours. You feel his hands curl around your hips and he breathes in as though readying himself for what he’s about to say.

It makes your heart flutter, though with excitement or apprehension, you aren’t really sure.

“I yield, darling. I yield to you,” he says quietly. His hands squeeze your hips at the same time his thumbs begin to trace circles on the exposed skin of your stomach.

A trail of goosebumps erupts in the wake of his touch and, at first, you think it’s another one of his tricks. Loki’s always been the dominant one and, although your own dominant side has lived quietly inside you, you hadn’t believed a submissive one lived within him.

But when you meet his eyes - those beautiful green eyes that you would know anywhere - you know that he’s never meant anything more. He’s yearning to give up control and it causes something molten to stir to life in the pit of your stomach.

How many times have you imagined how sweet it would sound to hear Loki begging? Or how beautiful he would look on his knees before you? How often have you imagined his pleasure being in your hands and what you would have him do to earn it? The answer is too many to count.

And now he’s offering it up to you entirely of his own accord.

It’s both the fulfilment of a fantasy and the deepest expression of trust.

It’s something you can’t possibly deny him.

You hesitate briefly, but only because you don’t know where to start with him. You’ve imagined this scenario so many times - how you could coax him into admitting he wanted to be dominated and the heady feeling of the power balance shifting - but now that he’s offered it up to you freely, you have no idea what to do. Loki notices your hesitance - of course he does - and gives your hips another light squeeze.

“Please, darling.” He raises his eyes to yours and the trust shining out of them almost takes your breath away.

He trusts you with this, with this part of that you know few have ever seen. He trusts you enough to submit his body to you with certainty that you won’t hurt him. He trusts you.

You press one last lingering kiss to his lips - a “thank you for trusting me” and a promise that he’s safe - and step back from his embrace. “Strip, and get on your knees.” Your voice is steadier than you imagined, so much so that you feel yourself easily slipping into the role of dominant. In front of you, Loki’s lips twitch and you see him raise a hand to dissolve his clothing in a haze of green. “No.” You stop him. “No magic. Strip.”

His eyes blaze fiercely as they catch yours - it’s unmistakable arousal at how you’re the one taking control. “As my Queen commands,” he replies. His voice is smooth as silk as it wraps around you, but there’s something else colouring his words tonight.

It takes only a moment for you to pin it as obedience.

Appreciatively, you watch him pull his sweater over his head. It’s a mundane action, but one that Loki can easily make look elegant. Piece by piece his abs and stomach are bared before you, and your eyes follow hungrily along all the way to the planes of his chiseled chest. The man is a word of art.

And he’s yours.

Loki’s gaze never breaks from yours as his fingers move down to unbutton his jeans, barely even blinking as he pushes them off and tosses them to the side. He repeats the action with his boxers until he’s fully nude before you.

And already halfway hard.

You’ve seen him like this a million times before, but you can’t help but drink him in. From his muscled calves all the way to the light smattering of hair on his chest. “Beautiful,” you can’t help but murmur. “Now, kneel.”

Part of you expects Loki to be brat, expects a small dose of resistance despite how badly he wants this, but he folds easily to his knees the moment the command leaves your lips. God, he looks exquisite. Those firm thighs are tucked beneath him and spread wide, and he’s folded his hands behind his back without having to be told.

The perfect picture of submission.

“Good boy.” They’re two small words, but you catch the small twitch of Loki’s cock as you speak. Your prince, it seems, likes to be praised.

Wordlessly, you circle him. He kneels up a little straighter and you feel the suspense rolling off him in waves. Oh, you’re going to have so much fun with him.

“What should I do to you, hmm?” you ask softly, stopping behind him to drop a kiss to the top of his head while your hands rest on his shoulders. “Should I edge you until you’re begging? Should I make you watch as I make myself cum? Should I use that whip that you enjoy using on me so much?”

You trail your fingers softly over his shoulders and he shivers beneath your touch. “Whatever pleases you, my Queen. I am at your service,” he answers almost instantly, surprising you with how deep his submissiveness runs.

It sparks an idea in you, though.

“Mmm, yes you are,” you say, dropping another kiss to his head and moving to stand in front of him. Gently, you cup his flushed cheeks until those beautiful eyes are peering up at you. “Colour?”

“Green,” he answers quickly.

“Safeword?”

“Red.”

You run your thumbs over his cheeks, feeling him press into the palm of your hand. He knows he’s safe. “Good boy,” you praise him with a last kiss to his forehead.

His eyes bore into your back as you take the few steps toward the large chest beneath the window that houses all your toys. You make a show of sifting through the contents, noisily moving around various vibes and clamps and pieces of plastic until you know the waiting is driving him insane. As you expect, he’s staring at you intently when you straighten and turn, but his eyes immediately drop to the three items you’re holding in your hands.

A length of rope, a collar, and a metal leash.

His cock twitches and he licks his lips.

“Excited by a little rope?” you tease, coming back to kneel behind him. “I hadn’t realised you were such a whore.” You loop the rope around his wrists just as a quiet moan escapes him. You grin. “Oh, I see,” you purr, leaning in to nip at his neck. “You like being my whore.”

There’s a catch in his breathing and he briefly sways on his knees. How badly you wish you could see the fantasy playing out behind his eyes. “Y-yes,” he answers huskily. It’s followed quickly by a deep, satisfied moan when you again nip at his neck.

You finish securing the first knot around his wrists and let your hand snake around his hips to circle his cock. Loki reacts with a broken cry of pleasure at your touch, but you stroke him slowly, languidly, with only enough pressure to tease.

“My pretty prince,” you murmur softly, running your tongue over the broken line of bites decorating his neck. Loki keens and attempts to roll his hips into your hand, desperate for more friction. “My beautiful Asgardian whore.”

You give him four firm strokes, enough that his chest begins to heave and black curls dance along his back. “Please…darling…please…I need…,” he whimpers.

“What is it you want, my love?” you taunt him. “Do you want to cum?”

He nods eagerly, sending more curls spilling down his back. “Yes…please, darling.”

“Too bad,” you say simply and remove your hand from his cock. Loki responds with something between a groan and a sob, and you watch his fingers curl with frustration against his back. “You didn’t think I would make it that easy for you, did you?”

Between his deep, steadying breaths, you swear you hear a muttered “minx.”

“Careful,” you whisper quietly into his ear. “I’m the one in charge tonight, remember? Are you going to be a good boy? Or, do I need to think of a way to punish you?”

He’s silent for a moment, likely weighing up his options, so you give his cock another swift stroke. “No!” he shouts, whether in fear or at the sudden pulse of pleasure you aren’t sure. “I’ll be good!”

You release his cock, but hum approvingly into his neck, breathing in the scent of him. “Good,” you say simply, and place another sharp bite just above his pulse point.

You hear his shaky inhale and feel him shudder as you lean back. He doesn’t move an inch while you wind the rope easily around his arms in an intricate pattern of loops, doesn’t even test the strength of the binding when you bring it up over his elbows. He’s completely immobilised, completely at your mercy, and trusting you completely with his body.

Your good boy.

With a final check that he can wriggle his fingers, you move to stand in front of him again. Loki’s face is flushed pink with arousal and his eyes are dancing with anticipation. They flick expectantly between your face and the collar held in your hands, almost as if he’s begging you to place it around his neck.

You realise then that he wants this. He wants the physical reminder that he’s yours. He needs it, needs the assurance it brings that someone loves him enough to want him wholly, that someone desires him enough to claim his body as theirs.

He craves this level of submission.

With one hand you brush some stray curls away from his face, allowing yourself a second to just enjoy the softness of his hair. “Who do you belong to, my love?” you murmur softly while unclapsing the collar.

Loki is instantly angling his head to grant you access, eager - and almost impatient - to have the cool leather wrap around his neck. “You, my Queen. Only you,” he breathes out, and you hear his quiet groan when you snap the collar closed.

You cup his cheek lovingly in the palm of your hand. “Are you going to be good for me?”

Loki nods eagerly. “Yes.”

You run the pad of your thumb over his flushed cheek. “Good, because only good boys get their reward,” you tell him sweetly and attach the leash to the clip on his collar.

With the other end in hand, you back towards the bed and perch on the edge, ensuring to spread your legs obscenely wide. Loki barely blinks as you flip your skirt up and dip your fingers below the band of your underwear, and you make sure to exaggerate how good your own fingers feel.

You moan and arch your back; you throw your head back on your shoulders; you dig your grip into the bed covers between your free hand, which only pulls the leash around Loki’s neck tighter.

For the briefest of moments, you’re so lost to chasing your own pleasure that you forget about the god on his knees for you. It’s the quiet clink of metal that pulls you back - a sign of Loki’s restlessness and desperation - and you open your eyes to look at him with a lazy smirk.

“Something wrong?” you tease him, lazily circling your clit with a single finger.

Something close to a whine falls from his lips, and you can see the desperation burning in his eyes. “Please, my Queen,” Loki begs. You refuse to believe there’s any sound sweeter than his begging.

“Please, what? What do you want, my love?” Your voice is soft and sweet as honey. You know you’re playing a dangerous game - one that you’ll likely pay for in the very near future - but you can’t pass up the chance to play this game with him.

After all, he’s played it with you so many times before.

There’s another quiet clink of the leash as he shifts on his knees, but he doesn’t dare move without your permission. “I want to fuck you. Please, darling,” he pleads, the rough edge to his voice betraying just how badly he wants to fuck you.

You answer with a click of your tongue. “Oh, my love, why didn’t you say so?” Your words are taunting as you wrap the cold metal of the leash around your hand, tugging it to encourage him to shuffle toward you on his knees.

The sight is sinful - this Asgardian god who refused to kneel for anyone is naked, bound, and collared before you, and shuffling on his knees because you’ve told him to.

It sends a rush of power shooting straight to your head.

You continue to pull gently at his leash until his head is between your spread thighs. Loki’s eyes are alight and blazing with hunger, but he goes still the second you let your hand fall back on the mattress. He’s desperate - a quick glance down confirms it - but he won’t move an inch with your permission.

“Go on, then. Fuck me with that pretty mouth of yours. They do call you silvertongue, don’t they?” you say sweetly.

You expect the first flint of defiance to show, but he obediently bends his head to take the band of your underwear between his teeth, all while never taking his gaze off yours.

You help him only briefly by lifting your hips from the bed to allow him to drag the thin scrap of lace over your thighs. The soft nudge of his nose against your skin has your pussy clenching with need, and it’s enough to make you bite back a groan.

It never fails to amaze you how he can make something so small feel so good.

It doesn’t take long before Loki has dragged your underwear down your legs, though not without pressing a lopsided kiss to the bend of your knee. Once he tosses them carelessly to the side, he’s all too quickly bending back ravenously toward your cunt, but you stop him with a firm hand against his head.

“You have five minutes to make me cum,” you tell him simply. “If you don’t, then you don’t get your reward. Understood?”

In the brief silence that follows, you’re sure that this is where he’ll push back. You wait for the shimmer of green that will release him from his restraints and send you slamming back against the mattress.

But you were wrong.

“Yes, my Queen,” he answers huskily.

Your lips twist into a satisfied smile. “Good boy,” you say slowly, using the leash to steer him toward your throbbing cunt.

