#wyrm approved | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

targaryen-dynasty · 3 months

Text

OBJECT OF DESIRE (1/?)

Aemond Targaryen x female Reader

With your father being so insistent for you to marry some lord he’ll choose and your refusal of it, you’re more than interested in entertaining another option. And it would be stupid of you to let the idea of elopement with a man who could actually give you some power slip from your fingers.

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT-MINORS DNI; canon typical incest/targcest, dry humping, thigh riding, grinding

WORDS: 6 K

NOTES: It's based on a request I've received about Aemond being obsessed with Daemon's daughter. There's more to this story you'll find out in the future. Thank you for @happilyhertale for beta reading this (hdgdl) 🫶

A raven from King’s Landing, bidding for you to come to the capital, has reached Runestone two moons ago, though no distinct reason was stated in the explicit request. The question whether Ser Gerold should have gotten you ready to send you off never has never arisen with the signature of your father below, although you could spot a flicker of hesitation cross his features back when he has read the letter.

But there was no way he was going to deny Daemon Targaryen; not if he wanted Runestone to last longer, and not be burned down by the merciless flames of his dragon, Caraxes.

You can hardly remember the Blood Wyrm, except for his sparse roar and lean frame, but the stories are enough to know that he very much resembles his rider and his restless and chaotic temperament. That makes you three.

Even less you can remember the city whose gates you’ve just passed.

That’s because you’ve been to King’s Landing only once before, brought by your father to be presented to the King before he left you to grow up as a ward and the future Lady of Runestone alongside your mother’s cousin. And being but a moon's turn old back then, you were far too young to remember anything; not the short ride on the back of his dragon in honor of the king’s approval, and certainly not the people that had smothered you in attention afterwards.

The stench of the capital hangs thick in the air when the carriage makes its way past the city’s guards, prompting you to scrunch your nose in disgust. Your handmaids are more practiced at not letting their disgust show, and try to occupy their minds by straightening the skirts and fixing the clasps of your dress.

You would have liked to appear at the Red Keep in the bronzish riding attire you’ve worn back when Ser Gerold plucked you off your horse after your attempt to prolong the departure; riding at the front of your entourage and making a statement. But your father has requested the change of your attire beforehand, even going as far as sending an envoy with the dress for you to get it fitted before the five-and-twenty day long travel.

It has made your father’s aversion to everything you stand for more than apparent, considering the dress rather matches the attire of House Targaryen than House Royce. But half of his blood also flows through your veins, so you choose to silently swallow the obvious offense, having heard of it more often than not by Ser Gerold and the staff.

And the dress isn’t too bad, after all. It’s not something you would have picked out yourself, but there definitely could be far worse options. It’s simple, not made out of silk but something equally expensive, and more sturdy. The fabric is a softer, dark gray with dragon scale pieces running along the shoulders, the forearms and the collar. The clasps securing the belt around your waist and the cuffs are metal findings that resemble dragon feet, if you’d have to guess, and make it obvious that you’re a dragon in all but name.

The closer you get to the Red Keep, the more nervous your maids become. Taming your tousled waves hasn’t been an easy task, barely mastered by pulling them back into a half-up-half down hairstyle to keep the rest of your tresses open while the majority stays out of your face, yet Ysilla keeps on finding one loose strand after the other to smoothen out.

“That is enough, Ysilla. There can be hardly any more hair left for you to comb,” you say, gently swatting the hand of the older maid away.

She looks at you with shy eyes. “Y-Yes, you’re quite correct, my lady,” she gulps, lowering her hand and sitting back in her seat.

You sigh, and any anger you’ve felt before upon being summoned into the dragon’s lair vanishes, replaced by anxiety. “Believe me, I would love to be back at Runestone just as much as you do, alas, it is not possible.”

The nod she gives you has you setting your jaw, your gaze briefly flitting to the stoney, gray dragon egg that lays in your lap. It’s a solace, and although the egg hasn’t hatched, it makes you aware that a part of you indeed belongs to the strangers that so eagerly expect your arrival.

“My lady, may I speak freely?” Ysilla eventually asks, catching your attention.

“You may,” you affirm.

“Do you have any idea why the Prince Daemon has requested your presence in King’s Landing?”

Taking in a deep breath, you shrug your shoulders. “I do, and I am certain you do as well, but we have yet to find out if our stay will be a pleasant one or not.”

She hesitantly reaches out to place a hand on your thigh, squeezing it gently in a reassuring manner, and flashes you an apologetic gaze. There are a few years separating the two of you, but your maid has been nothing if not your closest advisor and your only, true friend.

“It is daunting, yes,” you mumble with a smile that hardly reaches your eyes.

You peek out of the carriage’s window as it comes to a halt a little roughly, causing one of your maids to stumble to the side with a loud gasp, and you bite your tongue to keep quiet.

All of the sudden, you’re well aware that you’ve reached your destination, and that you’ll probably be face to face with the man that has forced this misery on you in a matter of minutes.

Not knowing what to expect, you silently exit the carriage the moment you hear the guard announce your arrival, handing the egg over to the one you trusted most, Ysilla, instructing her to place it in a warm spot in your chambers.

She has also given you a detailed lecture of who’s most likely to greet you and how to make them out. So, you know that it’s Alicent Hightower and her father Otto standing at the front of the party, followed closely by her four children. The lack of the King leaves you wondering if he has to attend more important matters than greet the future Lady of Runestone and her entourage, although it takes a good bit of pressure from your shoulders.

A bit away from the crowd, lingering in the background and close to the castle’s entrance, is none other than your father, and though it has been a few moons, or rather years, since you’ve seen him last, he has not aged a day.

You find his gaze, and as quickly as the anger arises, it subsides, the smooth voice of Alicent catching your attention. “Lady Y/N,” she says, and it takes a moment for your lilac eyes to dart from your father’s to her hazel ones. There is a soft smile on her lips, a stark contrast to the stoic expressions of everyone around her. “It is lovely to see you again. It’s been years since we have seen you last.”

Bobbing a small curtsy, you return her smile and calm your fluttering nerves by merely focusing on her. “It’s a pleasure to have received the invitation, Your Grace,” you blatantly lie, a smile matching hers draped over your features. “I would say that I am more than pleased to be here again, but alas, I do not have any recollection of the few days I have spent in King’s Landing.” It’s a light-hearted joke, and with the way her eyes wrinkle you know she’s not cross with you.

