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dadsbongos · 7 months

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ANOTHER ONE

fucking stupid part 2 i did for my yuuji fic for ao3 :) and decided to post here lol

2.1 K words

warnings - 18+ mdni !!, pwp, penis IN vagina, thigh fucking, tummy bulge (+pressin on it), minor headlock action, yuuji is hesitant but not NOT into it, a lot of drool, mentions of sukuna's cannibal past (not sexified)

Yuuji excels at the single most important tenet of being a boyfriend.

Compromise.

A giver at heart and selfless and so, so loving, he practically bends to your every whim - something Nobara and Megumi love teasing him over. Yes, he would crab walk over glass if you so much as asked, but he will not bend to this.

“I don’t trust you,” Yuuji is stubborn on this, and this alone.

“I’m the reason you’re with her!” the red eye stabs him through your bathroom mirror, “You forget that, vermin!”

“You’re literally in my body,” he sighs, “And keep your voice down, I don’t want her hearing us argue,” at the unimpressed stare Sukuna levels him with, Yuuji only sighs louder, “I don’t know why you even think she’ll want you.”

“I know her body more than you could ever hope to, worm,” if Sukuna notices the way Yuuji huffs, he certainly doesn’t let it be known, “Studied it to perfection years ago, and spent my time in solitude remembering every detail. Every stretch mark and curve and swell of fat - I know her body better than you. I know it.”

Well, he was stubborn on this.

“Be nice,” Yuuji grips the smooth counter of your sink, he could never hold out against you and your batting lashes and sweet voice, “I’m taking over the second she seems upset.”

Another low-lidded, testing glare from Sukuna, and Yuuji shakes his head before throwing the bathroom door open.

“Well?” your fingers lace together in your lap, bottom lip tight between your teeth.

Centuries ago, in different bodies, the two of you were in this same position - with a different question on your lips.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” Sukuna had settled in beside you, the tatami mat squishing beneath his heavy weight and he still towered over you, “Speak up.”

“Well,” you leaned back, head falling against your pillow and fluttering your lashes up at Sukuna, “Would you eat me?”

Rolling over, Sukuna planted a knee between your legs with two arms holding himself from crushing you, the remaining two curled around your waist, “How do you mean, hm?”

Reaching a hand up, your soft palm cradled the unhardened side of his face, giggling when his tongue lolled against the tip of your thumb, “You know how I mean.”

He did. It’s something you’d mentioned since falling into poor health - a stiff question that leaves his heart cold and skin raised. When he should’ve been used to this. He was. He’d eaten many people before you and, even then, he was certain he'd eat many people after you. You’d fed him. You’d helped Uraume cook his meals. You were used to this.

Sensing his hesitation, you slid your hand from his cheek to ghost your fingertips over his lips. Kissing the pads of your fingers, Sukuna’s lids were low as he stared down at you - and he knew the answer you didn’t want to hear.

“It’d be an honor,” you cooed, because of course you already knew which way he was leaning, “To be with you like that. Forever.”

“Greedy,” he teased, slipping from his knees to sit back. He scooped you up with his hold around your waist to settle you atop his lap, his other two hands cupped your cheeks. Your own hand moved down to the base of his throat, fingers tracing the bridge of his collarbones, “Eating you would be a disservice to this beautiful body.”

The word is nourishing, spring water on a dry tongue. You used to fear a long, drawn-out death (not death, not around Sukuna), you’ve seen these same sunken eyes and shaking hands in others. And you did not find them awe-inspiring. But Sukuna has given you no question if his eyes still fell upon you kindly.

You frowned and he scoffed, “You won’t even think about it?”

But Yuuji has no idea about any of that.

Yuuji sits beside you and takes your hands tightly between his, “I can always come back.”

“I know!” you lean in and kiss his cheek sweetly, “I’m just curious.”

Because there has to be something Sukuna can offer if he insists on maintaining this obsession with you (in front of your boyfriend, no less).

…

“Are you nervous, bunny?”

Your heart beats in your throat. Your palms soak into the sheets when you grip them. Your bottom lip is on the brink of bleeding between your teeth. But no, no you are not nervous.

No matter how much you probably should be. And no matter how much it should’ve taken, Sukuna doesn’t take long to put you on your back - lips locked to yours. He cackles cruelly when you huff after he pulls away.

Sukuna binds your knees together, plush thighs trapped against one another. Releasing one knee just to feed his cock through the wetted spot between your thighs, he quickly flushes his chest against the back of your thighs. Both arms winding around your legs to keep them shut around him.

“So wet from just a little kissing,” he stares down at where the head of his cock peeks out, kissing your clit on the way. He fucks your thighs slowly, taking earnest joy in how you whine.

Your teeth sink into the back of your hand at the sensation of Sukuna parting your lips and bumping your clit with his dick. He groans, deep in the back of his throat, when he can feel that gush of slick from your cunt.

“I knew this brat couldn’t care for my bunny as I can,” he slips from between your thighs entirely to press his tip inside you. Your chest rises in a quick gasp, jerking at the intrusion, “You missed me,” he states simply, settling his weight on his elbows beside your head as he teases slow thrusts, “Cunt’s sucking me back in,” he snickers at your squeaking as his hips speed up, “You missed me so much.”

You have no idea what he’s talking about. But you can’t call him on it when he’s clawing at your sides and thighs to flip you onto your stomach, perking your hips snugly against his.

“I’ve seen him,” his hand presses against your lower belly, thrusting down and deep and hitting that spot Yuuji magically detects and obsesses over - that spot that makes drool humiliate the corners of your lips, “That brat abusing your poor clit. Like you can’t cum without it.”

“Huh…” your mushy brain barely registers the disrespect to your boyfriend, “hey…!”

“Do you wanna show him I can fuck you better?” despite that questioning lilt, you don’t think a response could change his pre-determined mind, “I can make you cum without setting a fire between your legs.”

He pulls out slow and miserable, smoothing the hand not on your tummy down your back and curling into your hair.

Sukuna leans his weight into you when he bottoms out, he laughs watching your cheek smush against your mattress. He laughs as his hand untangles from your hair to squeeze around the soft fat of your hip. He laughs when you wheeze with the springs as he pulls out and thrusts back in, rolling his hips flush against you.

“What a good bunny I have,” he coos, slicking his hot tongue over the exposed flesh of your neck, relishing in how his skin audibly pap, papa, paps against yours. You moan, lightheaded, and your forehead hangs into your pillow. He presses on that spot where he bulges inside you, going mad over the choked gasp in your throat, “My sweet bunny.”

Curling an arm around your throat, Sukuna’s muscles squeeze around the soft flesh of your neck. Desperately, the skin of his chest clings to your back as he leans down, teething at the sensitive spot on your shoulder - the one Yuuji bites and the one he bit for himself centuries ago. Licking the sweat from your body and cackling as you squirm under the slick, wet run of his tongue.

His hips quicken, borderline battering that spot in your cunt to really make you messy. You bury your face into the soft pillow, but Sukuna ‘tsk’s and undoes the arm from your neck to lift your chin. He licks up the drool from your lips and swallows the pitchy moans he’s been starving for from behind Yuuji’s ears.

He consumes you, melding your skin to his and ensuring you cannot leave again.

“Good- “ he grits it between clenched teeth, “girl! Good girl. Good girl,” he grunts each word between thrusts. He groans, thick and gravelly, digging his nails into your soft skin, “My best fucking girl.”

Your face is on fire, the backs of your thighs clinging to Sukuna’s, and the wetness of your cunt stringing between the both of you. Loud, sloppy echoes of that wetness only make the fire burn hotter. You whine, hands scrambling back and clinging to Sukuna’s thighs, nails biting into the thick muscle.

“Aw, you’re squeezing me,” Sukuna refuses to slow down, bouncing your body on his cock from behind, “Are ya gonna cum, bunny?”

And any respect you were trying to maintain for your out-of-commission boyfriend is quickly tossed aside, “Yes! Yes, ‘m gonna cum, Sukuna…!”

