Tumgik
#mourning beads
thegothicalice · 1 month
Text
Tumblr media
A little old-fashioned 🪦Dress by Blackwood Castle, belt by In Her Bones, boots Strangecvlt, beaded necklace are Victorian-era mourning beads.
101 notes · View notes
in-herbones · 1 year
Text
Tumblr media
Details of the last tote bag I made 🖤
137 notes · View notes
calamitys-child · 12 days
Text
Going 2 try and make an earring tonight will report back on the results
8 notes · View notes
homoeroticvillain · 1 month
Text
meant to finish this ages ago so sextus had a reference but better late then never i guess
Tumblr media
6 notes · View notes
cemeteryeyesofficial · 2 months
Text
♫ Satyricon ♫
8 notes · View notes
Text
The urge to fashion a rosary from Victorian mourning beads
15 notes · View notes
mel-loly · 1 year
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
-M🌟L
19 notes · View notes
golden-3 · 5 days
Text
0 notes
ghosts-bandwagon · 10 months
Note
So, could you do task force 141 + König and whomever you’d like, how they would react to you kissing their cheeks as a dare or something? Idk my brain just thought of this
I love this it’s so cute 😭❤️
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley:
He short circuits honestly
He’s sitting there stuck in place, processing what happened
In the short second your lips made contact with the fabric of his mask, everything in his brain went silent
All the chaos, all the worries, all the voices, everything went silent like coming into the eye of a hurricane, there was peace for a moment
On the outside though? He’s deadpanned 😶
You almost feel like you’re in trouble but then he finally blinks and looks at you, you couldn’t detect any anger or resentment so you beamed at him and went about your merry way
As he’s watching you walk away, that kiss is all he’s thinking about. He’s wondering what it would’ve felt like if he didn’t have the stupid mask on, how soft your lips must be, if it was a little wet or not, he knows the feeling of your lips would be seared there for the rest of his life
He’s thinking about that moment of quiet, that moment of peace, and he’s suddenly questioning himself, almost talking himself up to give it a try, to pursue that peace that you gave him, that peace that he could have with you
John ‘Soap’ MacTavish:
Don’t think you’re getting away lightly
As soon as your lips made contact with his cheek, his face went red hot and his eyes were glimmering
He looked up at you with a huge grin going from ear to ear
“What’s that for?” He laughed, when you shrugged with a cheeky smile, he melted,
“Dare you to do it again.” He winked,
You stepped in to meet his challenge but before you could even get close, he kissed your cheek instead
Now it’s your turn to be a blushing mess, and Johnny finds that the look suits you quite well
John Price:
He’s been hearing about the date floating around for a while now and brushed it off
At least until you came into his office under the guise of turning in paperwork, when he heard stifled laughter coming from the hallway
You handed him your papers and leaned in to give him a quick peck on the cheek, your lips were so soft as they made contact with his skin, it sent lightning up his spine
He looked at you with disapproval and you felt the cold sweat bead on your forehead
He motions for you to come in close and you do as you’re told, leaning in, bent at the waist, waiting for him to speak. His face was close to your ear, the hairs on his cheek tickling your skin as he leaned in,
“Next time you feel like doing that, don’t hide behind a dare, love.” He sat back with a knowing glint in his eyes, “That’ll be all, sergeant.”
Kyle ‘Gaz’ Gerrick:
Oof sweetheart, he already knows about the dare that’s been circulating on base, he’s been waiting
And then he sees you walking towards him like the cat that got the cream
He already knows and he’s a little smug about it smh
What isn’t prepared for is how his brain fires on all cylinders the moment your lips pressed against his cheek
It was like a jolt of electricity shot straight through him, like something in him came alive
He’s not one to be rendered speechless too often but he’s dumbstruck
He had a plan of pulling you back in so he could return the kiss but he was stuck in place, slack-jawed with his hand slowly coming to rest on the spot you kissed
He’ll get you back eventually, right now he just needs to process what just happened
König:
Error 404. König not found
He appreciated that you didn’t lift his hood so you could kiss him but in that moment he wished it wasn’t there
He felt the warmth of your skin through the fabric and he mourned not feeling the soft skin of your lips against his cheek
It felt like going outside and feeling the warmth of the sun on your skin, breathing the fresh spring air and sitting on a blanket in the park
He started imagining you there, sitting in the park among the flowers, your eyes closed in bliss as you take in the warmth of the sun and breathing the freshness of the air
He wasn’t on an army base in god knows where, he was sitting there in that park with you, mesmerized by your smile, holding your hand in his
He was snapped back to reality when you waved your hand in his face, apologies pouring from your lips
He can barely process the words as he leans in and repeats the action, pressing his clothed lips against your cheek
He can’t help the satisfaction when he sees you short circuiting as much as he was
4K notes · View notes
murdrdocs · 3 months
Text
MDNI sejanus & his big dick + his teasing
at first, sejanus is worried.
he gnaws at his bottom lip while you peel his trousers off of his hips, letting them fall to his ankles before you're back at the center of him with eager hands. you don't look up, too entranced and excited since this moment has finally come, but you can see the nervous way he's flexing his hands beside his thighs.
he clears his throat. he starts to speak. "listen, i don't want you to expect something." he's saying more, something about him not being the most gifted in the dick department. but you're not listening to him because you've pulled his briefs down enough to free his cock and it perfectly springs back up over the elastic, leaving sejanus' dick presented right in front of you.
he's impressive. girthy to the point where you already start to mourn the short lived comfort of your jaw. long enough to where you know he's going to hit the back of your throat without trying. he's uncut, and you wrap a hand around the center of him and pull back, revealing his slit where a bead of precum greets you.
it's involuntary when you voice your concerns, a small, "i don't think you're going to fit, sej," leaving your lips. and just that one admission is enough to squash any of sejanus' uneasiness.
it's not until a little while later that he becomes confident, though. truly confident, enough to comfortably tease you.
it's been a little while longer than favored since you and sejanus have been alone, and you've been subjected to getting yourself off with your fingers and nothing but memories in sejanus' absence. you're more sensitive when you do see him, mewling when sejanus just swipes two fingers through your slit.
you're overeager, too, taking matters into your own hands and attempting to sink down onto him without much prep. "i can take it," you told him, defiant and determined all at once.
there was no stopping you when you were like this, so sejanus sat back and held a steady hand on your hip, telling you to take it slow while he waited for the inevitable to happen.
and it did. your eyes scrunching shut as your jaw dropped. he could feel you tensing up, he could see the hesitance taking over your body.
he plans to help you out, he will help you out. but first he has to tease you just a bit.
"it's big, huh, honey?" you nod and sejanus tuts softly. "i told you to take it slow, didn’t i? d'you want my help?" another nod and sejanus trails his hand from your side to your gaping cunt.
"okay, baby. i'll help you."
1K notes · View notes
thegothicalice · 1 year
Text
Tumblr media
💀🪦
153 notes · View notes
fioiswriting · 5 months
Text
Reunion | oneshot
Tumblr media
Summary : After the Battle Above the Gods Eye, Daemon returned victorious. Aemond was presumed dead, though his body was never found. Three years later, you've mourned your former husband and are ready to move on. But it seems that some ghosts from your past have come back to haunt you, and that the dead aren't really dead after all...
[Part 2]
Rating : Explicit 18+, MDNI
Pairing : Aemond x Velaryon/Strong!niece!Reader, implied Cregan Stark x Reader (you can interpret them as lovers or not). Reader is Rhaenyra and Harwin’s daughter so I imagined her with dark hair like Jace, Luke and Joffrey but feel free to imagine her as you want of course <3
TW : unprotected sex, breeding kink, mention of characters death, angst, possessiveness, p in v sex, oral m receiving, praising kink, dom/sub undertones, mention of war, AU where the Blacks won the war, Alys Rivers (but no cheating), Reader has a child, grief, light choking, not proofread.
Words count : 7600
Author's notes : Hi everyone !! Sooo I’m posting my first ever fanfic on here, my first x reader and my first fanfic for Aemond. I’m very anxious haha But well, this fanfic is heavily inspired by a RP that has been going on for months with my wonderful gf <3 She writes Aemond so well I swear and now she’s making me fall in love with Cregan too haha oops whatever. Some of Aemond’s lines in this fanfic are hers so of course the credits go to her 💕 Long story short the reader’s backstory is inspired by my OC! The plot doesn't make any sense but whatever
Also English is not my first language, so sorry for the grammar mistakes !!
Enjoy 🖤
I don't know what I'm supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Oh, take me back to the night we met The night we met - Lord Huron
The snow had covered the landscape of Winterfell in a thin white layer so similar to ash, and the image tugged at your heart for a moment. Ashes. Fire. War. It was strange, the stillness that had followed the fury of screams and blood, of fire and ash, the constant anguish and pain of loss. It was like a long howl and then sudden silence. Life had resumed its course, the earth and the grass nurtured in red, as if nothing had happened, and that still irritated you sometimes, three years later.
For this peacefulness was a constant reminder of your life before. Before the war, before your own family ripped itself apart from within, before you lost him. There was something bitter in the thought that, in an alternate reality, you would have been happy with him by your side. The night brought its share of sweet dreams, lulled by the embrace of his arms, and you closed your eyes with ease, hoping to see his face again, which was fading day by day, desperately clinging to the details that made him.