“How was your journey from Runestone, my dear?”

“Long and tiresome, to be sure,” you say with a chuckle. “It felt endless, but when I saw the gates of the castle come into view it was a sigh of relief, I can definitely say.”

There follow a few more chuckles at your words, and it’s obvious that more than one member of House Targaryen is charmed by you and your soft humor. If only they’d truly know you, how chaotic you can become.

After inviting you to join her to break your fast in the morrow, the queen steps aside to make room for the other individuals to greet you. Something of the soft-spoken and calm demeanor of Helaena rubs off on you as she announces her participation in the breaking of the fast, and you momentarily forget that there are more important matters that await you.

Aemond and Aegon have been standing silently in the back, giving way to Helaena and Daeron, and just watch the scene play out without really paying you any mind.

That is, until King Viserys’ second son takes the opportunity to step forward, studying you for a moment before you’re allowed to hear his voice for the first time. The quiet, observing demeanor has been replaced by an edge of arrogance, as if something in him has been stirred.

“Lady Y/N, I do not believe we have been introduced before. I am Prince Aemond Targaryen. ‘Tis a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

Keeping your tone polite and formal, you nod your head once. “Indeed we have not,” you say, “for you have not been much older than me when my father brought me here to receive the King‘s blessings. But it truly is a pleasure to finally meet you, Prince Aemond.”

A chill runs down your spine as his eye roams your form from top to bottom one more time, and you’re certain you see his tongue wet his lips briefly. “Oh, I’m sure we would have gotten along just swimmingly as children,” he says in a playful tone.

You look to the side curtly, nervous to have him staring at you so openly without shame. You’re used to men staring at you like that, since you have been raised around the men of the Vale your whole life with most of them thinking women were nothing more than broodmares and possessions to be traded at will, but it’s different when it’s a prince whose intentions aren’t quite clear to you. Yet.

“I have no doubt we would have, Prince Aemond,” you reply, “... perhaps we still will.”

You can see him trying to fight his lips from pulling into a smirk. “I would love nothing more than to put that to the test, my lady.”

The true meaning of his words has you pressing your lips into a thin line, a slight blush covering the apples of your cheeks. But before you can say anything in return, you spot your father making his way through the crowd of his relatives, bringing a hand to his nephew’s shoulder and pulling him back slightly as if he means to bring him down to Earth again. “Do not forget your manners,” he rasps, not mincing his words.

Raising a hand, Daemon calls for a guard without so much regarding you. “Bring my daughter to her chambers, so she can settle into her temporary home.”

You’re not used to the protectiveness of your father, for he has never before displayed such demeanor toward you, and judging by the scowl on your cousin’s face, he’s not at all pleased about the interruption.

The guard ushers you away from the scene, bringing you into the confines of Maegor’s Holdfast, and leading you towards the apartments you will occupy and call home for an unknown amount of time.

There are many thoughts racing through your mind on your way, especially after the brief encounter with Aemond, but the most prominent ones are the Valyrian customs and their engagement in incestuous marriages, leaving you wondering whether that fate will also include you in the future.

A part of you wishes for it, but the other part hopes it doesn’t. You’re not opposed to the idea, but it’s just that you don’t quite feel worthy of it. For all your life you’ve dreamt of finding a noble lord as husband, an ordinary lord if that’s what you can call it, and not one that is bonded with a beast that’s able to cross continents in mere hours.

When the door to your chambers opens, your maids already scurry through the room, unpacking your clothes and belongings. But it’s the dragon egg that sits neatly on the sill of the hearth that suddenly wrecks the most havoc on you. The thing that has calmed you before makes you terribly aware of your flaws, happening so abruptly even though it has been by your side for so, so long.

No, you don’t want an ordinary man, you’re afraid that they deem you ordinary for lacking a dragon in a family full of dragonlords.

Staring at the piece of stone, gaze tracing over the several scales littered all over it, you don’t register the multiple attempts of Ysilla to gain your attention by clearing her throat. You’re in a trance, processing something that has unconsciously accompanied you for all your life, and it’s your maid’s hand gently coming to your shoulder that causes you to flinch.

“My lady,” she says, curtsying deep to you. “I apologize, but I believe you are to report to Prince Daemon’s chambers. It appears that he has requested your presence without delay.”

Smoothing down your gown in a manner befitting of a young lady making an appearance before her father she hasn’t seen in so long; you try to cover the apprehension that graces your features. “Did my father specify what it is about?”

Ysilla shakes her head. “I am afraid not, my Lady.”

Inhaling a deep breath, you bow your head once. “Very well,” you reply, taking your leave with the guard that has been positioned at the door to your quarters bringing you to the room in question.

You use the distance to prepare yourself for what awaits you behind the heavy, iron-bound doors, but still are ambushed when you see your father sitting at the small table, clearly waiting for your arrival.

While there briefly has been time for you to dwell on the anger you feel upon being called to King’s Landing on your father’s order, knowing all too well what the reason for it is, you don’t manage to keep your emotions at bay the moment your eyes meet.

“What is this all about, father?” you ask bluntly upon stepping into the room, prompting your father to raise a brow. “I have not heard from you in years, and then I receive a raven meant to summon me to King’s Landing. What for?”

In moments like these, you resemble your mother more than he would like to admit, you can spot the disgust flicker in his eyes, but it’s also visible that he’s impressed by the mannerisms in you that are distinctly his.

He releases a deep breath, gesturing to the vacant place opposite of him, “sit.”

Approaching the table while still keeping a fair distance, you ball your hands to fist and shake your head. “I demand an answer,” you say, speaking firmly and confidently.

The smirk that briefly crosses your father’s features causes the hairs on the back of your neck to stand up, almost enough to make you submit to him. He then rubs his palm flatly over the table, seemingly soothing his anger. “And I demand obedience,” his voice is sharp, and you know there’s no way you will leave his chambers alive if you don’t comply with his command, “now sit.”

Setting your jaw, you reluctantly sit down in the chair, leaning back to keep a comfortable distance to your father.