A strangled groan tumbles from you the second you feel the wet warmth of his tongue because there’s no feeling comparable to that of this god worshipping you with his mouth. Every firm press of his tongue against you is a sacred prayer, every latch of his lips is a hymn of adoration.

Tonight, he cares only for you and your pleasure, even if it means the denial of his own.

His name is rolling easily off your tongue as the first sparks of your orgasm begin to shoot through you. He’s sinfully talented with that tongue, but you know it’s the closest you’ll ever get to heaven. Almost of its own accord your hand tangles in his hair, anchoring him firmly against you as he slips his tongue inside.

You swear you die right there on the bed.

All at once every nerve ending in your body is alive, but you feel yourself go almost boneless at the same time. He feels so good - so gloriously good - that you can longer sit up straight on the bed. You fall back against the mattress with a soft thump, feeling Loki’s proud grin against your cunt when you begin to grind against his face.

“Fuck, Loki! Please! Just like that!” you encourage him breathlessly. His tongue is lapping firmly along your cunt and over your clit, making stars begin to dance at the edge of your vision.

Your pleasure is his driving force, his end goal, and all it takes is a few more swipes of his tongue before the first powerful waves of your orgasm begin to roll over you like a tsunami. The force of it knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s overpowering, seemingly endless, and you can feel it all the way down to your toes.

Loki makes sure of that.

He doesn’t ease off for a second, even when your cries of his name melt into sharp little pants of pleasure. Even then, he still uses that skilled tongue to guide you seamlessly through the aftershocks of your climax.

You’re certain you could come again easily, but the wet warmth of Loki’s mouth is suddenly gone and you fight the urge to beg him for more.

You’re the one in control, afterall.

Wordlessly, you prop yourself up on your elbows, taking in the sight of Loki still kneeling between your thighs. His cheeks are brilliantly pink and his lips are still shining with your essence. Beneath some stay curls, you see undisguised pride burning in his eyes.

“Three minutes, my Queen,” he says, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at his lips.

It would be all too easy for him to tip the scales in his own favour, to pluck the power easily from your hands.

But that won’t do.

You sit up in one fluid movement to grasp hold of the leash right where it clips to his collar, delighting in the momentary widening of his eyes. “Were you keeping count, my little whore?” you taunt him sweetly, letting a hand float to his cock. He closes his eyes and groans when you begin to slowly, lazily, stroke him. “Or, maybe, you’re just feeling a little needy tonight? Which is it, hmm?”

Loki tries to speak - you can see his answer dancing on the tip of his tongue - but with your hand still stroking his cock he can only mouth wordlessly. You grant him a second of enjoying the waifish tendrils of pleasure that are curling around him, but when he still doesn’t answer and his eyes begin to flutter closed, you squeeze him lightly, to which he answers with a shout.

“Answer me, sweet,” you warn him.

Loki inhales deeply, steadying himself. “I…fuck…I need you, my Queen….ugh…please!” he pleads when you run your thumb teasingly around the sensitive head of his cock.

You smirk as he groans, but don’t cease in the torment. “Mmm, you sound so pretty when you beg. Keep going, and I might give you your reward.”

He releases a huff of frustration, but you know he’s too far gone now. You have him exactly where you want him. “Please…please, darling…have mercy. I’ve been good…please…I need you.”

Those big eyes are peering up at you again, soft and desperate and begging for release. While you would relish teasing him for hours, you’re as desperate for him as he is for you. You release his cock - and he whines pitifully when you do - but relief flashes joyfully in his eyes when you use the leash to coax him to his feet.

“I believe you. That looks rather uncomfortable,” you say, nodding to his cock and shuffling backward on the bed. “What if I’m not finished with you, though?” you continue to taunt him, guiding him onto the mattress until he’s kneeling between your spread legs.

“Darling, please.” His voice is throaty and rough.

He’s so beautiful like this. Restrained and desperate and begging you for release. It’s the only aphrodisiac you need and you’re now determined that he’ll be submitting to you more once tonight is over.

Your pretty, desperate prince.

His gaze is hungry as it runs over you, even though you’re still partially closed and he’s taken you to bed more times than you can count.

He can never get enough of you.

You pretend not to hear his pleading and settle back against the pillows with a contented hum. It’s impossible to do anything but drink him in as you lie there - the taut muscles of his stomach, the broad chest, the way his black curls fall almost effortlessly around his shoulders in a midnight halo. He’s perfection.

You see the small twitch of his shoulders as you admire him, and you can almost feel the unspoken plea burning off him. “Remove the rope, my love,” you tell him softly.

In a shimmer of green it’s gone, but he still keeps his hands folded obediently behind his back - ever the perfect picture of submission to his queen.

“Such a good boy for me,” you purr, resting your hands on his forearms. “I’m very proud of you, my love. You’ve done so well tonight.”

Loki’s chest puffs out with pride and you see the fresh dusting of pink that paints his pale cheeks.

Wordlessly, you guide his hands from behind his back to rest them on your sides. His fingers twitch impatiently against the fabric of your shirt, desperate to feel your bare skin beneath his. “Undress me,” you whisper, stroking his arms with the pads of your thumbs.

It’s like the strike of a match.

Long, elegant fingers eagerly hook into the waistband of your skirt, tugging it easily off your hips and down your legs. The cool air washes refreshingly over you, but it quells the flames of desire for only a second. Loki’s large hands are on every inch of bare skin that he can find, as though this is both the first and last time he’ll ever touch you, as though he doesn’t already know every inch of you by heart.

Hungry hands slip easily beneath your shirt, quickly making short work of both it and your bra. You hear the quiet rustle as they’re tossed to the side with the rest of your clothing.

He takes a moment to marvel at you, drinking you in like you’re the finest piece of Asgardian art. You watch his eyes darken as they rake over you appreciatively, and you fight not to shiver under the intensity of his gaze.

“Norns, you are beautiful,” he murmurs before burying his face into the crook of your neck.

A cool hand finds your breast while he trails a broken line of kisses along your neck and over your collarbone. His lips are hungry and frantic and, mixed with his fingers twisting and pulling at your nipple, it doesn’t take long until you’re arching into his touch. You’re so submerged between the waves of his affections that you only just register his unbroken chorus of “beautiful thing…enchanting creature…darling girl.”

Love and lust for this man mix deliriously in your heart, becoming so overwhelming that you can’t help but greedily pull his lips to yours. The kiss is feverish and passionate like you’ll never get another chance to kiss him again. Loki responds eagerly, moulding his body to yours. You feel cool fingers curl around your knee to place it around his waist, and when his lips break away from yours, you can’t help but to whine.

“Please, darling,” he pants breathlessly against your lips. “Please let me love you.”

Instantly, any half formed plans you had to keep teasing him fade away like smoke in the wind.

You tangle a hand into his mess of curls to pull him in for another blistering kiss, and at the same time, you lock your ankles across his back. “Love me, Loki.”

His cock is already nudging at your entrance when you press your heels into his back, silently coaxing him forward. Loki doesn’t say a word, but his eyes don’t leave yours as he slowly eases himself inside you until you can take no more of him. Despite the many times you’ve taken him before, you’re always left breathless at how good he feels inside you.

Instinctively, you clench around him, pulling a hiss from between bared teeth. “You are perfect,” he groans and rests his forehead against yours. “My perfect girl.”

He rolls his hips against yours in a slow, deep thrust that sends your eyes rolling in your head. He does it again, and again, until you’re sure you’ll draw blood with how deeply you’re gripping his shoulders.

“Loki…ah!....more,” you plead with a shout when his cock brushes against that sweet spot deep inside you.

His lips press firmly against your flushed cheek. “Anything my queen commands,” he rasps in your ear.

His thrusts pick up speed until you can feel him in your very soul. Warmth begins to blossom like a new rose in your core as he expertly builds you towards your second orgasm, groaning and panting deliciously in your ear while he chases his own high. The coil in your stomach winds tighter and tighter with each thrust, and all you know right now is Loki.

The feel of him, the scent of him, the taste of him. He’s all you’ll ever need.

“Darling…darling, I’m close…please,” he whimpers in your ear.

You’re teetering right on the edge, ready to tumble blindly into bliss. “Come. Come for me, my love,” you tell him hoarsely.

He barely lasts a minute.

Neither do you.

Loki empties himself inside you with a symphony of groans and curses, slipping into some ancient language when you clamp down around him and dig your nails into his shoulder and scalp - deaf and blind in the tsunami of your own release. He drowns you so deeply in pleasure that you’re not sure you’ll ever surface.

You’re not sure you ever want to. This man has given you every part of himself, he trusts you so wholly and so deeply that he’s felt safe enough to submit to you. Gods, you love him so much.

He chases his pleasure ruthlessly, growling deep in his throat when you twist your fingers into his hair. “Good boy. My good boy,” you praise him softly as his thrusts eventually become sloppy and erratic.

His warm breath hits the crook of your neck while he comes down from his high, completely spent. You cradle his head and turn yours to press a kiss to his temple, feeling him smile against you when you do.

“You did so well, my darling,” you whisper in his ear, twisting some stray curls around your fingers.

Loki lifts his head to peer down at you, looking close to drunk in the aftermath of his orgasm. He kisses you deeply as his hands slide to rest on your hips, pulling back to grin at you so wolfishly that your stomach flips in anticipation.

In a shimmer of green, the collar and leash disappear into the air. “Oh, darling, I’m not finished yet.”

You return his smirk with one of your own. “I should like to think not.”

#loki #loki smut #loki x reader #loki fanfiction

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olenvasynyt · 23 days

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A little sick of the E/riels using the part where Az realizes she's a seer as a sign that their ship is endgame.

Madja said that a mate will finds what's remiss in her and that it is a sign that Az understands her more than Lucien does because he was the one who figured out she's a seer. People say it's a sign that E/riel could be mates.

But let's get this fucking straight: Elain's powers weren't what was wrong with her. What was wrong with her was she was locked up in the House of Wind, basically in a catatonic state, depressed, suicidal. I'm pretty sure her and Nesta were up there since the IC brought them to the NC after the Cauldron.

Lucien was the one to demand that she goes outside, sees the ocean or a garden.

"She needs fresh air." "we'll decide what she needs." I could have sworn his ruby hair gleamed like molten metal as his temper rose. BUt it faded, his russet eye fixing on me. "Take her to the sea. Take her to some garden. BUt get her out of this house for an hour or two."

And tbh, Az saying she's a seer just sounds like he sees her as a tool.

"We're the ones who need..." Azriel trailed off. "A seer," he said, more to himself than us. "The Cauldron made you a seer."

Let's not forget that he ahs been actively researching in the library about what could be happening with her, per Feyre's request. And imo, he did not show any signs of concern for her mental health or her weight, unlike Lucien, because the first words we get in Lucien's POV is concern for his mate.

Too thin. SHe must not be eating at all. How can she even stand?

Also, let's not forget that Lucien believes Elain and offers to go and look for Vassa because of Elain's vision.

"I'll go." Lucien was staring at Elain as he spoke. "I'll go," he repeated, rising to his feet. "To find this sixth queen."

Just sick of people misconstruing this scene for the sake of E/riel.