It had been the best solution, you knew. 
For there was no reality in which he could live as much as you wished for. And you had accepted your duty by straightening your shoulders, silencing your heart, digging your thumbnail into the inside of your wrist. Your stepfather had said he was dead; he had seen Vhaegar fall from the sky, wounded.  He had seen the huge dragon crash into the water with all its weight. He had waited, and no silver hair had returned to the surface. He had searched and no body had been found.
So, he had returned, triumphant, with the conclusion that Aemond Targaryen was dead.
The room had swayed around you, but your fingers on the hard, rough wood of the table had kept you grounded. You had nodded, unsure, your ears ringing, your teeth sinking into the flesh of your tongue to hold back the tears that were beading at the edges of your eyes.
You knew it was inevitable, perhaps even fair. But it still hurt.  It sill fucking hurt.
Daemon had reassured you by pointing out that you were now released from your marital obligation.  A marriage to him that you had hoped for, waited for, dreamed of in your younger years. A marriage you had despised, once forced into, once made captive, a prisoner to be used against your own mother. And then a marriage that you had loved, cherished even, when he had opened up to you, when he had changed, when he had revealed that soft side despite his rough edges.  And you loved him, truly. The childhood love, the shy love that had blossomed between laughter muffled behind the curtains, hand-in-hand runs through the Red Keep and reading session hidden under the library table, had been rekindled.  Raw, devouring, bruised by war, but more powerful than ever.
Out of the corner of your eye you had caught a glimpse of the comforting gaze of your mother, the Queen, her gentle eyes searching for clues that would betray what you were feeling. It was she who had stroked your hair that evening, her presence welcome and soothing.
During the war, events had made you more uncertain than ever; blood and cheese had broken something in you. Suddenly shaken by the horrific actions of someone you hardly recognised, by the actions of your own family and the father figure who had raised you as his own daughter. You questioned your loyalties more than ever. Of course, you'd been devastated by Luke's death, your beloved little brother, so innocent, so sweet, and the despair you'd felt, the sadness, had gradually turned to anger. 
Your desire for revenge had fed on your rage, on your anger.
And in your quest for revenge, you had grabbed the dagger hidden in your bodice when you had kissed him, when you had poisoned him with your lips and your body pressed against his. Perhaps it was cowardice to do it on your wedding night, right after the pitiful ceremony in which you had been forced to exchange your vows of fidelity, the humiliation of the white, blue, red and green cloak around your shoulders.  Perhaps it was cowardice to wait for him to surrender to your touch, hard with desire, before plunging the blade straight into his heart.
But you didn't do it, in the end, the humiliation of your failure burning in your cheeks, and you had seen the horrible reality in the icy eye fixed on you: he was expecting it.  He knew. He had anticipated you, as usual, one step ahead of you, ahead of your plans. And the humiliation was all the more bitter.
First he had defied you, knowing full well that you couldn't do it, despite your momentary hesitation. Then he had wiped away your tears, the sound of metal echoing off the floor as he captured your lips with his own. 
And both you and he had sought to release the accumulated tension in the comfort of your naked bodies, in the rough, demanding thrusts.
You weren't quite sure when your relationship had changed. When he had become more forgiving. When he had trusted you. When he had become gentle. When you had felt him slipping away, subtly, almost imperceptibly. When you had begun to seek comfort in his arms, to seek the warmth of his body, to seek his love on his lips.
You loved him.
So you spent the nights lying awake in fear. Fearing the moment when you would have to make a choice. Fearing the moment when you would have to betray.
Which side would you choose when both armies were coming towards you, carrying the same flags, the same weapons, both calling your name?
Anxiety had spread its roots in the pit of your stomach, crescent moons in the palms of your hands. You felt as if you were losing your mind.
But the choice had been forced upon you without you having to make it. You had accepted it, as your duty demanded, as your loyalty to your family demanded.
Life at Winterfell wasn't so bad, quite the opposite in fact, despite the cold and snow you weren't used to. Cregan Stark was a good man. He had given you time and space to grieve, and had opened the castle gates to you with kindness. You had decided that you could get used to the cold and the snow, to the stone and the rustic wood, so different from the refineries of the capital, but infinitely warmer.
It was your choice, your departure for Winterfell.  Dragonstone was still haunted by the ghost of Luke, by the ghosts of Joffrey and little Aegon and Viserys and Rhaenys and all the family members you had lost.  King's Landing was haunted, too. By your sweet aunt and her cries of despair, by Aegon's descent into madness, by the humiliations you had so gracefully endured, by the recurring announcements of deaths, by the smell of the innocents’ blood, by the pitiful looks of Alicent, who had seen in you the image of herself a few years earlier, powerless and manipulated.
But above all, it was haunted by him.
The weight of the memories had become unbearable and you needed to leave.
You chose Winterfell, hoping the cold would help you forget. And Jace had come with you, his thumb caressing the back of your hand with affection, always the protective, reassuring big brother he was to you.  Probably glad to see his friend again, too. Your friend, to both of you.
But forgetting was something you'd never really been able to do, even less with the last memory he'd left you.
Now, just over three years later, you felt ready to return to King's Landing to visit your parents, to face the demons of your past and to mourn once and for all. It was inexplicable, perhaps a little strange, but you felt the need to go back.
On his first dragon ride, Rhaegar clapped his hands along the way, nestled into your arms in front of you, closing his eyes as the wind ruffled his dark curls. Midnight, your dragon, as pleasant as ever, as easy and gentle as ever, took care to be careful with the two of you on his back.
When you arrived, Rhaenyra hugged you as tightly as she'd ever hugged you, her nose buried in your thick hair, before bending down to take her grandson in her arms.
"I've missed you, sweet girl." she said to you. You smiled and reached for her arm, glancing at your son who'd grabbed one of your mother's long silver curls: "Daemon has missed you too. You know he doesn't show his feelings, but... he missed you." 
You smile, your eyes dropping to the floor.  You missed them, too, terribly, despite the frequent letters.
"And of course... we’ve missed you too, little one!" Rhaenyra added, catching the child's nose with her thumb and forefinger, causing him to burst into laughter.
It felt good to be back.  It was good to have regained some sort of routine in your daily life with your family. It was good to see the walls of the Red Keep return to their original familiarity, chasing away the ghosts you feared you might see again.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
Perhaps you should have listened to your stepfather and not stray under any circumstances from the knight who has been following your every step with concern, afraid to lose sight of you. 
Five years earlier, it was Sir Erryk's vigilance that you had deceived when you had carelessly followed your eldest uncle into the dangerous streets of the capital.
The streets of King's Landing offered you a freedom you had missed. But now you almost regret sneaking through the crowds to escape the vigilance of the knight who had escorted you. You decide to take a shortcut, the hood of your cloak pulled down over your forehead.  It must have been your imagination.  You aren’t on the worst side of the city, not like five years ago, and the streets have become safe, much safer now that your parents are in power.
Your footsteps led you to some stone steps, which you climb at full speed, your heart pounding in your chest.  Glancing behind you, you disappear like a shadow around the corner of an alley, but the feeling is still there. You feel as if you are being followed.
At the Red Keep you already had the unpleasant feeling of being observed. In the gardens, with your son. Along the ramparts, enjoying the sea breeze on your face.
But you blamed it on your body's automatic response to the anxiety that had built up in all the years you'd spent within the walls of the Keep.
You slow your pace as you spot the dome and towers of the Great Sept at the end of the alley. From there you can easily find your way back to the Red Keep. All you had to do is keep moving, staring ahead, pressing your pace, wrapped in the thick wool of your cloak.
One step after the other. Breathing deeply. Half-moons in your palms.
The Great Sept growing closer give you a strange kind of reassurance.
And then suddenly, one hand closes over your mouth, the other around your waist. Your back bangs painfully against the cold stone wall of the winding alley into which you have been dragged. Fuck. Fuck.
You are too paralysed to struggle, too paralysed to bite the hand of the stranger holding you prisoner between the wall and his own body.
"You obviously learned nothing from my advice, Lady Strong," the icy voice whispers in the hollow of your ear. Your eyes widen. 
That voice. It couldn't be.
Lady Strong. Lady Strong. Lady Strong.
It can’t be.
That is your sick mind playing tricks on you again.
"As reckless as ever, hm, aren't you? You could easily get yourself killed."
The stranger releases you and you look up again, tears forming at the corners of your eyes, searching for that icy blue, tinged with lilac, that have read through you so many times before.
It is impossible.
He has died three years before, falling from Vhaegar's back into the deep waters of the lake at Harrenhal.
Is it a ghost? Is it a hallucination?
"You are dead. You were dead," you whisper, more to yourself than to him, still in shock from the feel of his body against yours. You feel the tears that have formed at the corners of your eyes roll down your cheek, and your little fists pound his chest.
You have so much to say to him. So many things to reproach him for.
His hand cups your cheek to turn your head and force you to look at him, his thumb wiping away your tears. 
The way he looks at you hasn’t changed; it still makes you shiver. You still feel that your uncle could read through you, that he could discover your deepest secrets.  And there is still that hint of desire, too, that gleam in his one seeing eye.