“King Viserys wishes for me to find you a match among the nobility. He has deemed that it is time for you to marry.”

There comes no voiced reaction from you, having expected it to be the main reason for your visit, but you do clench and unclench your fingers to handle the storm of emotions raging within you.

Licking your lips, you contemplate over what to say next. “I am a woman grown and soon to be the Lady of Runestone. If anything, I can decide if and when I want to marry.” Your words come with a lilt of arrogance; but you keep your expression stern.

The amused chuckle he releases at your words makes your stomach drop, and he looks at you with the knowledge that your thoughts on your position are not quite in line with your true status.

“I’m afraid that’s not how it works,” he replies sternly.

You jut your chin at, looking at your father defiantly. “So, I don’t have a say in this?”

Daemon shakes his head, and it seems as if there’s pity in his gaze as it flits down to his hand.

“I will not wed without getting a say on whom I wed.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, releasing a sigh. “Count your blessings, daughter,” he says in a condescending manner. “Most girls are forced by their fathers to marry whomever is given to them, but you are not going to be one of them. It is only by the King’s good will and good graces that he allows me to invite several suitors to court to woo for your hand. Be grateful.”

“And why should I trust that you’ll find a match worthy of me? Invite a man that is to my liking? It should be Ser Gerold arranging it for me, not you. You hardly know me.”

His jaw sets at your words, and it’s clear his patience runs thin, not having expected to be met with a reflection of himself when he called you to court. “Enough,” he says sharply. “I have a responsibility to the crown and the realm to ensure you are wed to a man fitting your station. It is not your place to question the men I call to court to vie for your hand. And you would do well to remember that.”

You narrow your eyes; hands remaining clenched. You stare at him with a look of pure defiance, ready to challenge him. Being pushed around by a man you hardly see more than once every five years isn’t something you envision about yourself. “Or what?”

His expression is one of cold, almost mocking amusement as his eyes take you in, clearly seeing much of himself in you. But he also knows he has to squash such defiance immediately. “You may toy with the lowly fools of stableboys you entertain at your whim, but I suggest you watch your tone when speaking to me, girl.”

You grit your teeth at his words, a look of unbridled determination on your face. “I am not the meek and submissive wench you expect me to be,” you hiss. “And I am certainly not a cow to be pawned off to the highest bidder. If anything, I am a dragon.”

If there is one thing you know about your father, it’s that he isn’t one for idle threats, always going straight for the jugular. And when his eyes narrow, you expect to be struck where it hurts. “You would do best to remember your place, girl, a place that is so far below me at all times. You may have my blood, but you don’t have the legacy, and certainly not the power that comes with it.”

Tears of anger brim in your eyes at his words; your glare making it obvious just how much your blood is boiling inside of you. The burn of his words reaches your heart, and although you're tempted to lash out at him, you have to admit defeat. Turning away from his glare, only fueling the humiliation that courses through your veins, you clench your jaw tightly.

Aiming to put you back in your place, your father decides to go one last time to provoke a reaction. “If you want to put up a challenge, at least have the wits not to let your tongue runoff like some spoiled brat.”

“May I leave now?” you ask sternly, keeping your head turned to the side.

Your father scoffs at the request, and doesn’t give you the satisfaction of immediately granting it to you. The silence stretches on for just a few more moments, enjoying to see you defiant but defeated, knowing he has succeeded.

“You may leave – on my graces alone,” he says, watching as you all but jump up to bring as much space as possible between you. You’re just about to walk out of the door when you hear his voice ring out once again, but you don’t stop for him.

“You are to receive suitors in two days, so you best prepare yourself for it.”

You press your lips into a thin line, and your shoulders tense at his words. If he wants you to meet the men he’s invited to court for you, you will play along and follow his orders, but no promise is made about you being on your best behavior.

Hurrying through the halls of Maegor‘s Holdfast, you don’t really see much with your vision blurred by tears, and that you don‘t know how to navigate the keep doesn‘t help either.

The Red Keep, as vast as it is, consists of innumerable corridors and holds many dark corners, most of which are rarely seen by others and seldom used, and you happen to stumble into one of them. There’s little to no traffic, and you blame it on most of the courtiers and servants tending to stick to the first and second floors, rather than the upper levels that are used by the royal family and a selected group of highborn individuals. Such as you.

There are a few guards stationed every now and then, but the last one you saw was the one guarding your father’s chambers, the guard charged with protecting yours clearly back at his post.

Rounding a corner, you’re caught off guard as you almost bump into someone on your way. The person stops short and is quick to sidestep to make room for you, and with them not moving, it’s clear they probably expect an apology.

You stop in your tracks and wipe your eyes before looking at the person whom you’ve inconvenienced, and you’re certain it couldn’t get any worse when you notice it’s none other than Aemond.

His chin is slightly tilted to the ceiling as he looks down at you, barely phased by your sniffing and the dried tears on your skin.

“Whatever ‘tis you are trying to run from, you will find no refuge down this corridor,“ he notes, raising a brow as he watches you wipe the tears with the back of your hand.

His smooth voice doesn’t stop you from frowning, and you look at him with reddened eyes. He‘s standing tall, easily towering over you, and the eyepatch doesn’t make him any less intimidating in this dimly lit part of the castle.

“I… it‘s-,“ you sigh, closing your eyes. “My apologies, Prince Aemond. I am not running from anything.“

Aemond‘s eye roams your form, assessing you, and a grin takes over his features. “It‘s quite alright, my lady,“ he hums. “What is it that has you in such a foul mood this evening?“

You set your jaw, biting back the anger and irritation at the thoughts of your father’s words. Your fists are now clenched tightly at your sides, and for a moment, he’s sure he’s pissed you off beyond the point of no return by just crossing your path. “I’m sure it would be none of your business if I told you,” you reply curtly, looking at the ground.

But Aemond isn’t having any of it, if anything, he appears to enjoy being met with someone that doesn’t bow to him. “Ah, but you see that’s exactly where you’re wrong, my lady,” he says, taking a step closer to you to which you react by taking one back, just reluctantly stepping out of his vicinity. He towers over you, looming presence enough to replace the distress you’ve felt by inquisitiveness. “As a prince of the Royal family, everyone who resides in this castle is my business. And it is my particular interest to learn what has you so agitated this evening.”