“You want me to make you cum?” he reaches both hands down and takes hold of your face, fingers dipping into your open mouth, “Say it, bunny - fuck - say you want me to make you cum.”

As best you can through his fingers parting your lips and pressing on your tongue, you cry, “Please, Sukuna- please, please make me cum. Wanna cum, wanna cum with you, need you to make me cum…!”

“Need me,” Sukuna repeats, palms soft against you despite bullying his cock into your weepy hole, “Need me, need me, need me…”

“Uh… huh,” you whine, the coil in your stomach eats at itself and your thighs shake, “Need you, Sukuna! Need - hah! - need… cum, please!”

“Cum for me, bunny,” he teases his fingers further into your throat, just to see if you’ll remember.

“God- fuck!” your hands cinch around his thighs just as your cunt does to his cock, tugging him closer, deeper as you finally soak him in your cum. Chanting his name with a sugary, soft, “Sukuna! Sukuna! Sukuna!”

You don’t seem to recognize it, the need to cum overshadowing the need to meld your bodies into one.

His cock spits hot cum in your tight, sucking cunt despite the realization. He keeps himself pressed against you, dragging his fingers from your mouth and circling his arms around your soft waist.

Sukuna rolls onto his back, pulling you on his chest and letting his softening cock slip from you. He peppers your raw, marked shoulder in tender kisses - then moving to your neck - then your cheek. He feels your cheeks ball up in a grin under his attention.

Your ditzy head falls against his shoulder and he doesn’t know how much longer he has like this. So he ignores the cooling saliva on his fingers and the mixed cum flowing from your hole and onto his thigh. He never minded the mess before, and he certainly doesn’t mind it now.

“Don’t forget me, hm?” you blink up at him drowsily, “If you ever get tired of that brat.”

You don’t remember asking him to gobble you up, and you don’t remember wanting to clutch his hand in your final moments, but you still see something in him. Something he thought was sealed away long, long ago.

He misses you. Whatever life you shared, he hasn’t been able to mourn.

Giggling, you nod and kiss his cheek. He slips hair from your hair and studies the way you flutter into sleep. Commits it to his memory and lets Yuuji take back the body with little more than a scoff.

You rouse later in the night, feeling your bed dip beside you, a thick warm arm sweeping you into an equally warm chest. A steady heartbeat ba-dumps into your ear. You nestle into the cradle.

“Cleaned ya and then showered,” Yuuji murmurs, lips soft against your forehead, “I take it you liked the big guy?”

Snorting, you nod sluggishly, cheek sticking to his skin, “Mhmm.”

“Good,” he suddenly groans, “Sukuna doesn’t know anything!”

“Mh?”

“I can make you cum without your clit,” he pouts, looking down at you despite your closed eyes, “You believe in me, right, babe?”

“Mhm.”

“Exactly. Thank you!” he kisses your forehead this time, “Alright, we’ll try that another day. Get some sleep already, jeez!”

“Hm!” you huff fitfully.

“Okay, okay,” he whispers, “Shutting up now.”

