#arms behind his back. princeling.

[formulaonedirection]

Cutest entrance ever 

#lewis hamilton #squeeeeeeeeeeeash #squish #arms behind his back. princeling. #his lil shy face right as he comes out. death when. #my cutest gf of all time #nadia's things

[riddlesb1tch]

Never Alone

Rhysand x reader

summary: how you support Rhysand under the mountain

warnings: allusions to assault

a/n: I’ve had the worst writers block ever and because of that this isn’t the best thing I could’ve written but I figured write something at least to try and get out of it. hope you enjoy :)

———————————————————

You lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to conjure the beautiful Velaris night sky from remnants of memories you had from fifty years ago in the dull white paint of your room. You twiddled your thumbs where your hands rested on your stomach, counting the minutes until the door opened and your broken friend came in, seeking comfort and familiarity in your presence. That has been the routine for the past five decades. Every time Amarantha would use Rhys, he would seek you out afterwards, utterly disgusted with himself yet unable to do anything to prevent the abuse. 

Your heart clenched as you recalled the first time Rhys had sought you out after Amarantha was done with him. You’d never seen him look more haunted in his life, not even when he received the news of his mother and sister’s deaths, leaving you to imagine the absolute worst about what happened. He’d rejected your touch that night. Instead, he’d opted to sit on the bed with his knees pulled up to his chest and bawl his eyes out. All you’d been able to do was sit beside him, whispering soothing words of affirmation, distracting him to get the horrid memories out of his mind. Eventually, he’d fallen asleep but you stayed awake, ready to fight anyone who dared come in to disturb Rhysand. 

The memory seemed distant now. Rhysand had come a long way since then, allowing you to hold him while he cried. He had become a ghost of what he used to be, only a whisper of the flirty princeling you had met 300 years ago. Once you got out of here, you vowed to yourself to make that bitch pay for what she was doing to Rhys…and to you and every other soul unfortunate enough to be stuck here.

The door creaked suddenly and your eyes shot to the door to see a tall, hunched, no defeated, figure walk in. He padded his way to the bed, sitting down on the edge with hands folded in his lap. You sat up, opening your arms up to Rhys and he launched himself into your embrace. He buried his face in the crook of your neck and his arms went around your torso, holding on for dear life. He took in shaky breaths, exhaling softly when you held him close. His skin was warm, you noticed, likely from a bath he’d just taken. You knew he scrubbed his skin raw, trying to rid himself of her scent, her touch, in an attempt to rid himself of the whole experience. You stroked his arm gently, careful not to touch any bare skin. 

Over the years, you’d gotten Rhys to talk a little about what he went through nearly every night, and you both came up with some guidelines regarding what he was comfortable with. Touching the bare skin of his arms brought back traumatic memories so you were careful not to touch them, or let your nails anywhere near his skin. On several instances, Rhysand had come to your room with scratch marks on his biceps, and his back, as if done by an animal. So you were careful to not let your nails graze his skin. 

Rhysand clung to you, hands fisting your shirt behind your back as he pressed his face further into the crook of your neck. You knew he was crying, could feel the tears falling onto your skin, and all you could do was hold him tighter. Tears gathered in your eyes as you felt his pain and desperation in the way he held you. You gently stroked his hair before resting your hand on the back of his head. 

“You’re so strong, Rhys,” you whispered. 

He let out an anguished sound. “I don’t want to do this anymore,” he cried. 

If possible your heart broke even further. You pressed a kiss right below his ear, slightly rocking from side to side. 

“I know,” was all you could say. “I know, baby.” 

Rhysand sniffled, pulling back from the embrace to look at your face. Tears streamed down both your cheeks as you gave each other weak smiles of false hope. 

Seeing the look in his eyes, you scrambled for anything to say outside of this wretched place.

“Hey, you know, if my calculations are right,” you started in an attempt to distract him. “Today, 300 years ago is the first time we met.” 

That pulled a small but genuine smile from Rhysand, something your eyes had been begging to see for the past fifty years. 

“Really?” he asked and you nodded. “You remember our first meeting?” he asked. 

You chuckled, recalling the night your much younger and naive self went out for a walk along the Sidra. You sipped on your beverage while looking at the beautiful starry sky reflected on the surface of the river, contemplating dipping your hand into the water to see if you might touch a star. Suddenly, a bulky figure bumped into you, causing your drink to spill all over your clothes. 

“Yes, the idiot princeling who didn't know how to walk,” you flicked his nose playfully. 

“The arrogant princess who yelled at me,” he repeated back. 

“You deserved it really,” you shrugged. “You made me spill my hot cocoa. And it was good.” 

“No one but my father in my century of being alive dared to yell at me. And then came along you who so shamelessly called me a blind chicken.” Both of you laughed at the memory of the argument that followed which ended with Rhysand apologizing and the two talking over a cup of hot cocoa. 

As the laughter died down, the sad looks on both your faces returned. You leaned forward, resting your forehead on Rhys’ as your hand went to the back of his neck. He clutched your other hand tightly as if trying to tether himself to reality as he shakily exhaled. 

“We’ll get through this, Rhys,” you muttered. “You’ll get through it. And I’ll be here however you need me. Always,” you promised.

Rhys nodded. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I don’t know how I’d survive without you.”  

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead before lying down. Rhys laid down beside you, pulling you into his chest, one hand firmly around your waist, the other clutching your hand while the both of you desperately clung to the familiarity and sense of temporary safety the other provided. Tomorrow would be a new day when you’d repeat this cycle. Perhaps tomorrow would be better, with less pain for both of you or perhaps it would be worse. But one thing would always stay constant: you’d always be there for each other.

#rhysand fanfic #rhysand fluff #rhysand acotar #rhysand x (y/n) #rhysand x reader #rhysand x you

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hi! I love your writing style and I'd love to see your take on the villain's backstory as they tell the tale of their parent getting murdered by the king for having or using magic when it's banned. Have a lovely day :)

"Are you traumatised, little princeling?" the villain asked.

The teasing nickname felt more like a nightmare now; the memories awash with betrayal and gore.

They villain settled themselves down on the throne; all elegant menace and crackling power. The crown that formed on their head was a thing of magic, shimmering and uncanny, swallowing light. It matched the pitiless hollows of the villain's eyes.

The prince's jaw clenched, his breathing hard and ragged. Bile clawed up his throat. He pushed himself shakily up off the ground, onto his knees. He was surprised he got that far. His whole body trembled.

But everyone else...

"What are you waiting for?" he demanded. "You got what you wanted. Kill me too."

The villain smiled, faintly, and considered him. There wasn't so much as a speck of blood on them but the polished throne room floor and the prince's hands were slick with it.

"You didn't answer my question, little princeling."

The prince bared his teeth, but couldn't quite master diplomacy in that moment. It was all he could do not to scream, or cry. "Who wouldn't be? You - you-" He couldn't quite articulate the horror of it. He closed his eyes but the memories flashed through his mind all the same.

His body moving through the throne room on someone else's command. A puppet of a prince. A slaughterer.

The magic had felt so good while it ensnared him, even as it was saturated by the nauseous inability to stop, the terror, the merciless guilt.

"You're a monster," the prince rasped.

His hands curled into fists. In an instant he was on his feet after all, body broken, sword in hand as he charged towards the villain.

He got as far as getting the tip of his blade to the villain's throat, and then his body locked. He could not kill nor retreat, nor do much of anything at all. Frozen.

The villain blinked at him, lazily almost, a they tipped their head back like the sword was actually a threat. No. Not lazy. It affected laziness, but it was...

"I was traumatized," the villain said, in the same light and mocking tone of voice as before, "when your father killed mine."

Their eyes met.

The prince willed his hand to move, to cut, to kill.

He didn't. He couldn't.

"And that excuses all of this?" the prince managed. "I am not my father. I am not - I wasn't even alive - I would have -".

The villain could have waited, could have let an old man die with some dignity, could have taken a higher ground, and the world would have changed. The change didn't have to be taken in blood and pain.

The prince didn't even agree with the magic laws. Ever since he'd met the monster in front of him, he'd...

He'd heard bits of the story before. Not the king, but some random attackers in some village, and how the villain had escaped only because the attackers had thought them a child dead already. How the magic had saved them.

The prince had thought of phoenixes, then. He should have thought of the ashes.

The villain flicked a dismissive hand and the magic curling around the prince yanked his arms back behind his back, roughly, forcing him to let go of the blade. It hit the ground with a clatter.

The prince landed on his knees, a stifled cry of pain on his lips, tears stinging in his eyes. Not for the hurt of it, not for that small bit of control, but all the rest.

The villain settled a clean hand atop the prince's dishevelled head, like a cruel and gentle benediction.

"Of course," the villain said, as if the prince hadn't spoken, "he didn't do it personally. A man like your father never bloodied his own hands when he could use someone else's. It was his guards. He..." The villain wet his lips, "watched though. I think it made him strong, killing magic users. A man-god, clinging to his false power, when he'd never even tasted what real magic felt like. Real power."

The villain's gaze flicked almost idly around the room, around all the royal guard - the prince's friends and mentors and protectors - who the prince's puppet body had killed.

The prince swallowed. He wanted to look away, but he couldn't.

The magic, that taste of real magic, still swirled around him. Oppressive and heady and awful and enticing. Dangerous.

The villain's attention fixed on him again. They caressed the prince's cheek as the prince shuddered.

"So, you understand, that if this was personal, it was only personal in the way that it was personal to your father," the villain said softly. "You were born to this and it was always going to be your fate."

"Then kill me for what I was born for. Be just like he was!"

"I did think you were just like him when we first met." The villain's hand moved down further still, wrapping almost curiously around the prince's throat. "But you've proven quite interesting. Not enough to change anything, but..." the villain shrugged.

The prince flinched, recoiled. "I wish I'd been more like him. Then I would have killed you before you ever did this. Before you even got the chance!"

The villain laughed. The sound didn't reach those eyes. The prince had seen the sadness in them, the loss, and he'd thought...well, it all felt stupid what he'd thought, with all the devastation behind them, with that terrible crown twinkling abyssal night atop of the villain's head.

The prince had been told since the moment he was born that magic was dangerous, that magic users were too dangerous to live. He'd thought there was a middle ground. He'd thought that it couldn't be all of them.

Maybe it wasn't all of them. But maybe it only took one. Maybe that was what his father had known when he'd ordered the deaths of two palace gardeners and their five year old.

The hate tasted like rot and hellfire in his mouth, but it felt better than the grief. The howling pit of what he'd done. Of what the villain had made him do.

"I should have killed you." The tears came then; wracking, poisonous things that he didn't want the villain to see and enjoy, but which he couldn't quite stop. "I should have killed you before you killed all of them."

"You know, my little princeling." The villain pressed the prince's head against their lap; a gross caricature of comfort, and bowed their head down too to whisper. "I remember thinking exactly the same thing. Look how far we've both come."

#antagonist and protagonist #villains #magic #writing #creative writing #fic #ficlet #story #short story #villain #fantasy

[sky-kiss]

Raphael/Haarlep: Gift

A/N: Yeah, there's no real ending to this. I just wanted to write early days Raph/Haarlep trying to figure each other out a little. Also. The image is a lie, lol, cause this is a pre-glam Haarlep.

R/H: GIFT

He still recalls his sire’s words of introduction: 

Don’t you like your gift, boy?

Gift, said with a smile, hiding the underlying disdain and the most truthful sneer. Mephistopheles watches him closely, chin resting in his right palm, looking the very picture of benevolence to any onlooker. 

Gift, but it’s not a pet, tool, or toy standing across from him—no, his sire was never one for such half-measures. Raphael stares the incubus down, face impassive. They are beautiful, truth be told. Hair the color of burnished copper hangs nearly to the small of their back, skin sun-kissed, features lovely beyond the telling—they are every pleasant summer evening, every whispered dream by the seaside. The incubus is warmth and longing, humid hunger, made flesh. 

Raphael notices none of this—it’s only their eyes he cares about. They are the same hellfire gold as his own, lit with the same fury. For a moment, just the one, he thinks they might understand one another. 

The feeling passes. 

Mephistopheles speaks in a cold tone just above a whisper, only a few degrees above frostbite: “Will you not thank me, son of Hellfire?” 

“My thanks,” he says, and he hates that the response is immediate, that he is still too powerless to risk slighting the Archduke. Raphael flicks his attention to the viper he’s been gifted, “Does my prize have a name, Father?” 

The devil laughs. “Ah, but I hope you of all people shall appreciate this…I took the liberty of renaming it something more to your tastes: Haarlep.” 

Raphael’s head snaps up, lips curling back in a sneer. He opens his mouth to protest…

…and the incubus steps forward, winding their arms around his neck. The unnatural heat of their skin is a welcome balm compared to Mephistar’s unnatural chill. They lean close, near enough for their breath to gust across his lips. “You are a pretty thing, aren’t you? Yes. Oh, and you pout so sweetly.” They shut his mouth with a kiss. 

Raphael hears their voice in his head, a far cry from the empty-headed lilt they’ve spoken with: Don’t give him the satisfaction, little brat—be silent.

~~~~~~

“Is there where you’ve fled?”

“Reside,” Raphael corrects. “The House of Hope,” the cambion holds his arms out wide, gesturing to the banquet hall. It is not half as grand as his Father’s citadel on Mephistar but…suitable. He has carved out a place for himself—it will not sate his ambition for long, but for now, he allows himself to feel satiated. 

The incubus hums, dragging their fingers across the table. 

“You are not impressed?” 

Haarlep laughs, and there is a high and reedy quality to it that he does not like. “Asking me to lie to you already. And not even to the bedroom yet. Tsk, tsk, princeling—we are careening towards disappointment.” 

“You will address me with respect, slave.” 

“But of course, Master.” They croon, eyes blazing with naked defiance. Their wings flick, pinning behind them as the temperature in the banquet halls rises in response to Raphael’s temper. Haarlep bows their head in concession. By way of thanks, they say, “It is warmer than Mephistar.” 

“Too delicate for the cold?” 

They offer an olive branch. “This Home is…comfortable, princeling.”

~~~~~~

Raphael does not let the wretch share his bed. 

If it concerns them, they do not say. Haarlep roams the House, antagonizing the staff. They are never out of sight and just outside of arm's reach. Some evenings, he'll feel their fingers brush across his mind, testing the surface of his thoughts but never pushing. Whatever else the creature is, they are not stupid. 

They want his attention. 

Raphael sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and setting the contract aside. "Ask." 

He feels Haarlep's grin, even if he doesn't see it. The wretch lingers near the corner of his vision, rolling a coin across their knuckles, weaving it through their fingers. "Isn't it more fun like this?" 

"No. If you have a question, ask. Be direct." 

"Oh, but it's tedious. No play, no games…" 

"...no whimsy," Raphael finishes, leaning back in his seat. He knows the creature well enough to anticipate their next movement—they're up from their perch in one liquid movement, sliding into his lap the next. He catches their wrist before they can undo the top fastenings on his doublet. "Ah, ah, wandering hands to yourself, pet." 

Haarlep's lips curl up in a smirk, a note of respect creeping across their features. "You haven't asked why I'm here." 

"Why waste the breath? You are my Sire's spy." 

"Such accusations." 

"Do you deny it?" 

They scoff. "Of course not! No, no, I lie only when it suits me, dear. And I much prefer you know this truth." 

Raphael winds an arm around them, nails digging into their hip hard enough to draw blood. Haarlep doesn't wince. "You're here because he fears me." 