You want to kiss him. You want to slap him.
He clenches his jaw as he pulls you against him, burying your face in his chest, his arms around you. He rests his chin on your head. One of his hands strokes your dark hair as you stifle sobs into the wool of his cloak.
The situation takes you back to your wedding night, when he had comforted you in the same way after you had told him that you couldn't hate him, even if you had tried.
"I know," you hear him whisper, the vocal cords vibrating from his throat against the top of your head.
He is standing there, in front of you. You cling to the fabric of his clothes with all your might, as if you're afraid he'll slip away again.
"How?" you ask, eyes closed, head against him. If he is to be taken from you again, you intend to enjoy every moment in his company. 
He clenches again. You step back to look into his eyes, to search his enigmatic gaze for answers, for clues, for signs that would explain how. Why.
He doesn't answer you, but he is filled with desire as he grips your chin between his middle and index fingers, as he captures your lips with his own. You rediscover the possessiveness you've been missing. He pushes you a little harder against the wall behind you, as if to remind you who you belong to. Who you were married to.
A familiar warmth blossoms between your thighs, a warmth you haven't felt for too long. You're trapped, right there, your uncle towering over you, trapped between the wall and his body. His fingers close around your jaw and you kiss him back hungrily, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer.
You're perfectly aware that the situation is surreal.  You're perfectly aware that you're making a mistake, that you shouldn't respond to the kiss of the man who used to be your husband, not when he's technically still your enemy, not when he's technically dead. 
But you shut out the voices in your head begging you to stop.
"I still want to hate you, you know," you breathe between his parted lips. He merely mutters hm in reply, trying to shut you up again, his hands wandering under your cape, tracing the ribs of the body he'd missed so much. He reaches for your waist, your hips, which he grabs meanly. 
There's no one in the alley around you, but the hood over his head hides his long silver hair anyway. 
"Three fucking years." Your lips leave his, a mixture of anger and desire bubbling up from your lower belly. Aemond stares at you, his jaw clenched. He knows you need to unleash your emotions when you don't read an ounce of regret in his gaze. "Three. Fucking. Years. And you've told me nothing. You never sought to -"
"I couldn't," he retorts harshly. He seems to be searching for words to explain something you could not possibly understand, but his gaze does not soften. You know he needs time, you've learned to know him.  You've waited three years, what's another moment? But you're tired, and your patience isn't as strong as it used to be.  You look away, a mocking laugh escaping your lips as you repeat his justification. "You couldn't." 
"And risk your mother executing me?" He forces you to look at him again, and you feel the lump form in your throat. You know you are perhaps being unfair, but you were alone for those three years while you mourned him, so alone, and in a way, you want to make him pay.
"You were dead to me, qybor." Uncle. You feel him twitch at the mention of your family tie, at the nickname he used to love to hear on your tongue. "I had to live with the idea that you would never come back."
The tears that had dried on your cheeks threaten to flow again, pooling at the corners of your eyes. Aemond sighs. 
"I thought I was dead too," he whispers. You can feel the tension in every one of his muscles. There's a moment of hesitation, a silence that hovers between you.  You have so many questions, but you don't know where to begin.  Not a sound leaves your lips.
"She tended to my wounds," he adds, and you frown in confusion. "Alys."
Alys. You try to wriggle out of his grip, but he keeps you pinned to the wall.  Alys, you remember the rumours whispered in your ear by that rat of Larys - those false rumours, you remind yourself -  but you can't help feeling your heart clench.  You don't trust your voice enough to speak, to say anything.
"There's no one left in Harrenhal but her," he adds, as if you need that clarification, as if you need to know where he's been all this time. 
You say nothing. Your throat is tight. If you speak, if you look at him, you'll cry again and betray your feelings all over again. You refuse to make a fool of yourself, not now.
"She's the one who saw you. In Winterfell." There's a hint of bitterness in his voice as he mentions the place where you've spent the last few years rebuilding yourself, trying to forget him.  A bit of anger, perhaps, too.
"Cregan Stark welcomed me indeed," you reply curtly.  Perhaps you want to hurt him as he hurt you, but you are deliberately vague in your answer. "I have mourned you, qybor."
Everything is so confused in your mind.  A paradoxical blend of desire, anger, sadness, jealousy.  Of love too.
You want to strangle him and melt on his lips at the same time, and you know that after all this time you should be used to feeling this paradox of emotions with Aemond. Your uncle was a set of contradictions all his own.
"I saw you. On Midnight. That's how I knew you were here."
You nod. Words don't work between you, you know that. It has always been like that; the habit of letting silence speak more than words. The habit of communicating through the carnal acts of your bodies against each other. *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
Aemond pushes you against the wooden door as soon as you enter the mediocre room of the inn. He is demanding, more than ever, as his hands run along your hips to your thighs to lift you up and press you against the door, your legs closing around him. He watches you with hungry eyes, like a predator ready to pounce on its prey. You can't stop a moan from escaping your lips. 
There's something feverish, passionate, urgent about the kiss. And when his tongue begs for an opening, your lips part to welcome him. There is only you in this room, an interlude where nothing else exists, where you don't have to worry about your duties and loyalties, where you are guided by nothing but passion.
His hand slams against the wall next to your head and with a movement of his hips he lifts you a little higher onto his waist, your legs locked tightly around him. He grunts into the crook of your neck at the friction of your crotch against his.
"Tell me to stop." His hand which isn't against the wall to support your weight slides up to your jaw. He lifts your chin, his gaze locked in yours, searching for clues, anything that would betray your desire to end whatever it is you're doing. "Tell me to stop now, or I won't be able to."
You don't want to stop. You should, you know you should, but you silence the little voice in your conscience that's begging you to pull yourself together, to end it all before you've even started, before you've even gone too far, and you kiss him with more vigour, with more fervour.
"I'm not going to tell you to stop, qybor," you whisper against his lips. "You know that."
His hardened member twitches beneath you at the mention of the High Valyrian, at the mention of that nickname he's so fond of. It's his weakness, you know, and despite the three years he's been away, he hasn't changed.
It's so good to feel him against you again, to feel his lips against yours, along your jawline to the junction with your neck. In one sharp movement, he rolls his hips to meet yours, pressing you a little harder against the wooden wall, and he catches your moan between his lips.
You know that tonight there will be no shy touches between you, no awkward explorations like in the early days of your love, when it wasn't tainted by war, blood, and death yet. You and he will both be consumed by the burning fire of passion.   You both need to release that tension and frustration, to make up for lost time, to drown, drunk with desire, in the most carnal of acts. All that matters now are his hands on your body to ease the pain pulsing between your thighs, the desperate need to feel him inside you. 
The barrier of your clothes frustrates you. You need to feel his skin against yours, to feel all of him, and your hand runs down his body to pull at the cord holding his breeches together. Immediately his fingers close around your wrist to hold you back. He wants to be in control, you know. But it has been three years and something about you just isn't the same.
"Let me worship you like I used to, qybor," you whisper against his lips, your forehead pressed against his, and you feel his jaw tighten. There's a moment of hesitation in his eyes, clouded by desire.
His thumb caresses your lips, pressing against your lower lip. You part them, just enough for the tip of your tongue to wet the top of his thumb. There are no further words exchanged between you, just silence, punctuated by your gasping breaths. His hand closes around your throat, not pressing too hard, just enough so you can feel the weight of his palm against your windpipe, just to remind you that he's in complete control of the situation.
Fuck, you've missed it; the adrenaline of his hand around your throat, the adrenaline of knowing he could do anything to you and you'd be defenceless.
"On your knees then."
The command echoes through the room and you feel the wetness seeping between your thighs as you slide to your knees in front of him. Your eyes shine with envy and you look up at him as you did years ago. You know he can't resist the angelic look on your face when you're between his thighs. You know he can't resist the dichotomy between the innocent look on your face and the sinful act you're about to commit.  He revels in your submission, and that's something you've learned to use against him.
Your uncle releases his cock from his breeches, his hand wrapped around the base, and the desire you feel between your thighs becomes more and more unbearable. The head is already glistening with anticipation, white pearls beading at the slit, and it takes all of Aemond's self-control not to grab you by the hair and force himself into your mouth entirely. 
Closing the distance, he rubs his member against your lips to spread the wetness before pushing into your mouth. Your lips close around him. He's warm and heavy on your tongue and the hand holding the base of his manhood is replaced by yours to cover what you can't take. Your tongue curls around the tip first, absorbing his salty taste, and you look up at him through your long lashes. He doesn't look away from you.
His hand cups your cheek, his thumb caresses your cheekbone before sliding to the corner of your lips, just where his length disappears between them. It's as if he's hypnotised by the spectacle, by the bobbing of your head, by your hollowed cheeks, by your application and devotion. 
His hands leave your jaw and sink into your thick curls, urging you to take him a little deeper, and he thrusts between your lips with more vigour. You close your eyes, concentrating on not choking as his member touches the back of your throat. You take it as diligently and assiduously as ever, ignoring the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.
"That's it, just like that. Such a good girl, mandianna [niece], such a good wife," you hear him grunt, his movements more erratic, more jerky, and you revel in his praise, sending a new wave of heat between your thighs. "Only for me."