And, for now, you ignore how right it felt to have Sukuna’s mean fingers fucking your mouth.

~~~

people i think will be into this @moonlitdivination @kingofthe-egirls

#jjk x reader #sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna smut #yuuji x reader #jjk drabbles #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x you

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shinygoldstar · 9 months

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all the terrible terrible things that happened in DP but got glossed over because it's a cartoon show (aka the source of all the phandom's horror inspirations)

Dissection (mentioned several times. attempted by Maddie Masters although it was more of a threaten for answers kind of thing. also attempted by Vlad to determine why Dani lasted longer than other clones)

Brainwash (Plantwash by Undergrowth via invasive plant tentacles, Musicwash by Ember's music)

Possession (out of context of cartoon shows, if someone loses autonomy to an unknown someone else controlling their body, this would be terrifying. this happened on massive scale in this cartoon show several times and more frequently on smaller scale) (Freakshow's red orb staff fits here more than in the Brainwash section)

Spectra's quest for immortal youth (because this is a kid's show, instead of bathing in virgin's blood for immortal youth like Bathory, Spectra made do with binging on teenagers' emotions. depression isn't a joke but Spectra hands it out like candy)

Can it be gore if there's no red? all the ghosts that were implied to have been caught by the Fentons, the GIW, and Vlad for the purpose of experimentation to develop their ectoequipments (bonus: the melted Danny clones that were implied sentient and aware)

Dehumanization (all the ghost hunters did this to validate their actions. Vlad where did you draw your mental line between the melted Danny clones and the prime clone?)

the Mutant Food (the Fentons are lucky that those things haven't gained enough intelligence to take over their weapon stash yet. re: crab with a knife)

Cannibalism?? (this one is debatable since all the materials in ghost zone are made out of ectoplasm, are all ghosts the same species? where's the line drawn at?)

OSHA violations (let's see.. resulted in the creation of Vlad Plasmius, Danny Phantom, mutant food. possibly an on-going process of creating a haunted FentonWorks except Danny is already haunting FW.) (also ectoplasm glows. is it radioactive? highly mutagenic- see: mutant food. the Fentons claims their ectoweapons are safe but they're wearing hazmats, the people they sometimes accidentally shoot ectoplasmic goo at don't have hazmat protective suits) (do they have proper disposal protocols? or are they polluting Amity Park with highly mutagenic and likely radioactive ectoplasm?)

Technus' world domination (why wait for AI domination like skynet and the matrix when we have Technus)- this one is underutilized plot but Technus can become a high level threat without proper counter (reminder: he had access to nuclear weapons for a hot minute)

the Plasmius-Phantom merge into Dan/Dark Danny/Dark Phantom (they just merged grieving kid's soul with the soul of an old man obsessed with the kid's mom, is it any wonder that they didn't come out sane?)

Danny's repeated deaths (death by portal zap count: 2)

the time GIW tried to nuke Ghost Zone (and consequently, the Reality out of sheer ignorance)

The reblog with Vlad's list of crimes here

#danny phantom #there's plenty more but the list got pretty long

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undeadlobster · 10 months

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#crab #crabs #poll #crab race #if enough people like this I’ll do a round 2 with other crabs I left out

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yandere-writer-momo · 5 months

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Baki 12 days of Christmas… an angsty yandere for @justamegafan. Merry Christmas!!

The mc is Hanayama’s arranged fiancée who he hates (at first). A trope I will never stop writing until I’m shot dead on the spot

Yandere Baki Shorts: A Christmas Carol

Yandere Hanayama Kaoru x Afab Reader

TW: Angst, mentioned character death (spoiler), Yandere, and mention of terminal illness

Hanayama often found his fiancée scuttling around his office like a little crab. She was such a skittish thing, with big, innocent eyes and a soft voice. She was weak, something Hanayama disliked most in a partner. And she always tried her best to get to know him… today was no exception

“Can we please spend Christmas together? Just this once?” Hanayama sighed when she stared up at him with her doe like eyes. Why couldn’t she get the hint that he wanted to be left alone?

“This is merely an arrangement by our families, I could care less about your feelings and the stupid holidays.” Hanayama ran a hand through his dark locks. “You’re bothering me so I suggest you leave.”

Hanayama ignored the soft sobs that escaped her lips and he didn’t even cast her a glance when she wished him a soft “Happy holidays.” The door quietly shut behind her and he went back to work. At least she could shut the door properly.

Hanayama shoved the Christmas cookies she made him into the trash beside his desk and continued to work on his paperwork. Hopefully this was the last time he’d ever have to deal with her… he couldn’t stand this arrangement but he kept with it because he wanted to honor his deceased mother’s wishes. Hanayama knew he could never grow to love the meek woman no matter how hard he tried, she’d break if he so much as touched her. She was far too fragile for him.

When it finally became night, Hanayama decided to retire for the night. The yakuza went to lay down in his bed but the screen door to his room suddenly opened and a cold, winter breeze blew in. What on earth?

“Hello.” Hanayama nearly jumped out of his skin when a ghostly apparition stood at the foot of his bed. The youthful face of his mother stared back at him which left his mouth gaping like a fish. “It’s been so long…”

“M-mom?” Hanayama reached out for the figure but she gently put his hands down. She was as cold as ice… “Why are you here?”

“We need to go for a walk… a nice, long walk.” His mother gave him a soft smile as she lead him around towards the door of his room. “A walk in the past.”

“The past… what do you mean?”

“Well, I’m the ghost of Christmas past.” His mother smiled as the walls of the compound began to change to the ones he was familiar with when he was a child. What kind of magic was this? How was this even possible? “You need to be reminded of your origins…”

Hanayama was shocked to see himself as a child crying as he sat beside his mother in the old family room. The ghost beside him pointed to the red welt on her human body’s face. “I used to beg your father to stay with me every once and awhile… to spend time with us as a family.”

Hanayama frowned as he watched the image play out of his mother. How could he forget that his mother had begged to spend time with his father when he was younger… perhaps he had blocked all those memories out since he had to become the leader of the yakuza at a young age? “This was the Christmas where I found out I had cancer… I really wanted to spend time with him since my time was running out…”

The ghost shook her head and lead Hanayama back to his room once she felt as if he understood her point.

The ghost held Hanayama’s hand. “You’ve grown so much… you look just like your father.”

Hanayama went to hold the ghost but she pushed him back, “and you’re just like your father.”

“Wait! Please don’t go-“ the figure of his mother was gone in a flash which left him clutching his chest in sorrow. Why did his mom leave so fast… wasn’t she proud that he’s taken over the family? Why did she show him such an image?

“It’s been awhile, Hanayama.” Hanayama froze when he noticed the ghostly figure of Retsu standing at his door. “It seems that it’s my turn with you as the ghost of Christmas Present.”

Hanayama was silent in thought. Retsu had just passed away recently yet… why would he be here? Retsu had nothing to do with his life…

Retsu waved Hanayama to follow him and Hanayama obliged. The two walked in silence until they stopped in front of a small room in the furthest corner of the compound. Retsu placed a hand on the screen door which made it into a mirror that they could see inside… (your name) sat in her room violently coughing.

“You know I was her best friend when I was alive.” Retsu whispered as he turned to look at Hanayama. “She’s dying, you know.”

Hanayama froze in shock. (Your name) was dying… she was dying. Why hadn’t she told him she was sick? Why- Hanayama was drawn out of his thoughts when Retsu held up a hand. The Chinese man frowned at Hanayama. “You don’t listen to her so she’s never told you… she needs new lungs.”

Hanayama placed a hand on the doorway when he saw her hold up a handkerchief full of blood. She was so fragile… just like his mother. And he had been so cruel to her. How could he-

“I was planning on confessing to her once I beat Musashi.” Retsu shared with Hanayama as he went into the room and sat beside (your name). She obviously couldn’t see Retsu as she softly cried. “I was in love with her.”

Hanayama clenched his fists as he watched Retsu drape a blanket around (your name)’s shoulders which made her look around the room in surprise. The man turned to Hanayama with a frown. “But my own pride ruined everything… I just want her to be happy.”

“… did you come here to gloat in my face?”

“No. She didn’t feel the same way.” Retsu smiled at Hanayama as he combed his fingers through (your name)’s hair. The ghost smiled sadly. “It’s so unfair… she deserves so much better than you.”

Hanayama was offended despite how correct Retsu was… he truly didn’t deserve (your name). She was always kind and sweet to him despite how many times he pushed her away over the years. She was undaunted by his rejection and still tried to get to know him… he should give it another chance. He should do something wonderful for her tomorrow…

Retsu rested his ghostly head on (your name)’s shoulder with a sad sigh. He pressed a parting kiss to her shoulder which made her glance around the room in confusion. The man then lead Hanayama back to his room. “I’m sorry… my feelings started to get in the way of what I was meant to show you. You’ll be visited by one last ghost, the ghost of Christmas future.”