And Haarlep laughs, high and bright, and doesn't stop laughing when Raphael dumps them out of his lap. "Naughty and delusional, are we? No, half-blood, nothing so grand as that—the Cold Lord would distract you. And," they grin at him, cold, wicked, "Forget you." 

"I will not allow that."

Haarlep's eyes light with something like respect, "Good boy. Hold onto that drive. Perhaps one day you'll make something of yourself."

Raphael offers an olive branch—he extends a hand to the incubus. 

Haarlep takes it. 

#bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #haarlep #raphael x haarlep #bg3 fanfiction #my writing #this is nothing #i just wanted to goof around with them a little

[thelargefrye]

SWEET SORROW OF EVIL … series

PROLOGUE : DARK TÁLSYN | M.LIST

pairing : ateez x evil queen!f!reader

genre : mature, fantasy au, royalty au, angst, eventually poly relationship, dark

word count : 2k

warnings : language, murder (like a lot), blood / body gore

note : a collab series with the great @sanjoongie !! thank you so much for wanting to do this with me, it means a lot! let us know what you think!

network : @cultofdionysusnet

if you are not careful the dark tálsýn will take you from your home where you will never be seen again. she goes through the night stealing children who misbehave and eats them to stay powerful.

The eerie quiet of the woods was unnerving; not a bird chirping nor a squirrel angrily protesting the invaders. Mingi continued to guide his horse beside his father.

"Where are those damn scouts?" His father muttered under his breath, eyes alert, scanning the foliage.

"Father…" Mingi couldn't explain it but his gut clenched in worry. He knew his father would simply dismiss his feelings, since this was his first large-scale battle, but Mingi had to say something.

"Hush," Mingi's father cut him off. "I see something up ahead."

"Perhaps the scouts got ambitious," The King's guard grinned roguishly, turning around on his horse to speak to Mingi, "Eager for battle too, are you, Princeling?"

Mingi opened his mouth to reply but another guard held up his hand for caution. "Your Majesty, there's been a skirmish of sorts--" 

A guard ahead gagged and then another bolted off his horse to throw up in the bushes. The same guard that teased Mingi clucked his tongue in disappointment. "Green behind the ears still, I bet."

But when even the king paled at the scene before them in the opening, Mingi knew his gut had not been lying to him earlier. 

Something was terribly wrong with this entire situation, yet Mingi could not figure out why. Only that his gut was now telling him to run. 

“My gods, what happened here?” Another soldier had spoken up once they drew closer to the battle. 

Mingi began to recognize the colors on the bodies. Those weren't bodies from the opposition-- they were their own soldiers. And upon closer inspection, the deaths were gruesome. Mingi watched in shock as his horse stepped on an eyeball and--

A figure suddenly appeared in the middle of the opening in the forest. Mingi couldn't tell if it was male or female at first, their hood of their cloak hid their features, but they seemed to flash in and out of existence until they were suddenly in front of Mingi's father.

"Good tidings to the King of Soleil Eternel." A melodious voice said and Mingi's father stiffened. "How--?" 

"Sire!" A guard pulled his spear back to throw at the figure by his king but suddenly his face went slack, almost like the man was daydreaming.

The only two people that seemed to be conscious of what was going on was Mingi and the King. The guards all around them whimpered and twitched, as if they were trapped in a nightmare. 

"Did you really think I wouldn't notice a cockroach in my kitchen?" Mingi caught a glimpse of a pink, bow-shaped mouth pulled into a smirk. "I killed my whole family to rule, did I not? What makes you think you're safe?"

"Father…?" Mingi was frozen himself but it was purely out of his own sheer terror and unsureness.

The King stared at Mingi, and opened his mouth to address the hooded figure but was cut short due to the hooded figure's hand in his chest. A short jerk of their hand had it out of the king's chest but had acquired a new object. Mingi had a brief thought that he had never seen a heart outside of a human's chest before and then he screamed in injustice.

The hooded figure turned and Mingi had a momentary view of her face--because who else would have the terrifying power to be able to pull a heart from a grown man's chest than the new queen?--and then she was gone in a gentle sweep of red smoke.

Only the true horror began as his father's men slowly began to bear arms against each other. It was like they were puppets being pulled by some grand puppetmasters' strings, forced to kill each other without even realizing their purpose. Mingi had to watch in horror as the men whom he had trained with, grown up with, joked with, took spears to their bellies and swords removing heads. 

Mingi wasn’t sure why he wasn’t targeted but he took the advantage to run to his father’s body and catch it before it fell from his horse. His father rasped only two words before passing from this world…

Kill…

“...her.”

Hongjoong placed a hand on Mingi’s shoulder, gently pulling him from his reverie. “Right, Mingi?”

Yunho, Yeosang and Wooyoung stared at Mingi expectantly. Mingi had been lost in his memories when you had been brought up. He shook his head of the nightmare that haunted him for all of his days and stood a little straight. “I can identify her, it’s true.”

Wooyoung shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe she left a survivor.”

Yunho was stoic but his own warrior background gave voice to reason. “You don’t have a story to tell if you don’t have a survivor.”

Yeosang took a large gulp from his wine-filled chalice. “Vicious.”

"If you think that's vicious, wait until you hear what she did to her family," Mingi muttered under his breath.

Hongjoong raised an eyebrow to Yunho. "You want to tell it or should I?"

Yunho shook his head. "I know it like the back of my hand." 

Everyone settled into their chairs at the gathering of countries, passing the bottles of liquor and fine food amongst them, preparing for a tale they may or may not have heard, passed from mouth to ear, growing and evolving into a fairy tale told to children who misbehaved.

"It all started one evening, when the moon was high in the sky, blood-red and full…"

The king and his wife had been sitting in the throne room when his two oldest children had bursted through the doors. The princess was clutching her shoulder as if she was in pain and the prince was limping as they both ran into the room. 

The queen immediately on guard and worried about her children, stood up and rushed over to the prince and princess with the king following close behind his wife. 

“My children, what happened to you?” the queen was borderline hysterical as the longer she looked at her children, the more and more injuries that stood out to her. Blood ran all over them, staining both their skin and clothes. 

The king couldn’t help but feel his blood run cold as he took  in the state of his children as well. 

“I-It was– 

“It was Y/N! She did this to us!” the princess cut her brother off, she was just as hysteric as her mother, if not more. Her breathing was heavy and deep as if she was attempting to calm her nerves; however, it wasn’t working. 

Tears started streaming down the princess’s face as her mother brought her into her arms. Quiet sobs leaving the princess as the king turned to his son in order to question him about what happened.

“What happened?” the king asked, voice full of seriousness. 

The prince looked panicked as his eyes darted around and the king noted how beaty they were and the sweat that poured down his face. The prince licked his lips, blinking rapidly and the king was starting to lose his patience with his son. 

“It was Y/N, she– she attacked us, father. Completely unprompted! We think she’s gone mad or something,” the prince said and both the king and queen could tell just how short of breath he was. 

The king was about to say something, his mouth opening wide before the doors to the throne room were thrown open. The four members of the royal family turned their heads towards the sudden motion and watched as a guard stumbled in much like how the siblings did not too long ago. 

The guard is clearly more wounded than the prince and princess; however the largest difference between the guard and the siblings was the sword lodged through the guard's chest. He fell gasping to the floor, reaching out as if one of the royals would save him. But everyone was frozen in fear and shock at the sight and could only watch as the guard fell to the floor, lifeless. 

Their attention was soon drawn to the figure that soon appeared above the guard. Looming like some otherworldly figure that didn’t belong here in the world of the living. Didn’t belong in the throne room. 

“Y/N! What is the meaning of all of this?” the king questioned his youngest child as the queen and her children were forced to watch you remove the sword from the dead guard. The king could feel his anger rise the longer you went without answering him. “Speak now, child, or face the consequences!” he threatened; however, you could only laugh at your father, surprising the other three including himself. 

“Isn’t it obvious what I’m doing?” you asked, your laughing never seeming to cease as you drew closer to your family. 

“Stay away, you– you monster!” the king shouted as his wife and children seemingly cowarded before you. 

You let out another laugh before letting out a simple, “No.”

The doors to the throne room slammed shut; however, the screams layering overtop of each other echoed throughout the castle. Guards, now suddenly alert of the screams, came rushing as they shoved open the heavy wooden doors. The sight they were greeted made some of the guards gasp in horror, while others had to turn their heads in fear or to vomit at the sight. 

The throne room was covered in blood which was everywhere. On the walls, the windows, the thrones which usually sat the king and queen. In the middle of the room stood the youngest child of the now dead king. His body laying on the floor, head gone and blood seeping out of it. His wife was also laying in her own blood, eyes missing from her sockets as she was slumped over her son’s body who was equally as dismembered. However, the only body they couldn’t find was the eldest princess. Her body seemingly vanished, yet the guards in the room could piece whose blood was covering the walls and you. 

You stood over your father’s body, a frown painting your lips as you turned to look at the guards who were frozen in fear. 

“From now on, you serve me,” Yunho says with a straight face as if to mimic the face you had when murdering your entire family. Everyone else in the room was engulfed in fear at the story, except for Mingi who was still reliving his own nightmare of you murdering his father and men. 

“I-is that really true? Did she really kill them in cold blood? Her own family?” Wooyoung asked, still shocked about the story that Yunho just told. 

“She’s a fucking monster, cursed to turn into one and everything,” Hongjoong says with an almost irritated expression on his face at just the thought of the ruler of Illimité. 

Everyone in the room has heard about the curse that runs through the royal family that rules Illimité, a curse that gives the bearer not only dark magic to wield and control, but to also be able to turn into a beast. Many people in all their kingdoms have started tales about the cursed beings of Illimité, telling their children to behave or the “Dark Tálsýn” will get you and take you away and eat you. 

“Then what do we do about her? Can’t have her running around and killing every ruler that she comes in contact with,” Wooyoung asks jokingly; however, he realizes how bad his joke was when he looks to see Mingi’s grime face, devoid of emotions. 

“That’s why I brought you all here,” Mingi says, voice devoid of emotion as well and no one, not even Yunho could tell what he was feeling. “Because we can’t let her continue on like this, I want to form an alliance between our countries.”

“And do what? Take her down?” Yeosang asks after he takes another sip of his drink. 

“No,” Mingi says, fists clenched and eyes full of raw anger, “We kill her.”

#sweet sorrow of evil. #cultofdionysusnet #kdiarynet #poly ateez x reader #ateez x reader #ateez blurbs #ateez imagines #ateez fantasy au #ateez royal au #ateez angst

[newtonsheffield]

Okay, I can’t get this little snippet out of my head so this is for @plishprincess927 who I know is an Inheritance Cycle girlie from way back

The heat was sweltering in the tent and angry voices buzzed in Anthony’s ears but he drowned them all out. He could still feel the heat of the battle hours ago. He could feel the sweat soaked into his leather shirt under the armour and his ears rung with the clang of swords.

His arm had ached from the shock as he whirled through the field and men fell in front of him, the blood and sweat and grime had felt as though it were caked against his skin. A sword had clattered against his side and he’d pushed his sword through the soldier’s mail shirt with a feral snarl and it had all happened so quickly. He pulled his sword back and as he turned he realised the next soldier was upon him, too quickly. His heart started to pound in his chest as he took a deep breath, almost sure it would be his last when he felt an enormous beat of wind and an almighty roar as fire spread across his vision and the golden dragon’s scale glittered in the sunshine as it landed and soldier’s fell all around it.

“Anthony, I thought you were supposed to be guarding me, Princeling.”

His heart fluttered in his chest as the woman sat astride the dragon laughed, her dark curls tossed back and her golden sword seemed to glitter as it moved swiftly through the air. She leapt from the dragon driving soldiers back from Anthony in a wide circle, and he could see the terror in the men’s eyes as they saw her.

“I thought you looked a little bored in truth, Kate.” Anthony grunted, swallowing the panic in his chest, “Where’s your helm?’

She laughed again as her Dragon leapt forward and she caught his saddle, pulling herself up seemingly effortlessly. “I must have misplaced it! Don’t die, princeling.”

The dragon took to the sky, lighting the field with fire as it did, arrows bouncing off his own armour and Anthony bit back a curse as he forged forward.

She was sitting across from him now, her feet lazily on the table, her bracers and greaves still on but the rest of her armour abandoned as soon as she possibly could and Anthony could feel the hot breath of her dragon on his neck where his head was poking through the flap of the tent. The dragon he had sworn to protect when he was only an egg. Long before a farm girl from nowhere had found it. A trick of fate. A trick that had started every moment of turmoil Anthony had felt since.

“Anthony.” He snapped to attention, ignoring the smirk that turned Kate’s lips at the corner and turned slowly towards his mother’s voice. “What say you?”

He swallowed, “The way forward seems well set. We were glad to see your army on the horizon today.”

The murmur had rippled through the battle and he’d recognise the horns anywhere, The elves were here. Finally coming to fulfil the promise they’d made over a stolen egg and a treaty.

His mother’s eyes burned into him as the meeting broke and she turned slowly towards Kate who snatched a chicken off the table and winked as she tossed it towards Newrius, the dragon huffing happily as he caught it. Kate bowed her head, greeting his mother.

“Well met, Rider.” His mother had honoured her, by speaking first and everyone in the room knew it.

“Well met, Majesty. A Welcome sight.”

Newrius tugged on the back of Anthony’s shirt with a wheezy growl that sounded almost like a chuckle as Anthony stumbled and his spine prickled as his mother’s eyes burned into him again as the Dragon teased him.

Without a word Anthony ducked out of the tent, glad of the breeze fluttering through the camp and took off running, desperately hoping to clear his head. The wind whipped past him and the camp disappeared behind him and his lungs burned in his chest. He came to a stop on a grassy hill, trampled flat as the army had retreated and Anthony ran his hands through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut against the pounding in his chest.

This has to stop. This must stop now. You cannot feel this way about-

“You seem very fond of her.”

Anthony sighed at the sound of his mother’s voice, neutral as it always was since the death of his father. “Kate and I have become good friends, these last years. I pledged myself to ensure the survival of her dragon.” He leaned against the tree, “Surely you remember, Mother. You were so against my taking this position.”

His Mother sighed, “I became the queen of our people because you were not ready, Anthony. You were too young, you are still young amongst our kind but… You will take your place one day. I had already lost so much, I couldn’t… Well. You never did listen anyway.”

He could feel the weight of her expectations weighing down on him, just as he had then. When she had raged against his choice. “I believe in the cause we fight for. I have a duty to our people, to fight for that cause.”

“And is that all it is now? Duty?”

He should have been expecting the question. He had faced it with so much dread when what he had feared was stirring in Kate’s chest, in the smiles she tossed him across the fire as they travelled to his homeland together was laid at his feet with Kate’s hands gripping his tunic lightly.

His voice had shaken, even then. “Kate, please. You are young, you…”

“I will live as long as you will, Anthony.” Her lips had nearly been brushing his and his chest had ached to lean in and close the distance between them. “You know that as well as I.”

“You will… What you feel… you will not feel forever.”

“Do not do that, Anthony. Do not minimise what I feel for you. What I feel is real and I will love you, as long as I live.”

“This can never be.” He’d whispered it and felt the tears sting his eyes as he turned as walked away, ignoring the sob that broke the night and the growl that rumbled over his head as her dragon caught sight of him.