You feel him throb on your tongue. You know it won't be long now, and you prepare yourself to welcome him, to let the salty taste of his seed flood your tongue, but your uncle pulls back reluctantly. 
"I would rather not waste." he whispers, his eyes riveted on the thread of saliva that connects your lips, glistening with saliva and precum, to the tip of his cock. You shudder. Aemond definitely hasn't changed much, you realise.
His hand finds your cheek again and he caresses your lips to spread the mess you've made by sucking him. You know he isn't finished. This is just the beginning and you're both driven by the consuming hunger of passion. You know what's coming now, your core clenching around nothing, and you rub your thighs together, in an attempt to soothe the impatience. 
He urges you to stand. He has that predatory look in his eyes as he closes the distance between you with his determined steps. 
" Undress," he orders, and you do not take your eyes off him as you untie the linen dress you had put on to disguise yourself as a common girl.
The garment falls heavily to the floor, forming a grey puddle at your feet, and you take a step forward.
"Do you not like seeing me dressed in rags, qybor?" you ask in a playful tone, teasing, referring to the time, years ago, when he had rescued you during your adventurous walk along the grim Silk Road where your uncle Aegon had accidentally led you. 
The memory was so close and yet so far away.
Aemond takes a step towards you, his hand brushing aside the long hair that hides your breasts to tuck it behind your shoulder.
"Not when you are meant to be my Queen." His eye glow with desire. He studies your body in detail as his fingers slide down your collarbone to your breasts. His thumb traces their underside before moving up to your nipples, hardened by the cool evening air and desire. He plays with them, eliciting a moan that satisfies him.  He looks at you like one looking at a prize, a long-awaited gift.
"Three years away from my beautiful wife," he whispers, his good eye gleaming as he looks at your breasts.
"You did have pleasant company in Harrenhal though, didn't you?" you hiss through your teeth and Aemond's hand suddenly closes around your throat to make you swallow your insolence.  You're not afraid, not anymore, for you know he won't hurt you. You have this power over him and it's delicious. 
His face is so close to yours that your noses are touching. 
He doesn't let go of you. 
"It wasn't like that." He whispers. "With her." You know he's sincere because he's almost awkward with his words, his explanation. You can see in his eye that there are so many other things he would like to tell you, but you have learned not to rush him.  It has always been difficult for him to open up, to be vulnerable.
His fingers release you. Aemond is a good head taller than you, and as he puts a hand on your shoulder, moving forward to force you back until your knees hit the mattress, your eyes remain fixed on his. 
Your uncle lays you down on the mattress. It's not the comfort of the bed you once shared, but you don't care, you just need him inside you. 
You need him to make you feel whole again. Aemond was fire, and you were willing to burn for him.  You had always burned for him.
In the candlelight of the small bedroom where you spend the night, you see his thumbs slip under the waistband of his breeches. His clothes quickly join yours on the floor.
There's something soothing about the weight of his naked body on top of yours. Once under him, you know you can surrender completely to him and stop thinking, just stop thinking.
His lips on yours, his hands on your body, his broad torso eclipsing your smaller figure.
He places kisses down your neck to your collarbone, sucking your skin between his teeth to leave purple marks that will blossom tomorrow. 
He kisses your breast, his lips closing around an erect nipple which he sucks gently, then around the other.  Your hands are buried in his long silver hair.  You can feel how wet you are between your thighs. You need him desperately, right there.
The confidence with which his fingers slide down your waist, from your hips to your inner thighs, only emphasises his ravenous expression. His touch on your folds sends a wave of heat through your body, causing your hips to move against his hand. Softly tracing the curves of your crotch, his index and middle fingers finally part your folds to collect the wetness that has formed there.
"Is it sucking your husband's cock that has got you so wet? 
Yes, you want to answer, seeking more contact, but the words are stuck in your throat.
"Stay still," he orders in a hoarse voice as you move your hips, his hands gripping your hips to pin you back against the mattress. 
You comply, for once, because you know he won't give you what you want otherwise. And you can't wait any longer, not today, not when you thought you'd never feel his warmth against your body again, his hands on your hips, his cock inside you.
"You see, you can be a good girl." His voice is softer when you obey. And to reward you, his fingers slide to your entrance, where he applies a little pressure with the tip of his middle finger without actually penetrating you. "Now beg your husband to fill you."
"Please, qybor," you murmur, your hand taking his cheek to bring his face to yours. You want him to look at you. "Please, I need you inside."
Oh, the slowness and precision with which his finger plunges into you makes you throw your head back. He begins to move back and forth, his index finger joining his middle one, caressing your spongy walls, his thumb tracing circles around your bud. Curling his fingers, he strokes that spot inside you that makes your legs tremble and you clutch the sheets beneath you.
You feel your centre tighten around his fingers, the release you've been looking for so close, so very close. You shut your eyes, ready for the familiar wave of warmth to wash over your entire body, but your uncle pulls his fingers away. You grunt in frustration.
You open your eyes only to see Aemond bring his fingers to his lips indecently, spreading your wetness over his own lips. "You still taste so good," he purrs, and you feel the blush rise to your cheeks.
He leans over to kiss you and you taste yourself on his lips. It's indecent.
He pulls back and you see him wrap his hand around his hardened cock, the head angrily red and already drooling in anticipation. He guides himself to your core, rubbing his length between your folds, coating it with your glistening juices. 
The round tip of his member enters you, slowly at first, stretching your narrow entrance as if to give you time to adjust. Aemond pushes and he sinks easily into you until he's fully seated, your warm, wet walls feeling heavenly around him, squeezing him just right.
" You are so tight," he growls against you as your arms close around him, your legs bent and pressed to either side of his body. 
He gives you a moment to get used to having him inside you again, to feeling him so deeply. It's exactly what you need; he stretches you deliciously, with a perfect touch of controlled pain.
You feel whole again and you want to cry.  You never want to lose that feeling. You want to keep him, against you, inside you.
You close your eyes and bury your head in the hollow above his shoulder, clinging to him as if to feel him more deeply, more intimately.
"You can move," you reply, rolling your hips to support your words. Aemond's hand immediately presses down on your stomach to hold you against the mattress and you bite your lower lip, almost guilty of forgetting his earlier command. He always has that need to control. He's the one who decides, you should know it after all these years, and you should stop being so demanding, so desperate.
"I said stay still," he scolds you, and the waiting is unbearable. 
You need him. 
When he finally pulls out and thrusts into you again, you let out a whimper. Your nails dig into the pale skin of his back, leaving crescent marks that will probably still be there the next day.
Once under him, Aemond has the ability to make you vulnerable, and part of you hate him for it.
"You take me so well," he growls after a particularly brutal thrust. "You're such a good girl."
The praise is sweet music to your ears.  You have always needed it, to be praised, complimented.
You feel him hitting that special spot deep inside you, you feel him pressing in so deeply and your grip tightens around him.
"Did you miss me?" you whisper in a voice made weak by pleasure, but all you get in return are the hoarse grunts of his voice.
Aemond lowers his eyes to look at where you are joined, hypnotised by the sight of his cock disappearing inside you. The rhythm he imposes is powerful, deep, and his fingers find their way between your bodies, reaching your little bud at the top of your folds to trace circles on it. You won't last long and he knows it as he feels your walls tighten desperately around him. Your moans grow louder.
"Look at me." His voice barely brings you back to reality, even though your mind is already far away, even though you know you can't last much longer. Painfully, you open your eyes to meet your uncle's icy gaze. " I am going to fill you up." His pacing becomes more erratic, more sloppy, and you know he won't last much longer either. Leaning on his forearm, he continues to stroke your pearl in small circles. "I am going to fill you up and you're going to take it all."
The image of you, belly round with his child, haunts him.  It never stopped haunting him, even on the brink of death, even when he thought he'd exhaled his last breath as he fell into the icy waters of the lake, his heart clenched with regret and remorse. It still is a wonder that he has survived. Perhaps, just perhaps, the Gods still had plans for him.
I'm going to fill you up. Words like that shouldn't bring you to ecstasy, and yet they do. Aemond reaches deeper, and as he feels your whole body convulse with the spasms of your orgasm, he joins you in your release. He spills his seed deep inside you before remaining still, buried against your womb, enjoying your warmth, making sure he's pouring every last drop into you. 
He doesn't want to pull out, not yet, and you close your arms around his neck, your breast pressed against his chest as he softens inside you.
The weight of his body on yours is comforting.  For the first time in years, you feel alive. For the first time in years, the open wound he left seems to be healing.
When he pulls out, you wince at the sensation of his cock slipping between your still too sensitive folds. You immediately miss the feeling of fullness. 
You barely move, your whole body still sore from your lovemaking, but you can feel his cum leaking from your entrance onto the mattress below.
Again, Aemond's fingers are between your thighs that are glistening with the intimate essence of both of you, collecting his own seed and pushing it back into you.  You whimper, still too sensitive, your lips brushing against his, and he remains inside you for a brief moment. He wants to make sure nothing is wasted.
And when he withdraws his fingers, he presses them against your lips for you to clean them.