#elucien #pro elucien #pro lucien vanserra #lucien vanserra #lucien deserves better #anti e/riel

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skitariiposting · 2 months

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Skit's Mini Painting Journey Pt. 3

The Admech one.

C'mon, you all saw this one coming.

Back when I was painting my nurgles purple, I wanted to do a similar color scheme for my Admech army. I slowly moved away from it however, as I didn't quite like the way it turned out. The green and purple look took to Nurgle well, but purple Admech on desert planets didn't make a whole lot of sense. Didn't stop me from trying though, and while they certainly didn't look bad, I'm glad I didn't stick with it.

The Mars Pattern Family

This little fella may look familiar! Here was my first attempt at a more traditional mars pattern skit, and a jawa-esque one to boot! This was a kitbash of a proper galvanic rifle and backpack being added to The Makers Cult's Lil' Recruit.

I mean, Jawa admech is so amazing, but I had to have my little guy properly equipped!

Continuing the Mars linage is a technopriest and engiseer, both TMC printed minis. I love the way these two look. The face-shield on the technopriest looks amazing, and I'm incredibly proud of the reflection on it. The OSL on the hand isn't very visible in the picture, but it also looks really good.

This Thallax bot was supposed to be a Kastellan Bot for @elnubnub, however I got the two mixed up and picked the smaller one. I'm going to eventually remedy that, but he still looks good nonetheless.

This is by and large one of my best pieces in my opinion. Back when @cannibalcaprine had a bird face, this model was more applicable. Dominus Hera has so much soul and time put into her I don't know if I'll ever be able to replicate the state of mind I was in that let me get this mini to look this good. The cloth effects are fantastic, the OSL from the gun is fantastic, the molten axe is fantastic, the color choices and layout is fantastic, the cables are fantastic; I don't know who painted this mini, but it certainly wasn't me. It couldn't have been.

And the most important member of the Mars Pattern Family, the fan favorite: Goober. A kitbash gone wrong gone right. A broken mini finally becoming whole. The legend himself. What more is there to say?

Finally: The Submechanicum

Penelope, the Ocean Queen. My first model I painted for the Submechanicus. I'd love to say that this is my magnum opus, considering I made a whole video about her and everything...

However, I must rip the band aid off and say that this is the first version of Penelope...

Because what immediately followed her was this beast. This is the Krabaphron, another contender for one of my best models. This sucker was so genre defining, that it set a new standard for the rest of my Submechanicus army and would cause me to re-do my color-scheme and paint job planning going forward.

I based all of my future Submechanicus models off of it, using it as a template. The Skits and Techpriest both got the same treatment and I've got to say, I'm in love with the way it looks. I've continued using this style so far and I haven't had to make many modifications.

As such, Penelope... didn't quite fit the bill anymore. She stood out from the rest of the models.

So... after a livestream of planning and base layering...

She was finally given the paint job she deserved.

And that's just were our story begins fair traveler... With the rise of the Depth Guard, a proper protector of the Submechanicus will be needed to combat the forces of Nurgle... And coming late April, there will be such a machine surfacing, with a video to present it.

Of course, this is quite an older photo. It's far more painted than that. I've teased photos of it so far, however I'm saving the proper display of it for the video, so be on the look out if you want to see the completed product!

And that's about it! Hope you've enjoyed this little walk down memory lane and gallery of my mini painting endeavors! I'll be making a website for easier viewing once I've gone through and gotten some more professional looking pictures done. Thank you for reading and viewing!

-Jerry

#adeptus mechanicus #admech #skitarii #40k #warhammer #warhammer 40k #warhammer 40000 #miniature painting #mini painting #skitposting #photo dump

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short-honey-badger · 4 months

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Peppermint Tea 13

Another part so soon! I'm on a roll and already have start the next couple chapters! I hope you enjoy. This was was just kinda indulgent.

Warnings! SMUT! Mihawk knows what he is doing with his tongue. Fingerfucking. Kissing. Some dirty talk. Mihawk is a pervert.

Masterlist

It is 29 days later, you know, because that's how long ago you planted your strawberries, when you decide that you are tired of beating around the bush. Sure, the two of you kissed, and Dracule liked to touch you and explore you, but ever since that one delightful morning, the well-groomed man never went very far. He always pulled away at the last second when you were just on the verge of begging him for more. You were sick of waiting for Mihawk to make the first move, but you definitely weren't brave enough to make it yourself.

So that left you having a conversation with him. One that made you embarrassed just to think about. Dracule had phoned earlier that day, the snail phone was the best gift he'd ever given you, and let you know that he would be arriving soon, so you had at least two hours before he got here.

The bedroom was first on your list. It needed a good cleaning, and that would take the longest. Time was running out by the time you finished fluffing the quilts and pillows, and you dashed to the bathroom to wash and shave in the appropriate areas. You knew what you wanted and had to be prepared for it.

You are still wrapped up in a towel when you hear the front door open, and Hank gives a happy woof to the only man who can just waltz inside your home. You curse yourself for not remembering to grab any clothes and peek out the door of the bathroom. Just as you are trying to creep to the bedroom across the small hallway, a looming shadow blocks the light, and you are caught in a yellow-eyed gaze.

“Catch you at a bad time, Snow Angel?” Dracule teases with a mean twist of his lips. You blush and quickly retreat to the bedroom, but the warlord is right on your tail.

“I was trying to finish up before you got here,” you tell him as Mihawk follows you inside and shuts the door behind him. You round the bed, putting the queen-size between the two of you. “You are early.”

The warlord scoffs, “I am never late or early, Darling. I always arrive precisely when I mean to,” he eyes you from over the bed, and you gulp when you see his gaze darken a shade, “And what a treat it is to arrive home to see you in nothing but a towel.”

The word home catches in your brain, leaving you stalling a bit. He's said it once or twice before, and it always leaves you a mess. How can he call this place home so casually when Dracule himself has told you that the sea has been his home for most of his life? It left you reeling every time you realized how much you mean to him. How much he meant to you.

A warm hand landing on your arm knocks you from your thoughts, and you jerk your head up to see Dracule giving you a look of concern. You smile at him, feeling bold in his boat of playfulness.

“Maybe you should take it off?” You suggest and are treated with the rare sight of taking Mihawk by surprise. His eyes widen, and you watch in fascination as his golden eyes turn molten. A mean smirk curls his mouth at the side.

“Is that what you want? Do you want me to touch you, sweet thing? Do you want me to show you all the ways I could make you come?” Dracule snarls the filthy words, pushing himself closer to you at the end of every question. Mihawk expects you to back down at his aggression, at showing you how much he desires to have you, to taste you.

A whine leaves your throat, and your hands grasp the edges of the long coat that Dracule still wears. It isn’t often that your warlord stayed dressed in his rather flashy regalia, and it made you ache all the more for the pirate. You force your thoughts into order and lock eyes with his molten gaze. You need him to know that you are being truthful, “I have been wanting you to touch me for a long time, Mihawk. I just didn’t know how to ask.”

The warlord is quiet as he searches your eyes for any hint of uncertainty. When he finds none, Dracule takes a half step back, and his voice is rough when he speaks.

“Lay on the bed, on your back,” Mihawk orders and looks down at you under the wide brim of his hat. He looks dangerous like this, and you are reminded that Dracule is so much stronger than you are. He clicks his tongue when you take a beat too long, “Don’t keep me waiting, Angel.”

You turn to hop up on the bed, shimmying back so that your head lies against the pillows. A shiver wracks your body, and you swallow harshly when Dracule follows you up. He rests on his knees, and you can’t help how your devil fruit reacts when he reaches for the edges of your towel. It’s one thing for Mihawk to see your upper half, you liked when he laved your breasts with attention, but he has never seen you naked before.

“Relax, sweet thing,” Dracule rumbles above you and leans down so that he can kiss your brow, “I will stop when you ask me.”

“Okay,” you whisper and sigh heavily when you take a deep breath and relax into the bed. Dracule kisses your cheek, and then he pulls away to take hold of your towel, easing it away from where you have it tucked around you. A low, pleased sound escapes him when you are revealed to him.

“Beautiful, every inch of you,” Mihawk praises and then proceeds to pinch your left nipple. You hiss at the prick of pain, though a soft groan follows when he rubs your sensitive nub between his thumb and forefinger. His other hand follows the curve of your body down to your hip where he rubs gentle circles there, and you relax further into the bed, eyes fluttering closed as you give up control of the situation to Dracule.

Mihawk soaks in every reaction you have to his touch. He experiments, smoothing his hands up and down your body, seeing what you enjoy best. When you like it soft, and when you like when he gets a little rougher. He scoots down, ringed eyes raking down your body until he spies the apex of your legs and the neat thatch of hair that hides your most sensitive parts away.

The warlord grasps your legs and lifts them from the bed. He gently opens your legs, pushing them up so that your feet rest on the bed and your knees sway in the air. Mihawk kisses your knee, smoothing his calloused hands down your thighs, and curls one around the inside of your leg, keeping you spread for him.

Frost has begun to creep up your legs, and the cold of your devil fruit and the heat that Dracule puts off make every unexpected touch feel like a live wire against your skin. One hand moves to skate down your leg and dusts the frost away.

“I’ve got you, Darling,” Mihawk croons above you, and then his middle and ring fingers are sliding through the folds of your cunt. Your eyes fly open and you look up only to lock eyes with the entranced look that the warlord sports. He looks in a trance as he gently rubs his fingers back and forth, humming in content when slick gathers on them.

You watch, eyes tracking his hand, as Dracule brings those two fingers up to his mouth and wraps his lips around them. He cleans his fingers and gives you such a lewd grin afterward that you have to look away from him. Who knew that such a sophisticated man was such a pervert?

There isn’t much time to think about it, not when Mihawk slides those same fingers back through your folds, stroking you in a perfect rhythm that has you arching off the bed.

Dracule's other hand holds you down, making sure you stay still for this, and crooks his middle finger, slowing to a stop. He had made sure to get you significantly wet just for this, and he sighed in delight when he sank his digit inside of your throbbing hole. Your pussy sucks him down to the last knuckle, so wet from slick and his saliva that it is an easy stretch.

You suck in a sharp breath at the intrusion. It doesn’t hurt. You’ve touched yourself before, but having someone else do it is an entirely new feeling of bliss. You whine when Dracule begins a slow pace, and it isn’t long before he is pressing his ring finger in along with the other. Pleasure builds, and you lose yourself, hips rutting against his hand as heat coils tight in your stomach.

Mihawk’s thumb suddenly catches your clit and the sharp press against the over sensitive button has you hiss his name as you come, walls clenching around his fingers and you see spots with how hard you've clenched your eyes.

Dracule smirks, satisfaction curling hot in his chest. His cock aches in his pants, and he longs to shuck them off and slip inside your inviting warmth. But he holds himself back, instead gently pulling his fingers from your fluttering cunt and sticking them right back in his mouth to clean off.

“Is that all you want, Dear One?” Mihawk murmurs above you and dips to press his cheek to your own, lips ghosting over your ear as he speaks, “Or do you want more?”

While he waits, Mihawk presses chaste kisses and sucks gentle hickies along your skin, the hand on your hip rubs soothing circles there, occasionally dipping down to touch your swollen clit teasingly.