Anthony swallowed, tilting his chin to look his mother in the eyes. “It is a duty. We all have our duties.”

His mother nodded slowly before she sighed, “She has a destiny, Anthony.”

His stomach churned, “We all have a destiny, Mother.”

A wry smiled crossed her face, “Yes. That is true. But not every destiny involves the fate of every person in this land. I do not think I need to remind you how very disastrous it would be were she to be distracted from this task.”

“No, Mother.” Anthony said quickly, his heart pounding in his chest. “You do not. I’m sorry, I’m very tired and there is much to do for tomorrow.”

He bowed respectfully and strode past her, his boots crunching against the grass as he did. His head was still spinning as the sun set over the camp and the smell of campfires filled the air. He felt exhausted, tired in the very bones of him as he tugged at the laces of his leather bracers approaching his tent. He let them fall to the floor as he swept aside the flap of his tent, stepping inside.

“I don’t think your mother likes me very much.”

He relaxed at the sight of her, lounging in his bathtub, her dark hair damp with the water and she was so beautiful in the candlelight his chest ached. He crouched beside her, pressing his lips to hers gently, “No, she’s disappointed in me. I’m a distraction for you.”

Kate sighed, chasing his lips for a moment, “I would very much like it if you were distracting me. Don’t worry. No one saw me come in here.”

Anthony chuckled, leaning into her touch, “Very well then. I do still have to thank you for saving me today. And Newrius as well I suppose.”

“Oh I wouldn’t thank him,” Kate hummed, “He was very torn about it.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

#dragon rider au #kathony #anthony x kate #kate sharma #kate sheffield #anthony bridgerton

[bleachification]

trojan horse - dazai

+ dazai x reader (fantasy au)

+ this is ch. two of all that glitters is not gold (the prologue)

ch. one is here: dissonance

ch. three: in reverence

Golden armadas decorate the sea like jewels fastened upon a crystal hand, dotted plains of might and power—all at the behest of your nation’s adversary. The kingdom’s greatest foe… Prince Dazai Osamu. 

Princeling, as you used to call him. A nickname borne of affection and sullied by betrayal. 

Tonight, the royal fleet departs for its homeland with jewels, satins, and you aboard. In less than four hours, your vows will be cemented into your country’s history and the war shall halt—on paper, that is. The mere thought makes your head throb. 

Waving the useless deliberations away, you turn away from the window. A sweeping glance across the space before you elicits a tingle of discomfort that crawls up your spine and burrows its way into the back of your throat. Wooden chests and velvet cases filled with your most prized material possessions line the north-facing wall. The furniture, stripped of any and all embellishments, look like skeletons. Your room seems infinitely more spacious now that everything is packed up. Barren of comfort, you swallow at the sight. 

It is almost as if you are a stranger in your own home. 

“Is everything ready?” You ask. 

“Yes, your highness. As you requested, I have packed up all of the items written on your list,” the man behind you replies.

“Including…?”

“Yes,” he hesitates. “Although, if I may speak, your highness…”  

You turn towards the large window, gaze drifting across the sparkling cityscape wrought with peachy hues and sharp outlines. “You always do Chuuya. Go on, say what you intend.”

Chuuya runs a hand through his hair, huffing in irritation. “This is dangerous… foolish. Even for you.”

You crack a small smile at his bluntness. It is a comfort. “Did you just call me a fool?”

You’re teasing him. Just like you always have. Just like you did back when titles did not matter and your loved ones were not handpicked in favour of court politics. Back when things were much, much simpler.

Chuuya only scoffs. “You had to hear it. It may as well be from your childhood friend.”

You level your gaze at the ginger-haired man, the face you have known since birth only stares back at you, unfazed. “Ah, so you’re speaking as my friend, then? Not my personal aide?”

“And if I am?” He asks. 

“Then I appreciate your concern. But I will be fine. I have gone through much worse than that of a wedding, remember?” You raise a brow when he rolls his eyes so dramatically you fear they’ll fall out of that thick skull of his. When he doesn’t speak, you continue on, “I can handle this. I can handle him.”

“He is not the person we used to know! He never was,” Chuuya protests. 

A shooting star falls across the sky, leaving a glowing path in its wake. You make a silent wish and pray the heavens hear you. “I understand.”

“Do you really?” Skepticism coats his every word. 

You turn your head slightly, just enough so you can see him from the corner of your eye. Chuuya crosses his arms, impatiently tapping his fingers against his bicep as he expresses his disdain.

“Yes.”

Your answer only irritates him further. “If that was the case, you wouldn’t be packing belladonna in your bags and strapping daggers to your legs! If you insist on going down this path, Y/N, you could–”

“Die?” 

You are well aware of the consequences of your plans, death included. But if the cost of revenge is your life, you will gladly pay that price. 

Chuuya realizes this and his irritation fades to something softer. Something sadder—more fearful. “Yes. Precisely that. You could die.”

You step down from your windowside and make your way to Chuuya's side. Luggage litters the marble floor, causing a misstep or two. In what feels like a mere moment, the dying sunset casts the already lustrous room in a gorgeous light. Warm orange tones pour into the room like a golden tide, flooding out any and all dullness. 

You nudge his shoulder with your own, hoping to lighten the atmosphere. Chuuya looks like he’s about to go and strangle Dazai himself just to keep you from coming to harm. “You don’t believe I can do this? That I can hurt him? Bring him to his knees?”

Chuuya shuffles so that he is facing you, still scowling, still with arms crossed. “You know it’s not about that. He… Dazai is out of his mind. Who knows what he’ll do to you if he uncovers your true intentions.”

Chuuya says his name with such scorn you almost feel bad for Dazai. Almost.

“Do you really think that I’m unaware of how… cruel he is?” You pause, a distant memory floats around the back of your mind; a painful past you can never outrun, “I experienced that inhumanity firsthand, Chuuya… watched as it destroyed my family, and nearly my empire as well. I couldn’t burn the image out of my mind if I tried.” 

Your best friend falls silent. You do for a second as well, resolve hardening in the process.

“For that, he will pay. By no one’s hand but my own,” you vow. 

A hand that you have trained for years, all for the sole purpose of hurting him. To be able to bear the heavy weight of a blade—to lift it and apply just enough pressure that you are able to draw fear from his eyes and a line of red across his throat. The thought of having that much power over Dazai… it is addicting. Exhilarating. Terrifying. 

Chuuya stares at you in both irritation and concern, his nerves firing at every end as he paces the length of the room, muttering as he does so. “So damned stubborn… Cannot believe… Just like when…”

“Are you done cursing under your breath? I do still require your help with preparing for the ceremony,” you comment, rolling your eyes as his grumbles get louder. 

Chuuya practically stomps his way back to you, huffing in defiance. “If there ever was a record, let it be shown that I am vehemently against this moronic plan.”

You make a noise of agreement. “Duly noted. If that is all, will  you come help me with my cosmetics now?”

You stroll over to the cushioned seat tucked under the shimmering vanity hidden away in the corner of your room. A round mirror pebbled with milky pearls and brushed with diamond powder sits atop a glossy desk surface. The ornate piece was gifted by your father for your birthday many years before. For a second, you are glad for the marriage. For as long as it lasts, you will never have to see that sickening thing again—never to be done up on the whims of the Emperor. 

You sit down. The chair is soft—too soft—and you sink further into the cushion than desired. 

Chuuya grabs a few elaborate accessories, powders, and a shockingly large pile of fabric from the drawers and closet next to you. He drops them unceremoniously onto your empty bed and shifts through the mess before he finds what he is searching for; a small pot of safflower lotion. 

“Yeah, yeah. I still don’t understand the reasoning behind all this dress-up,” he mutters. He hands you the lotion and busies himself with the mountain of clothing on the bed. 

“It is something I hope you never come to understand, my dear friend,” you sigh. 

After all, there is no worth in a canvas without paint, much less a doll bare of face. 

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 . 　  

Four days and four nights. That is how long you have been at sea, a prisoner of your father’s accord on the enemy prince’s ship—No Longer Human. You find the name a bit morose for your liking, but there’s no accounting for taste, you suppose. The others following aren’t much better. You spared the various liners a glance before boarding the capital ship. From memory, there was one called Twin Dark, and another painted with swirling red letters of: The Crystal Rose. You’d much prefer being on the latter—roses are your favourite flower. They have been ever since childhood. 

You wonder… 

No. You shake the inkling of a thought out of your head. The chance that that man would remember something so obscure about someone he so despises… laughable. 

But you don’t laugh. You don’t do much at all. You stare out of the floor-to-ceiling glass that is more akin to a wall than a window. Vast ocean greets you, sparkling like a veil of crushed gems under the setting sun, sitting snug below an infinite sky. 

Someone knocks on your door—three quick raps. You make a noise of confirmation and the door quietly opens to reveal a stranger. The man who walks into your room is tall and lean, with thin wired frames resting on the sharp bridge of his nose. His hair, long and so blonde it almost glows, falls across his shoulders and ends at the small of his back. There is a sternness to his expression—humourless and collected, but not cold. In fact, there isn’t anything antagonistic about him. 

Under normal circumstances, you would give him a friendly smile, say hello, maybe even compliment him on his clothes. Today is not a normal circumstance. He wears garments stitched of a gorgeous blue silk, reminiscent of the midnight sky. Layers of fabric pool off of him, white and grey, all covered by a traditional robe. The robe is lined with silver edges and tied together at his front with a matching sash. The patterns on the outerwear swirl together, falling lotus petals that almost come to life with his movements. From the looks of it, he must be a high-ranking official in Dazai’s court. 

The blonde man pushes his glasses up with his left hand and adjusts the box he holds in his right. It doesn’t exactly look impressive, a rectangular package wrapped in silver paper. It’s the size of a large book. The only thing out of the ordinary is the black lettering on the surface; a phrase written in glittering cursive. Your name. 

The blond man bows. “I greet Your Highness, heir to the Northern Empire. I am Doppo Kunikida, Chief Minister and personal aide to His Majesty.”

“His Majesty?” You raise a brow. Last you heard, which was only three days ago at your marriage ceremony, Dazai was only a prince.

“Yes,” Kunikida says. 

You wait. The Chief Minister stays silent, something  you are sure he does quite often. 

“I am in no mood for games,” you state plainly. 

Kunikida straightens and nods his head almost imperceptibly at your thinly-veiled irritation.  “Apologies. His Majesty, Dazai Osamu, has succeeded the throne as of two nights ago. The formal coronation is set for three days' time, the evening after our arrival.”

You blink. Dazai is… king? The little boy who used to pick out flowers and break down sobbing when a thorn pricked him is now the leader of an entire kingdom? The leader of the enemy kingdom, you remind yourself. As the king, his power has risen considerably, along with the stakes of your position and plans of revenge. 

Guess you really can't call him Princeling anymore. 

You swallow down the uneasiness in your throat and turn your attention to the silver box, hoping Kunikida doesn’t pick up on your anxiety. 

“What is it?”

Kunikida hands it to you before taking a step back. “A gift.”

“Let me guess, a gift from His Majesty?” 

If Kunikida notices the sarcasm in your tone (and it is quite difficult to not notice it), he doesn’t show it nor comment on it. “A wedding present, he said. A small offering of peace.”

You want to shove the new King of Yokohama’s peace offering down his throat until he takes the shape of a rectangle. Sadly, Dazai isn’t here for you to do so, and it would be quite the scandal; ‘Royal marriage ends after three days due to newly appointed King Dazai’s death by cardboard box.’’

You thank Kunikida for the gift and he quietly leaves with another bow. It might be your imagination, but the stony-faced Chief Minister seems relieved to be dismissed. You hadn’t let your annoyance show that clearly, had you? 

The box isn’t very heavy. You set it on the large four-poster bed in the center of the room. 

You haven’t seen Dazai since the wedding—if you can even call such a stifling event that. He disappeared right after and left you in the care of the soldiers and attendants of Yokohama Kingdom. They are the ones who brought you aboard the ship and showed you to your cabin. Though “cabin” isn’t quite the accurate description for your quarters. Aside from the huge bed laden with piles of silk and cotton and the seemingly never-ending glass wall to your left, the room has everything and anything you can possibly think of. 

The marbled tiles under your feet are cold to the touch, and the deep blue reminds you of the midnight sea. Rows and rows of clothing, shoes, and accessories line the walk-in closet in the back, right next to the silver-gilded fireplace that lights up the room with warmth.  Across from it sits a large loveseat tufted with silk and made of black velvet.

And yet… despite the glamour and luxury of your accommodations, the only thing that catches your attention right now is the gift. You pick it up and stare at the shining letters. You should throw it into the fireplace. Let it burn to ashes. Better yet, you should chuck it off the side of the ship and pray a shark eats it. 

Your fingers twitch. 

About all of three seconds pass before you rip open the outer wrapping of the package and uncover it. There is a folded note sitting atop a gently folded bundle of satin—a stunning article of clothing. The garment is noticeably traditional wear, and very formal. It shimmers with every little touch, every little breath. It is coloured a deep red, a shade not unlike blood, that is beyond flattering against your complexion. 

The sight of it makes you want to hurl. First it was your father, now it's Dazai who thinks he has the right to dress you up… to show you off like some sort of war prize. 

You won’t let him have the satisfaction. You toss the clothing aside and reach for the envelope that came with it. You open up the folded paper and immediately recognize Dazai’s handwriting. It hasn't changed much since he was young. Slightly more polished, and definitely less chicken-scratchy. 

Y/N,

I have drafted letters like this one every single night for the past ten years, only to throw them all into the fireplace out of frustration. Or perhaps it was out of cowardice and shame. Even now, I am nervous—no—terrified at the notion of you reading this. Even now, you have such a startling effect on me. 

You must hate me. I understand. Anyone would feel the same in your shoes. Although…regrettably, I cannot say the same for myself. But that is an indication of my own weak constitution more than anything else. 

No matter. You hate me and that is that. But we are married now and I am set to change things. Our countries require our amicability, despite any personal feelings you may harbour. I will not force you to care for me—but I will try, for as long as I am able. 

Please join me for dinner service tonight. In three hours time; southern side of the upper deck. 

We have much to discuss. 

P.S. After much deliberation and many sleepless hours, I decided that red would look best on you. Though I fear even a paper sack would leave me quite speechless as long as you were the one wearing it. 

Your (beloved) husband,

Dazai Osamu

Your first thought is to punch a wall. Your second thought is to punch a certain king right in his smug face. After so many years, he is still pretending to be on your side. Still pretending that there is anything left between you that isn’t the shattered remnants of a tragic history best left in the past. 

The fireplace flares as it swallows up the last of the note and garment, leaving nothing behind but charcoal dust and a soft warmth that rolls over the room. You sigh, both satisfied and exhausted; completely drained from the emotional turmoil of the past week.

The sun is long gone underneath the waves, dark midnight now settled in its place. The moon, in all its glory, lights up a path across the sea for the ship to follow and casts a silver sheen over your room. There is not a speck of land in sight. It is as if the world had been swallowed by the sea, with only the stars as companions. The sight makes you sleepy… and just a little bit homesick, which surprises you. 

Kunikida shows up a short time later, ready to bring you to Dazai. You insist on taking your dinner in your quarters, much to Kunikida’s protests, and lock the door behind the maid that brings it. Just in case. Though the lock didn’t do much to block the incessant knocking on your door that sounds just as you are about to fall asleep. 

Peeved and a little puzzled, you stumble out of bed in a daze, making your way to the door that is currently taking a beating from the other side. 