You snuggle up against him, your head against his chest. Your hand caresses his chest, the fine line of his muscles, and he rests his chin on the top of your head, wrapping an arm around your waist to hold you close. You enjoy the warmth of his body while you still can. Between your thighs you feel the sticky sensation of his seed mixing with your wetness as it still flows out of you, but you don't want to leave the embrace of his arms.
"I saw you in the gardens. With the child."
When you feel his throat vibrate, you look up at him, your eyebrows furrowed. "It was you, then?" You swallow. "It was you watching me." It's more of an observation than a question, and you suddenly understand that constant, uncomfortable feeling of being watched. At least you weren't crazy. 
He lets out a hm and pauses.
"Is he yours?"
You know where this question is leading. You fear the moment of truth.  You'd deluded yourself into thinking you could avoid it, but you were naive; did you really think you could hide the truth from him for much longer, now that he was back?
"Yes." You answer, looking away. You're nervous, and he can feel it.
"He's Cregan Stark's son, isn't he?"
Your heart clenches. You hesitate for a moment. You should lie.  You know you should lie.  To protect your son and your family, as you've protected them for the past three years.  You only need one word.
You hear him sighing beneath you, taking your silence as confirmation.
"No, he's not." 
The words leave your lips before you can even stop them. You hold your breath. Beneath you, Aemond tenses. He straightens, puzzled, silent.
"A bastard, then?" His voice is dry, almost mocking, revealing a form of irritation. "I did not expect this from you, dear niece." Disappointment.
You feel anger boiling inside you at the thought of him insulting your son, your sweet boy you love so much. You swallow the lump that has formed in your throat and rise on your forearms, your eyebrows furrowed as you turn your hard gaze on him.
You don't know how to express the words that are desperately trying to escape your lips. 
" He has blue eyes," you add, and you can see the confusion on his face. A lock of hair slips from your shoulder and falls around your face. "Your blue eyes."
You feel him tense up. He says nothing, just stares at you with his one seeing eye.  It's rare to see Aemond Targaryen so unsure of himself, so full of doubt. He stares at you as if he's afraid he's heard you wrong, as if he's afraid he's invented the words that have come out of your mouth.
"What did you say?"
You look away. You bite your lower lip, regretting your words.  You want to bury your face in his chest. You breath. 
"He is your son, Aemond." You finally admit it.
It's true that Rhaegar's brown curls could easily make him look like a Stark. Cregan had offered to raise him as his own, and you had smiled at his kindness.
Rhaegar is so much like you. Like you, and like Luke, and especially like Jace as a child, of whom he is the spitting image. He has the soft features of your face, but his eyes make him undeniably Aemond's son.
Your uncle holds you close, his arm wrapped around your waist, his long nose buried in the hollow of your neck, breathing in the scent of your hair.
"My son," he repeats in awe.  It's rare to see Aemond smile with sincerity.  Especially after the war has worn him down, made him more ruthless than ever.
"His name is Rhaegar," you say. "Just as we discussed." There's shyness in your voice.
He straightens, you on top, straddling him, and he seeks your lips to kiss you fiercely. His desire awakens beneath you; you feel him harden against your core again.
And this time, he makes love to you.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** 
"I missed the best part." He purrs against you, his hand absently caressing your breast before sliding down your body to rest on your flat stomach, just above where your womb lies. He clenches his hand possessively over your flesh. His voice is almost tinged with regret. Your hand rests on his.
"You shouldn't have left me," you reply, bitter. Deep down, you're still angry with him. Your gaze falls on your stomach, where both your hands lie, yours on top of his, clasped together. "You shouldn't have let your anger dictate your actions," you add, looking away. "But you were blinded by your desire for revenge, by your desire to prove that you could be better than him.” You swallow.
It is his fault, after all, that he missed your son's birth, that he didn't see him grow through the tender years of his infancy.
Rhaegar needed a father, and it was Cregan who raised him.
"Does he even know who I am? Who his father is?"
The guilty look on your face betrays you, and you know immediately that you've hurt his feelings. It may be selfish of you, but he needs to understand.
"You were supposed to be dead. There's still a lot he doesn't know." 
He doesn't say anything. You don't have the courage to meet his hard, stern gaze, you don't have the courage to see the disappointment and pain on his face, because if you do, your heart will tighten and you will fall apart.
"He's still so young. Give him time." You add, your fingers tracing small circles on the back of his hand, in an attempt to soothe him. 
You know how much Aemond wanted a son, and you know it's cruel to take that from him.  You know he would have made a good father. You can picture him with Rhaegar on his knee, reading him stories, telling him about the adventures of Vhagar and Visenya, and you love the image that forms in your mind.
You told Rhaegar about Aemond, though he was still too young to understand. You told him that his father had once owned the greatest dragon in the world, that his father was a fearless man for it was true, and you saw his big eyes light up. 
Aemond pulls you closer to him. "I want to be there for him, you know."  Unlike Viserys, but he doesn't have to say it, you understand what he means in the undertone he leaves at the end of his sentence.  He has always suffered from his father's indifference.
You cuddle up to him and he runs his fingers through your long curls. For a moment, you imagine that everything is fine and you search for his touch. He plants a kiss on the top of your head.
"I've missed you," he admits, the words landing on the tips of his lips in the silence of the bedroom, but you're already dozing off.
You know that tomorrow will be made up of choices and decisions. 
But for now, you fall asleep in the embrace of his very real arms, for once, enjoying the illusion of the life you both could have had.
2K notes · View notes
daosies · 3 months
Text
finding sunshine
it rains whenever you're gone. the melusines wonder why.
Tumblr media
neuvillette ♡ gn!reader
warnings: lovesick neuvillette, yapping, reader is immortal
notes: sorry everyone im a chronic yapper
Tumblr media
"looks like it's going to rain today," trow says. she stares out the grandiose windows of opera epiclese, observing the darkening sky and the piling clouds.
aeife nods. "after all, monsieur neuvillette said that mx [name] won't be visiting for a couple days."
"really?" trow replies, her lavender eyes beginning to wilt as she fiddles with her paws. "that's a shame. mx [name] always has the best souvenirs from their travels..."
the melusines have developed a weather system that relies wholly on you. if you're present, then the skies will be clear. if you're not, then there will be downpour—oftentimes torrential—as if the sky itself were mourning your absence, begging you to return.
"it has always been like that," aeife says. "mx [name] brings sunlight!"
suddenly, neuvillette steps out of his office. the melusines instantly straighten up, their eyes wide with adoration as they trail after the iudex, tiny footsteps echoing throughout opera epiclese.
"monsieur neuvillette!" trow exclaims, "are you taking your lunch break today?"
the iudex nods. "yes, please excuse me for a couple minutes, trow, aeife."
they salute him eagerly before returning to their ranks. the melusines observe neuvillette with great curiosity as he steps outside, surrendering himself to the rain as it drenches his clothes, his skin, his locks. glass beads trickle down wispy, pearl-colored strings, tracing across the bridge of his pale nose and the bones of his cheeks.
neuvillette lets out a lofty sigh. he stands under the rain, relishing in its embrace as his mind wanders a little, yearns a little, as he closes his eyes. droplets kiss his skin as neuvillette retraces the flutter of your lashes and the curl of your lips.
he remembers—vividly—the way your smile would reduce him to a quiet, awestruck mess, the way you would say his name (but it's not even his name, just his surname is enough to make his resolve waver) and the way the world would blank at that. he remembers, and just the thought alone is enough to make something flutter within his stomach, enough to make his heart ache and yearn and pine.
neuvillette supposes—no, he knows that his heart does more than just beat. he knows that his heart does more than sustain life, because closer to him than the blood that courses throughout every part of his body, you are there. you are there in the essence of his soul, the fibers of his being and the water that gives him sustenance. you are there, everywhere and here.
you are in the rain that cherishes his skin, the rain that floods fontaine.
his heart does not simply beat—his heart loves. it loves to the point of extinction, to the point where it threatens to burst from the confines of the ribs that retain it. neuvillette loves to the point where it hurts, where love becomes longing and longing becomes you.
the rain stops—but it doesn't—it continues to fall around him, but where the water once met his eyelids are replaced by a warm, familiar hand.
but neuvillette does not need sight to recognize who it is. he can tell by the callouses adorning your palm, the weathered scars from centuries ago. he can tell by the mere touch of your fingers, firm yet gentle, and the way you don't bother to shield the rest of his face from the rain.
you know him. that realization brings the rain to a standstill. the clouds begin to give way as the sun begins to peek through, engulfing fontaine in its dainty light.
"miss me that much, huh?" you ask, your hand still covering his eyes. although he cannot see you, neuvillette can picture the haughty expression tugging at your features, the toothy grin that brings sovereigns to their knees.
neuvillette can see you even when he can't—that's just how it is, and how it always has been.
"yes," he admits, leaning into your touch. "yes, very much." he does not bother to question why you've returned early, why you didn't sent him a notice in advance. neuvillette does not care—for once—about the technicalities of your return, opting to relish in the fact that you did return, that you are here, with him, in the flesh.
you release your hold on him (not figuratively, never figuratively) as neuvillette stares at you with wide, enamored eyes.
looking directly at the sun is dangerous. the rays emitted from the star can burn holes in one's retinas, damaging their vision and their ability to see.
neuvillette does not care, though. he will continue to look at you directly, to stare into your own eyes—which may be brighter than the sun itself—and brave the rays. what is sight for, if not for beholding you?