Something in his gaze turns more serious, and if there remains the flash of a smirk on his lips, it’s so subtle you barely notice it. But that might also be because you don’t have it in you to break the prolonged eye contact. There’s the hint of something you can’t quite put your finger on in his gaze, something that crawls under your skin.

“I assume it has something to do with the many noble lords flocking to the city to woo you as we speak. I can only imagine how annoying it must be to have everyone trying to charm you,” he says, a sarcastic lilt in his voice.

You cross your arms in front of your chest. There’s truth in his words, but the way he voices it feels degrading, making you nervous to the point you cave in; your shoulders dropping slightly. “It’s my father,” you say with a huff of breath. “He’s so bloody insistent on me marrying some lord of the Realm, but I have absolutely no interest in doing so.”

“What a coincidence,” Aemond hums, advancing at you. You’re backed up against the wall, trapped with nothing standing between you. “Because I have absolutely no interest in you being married off to some other man as well.”

You feel your pulse quicken with his words and every single one of his steps, heat crossing your cheeks. Your gaze flits to your feet and back up, only to see him still staring at you.

Biting your bottom lip, Aemond takes that as his cue to continue speaking. “You know you wouldn’t have to go through with this ordeal if you decided to elope with someone special.”

You jut out your chin, and half-lidded eyes gaze up at him. “I’m curious, my prince,” you counter, licking your lips. “What would this special person look like?”

Watching him bring up a hand to rest on the wall next to your head, you struggle with not letting him see just how much you melt in his presence. You know what he’s referring to, and the thought seems enticing, all the more in the prospect of him not striking you as the kind of lord you detest more than anything.

With your father being so insistent for you to marry some lord he’ll choose and your refusal of it, you’re more than interested in entertaining another option.

“Someone like me, for example,” he says, holding himself with so much arrogance, so much self-confidence.

His offer makes you consider the circumstances. You’re half Targaryen without a dragon, while he has claimed the biggest dragon alive when he was a child, and it would be stupid of you to let the idea of elopement with a man who could actually give you some power slip from your fingers. Taking in a deep breath, you look to the side with vulnerability glimmering in your eyes.

“I imagine that– well, I would have to have a dragon to be a suitable match for someone that has claimed the mighty Vhagar.”

Taking the opportunity given to him and taking advantage of your moment of weakness, he caresses the side of your face with a gentle hand; his head dipping forwards to bring his mouth on a level with your ear. You feel the warmth radiating off of him, prompting your heart to pound in your throat.

“That seems like quite the predicament, my lady,” he says, a hint of amusement woven in his voice. “However, I may have a solution to your problem.”

His words make your head snap back towards him so fast, it’s surprising he doesn’t flinch; and most importantly, he doesn’t shy away from the proximity. You feel his breath fan over your lips, but the temptation of claiming your own dragon is just too irresistible for you to care. A dragon is a symbol of power and status, a way to take control over your own life, and to make a difference – clearly befitting for the future Lady of Runestone.

And what woman in her right mind would refuse the chance to claim such a wondrous beast herself?

“And that is?” you voice your curious inquiry.

“A dragon is not what is stopping us,” he rasps, eye glinting as he notices your curiosity. You’re definitely not averse to the idea. “Elope with me, and I shall get you one. The Bronze Fury, Vermithor. I dare say he might be a good fit for a woman of your temperament.”

You fail to conceal the slight reddening of your cheeks, just as much as the change in your breathing at his words. Everything he says sounds like sorcery to you; the offer to help you claim a dragon of your own, even mentioning a dragon in question, it all piques your curiosity. You’re hooked, and that’s his last move to reel you in.

“If only it were that simple,” you hum, leaning closer towards him. “How exactly would we–”

Aemond silences you by crashing his lips against yours in a sudden rush of passion, and his tongue is quick to invade your mouth, tasting and teasing you at the same time. The protest dies on your tongue in the aftermath, as if he knows you might be doubting him and his intentions, and this will be the only way for him to get what he wants.

His free hand slides down your side, tracing your curves in search of grasping on any part of your body, settling on your hip. You sling your arms around his neck immediately, accepting and embracing his advances.

A spark of something familiar ignites in the pit of your belly, something that has you pulling back just slightly to gasp. You were so lost in the kiss, that you haven’t paid any mind to him nudging your legs apart to place his in between, firmly pressing his muscular thigh against your clothed mound.

Your thighs lock around his in response, that friction alone granting you a good bit of pleasure that has you whimpering, and you hesitantly grind your hips against it once.

There’s a moment where neither of you moves in the following. He expects you to suddenly play the coy lady, to push him away and storm off, but when that doesn’t come, he can’t help but scoff.

“Look at you,” he rasps in between heavy breaths. “So desperate for relief that you can not even wait for me to whisk you away to some quiet corner of the world.”

He doesn’t expect an answer, not that you could give him one, and is quick to dive forwards to swallow down any further whimpers and gasps that spill past your lips as his hand starts to move your body in a push and pull motion.

It is iniquitous, but you’ve done far worse things before, and with this corridor lying relatively deserted and therefore sparsely manned, you don’t even bother to worry about someone coming upon you.

The pleasure blooming between your legs is enough to encourage you to grind against his thigh on your own, although you’re certain that if you were to touch him, you’d come to the realization that he’s hard and just as wanting as you are.

With the thick skirts of your dress and your smallclothes rubbing your sensitive pearl each time your hips drag over his thigh, you get somewhat off-balance, holding onto his shoulders for leverage while the kiss becomes all teeth and tongue, devouring each other with passion and fire.

You roll your hips back and forth, alternating between short, quick movements and long drags against him, your shoulders dropping as you’re completely consumed by pleasure. The friction is almost too much, rubbing you sore despite your cunt being soaked in your arousal - but you’re far too lost to really care.

Your lips release his to catch your breath, and with the pleasure in your belly soaring to the surface, you can’t stop yourself from tilting your head back to whimper into the Red Keep’s chilly night air. Aemond immediately seizes the opportunity to mouth along the column of your throat, before gently sinking his teeth into it.

Your hips increase the pace with the slight sting his teeth bring, chasing the sensation that bubbles inside of you. The taste of copper fills your mouth from how harshly you bite down on your bottom lip, the intimidating and domineering side of him feeding something in you you didn’t know was there.