Is it Kunikida? The maid from earlier? Who the hell could need you at this ungodly hour?

The answer comes in the form of Dazai Osamu. His hair is tangled and sticking in all directions, like he was tossing and turning. His clothes are nothing but a cream cotton robe covering a pair of loose matching bottoms, wrinkled and creased. He is still as beautiful as ever. 

You slam the door in his face. Or at least, you try to, but Dazai anticipates it and sticks a foot out to block it. He winces, ever slightly, but gives no other indication of discomfort. 

You are positively irked. 

Before you are able to cuss him out and physically push him away, he speaks up.

“Apologies. I couldn’t sleep. It seems that even in the dreamland, you manage to plague my every thought,” he says with a slight frown. 

Confusion and irritation swirl in your chest as you take in… everything. Is he out of his damn mind? More than usual? 

You narrow your eyes at him, not buying this innocent act of his for even a moment. “What, pray tell, am I supposed to do with that information? You act as if this problem is one I can, or even want, to help you solve. Though I assure you that is not the case. Unless there is an emergency—a real one—leave me be, Your Majesty. You and I have nothing to speak of.”

His frown deepens. “Who…You don’t need to call me that.”

Your left eye twitches. “What?”

Dazai swallows, an air of nervous energy pours out from him, along with annoyance. That just makes you even more mad—if anyone should be annoyed, it should be you. It also puts you on edge—Dazai is rarely nervous. 

“There is no reason for you to call me by a title. My name—it is yours to use freely,” he says.

“I disagree. Now, Your Majesty, why are you here?” You reject him flatly. 

Dazai is clearly unsatisfied with your decision but decides to drop it. For now. He clears his throat. “You didn’t come to dinner.”

“I didn’t want to.”

If your reply hurts him, he doesn’t show it. He just nods like he expected that answer from you. “Right. Is it because of the clothes? Kunikida said that it would be a nice gesture, a way to show goodwill, and I thought it would look—”

“No, not because of the clothes,” you interject. Is he messing with you right now?

“So it was because of me.”

You cock your head. Your mind is on overdrive trying to work out his motive for being here—for bringing up all these strange, irrelevant things. “If you knew that, why come here at all?”

He smiles sadly. “Wishful thinking on my part. I thought…” He hesitates, clearly unsure if he should voice his feelings out loud. He tries anyway, “Well, let’s just say it is a treacherous thing to be stuck in a past that no longer exists. I was feeling… nostalgic. It will not happen again.”

A small lump forms in your throat at the finality in his tone. You swallow it down and make a noise of agreement. “A wise decision.” 

You expect him to leave, but Dazai lingers at the doorway. This entire time he has been nothing more than a foot away from you, yet the distance between you continues to grow into an insurmountable gap. You wonder how you ever loved him; how you ever looked at him and felt something other than heartache and hostility. Those memories feel like a mere figment of your imagination nowadays. Perhaps they are.

After a moment of silence, he says: “It was never my intention to hurt you, you must believe me on that.”

Your knuckles turn white from how hard you clench the doorknob. It takes all your willpower and patience not to put a blade through his head, right then and there. 

Not his intention to hurt you? Believe him? Such pretty words undeserving of being spoken by such an ugly liar. 

“It's a shame I am not the naive little kid that you used to know. Because if I was…” You lean into him, until your mouth is right next to his ear. 

Dazai stills. 

“I might actually believe you,” you hiss. 

You pull back and ignore his stricken expression. 

Dazai shakes the shock away and nods. He takes a step back, understanding his cue to leave. He turns and takes a few steps before stopping and looking back at you.

“Good night, Y/N,” he softly whispers.

You shut the door without another word. 

#Dazai Osamu #dazai x reader #dazai #dazai angst #dazai fanfic #dazai fic #kunikida #dazai x y/n #bsd #bsd x reader #bsd fic #bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs fic #chuuya nakahara #bsd chuuya #chuuya

[shadowhandss60]

I saw your plea for fanfic ideas and immediately hit the ask button.

I beg of you please give us manorian and the thirteen but like happy. This fandom deprives me of happy thirteen content.

Tried for happy and cute while trying to remain true to the characters 🙂

(I liked this, now I wanna do more happy moments with Manorian and the Thirteen)

***

"Neat trick." Asterin said, lying back on her bedroll. She had an arm tucked behind her head as she stared at Dorian.

He was sitting upright, one arm propped on his bent knee while the other swirled in the air, passing various elements around the fire he had created before them.

"I think it would be more interesting were he to set something or someone on fire," Vesta called from the opposite side, staring a little too long at the king before her.

"Yeah, you.” Sorrel grumbled from her place to the left of Asterin, facedown on her bedroll.

A few of the thirteen laughed at that and Vesta flashed a vulgar gesture towards Sorrel, which the third could not see but returned all the same.

Dorian chuckled under his breath, eyes unfocused as he searched for something, or someone, beyond the circle.

Asterin had noted Manon and Dorian's inclination to save space beside one another when it came time for rest early on in their journey, though she never mentioned it to either of them.

He sent a flame careening around the group and Asterin tracked the glow in the rest of the thirteen’s eyes as they followed it.

The king’s gaze shifted back to the forest before his sapphire eyes landed on the fire again.

"How does it work?" Briar, of all people, called out beside Vesta.

She had been sitting crossed-legged with her arms folded, scowling at the king for darkness knew how long. It was a good sign, considering she usually outright glared at outsiders.

"I just will it." Dorian shrugged. "Sounds foolish when I say it, but it's really my only explanation. I tend to think of some of the elements as seasons at times; it helps me focus when I'm training."

The ball of ice circling the group began to grow until it burst into a whisp of fine flakes that scattered in the breeze, though none hit them.

Imogen raised her hand from her bedroll to try and caress them but said nothing, turning her head to face the king from her place beside Sorrel.

"Ice and snow for winter."

"Your personal favorite," Vesta noted gesturing with the blade she had begun sharpening.

Dorian shrugged. "Yes, you could say that."

A few others sat up, not awoken as none had been sleeping, all waiting for their Wingleader to return, but rather intrigued.

Asterin then heard a sound like a waterfall and looked up to see the dome surrounding the camp where water seemed to trickle down around them, reaching far enough to cover their group of wyverns.

"Water for spring." Dorian continued.

The rain began to stream heavier down the sides of the dome, then as he brought his hand down to stop the downpour, the fire before them roared.

The shield surrounding the camp seemed to thicken as if to keep the blazing light hidden from any watchful eyes.

"Fire for summer."

Asterin looked to him then, his eyes blazing gold when reflected in the firelight.

There was a pause as the flames ceased and Dorian must have been reaching out with his magic as both he, Asterin, and the rest of the thirteen turned their heads to the sound of approaching footsteps.

Manon Blackbeak made her way through the foliage, her hair near luminous in the moon and firelight. Asterin could hear Dorian swallow.

She fought the urge to roll her eyes as Manon's gaze met the king next to her.

"And for Autumn, princeling?" Her cousin's voice rang out as she made her way forward, her mask of annoyance unwavering, though Asterin knew her enough to note the curiosity brimming under the surface.

Asterin turned to Dorian and he kept his eyes focused on Manon, cocking his head slightly, and the wind around them began to roar.

The fire and those on their bedrolls remained untouched, but Asterin could hear the whistle in her ears as if she were soaring through the skies on the back of Narene.

She glanced back to Manon as she strode towards the fire and saw her cousin's hair a whipping mass around her face as she scowled.

Thea snorted and Vesta chuckled under her breath, catching a glare from Manon that had her quieting.

"Wind." The king smirked, resting back on his hands as he surveyed Manon, now standing above him in the space he had unconsciously left for her.

There was a smile playing on his lips that nearly made Asterin grin in return.

She was wary of him when they first met; they all were, but his respect for Manon was evident in how he spoke to her.

Though he challenged her, it was never in a way that made her second's hackles rise. If anything, she found it a grand source of entertainment.

Faline and Fallon had questioned as to why Manon had not killed him yet.

With the way he sometimes spoke so freely with her, it was a wonder he wasn't asking for it, but the demon-twins likely didn't mean it as a genuine question because they could all see the spark of lust and intrigue in Manon's gaze whenever he had a smartass remark or outright questioned her.

Like she wasn't a battle-forged weapon he should fear.

They had all seen him with the collar, seen the monsters that lay underneath the skin, wearing beautiful faces as masks to hide a thirst for violence that even repulsed them.

They knew that he had likely seen nightmares far worse than what surrounded him in this circle, so Asterin found it fitting that he would be the one to pique the Wing Leader's interest.

None had ever spoken to her like that, not even Asterin until recently; she couldn't help but smile at the softness Manon tried to hide when she saw the king.

It reminded her of that cabin, of her hunter, of a life she may not lead but one that Manon may yet experience.

Manon reached down and shoved Dorian's shoulder harder than was necessary as she tugged her bedroll from her shoulder.

"Very cute." She deadpanned.

Kaya grinned from across the fire beside Vesta, and Manon's head shot up as if she could sense it.

"Something funny?"

The witch's grin broadened, but she shook her head, the king speaking in her sted.

"Sarcasm suits you," Dorian said beside her. "Even with that delivery."

Manon stiffened, but she could see her cousin fighting a smile from her place beside her.

"Oh?" She continued to spread the stiff roll of leather. "And what delivery may that be, princeling."

It seemed as though everyone was sitting up now; they had all grown accustomed to the teasing and flirting amongst the two monarchs.

Asterin sometimes grew tired of it as Manon's cousin, but she couldn't deny that the sight of Manon frustrated, in more ways than one, wasn't entertaining.

"Like you'd like to kill me in my sleep tonight."

A few snickers rang around the fire, "Keep talking and I just might."

The king shrugged and laid down again, one arm bent behind his head. Manon sat, still facing the fire.

"I'd like to see you try."

Manon faced him then and though Asterin couldn't see her, she could feel the violence dripping from her posture, mixed with-

"Gross." Sorrel called out beside her.

Manon snapped her head towards her third. “What?" She hissed.

"Oh, you know what…I can't wait until you two can get some privacy and leave us out of this." Thea called.

A few of the other witches began chuckling, and even Asterin couldn't hide her snort of laughter.

Manon's eyes seemed to blaze as she stared down her cousin.

Asterin didn't try to hide her smile. "Don't blame me. You're the one that brought us this particular brand of entertainment."

There were full-on laughs around the fire now and it looked as though Manon was five seconds away from shoving someone into the flames.

"Entertainment, am I?" Dorian purred from the other side of Manon and she sucked in a sharp hiss of breath.

"Yes, and a glorified guard. That is all."

Dorian's eyes glimmered with mischief, but all he said was, "Hmmm." As he again faced the sky, twirled a small vortex of ice, and sent it around the fire.

Suddenly, a small thud from the opposite side of where their Wyverns were, brought them all bolt upright; Manon and the rest of the thirteen stood while Dorian crouched, hands flexed and looking as though they were dipped in ice.

They settled when they saw Abraxos staring from the other side of the shield Dorian had out, looking as annoyed as she had ever seen.

“You can leave but I have to open it to get back in.” Dorian grinned sheepishly towards the wyvern, as if he could understand such things. "Sorry."

Manon scoffed and walked towards her mount.

"You're insufferable." She called out as she strode towards him but her hand stroked his face affectionately, scratching at a scar behind his left eye that had him nearly kicking like a dog.

The beast opened his maw, and a heap of wet, saliva-covered, yellow flowers rolled off his tongue like some kind of offering and Manon jumped to the side.

"What-"

She was cut off by Thea and Kaya bursting into laughter, followed by Vesta and even the green-eyed demon twins.

If looks could kill, they would have all fallen prey to the glare thrown at them by her cousin.

Still, as Dorian, Sorrel, and Asterin joined in the fray of laughter, Manon's glare subsided into the slightest grin that had the rest of the witches grinning or continuing in their laughter.

A short grunt sounded from Abraxos and Manon turned to face him again as he closed his eyes and seemed to be nuzzled by an invisible force, his chin lifting as if Manon were still scratching at him though her hands were at her side.

They all turned to Dorian, where he now lay on his bedroll, eyes wholly trained on Manon as if 13 deadly witches did not surround him.

He merely smiled and she continued to stare back long enough that Vesta cleared her throat

"Darkness save us. Could you too not grope eachother in front of us."

Manon snarled at that, "No one was groping, watch it."

Vesta snorted and laid back again, settling with her feet stretching towards the fire, raising her hand and flicking it in the air.

"I don't know what he does with those weird ghost hands of his."

"No, but you'd like too-" Imogen sing-songed but was cut off with a grunt, likely from an elbow to the ribs.

Manon scowled, giving Abraxos one last pat on his snout before he sauntered back to nuzzle Asterin's mount, nudging a soaked flower towards her.

She smiles at the gesture and turned back to her cousin, noting the slight flush on her cheeks but deciding not to comment.

"Whoever isn't sleeping in the next 10 minutes is training the princeling tomorrow."

Edda spoke at that, "So, say I'm awake in eleven, I get to spar with him?"

Dorian groaned and rolled towards Manon, speaking in a loud whisper. “Gods help me, make it 30 minutes, please. She’ll be out in 20, and you won’t like me missing teeth.”

Asterin could hear the smile in Manon's voice but her tone was final for all.

"Sleep."

****

Asterin woke at dawn; the sounds around them were muted due to the shield Dorian could somehow keep as he slept though he had his magic reaching beyond, should someone approach.

She sat up on her bedroll, careful not to rouse the others.

Stretching, she smiled to herself as she saw Manon and the king facing each other, though Manon rarely slept on her side, their fingers nearly brushing as they seemed to reach towards each other like reflections in a mirror.

#this made me emo #but also happy #the thirteen #manon crochan #manon blackbeak #dorian havilliard #throne of glass #manorian #asterin blackbeak #sorrel blackbeak #vesta blackbeak #the thirteen throne of glass #kingdom of ash #manon x dorian #sjm universe #sarah j maas #throne of glas #throne of glass fanfiction #manorian fanfiction #manorian fic #fanfiction #a03 #empire of storms

[madame-fear]

What are your headcanons for Lucerys and reader’s first kiss?

— a/n : ok so it might be longer than i (you, perhaps) expected, but i just love this sweet boy so so much that i wanted to write headcanons for before, during, and after the first kiss 'cause he deserves ittt ♡ also, written on a rush and not proofread!

• Your first kiss would've been in one of those occasions where Lucerys invites you to spend time with him after he's finished with all his princeling duties and other responsabilities.

• Most of the times, he invited you to spend time with him by going to his chambers, and vice versa. Or perhaps, strolling through the vast gardens of Kings Landing, admiring the graciously blooming flowers and chat while sitting under a tree. But this time, it was different; Luke invited you to go on a ride on Arrax.

• And this idea was pridefully given to him by his mother Rhaenyra, as she, along with Jace, are the ones that always encourage him to talk to you, or invite you to do something special together; and this occasion was no exception.

• Luke went to his mother asking for advice on how to finally confess to you and where to do it, and she suggested on going dragonriding together as she knew you were fascinated by dragons. And she was absolutely right, as always.

• The moment he offered to take you on a ride on Arrax after finishing with his royal duties, your eyes had a shining glint of excitement and you, quite obviously, said yes in a hearbeat. Seeing your joy and enthusiasm would lighten his heart, making it intensely flutter with love.