You roll your head, lips seeking his in a kiss that is more tongue and teeth than anything else. Dracule licks into your mouth, spit leaking down your chin as the messy kiss continues. You shift your hips, making his hand fall between your legs, and you break the kiss long enough to plead for more.

“Don't stop, Dracule, please.”

The warlord doesn't need to be told twice. He kisses you one last time before sliding down and taking a nipple between his teeth. His thumb finds your clit and presses harsh half circles into it, sending shocks through your body. Your hands find his hair, weaving through the dark locks and scraping your nails along his scalp. Mihawk growls low in his throat at the blunt pain, and bites your nipple in retaliation.

You yelp and send a glare down at him, but Dracule is already soothing the hurt with a sweet lap of his tongue that has you sighing. He moves to the other nipple, giving it the same attention as the first before he shuffles further, trailing a hot line of kisses down past your navel. You open your eyes, licking your lips when you realize how far he's moved down.

“What,” you swallow harshly, “What are you doing?”

The look you receive is one of pure want, his ringed eyes blazing as they lock with your own, “I want to taste you, sweet thing. I've not had my fill of you quite yet.”

The sound that leaves your throat is a mix of a squeak and a moan, and you drop your head back to the pillow, “O-okay,” you stutter out. You weren't about to argue with him.

Dracule smirks and presses a kiss right below your belly button, and then down he goes. He shoulders your thighs open, and then looks up to watch your expression when he lolls his tongue out and swipes the hot muscle along your puffy folds. He watches your mouth drop in a silent moan, hips stuttering in his hold as he does it again.

Mihawk swirls his tongue, saliva pooling in his mouth and dripping down to join the slick clinging to your pussy. It's lewd, and messy, and your cheeks are on fire as you listen to the wet sounds of Dracule eating you out.

You curse when his lips find your clit, nails digging into his scalp when Mihawk sucks on the nub, tongue lapping until you are jerking your hips and accidentally forcing his face in your cunt as you come. You hear him groan as you gush around his face, and you shake when you feel his tongue probe forward to lap at your hole, making sure not a drop of your essence was wasted.

You release his hair, and when Dracule rises, the warlord looks thoroughly debauched. Slick and spit are smeared along his face, and his usual perfect facial hair has been mused this way and that. Mihawk looks devine like this, and arousal is already stirring in your gut, just looking at him. He wipes his mouth and then shuffles up the bed to lay beside you.

Dracule pulls you into his arms, curling them around you and tugging until you lay splayed across him. He hums as your weight settles across him, hand sweeping into your hair to gently massage your scalp.

“Are you okay, dear one?” He asks quietly and peers down at you, yellow eyes seeming to glow in the low light of your bedroom.

You nod easily, “Better than okay, Dracule,” you assure him and place a loving kiss on his chest. The two of you still needed to have an actual talk about this, but that could wait. The two of you would have plenty of time later.

@writingmysanity @kenkenmaaa @foggyturtleknightangel @browneyedhufflepuff @goth-mami-writer @myradiaz @djbumblebee @fluffybunnyu @bookandstar

#fanfic #one piece #reader insert #fluff #dracule mihawk #hawkeye mihawk #mihawk x reader #opla mihawk #mihawk x you #opla mihawk x reader #mihawk x y/n #smut #fingerfucking.#peppermint tea #one piece live action

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drakoneve · 1 year

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The Wolf Amongst Dragons

request: Can you pretty please do a daemon X reader where it's his niece who teases him about being super smitten with the reader BC she is a headstrong stark and makes a fool out of the court because she can. Perhaps she gets quite hurt in a battle that the king sends her and others out to fix. Basically it just ends up being fluffy where the reader knows his feelings and just soaks up the complete love he has. Like this boy has been knocked off his feet and he hates to admit it hehe

pairing: daemon targaryen x y/n stark

word count: 1k

warnings: canon typical violence, injured reader, blood

a/n: i tweaked this a little, hope you don’t mind!

You made a promise to yourself the day your older brother, Cregan, loaded you and your belongings into a carriage headed for the capital. Until this point you’d never stepped foot out of Winterfell, let alone were you prepared to move to the other side of the continent. Yet you had no choice. When the King of the Seven Kingdoms requests a Northern representative for the royal court, the Lord of Winterfell had no choice but to send his little sister.

When you finally arrived at the Red Keep you were meet with by King Viserys, his wife Queen Aemma, their daughter Princess Rhaenyra, and the king’s brother Prince Daemon. The Kingsguard stood tall in gleaming armor in full force surrounding the royal family, who was also accompanied by their personal staff.

“Lady Stark!” King Viserys cheers as he opens his arms in greeting. “We are honored to welcome you to the Red Keep! I hope your travels went smoothly?”

“Thank you, your Grace,” you answered as you bowed respectively. “The Kingsroad is fine, your Grace. It’s more the climate that’s concerning me. i’m not yet used to such... conditions, to say the least.”

Queen Aemma steps forward, “I’m sure you’ll adjust before you know it. Please, allow me to show you to your chambers.”

The queen was gracious enough to accompany you not only to your chambers, but she then took you on a tour of the palace. She began with the throne room, then took you out to the royal gardens where she took you to the Godswood. Having a weirwood tree right here in the Red Keep made you breath easier. At least this place had some trace of the North. Being so far from home unnerved you deeply, but in this place you could feel a connection to home.

Over the next few days you attended Small Council meetings where you watched from the sidelines. King Viserys assured you would have a seat on the council soon enough, but others suggested you have an ‘adjustment period’ of sorts. You scoffed at the idea but still took your seat outside the council table.

Being separated from the council, however, was not enough to restrain you from calling Otto Hightower a ‘spoiled southern cunt’ for suggesting Daemon send members of the City Watch into Flea Bottom to reprimand those who are already fighting to survive. During these meetings you happened to catch the violet eyes of the rogue prince, who had yet to make your acquaintance.

Not long after your arrival in Winterfell, King Viserys announced that Queen Aemma is with child once more, and the palace went into a mode of celebrations. A feast had been prepared and the throne room transformed into a dining hall with room for dancing.

Most everyone had finished their meals and began mingling and dancing their way around the room, but your attention focused mainly on the many molten swords of the Iron Throne. You had to admit the sight of the royal seat of Westeros was quite an intimidating sight.

Something inside told you to take a step towards the throne, and so you did. You stopped when you approached the first line of molten swords and reached out to trail your fingers lightly across the hilt.

“I’d be careful if I were you,” Daemon advised teasingly as he came up on your right side. “My brother does not take kindly to those who yearn for his precious throne.”

“I merely grazed the hilt of one measly sword,” you refuted. “I did not sit my arse upon it and call myself the queen. Nor do I want to.”

“Truthfully?” he inquires, a look of curiosity upon his face. You take the moment to take in the sight of him, and you cannot deny he’s an incredibly handsome man. Like the rest of his Targaryen ancestors, Daemon is beautifully crafted by the Gods of Old Valyria— blessed with silver blond hair and lilac eyes.

You nod and look back up to the throne. “I could think of nothing worse,” you admit. “To live my life upon this ghastly thing and have to sit through endless bore-me-to-death Small Council meetings? Sounds miserable to me.”

With that you excuse yourself respectively to retire for the evening. You make quick rounds to the other members of the royal family to excuse yourself for the night totally unaware of how Daemon’s eyes are following you the whole time. He watches as you begin with his brother and sister in law, before finding Rhaenyra (who’s in the middle of the dancefloor with Alicent) and saying goodnight to her, too.

He laughs to himself when Rhaenyra and Alicent each take one of your hands and pulls you around in circles with them, as if trying to convince you to stay with them just a bit longer. He doesn’t want to admit it to himself, but his heart beats harder at the sight of your dark gray satin skirts flow around you while you twirl, at the smile on your face as you laugh with his niece and her friend.

Eventually you pull away from the girls before officially making your way out of the throne room and away from the chaos.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧ ✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧ ✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧ ✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Several months had passed since the death of Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon, and war had begun in the Stepstones just as Corlys Velaryon warned King Viserys and the eternity of the Small Council. Still Viserys refused to step in as king and help the Lord of Driftmark defeat the Triarchy once and for all. After the king rejected Corlys’ offer of Laena’s hand in marriage and instead married Alicent Hightower, the seasnake took off to fight in the Stepstones. It wasn’t long after that that Daemon joined Corlys in his war efforts.

You stayed in the Keep for awhile, trying to convince Viserys to aid Corlys and Daemon in their efforts of holding the Stepstones to no avail. Viserys had allowed you to take a seat on the council while Corlys and Daemon were gone, and each time you tried to plead with the king to see reason Otto Hightower would weasel his way in the king’s ear against you.

So you decided to go to the Stepstones yourself, naturally. You recruited Ser Harwin Strong to accompany you once he swore on his honor he would not say a word of your plan to anyone until his safe return to King’s Landing.

You and Harwin arrived on the shores of the Stepstones in time to rush to Daemon’s side as he was overrun by members of the Triarchy. You wore the armor your father had gifted you after many years of insisting on joining your brother Cregan on the battlefield with the Stark bannermen.

Vaemond Velaryon scoffed at your arrival and insisted Corlys send you away. Daemon stepped forward, piercing Vaemond with his furious lilac gaze.

“Put your cocks away, boys,” you tease, unimpressed. “We’ve a war to win, do we not?”

You joined the war torn men around the large table set up with the maps of the battlefields. Conversation continued back and forth as the lot of you tried to come up with a plan to take down the Crab Feeder and Triarchy. Laenor’s plan of sending Daemon to the Crab Feeder as a scapegoat of false hope only for both Caraxes and Seasmoke to burn the Triarchy men alive.

For the most part everything went as planned, until you jained Daemon’s side as he was ambushed, unarmed, by a circle of the enemy. You’d jumped into the fight, effectively taking out several Triarchy soldiers before tossing a sword Daemon’s way. He showed his thanks by slaying the rest of the men with you, but not before one of them slashed you in the side, leaving a bloody gash on the side of your thigh.

“Fuck!” you yell as you clutch your leg, losing your balance and hitting the ground. Blood streamed down your leg in a slow, but steady, flow. Daemon joined your side in a flash, ripping the white flag he’d had to feign surrenderance to tie the cloth as tight as he could above the gash in your thigh.

The battle continued around you though for the most part Caraxes’ and Seasmoke’s flame had discouraged most of what was left of the Triarchy. With Daemon’s aid you were able to safely make it back to the shore where you’d first arrived to be treated by the healers available.

Daemon stayed by your side through the stitching and even went as far as to hold your hand and offer sweet words as comfort. You were grateful for him, this way you had something else to focus on other than the pain. And if you needed an alternative to keep your mind busy, there was no better pick than Daemon.

His silvery white hair fell around his face perfectly despite being slightly matted with sweat and blood. He’d always been handsome, that you couldn’t deny, but seeing this softer side to him made him even more so in your eyes. It’s no secret Daemon is a troublemaker, and you should probably keep your distance, but after this how could you?

Long after the battle was over Daemon was crowned King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea. He’d cut his infamous long hair short, and it suited him. Sometimes little wisps of silver hair would fall down into his face and you had to remind yourself to breathe at the sight.

Your relationship with Daemon changed after the war in the Stepstones. Whereas before the war you would avoid Daemon in court, you now sought him out. Not that you had too, because he often would join your side in Small Council meetings or invite you out to the training yards.