"of course," you state matter-of-factly, "what will you do without me?"
the iudex pauses.
"i don't know," he responds truthfully, violet eyes glazing over at the thought.
you brush the side of his face with a tender touch. a small smile etches onto your face as you whisper, "don't be sad. i was just joking."
neuvillette swallows the lump in his throat. how pathetic, for a sovereign like himself to be reduced to a mere fool at your words, your hypotheticals. what will his kin do if they find out he's willing to give up his sight if it means it will belong to you? what will his kin do if they find out he's willing to lose it all, to forget who he is if it means he will become a part of you?
closer to him than his very blood, you are there. you are there in the water that he commands, the water that he cherishes. you are there, always.
the sky clears, and the world halts its weeping. neuvillette sheds his stupor, his grief, as he holds a hand out to take your bag. it's heavy, filled to the brim with various gifts for melusines, he presumes, and neuvillette doesn't even bother suppressing his smile.
"how were your travels?" he asks, as if he doesn't already know. you've sent him multiple letters (at his request) and have elaborated—in striking detail—about how much you loathe the foggy islands of enkanomiya and the harsh climate of dragonspine. if not for his position as iudex, neuvillette wouldn't have let you experience such conditions alone.
the issue is not that you aren't strong, it's the fact that neuvillette is weak. his heart—which beats for you, which lives for you—is weak, his mind reaching the worst of conclusions whenever you are gone for a day later than you told him you'd be. neuvillette is paranoid, he is scared of loss because he fears it will one day be all he knows.
"it was good," you say, and neuvillette nods, urging you to continue. "i'm not done, though. i want to explore sumeru's deserts."
neuvillette shivers at the thought of a desert, but all he can hear of himself is the deafening ring of his ears, the stutter in his chest as bubbles pop in his stomach.
"you're leaving?" he asks, struggling to keep his voice from wavering. "again?"
you offer him a gentle smile. your hand brushes briefly against his, and in those minute moments, neuvillette feels the emotions of a lifetime. yearning becomes longing and longing becomes you, and again, the cycle of rain and sun continues, the constant thump-thump, thump-thump remaining within his chest.
neuvillette has long grown used to your whims. whatever you want, you will find a way—that's just the kind of person you are. the kind of person you've always been.
so he will do what he does best: wait.
"when will you leave?" neuvillette queries, his voice pathetically meek. you merely shrug, a distant expression on your face as neuvillette follows your gaze, pupils tracing over the horizon line and the mountains that border sumeru in the far, far distance.
he wonders what it'd be like to be in the center of your gaze. to be the receiver of your wishful expressions, to be the one you search for amidst the endless sky.
neuvillette wonders what it'd be like if you looked at him with a fraction of how he looks at you—what it'd be like if you missed him, if you thought of him, if you perceived him, even in the slightest.
because to be perceived is to be loved.
"maybe tomorrow," you respond, unsure of yourself. "or the day after. 'm not sure yet, i'll figure it out when the time comes."
he nods, his voice dying in his throat as neuvillette trails after you, following you into opera epiclese. it always goes like this, he thinks, with me following after you. neuvillette is familiar with your silhouette; he thinks he's lived his entire life chasing it, wishing to be in it.
instead of dwelling too much on the future, neuvillette opts to treasure the present. in the comfort of his office, neuvillette offers you various confectionaries he's accumulated throughout the day (all for you, even though he didn't think you were returning today), his hands instinctively coming to set up your favorite chair and unfurl the heavy quilt of your favorite blanket.
even when you're gone, parts of you still live with him, coexisting in the daily happenings that he sometimes overlooks. you live with him in the obnoxious-colored blanket (despite how worn the color is, you still insist on keeping the musty thing) folded neatly on his shelf, in the chair—your favorite chair—remaining stiffly in the corner of his office. you live with him, you always do, in ways beyond tangibility, in ways that are embellished in his very bones.
"looks like it'll be sunny today," trow says. she stares out the grandiose windows of opera epiclese, observing the limitless sky and the egg yolk sun.
aeife nods. "after all, monsieur neuvillette said that mx [name] might be staying for a couple days."
Tumblr media
1K notes · View notes
fabulouslygaybean · 2 years
Text
god. im scared
#realizing that i lost all of my teen years to trauma and bullshit like that. and that it forced me to be an adult way sooner than i -#- should have needed to be.#im turning 17 in a whopping 13 days and just. im terrified. like genuinely scared.#my family is having a lot of financial issues rn and im probably gonna have to pick up another job to help my mom make ends meet#and i think she wants me out of the house by the time i turn 18 so i gotta hurry.#idk how the fuck im gonna find a job where i can make enough money to help my mom while also letting me save up for an apartment while -#- also helping me cover all of my own costs BEFORE i turn 18. so food and medical stuff and clothes and such. while also having enough -#- time and energy to balance my final two years of high school AND somehow have a social life on top of that#i dont know how the hell im gonna pull it off. i dont feel like an adult but i have to be one already so i just gotta figure it out i guess#ive already lost the rest of my teen years. i shouldn't be sad about losing the last few. i don't have time to mourn.#my mom keeps saying that i need to stop stressing out bc its my birthday but like. the problem is my birthday.#sigh. i should be happy this month. im turning 17! im going to riot fest! i like most of my teachers this year! i have a bit of freedom!#but i don't feel happy. im just violently reminded that time has passed way too quickly and that im running out of time for everything.#im also violently reminded that i very much do not feel like an adult. even though it's only a little over a year till im 18.#i still watch cartoons and buy stuffed animals and have sleepovers with friends where we gossip about school and make pony bead bracelets#i cover my notebooks with stickers and laugh at immature jokes and have glow in the dark stickers on my bedroom ceiling#just. idk. i keep trying to catch up for lost time but i just have to keep rushing foward faster than i can handle. its weird.#sorry to post disappointing shit. im just tired and my body hurts and im stressed and scared and sad. nothing's going right.#in better news. after i get a job to pay for it i can apparently get a birth control prescription without parental consent in my state#i might finally be able to escape from my debilitating monthly pain! ill be able to function!!#im also gonna be getting myself a lowkey ugly rottmnt birthday cake from a grocery store because its my birthday and i can do what i want#so im still stressed and scared but ill have a day with friends where we can play games and do stupid shit and act like teenagers i guess#it'll be nice :')
0 notes
prettybabybaby · 1 year
Text
¡ 18+ only ! ¡ minors do not interact !
content: stepcest (use of "brother" and "sister"), stepbrother!regulus, stepbrother!sirius, fem!reader, unprotected sex, breeding
a/n: found this in my drafts.... dk why i didn't post it
¡ marauders masterlist !
Regulus persists, rutting into you with desperation, cock starved of attention and stimulation. He has an iron grip on your hips, holding you in place when you try to thrash out of his grip at the sight of Sirius. His eyes are almost blank, darkened with lust, pupils blown almost comically as he chases his high, using your body to do so.
Sirius stares on, breathing in the scent of sex that fills your frilly bedroom. He crosses his arms, watching Regulus with an amused smirk. His eyes fall on you covering your face with embarrassment but your pathetic squeaks and moans continue, shamelessly loud and almost pornographic. Your cheeks burn red like Regulus’, blush high and painting the canvases of your pretty faces. 
Your parents hadn’t been out of the house in far too long. Regulus had begun to lose patience, but he had to hold off on playing with his sweet sister to avoid suspicion of his sinful urges he couldn’t help but act upon. And you let him so easily. Despite your protests and weak fighting, you melted into him, obeying his every command to spread your legs wide or open your mouth, flip onto your back, and prep your little holes for his cock to nestle itself into, abusing you until he was satisfied – or you were interrupted. 
This time, though, there was no stopping his eager humping into your fluttering pussy. Not even the presence of your brother standing by the door, entering with confident steps. He swung the door closed behind him as he approached the creaking bed, eyes raking your sweating bodies. Regulus adjusted his hold, pinning you to the bed even more painfully. You whined, trying to cover your body from the preying gazes of your brothers. 
“Couldn’t resist, Reggie?” Sirius spoke. “Y’playing with our sweet sister all alone?” Sirius’ ringed fingers danced across your exposed chest, meanly twisting a nipple before he pried your hands from your face. “Don’t play shy, slut. You’re letting your brother fuck you silly and you think you can be shy?” he tsks.
Regulus grunts as the dams of your eyes break, sending a river of tears down your rouge cheeks. He tries to thrust even harder, push himself even deeper into you, moving your hips up and down to meet his stuttering hips in his attempt to do so. You slide up and down the pillow where your head rests, hair tangling and back sliding against the soft bed sheets. 
Sirius’ fingers glide downwards, gathering a pinch of regulus’ curly pubic hair and pulling meanly. Regulus makes a sound at the pleasurable pain, digging his nails onto your hips before pinning you down, slamming into you, almost like he was trying to mold you and the soaked sheets into one. 
“Move,” Sirius says, “I wanna play, too.”