• Being the gentleman he is, after he is left with no pending responsabilities, he would gently knock on your chambers with a rose on his hands, already dressed on his dragonriding clothes, and ready to take you to Arrax's dragonpit. Needless to say, his hands were trembling the entire time he arrived to your door, knocked, and awaited for you! <3

• It's also needless to say you, of course, threw yourself on him with your arms wide open, embracing him tightly and gushing at how sweetly gentle he is. Plus, he earned a shy peck on his cheek — and you can imagine how flustered he'd become the second he feels your soft lips on his cheek.

• Once Lucerys takes you to Arrax's dragonpit, he'll softly introduce you to him. Though, the pearly-coloured dragon will immediatly like you and lick your hand since he feels his rider's loving emotions towards you, making your stiffness at his grand presence wash away.

• The first one on mounting the dragon's back would be him, and then, he'd help you get behind of him and properly position yourself. The warm feeling of your arms tightly wrapped around him plus your own body being pressed against his as if your life depended on him makes him internally die of love, and nervousness at the same time.

• He'd take you to fly above the Red Keep, and would take you up to the clouds, allowing you to feel the sense of liberty that riding a dragon gives you, as the cool breeze of the wind gently hits your faces. At first you'd be a bit frightened, but eventually you'll relax leisurely, and enjoy the ride. Which, feeling you loosen up slightly makes a broad smile appear on his face.

• Since he's planning on how to confess to you the entire ride, he'd take you to a flower field, as to make the moment more special, and unique for you. Of course, the entirety of the time he'd feel his heart thumping rapidly against his chest with nerves.

• Once you land on the flower field, of course, you'd be marvelled at such beauty of a sight and would thank him by tightly hugging him and gushing happily. The rest of the day would be spent exploring the field, taking some flowers, and before leaving, you'd lay on Arrax's body side's together, and would simply chat and rant about whatever thing crosses your mind.

• While you ramble about something that he's not really paying attention to, it would be mainly because his eyes are fixed on how graciously pretty you are. Your eyes, your gestures, your facial expressions, your lips... everything about you is perfect. And of course, you'd catch him mindlessly staring at you.

“Luke, are you listening to me? Are you alright?” you'd inquire curiously, tilting your head to your sides as you lift an eyebrow.

• And right there, he'd return his attention back to reality, after losing himself on his own waves of thoughts about how he'd confess to you. Before responding, he'd stay silent for a few seconds, as he takes deep breaths, trying to control his increasing anxiety.

“I... yes, I am. It's just that... y-you look very pretty. You always do. And-” he'd pause briefly before continuing, as his voice quivered with nerves. “I-I don't recall having meet someone as graciously astonishing, loving, and caring as you are. You are the ray of sun that lightens my every bad day with a simple smile and hug. I... I love you! more than friends! I-I always did.” seeing the surprised expression on your face, he gulped, and continued. “B-But if you don't feel the same, I understa-”

• And you cut him off right there, by firmly cupping his cheeks with your hands, and pressing your lips against his. And oh, how sweetly you tasted... you tasted even more delicate and sweet than he had imagined on his own daydreaming.

• At first, it would've taken him some seconds to return the kissing, as he would've frozen right there, with widen hazel eyes and an overwhelming crimson fluster on his cheeks. But slowly and surely, he'd give into the warm sensation of your lips. It felt just right, like two missing pieces of a puzzles that finally fit together.

• One of his delicate hands would gently caress your cheek with his thumb, and the other one would be shyly placed on your waist. On the other hand, you are still passionately kissing him while cupping his cheeks lovingly, and almost in a needy way.

• Once you finally pulled apart due to lack of air, you were nearly panting; but a broad toothy grin appeared on both your lips, as you awkwardly chuckled, and you noticed each other's intense scarlet glint smearing your cheeks. Of course, your hands would remain holding each other, and your faces inches away — feeling your own breathing hitting delicately against your skins.

“S-So... does that mean you, uh... you feel the same as I do?” he awkwardly asked, slightly flinching at his own question. playfully rolling your eyes with a grin on your lips, you placed a quick, loving peck on his lips. “Well, why would I have kissed you if I didn't, silly? Of course I do.”

• His heart is exploding and being flooded with overwhelming rapturous emotions with every heartbeat. As you snuggle to his side and reassure him how much you always loved and adored him, while you also place your head on his chest, a goofy ear-to-ear smile would be seen the entire time plastered on his face.

• Both of you would then stay a while in the flower field like that, lovingly cuddling each other, and feeling each other's comforting warmth. Some satisfied sighs would escape his lips as he wraps his arms around you, and enjoys the moment he so desired for a long time, while his heart still rapidly pounds.

• Your lips were better than he imagined on his own fantasies and dreams, so expect him to keep kissing you on your lips more often.

♡ taglist : ♡ 

@jjamieberry @anemicroyalcore @countsmoon @tickle-euphoria @beeebo234 @manuholland6

#lucerys velaryon x reader #first kiss headcanons #lucerys velaryon headcanons #lucerys velaryon imagine #lucerys targaryen x reader #lucerys strong x reader #prince lucerys x reader #hotd fanfic #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #hotd imagine #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x you #house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon headcanons #house of the dragon x reader

[literary-illuminati]

Book Review 46 – The Spear Cuts Through Water by Simon Jimenez

Okay the month of August was essentially a write-off for...a lot of things, but non-web serial reading among them! Now trying to claw my way out of the pit and back on the horse. So, some high concept genre fic full of queer people and war crimes, just what the doctor ordered.

The Spear Cuts Through Water is the fantasy epic and love story of a pair of warriors – one a generally despised one-armed checkpoint guard, the other a positively reviled princeling – as they escort the moon goddess in her attempt to escape the prison her sons had trapped her within as they tyranize and empire that spans a continent. As told through a dream/vision of the Inverted Theater, where shades throughout time are called while they sleep to witness a performance put on by the favoured child of moon and sea. Intercut with the same tale as told through out POV’s grandmother, along with vignettes of his life as the son of a failing cloth merchant centuries in the future as the world goes through its equivalent of WW1. All this metaness and layering is either the book’s strongest point or it will make your eyes roll back into your skull so, you know, make an informed choice here.

Being entirely honest I don’t remember exactly how this book ended up on my radar – I believe I was first pointed towards after I expressed some dissatisfaction with this year’s Hugo nominees as something that would have been a more deserving inclusion on the short list. Certainly I’d never heard Jimenez’s name before picking it up. Entirely happy I did, anyway – whoever first rec’d it yes, this does deserve a Hugo nod way more than some of the other nominations.

The plot itself is quite well done, but absent any of the stylistic flourish wouldn’t really have been anything that memorable. The layered framing devices – and the way that they intrude on the narrative in a hundred different ways, switching from depicting the action to saying how it was staged and presented or how the narrator heard the tale told – are really just fantastically well done, enough that even when it got all meta and self-referential I was still enjoying it more than enough to just go with it.

Not that our heroes aren’t fun in their own right. They’re both at times profoundly unlikable, and other times utter idiots, and always totally and completely incapable of intelligibly expressing their feelings. It’s great, love them. Even if on occasion I also wanted to throw rocks at them. The main supporting cast – or at least Defect the tortoise and the moon/empress herself – are even better, really.

Though as far as characterization goes its the extras where the book really shines. It has a trick I really, really like where little snippets of the internal monologue or history of some fellow traveller on the road or sentry being gutter from behind are interspersed into the action in italics like this. Diegetically this would be the chorus in the theatrical performance, but regardless it does a shocking amount to make the world feel like it’s full of actual people and not just mannequins forming a backdrop for the characters who matter.

The book fits into the honourable tradition of modern SFF with cool-eyed and unsentimental portrayals of feudalism/imperialism, war crimes and general oppression (including in this case very plot-relevant and character-informing ableism) but only a vague and attenuated sort of 21st century homophobia, if that. Like all modern queer genrefic it’s also at least kind of in conversation with the looming shadow of Burying Your Gays, with a bait and switch tragic heroic sacrifice that seemed very conscious and pointed.

The framing devices lend themselves well to the book being written in a kind of mythic register, which I very much enjoyed. The epilogue felt like an intrusion of history on mythology, and I do mean that as a compliment, full of messiness and ambiguity and short on heroes and golden ages or utopias. Overall very much enjoyed the book, perfect reading for being stuck in a waiting room for a passport renewal.

#the spear cuts through water #simon jimenez #sff #map fantasy #book review

[spyridonya]

i will be an enabler. “ may i have this dance? “ for sophus and raphael could be fun maybe? 👀

oh my god i have an enabler than enabled me to write over 1500 words for the first time in months, thank you romeo! ❤️ first time trying to write in 2nd person, which normally isn't my thing, but we'll just blame the game's narrator.

sacred romantic raph being an ass moments meme

The uncanny stillness of the eternal gloom seeps into flesh and bones, even under the shelter of lacy moonlight. The sensation of coiling vastness would disquiet any soul, yet you find yourself reminded of the antipeak hours of your home when the wane of the luminescence leaves all to lantern light. This is not an unknown concept to the singular tadpole that remains coiled just behind your eye; you are both creatures of the planes on the most molecular level. The lapping sounds of water are still alien to your ears despite its gentleness, it's the strumming of Alfira's lute from far away that puts you at ease, the lazy notes falling like snowflakes upon your nerves, and the bard none the wiser.

The sound of teleportation makes your tadpole jump, though years of training that keeps you from the startle from rolling down your body, and keeping you still as a stone as the notes continue to waver in the air, the commotion too far for Alfira's attention. But that moment of panic is brief, you recognize the sound of this particular user.

It's not that uncommon of a skill, most arcane weavers can attest the sounds of a teleportation spell are based from it's point of origin. You wouldn't know the difference between the sounds of the Elemental Plane of Water from the Heavens, but you know the sounds of the Lower Planes. You won't ever forget the horrific timbre that aches like a soul shredded between rusty gears. 

You knew it long before the cambion set eyes upon you and yours upon him.

You don't give him the satisfaction of turning to him, presenting the solid wall of your back to him, a move that would have your comrades in the Cage mutter as if you had gone addled in the brain-box. An action that would make your current comrades mutter as if you had gone mad. 

The cambion’s steps are slow and purposeful against the ancient wood, making Raphael sound heavier than a man his size should be.

It's an old rage that makes your hand move, and your arms follow as the glaive swings. The weight feels sluggish in your hands, though the powerful muscles of your arms and the twist of your torso carry the motion until the blade just stops at the cambion's throat. Above the blade, Raphael grins, his teeth white against the copper of his skin.

You hate acknowledging how fetching that smile is, as if he were not your elder by millennia in truth and decades by appearance. That coyness is so strange and you find the pulse in your throat is throbbing as if you're the one with blade point against skin.

"Such unfathomable treatment of a guest, my dear boy. One would think you're displeased to see me."

"Whatever made you believe that, princeling?" You grit out; you know he's a cambion but not his sire. But cambions do not become this powerful without some false pride of their mastris on their tongue. You have your notions, but don't speak them.

"Ah, Sophus, you wound me- or have attempted at the least." Raphael chuckles lightly, his hand gently pushing the pole of the glaive from him in a slow arch, and you allow him to do so. Those heavy footsteps creak against the planks of the old dock once more, “You seem most eager to create of me an adversary.” Your gaze is hard as it narrows down upon the human form of the cambion, despite how you lower your weapon.

Raphael stops at his comfortable distance, a sentiment not entirely shared by you as your muscles tense. The cambion does not bring a rhyme to the curl of his lips nor show the flash of his teeth, he merely studies you with that coy gaze of his as darkness shrouds his amber eyes. “What are you here for?” You ask, knowing his old enemy is dead and in the Hells. Suddenly, you remember the child and your hand tightens on your weapon, “Not the girl, not Mol.”

“For all your sharp teeth, little mouse, you forget yourself and your mind. You know as well as me that such investment in a child would never mature so rapidly.” He lifts his arms in a shrug, the motion muscle under the doublet that he wears is noticeable, “Let her grow, let her learn. Isn’t it far safer for her to know the dealings of the law than the grind of the Abyss?” A striking motion of his hand, and his amber gaze meets your steel. “No, no. Do not think that of me. Rather, I came to offer something else.”

You mutely realize that your back is to the water while the cambion’s to the Last LIght Inn. And yet Alfira’s music still floats about you, defying the stillness of the gloom and the tension of your body. Yet, all Raphael does is smile, offering his hand. His fingers look refined, straight, the tendons perfect and nothing like a man approaching his 50th turn of the spire, much less his possible 2500th.  “May I have this dance?”

There’s no humor in the high cheek bones nor his knowing smile, only a curious tilt of his brows. And he holds this pose for a moment, and you think you will out wait him when he realizes what he’s begun. Your mind flickers to Wyll and the rejection on his face as you turn your head from his dance. You rejected a good man, a good person. 

Your arms lift over your head, to return the glaive to it’s strap on your back and carefully you take Raphael’s hand. 

"I dare not ask if you are aware of any Calimshite dance,” Raphael responds and to his credit, he does not leer at the small triumph he’s won, “Such a question would be an insult to us both. However, a Havana based box step may be unfamiliar in name, but perhaps not in motion?"

The cambion's hand is warm in yours, his hand steady on your hip, yours upon his, and blood hammers in your ears as you follow his first step all the while your mind screams to stop.

In no time at all, you are led into a dance as Alfira continues to play to her unknown audience of two. Raphael is right, you may not know the name, but you know the motions and the damnable cambion knows each step - practiced until perfect. 

“In terms of asking a question that would insult either one of us, what are you getting at, Raphael?” You ask quietly, not sure what the tieflings above you in the inn would think of such dance or the intimacy of a cambions warmth not quite against your body. You try not to think of it as well, your mouth straight, your eyes narrow - even if old shames creep into your mind - a moment of wondering if the cambion truly likes what he sees. 

Or what he can harvest from you. 

“A planer-touched greeting to his fellow kin, even if we’re not entirely neighbors.” He replies with that charming grin as he leads you from the length of the dock that stretches over the water and closer to to the shallows that lead up into the Inn. “What is after this grand, heroic gesture of yours? Do you perhaps have a faction in the Cage that would approve of such?” The cambion’s grin stretches, seeing the line on your face, the lowering of your eyes. “I could help you get home… if you wish to go home.”

That is when you stop, that is when you pull away, your heavy steps creaking under you, not trusting the way your body reacts to the question and the way you breathe through your nose. 

Raphael does not look insulted, not ashamed, not even smug with that little curve of his smile. Rather he stands straight and tall, though he barely reaches your chin, and regards you in a way that makes you feel small despite your being far taller and larger. 

You find you want to wipe this expression of his face, hold him down and-

“I do not take silence as a no, little mouse,” The irony of that nickname isn’t lost, “Nor a yes… but an aasimar hiding as a half elf can only keep the ruse for so long, if only to himself. This is not your home, Sophus Firesbane. This place is so alien to your senses and to the powers that call themselves gods offend your sense of fairness.” The cambion takes a step back, then another, and this time you don’t follow, “Perhaps even more than you are offended by me.” And his tone becomes rumbly smoke, “Though I don’t believe you’re as offended by me as you wish you were.”

You don’t strike this time, though your arm aches to move. Once more you glare, “My oath is far more important than your promises.” From all that you’ve learned about fiends, you know how prized a paladin soul truly is to fiendkin. Including cambions with powerful sires never spoken.. 