Hanayama went to say something to Retsu but he was gone in a flash. The yakuza stood in the center of the room in confusion. One more ghost… who on earth could that be?

Hanayama then felt a sudden chill run down his spine as the room before him melted away into that of a grave yard. A ghastly figure in a black cloak that covered their body floated into the room. A skeletal hand was placed on his shoulder while the other pointed at a gravestone with (your name)‘s name on it. No… (your name) would die? She couldn’t die… she was so young.

Hanayama didn’t even have time to think before the ghost snapped their fingers and showed Hanayama a much older of himself who sat hunched over his desk. The older version sobbing as he held his head. What on earth had happened?

“You never found love again after she died.” The ghost whispered into his ear. “You actually went insane with guilt and it made your yakuza family fall apart.”

Hanayama watched this foreign version of him chug down an entire bottle of whiskey as he held a picture in his hand… it was a wedding picture of him and (your name)… they were meant to get married in a few months… so this must be a few years from now.

“I didn’t know… I didn’t know…” the other version of Hanayama whispered as he pressed his forehead against the picture. “I’m so sorry… I’m sorry.”

Hanayama frowned at how his office was in disarray. This wasn’t like him at all… why on earth was his office so messy?

“She kept all your paperwork organized. She’d sneak into your office when you were asleep to try to help you out since you’re not every good with numbers.” The ghost chuckled bitterly. “She as such a stupid woman… falling in love with a man as selfish as you.”

Hanayama gasped when the ghost pulled up the hood over their head to reveal (your name). Except there was no warmness in her eyes nor was there her tender smile. Why did she look so cold… why did she look at him with such eyes full of resentment? She loved him…

“This is your future. My future.” The ghost told him with a sigh. “You have to change, Hanayama.”

Hanayama but his lip as he stared at the sobbing figure of his future self. He didn’t want to be so pathetic…

“What do I have to do?” Hanayama asked the ghost who frowned at him. She didn’t say a word as she walked away. Hanayama went to follow her but the hallways began to distort and show Hanayama a different ghost of (your name) who sat side by side with the ghost Retsu. They looked so happy… she wasn’t supposed to be with Retsu. She was his. “Wait! Where are you going?”

Many images of the way he’s treated his fiancée flashed by him as he hopelessly chased after the ghost. Her teary face and bloody handkerchief now haunted him… he didn’t want her to suffer anymore. Hanayama didn’t want her to die… she couldn’t die. And he certainly didn’t want his wife to be with another man. No. She was his… (your name) belonged to him.

“There’s nothing you can do.” The ghost told him as she gave him a soft smile that was eerily similar to the ones his (your name) gave him. “Now wake up.”

And that’s when Hanayama fell into a dark bottomless pit. The large man couldn’t even utter a sound before he woke up in his bed. His body was covered in sweat and his eyes were wide in horror. A nightmare…

Hanayama’s hands grabbed at his body in shock before he gave a laugh full of disbelief escaped him. He was alive… he was fine…

Hanayama shot out of bed and quickly made his way towards (your name)’s room. He had to make sure she was alive… he had to make sure she was okay.

Hanayama slammed the door open to (your name)’s room which scared the poor girl out of her wits. She was already dressed for the day and was shocked to see Hanayama in his pajamas.

“O-oh. I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong-“ (your name) was shocked when Hanayama pulled her into a hug. The giant man pressed kissed all over her cheeks with passionate fervor.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Hanayama chanted as he ran his thumbs over her soft cheeks. “Let’s spend Christmas together.”

(Your name) couldn’t utter a single word out before she was whisked out of her room and brought to the dining room she had always wanted to sit at with him. What was going on? Had Hanayama gone insane? She was going to leave him alone just like he had wanted… so why did he have this sudden change of heart.

Hanayama had his servants quickly prepare a gran breakfast for the two of them. His large hand held hers close to his chest. The yakuza boss pressed kisses all over her knuckles as he waited for their food.

“I won’t ever ignore you again. We’ll spend every meal together and you can move into my room…” Hanayama gave her a soft smile. “And I’ll pay for your medicine, okay? You can get that procedure-“

“I-I never told you I was sick.” (Your name) whispered as she tried to pull her hand away. “It’s okay. You don’t have to do anything for me-“

(Your name) gasped when Hanayama suddenly pulled her onto his lap and pressed his lips against hers in a searing kiss. His dark eyes never let hers. “Nonsense… I’m going to be a good fiancé from now on and an even better husband.”

Hanayama’s hands began to explore her curves as a different kind of hunger filled his eyes. “I’ll take care of your every need from now on… because you’re mine.”

Rather than change for the better, he had changed for the worse

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ketrinadrawsalot · 5 months

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Ghost shrimp, ghost crab, and ghost lobster, ready to haunt the local fish market or Red Lobster

#decapocember #decapod #crustacean #ghost #shrimp #crab #lobster #art #spoopy

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aberrantdusk · 1 year

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Things that have startled me in dredge:

I forgot I was reading a book

Whale

Mama fish came around a corner a little too fast but that’s not really her fault she can’t see

Fucking whale AGAIN

My own shadow

That red shit around the edges of the telescope

Crab pot

Things that do not scare me (anymore):

Ocean rumblies (nice try)

Serpent (too slow)

Kraken (bing bong)

Ghost ships (doot doot)

Mind suckers (begone thots)

The Mi s t (this is a lie, I am so scared of the mist, please I just wanted a moonfish)

#dredge #dredge game #aberrant ramblings

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pjackk · 2 years

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cottoncandybitchfuck · 28 days

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Incorrect Fantasy High as (sometimes adjusted) things me and my best friend have written in our quote book:

(pulling from previous posts and adding new)

Kristen: You don't know me, you just know my horny thoughts.

Season One Adaine: I am... Horrifically unmedicated.

Fabian (about Riz): He's the perfect size to chuck

Adaine: We are the same breed of... Ayda: mentally ill?

Kristen: It's a fucking corn nut, it's not supposed to be sweet

Fabian: I just want to go fast. Zoom, zoom.

Fig: Just because I'm being a bitch doesn't give you a right to hit me in the tit.

Gorgug: hey dad, guess what I inherited from you? A high alcohol tolerance and Rage.

Riz: I don't theive much, but when I do it's for the clues

Baron: As a ghost my bones wouldn't pop. As a skeleton they DO pop. Click clack click clack click clack

Fabian: Helio nerfed me so he gets to face the consequences.

Gorgug: This guy thought this cat's name was cummin? That's cumin—dude do you not cook?

Fig: I don't like that babies have bones.

Kristen: Helio was a lame ass virgin... Maybe I should stop being mean to Helio

Riz: Call you a bitch? I can't do that! I'm a man!

Fig: Actually hold on, speaking of old white men...

Gorgug: What are you a woodchuck?

Fabian that one time: If Helio does exist, I don't think he went upstairs.

Fig: What are you gonna do? Punch me through my pony beads? Nice try. Dumbass.

The bad Parents: My husband/ex-husband is my brother and we coparent my son who is his nephew and son

Kristen: Better to bust a red bull than bust a nut

Ragh: WHAT IF IT LANDED IN THE CRAB!?

The bad kids to Kristen: I am having an emotional crisis and you are line dancing!

Kipperlilly (probably): I don't want to hear a white redhead sing.

#fantasy high spoilers #dox.jpeg #riz gukgak #fantasy high #dimension 20 #kristen applebees #gorgug thistlespring #fabian seacaster #adaine abernant #fig faeth #fantasy high junior year

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humanpurposes · 8 months

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Karma is a God

Chapter 13: The Riverlands

The Dance of the Dragons begins on a lie, and Aemond owes a debt, one Lucerra will see repaid in Fire and Blood // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond x Lucerra Velaryon (fem!Lucerys)

Warnings for this chapter: spoilers for F&B and future seasons of HotD, canon divergence, descriptions of violence

Words: 7700

A/n: Also available to read on AO3.

The skies over Blackwater Bay and Crackclaw Point are clear. There are no clouds to hide in and Grey Ghost makes quick work of the distance from Dragonstone to Maidenpool.

The Queen had ordered that she fly straight back to King’s Landing after accompanying Baela and Rhaena to Dragonstone, but as much as she fears her mother’s wroth, she fears what might happen if she sits idly.

To the south, Borros Baratheon has summoned his banners to Storm’s End. To the west, the Lannisters clash with the Iron Fleet. The Tyrells have taken a neutral stance, but the Hightower army is rebuilding in the Reach, rallying behind Prince Daeron and Criston Cole.

As for the Riverlands… the reports they receive are harrowing.

For almost two moons, Aemond has terrorised the Riverlands, unleashing dragonfire and death upon all those he deems to be traitors. Everything in his path turns to ash; towns, cities, castles, crops, and too many lives to count.

They fly high enough that the world spreads out below them like a map. As they approach the southern shore of the Bay of Crabs, she can see where the green fields turn to black. Smoke rises from the ground, trees reach against a grey sky, charred and bare. No life remains where Vhagar flies.