Tonight however, you opted to stay in your chambers.

You’d already stripped down to your nightclothes when a knock came from the other side of your chamber doors.

“Come in.” you called.

The doors open and Daemon entered, dismissing your guards. They looked to you before leaving once they had your reassurance.

Daemon didn’t hesitate to step right up to you. “Forgive me for the hour, my lady, but I’ve found myself in a situation I am quite unfamiliar with and it seems you are the only one who can help me.”

“Oh?” You tilted your head, trying to ignore the fluttering of your heart. “How am I supposed to be of aid?”

“Be mine,” he responds quickly with confidence. “I must confess from the day you arrived here in the Keep I’ve been quite taken with you. And the day you rode onto the shores of the Stepstones, I knew I could not live without you by my side—”

You reached your hands out to cup either side of his face. “Daemon, do not jest. I’m afraid my heart could not take it.”

A genuine smile breaks out across his lips. “I would never,” Daemon insists. “I’ve felt this way for a long time, my little wolf.”

Daemon’s hands fall to your waist as he pulls you into his body, leaning down to kiss you firmly. You pulled away and kissed his forehead before resting your own against his.

“Come to bed, Daemon,” you purr and pull away towards the bed.

He laughs and smiles down at you. “As you wish, little wolf.”

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procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics · 1 year

Text

Of Traitors and Oathbreakers

Summary: A Black in Greens territory is never a good thing, especially if that means falling into the hands of Prince Aemond

Notes: Aemond and reader are childhood friends turned enemies (with benefits). Had to write something for my favorite war criminal. The reader is the child of the blacksmith of the Red Keep (bc why make Targaryen!readers when they can be ~different~)

Hobroti jās – Fuck off

Nyke pendagon avy jorrāelan – I think I love you

Warnings: rough/hate sex, dub-con (power imbalance), biting, scratching choking etc, mentions of starvation, war, imprisonment

Taglist: @levithestripper (hmu to be added!)

Ending 1 / Ending 2 | Masterlist | requests are OPEN!

You didn’t remember how you got here. In fact, you didn’t even remember where you had been wanting to go, or who had been with you.

All you knew was that you were stuck in a cold cell, water dripping from the ceiling between short pauses of silence and driving you close to madness. When you looked out of the small crack in the wall of your cell, you’d seen molten towers you only recognized from childhood tales.

Harrenhal.

Currently territory of the Greens, and you were a Black. The name Targaryen could neither protect nor endanger you here, and for that you were grateful, but for everything else…

They didn’t let you out, whoever your jailers were. If your standing allowed it, you would have thrown the bread they gave you back into their faces and called them cowards.

But your mother had taught you to be resourceful, and your father had never let you leave scraps on your plate.

The only way for you to gauge how much time had passed was from the crack in the wall, watching the sun rise and set, but even like that you lost count after a while. You would’ve gone insane from the cold in your bones or the slow drips from the ceiling, or maybe even the loneliness, if it hadn’t been for the expression of wrath you had seen on the face of your Queen.

Your Queen. Rhaenyra. And yet, she would not risk her life, or that of any of her dragonriders to save you. You knew that when you kneeled for her in Dragonstone, and you had remembered it ever since. Yet you couldn’t help but wish that the situation was different.

Dying like this wasn’t what you wanted. It was everything you despised – the cold, the loneliness, the harsh walls around you. Worst of all was the darkness though.

You’d grown up in your father’s workshop, surrounded by fire as the Targaryens were with their dragons. Light and heat was your childhood, your comfort, and though learning the craft had gone to your brothers, you hadn’t let that keep you from picking up every weapon your father had crafted.

A gift that had cursed you later in life, bringing you into this cell.

The first time they opened the cell door completely could’ve been days or decades after your initial imprisonment. You didn’t demand answers, didn’t fight them yet, letting them drag you out and through empty hallways.

Once, you caught the smell of soot and ash, wondering whether it was from a smithy or a dragon. Were they taking you to your execution?

You doubted it. No one but the Targaryens were executed by the Targaryens themselves.

Instead, they brought you to the tubs that were in the cellars of Harrenhal. The water was hot, steam rising up from the water of the pools, and you could swear that there had never been a lovelier sight.

The guards did not bother turning their backs, so you turned yours. You had no weapon to defend yourself, and you weren’t ready to give all of your dignity just yet. Quickly, you sank into the steaming water, beginning to scrub the smell of dirt, blood and piss from your skin.

Death clung to your skin like a scared child to her mother. You hated it.

The cell had given you more than enough time to remember, but it seemed that you could not. All you knew was that you had been sent to find the host of the Northmen, making your way through the Riverlands.

Somewhere between Dragonstone and Harrenhal, someone had killed your crew and taken you prisoner, leaving you to wake up with their blood on your hands, literally.

Your bath was cut short by a young woman shooing the guards out, before helping you out of it. She was the first one to show you a semblance of respect, handing you clean clothes and a cloth to dry yourself, but she wasn’t willing to talk to you.

Perhaps they were all mute here, terrified into silence by their Lord, the Lord Confessor of the Greens. Perhaps it was yet another way to torture you.

She was somewhat gentle when she helped you lace your dress, before she left you to your own devices again. It was strange to be clean again after such a long time. The dance had left you permanently disheveled in some way.

Even before, Daemon had been drilling you in the yard, making impossible demands at you. You were the only one who made it through his snide remarks that brought grown men to tears and desperation. You would have never admitted the rewarding smirk he gave you after a long sparring session reminded you of a Green.

The woman had you follow her into a small chamber, only equipped with a small cot and a chamberpot. It was barbaric, but infinitely more than the cell you’d been forced to call home.

Here, where you were all alone, you could take in the changes of your body for the first time. Wearing a dress made the loss of weight noticeable. You’d exchanged a part of your femininity for the harshness of battle a long time ago, it was the price female fighters paid in Westeros.

The time in the cells had made the rest of that softness fall off your bones, and all that was left was sinew and muscles. You knew it wasn’t healthy, but you hadn’t had your moon’s blood since the beginning of the war, and a truly delicious meal since even longer.

Luxury was a faraway dream, a whisper of the days in the Red Keep, where the worst punishment had been your mother chasing you through the stables to give you an earful about sparring with princes and forgoing your chores in favor of riding. Where your friends had comforted you after your brother became collateral in a fire in just this castle. Where you’d witnessed Vaemond’s bluntness be his death, and where Daemon spotted your talent as you trained in the yard.

Daemon had taken you and your father from the Red Keep, under the pretense of needing a smith and the truth of wanting a warrior that would always be underestimated. A girl who could slip through the cracks in the expectations of men and then slit their throats.

That was what you were to him. And for a while, you hadn’t noticed that he’d taken your childhood, for he had raised you to glory and given you a taste of battle. But where battle was, war followed, and it quickly reared its ugly head.

A knock ripped you from the myriad of thoughts in your mind. Who would knock at your door? You were a prisoner. If anything, you should be the one knocking, begging for their freedom.

You didn’t answer, and they paused for so long you thought they actually wanted a reply from you. But then, the door swung open.

“She told me you would be here.” He said.

“Who?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Aemond replied. He stared at you silently, taking in the tightness of the gown, the slim shape your body had never had before. “Hmm.”

And then, he left, leaving alone again.

Aemond. What was Aemond doing here? He was Aegon’s brother, wasn’t this below him? Shouldn’t he be commanding great hosts, slaying his enemies from above?

He returned with food. A steaming bowl of stew, the smell of which made your stomach growl audibly, and a tankard of ale. It was making you forget that he was your enemy.

“It’s not poisoned.” He said.

“You’ve had enough opportunity to execute me.” You shrugged, hungrily digging into the meal. Aemond only hummed, a habit familiar to you.

He did it the few times you beat him in a spar, trying to assess what went wrong. When he heard you complain about the stench around the smith, only for the noble lord who pissed onto the walls of your home to disappear from court a day later. When Aegon taunted you for being a girl that would never amount to anything, lowborn and worth nothing, only to receive his brother’s punches seconds later.

“I’ve missed you.” He said quietly. You supposed that that was the way Aemond was: quiet in everything. Protecting, fighting, respecting. You wondered if that applied to-

No. Just because he was practically the first man you’d seen since your confinement did not mean you had to fall at his feet. He’d been your friend, and now he was your enemy. Both weren’t what people should pursue.

“You killed Prince Lucerys.” You replied.

“Just as much as his mother did.” Aemond snarled, but he didn’t sound so sure.

“She is the queen. You are responsible.”

“She has put Helaena into agony! Do you know what the war does to her? Days, spent in tears, fearing her own dreams and what may come! Helaena knows what will happen to her, and it is too atrocious for her to speak of, even to mother!”

It felt like a blow to the stomach. Helaena was strange to the ladies of the court, but she was always kind to you. There was an unspoken agreement between you and Aemond as children, that when you played hide and seek in the Godswood with Jace and found Helaena playing with the bugs in the bushes, you’d leave her alone.

“The mother that started all of this.”

“I didn’t know war made you into a frigid bitch.” Aemond spat.

“No, traitors do.” You said, throwing the insult back. His hand shot at your neck, and you wondered if he would kill you.

Days past flashed through your mind, afternoons spent swimming in Blackwater Bay and hiding from septas, mothers and knights. Sneaking Aemond into the city to buy him food from the street vendors in Flea Bottom. Teasing him for his royal stomach as he felt queasy afterwards, assuring him that you weren’t afraid when he returned from Dragonstone, a patch covering his eye. The awkward kiss you shared as teens, neither of you wanting to be unprepared for your great love you were so sure was to come.

His hand was still there, cold to the touch. Jaw set and fury blazing in his remaining eye.

“I lost control of Vhagar.” He confessed. A whisper so hushed it almost carried away into silence. “And it was me who killed your men and took you to Harrenhal.”

“They were good men. They had families, and you killed them.”

“This is war. You’re their bloody commander!” Aemond snorted.

“You could’ve killed them when they made it to battle, to let them die with honor.”

“They wouldn’t have lasted much longer.”

“You don’t know that.” You spat.

“No, but you do. Who made you into a commander? You could barely put a scratch on Aegon when you left for Dragonstone.”

“Daemon did. And I’ve been better than Aegon a long time. I just happened to be lowborn.”

“Think you can beat me?” Aemond laughed, cold and arrogant.

“Why don’t we take this to the yard and find out? It would be a pleasure to kill you.”

“Vhagar would devour you, if you managed.”

“As she did with Luke?”

Just for a moment, Aemond’s façade crumbled, and he grew pale, before he regained his composure, but you already regretted your words.

“Did you eat your heart when you grew hungry in your cell? Or was that Daemon too?”

“And when did you grow into the arrogant prick your brother and grandfather envisioned you to be?” you spat, trying to even your tone.

You felt the frustration and anger of the last few months becoming a knot in your stomach already and watching your childhood friend throw insults at you hurt more than any blade could have.

“Cunt.” He replied, his anger evident in his tone as well.

“Traitor.”

“Bitch.”

“Kinslayer.” You said, letting go of all reservations.

“You’re still a dumb little girl.” He spat. Somehow, this was worse than anything else. Aegon had always called you that, and after one particularly bad day, Aemond had come to apologize for his brother, promising to never say that to you.