“That oath of yours,” Raphael shakes his head, the dark mahogany of his hair almost tumbling from its perfect coif. “You’ve a long way in the darkness ahead, little mouse. Perhaps this will be a conversation for another time, if you survive.”  There is a scent of brandy, cherries, and sulfur that sours the sweetness - and the sound of souls being torn by rusty iron gears. “I hope that you do.” 

Once more you find yourself almost alone in the darkness, save for your silent and comfortable tadpole.

#answered ask #baneschosen #bg3 spoilers #raphael bg3 #raphael x tav #character: sophus #character: raphael

[thavampress]

A Court of Flame

Aemond x OC!Targaryen

Chapter Warnings: NSFW, slight m masturbation, oral (m receiving), slight praise

Masterlist

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Chapter Four

~Aemond~

Aemond was awake early the morning after the feast. He rose with the sun as he did normally, but he found he couldn’t sit still. Usually, he’d read by the fire until the rest of the castle roused, but he couldn’t seem to focus on the words on the page.

Finally, he snapped the book shut in defeat, opting instead to make his way toward Saesha’s chambers. Fitting, as she seemed to be the only thought in his head since last night. It was earlier than the last time he’d retrieved her, so he didn’t expect her to be awake. He made sure to stroll rather than march as he usually did.

Saesha marched everywhere she went, always walking with purpose. He’d watched lords of the castle dodge out her way, the menace.

When Aemond turned the corner to Saesha’s room at the end of the corridor, he noticed the door was open. A brief spike of panic shot through him, and his restraint for a leisurely pace evaporated. He was in the doorway in seconds, only to find Saesha sitting in her favorite red velvet chair like it was a throne, legs crossed. Her ring-adorned fingers—always wearing rings—tapped the arm rest.

She’d been waiting for him.

“Princess,” he used the name as a taunt now, “I didn’t expect you to be awake yet.”

“And yet you came to my chambers anyway,” she answered.

“Well, I suppose you’ve got me there,” Aemond smiled. “I couldn’t seem to occupy myself in my chambers so I figured I would stop by on the off chance you happened to be ready early.”

He allowed himself a glance over her. She was dressed for the yard as she had been before: leather trousers, corseted vest over her padded shirt—all black. Her thick white hair was braided back in one braid that went from the top of her head to her lower back.

“And here I am, princeling.”

They paused, staring at each other.

“Shall we go then?” Aemond asked, breaking the silence. “We could get an hour or two in before the yard begins in stir in preparation for today’s tourney.”

Saesha pushed herself from her seat, stalking over to Aemond with clasped hands. They were toe, noses nearly brushing. She leaned up, reaching for his lips. Aemond clenched his jaw, angling away from her slightly.

He heard her make a quiet sound between a growl and a whine before feeling the slightest sharpness against his lower back. He dropped his chin to see her grinning wickedly up at him.

“Have you pulled a knife on me again?” Aemond shook his head, a smirk playing at his lips. “No, you are no princess. You’re a dragonling.”

Something shifted in Saesha’s eyes then, the lilac had darkened to a brilliant violet. “Kiss me, Aemond.”

She rarely called him by his name, and Aemond fought a shiver from the way she used it. How could he deny her? He cupped her face in one hand and ran the other around her back to pull her close.

Gods, her lips, Aemond thought.

She even kissed with purpose. Their mouths moved together easily, and when her tongue ran along his bottom lip, Aemond felt powerless to stop himself from consuming her.

Saesha breathed a soft moan into his mouth and Aemond ripped away immediately. He looked down at her, lips swollen and cheeks flushed.

“If I plan to keep my resolve,” he panted, “you cannot make that sound for the next twenty-four hours.”

Saesha beamed with a broad smile. “We shall fight instead.”

She pulled herself out of his arms, sheathing the dagger she had pinned behind his back at her hip. “You promised no more hidden daggers,” Aemond protested as she pulled him by the hand.

“Perhaps I lied, princeling,” Saesha sneered.

Aemond yanked her toward him by the hand just before they made it out her door. She spun, and he caught her with a firm but gentle hand around her throat. He had her up against the closed side of the door in an instant. Her chest heaved nervously, but her eyes were burning with that familiar fire.

He brought his face close to hers, his hand still curled around her neck. “No more lies, dragonling. Not to me, not ever.”

Saesha’s pupils were blown as a grin slowly crept across her face. “I swear it,” she said, barely above a whisper.

He pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “Then you have the same vow from me.”

He meant it, and he could see she did too. As Aemond looked down at her, gazing back at him with a certain willingness, he vowed to himself to never take her for granted. Saesha had every right to be spiteful and cold toward him, and yet she accepted him and her fate of marrying him with grace. Though, she seemed to find a certain retribution in subtly terrorizing the members of the court.

Aemond let his hand fall from her throat, remaining close to her. “Well dragonling, we are losing our head start.”

Saesha snuck in a quick kiss before ducking away from him and slipping out the cracked chamber door.

+

As Aemond had predicted, the yard was empty when they made it there. The sun had just begun to beam over the castle walls, spilling a lovely golden light over them. Aemond moved to pick up two training swords, turning back to see Saesha standing with her hands leisurely behind her back, admiring the morning. The golden light made her white hair glow, and Aemond felt suddenly like he was in the presence of a goddess.

Though he’d never admit it to her, for fear of her ego being blown.

Aemond swallowed the smile on his lips and tossed a sword to her. She caught it with an impressive grace.

“Tell me,” Aemond said as they began to circle one another, “just how often did you train with your father?”

Saesha hummed, amused, as she adjusted her grip on her sparring sword. “Every morning since I was old enough to lift a sword, though I haven’t had the chance since the Dance broke out.”

Saesha’s father, Daemon Targaryen, had been another casualty at Aemond’s family’s hands. Aemond’s younger brother, Daeron, had been sent to meet Daemon at Harenhaal, where they both met an untimely demise. It was supposed to have been Aemond, but he was called to defend the coastline along the city.

Aemond never knew just how grateful he’d be for the replacement, no matter how much he grieved his little brother.

Saesha stepped forward then, engaging him with a few swats of her sword. Aemond countered, testing her. She defended well enough, but he had only just begun.

They danced around the yard, Aemond tapping and Saesha whacking, laughing and throwing insults. After an hour of sparring—with breaks in which Aemond would teach her little tricks—Ser Criston’s call pulled their attention from each other.

Aemond craned his neck to the top of the stairs, his mother standing rigidly beside her knight. He knew Alicent wouldn’t necessarily be happy with this unsupervised get together of theirs, regardless of their soon approaching marriage. Saesha offered a polite bow of her head, dipping her knees slightly in acknowledgment for the Queen. Alicent offered a tight-lipped smile, beckoning Aemond with her eyes.

“Well princess,” Aemond sighed, catching his sparring sword by its dull blade, “it appears our peace has finally been broken.”

Saesha nodded. “Your mother did not seem pleased.”

Aemond cracked a joyless smile, “She hides it well, no?”

Saesha approached him, tossing a glance over her shoulder be sure Alicent had taken her leave. “I do not blame her. I stand for everything she despises. My family took her children from her. Now she must surrender the best of those remaining to her to me, a reflection of my mother.”

“Ah, Saesha,” Aemond’s smile was real now, “for once your wise words are wrong.”

Saesha peered up at him confused.

“This was no political plot hatched my my grandfather. Otto disdained the idea of my marriage to you, for all the reasons you just said,” Saesha’s lilac eyes searched his face. “It was all my mother’s idea. She was the one who convinced Otto of our betrothal…and me.”

“I don’t understand,” Saesha began, “If not just for politics, why?”

Aemond paused. “She felt the least she could do, after everything, was give sanctuary a girl left all alone.”

Saesha flinched, her eyes suddenly glassy. She look at Aemond hard for a moment, her face betraying nothing but slight shock.

“And is that why you agreed to marry me, princeling? To help a stray kitten?”

“I agreed to marry you because my mother told me it would benefit our family,” Aemond answered. “And because a year ago, before the Dance, you were the only one above the pettiness enough to spare me of the whispered jokes and sideways glances. You were nothing like the rest of them, Saesha, even if I couldn’t tell why then.”

“And can you now?” She whispered.

“I believe I’m starting to.”

~Saesha~

Saesha took her leave of Aemond, deciding to get breakfast while he attended to his mother. She had half a mind to barge down into the kitchens herself to see what she could scrounge up, but instead opted to return to her chambers and have breakfast brought to her. She had her maids run her a scalding hot bath—the only way Saesha took them.

She dismissed the maids to go and fetch her food, freeing herself from her sparring clothes and sinking into the hot water, humming with delight. The bath had been scented with eucalyptus, which made Saesha melt further into the tub.

A light knock sounded at the door, and Saesha shouted for them to enter assuming it was the maids with her breakfast. Instead, Aemond strode into the room, the door falling shut behind him before he realized what was in front of him.

Saesha startled up, covering her chest with her crossed arms and bringing her knees up. Aemond was frozen in the middle of her room, his remaining eye gazing at her.

“Aemond Targaryen,” Saesha breathed, “what on earth do think you’re doing?”

Aemond couldn’t help the smirk that cracked his features. “I did knock, dragonling. You invited me in.”

“I had assumed you were my maids with breakfast,” she huffed, pulling her knees closer to her chest.

“Well,” Aemond drawled, taking a step forward to sink into the chair beside him, “perhaps you shouldn’t assume who’s at your door when you’re in such a…state.”

He cocked his head, observing her from where he sat. Saesha was sure he could only see her head from the high rim of the tub now that he seated, so she let her legs go, turning a little to face him.

“My the state your mother would be if she saw you now,” Saesha tsked.

“My mother is not here,” he answered in such a tone that Saesha couldn’t help but shiver. It did not go unnoticed. She watched Aemond’s violet eye darken a shade, and his jaw tick with anticipation.

“My maids will return any moment,” Saesha could only whisper.

Aemond hummed, and the sound made her body flush. She tried desperately to tell herself it was the heat of the water. “I will take my leave then, princess.”

He rose from the chair, folding his hands behind his back before striding over to her. Saesha scrambled to crumple her arms up again, but Aemond was on her too fast. He grabbed her wrists tightly, but still gentle enough that he did not hurt her. She stared hard into his eye, but he was busy wandering over what he could glimpse of her body.

He passed one of her wrists to his other hand, easily holding both in his grip. He moved his freed hand to gingerly grasp her jaw, lifting her mouth to his. Saesha leaned up to meet him, suddenly not caring as much about her exposed chest. He kissed her passionately and deliberately, as if he’d studied the subject. Knowing Aemond, he very well might have.

Saesha reached her hands to wrap around his neck, but Aemond pulled away just as he had time and time again. She groaned in frustration, and Aemond grinned at her as he stood again to full height.

“Remember, princess,” he cupped her chin again, running his thumb briefly over her bottom lip, “we must keep our decency. It’s only one more night.”

She threw him a scowl, “Oh please, you keep your resolve all you want. Good luck at the tourney today, princeling.”

Saesha hadn’t missed the tightness of Aemond’s pants, and it would seem he hadn’t either. She could’ve sworn she saw a blush dust his cheeks as he gave her a much stiffer bow than usual before taking his leave.

~Aemond~

Aemond hated to admit just how worked up his accidental intrusion on Saesha had made him. He paced his chambers, unable to ready himself for the afternoon’s tourney. With a defeated groan, Aemond threw himself back on his bed, contemplating up at the canopy.

He desperately needed relief. Especially if he were to preform today.

Begrudgingly, he freed himself from his pants, giving his length a few testing strokes. Deciding that any release is better than none, Aemond made quick work if it. After he’d finished, he washed and dressed in his under clothes before summoning the squires to bring his armor.

+

The joust was the first event of the tourney, as was customary. Aemond mounted a black horse, settling into the saddle before a squire handed him his lance. He was to represent the King today, as Aegon would be far too busy drinking and laughing to participate.

A booming voice began to sound inside the arena. Aemond’s horse nickered, pawing at the ground. Aemond hushed the beast, stroking a hand along its neck.

“…And representing his majesty King Aegon Targaryen, comes Prince Aemond Targaryen!”

Aemond took his queue, giving his horse a small kick and galloping out onto the lists. Everyone gave him a cheer as he did a lap. In Aemond’s opinion, tourneys were a waste of time and money, but oh, how the masses seemed to eat it up.

After his lap, he brought his mount to a stop in front of the royal box, where his brother sat in a high, throne-like chair. To his right sat their mother, and to his left sat Saesha. Her long silver hair curled down her shoulders, the front of it braided into an elaborate knot at the back of her head. She wore a deep purple gown embroidered with twin black dragons on either breast.

Aemond nearly fell off his horse. Purple is her color, he thought, It belongs to her.

Aemond gave a polite bow of his head to the three of them. Otto sat behind them all, like the overlord he was.

“Princess,” he called up, suppressing a smirk at the title, “may I have the honor of bearing your favor today?” The crowd clapped in approval at the new Targaryen couple.

Saesha stood, revealing her gown in its entirety. It hugged her waist exquisitely, as everything seemed to, but Aemond decided then that this was certainly his favorite. She came to the stone railing, looking down to him with a smile. Aemond couldn’t help but return it genuinely.

He raised his lance, resting the end of it on the railing in front of her. She slipped a small wreath of dark purple flowers that matched her dress over his lance. “I wish you the best of luck today, my prince,” she replied politely. “Please see that you end the day safe.”

That last bit was not part of the customary response, and it warmed Aemond to think she cared for his safety. He gave Saesha a last long look before spurring his mount back to the lists.

+

Aemond either hit or unseated every knight he faced in the joust. All but Meryn Tyrell, who landed a harsh blow to Aemond’s shoulder twice, and was ultimately named the champion of the joust.

Next was ground combat, which Aemond was not soon to be bested at. He easily batted away every lord and knight who faced him, no matter the weapon they chose. Aemond was named champion of this event and all others.

At the end of the tourney, Aegon announced he’d be gifting Meryn Tyrell his choice from the Keep’s stables for being the only one to best his brother. Aemond clenched his jaw at the announcement, but smiled amiably anyway.

I don’t give a shit about tourneys, he reminded himself.

It was easier to remember that fact when he saw Saesha again, this time down by the lists waiting for him. Aemond excused himself from the lords congratulating him on his performance, making his way through the crowds to get to her.

She grinned at him. “Well well, princeling, I believe I must offer you congratulations.”

Aemond scoffed, rolling his eye, “Hardly. Most the participants are old men tired from war or green boys who’ve never smelled the battlefield.”

“Then consider my congratulations revoked,” she quipped.

He smiled down at her, her sharp lilac eyes on him. “You look quite beautiful today, dragonling,” Aemond said softly. “I do think that is my favorite gown of yours.”

She blushed despite herself. “You looked quite strapping yourself out there today, princeling.”

Gods, he wanted to kiss her, but there were too many lingering eyes here. Saesha’s eyes seemed to be screaming for the same thing.

“Would you visit me this evening?” She said, barely above a whisper. Aemond stilled, clenching his jaw.

“In your chambers, dragonling?”

Saesha failed to stifle a shiver, and Aemond felt his resolve reduce to a thread. Her face was close to his now, and he could have sworn she was standing on her toes under her skirt.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Aemond asked, swallowing hard.

Saesha shook her head, that wicked grin appearing on her face. “Will you come anyway?”

Aemond shook his head, laughing through his nose. “You will be the death of me, princess.”

Saesha’s eyes still held her question. Aemond hummed, clicking his tongue, “I shall think on it.”