Regulus slows but doesn’t pull out, giving his brother a displeased look. Sirius looks back, raising a perfectly shaped brow as he touches up Regulus’ sweaty chest, circling his hardened pink nipples. Regulus’ hips stutter but he pulls out, mourning your warmth instantly. His cock is fully erect, angry, and red, wet with slick and come. He moves aside, grazing your wet thighs as he parts. 
Sirius takes his place, laughing meanly as he gathers the juices on his fingers. Your pussy’s throbbing, clit engorged and jumping in excitement. Pearly spunk drips in thick beads and you crave to push it back in, push your brother deep into your womb. “Look at you two,” Sirius laughs. “Fucking each other like virgins. Desperate dogs.” You and Regulus burn brighter in humiliation, a bubblegum pink covering every inch of skin on your face.
You can see the slight grinding of Regulus’ hips against the blankets holding up his cock. You almost whine in jealousy of the inanimate object. Your attention was brought back to Sirius when he slipped a come-coated finger into your sensitive little hole, swirling and curling it as he spoke. 
“You really let him come inside you?” Sirius chided, “that’s filthy. Are the poor puppies so desperate they fuck their own siblings?”
You sob and Regulus begins to thrust into the blanket. You reach for him, shaking your head pathetically, begging him not fuck anything but you. 
“You want his disgusting cum so badly?” Sirius laughs again, “you want him to fill you with his babies, huh?”
You close your eyes as you nod, “please, please.” you feel so empty, cold from the lack of your brother's hard ruts and warm spent painting your insides.
“You’ve had enough of Reggie, don’t you think?” Sirius begins to pull down the waistband of his pajamas, letting his own aching prick spring free. You stare at it, looking from the leaking head of Sirius’ cock to Regulus’. “Do you want my babies, too?”
5K notes · View notes
some-bunniii · 24 days
Text
Even the Devil Mourns
・❥ You awake one night to find your husband, Lucifer Morningstar, missing from your side. You go out to search, only to see him distraught in a pool of tears.
x: reader is g/n, no use of y/n. more luci angst popped into my head yall, sorry not sorry
~ 3.2k words
Warnings: Angst!! Hellish themes! Descriptions of death & Satanic rituals ft. human sacrifices!
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
You awoke suddenly, sweat beading on your forehead and heart pounding in your chest. The silken, satin sheets slid across your naked back as you stirred. The cool breeze across your exposed skin sent goosebumps up your spine.
What time was it? What was that sound that had pulled you from your beauty sleep?
Your face was still buried into the cool pillow beneath you. Its plush, velvety touch beckoning you back into slumber. You snuggled deeper into the pillow’s embrace, your pulse slowing as you began to drift off. 
And then, you heard it again. Echoing from the cracked doorway across the bedroom, emanating from somewhere down the hallway. A stifled sound, like someone holding in a large intake of breath. You shifted your face off of the pillow slightly, straining your ears. 
Sleep was slowly ebbing from your mind, as you stirred underneath the sheets once more. The strange noise piqued your interest as you pulled the covers away from your face, the room beginning to feel unusually cold.
It was night, you guessed, since your eyelids were still bathed in darkness. Usually, the morning light would peak from the drapes that covered the large glass panes that bordered your bedroom. The rays of light would bask your bed sheets in a red glow, and you would have nestled your face closer against the soft, supple skin of your beloved. His arm lifting to snake around your waist, pulling you closer. Hot breath tickling against your lashes as he placed a drowsy kiss on your temple.
Your beloved.
Lucifer.
Where was he? You couldn’t feel the warmth that seemed to seep from his very being, enveloping you like a gentle embrace without even touching the man. You couldn't feel Lucifer beside you at all, not even the weight of his figure on the mattress. 
The fallen angel always had some part of his body against yours. Whether that was his head snuggled against your chest, or his legs wrapped around yours. There was always some sort of contact with Lucifer, no matter the time of day. 
His fingers always seemed to graze against yours as he handed you another one of his candy apple creations. The feeling of his hand resting on the small of your back protectively, as you took a drunken, wobbly step backward as the two of you enjoyed another romantic evening filled with laughter and soft whispers.
But, now. There was none of that. For the first time since you began sharing a bed, Lucifer wasn’t here to greed your tired form. Which made you uneasy, and you lifted yourself slowly from the mattress, renewed energy feeding your tired muscles as you rose to a sitting position.
Twisting your legs, you pivoted until your feet floated over the edge of the bed, before lowering them to the ground. Your skin met the cold, firm wooden floor beneath as you inhaled a deep breath. Sitting there for a few moments, you allowed yourself a little more time to wake, before shifting your weight to your legs and rising.
Your hands reached for the hanger beside your bedside table, a dark red that called out to you with warmth. The thick, plush garment enveloped your fingers as you pulled it from the hook. Wrapping the robe around your semi-nude figure, you quickly shuffled your feet into the fuzzy yellow duck slippers neatly tucked beneath the hanger.
Your eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness of the room, the only source of light teasing you from the doorway. The door was opened only an inch or two, but the familiar orange glow that flickered from the hallway still reached your bedroom even from the lounge. 
Reaching an arm down, you let your fingers gently graze against the marble surface of your bedside table, until your pink landed on the small item of value. Its smooth, metal surface slid against your finger as it nestled around your digit.
Your wedding ring, something you never parted without. Even in a nightly search like this one, where you weren’t sure what exactly you were going to find outside of the safe confines of your chamber. Lucifer had a ring just like yours, but in the darkness, you couldn’t see whether he had taken it with him when he departed.
Snaking your arms together, you held them closely to your chest as you crossed the distance, using your foot to quietly peel the door farther open. It creaked quietly, and you grimaced at the noise. Turning slightly, you shimmied through the gap, the soles of your slippers meeting the carpet in the hallway. 
You turned your head towards the orange glow, that flickered around the corner. The pitiful noises beckoned you as you tiptoed across the corridor, past the large paintings hung across the walls. Scenes of rushing, deep blue waters cascading over glittering rocks as it fell into a pool of sunlit waves. 
On the edge of the large waterfall, was a mother grizzly bear and her cubs, their small frames hanging from their mother’s legs in playful banter. The large bear’s caramel-brown coat stuck out from the sharp, gray edges of the rocks standing tall behind her. 
Her snout was lifted towards the cascading water, her mouth parted to show sharp, white teeth as the shadows of long, pink fish leaped from the edge of the falls, their bodies barely grazing her jaws as she snapped at their forms. 
You weren’t particularly aware of where that painting had come from, but it was a very beautiful scene of life on Earth, a very rare type of piece to find down in Hell.
There was one, that you favored over them all, of you and Lucifer. It depicted a midnight-red sky, the large pentagram glowing above the two figures on a large balcony. Vines snaked around the pillars on each side of the terrace, blue and purple flowers blooming across their green, prickly skin. The familiar face on the left, a pearlescent glow against the red backdrop, wore a playful look on his features. One hand holding a wine glass, the other snug against the figure on the right, you. 
You stood beside Lucifer, a large smile plastered across your face as the two of you leaned comfortably against the tall marble balcony railing. It seemed like the two of you were at some kind of party, perhaps one of those annual meetups all the Sins and friends have away from the prying eyes of Hell. Lucifer’s attire was a more casual fit for a king, his favorite red-and-white striped waistcoat, over that clean, white dress shirt. You were also adorned in an eye-catching outfit that displayed your power and statue of royalty, without making you the center of attention.
The two of you looked so happy, as you leaned into each other with lips curved into goofy grins. For being the highest-ranking figures in Hell, the two of you looked so natural and carefree in this moment. A moment you cherished every time you glanced at the portrait hanging comfortably along the wall during your walks between rooms.
Unfortunately, the light illuminating from the end of the hall wasn’t strong enough for you to get a good glimpse at it, as you neared the corner. You planted your back against the wall, peeking your head slightly out of the edge. You couldn’t see the fireplace from here, but the sound of wood crackling as it split from the flames echoed through the room.
You could hear the strange noises much clearer now, a shaky breath followed by quiet, soothing murmurs. Sniffling, before another one of those stifled sobs. 
Your breath quickened, muscles tensing as you listened for another moment. The voice intermixed with the sounds was awfully familiar, and you couldn’t understand what would make the owner so distraught.
You calmed your beating heart, before pivoting to stand in the entryway of the lounge, your gaze landing on the figure curled on a piece of furniture. Their side faced you, and you partially see their features, illuminated by the orange glow of the flames.
Across the room, was Lucifer. He sat on top of a dark red ottoman, only a few feet from the fireplace as he stared into it, lost in thought. He wore his white dress shirt loosely against his figure, the buttons partially undone in the front, exposing his collarbone. Lucifer’s arms were wrapped around his legs, and his knees were hugged to his chest. His head limply lay against one of his kneecaps, his head out-turned towards you. 
It wasn’t until you approached him, and your footsteps creaked against the floor, did the sullen man perk up from his ball of comfort. Tears glistened against his pale features, and his quivering lip curved into a shocked frown. The man’s disheveled hair bounced softly as he lifted his head, those platinum-blonde curls practically glowing like candlelight.
“Oh, Honey!” Lucifer gasped, his head whipping to face the opposite direction of you. His hand rubbed across his face hastily as he straightened himself atop the sofa. He fixed his loose collar, clearing his throat as he fixed his posture. “I’m sorry, did I wake you? You should just go back to sleep, I don’t want to bother you.”