The tears spilled quicker than you could stop them, but even through the blurry vision they created, you slapped Aemond as hard as you could.

You wiped your eyes just in time to see his expression, mouth hanging open as his hand touched his cheek gingerly. Before he could regain his composure, you ran into him, throwing him onto the ground. You didn’t care as you heard his body hit the ground, only trying to hurt him somehow, to show him what he had done to you.

But Aemond was at full health, and a man that was taller than you by a bit while you hadn’t eaten properly in weeks. It didn’t take him long until he had flipped you around, holding your wrists down to the stone floor.

You struggled against him, trying to kick him or knee him in the balls, but Aemond was quicker than you, pinning your legs as well.

“Fuck you! You promised me!” you shouted at him, still trying to get your wrists out of his grip.

“You want me to apologize?”

“Yes, I do.” You snapped. “You broke a promise.”

“Hobroti jās.” He replied.

“Your Valyrian bullshit doesn’t scare me.” You laughed, but you were lying. It did. He could be threatening to kill you for all you knew, and you would be none the wiser.

“Is that so, my love?” he taunted.

“Don’t call me that.” You replied.

“Why? Have a lover waiting for you at Dragonstone? Prince Daemon himself perhaps?”

“I don’t. And the King consort would not dishonor his queen like that.”

“I suppose you’re not much to look at anyway. Especially not after a stay in the cells.” Aemond cruelly spat.

Your snarl fell from your face, your mask cracking quicker than you wanted it to. Not being as desirable and pretty as the ladies at court had hurt for as long as you could remember, but it was worse coming from Aemond somehow.

“Never took you for the vain type.” Aemond continued relentlessly, driving the knife in deeper.

“As if you’re a looker.” You replied, trying to push the tears he had cried over his face for years into the background. You knew it was mean, your choice of words especially, but he was just as horrible. Yet, when you said those words, Aemond recoiled from you for a moment, giving you the opportunity to free yourself from his grasp.

You crawled backwards, trying to create space between the two of you, but Aemond grabbed your ankle, pulling you back towards him. You crashed against him, causing him to let go of you to catch himself.

Trying to take advantage of the moment, you pushed him down by the shoulders, trying to ignore the fact that he was staring at you.

“Nyke pendagon avy jorrāelan.” He said. His eye was wide, staring at you with anger and… was that awe?

“Stop with the Valyrian!” you said, punching against his chest in a futile attempt to regain control.

He smirked at you, satisfied that he was getting a rise out of you like this, and you hated him for it. You’d spent a lot of your time around Daemon, for fuck’s sake! This shouldn’t be having any kind of effect on you!

You should get up now. You could get up, your brain was screaming at you, but instead, you stayed where you were, your hands on his shoulders in a futile attempt to subdue a Targaryen.

You stayed where you were when Aemond leaned forward, until your faces were only centimeters apart.

“Go on.” he whispered. You weren’t sure what he wanted, only that, in that moment, closing the space between you felt right.

It took you about two seconds to break the kiss, biting Aemond’s lip. “I hate you.” You tried, but you heard your own voice, and it didn’t sound too convinced.

“Are you?” he asked, wiping the blood from his lower lip with a small smile.

“We’re enemies! At war. We should be killing each other, not doing… this.”

“I took too long. I tried to convince myself that letting you rot would be a good punishment.” He said.

“It is! Look at what I’m doing.” You replied.

“You drew first blood. Hate to admit it.”

“You are insufferable.” You said.

“Am I? You haunt my dreams, taunting me with what I’ve done, and now that I let you speak to me, you make my nightmares reality! I want you dead, and yet I can’t help but want you all to myself.”

“Oathbreakers are the highest of traitors, and I swear, one day your head will be on a spike in the Red Keep, and I for one will be glad for it.” You replied, but it sounded weak against his words, refined with years of study you didn’t have.

“Then why did you kiss me?”

You hated that you didn’t have a witty response on your tongue as Aemond would have.

“Give in.” he said, and by the Gods, was there ever a sweeter temptation?

“So all the blood spilled under my command will be ridiculed?” you asked.

“I am a Targaryen, blood is in my nature. What better way to honor them?”

“Than kissing you? I can think of more than a few.” You laughed.

“I don’t give a shit about kisses.” Aemond replied. When he crossed the room, you didn’t dare back away. They called Aemond a One-Eyed devil, but you had taken off that eyepatch to care for what remained far too many times not to see him for what he was.

All the violence, the fire, the insecurities. His inability to look at his reflection, the pride and guilt of being Vhagar’s rider. The love for Helaena and hate for Aegon. His lust and distaste for the crown, the never-ending spiral of paradox that he was.

But you had been made violence and fire as well, to hide your weaknesses and make you lethal.

Before his lips could crash onto yours again, you felt the horrible realization of what had happened hit you. Your hands caught his chest, and Aemond froze.

“Daemon sent me.” You said. “He knew, didn’t he? He knew you’d spare me; he knew that you’d try to kill me, and that you’d fail because I am your friend.”

Slowly, you watched as Aemond walked to the door, grabbing something from behind a loose stone. You thought he’d hidden the dagger to kill you, until he flipped the handle towards you.

“Do it then.” He whispered. Your hand shaking, you tried to take the blade. You could end this war. You could kill the biggest asset the Greens had. He was practically offering himself to you.

Yet you couldn’t level the knife to his neck. Slowly, you let it sink again, hand trembling until the dagger fell. It clattered on the ground loudly, reminding you of your guilt. The traitor you had just become.

But Aemond was already on you, hands cupping your face as if you were fragile, thumbs stroking your cheeks like a lover to be cradled, soothing the unsurety that confused your thoughts.

“I still hate you.” You whispered between kisses, but Aemond barely bothered to smirk at you.

Instead, your hands betrayed your instincts, wandering to unlace his leather doublet, still shaking from the dagger.

“I hate you too.” He replied, ripping at your gown until it tore from shoulder to hip.

“That was the only one I had.” You complained.

“I’ll buy you another.”

“You’re such an ass.” You snapped. Aemond didn’t reply, his hands wandering to the curve of your hips instead.

The cot made an audibly creak as he lowered you down onto it, and you caught the blush on his cheeks.

“Don’t like being heard?” you asked.

“Not particularly. Didn’t know you did.”

“I don’t. I just happen to be poor.”

“Who?” Aemond demanded.

“What?”

“Who fucked you?”

“You thought I was a virgin?” you taunted.

“Their names.” Aemond managed through gritted teeth.

“Let’s see. There was Alyn, the city watch guard. He was my first. Then your mother’s maid, and a barkeep in Flea Bottom. A former septon at Dragonstone, he was go-“

“Shut up.” Aemond commanded, his hand on your neck again. His other hand was tearing at your dress, and the fact that he was desperate to have you made you feel powerful.

A prince of the Seven Kingdoms, subdued by the daughter of a blacksmith.

What a song that would make. In truth, you were desperate to kiss him again, to bite his shoulder while he fucked you languishly and have him pull your hair while he took you from behind. To dig your nails into his shoulders and watch his eye grow wide as he took his pleasure from you.

“Take it off.” You said.

“What?”

“The eye patch.”

“No.” Aemond refused.

“I’ve seen you without a thousand times. I want you.” You said.

He let you remove it, and your smile grew as you saw the dark, glittering sapphire filling his empty socket.

“Do you like it?” he asked carefully, sounding like the young boy that had reluctantly shown you his angry, red wound the first time he returned from Dragonstone.

“Would you wake if I stole it in the middle of the night?”

“Don’t try it.” He warned, finally unlacing his breeches. Without warning, he lowered himself to your cunt, before he thrust into you slowly. You screwed your eyes shut, trying to adjust to the stretch of it, but the pain felt just right.

“Alright?” he asked.

“Just been a while.”

He nodded, before he thrusted a few more times. And then, without warning, his hips snapped forward, burying himself in you to the hilt.

Your hands clawed at his shoulders, desperate for something to hold on to, and Aemond lowered his face to your breasts, taking his time with marring the already bruised skin on your chest further.

His thrusts were harsh, reflecting the anger that was still marring his features. If there was a truly gentle side to Aemond, it wasn’t here now.

Instead, he was all rough and messy, pressing his lips to yours in a desperate attempt to soften its gestures, but all it did was make you gasp into his mouth, only encouraging him to drive further into you.

It took your breath away, leaving you biting his shoulder and neck as you had imagined, fighting him tooth and nail for control.

There was an edge to him, one you’d seen before in Daemon and Rhaenyra, and even Helaena at times. Power and magic that made the Targaryens untouchable, and it clouded his senses just like yours.

His hands were everywhere, grabbing whatever he can take hold on. Bruising, marking your flesh and you know that it’s to claim you over and over again.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes again, but of pleasure laced with pain this time, the stretch of his cock so unbearably good it makes you wonder why. Why hadn’t you done this sooner?

Had this lust been there before? Would this have happened without a war?

Was that really what it took?

“I need…” Aemond began, trailing off into nothing as he nipped your lip, mirroring your gesture from earlier. He pushed your knees towards your shoulders, driving even deeper. It makes you a mess, fall apart in just the way he wants you too.

“Don’t stop.” You begged. “Don’t ever stop.”

“I won’t.” Aemond promised, and his words spoke of the things neither of you dared to say.

“Take me. Make me yours.” A part of you said, one that you did not know you possessed.

“My fierce girl.” He praised. “My fighter, my darling. My love. Mine, mine, mine.”

His words became a mantra, thrumming with the racing beat of your heart.

Yours.

Betrayal shouldn’t feel this good, and yet, Aemond made the guilt disappear into background noise with soft praises soothing earlier insults. He flipped you around after a while, hands grabbing your hips as you tried to steady yourself on the cot, hands tangling with bedsheets.

They bruised you again, lilac and purple blooming on your skin, bones stretching against it. You were hungry for something you didn’t know you wanted, and Aemond’s hands promised sweet release.

His chest flattened against your back, jaw finding your neck again and biting more marks into it, as if there weren’t already enough there. Hands tangling into your hair, he turned your head to kiss you harshly, more teeth and bite than soft kisses, but in that moment it felt right.

“Gods.” He gasped, thrusting into you with a frenzy. His hands found your sweet spot, rubbing until you found yourself painfully close to the edge. You could feel his breath on your back, the desperate savageness that accompanied his person now.

Heat bloomed in your stomach as you felt him continue, observant to your reactions. He studied you as he studied his swordplay, a skill he wanted to master. He already had, and yet, you couldn’t help but arch your back and meet his cock.

“So desperate?” he teased, and you ignored him, even as he taunted you for fucking yourself on his cock.

“You’re the one rutting into me.” You tried. Trading insults didn’t feel necessary, you were both desperate enough for each other to betray the cause you were so loyal to, and that was proof enough of your desperation.

“Give in.” he demanded. “Give yourself to me.”

“You’re mine,” you managed instead. “You’ll always be mine; I don’t care about the rest.”

He bit back his witty comeback, you knew it. It felt like a heartwarming gesture, if his hands and cock hadn’t made your spine go soft and your legs shake. He was desperate to make you cum, and that was how you knew he was close as well.