He chuckled at her scoff as he turned from her, making his way for the tents.

~Saesha~

Saesha crossed her arms, watching Aemond stride away from her. For a moment, she had the impulse to follow him to his tent and make the decision hers.

I shall think on it.

He was teasing her. It was infuriating, and yet it made her core warm.

Saesha was inexperienced, despite her intentions. She had no interest in protecting her maidenhood—if anything she was bitter at the concept—but no one worth the effort ever seemed to present themself. Even if it wasn’t about purity, Saesha respected herself enough to wait for someone she at least desired.

She’d heard servants and ladies alike speak of some happenings in the marriage bed, but being Daemon Targaryen’s daughter, Saesha was never clueless. Much to her mother’s disdain, Daemon never really censored himself around Saesha or her siblings.

Saesha knew ways to rile Aemond, but couldn’t ignore the pull of nervousness in her gut. After all, knowing of and acting on were two enormously different things.

So, instead of chasing after her betrothed, Saesha turned to the main ring of large tents enclosed around hundreds of long tables. The sun was setting, the sky turning a deep red before settling in a deep purple that almost matched Saesha’s dress. Fire pits and torches made the circle glow bright, matching the boisterous laughing and chattering from all the lords and ladies in the city for the royal wedding.

Saesha would’ve preferred to return to her chambers now, but since this entire event was in hers and Aemond’s honor, she was obligated to attend. She walked down the long center row between tables, giving polite bows and smiles to those who cheered her and toasted to her. Finally, she made it to the head table, where Aegon sat with Alicent and Otto flanking either side. A few members of the counsel sat to Otto’s right, leaving the seats next to Alicent for Saesha and Aemond. The table was raised on a wooden platform, so Saesha held her skirts carefully as she made her way up the steps to sit beside Alicent.

The Queen Mother smiled warmly, patting Saesha’s hand as she sat. Food already decorated the table; a roast pig, bowls of candied peaches and apples, potatoes smothered in butter and herbs, and more wine than Saesha had ever seen in a place. She couldn’t deny her hunger, but instead of eating she found herself scanning the crowd for Aemond.

She wasn’t entirely sure what had shifted in her. Perhaps it was their first kiss, perhaps it was the fact that Aemond was undeniably a stunning and fascinating creature. Most likely it was Saesha’s ability to accept her fate, and let go of the guilt she didn’t deserve to feel. Plus, she’d always been drawn to Aemond more than his siblings…more than anyone really. But it was always wrong. He was the enemy. But now he was not.

Finally, that unmistakable platinum hair was coasting down the isle toward them. He was clean now, having washed the blood and dirt from himself and fixing his perfect hair. His armor was replaced by a well-fitting deep purple doublet, and his usual black leather pants and boots. The rough brown eyepatch he’d had on for the tourney was also replaced with a sleek black leather patch.

He bowed to Saesha as he approached, reaching his hand out for hers. She granted him her hand, which he brought gently to his lips. She smiled and Aemond sat.

They ate, casually talking with Alicent. Occasionally Aegon would butt in with some sort of obscene comment or gesture, which Saesha honestly found amusing more than anything. Otherwise, Saesha simply enjoyed sitting beside Aemond as they ate.

For the first time since the Dance broke out, Saesha didn’t feel alone. She nearly shuddered at the sudden thought, he gaze falling on Aemond. His blind eye was closest to her, so he didn’t catch her at first.

When he did he smiled, “Simply gazing at me, princess?”

She wrinkled her nose at him, looking back down at her plate. She stiffened when she felt Aemond’s large hand rest just above her knee. He smirked into his fork, using his free hand to eat. Saesha was gripping her own fork as Aemond’s hand drifted up, gripping her thigh in earnest. Her hot gaze was on him again, her eyes screaming at him to stop and at the same time never let go of her again.

Aemond hummed through a smile, pulling his hand away after giving the flesh a squeeze. He leaned down to her ear, “I’ve considered your offer, dragonling, and I will visit you at your request.”

His breath tickled the shell of her ear. Saesha swallowed thickly, her mouth suddenly dry.

“I intend to keep my promise, though,” he added. “I will not spoil you before we are wed.”

Saesha nodded slightly, attempting to focus on gathering a candied peach onto her fork. The bite never made it to her mouth. She stood, excusing herself, giving Alicent and Aegon a bow. Her eyes trailed Aemond as she walked past.

~Aemond~

Aemond watched Saesha go the whole way. He watched the way her curls waved down her back, the way her hips moved with every step, the way she walked with her head high even after everything.

He waited a respectable couple of minutes before excusing himself. Alicent gave him a disapproving look.

“I am going to be bed, mother.” He falsely assured her.

She gave him a curt nod, and he took his leave, striding back up the rows of tables and up into the castle. He went to his own rooms first, where the guards and servants could see him retiring. He poured himself a cup of wine, downing it in two gulps. With a deep breath, Aemond approached the wall beside his bed, giving it a push. The wall gave as the hidden door swung inward. He slipped through the entryway, closing the door behind him. He walked through the tunnels without a torch, following the wall with his hand.

He had been down here many times, and knew the way to the wing of the castle which Saesha lived. After a few minutes of darkness, Aemond came to a stop at the door he knew was hers, a thin line of candlelight flickering under it. He reached for the knob attached to the door, pulling it until the door released it’s seal. Saesha startled a little, sitting by the hearth that the door opened next to.

She had changed out of her purple dress, and now just wore a sheer white sleeping gown. Her hair was freed from its elaborate styling, and fell in thick waves over her shoulders. He pulled the hidden door shut behind him, taking a step toward her.

She rose, “I was expecting you at the front door.”

He chuckled. “Apologies for the surprise, princess.”

She was right in front of him in a second, hands pressed against his chest. Her eyes flickered from his lips back to his eye. He took her queue, feeling he owed her a little for earlier. Their lips met once again, and Aemond let himself sink into the feeling. He was slow about it, and Saesha didn’t seem to be protesting. She moaned softly into his lips, clearly trying to stifle her own sound. His palms moved to either side of her face, pulling her lips toward him.

She pulled away this time, breathless. Her lilac eyes had turned dark again. “Sit down,” she whispered, but her voice was firm. Aemond quirked an eyebrow.

“I told you, dragonling,” he warned, “I will not go any further.”

“Be quiet, Aemond and sit down.”

He sighed, dropping down into the other chair beside the fireplace. She walked toward him, and Aemond mindlessly reached his hand out to grab at her hip. She tutted, slowly sinking to her knees.

His eye watched her every move intently. She rested her hands on his knees before slowly snaking them up his thighs, just as he had at dinner.

“Saesha…” Aemond warned again, his breathing picking up at the sight of her.

“I do not wish to go all the way,” she said finally, looking up at him with devilish eyes. “I only wish to try something.”

Her hands rubbed up and down his legs, coaxing him. His eye fell shut for only a moment, and Saesha’s hand was over the bulge in his pants. His eye snapped open to see her watching him closely.

When he didn’t move to stop her, Saesha began unlacing his pants. It was like he couldn’t stop her, not that he truly wanted her to. When she reached inside and gripped the base of him, he drew in a sharp breath. He groaned, and in a final move of surrender reached into his own pants to free his hardened length.

A small gasp left Saesha’s lips, but she did not hesitate. She swatted his hand away and replaced it with her smaller one. She gave his dick a few testing pumps, paying close attention to the way his face scrunched up, his jaw finally loosening.

“I may need your guidance,” she whispered. He opened his eye, not even realizing he had closed it. She looked up at him for reassurance. He reached down, stroking her cheek and gave her a gentle nod.

She took a deep breath, continuing to pump him with delicious pressure. Aemond’s mouth fell open at the feeling of her lips enveloping his tip. Her tongue swirled around it, drawing a moan from his lips.

He reached down again, gathering her silver hair into his fist. She finally bobbed her head down, taking half of his length into her mouth. Aemond tensed, trying desperately to keep himself from ramming his hips upward.

She continued to bob her head up and down, licking at the vein on the underside of his cock. This earned her another deep groan from Aemond. He never knew such pleasure, not in any other encounter he’d had. She couldn’t even fit all of him in her mouth and still the warmth he got was maddening.

She began to try to go further, gagging a little around him. “Hollow your cheeks a little, dragonling,” he panted.

She obeyed, creating a little bit of suction, drawing her soft cheeks in around him. He gasped at the intense sensation, feeling the tension in his groin growing.

“Gods, you’re doing so well,” he groaned.

She moaned around him, and the vibrations were what finally sent him over. She continued to suck at him, pulling his cock into her mouth as far as she could get it. He spasmed as he came, accidentally pressing his hips up and further into her throat. She swallowed diligently, gently sucking on his tip as he came down, shuddering. He pulled her off of him by her hair when he couldn’t stand it any longer.

Aemond’s chest heaved as his grip loosened on her hair. Saesha wobbled a bit as she stood, trying to catch her own breath. She grinned down at him. He was surely in a state after that.

“Are you satisfied, my prince?” She asked, her voice seductive. Aemond could only find it in him to nod. He took another deep breath, standing back up to tower over her. “You’re a wicked thing,” he told her. He tucked himself back into his pants, Saesha having done a good enough job cleaning up the mess to allow him to do so.

He grabbed her at the base of the neck, pulling her lips up to meet his. “Shall I take care of you, dragonling?” He whispered in her ear, his lingering lust clouding him.

Saesha tsked. “Now now, princeling, we only have tomorrow to get through. I do believe I can keep my resolve.”

Aemond gritted his teeth. She had gotten him back ten fold over. He smashed his lips onto hers once more, swallowing her wicked grin.

“Alright then,” he held her close still, looking down at her with admiration, “I shall see you tomorrow then.”

“I won’t get to see you in the morning, will I?” She asked, her mischief leaving her.

Aemond brought his hand to cup her cheek. “Probably not. But I will see you at the end of the aisle. And then all the lords and ladies will leave and the fuss will be over. We can be left alone for a time.”

She smiled, resting her cheek against his chest. Aemond knew then the Gods had served him so much pain to make it all up with this. With her.

-

Enjoy the crumbs for now lol

Next chapter you shall eat

-TAGLIST-

@hopebaker @snh96 @kaelatargaryen

#aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #house of the dragon #aemond x targaryen! reader

[maglor-my-beloved]

didn't know where else to go

written (slightly late) for @tolkiengenweek

read on ao3

WARNING: implied/referenced rape, rape aftermath

Erestor's quiet evening was interrupted by a weak knock on his door. With a sigh, he placed his book aside and rose.

Outside the windows, the sun had long set, and the moon bathed the courtyards of Lindon in silver light as Erestor went to open the door and froze.

In the hallway, collapsed on the floor, his robes torn and his hair in disarray, knelt the King.

Erestor said nothing, only stared in confusion at the sight.

Gil-galad's breath was laboured, and he clutched the remnants of blue fabric close to his trembling body.

"Didn't know… where else… to go," he muttered, voice rough and weak.

"Your Majesty?" Erestor forgot in his confusion even to sound derisive. His mind raced as he tried to decide what to do.

Ultimately he decided that the first step had to be getting the King into his rooms. Whatever his personal opinions on Gil-galad, the King could not be seen in the hallways like this.

"Come," he said brusquely and grasped Gil-galad's arm, pulling him to his feet and closing the door behind them, before manoeuvring him onto the sofa.

Gil-galad looked even worse in the candlelight, his face and arms bruised, his lips swollen.

Erestor felt anger rise in his chest, burning white-hot, and he knew his face must be flushed with it.

"Who did this to you?" he growled, taking in Gil-galad's face, stained with tears and a sticky white fluid that made his stomach turn.

(And when had he grown so protective of the haughty, spoiled princeling, the one he begrudgingly tolerated only because his Lord had asked it of him, and who tolerated him just as begrudgingly because he was dear to Elrond?)

He shoved the thought aside and focused on the task at hand. Gil-galad was shivering, his lips tinted blue, and Erestor feared that whatever he had endured might prove too much for his fëa, so he hurried to wrap him into a blanket and awkwardly laid an arm around his shoulder.

“What happened?” he asked, schooling his voice to be less harsh. Elrond was better at this, he thought. Erestor was not, as a rule, affectionate – that was his Lord’s domain.

Gil-galad all but pressed himself against him, leaning desperately into the embrace.

“It is my fault,” he whispered weakly. “Círdan told me countless times not to wander alone at night, but the night was peaceful and I wished to enjoy the stars without a company of guards surrounding me. They came across me in the rose gardens. I – I did not even have Aeglos with me. I could not fight them off. They…”

He dissolved into sobs, and Erestor instinctively pulled him closer.

“Do not for a moment think that what those monsters did to you was your fault,” he hissed, one hand hovering over his knives. Whatever crimes his House may have committed, even at their most wretched the Fëanorians had never sunk so low as this, and to think that it had happened in a time of peace, here in the palace of Lindon…

Gil-galad wept into his shoulder, and Erestor let go of the knife to stroke his back soothingly.

“Shh,” he whispered. “It is alright. Stay the night here, where I can keep you safe, and in the morning Elrond will return and take care of you, while I deal with the ones who did this. They will not lay hands on you again, I promise.”

#tolkiengenweek #erestor #gil galad #maglor writes

[sky-kiss]

prompt: they* go fishing

*whoever you want, raph/haarps would be fun maybe)

A/N: Mslanna, you wild and I love you. I truly should have taken this opportunity to write like. Wild West Au Raphael. Out on a boat. Fishing.

_________

Raphael x Haarlep: Fishing

_________

"You're brooding, boss."

Raphael doesn't look up at this little gibe, attention fixed, glaring, on the drafted contract. It's hardly his best work. He could fit a few more manipulative subclauses into section sixteen. A few phrases in the main body need reworking to allow for the maximum wiggle room on his part, but…

…well, he supposes his heart truly isn't in it today. It's a shame not to love your work.

Haarlep snorts, inspecting their claws. "Oh, Raphael is pouting, darling. His new favorite toy doesn't want to play." 

"Hush, you." 

"'Hush, you?'" They give him a look, hands planted firmly on hips. Haarlep hooks an arm around his neck, slipping into his lap. "Take note, Korilla: this is what depression looks like. No energy for witty repartee. No time for his old hobbies." 

His warlock shakes her head. Haarlep adjusts themself in his lap, squirming into some semblance of comfort. It'd be easier as the Archduchess, but ease has nothing to do with their prerogative: Haarlep wants attention. Haarlep wants to distract and inconvenience.   

"You're being tedious," they grumble. Haarlep pinches the back of his neck, claws threatening to break the skin. "They'll never want to play if this is how you act. Come, have a little fun. Entertain me." 

"I've no interest in your flesh, servant." 

Haarlep snorts. "However shall I cope, princeling?" The incubus waves off his rebuttal, sliding from his lap in one fluid movement. They clap their hands. "Oh, it's been a while. Can't we play in the Well?" 

The cambion pinches the bridge of his nose. Fishing, Haarlep likes to call it, though it is barely an accurate reflection of the sport. "Haarlep…" 

"You'll feel better. You always feel better after, dear." Almost as an afterthought, low and sickly sweet. "I know you, Raphael. Trust." The words make him itch, innocuous but with a hint of command. Trust? In the Hells? Trust this miserable creature? He thinks not. 

But Raphael stands, hands linked at the small of his back. He lets himself be led to the soul pillars, his prized jewels. Haarlep delights in them, eyes flickering over the shimmering service, tracing the souls trapped within. Their tail thrashes behind them. 