Could he hear the screams as he did it? Was he blind to the suffering, or did he bathe himself in it?

She had heard the cries of dying men as she burnt the Tyroshi war ships by Driftmark, but they were distant, a noise lingering in the back of her mind. All she remembers of that night is the smell of smoke, flashes of golden flames blurred through her tears, emptiness and rage. Thousands of lives ended, for the sake of avenging two already lost.

It is not the same, she tells herself.

They were soldiers. Any one of them could have been the man who released the quarrel that killed Jace, or manned the ship that sunk the Gay Abandon and young Viserys with it.

Aemond kills because he is cruel.

And I…

Death could not save the people who died at Hightide and Spicetown, it could not bring back her brothers, or any other lives lost at The Gullet. That thought has lingered in her mind ever since, a parasite draining the warmth from her body, the life from her soul.

But this is war. Either she will die a martyr, like Jace, like Rhaenys, or survival will chip away at the person she once was.

Maidenpool is nothing compared to the grandeur of Dragonstone or the high walls and towers of The Red Keep. Its keep and battlements are grey and cobbled, covered in moss and ivy so it blends in seamlessly with the surrounding greenery and the backdrop of the sea.

The castle is not the first thing she spots though, rather the blood red dragon that lies before the outer walls. Caraxes is curled in on himself, in a rare moment of peace as he sleeps. But he stirs as they land, rearing his head and glaring at them through wide, golden eyes.

Grey Ghost is uneasy, and not without cause. The Bloodwyrm is monstrously large, bloodthirsty and chaotic.

She remembers the first time she saw Caraxes, as their families gathered on Driftmark for the funeral of Laena Velaryon. Jace had flown on Vermax, while she, too small to ride Arrax, rode in a carriage with her mother and father. They reached Hightide and suddenly she heard a thunderous roar and a whistling, rippling shriek. What a sight they were, Caraxes and Vhagar, soaring from the East with the sunrise. They terrified her in different ways. Vhagar was colossal, and though Caraxes was smaller, he was swift, with piercing eyes, sharp teeth and a serpentine neck that she couldn’t help but follow as it swayed and slithered.

The gates open before she has dismounted. Daemon leads an escort of guards to meet her, dressed in his riding leathers rather than his armour. He knows not to come too close to Grey Ghost.

Her dragon is steadfastly steady as she dismounts, his head fixed on the men who have dared to approach his rider.

Strangers, hisses the voice in her head. Danger.

“Princess Lucerra,” Daemon says, resting his hands on the hilt of Dark Sister which hangs from his hip. “What a pleasant surprise.” His voice is calm but in a way that makes her nervous.

“Your Grace,” she says, keeping a gloved hand against Grey Ghost’s hide, stroking along his scales to calm him.

Daemon observes this with a small smile, and a turn of his head towards the guards, who relax their stances. “You should know better than to announce on dragonback unannounced.”

“And yet you were able to determine I was not an enemy,” Luke says. “I came from Dragonstone.”

His amusement fades into something more concerned. “Baela and Rhaena?”

Rhaenyra needed a dragon to protect the island and patrol the sea, if necessary. It couldn’t be Tylesys, Sheepstealer was still weak from the encounter with Tessarion, and she wanted Seasmoke, Vermithor and Silverwing to stay in King’s Landing. By the slight frown in Daemon’s face, he has some trepidation about Baela being the one to take on such a burden. But she is brave enough for it, and besides, Dragonstone is defended by water and the Velaryon Fleet. So long as Daeron and Tessarion remain in the Reach, the girls will be safe.

“Your daughters are safely delivered,” she says.

Daemon looks between her and her dragon. “Does your mother approve of you being here?” he asks.

Her breath catches effortlessly in her throat. “She does not know.”

He smiles again. “I have to admit, I did anticipate you might find your way here.”

The small council met the very day they received the first letter from Riverrun.

Prince Aemond has declared a one man war on the Riverlands, intent on burning all those who align themselves to Queen Rhaenyra.

The sight before her eyes was dull and gloomy. She winced at flashes of lighting and rumbles of thunder that were not there to be seen or heard. She saw only him, the scar she had left him, the sapphire set within the socket. His voice drifted through her, just out of earshot but there nonetheless.

“I want you to put out your eye, as payment for mine.”

“Do this, dōna ilībōños, and I will consider your debt fulfilled.”

“My nephew must not be left unchecked,” Daemon’s voice said.

Suddenly the other faces in the room materialised into view. Rhaenyra’s eyes were down, fixed on the golden ball placed before her. Lord Corlys’ brow was twisted in contemplation and concern. The other men of the Small Council were watching Daemon, who in turn had his eyes on her.

He watched her for the entirety of their gathering, and she knew what he was looking for. She gave him nothing, not the smallest movement in her face or a hint of an expression. She had become rather well practised at this.

But the moment she was back in her chambers, the moment she was alone, she gave into the fury and fear simmering inside of her. She only managed to seat herself on the edge of her bed before the tears began to stream down her face. She caught them in her palms as she wept.

Aemond was rarely cruel as a child, if he was it was because he had been pushed too far, by Aegon, by Jace, and by her own doing. She had expected him to hate her when she returned to the Red Keep, and she had been right in her assumption. A debt was owed, one he had wanted her to pay with her life.

Whose fault could it be but hers that Aemond had grown into he had become?

A weight hung heavy in her chest. She hadn’t been the one to mount Vhagar or utter the command that scorched the Riverlands, but she knew she had a part in this, in some twisting of fate, in the overlaps and knots in the threads of life.

Two moons passed and hardly anything came from Daemon’s hunt. News would come of a castle or town left in ashes, farms and fields obliterated, whole herds of livestock lost to the dragon’s jaws, but Daemon could not fly fast enough. By the time word reached him of an attack, there would no traceable signs of Aemond and Vhagar but the devastation they left behind.

The night before she left to escort Baela and Rhaena to Dragonstone, she took supper with Lord Corlys and her siblings, which included Alyn and Addam. Moments like this were the closest she came to feeling she had a home in the Red Keep, despite the notable absences. She forced herself to smile as Joffrey tried to imitate everything about Lord Corlys, the way he held his cutlery, the way he leaned back in his chair and kept his cup close to his lips. Her brother was to be the future Lord of the Tides afterall.

Rhaena kept her little pink dragon, Morning, on her shoulder. She and Addam fed her scraps of beef and praised her when she cooed.

Baela sat beside Alyn, with perfect posture and a tight smile on her lips at everything he said. But her resolve was slipping. With every joke Alyn whispered in her ear, she leaned a little further into him and laughed a little louder.

At first the sight made Luke’s stomach churn, as if she could still see the distant battle at The Gullet, like she could still smell the smoke as the Tyroshi ships were bathed in Grey Ghost’s fire. Until she wondered if Jace had ever told Baela of his time at Winterfell, why he had a scar on his palm and why, if she travelled north to see for herself, Cregan Stark would have one to match.

Alyn was charming, Luke supposed, gracious, with a smile that sparked excitement.

What did it matter where Baela chose to seek happiness? Surely it was better that she did not dwell on memories and live her life with the burden of the past. What would that bring but grief and regret?

After seeing young Aegon to bed and allowing Joffrey one game of Cyvasse, Luke visited her mother. Rhaenyra could be found where she usually was, in her father’s chambers sitting by a dying hearth and gazing over the model of Old Valyria, coated with dust and cobwebs after so many years of neglect. Luke sat by her side, tracing her fingertips over her hands and the cuts along her skin. Some were red and fresh, some were older and clotted, others had faded into thin scars.

“They are meaningless,” her mother whispered without turning her eyes to her daughter. “A consequence of our ancestor choosing to forge his throne from the swords of his enemies. My father suffered the same.”

Watching her mother was like watching a warm and golden autumn fade into a desolate winter. She could not endure it for long.

Her back fell against the door as she returned to her bedchamber, frozen in place by what she saw. Another envelope, sealed with a winged insect stamped into amber wax, left on the floor by her bed, exactly where she had found the last one.

She held her breath for a moment, waiting for any kind of sound, a footstep, a voice, a scuttling of a rodent, but whoever had delivered it must have been long gone.

Once again, she reached for the knife by her bedside, slicing through the envelope to save the seal.

There was just one line, and no signature.

Search for him and he will find you.

She knew what had to be done. She could not sit idly, not while her mother’s allies burned and she had a debt of her own to claim.

Daemon steps towards her. “You want to be the one to do it,” he says.

She often has this feeling, like she’s drowning in her own skin. Like the world around her is cold and dark and she cannot breathe. She sees only one way to save herself from it.

“I have to be.”

The castle is quiet, filled with servants who scurry through the halls with their heads down, and knights and Lords who offer no looks of warmth to their Prince and Princess. It is unusual that Daemon does not reprimand them for it.