He brings your face on level with his again to just watch yours contort in pleasure, dark blown eye practically glued to your scrunched features. And if you weren’t so consumed by it all, you probably would have noticed the glimmer of affection flashing in it. His other hand comes off the wall to find your hip to help you grind down on his thigh, and it’s a massive undertaking for you to keep your legs steady to support yourself.

Aemond is not ashamed to groan and pant with you, and although his groans are much quieter than yours, and you know your movements don’t grant enough friction for him to reach completion, each sound that fans over your face brings you closer to yours.

“That’s it,” he rasps the words against your swollen lips in between fervent panting, not audible to anyone else but you, “peak for me.” There’s innocence in the way he says it, but the possessive demand is not to be doubted and exactly what you need to hear.

The pleasure ripples through you in twitches, and your cunt spasms and clenches around nothing with your thighs squeezing his for dear life. It’s a frustrating feeling that is hardly surpassed by the relief that washes over you, but for now you’ll have to make do with it.

“Look at you,” he coos, his voice thick with arousal and desire. “My my, aren’t you a good and obedient girl?” His praise makes you dizzy and longing for more, and if it wasn’t for him taking a step back from you, the lack of his thigh between your legs making the uncomfortable burn more than prominent, you would have done everything to tear the breeches right off of him.

You look at him with wide, glazy eyes, your mouth agape. “I–what…” you trail off, wanting to take a step towards him. But you’re stopped by his hand coming to your waist, keeping a fair distance between you. It’s obvious he struggles to hold himself back, and you pray to the Seven for him to allow the thin thread to snap.

“I will come back,” he says, his words doing little to mend the rising doubts that perhaps you were exploited, the satisfied smirk adorning his features not helping either. “I will have my prize, and I will claim what is rightfully mine.”

And with that, he disappears down the hallway until you lose him in your line of sight. Everything that remains of him now is the aching between your legs and the rich blent of leather and sandalwood lingering in your nostrils, leaving you to be alone with your thoughts.

The encounter was as abrupt as it was passionate, and you just now start to process everything that was said and has happened, and how you’ve felt every emotion possible in such a short amount of time.

With your heart hammering in your chest, you retire into the opposite direction, wandering the sleeping castle, eventually finding a corridor that seems familiar enough and brings you to your chambers.

You hardly find sleep that night with your mind too occupied, wondering when will be the next time you’ll hear of him.

Taglist: @heimtathurs @croatianprincess @nina2697 @malfoytargaryen @thetaygaryen @wintrr13 @winter-soldier-101 @kyuupidwrites @boofy1998 @thekinslayersswordhand @sagelovesreading @jiminie-08 @doublesparrows @at-a-rax-ia @fan-goddess @recorddust @tsujifreya @melsunshine @drwstarkeyy @kazuyatokue @moonlightfoxx @bbgmonsay @thatmysteriousblog @ashovertheriver @black-dread @watercolorskyy @nothingqueens @urmomsgirlfriend1 @lovelykhaleesiii @hypocritic-trash-baby @darylandbethfanforever9 @snowystark @connorsui @valeskafics

OOD Taglist: @vhwyrm

676 notes · View notes

photogirl894 · 2 months

Text

A thought I had about a particular moment in "The Return"...

(All gifs used made by @dreamswithghosts )

In the episode (as well as pretty much the entirety of the show), we see scenes between Hunter and Crosshair shot from the angles of their respective heights with Crosshair looking down and Hunter looking up. For this, though, I'm thinking specifically during their argument.

But in the scene after they escape the wyrm, look at the angles of each shot between them...the angles are reversed.

First of all, the silent looks and nods of understanding between these two just mean so much to me 🥹💜

Though, from this perspective, Crosshair almost looks smaller...like that of a child.

This, to me, shows something even more poignant between them in the moment. They had been arguing and really cutting to the quick not long before this. After that, Hunter had fallen into the deep tunnels below the ice, which we could see really scared Crosshair. He rushed to save Hunter, digging him out and pulling him up to safety before the two of them dashed behind the perimeter sensor. When Crosshair looks to Hunter, he looks scared and almost timid...as if expecting Hunter to start arguing with him again despite him saving him; like his actions wouldn't be enough to mend things between them.

Maybe like how they all had looked at him after he'd saved Omega from drowning on Kamino...

He has the look of a younger brother wanting nothing more than the approval of his older brother that he loves, admires, looks up to and is trying to do right by after everything he's done.

(That is assuming Crosshair is younger and Hunter is older, but that's beside the point)

Then Hunter gives Crosshair that nod of gratitude for saving him...and for a blink-and-you'll-miss-it moment, Crosshair looks surprised at Hunter actually responding that way. There's a glimmer of hope in his eyes that things could actually begin to be better between them; that Hunter could start to accept him and forgive him. Then he gives a nod back in response and there is a silent yet mutual understanding as brothers between them that we see continue at the end of the episode when Crosshair admits his mistakes and Hunter says they both can move forward and be better together.

"And who knows? There just might be hope for us yet."

The mending of the broken bond between Hunter and Crosshair was done so beautifully in this episode and I could cry and talk about it all day! I've waited 3 years for these two to finally be brothers again and this was honestly the best beginning they could've gotten! 😭💜 I seriously can't wait to see where their journey continues to take them for the rest of the season.

This is also what happens when I watch an episode several times...I start to get pretty analytical and maybe read too deep into things, but I can't help it 😅 This is such a wonderful and beautiful show that I love with my whole heart!!

#star wars the bad batch #the bad batch #bad batch hunter #bad batch crosshair #bad batch season 3 #bad batch season 3 spoilers #bad batch spoilers #tbb spoilers

98 notes · View notes

wingedblooms · 2 months

Note

I am a fan of Elain and azriel but I really want to ask why azriel was holding Bryce hands for a long time. We all know he hates physical contacts, but that part has been on my mind for a while

Thank you for sending this to my inbox. 🫶 You’re right, he doesn’t often initiate physical contact so it is worth noting when he does. When I read the scene below, though, I laughed because it reminded me of when I hold my child’s hand as we’re crossing the street. My child will run off, straight into danger, without my guidance. I know that Bryce is an adult, but Azriel acts a bit like a parent in this whole sequence. He does not trust Bryce to walk on her own or do what she says she will do and tries to exert control (for everyone’s safety) as a result. And to be honest, his suspicions are valid: she lied and drew a wyrm to them with her bleeding hand before this, and distracts him and runs for it in this specific scene.