“It’s hard to sleep when you see your husband like this at one in the morning,” you responded, taking a few steps closer. Your tone was firm, prompting him to speak more on the subject. 
Lucifer stayed silently, the only noise between the two of you were soft pops and crackles from the burning wood. Fear gnawed at you watching him ignore your words. Your husband always tried to hide his emotions at first, masking them behind a smile while he let his mind drift off to such dark thoughts. Except, with you, he always came undone and spilled the beans like a teenage girl at a sleepover.
But, your presence was not breaking him just yet, as he averted his gaze. In the faint light, you swore his fingers were shaking just a tad against the fabric of his shirt. Should you prod him further? There was no way you were going to leave him to drown in whatever sorrows he was battling right now.
“It happened again,” Lucifer finally breathed out after a moment. His fingers harshly squeezed the sleeves of his dress shirt, his chest shuddering as he inhaled another shaky breath. His eyes were still trained on the flames licking against the metal barrier, as he refused to meet your gaze.
You stood there, your arms crossed against your chest as you shivered. The heat of the fireplace felt so welcoming to your tired bones, but the sight of Lucifer sullen upon the ottoman kept your feet frozen in place.
“What happened again?” You whispered, taking a step forward, careful not to cross any boundary that could set your husband off further. This was a side of him you rarely saw. Yes, he was an emotional being, but the distress Lucifer was exuding was making you more nervous after every second he remained silent.
“I was summoned, to one of those… rituals.” Lucifer spat out that last word with disgust, a growl underlying his tone.
You tensed. Oh, one of those.
Since Lucifer fell, and became the King of Hell, his soul was chained to the realm. Unable to cross to Heaven or Earth, even with another’s magic. The fallen angel was stuck, cursed to watch the cruelty and hate that sprung from his past actions.
Except, through the slaughter of a newly-born lamb, could he enter into the mortal plane. Only to answer the call of whoever had landed the killing blow. Something about being punished to only view your creation through ‘the blood of the innocent’ or some stupid Heavenly shit like that. You never asked him what transpired during those summonings, and he never spoke of it.
There was one kind of summoning, that you knew of, that was different from the rest. Cults that worshipped demons and monsters, perpetuated suffering in exchange for a supposed blessing from the fiery pits below. Lucifer always seemed… off, after those times.
“I always feel it, before it happens,” your husband started, his hand raking across his scalp as he pulled the tangled blonde mess behind his forehead. “Like a tugging at my shirt, but from deep inside, like my soul. I didn’t want to disturb you, so I ran to the bathroom. Just as I was pulled through the portal to Earth.”
Those images flashed through Lucifer’s mind as he spoke. Large, crumbling pillars dot the perimeter. Torches circled a thick, wooden stake planted into the ground. Satanic symbols were woven into posts and burned into the ground around the grassy, hidden clearing.
A bloodied figure lay limp against its surface, rope wrapping around their thin frame as it kept them in place. Flames licked at their feet, the stake beginning to catch fire as they writhed in pain from the intense heat.
Hooded. figures stood in the shadows, chanting some awful, ancient tune. Asking for blessings and powers Lucifer couldn’t even grant them.
“It was a girl, I don’t know how old. But, she was young, not even full grown,” Lucifer started, his voice shaky as the words slipped painfully from his tongue, “When I got there, she was already burning. Screaming in agony, pleading for mercy.”
You grimaced, trying not to picture the scene. The metallic tang of blood that no doubt had permeated the air. The stench of burning flesh, as it sizzled off its owner. 
Bile rose in your throat, threatening to spill from your mouth before you held it in. Leaving you to wonder how many times Lucifer had witnessed such a thing to have better composure to the scene than you.
“Do you know who she cried out to during her last moments?” Lucifer turned to you, his features glowing as his eyes glistened with tears. A bitter smile bloomed on his lips, a dark chuckle escaping his throat. “God! She begged Him to save her! To strike those hooded men down and end her suffering.” 
You said nothing, instead taking a few steps closer to your husband's quivering form, only a few feet from him now as Lucifer spoke with a pained tone.
“Do you know what ended her suffering? The flames that ate away her skin.” He snarled, his eyes turning blood-red as he pivoted towards you. You reeled back, your heartbeat quickening at his bared teeth.
“There was nothing I could—nothing I can do,” He cried to you, his tone wobbly, desperate. As if he was trying to convince you that was the truth, that he didn’t let such terrible actions go unpunished purposely. “I’m always too late when they call for me. Too much damage already.”
Tears pricked at your eyes as you listened to him. You would have never had that kind of idea in your head, you knew Lucifer wasn’t that twisted of a man. 
“And imagine, when those bastards finally kick the bucket, they’ll come here,” Lucifer spat hoarsely, venom dripping from his words, “another citizen that I’m expected to protect and rule over. I’m expected to care about, as King. What a cruel joke Heaven has played on me.”
Lucifer sat there for a moment, breathing heavily. His horns jutted out of his head as he fumed silently at himself. Those tears threatened to spill from his pretty eyes once more as he lifted a hand with an anguished growl, and Lucifer raked his claws down his face. 
You gasped, watching blood spill from the small gashes across his cheek, glowing sickly against the blazing light from the fireplace.
“Don’t do that!” You begged, lacing your fingers with his, pulling his hand to your chest as you kneeled before him. The golden liquid spread across your fingertips from his damp claws, and your face screwed into anguish, “Don’t hurt yourself, none of this is your fault. Absolutely none..”
Your finger rubbed against a small, smooth surface on Lucifer’s hand. Glancing down, your eyes followed the glint of his wedding ring as it shined in the basking light. Your heart fluttered, and you sighed.
Slowly, you lifted your other hand to his face. Lucifer leaned back slightly, hesitant at your touch. He broke a moment later, squeezing his eyes shut as he brushed his cheek against your open hand. Your nails grazed lightly against his skin, the damp feeling only driving your own tears.
“Do you know what it feels like, to watch innocent people be burned alive to please some sick, twisted version of me?” Lucifer whispered into your palm, tears pooling against your skin as he blinked them away.
You pursued your lips, the agony on his face clenching your heart tightly.
“Those defenseless men and women, sentenced to death simply for theatrics.” Lucifer whimpered, and you slid your hand from his fingers to rest against his other cheek. 
“All those children—”
Lucifer choked on the last word, a sob escaping his throat as he struggled to contain the shakes racking across his body. 
In a swift motion, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling the fallen angel flush against you. This time, there was no fuss from him as he collapsed into your hold. 
You held him, as he sobbed. Painful, heartbreaking cries of grief. As Lucifer mourned the lives that were destroyed in his name, for an image that didn’t exist. 
You shook against him, ceasing the noises that threatened to escape your aching throat. You only bit your lip harshly, tasting blood drip flood your tastebuds. You ignored the pain blooming in your mouth, staying silent as Lucifer began to calm in your grasp.
All because he wanted mankind to be able to express themselves outside of Heaven’s strict rules and suffocating influence.
“I gave them a chance to do so much more,” he whispered against your skin. His head lay limply against your shoulder as he sobbed quietly. “And, they fucked it up.”
“Please don’t cry,” you whispered hoarsely into his hair, inhaling the deep scent of apples and cinnamon as you hugged him tightly. “I’m here for you, as always. You don’t need to hide your grief from me.”
“I know, I'm sorry.” He replied quietly, his fingers rubbing soothing circles against your upper back. The weight against you grew heavier, as he fell completely limp against your hold, his hand coming down to rest against your waist. 
“I’m just so tired.” He muttered into the crook of your neck, and you pulled him closer.
“Sleep, I’m right here. Just rest your eyes, for me.” You begged your lover.
Lucifer nodded into your skin, before you felt him curl farther into you. You nestled closer into his hair, your back against the ottoman now, as you let the heat of the fire dry your soaked cheeks.
Oh, how cruel Heaven truly is, to give such a fate to such a loving soul. 
And now, you’d make sure he would never feel so alone in his pain again. A silent promise to your husband, as you drifted into bliss-less sleep.
Tumblr media
YOU GUYS. this idea had me by the chokehold suddenly after work, and i wrote it in one sitting, my ass hurts yall 😂
also, don’t worry, that alastor fic is still coming! i’m about halfway done, so stay tuned for that next :)
what do you think? let me know your thoughts! <3
tag list 🏷️
@ohnoivefallen @doodlebob2726 @coleisyn @loslox @sukxma-archive @undertale-is-sansational @nehy019 @mixplara @chewbrry @yellowsubiesdance @airwolf92 @laurenlaurie @lxkeee @jellybellyrulez @catnoirsleftnut @mbruben-stein @mint129106 @froggybich @moonlovers34 @just-trash-yeah-thats-it @lil-bexie @lowkeyhottho @wings-of-sapphire @the-tortured-poet @bethleeham @blue122 @cherry-4200 @azullynx @luzzbuzz @for-hearthand-home @thy-tortured-poet @th3-st4r-gur1 @astro-raven-power @concentratedconcrete @cimadreamer @marsenbie @guacam011y @maxiskindahere @purplerose291 @enigmatic-blues
526 notes · View notes