He sees that she is brought to a chamber that overlooks the sea and is given supper. It is no great feast– many of the crops and livestock of the Riverlands have been lost to Vhagar’s fire, but she is given a plate of shucked oysters and another with white fish and potatoes. Daemon does not eat with her, or visit her once she is finished.

The sounds of the waves roar in her ears as she lies in the bed and pulls the sheets around her. Each time she starts to fall asleep she feels weightless, and suddenly she is slipping from Arrax’s saddle and hurtling through to storm into the waves of Shipbreaker Bay–

But she wakes before her body meets the water.

A maid comes to her early in the morning just after sunrise. She bathes and dresses in her riding leathers, firmly fixing her sword to her hip, letting her fingertips linger on the golden seahorse hilt.

“He should be taken as a prisoner,” was Lord Corlys’ counter to Daemon’s pledge to find Aemond. “If he is dead, the Greens will make a King of Daeron and rally behind him.”

Rhaenyra at last looked up when he said it. “My brother forsook any chance of mercy when he tried to claim the life of my daughter,” she said.

Grey Ghost and Caraxes wait for them beyond the castle walls, restless the way dragons always are before they take flight.

“I have word from Sabitha Frey,” Daemon says before they mount their dragons. “She has recaptured Harrenhal along with the Blackwoods.”

“I can’t imagine it was difficult,” Luke says. “It was left completely undefended.”

Daemon chuckles as he hauls himself into Caraxes’ saddle, a much steeper climb than it is for her to mount Grey Ghost. Aemond would have further to climb than either of them, a thought which she tries to dismiss.

“We have our hold in the Riverlands once more,” he calls to her as Caraxes starts to move. The dragon whistles like a dolphin and bellows a screeching roar as he lurches forward, bounding off the ground and swiftly ascending into the air with powerful beats of his wings that shake the trees. Daemon steers him west, over the burned landscape.

Danger, whispers the voice in her head.

She drives Grey Ghost forward nonetheless.

As they fly, the air around them is hazy and thick. Luke keeps her sleeve over her nose and mouth. She is used to wind and rain rushing against her face, but smoke is a different beast altogether. It stings in her eyes, burns in her throat, seeps into her lungs and her bloodstream.

Heat lingers even after the fires have died and eaten everything away to ash. She feels it through her leathers.

Harrenhal is not out of place among this scorched wasteland. She sees the lake first, as vast as an ocean, black water glimmering under the sun’s early rays, splashes of white foam with the waves. In the centre is an island, so thick with trees she cannot see the ground underneath.

She feels unsettled, as though she is being watched. This must be the famed God’s Eye.

Standing over the water, shrouded in smoke and mist, is Harrenhal. She can see the path of Balerion’s fire through the five towers, where the stone is melted, twisted, and crumbled to ruins.

Harwin Strong once told her of the curse of Harrenhal, that every family who dared to hold it was doomed to meet a terrible end, and now her mother’s banners hang over the front gates.

Caraxes lands on the lakeshore where Daemon waits for her to dismount. This is a place familiar to him. This is where he was when news came of Arrax’s demise above Shipbreaker Bay. This is where he gave the order to seek justice for the deaths of his daughters. He remained here while Rhaenys burned at Rook’s Rest, as the Triarchy sank the ship that carried his son, as the Velaryon Fleet held The Gullet, as Jace and Vermax were lost to quarrels and treacherous waters.

Now is not the time to unleash her anger, but Daemon has always had a way of seeing right through her.

He leads her up the slight slope to the gatehouse, into the castle itself. The soldiers they pass bear the sigils of the Freys and the Blackwoods, proud and powerful houses of the Riverlands. Unlike those they passed at Maidenpool, the men and women here look upon their Prince with reverence. Daemon, with Dark Sister by his side, his short, silver hair braided away from his face, looks nothing less than a force of nature, a warrior, a would-be-King, the kind of man to inspire fear from both his enemies and his allies.

And when the fearful eyes come to her, they become curious. It is a question that has haunted her all her life; what do they see when they look at her? A Velaryon, a Targaryen or a Strong? A Princess, an heir, or an outlier, an insult to custom and duty? Perhaps now they see what she has become.

She follows Daemon through quiet hallways, through archways and holes in the walls where there should be doors, until they come to a cavernous hall. The light hardly reaches through the glassless windows on the far side of the room, but she makes out arches and buttresses hundreds of feet high, hearths untouched for decades. On the walls there are carvings of the sigil of House Hoare, images of the sea, krakens and sea monsters, men bathing– or drowning, under the dim light of the braziers, the last remnants of the Iron Islanders who once made this their home.

In the centre of the hall, still quite a distance away, is a table, around which a man and two women are gathered. Candlelight flickers against their faces as she and Daemon approach.

A woman stands at the head of the table, studying a map of the Riverlands and the Crownlands. Her chestplate bears two sigils, one of a black toad, one of two, blue towers. Her hair is pulled tightly from her face. Despite the soft, round edges of her cheeks and jaw, there is a stern look about her, a sharpness in her eyes and the thin line of her mouth.

The man is young, dressed in armour, marked by the sigil of a weirwood surrounded by ravens. He has a head of curly black hair, to match the second woman, only hers reaches below her waist. She is breathtakingly beautiful, tall and broad, dressed in white and black with a red cloak hanging from her shoulders.

“Princess Lucerra,” Daemon says, ushering Luke to stand at the other end of the table, overlooking the Kingswood and the Rose Road past Tumbleton and Bitterbridge. “Lady Sabitha Frey, Lord Benjicot Blackwood of Raventree Hall, and Lady Alysanne Blackwood.”

Only now do they look at her, with the same curiosity that she is used to.

“What an honour it is to be acquainted with you, Princess,” Lady Sabitha says, stiffly.

The two Blackwoods bow their heads, and Lady Alysanne offers her a small smile.

“We are glad to have you join us, Prince Daemon,” says Lord Benjicot.

Daemon hums in acknowledgement as he sets Dark Sister down on the table. “It seems a far more convenient base than Maidenpool,” he says, darkly.

A gust of wind howls in the distance. It is quiet, but with the echo through the hall it sounds monstrous and unnatural.

Lady Sabitha seems to have command of this gathering. Luke has heard rumours of Lady Frey’s character, most of them from Daemon. He says she is merciless and efficient. She finds she agrees with this assessment, but rather admires her for it. She has lost her husband in this war, and now her seat. The Twins, along with her son, have been taken by the Lannisters, who now block the road south.

“The Riverlands are loyal to you, Your Grace,” she says to Daemon, “but we have little chance of mustering more men than we have here.”

“What of the Tullys?” Luke asks.

Lady Alysanne sighs. “They cannot be relied upon. Elmo Tully would pledge their banners to the true Queen, but he will not act against Lord Grover’s wishes.”

“The Lord of Riverrun is as decisive as he is young and spritely,” Daemon says. “We cannot afford to wait for the old man to die while the Hightowers recover their strength.”

“But with Jason Lannister at the Twins, the Starks will have to fight through an army to reach us,” Alysanne says.

They fall into quiet, studying the map and the figures upon it, the hightower in the Reach, the stag at the edge of the Stormlands, the lion and the wolf to the north.

“And then there is the more pressing issue,” Lord Benjicot says darkly.

Luke counts the dragons upon the map. Tessarion in the Reach; Moondancer at Dragonstone; Syrax, Vermithor, Silverwing, Seasmoke, Tyraxes and Dreamfyre at King’s Landing. Lady Sabitha moves Caraxes and Grey Ghost to Harrenhal. Two figures remain, a golden dragon for Sunfyre, kept at the edge of the map, and Vhagar, hovering over Pinkmaiden, seat of House Piper.

“He was last seen here?” Luke asks quietly, reaching out a finger, but stopping herself before she touches Vhagar’s figure.

“Not three days ago,” Benjicot says. He places the tip of his finger over Riverrun first. “He began his assaults here, after Harrenhal was abandoned. He won’t directly attack the Tullys, but he targeted the lands that surround them.” Then he traces east, over the towns along the River Road, marking Aemond’s warpath.

“I went to Darry,” Daemon says, “by the time I got there, Vhagar was feasting on whole farms of sheep at the border of the Vale.”

“We think he might be seeking shelter here–” Lord Benjicot points to the mountain range that marks the border of the Westerlands. “Out of Prince Daemon’s reach, close enough to continue his attacks.”

“And he was not seen after Pink Maiden?” Luke says.

“He attacked at nightfall. Even with Vhagar’s size, it was impossible to tell where they went.”

Her eyes follow as he moves Vhagar’s figure to the mountains, and a heavy hand lands on her shoulder. The weight strains her neck.

“Perhaps I could ride out on Grey Ghost and search the mountains?” she says.

Daemon does not give the others a moment to consider. “I will not allow you to use yourself as bait.”

What is the difference? He would be happy for her to meet him in open battle, but not to seek him out as she had done with Daeron?

She knows better than to test the patience of Daemon Targaryen, but her own has been wearing thin for far too long.

“And how else do you intend to find him?” she asks. “You have searched for Aemond for moons and to no avail. Do you expect him to come to us willingly?”

“He is proud enough to do so,” Daemon mutters.

“Then where is he? Why has he not sought you out?”