“There are caves and doors throughout the land,” Azriel said, “that open into distant places. Maybe that was one of them.” His gaze flicked to Bryce, noting how closely she was listening to all that, and said, “Let’s go in.”

He took Bryce’s hand in his broad, callused one, pulling her toward the chamber beyond. His face was a mask of cold determination in the light of the golden orbs floating over them, his hazel eyes darting around to monitor the gloom.

This close to him, hand in hand, she could feel the sword and dagger again thrumming and pulsing. They throbbed against her eardrums—

The hilt of the Starsword shifted in her direction—she could have reached out and touched it with her other hand. One movement, and its hilt would be in her grip.

Azriel shot her a warning look.

[…]

Bryce sucked in a breath. “I’m going in. Keep a step back,” she warned Azriel.

“And miss the fun?” Azriel muttered. Nesta chuckled behind them.

“I mean it,” Bryce said, trying to tug her hand from his. “You stay here.”

His fingers tightened on hers, not letting go. “What do you sense?”

“Wards,” Bryce replied, again scanning the arena-sized cavern ahead. And there, right in the center of the space…

[…]

Azriel scanned the chamber, still not letting go of Bryce’s hand as he said to Nesta, “We don’t know what else might be kept at bay in here.”

“I didn’t sense anything except the Harp last time,” Nesta replied, but she still assessed the chamber with a warrior’s focus.

“We also didn’t sense that there was a second entrance into this place,” Azriel countered. “We can assume nothing right now.”

[…]

Bryce’s fingers tightened around the amulet. Then she looked over Azriel’s shoulder, and her eyes widened. “Watch out!”

He dropped her hand instantly, whirling to the unseen, unsensed opponent. The nonexistent opponent.

Bryce moved with Fae swiftness, and by the time Azriel realized there was nothing there, she’d already crossed the ward line.

Cold fury tightened his features, but Nesta was smirking with something like approval.

“You’re on your own now,” Azriel said, blue stones glimmering at his hands with a cold fury that matched his expression. (hofas)

This does not carry a hint of romance to me. It’s even more noticeable when we compare specific scenes:

He took Bryce’s hand and pulled her. But Elain?

“Can I set you up in the garden? The herbs you planted are coming in nicely.”

“I can help her,” said Azriel, stepping to the table as Elain silently rose. No shadows at his ear, no darkness ringing his fingers as he extended a hand.

Nesta monitored him like a hawk, but kept silent as Elain took his hand, and out they went. (acowar)

He offers his hand, she accepts it, and they walk out together. Offer and permission.

Similarly, Bryce takes Truth-Teller from Azriel.

There were two blades practically screaming for her to use them. Bryce again reached out a hand, her will, toward Azriel. And as surely as the Starsword had done, Truth-Teller flew from his grip. He tried to grab it, but even his swift lunge wasn’t fast enough to stop it. To stop Bryce as the knife soared for her fingers.

The dagger’s hilt landed in her palm, cool and heavy.

Her body began to hum. Like having one blade in each hand—the Starsword and Truth-Teller—electrified her.

And proceeds to leave with it despite his panic and pleading (🥺).

“Please,” Azriel said, his gaze now on her hands. On the Starsword—and on Truth-Teller. Something like panic filled his hazel eyes.

Shaking her head, Bryce backed toward the hole she’d made in the world. In the universe. She could only pray it would lead her to Midgard. (hofas)

But he offers Truth-Teller to Elain and she accepts it. Azriel has never allowed anyone to touch his dagger, but he chose to give it to Elain…amid the sighing meadow grasses, poetry once again dripping from his lips in her presence. This act required deep trust and care. He could have offered her a different dagger, but he didn’t. He gave her the one that meant the most to him.

And now, standing amongst the sighing meadow grasses in his Illyrian armor, all seven Siphons gleaming…

Elain’s eyes widened at the obsidian-hilted blade in Azriel’s scarred hand. The runes on the dark scabbard.

“It has never failed me once,” the shadowsinger said, midday sun devoured by the dark blade. “Some people say it is magic and will always strike true.” He gently took her hand and pressed the hilt of the legendary blade into it. “It will serve you well.”

“I—I don’t know how to use it—”

“I’ll make sure you don’t have to,” I said, grass crunching as I moved closer.

Elain weighed my words…and slowly closed her fingers around the blade.

Cassian gawked at Azriel, and I wondered how often Azriel lent out that blade—

Never, Rhys said from where he finished buckling on his own weapons against the side of the wagon. I have never once seen Azriel let another person touch that knife.

Elain looked up at Azriel, their eyes meeting, his hand still lingering on the hilt of the blade. (acowar)

And she immediately returns it to him, most likely grasping its importance and proving his instincts and trust are well placed.

But Elain had given it back—had pressed it into Azriel’s hands after the battle, just as he had pressed it into hers before. And then walked away without looking back. (acofas)

Sarah made the dynamics very different for a reason. There’s a reason the shadowsinger would only give up his dagger to and spout poetry for the lovely fawn, and I am excited to learn more about that in the next book. ✨

#hofas spoilers #elriel #azriel #elain archeron #azriel shadowsinger #elain x azriel #bryce quinlan #hands #truthteller

64 notes · View notes

animentality · 5 months

Text

If they ever made Gortash romanceable, you should be able to kill Raphael and cut off his head to get Gortash's approval.

You give him the head and then he'll fuck you in his office at wyrm's rock.

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 spoilers #raphael bg3 #enver gortash

78 notes · View notes

razrogue · 14 days

Text

Worship (Tav/Tav)

Relationship: Genderfluid Tav/Nonbinary Tav

Summary: After finally reaching Baldur's Gate, Gan had the evening to relax, unwind, and enjoy some one on one time with a companion.