You wanted him to cum first, to lose if only in this, but with a few more sloppy thrusts, he had pushed you over the edge, your arms failing you as he followed after you seconds later.

As soon as it was done, he tried to move away from you. He let you pull him back in. You kissed him softly, slowly, as you had longed to do for a long time.

Now that his anger had dissipated, his lips melted against yours, his grip gentle and soft again, soothing over the love bites he had just made.

Carefully, he dressed you, a proud expression on his face as he noticed his seed between your legs.

“You’ll get me moontea for that.” You said.

“Or a septon.” He smirked, tying his breeches.

“What gave you the impression?”

Wordlessly, Aemond scooped you up into his arms, carrying you to the door.

“’You’ll always be mine’ was quite indicative.” He said, mimicking your gasps. Aemond carried you all the way to his chambers, setting you down on a bed that felt like a cloud.

“We can’t marry.” You reminded him quietly.

“Yes, we can. I’m the prince.”

“Precisely. I am a blacksmith’s daughter for the enemy of your faction.”

“Perhaps I shall make my own faction then.” Aemond replied.

“And make a peasant your queen? I do believe the nobles would rather have a woman then.”

“My mother would love you.”

“Since when? No doubt she knows I fucked her maid as a parting gift by now.” You said.

“That was your last act in the Red Keep?” Aemond asked. “I do admit, it might be a little difficult to make up for it.”

“I mean it, Aemond. ‘Tis no joking matter. You must either let me go, or kill me now, for I know I cannot do that to you.” You replied.

“You can leave tomorrow morning.” He agreed. “And I shall have no mercy if I see you on the battlefield. Or you can stay, and marry me at noon. The choice is yours to make.”

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond one eye #aemond one eye x reader #aemond one eye x you #aemond #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond fanfiction #prince aemond #prince aemond targaryen x reader #prince aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen smut #aemond smut #prince aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x lowborn!reader #house of the dragon #hotd fanfiction

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merymoonbeam · 3 months

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A Tool of Creation

CC3 spoiler. You have been warned.

In acomaf we learn that book of breathings was made to control the cauldron.

“When the Cauldron was made,” the carver interrupted, “its dark maker used the last of the molten ore to forge a book. The Book of Breathings. In it, written between the carved words, are the spells to negate the Cauldron’s power—or control it wholly. But after the War, it was split into two pieces. One went to the Fae, one to the six human queens. It was part of the Treaty, purely symbolic, as the Cauldron had been lost for millennia and considered mere myth. The Book was believed harmless, because like calls to like—and only that which was Made can speak those spells and summon its power. No creature born of the earth may wield it, so the High Lords and humans dismissed it as little more than a historical heirloom, but if the Book were in the hands of something reforged … You would have to test such a theory, of course—but … it might be possible.” (acomaf)

So...only made can use its magic.

Made = Feyre , Nesta and Elain

And later in the book we learn that the book is written in Holy Tongue—Leshon Hakodesh.

She stared and stared at the Book—as if it were a ghost, as if it were a miracle—and said, “It is the Leshon Hakodesh. The Holy Tongue.” Those quicksilver eyes shifted to Rhysand, and I realized she’d understood, too, why she’d gone. Rhysand said, “I heard a legend that it was written in a tongue of mighty beings who feared the Cauldron’s power and made the Book to combat it. Mighty beings who were here … and then vanished. You are the only one who can uncode it.” (acomaf)

Might beings: Daglan/Asteri

And this is confirmed in Hofas.

Amren turned to Rhysand and said in that new, strange language—their language: “The glowing letters inked on her back … they’re the same as those in the Book of Breathings.” (acomaf)

Bryce's tattoo is in the holy language.

And later in hofas Rigelus says that it was his people's language.

“I can teach you things you’ve never even dreamed of,” Rigelus promised. “The language inked on your back—it is our language. From our home world. I can teach you how to wield it. Any world might be open to you, Bryce Quinlan. Name the world, and it shall be yours.”(hofas)

So the book of breathings can control cauldron and it can "open any world" to who can wield it.

Also in Hofas we learn that Asteri corrupted the Cauldron.

The Cauldron was of our world, our heritage. But upon arriving here, the Daglan captured it and used their powers to warp it. To turn it from what it had been into something deadlier. No longer just a tool of creation, but of destruction. And the horrors it produced … those, too, my parents would turn to their advantage.(hofas)

So asteri turned it from tool of creation to tool of destruction.

Once upon a time...cauldron was good.

Can we use Book Of Breathings to uncorrupt the Cauldron? To bring it back to its natural "tool of creation" state?

In Hoeab we learn that the book of breathings is in crescent city. In jesiba's library.

Micah loomed over her. She stretched her arm out—toward the shelf. Her tingling fingers brushed over the titles. On the Divine Number; The Walking Dead; The Book of Breathings; The Queen with Many Faces …

Do we need to get book of breathings from crescent city? Is the crossover not over yet? Are IC going to think with bryce having the language of book of breathings tattooed to her body she might have had access to book of breathings at some point? Are we going back to cc in the next acotar book?

Also it is a great time to add that Cauldron is obsessed with Elain.

“You stole from the Cauldron,” I said to Nesta, who seemed ready to jump between all of us and Elain. “But what if the Cauldron gave something to Elain?” (acowar)

The Cauldron purred in Elain’s presence as the King of Hybern slumped to his knees, clawing at the knife jutting through his throat. Elain backed away a step (Acowar)

The Cauldron seemed to realize what she’d done, too, as his head thumped onto the mossy ground. That Elain … Elain had defended this thief. Elain, who it had gifted with such powers, found her so lovely it had wanted to give her something … It would not harm Elain, even in its hunt to reclaim what had been taken. It retreated the moment Elain’s eyes fell on our dead father lying in the adjacent clearing. The moment the scream came out of her.(Acowar

Why did it give elain such powers? Does it want someone to see how it was corrupted? Does it want to turn into tool of creation state again? Does it see elain as its salvation? (As @riddlecrux talked to me about). All the others saw cauldron as a thing to be used. A thing to be control. But it was only elain who had never stolen from it as nesta did while she was in the cauldron. It found Elain so lovely that it gave her the seer ability.

And from acotar we know that elain look at things as hope.

I gazed again at that sad, dark house—the place that had been a prison. Elain had said she missed it, and I wondered what she saw when she looked at the cottage. If she beheld not a prison but a shelter—a shelter from a world that had possessed so little good, but she tried to find it anyway, even if it had seemed foolish and useless to me. She had looked at it that cottage with hope; I had looked at it with nothing but hatred. And I knew which one of us had been stronger. (Acotar)

So maybe all cauldron needs for someone to look at it with hope. Also @riddlecrux told me that in cauldron myths and legends someone goes willingly into the cauldron to destroy it. Maybe in this case someone willingly going inside it uncorrupts the Cauldron..."Through love all is possible"

And we know that Cauldron is the most important thing in acotar

“Long ago, before the High Fae, before man, there was a Cauldron … They say all the magic was contained inside it, that the world was born in it. But it fell into the wrong hands. And great and horrible things were done with it. Things were forged with it. Such wicked things that the Cauldron was eventually stolen back at great cost. It could not be destroyed, for it had Made all things, and if it were broken, then life would cease to be. So it was hidden. And forgotten. Only with that Cauldron could something that is dead be reforged like that.” (Acomaf)

And in Hofas we learn that Daglan/Asteri made the Cauldron a kill switch.

“Once we left our home world, our powers began to dim. Too late, we realized that we had been dependent on our land’s inherent magic. The magic in other worlds was not potent enough. Yet we could not find the way back home. Those of us who ventured here found ways to amplify that power, thanks to the gifts of the land. We pooled our power, and imbued those gifts into the Cauldron so that it would work our will. We Made the Trove from it. And then bound the very essence of the Cauldron to the soul of this world.” Solas. “So destroy the Cauldron …” “And you destroy this world. One cannot exist without the other.”

In my Mystic&Seers post I connected The Void and Cauldron to each other.

I managed to stand. To take one step before I felt it. The … thing in the Cauldron. Or lack of it. It was lack and substance, absence and presence. And … it was leaking into the world.I dared a step toward it. And what I beheld in those ruins of the Cauldron… It was a void. But also not a void—a growth.It did not belong here. Belong anywhere. (Acowar)

The darkness paused. “You are impertinent as well. Do you not know where I come from? My father was the Void, the Being That Existed Before. Chaos was his bride and my dam. It is to them that we shall all one day return, and their mighty powers that run in my blood.” (hosab)

And from Hofas we know that the Void is actually a blackhole.

The only force in the universe that ate light, so strong no light could ever escape it. A portal to nowhere. To a black hole. Wasn’t that the unholy power that Apollion possessed? The power of the Void. The antithesis of light.

And you know how Elain was when she came out of the Cauldron?

She had been always so full of light. Perhaps that was why she now kept all the curtains open. To fill the void that existed where all of that light had once been. And now nothing remained

The power of the Void...The antithesis of Light.

Elain got rid of that murkiness in her eyes. When Azriel understood what was wrong with her.

It made sense, I supposed, that Azriel alone had listened to her. The male who heard things others could not … Perhaps he, too, had suffered as Elain had before he understood what gift he possessed. He asked Elain, “There is another queen?”

Elain blinked and blinked, eyes clearing again. As if the understanding, our understanding … it freed her from whatever murky realm she’d been in.

Maybe thats all Cauldron needs. So maybe we just need to get rid of the Void, to make sure Cauldron returns to its natural state—a tool of creation.

Also in my Mystic&Seer posts. I looked up what Mysticism is.

Mysticism is popularly known as becoming one with God or the Absolute, but may refer to any kind of ecstasy or altered state of consciousness which is given a religious or spiritual meaning. It may also refer to the attainment of insight in ultimate or hidden truths, and to human transformation supported by various practices and experiences.

Cauldron is the absolute. We looked up that above.

The hidden truths part.

When theia and fionn overthorwn the daglan they didn't learn all their secrets.

They fought the Daglan and won, she went on. Using the Daglan’s own weapons, they destroyed them. Yet my parents did not think to learn the Daglan’s other secrets—they were too weary, too eager to leave the past behind.

And Cauldron made Elain a seer. Maybe to see to learn the other secrets The Daglan had?

We can't even ask Amren because her timeline doesn't even match.

In acosf we learn this.

Rhys shook his head. “Only vaguely now. From what I’ve gleaned, she arrived during those years before Fionn and Gwydion rose, and went into the Prison during the Age of Legends—the time when this land was full of heroic figures who were keen to hunt down the last members of their former masters’ race. They feared Amren, believing her one of their enemies, and threw her into the Prison. When she emerged again, she’d missed Fionn’s fall and the loss of Gwydion, and found the High Lords ruling.”

The problem is how can she go into prison when there was no...prison.

Silene made the prison what it was after she returned from Crescent City. So before fionn's fall...there were no Prison. Actually theia ruled from the Prison Island.

Our home had been left empty since we’d vanished. As if the other Fae thought it cursed. So I made it truly cursed. Damned it all.

One after another, I hunted monsters—the remaining pets of the Daglan—until many of the lowest rooms were filled with them. Until my once-beautiful home became a prison. Until even the land was so disgusted by the evil I’d gathered here that the islands shriveled and the earth became barren. The winged horses who hadn’t gone with my mother to Midgard, who had once flown in the skies, playing in the surf … they were nearly gone. Not a single living soul remained, except for the monstrosities in the mountain.