“Enough.” He does not need to shout. His anger is apparent enough for her to bow her head and listen in to the rest of the gathering in silence.

There is nothing for her in Harrenhal but death.

She takes an abandoned servant’s quarters as a bedchamber, by the kitchens in Widow’s Tower, until Daemon tells her of the horror found in the crypt underneath.

Their bodies were left in the cellar, slaughtered within a cell, some simply run through, others slashed to shreds. There was no sense to it, no reason for Aemond to kill his prisoners or bring such a bloody end to House Strong– well, almost.

She wonders why he did it and how he can live with himself in the aftermath. He had not even spared the children. She pictures them cowering, helpless to watch as their family were picked off, one by one, before Aemond at last set his one, violet eye to them.

But Aemond kills because he is cruel, and soon that cruelty will be ended.

She cannot stay in the tower knowing what lies underneath. So she takes her sword and climbs the staircases, past empty chambers and passageways. She doesn’t know what she is expecting. Whatever was left of Ser Harwin or his belongings would have been removed years ago, and while Harrenhal may belong to his family, he always said he never felt at home here. She sees why for herself.

Her legs burn as she climbs higher, where the tower becomes decrepit. The stairways are treacherous now, she wonders if they might crumble under her boots and yet she carries on, passing rubble never cleared and gaps in the tower where the walls were lost to the Black Dread’s fire.

She comes to a bridge, high above the courtyard leading into the castle’s tallest tower, the Kingspyre. There are at least some signs of life in this part of the castle, servants, lit torches and hearths.

She passes a chamber with a great oak door, adorned with carvings of sea creatures with grotesque faces, waves and ships, the three rivers of the Trident and, when she looks closely, pairs of eyes hidden amongst the images.

She expects it to be locked, but tries the handle, only for it to open, seamlessly and silently.

It is a grand chamber, to be sure, perhaps intended for the Lord of the castle. There are no belongings in the room, no sign of ownership, and yet it is well kept. The sheets are clean, the logs of the hearth set and ready to be set alight It smells stale and stagnant, but not like the lingering smell of smoke found in the rest of Harrenhal.

She hesitates, then smooths her palm over the bedsheets to find they are cold. This chamber must have been in use recently, but not recently enough to warrant immediate attention.

She wanders to the window, overlooking the courtyard, the gatehouse and the God’s Eye beyond the walls. The figures in the courtyard are distant but still distinct. Daemon’s silver hair is obvious as he stands with a woman. At first she mistakes her for Lady Alysanne; she is seemingly tall and slender with dark hair, but something about her posture is different, the way she tilts her head as she leans closer to Daemon.

The wind wails beyond the walls of the tower and for a moment it sounds soft, like a breath.

The woman turns her gaze up, to the very window Luke stands behind. She can make out the colour of her eyes– green, brighter and paler than Lady Alysanne’s. They must be truly striking at a ground level, because from here they are piercing.

A sick feeling floods Luke’s stomach. She should not be here, not in this room, perhaps not even at Harrenhal, but she cannot find the courage to leave.

When she makes her way down the stairs of the tower and into the courtyard, Daemon and the woman are gone. Instead she finds the castle’s Godwood, following the small stream that runs through it, to the heart tree.

The faces in the bark are nothing like those in King’s Landing. These faces are full of anguish, twisted, mouths open as if they are screaming, in pain or fury.

A chill slips down her spine and she knows she is being watched– not by the eyes in the tree. A footstep treads softly in the grass behind her. She turns her head over her shoulder, just enough for them to know she has heard them.

The footsteps are less careful now, unabashed in their approach.

She sees a flash of dark hair, at first believing it to be Lady Alysanne, only to find herself disappointed, and then a little on edge.

It is the woman from the courtyard, the woman with unnaturally bright eyes.

“Do you often find yourself seeking the comfort of a weirwood, Princess?” she asks. Her voice is surprisingly low, rich and seductive.

She never used to, but she seems to have noticed them more since they took King’s Landing. She passes the weirwood in the gardens of the keep, sees the image of one above her bed, finds her mind wandering to memories of afternoons she spent under the shelter of red leaves and her uncle’s arm as he read from a history book.

“What business of it is yours?” Luke says sharply.

The woman hums a low laugh and lets it fade to silence.

Night is beginning to creep in. Beyond the walls of the castle, the sight of the sunset over the lake will be beautiful, a red sky over the water. She hears the waves and the wind as if she is standing on the shore.

“It is a terrible thing to lose one’s family,” the woman says, bringing her hands before her. Her dress is made of simple black fabric, with no patterns or distinctive embroidery, but the sleeves are long, draped over her hands and lined with green satin.

Luke catches a piece of flesh between her teeth. “You have lost family in this war too?” she says, uncaring at her shortness.

The woman tilts her head. Luke watches her as she takes a step towards the tree, placing her palm against the white bark, beside one of the faces. “The family I have lost was never mine to begin with. In truth, I do not feel it,” she says.

A hollow feeling lodges itself in Luke’s chest and twists like a knife in an already fatal wound. She wishes she could say the same.

The woman drops her hand from the tree, and turns to her. “Do you feel your losses, Lucerra?”

The absence of her brothers becomes a little more subdued each day, but she still carries them with her, the memories, the pain of knowing that their deaths were anything but peaceful, and the burden Jace has left her with.

She was so fearless as a child, she realises. She was secure, the daughter of a Princess, the granddaughter of the King, with Aegon, Helaena, Aemond and Jace to guide her, protect her. But all of that is gone now, the life she used to enjoy, and she fears the things she used to love.

Tears prickle in her eyes, heavy and close to falling.

How much can the woman read from a single look from her eyes?

She steps forward to take Luke’s hands in hers. Her skin is rough and dry. She opens Luke’s palms, running a slender finger along the lines in her skin. “A powerful combination of blood flows through your veins,” she utters. “The blood of the dragon, and of the First Men.”

Daemon has taken heads for such an insinuation.

Luke raises her brow. “Do you question my legitimacy?”

The woman scoffs. “ Laws are made by men, but we are made of flesh and blood alone. Legitimacy has no meaning in the natural order.”

“And yet without it, my position will never be secure,” Luke says.

The woman stares at her, amused or mocking, it is difficult to tell.

“It was not by right of birth that Aegon the Conqueror claimed rule of the Seven Kingdoms.”

She thinks of all the history lessons she used to sit through, never taking in a word. All the hours she would make Aemond read to her– did he hate her back then? Would he have refused her if he felt he had the choice? “No. But he won it, and had the strength to hold it.”

The woman hums. She runs her hand further up, to the thin, blue veins running along Luke’s wrist. She presses her thumb against her skin, letting the colour fade and run again.

Her harsh green eyes come to Luke’s. “Blood is unambiguous,” she whispers.

Why must it all come back to blood?

The woman seems to note some kind of change in Luke’s face, squinting her eyes and furrowing her brow just a little. What does she think she might find in the frightened and furious mind of hers?

“Helaena said something to me,” Luke utters before she can stop herself.

“She spoke of blood,” the woman says, assuredly.

There is a trail of blood. It flows to you. It ends with you.

Luke breathes slowly. She has tried to decipher Helaena’s words for weeks, moons even.

Her aunt used to mutter strange musings often, always to Aegon’s insistence that she was stupid and freakish. Jace’s stance was that he would not burden himself with things that did not make sense to him, and so she did the same.

Blood– blood she shares with her mother and the line of Kings that have come before them. Blood she shares with her brothers, with her father. Blood she shares with Helaena and her uncles. Blood spilled, lives ended or left in ruins. This war has seen too much of it already.

“What did she tell you, Princess?”

She whispers the words that have haunted her since she heard them, but where Helaena’s voice was gentle and wistful, she feels a tremble in her own throat. “There is a trail of blood. It flows to you. It ends with you.”

The woman frowns, keeping her gaze on Luke’s eyes as though the answer lies within her very soul. The longer she looks, the duller her eyes seem to become.

“What do you believe this means?” the woman asks.

Daemon says killing Aemond will end the war, or at least determine the outcome. Corlys says it will weaken their enemies, but give them cause to regather their strength. Her mother would say it is justice.

Kill Aemond and the threat of Vhagar will be removed. What remains of the Riverlands will be spared, Daeron and Tessarion will stand alone. Then they need only wait for Cregan Stark to march south to secure their victory.

It should all be so simple.

So why does she feel the wind running through her? Why does she feel so restless and furious that her body trembles and her nails press into her palms? Why does she hear the crashing of waves morphing into distance screams? Why does she feel so wrong?

The woman’s voice is perhaps the one thing that sounds true, clear and low. “Mercy is a weakness.”