Notes: This fic is about my Tav, Gan, and omgkalyppso's Tav, Étoile, set in an AU where Étoile is a companion. We decided to smash our Tavs together like Barbies 😌

This is part 2 that takes place in early Act 3 and is a bit of a continuation on their start in this fic written by @omgkalyppso

Words: 1.7k

It was her first evening alone in weeks. The group had finally reached Baldur's Gate after all the shit they'd been through. After securing a room in the Elfsong, everyone scattered to have a bit of normalcy before they had to deal with everything. Gale and Lae'zel went off to do some reconnaissance. Astarion and Shadowheart decided to take Minthara on a tour of Baldur's Gate though Gan figured the three of them just really wanted to find wine that didn't taste like vinegar. Being from Baldur's Gate, Jaheira and Étoile had taken off to find out if their old lives were still intact. She would have gone down to the Low Lantern, her favorite lair of vice in Baldur’s Gate, but instead Gan decided to just enjoy the solitude with some wine and a hot bath.

The little corner she'd claimed of the rented room began smelling like sandalwood and roses once she popped the cork on a tiny bottle of oil she pulled from her satchel. Étoile had presented it to her after their shopping trip a few days into Rivington.

"I would like to…" Étoile paused, carefully considering their next words as they watched Gan roll the bottle between her fingers. "...I hope to be there for the occasion you decide to use it," they remarked to her as the two of them sat together on the cliff one night outside Wyrm's Crossing. She smirked as she eyed the dark green bottle a little closer, the faint scent of its contents wafting into her nose.

Gan was pleasantly surprised by the scent as she began rubbing a few drops into her damp skin. Just as she finished and slipped her oversized blouse on, the room's door opened. Gan turned to see Étoile closing the door behind them and flashed them a warm smile as she returned the bottle to her satchel. They stood at the entrance for a moment, taking in the sight of her. Her hair pulled up into a braided bun on top of her head exposing a nearly healed bite mark on her neck. The neckline of her oversized pink blouse extended far enough that their imagination could only be led in one direction at the sight of it. Étoile rolled their bottom lip between their teeth, a slight flush surfacing on their cheeks, before they cleared their throat and finally walked into the room.

As they walked past heading towards their own bed, they sniffed the air, recognizing the aroma of the oil they'd purchased her. Gan was pouring herself a drink when Étoile approached her from behind. Gan turned around and Étoile paused briefly to observe her, before taking the goblet out of her hand to have a sip. A grin spread across their lips as they swallowed the fruity wine down. Gan stood there amused, "There's enough left to have your own cup," teasing them as Étoile set the cup on the table behind her and got a little closer. Gan looked them up and down, trying to not to stare at the way the blue shirt they were wearing laid over their muscles. The tingling in her belly made its presence known as she quickly tried to quiet her mind to the thoughts she was having of ripping it off of them.

With the tenderness she’d become quite accustomed to with them, Étoile took her hand and began kissing her palm, leaving her beaming in approval. She pressed her free hand against their stomach and softly nudged them away, trying to get a little space between them and regain some of her crumbling self-control. Étoile stepped back a little as Gan took her hand back and turned around to the table, the building heat between her legs flaring in frustration at the loss of attention. As Gan reached for the bottle of Blush for distraction, Étoile kneeled behind her and nuzzled into her neck, taking a deep breath and inhaling the sensuous scent as they peppered kisses along her neck. A quick bite halted her in her tracks as she leaned her head back to give them more access.

Her fingers reached into their hair, freeing it from the loose bun, as their tongue flitted against her neck, soothing and teasing the tender spot. Étoile's hand slipped into her blouse, grazing her nipple lightly before pinching it as they continued to tongue and suck her neck. She leaned into them, her legs becoming shaky as Étoile's lips made their way to her ears. Soft pecks against her lobe followed by a playful bite to the point was enough to make Gan moan as she grinded into them.

“Étoile,” their name left her lips a breathy whisper, almost swallowed completely by the moans their hands were coaxing from her, as she rubbed their head to get their attention. Étoile moaned into her neck but continued to kiss and massage her, not ready to let go just yet. She placed her hand on theirs guiding it so she could turn around to face them.

Étoile looked at her as she finally faced them, freckled cheeks flushed, brown eyes a little clouded with lust, red marks forming on her neck. Gan cradled their face before finally pulling them into a sensual kiss. As they slid their hands up beneath her blouse, they were greeted by nothing but more of her soft skin and not the underwear they were expecting to pull down at that moment.

Étoile pulled away from their kiss for a moment, looking at her inquisitively as they rubbed their hands up and down her thighs. "Are you often bare like this?" Gan grinned at their question, tickled because only Étoile would ask that in a moment like this. It was endearing in a way that was very them. “Only on nights of worship,” she quipped as Étoile brought their hands to her sides. Their hands lingered on her hips for a moment, watching as she blushed under their soft gaze, finally releasing their hold on her to stand, while she walked over to her bed.

“Don’t you need to say your nightly prayers?” Her hand idly grazed her inner thigh as she sat back and leaned against the pillows propped up on the bed. Étoile watched her fingers travel until they disappeared beneath the fabric, imagining it was their own finding their way between her legs. To her softness and warmth, eager to possibly taste her for themself at last. But the lust that had been growing was suddenly mixed with a slight confusion and Étoile needed to connect in a different way just then.

"Maicelwen…" They approached the side of the bed and kneeled beside her, concern furrowing their brow. Ever since the two of them had that moment in the shadow cursed lands by the lake, a declaration and a brief kiss broken by a playful nip that left both of them wanting, they had not endeavored to go much further than fervent kisses in rushed moments. A brush against one another or a clothed touch here or there but they had not freely given to each other as time and hope had not been on their sides until their victory at Moonrise.

"Are you sure you want to do this? I am content as we have been and I would not assume." Their expression earnest as they continued, "I do not expect that I am owed anything more than you've given to me thus far."

Gan raised up off the pillows a little, her legs straddling them as she studied them, trying to understand the root of their sudden worries. Their long dark hair hung loose framing their face, their golden eyes staring at her intently, awaiting her response. Their handsome features were even more pronounced despite the uncertainty and doubt they were feeling. Étoile rested their hands on her thighs as their statement lingered unanswered.