So even Amren doesn't know. She is even confused in hofas.

Amren picked at an invisible speck on her silk blouse. “It’s murky. I went in before …” She shook her head. “But when I came out, there were rumors. That a great number of people had vanished, as if they had never been. Some said to another world, others said they’d moved on to distant lands, still others said they’d been chosen by the Cauldron and spirited away somewhere.”

So who is better to learn these secret than a Cauldron Made seer?

Also in hofas we learn that Cauldron sits on top of Ramiel.

“The Cauldron,” Nesta said hours later, pointing to yet another carving on the wall. It indeed showed a giant cauldron, perched atop what seemed to be a barren mountain peak with three stars above it. Azriel halted, angling his head. “That’s Ramiel.” At Bryce’s questioning look, he explained, “A mountain sacred to the Illyrians.”

And from Acosf we know that nobody went to look at what lies under ramiel. Sure enough Eris says "secrets". Maybe like daglan secrets???

Eris shrugged, and Nesta knew Cassian monitored his every breath. “There are three of them, you know. Sister peaks. This one, the mountain called the Prison, and the one the Illyrian brutes call Ramiel. All bald, barren mountains at odds with those around them.”

Eris gave him a mocking smile, but continued, “Unsurprisingly, the Illyrians were never curious enough to see what secrets lie beneath Ramiel. If it, too, was carved up like the others by ancient hands.”

What if there is more to under ramiel than we thought? What if its a secret Daglan hideout? I went into detail and what could have inspired it in my Wild Hunt post if you want to read it.

Also we know from acosf that Enalius tried to stop the "enemy" from reaching the stone on top of Ramiel.

Emerie’s eyes shone. “Long ago—so long ago they don’t even have a precise date for it—a great war was fought between the Fae and the ancient beings who oppressed them. One of its key battles was here, in these mountains. Our forces were battered and outnumbered, and for some reason, the enemy was desperate to reach the stone at the top of Ramiel. We were never taught the reason why; I think it’s been forgotten. But a young Illyrian warrior named Enalius held the line against the enemy soldiers for days. He found a natural archway of stone amongst the tangle of boulders and made that his bottleneck. He died in the end, but he held off the enemy long enough for our allies to reach us. This Rite is all to honor him. So much of the history has been lost, but the memory of his bravery remains.”

It was forgotten? Or was it never learned? What if it wasnt The stone the daglan was trying to reach but Cauldron as we know it stood on top of Ramiel? What if they were trying to reach that?

We also learn more about Enalius in hofas.

“You are no creator of mine,” Azriel said coldly. The Starsword gleamed in his other hand. If they bothered him, if they called to him, he didn’t let on. Neither hand so much as twitched. The Asteri’s eyes flared with recognition at the long blade. “Did Fionn send you, then? To slay me in my sleep? Or was it that traitor Enalius? I see that you bear his dagger—as his emissary? Or his assassin?”

The Truth-teller was Enalius's dagger. How did Azriel come to possess it? And we know that after Enalius's dead Fionn took possession of it as it was his friends dagger.

My father had never shown himself to be giving—long had he kept Gwydion and never once offered it to my mother. The dagger that had belonged to his dear friend, slain during the war, hung at his side, unused. But not for long.

And we know that Elain used the TT to kill the King of Hybern.

But as a black blade broke through the king’s throat, spraying blood, I realized someone else had. Elain stepped out of a shadow behind him, and rammed Truth-Teller to the hilt through the back of the king’s neck as she snarled in his ear, “Don’t you touch my sister.”

So how did Elain stepped out of a shadow?

The asteri under Prison says Azriel doesnt know it use—its full potential.

Vesperus took another step, steadier now, and smiled past Bryce. At Azriel, at Truth-Teller. “You don’t know how to use it, do you?” Azriel pointed the dagger toward the advancing Asteri. “Pretty sure this end’s the one that’ll go through your gut.” Vesperus chuckled, her dark hair swaying with each inching step closer. “Typical of your kind. You want to play with our weapons, but have no concept of their true abilities. Your mind couldn’t hold all the possibilities at once.”

True abilities? All possibilities? There is more than just creating a portal to nowhere with gwydion? Maybe that's how Elain could step out of a shadow? The "unknown" abilities of the Truth-Teller?

Also Autumn king says this:

“The Starsword is Made, as you called it.” He waved an idle hand, sparks at his fingertips. “The knife can Unmake things. Made and Unmade. Matter and antimatter. With the right influx of power—a command from the one destined to wield them—they can be merged. And they can create a place where no life, no light exists. A place that is nothing. Nowhere.”

As @offtorivendell theorised in her mating bond theory. Did the Asteri messed with the mating bonds too?

Can the Truth-teller unmake a mating bond? As it looks the cauldron was corrupted? It even ties to Book Of Breathings and what it said in acomaf:

Unmade and Made; Made and Unmade—that is the cycle. Like calls to like.

And don't ever forget that...

"What if the Cauldron was wrong?" 🫡

#elriel #cc3 spoilers #cauldron #my brain hurts #I wrote all this and accidently deleted it so this is the second post that I had to rewrite #Im dying #hofas

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brawlstars-dragon-au · 5 months

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Sketch dump time! A whole bunch of requests from the crazy ex-bird app

In Order: Maisie, Pam, Colette, Buster, Chester, Chuster ❤️🧡 (and a teeny Gus), Leon and Sandy (Leondy 💚💜), Bull, El Primo, and Mandy!

Extra notes about each sketch:

Maisie:

Her breath attack is a condensed foam material, similar to that of a fire extinguisher. Using a gas similar to a pressurized CO² (based on gas-based fire extinguishers!), she shoots it out at high speeds. These hits can potentially cause frostbite and even severe damage to the body if left unattended. She's quite powerful in this AU due to this ability 👀👀 being able to put out the fires and overpower another dragon's breath? Now THAT'S some queen moves right there! She can also simply spray out the foam substance at short range without that pressurized gas. This helps with more close range fire fighting work.

Her right wing and front leg were undeveloped, a disability she'd had since she hatched. However! With the help of mechanics, she uses these prosthetics to help her fly. Still gotta test out how to draw it to make sense, as well as sort out how it stays in place. I've been using inspiration from Toothless (HTTYD) and his tail that Hiccup made.

Pam:

Pam is a bulkier dragon, very much on the larger side of all of them. I'm at odds with myself to figure out whether ot not she'll have wings 🤔 so I had two copies there! Perhaps her wings may be a bit smaller if I do give her them.

Pam spits out molten magma that's stored up inside her as an attack. However, it can also be chunks of scrap metal that she stores up. Otherwise, it's just magma.

Though I didn't draw this, I want Pam to be very resilient to fire in general, as her species/family of dragon use their ability to spew this magma (technically Lava after ut leaves her body? I'll do more research on this...) in order to craft and shape metal. While other dragons need to spend some time to build up a fire hot enough, the Junker family line is able to do this much more easily. (Amber is a close second, though)

Her skin has the ability to crack and seep up lava out of it, potentially coating her body in this to give herself a temporary lava shield, something extremely hard to break through. (In the future, little Jessie may also be able to do this... however, Pam doesn't think she's ready at the moment and avoids the topic or any ideas of teaching her how.)

Colette:

Colette flies in a sort of funny way, twirling around and flapping her wings to maintain somewhat of a chaotic flight pattern. Think of a snake slithering through the sky, but with large wings and the grace of... a teenage dragon (not much, but it does work).

When she gets better at flying...pray and hope she isn't able to catch up to her favourite brawlers cause she isn't ever gonna let go of them 💀 It makes for a great attack, actually! Charging at enemies and coiling around them like a snake to prevent movement, like a big hug ❤️ she just loves everyone SO much 😍

Buster:

Finally kinda set on a design for this funky guy! He's a larger dragon (smaller than El Primo or Frank, but still definitely up there in size)

His wings never quite grew fully, so he wouldn't be able to fly 😔 however, that'll never stop him and his dreams of being a cool movie star 🧡🧡

Buster, at the heart of it, is an unstoppable force when he sets his mind to something. He'll charge in with the same ferocity as his favouite protagonists, rivalling the audacity and hard-headed nature of even Bull! All while doing so for his friends 💪 we love Buster in this AU frfr

Chester:

Chester always has theatrics when he flies. Flips, spins, and fun aerodynamic movements up in the sky! He's gotta compensate for his lack of speed compared to other wyverns after all, but he thinks he's pretty great 😎

Loved drawing this kinda unique pose tbh! That's what I loved with these drawings, I got to experiment without really thinking too much for em with how polished and clean that look. It was very fun! 🔥

Chuster ft. Gus❤️🧡:

We love some goofy gays here 🥹❤️🧡 I just wanted to let em have a little nuzzle + smooch! Dragons don't necessarily kiss, but little side boops like this are the equivalent of a cheek kiss.

Also, a little Gus on the side 🥹🥹 I love this sort of found family dynamic that have! Buster being the cool dad vibe/big bro to Gus, and then Buster being in a relationship with Chester so that he's also a cool dad too 😎 Gus loved these two guys from the very start, they're funny 🤭 never a boring day for these silly lads.

Leondy 💚💜:

My beloveds 🤲 I really do cherish the ship, as well as strong friendship Sandy and Leon have. (Btw in my HCs, Leon and Sandy are 13 & 14 respectively, just to clear that up!)

Sandy, I've mentioned a few times, is very inspired by Capybaras, so Leon finding one is just perfect 🤭 silly little deadpan face lads.

Bull:

BULLDOZERRRR- What a lad! Bull is inspired by- uh, Bulls! Great creatures, large bodies and thick necks to support those headstrong charges 🐂 I love making his posture all confident, strong steps to say, "Yeah. You TRY and stand up to me. I DARE you." Don't wanna mess with him on most days 🏃‍♀️💨💨

El Primo:

Still figuring out a full-body for El Primo, bit he's roughly the same size as Bull! (Maybe a bit bigger)

El Primo has got really small wings, similar to his El Dragón skin. Even his scales and horns are inspired by that mostly! Love when characters have preexisting dragon themed skins 🤭 makes it a lot easier to make ideas!

His "mask" is actually just body paint. He has similar paint on his body, really showing off the vibrant colours and persona he puts on for the crowds.

He WILL beat up his enemies into a pulp in matches. Thank goodness there's the gem powered regeneration and the respawn system in place 😭 I plan to give him a very strong body and tail, enough to support him when he needs to go on his hind legs and overpower his opponents. Buster is designed in a similar way as well!

Mandy:

Last but not least, the Queen of Candy herself. Not even the Dragon AU let's her escape fast food work 😔😔

Her super attack is purely a magical sugar-based rainbow blast, as shown in the sketch. Also, I'm now realizing that I forgot her red spots oml- No wonder she looks so empty 💀 uhh sorry about that, lads 😭 I'll redraw her one day to show off that glowing effect of her spots 🥹🥹

And that's all! Thank you for reading if you made it this far! Hopefully I can make more of these sketch dumps 🤭✨️ maybe take reqs from here too! We shall see. Take care y'all!

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