She knows she has no reason to trust this woman, but the rage inside her tells her she is right. She may never know the number of men she has killed from atop her dragon, so what is one more? One more life lost, a fair exchange for what he has taken from her.

But it will be different to know the name of the man whose life she will claim, to know his face and his voice. To share his memories and his blood.

Mercy is a weakness– it sounds like something Daemon might say.

“What are you doing here?” The command in his voice as he approaches startles them both. Luke tears her eyes away from the woman, to the head of silver hair gleaming in twilight.

She begins to panic. Was she supposed to stay in the castle? The hour is getting late, perhaps he was concerned… but he doesn’t so much as look at Luke. His gaze is clearly on the woman.

“I was beginning to worry you might be dead,” he says.

The woman’s lips curl into a half smile. “I was spared by his Grace, the Prince Regent.”

Daemon scoffs, utterly unamused. Only then does he turn to Luke. “What poison are you inflicting on the poor girl?”

“Poison?” she echoes with a sly expression.

“That is your way, is it not, witch?”

This does not seem to phase the woman.

Daemon hums a short laugh, but his expression remains dark. “You were supposed to deliver my nephew to me…”

She hates this, not knowing the whole truth of what is happening around her, the secret devices and plots. The familiarity between Daemon and the woman is beginning to infuriate her, until her chest feels heavy with the weight of the breaths she takes to calm herself.

“...But by the sounds of it, it seems all you’ve succeeded in doing is keeping his cock wet.”

Suddenly her chest and stomach twist into a tight knot.

It is not an image she wants in her head, but it appears nonetheless. The woman standing before her is a beautiful one, and Aemond is a Prince, a warrior, hot-blooded and demanding when he wants to be.

Her imagination is vivid and visceral. She has felt his lips against hers, his breath on her skin, his hand tracing down the front of her gown and slipping beneath her skirts. She had almost expected him to take her fully that night, in the hidden corner of the Red Keep while their families failed to make amends. She often wonders if she should have let him.

Does he ever think about that night? What he did to her— what they did together, or was it all forgotten the moment he saw the pair of eyes bearing into her soul this very moment?

“He will come,” the woman says.

Daemon chuckles to himself. “For his paramour?”

Her piercing gaze falls once more to Luke. Her eyes are dark now and almost bloodthirsty. “He will come for what he believes he is owed.”

And so they wait.

Thirteen days pass. Daemon marks each one with a slash of Dark Sister in the trunk of the heart tree in the Godswood. Each strike bleeds red sap.

She tries to make use of each day, but there are only so many arrows she can shoot into targets and tree trunks, only so many times she can sharpen her sword before she will damage the blade.

All the while there is no word of Aemond and no sightings of Vhagar. Whenever she gathers in the great hall with Daemon, Sabitha Frey and the Blackwoods, she scours the map as if she will somehow know where to find him.

Daemon refuses to let her ride Grey Ghost, not even to circle the lake. He says the risk is too great, but since when did he ever burden himself with risks?

This castle was built on blood and is haunted by the Stranger. In another life Harrenhal might have been her home, but she fears she may not be able to stay here much longer. Her sanity cannot bear it.

She tries to find a new chamber to sleep in each night, but rest never comes easily. When she wakes she recalls dreams of the lake. In these dreams, she does not walk along the shore or try to find her way back to the castle. She lies against the pebbled beach, her head cradled in scaly limbs, a longing for blood in her belly and an ominous feeling that keeps her grounded.

Search for him and he will find you.

Luke rises with the sun. From the battlements, she can see Daemon in the godswood, carving his fourteenth strike into the weirwood tree. To the lakeshore she makes out the shape of her slumbering dragon. Grey Ghost blends in almost perfectly with the morning mist, until she spots one of his yellow eyes, wide and bright enough to spot from the castle.

She retreats to her little bedchamber in the Tower of Dread, tucks herself under the bedsheet, rough and scratchy with age, and shuts her eyes.

She stares back at the castle, and knows she will be safe within its walls— for now at least.

Her body is not her own, but she settles in it. This is not a brief moment of madness as with Tessarion. This feels like an extension of her dreams, something natural and familiar. Her movements are deliberate as she rises and spreads her wings.

She leaves Harrenhal behind, darting up towards the sky with all the speed she can gather, until the lake and the lands around Harrenhal are set out before her.

Aemond has not followed a particular path, so it stands to reason his hiding place may not be where she expects it to be. He could be in the mountains southwest of Pinkmaiden, or he could be somewhere else entirely.

If he has not been seen since then, perhaps he is somewhere more isolated.

By the time the sun has reached its peak in the sky, she has flown over most of the western Riverlands, over Raventree Hall, Acorn Hall, Pinkmaiden and Stone Mill. She can see she is approaching Riverrun, the seat of the Tullys. They do not fly any banners, and yet their men are gathered and preparing for war.

Where to then? Along the Red Fork to the Trident, to the mountains that border The Vale? Or over Whispering Wood, where the mountains meet the sea along Ironman’s Bay?

Intinstic drives her north with a swift beating of her wings.

A swirl of storm clouds looms over the Iron Islands, but the rain has yet to reach the mainland. A fearsome wind threatens to blow her off course and below her the waves beat against the base of the cliffs, crashing and roaring against the rock with flurries of white foam. Grey Ghost does not fear the sea and for now, neither does she.

She flies high, sweeping her eyes along the slivers of shoreline that have not been claimed by the tide, searching for any sign of another dragon, a nest, a charred carcass of an animal. That’s when she hears a growl, like a rumble of thunder, echoing through the air as if the very sky seeks to unleash its fury.

Vhagar rises from her hiding place, half-buried in damp sand and the rest of her hide blending in with the rock. She feels the heat coursing through her blood when the dragons meet each other’s eyes, the fire rising in her gut, the urge to sink her teeth and talons into flesh.

But she looks up to the clifface, to the figure standing on an overhang. His sapphire eye gleams through the dull daylight, the ends of his silver hair drift with the wind and the beating of her wings.

Aemond.

He knows what Grey Ghost’s presence means, she can see it in his face, the awe and the anger. She would be a fool to think he would feel anything else.

He will come for what he believes he is owed.

And what of the debt he owes her now?

When does it end?

When she opens her eyes her skin is drenched in sweat. She tosses the sheet off her body and hurries to dress herself in her riding leathers. Grey Ghost will fly swifter than Vhagar, but she needs every second she can claim. With her boots pulled over her feet and her sword on her hip, she yanks the door open, sprinting through the halls and the courtyard. She doesn’t stop when some of the soldiers stare at her in confusion, or when Lady Alysanne tries to stop her and ask what’s wrong. She couldn’t answer them if she tried.

She feels her heart beating at all her pulse points, the wind slicing over her skin, the howling of the wind coming off the lake.

Daemon is in the Godswood, under the heart tree, resting his hands on the hilt of Dark Sister. He turns to face her as she approaches.

She is breathless, but her voice has never sounded clearer. “He’s coming.”

“How?”

How did he know to come? How do you know?

“I saw it,” she says.

Daemon frowns. In fairness, she herself would not trust such a vague answer.

She follows him back to the courtyard. The castle is in a panic now; the men are restless. Daemon fetches something from the armoury, a bow and a quiver of arrows. They are slim, not enough to pierce the hide of the dragon, but enough to shoot through the flesh of a man.

“Remember everything he has taken from you,” he says before he hands them to her. “Aemond may share your blood, but he is not one of us.”

She nods, and fastens them over her back.

Grey Ghost flies over the castle as the sun begins to set.

Luke and Daemon both know what they must do. She joins her dragon, hiding amongst a line of trees on the eastern shore of the lake, while Daemon waits in the open, and calls for Caraxes.

From the shadows of the trees, she watches the sky turn from blue, to gold, to red.

A shape flies before the sun and for a moment the world goes black.

She has never forgotten the fear she felt when she heard Vhagar’s call at Storm’s End, as she saw her shape through the clouds and stared into her open jaws. That same fear ripples through her body and makes her blood run cold, but she does not shy from it.

A thousand voices cry out in her head. Screams of the men she condemned to burn. Cries of anguish and mourning. Raised voices, calls for justice and retribution.

Mercy is a weakness. She finds herself wishing the world had more mercy.

But one voice appears clearer than the rest.

Blood– her heart in her chest.

Blood– the sky through the branches, illuminating the lake.

Blood. Blood she shares with Kings, Princes and dragons.

She has seen Aemond’s blood before and felt it against her skin. She is sure she will see it and feel it again before the night has reached its end.

Tags (comment to be added to either)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria

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#aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond x oc #aemond x ofc #aemond x fem!lucerys #hotd #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #aemond x original female character #aemond x reader #fem!lucerys #lucemond #my fics #karma is a god

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