He's reminded of a housecat: trapped indoors, still hungry for prey, watching birds flutter past their window. 

"You'll have to throw them back," Raphael warns. 

"No fun at all." But Haarlep plunges their hand into the pillar, snake-quick. The stone's surface breaks around their arm like water. Haarlep catches one unfortunate soul, brings it forth, and squeezes. Savage glee flits across his features. The incubus holds their victim up for Raphael's inspection: a pretty little thing, no more than twenty, screaming, agonized, pledged to him for all eternity. A summer of pleasure for eons of torment; Raphael chuckles. 

"There, look at you enjoying yourself. Good boy," Haarlep purrs, dragging the tips of their claws across the spirit's flesh. They howl. Irritated by the noise, he tosses them back into the pool. It's no fun without a fight. They want something more stoic, more breakable. "You'll feel so much better about the situation if you just relax, princeling. Here," they yank their hand free of the pillar, bringing a fresh soul. Raphael recognizes them: one of his newer acquisitions. An opinionated little shit who thought they'd retain the upper hand in a deal with a devil. "Make this one scream." 

He does. And when the spirit is too weary to satisfy them with its cries, Haarlep thrusts them back into the pillar and fishes out new entertainment. The cycle begins again. A touch of mindless cruelty to break the monotony of his day…

…and Haarlep is right, damn them. Raphael feels better.

#bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #haarlep #raphael x haarlep #i like that idea that they can just fish souls out of his soul pillars #do a little torment #throw em back

[the-wayside]

Because there is wine, there is the last snip. This is comes after the last part, but not directly. Kinn in this isn't honorable. He wants what he wants and he will do whatever he can to get it. There be ~feelings.

the memories of you, excerpt 3.

Previous parts.

One of the more inane tasks of the day is to be present over Kinn and Tawan’s dinner date. Porsche had tried to put someone else on it since it was inside the compound and the risk was low, but Pete had given him a ‘tough luck, buddy’ pat on the shoulder. So, he’s here, with Arm, the pair of them trying not to drill holes into their eye sockets over the boring childhood memories talk.

“What was Kinn like when he was younger?” Tawan asks Porsche out of nowhere and he’s sure his left eye is twitching. He’s stood with his back against the wall, his eyes on Kinn at the head of the table and Tawan to his right and in Porsche’s direct line of sight. He flicks his eyes up to the door behind them, silently praying for someone, anyone, at this point, to come in and save him from this melodrama. Still, he looks at Kinn, and he’s silently listening, his gaze trained on the plate but he knows when he’s eavesdropping. He’s about as subtle as his oldest brother, which is not at all.

“Short,” is what he says and Kinn looks up at him and Porsche rolls his eyes. “Look, my job is Khun Kinn’s safety. I didn't spend any more time with him than his other teachers who probably know him better than me.”

It’s true and not true. Kinn spent a lot of time on his studies, improving himself and becoming the man who can carry the weight of his father’s expectations, but with his tender heart, he needed that beaten out of him the most. Porsche had slammed him into the mats more than anyone else. Punished him more than anyone else. Refused to let Kinn become a princeling who looked the part but would die the moment he was on his own. Porsche made sure that Kinn would live, even if Porsche died.

Tawan gives him an inscrutable look. Porsche now knows he’s thirty-three, as old as Porsche was when things fell apart. He really should know better than to keep pushing on something that is either none of his business or he won’t like the outcome. He’s also now certain that Tawan knows that something happened between them and he’s fishing.

“Kinn isn’t the same little kid I met almost fifteen years ago,” Porsche continues, “You want to know what hasn’t changed? He’s tenacious, dedicated, and loyal.”

Porsche catches as Kinn swallows. Clearly, Porsche’s words are unexpected for him. For everything that has happened, Porsche won’t let anyone say that Kinn is anything less than what he is, which is a good person, even if he is a brat. He bows his head to Kinn and excuses himself because he isn’t here for getting into Kinn’s relationship drama.

He gets about three feet out of the door when Kinn calls from behind him, the door slamming shut, “Porsche.”

“I don’t know what your boyfriend’s problem is, but I’m trying to work.”

Kinn stands with his arms loose at his sides, almost a little lost to talk to Porsche, but it doesn’t stop Porsche going off: “Whatever his insecurity is, you need to deal with it, okay? Relationship 101.”

“You’re going to educate me on relationships?” Kinn bounces back, suddenly with something to sink his teeth into, “When the longest relationship you’ve had is with your right hand or my little black book?”

Porsche puts his hands on his hips and scoffs, “And that’s your issue, right there. Always with an answer and an attitude. Grow up, Kinn.”

“Better to confront it than to run like a coward,” Kinn says calmly and Porsche feels it like a stab.

He can’t help but walk back and get into Kinn’s face, “You don’t own me. If I say it’s done, it’s done. If I say it’s over, it’s over. Go back to your boyfriend.”

Kinn’s eyes flicker down to his lips as he speaks, “Because you’re the boss?”

The tension is palpable between them, thick and dense enough to cut your teeth on it.

“Because what we did was wrong,” Porsche sighs and steps back. “You refuse to see it, that’s fine, but I’m not going to be a part of it.”

“I lo—” Kinn starts and Porsche covers his mouth with his hand.

“You were twenty-three and I knew better,” Porsche corrects him. Kinn’s big hand wraps around Porsche’s wrist and pulls it down.

“Stop pretending like I’m some fragile child who lived a fairy tale existence. I killed a man when I was 16. My father didn’t clean up the body. You did.”

“And that’s how it should have stayed.”

Kinn lets out a breath, “No.”

Porsche shakes his head and Kinn doubles down on his wrist, holding it so tightly it hurts, his voice even and sure, “Maybe it was broken, maybe it would have failed, but we deserved a chance.”

Porsche tries to get out of Kinn’s grasp without hurting him, a bit of pressure in the right spot and he’ll let go, but Porsche doesn’t want to hurt him. He never wants to hurt Kinn. He pulls away as much as he can.

“You think that I wanted a body? A warm hole to fuck?” Kinn speaks in a low tone and Porsche feels it in his gut, low in his belly, making him squirm, “You can find those a dime a dozen. I wanted the person who saw me; too skinny, too kind, too merciful, and didn’t care. That was you. And the bit you hate, the reason why you pushed me away is because I saw you. I saw how you wanted to be loved, how lonely you were even in a room full of people who looked up to you. Your eyes are always scanning, always looking, but when I—”

Kinn yanks him back in, “When I was inside you, you closed your eyes. You trusted me when you trust no one. You trusted me because I’ve always been by your side.”

“Maybe I can’t make him happy,” Kinn laughs bitterly, “but I know I can make you happy.”

Porsche is shoved back and he stumbles as Kinn turns on his heel to go back into the dining room.

“Cowards don’t get happy endings in fairy tales, Porsche. The brave do. Maybe it’s you who needs to grow up.”

Kinn leaves him there, scraped out and raw, and unable to put back together the edges he just ripped. Porsche puts out a palm against the wall and silently screams and kicks the wall.

#the memories of you #way writes #kinnporsche #text #ficlet #LAST SNIP OF THE SNIPS

[moaihybitoyoidaics]

The Morality of Mortality

Jurdan Angst fic- trigger warning for Suicide

Word count: 1822

From Cardan's POV

*****

My hopes dwindled with each passing day. My letters remained unanswered as did my prayers for her return. I spent my nights in her rooms drinking in the vanishing smell of her from her coverlets, falling asleep holding on to her doublets. I knew that she had figured out my trickery and was choosing to stay away out of her resentment for me- I could hardly blame her.

In her presence I had so often been cruel, mistaking my devotion to her for contempt and now our truce was over, short lived as it was. The brief reprieve from our feuding had passed but I would have done anything to have her admonish me again.

I tried to forget her eyes and the way they glowed amber in the sunlight, the way that her hair frizzed from the sweat of her swordplay, I tried to forget the odd curve of her ears and the scars on her hands and they way my weight felt on top of her. But I could never forget.

It made me hate her all over again.

One night I found myself summoning a ferry, captained by a stout goblin. I dressed myself in a pitch dark cloak with the hood covering my hair and most of my face. The goblin didn't ask of my business, which I was grateful for. I didn't really know what I was expecting to do. I couldn't drag her back to Elfhame unwillingly, she would never forgive me.

My legs were unstable as I stepped foot onto mortal soil, I knew in a short time I would be able to hold her in my arms and beg her-humility be damned- to come home. I followed the streets to the apartment block I was told she resided in, located hastily by the Shadow Court. It was tall and bland, a concrete tower block with the distressing tang of iron hanging heavily around it.

As I climbed the stairs I rehearsed all the things I would say to convince her to come home, running them over in my mind until I got them as close to perfect as they would ever be. I came to a stop outside her front door, and knocked as loudly as I dared.

"Who's there?" A small voice asked from behind the wood.

"High King Cardan. Now identify yourself and let me inside at once." The was a clank and a rattle before the door swung open . There stood Oak, a little taller than the last time I had seen him.

"Oh hi, Cardan. Jude's in the bathroom."

"Fetch her for me, Princeling." I demanded, impatiently.

"She's been in there a while, she wasn't answering me. Can you reach the Cokes in the fridge?" I strode into the residence and looked around, it was a pokey space, barely enough room for two people let alone four. Oak pointed me to the fridge, a peculiar object that hit me with a shock of cold air. I passed him what he needed and walked back into the more open space.

"Where is Vivienne? Or the pink haired girl?" I asked.

"It's date night, Jude's meant to look after me. She kind of sucks at it." He explained.

"Where is the bathroom?" He pointed down a shallow hall, where I saw a dim orange light leaking out from under a door. I knocked on the door and when there was no answer I knocked again, louder. "Jude? Jude I command you to open up." Still, there was no noise from the other side of the door. I rattled the handle and banged against the wood.

"Cardan? What's going on?" Oak asked, his voice quieter than I had ever heard it.

"How long has she been in there?" My voice was harsher than I had intended.

"Like a half hour? I could hear her before but she's been quiet for a while." I slammed my hands against the door once more before trying the handle again.

"Oak, I want you to call Vivi. Tell her to come back immediately. Then go and wait in your room until someone comes to get you, okay?" He nodded and did as he was told.

I took as large a step back as the space would allow before smacking my shoulder against the door again and again until finally it gave way. The room was silent apart from the sound of liquid hitting the floor. Sure enough, she was there.

The bath was filled with pinkish water, and Jude; still fully clothed, lay silently in it. Her head had rolled back uncomfortably and one arm lay over the edge. Drip. Drip. Drip.

I ran to her, my unsteady feet skidding in the blood, and began to lift her out of the water. I grabbed a towel and pressed it against her wounds. "Hey, okay. You're going to-" I couldn't speak it. "I need you to be okay. I need you to stay with me here, Jude." My grip on her arms tightened as I pulled her up onto my lap. "You have to be okay, you have to wake up now, okay?" I put two fingers to her throat feeling for a pulse.

I heard a soft gasp. When I looked up there stood Vivienne, all dressed up in her odd mortal clothes. "Cardan- Jude-"

"Get help." I whispered, my voice hoarse. "Get help, get anyone." I looked back down at my wife. My Jude. "If you ever felt anything for me, I need you to stay with me. I can't do it without you."

*****

The pink haired girl offered to stay at the apartment with Oak while Vivienne and I went with Jude. We sat in silence, surrounded by bright white lights and plastic chairs. I wondered what I must look like to the mortals in the infirmary but I was too exhausted to glamour myself to look any different. It was an hour before Vivi said a word.

"I didn't think she'd actually do it, you know?" She sniffled. "I thought she was exaggerating, she'd get over you eventually and she'd stop- she'd stop talking about it."

"She said she was going to- erm- to do that?" I asked.

"Not in so many words. When she said she didn't want to be here, I thought she meant here, you know? In our world. Not here, as in any world."

We plunged back into silence for a long while.

I am no murderer. I thought to myself. But maybe I am, if my Jude dies I will be a murderer.

"It's my fault, isn't it?" I whispered.

"Yes."

*****

We sat at her bedside, machines and monitors whirring all around us. I held her hand in mine. She was so cold. Papery curtains were drawn around us, giving the illusion of privacy.

"How did you know to come today?" Vivi asked quietly. "It's been months and you chose today of all days."

I thought about how to answer her for a moment before bringing Jude's fingers to my lips. "I couldn't stand to be away from her a second longer." I paused. "I need her."

We lapsed back into silence, waiting as nurses checked her over and doctors looked at the little board at the end of her bed.

"She didn't leave a note." Vivi said, finally. "Can you believe that?"

I was about to speak when another doctor pulled back the curtain. "Excuse me, " He turned to me. "Would you leave us for a moment, sir? I need to speak with just her family."

I wanted to scream that Jude was my wife, my only family, but instead I bit my tongue and began to head out.

"Cardan? Why don't you run and grab us some coffee? It's going to be a long night." Vivienne smiled grimly, I tried my best to return it but couldn't will my mouth the move.

From behind the curtain I heard a moan, groggy and angry.

"Jude?" Vivienne said. "Jude? Is she waking up?"

I collapsed into a chair next to an empty bed, listening to my love regain consciousness. Her breathing was heavy and the monitors beeped faster than I had heard them before.

"Why'" Her voice was rough, trembling and afraid. "Why am I still here?" I heard the sob in her voice, something I had never known my wife to be capable of, and felt the echo of it in my own throat. "You should've just left me."

"We would never do that." Vivi said, sadly.

The doctor spoke again. "We can sedate her until we can manage the pain more effectively, it would be less traumatic that way."

"Yes, yes. Do that. I don't want her to be in pain." Vivi said almost frantically.

I heard her try to fight the effects of whatever medication they gave her, her words becoming a jumbled mess of incoherence. But before she drifted away into an artificial sleep, the last word from her lips was: "Cardan."

*****

My coffee had gone cold and I had hardly touched it. My hands gripped Jude's as she slept. I saw her as I had never seen her before, fragile, breakable and damaged. My fault, I knew that.

"Cardan?" Vivi said. "What I said before... it's really not your fault. You couldn't have known. I was angry."

"I should leave before she wakes up again." I said, trying to pry myself away from her. "Will you send word when she is well?"

She nodded. "You know, if it wasn't for you she would be dead. Thank you."

The words seemed awkward on the tongue of a faerie but they struck a chord in my heart. I squeezed Jude's hand one last time and took one final look at her. My love.

I left quickly, giving myself no chance to cry until I was back over the sea and in her rooms at the palace.

*****

Over the following months I received messages from Vivi, detailing Jude's recovery, regaining the the full use of her hands and instructing Oak in sword play. I kept pieces of our correspondence on my person at all times, wishing for the day she would return back to her home. Back to me.

It had been about four months since I had left Jude in the hospital bed before I saw her again. Her defiance radiating through her meek personae as she pretended to be her sister. I was grateful when I saw that she was wearing long gloves, covering most of the damage.

For another three months I didn't dare bring up the jagged scars, for fear that the emotions would resurface. But she was home, whole and hail beside me and I couldn't ask for any more than that.

Occasionally the thought would cross my mind: my wife who is deft at taking lives but could only ever take one that mattered.

#jurdan #cardan greenbriar #jude duarte #vivienne duarte #fanfic #angst no comfort #one shot #the folk of the air #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing #how the king of elfhame learned to hate stories #jurdan fanfic