So much had happened and so quickly that there'd barely been much time to process it all. The abduction, the tadpole, the crash, finding herself still whole when she most certainly should have been a mind flayer, then finding out why this was at last a few days ago. In spite of all that had happened, she found herself with even more than she'd ever expected. Slowly opening herself up to more, more of what exactly she wasn't sure. Maybe it was the circumstances but for the first time in almost a century Gan found herself willing. Willing to share, to choose, to consider embarking once more. Though they all were very different, they did have a common goal. They asked for something, asked for more, and were willing to try with her. Gan was slowly making room to allow herself to try as well. Her pace was her own though and she would not be moved before she was ready.

She’d been in her contemplative silence long enough that Étoile had leaned in much closer now, caressing the sides of her hips, trying to calm their own nerves with each gentle stroke. Just as they were about to speak, Gan raised up a little and pressed her foot to their mouth, silencing them.

"Teeth on my neck, hands on my ass, and when I present myself to you, now you are worried…" Gan chided. "Étoile,” her tone decisive as she rested her other foot against their chest, ”you would not be this close if you didn't have my interest…or my favor."

Right then, she'd finally put it into words. Étoile had her interest, but more important to them, her favor. She had decided they could have more. More of what at the moment? Just more of her. In the future? Étoile held no notions about what would happen beyond tonight or after everything was over. They decided that they'd just revel in the now as she lay before them, in a place where they could have more. She watched them ponder her words before she finally felt a kiss and smile beneath her toes.

"We can just talk if you so desire or the mood has passed…" her sentence trailed off as Gan slowly shook her foot, moving their head side to side, "or you could make sure the door is locked and come to the altar."

#Ilina Gavren #Gan #Étoile #other people's tav #Tav x Tav #Tav x OC #BG3 #BG3 Tav #BG3 OC #Baldur's Gate 3 #razrogue writes #finally finished and posting it 🤭#long post #nsft #it's a little bit spicy #unsplash #divider by cafekitsune

13 notes · View notes

eastgaysian · 7 months

Text

like. wyll was seventeen when he entered his pact with mizora in order to save the city and his dad exiled him (he was seventeen!!!). in the seven years since then he's wanted out of the pact but he insists he doesn't regret the choice, because it was the right one, according to the virtues his father instilled in him since he was a child, which he continues to live by even after being exiled. he's never put himself before anyone in his life. that was the last time he spoke to his dad. the last time he speaks to his dad it's in wyrm's rock after gortash's coronation but that's not his dad. that's not his dad calling him 'my dearest boy,' that's him tadpoled and under gortash's control. he's not the wyll ravengard his dad might have remembered, mentally or physically. he gave up his soul to save an entire city. he was turned into a devil for refusing to kill an innocent. mizora asks for one life to get his freedom back. the loss of ulder ravengard may place the entire city in jeopardy. wyll's never put himself before anyone in his life. he's spent seven years of his life choked by mizora's leash and this may be the only chance he'll ever get to escape. there's still a chance his father could be rescued from the iron throne, but either way wyll's still saying that he's willing to give up his dad's life for his freedom. the last thing his dad ever said to him was 'go.' he'll never get to explain himself. he'll never know if his father, who taught him the virtues he still lives by today, would approve of what he's done and who he's become. they haven't talked in seven years. with his father dead he could take his place, use his name and his heroic exploits to become grand duke, his father's son. the ravengard history will remember. with his father dead he could be free not only of mizora's pact but of the ravengard name and the expectations carried with it and continue to be the folk hero, the blade of frontiers. Can anybody hear me.

#head in hands. we popping the biggest bottles when larian releases the wyll patch (desperate)#every time i remember he was seventeen i want to scream and cry and throw up.#balls your gay 3

26 notes · View notes

wellthebardsdead · 7 months

Text

Clockwork heart pt32

Part 31 here

———

Nerevar: *leaning back in his seat, staring out the canvas of the carriage* You look nervous.

Caryalind: I am. My father doesn’t exactly know I’m here after all. Nor does the rest of the dominion.

Nerevar: Best we go with our plan to use that for our advantage then. Make it look as though you’ve met me half way from the isles and morrowind for negotiations.

Caryalind: *nods* oh that part I’m not afraid of. It’s what’ll happen when word reaches my fathers ears if this goes wrong.

Nerevar: it won’t. *smiles a little knowing his words made Wyrm smile, even if he can’t see his face*

Caryalind: *glances at him, then beside him where their dunmer companion sits invisible from their view. Feeling strangely comforted as well by nerevars certainty in the young elfs abilities* … *glances back out of the carriage as it comes to a halt past the gates* we’re here.

Nerevar: *nods and sits patiently as guards approach the carriage, only to nearly choke on his own smirk as they stagger back in shock, one falling flat on his ass as Caryalind casually steps out into the snow*

Caryalind: *kindly exterior now overshadowed by the princely manner he was raised to present, staring down at the guard in the snow* Hmph. The dominions best I see… Elenwen is truely full of disappointments, is this how you greet the nobility visiting our facilities? By flailing like a mudskipper at their feet?

Guard: y-your grace forgive me- w-we weren’t expecting you- *scrambles to his feet and stands to attention with the other guards*

Caryalind: *scoffs* Weren’t expecting me? Don’t tell me. Your superiors never received my correspondence? Is that why my companion and I were forced to travel here unguarded?

Guard 2: F-forgive me your highness. We received no notice from our superiors to be expecting your arrival, or your- companion?

Caryalind: *sighs sounding genuinely annoyed, bordering just short of pissed off* Yes. The Hortator? The king of morrowind? Indoril Nerevar? Any of those names ringing in your empty skulls?

Nerevar: Calm yourself young prince.

The guards: *all back up in a mix of genuine fear and awe as the chimer steps out of the carriage, his blue cape contrasting his golden skin and white hair beautifully, and concealing the dunmer stowaway beneath it*

Nerevar: Perhaps the courier was attacked. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for all of this.

Caryalind: If it wasn’t happening so frequently I’d be reasoned to believe you my lord. But from the moment I set foot in this- barren frozen wasteland I’ve been met with nothing but disappointment from my subordinates and it’s evidently effecting the quality of your stay as well.

Nerevar: *smiles gently at him, masking his smirk as he watches the guards tremble before them* I’m sure some reprimanding may be in order. But I assure you I’ve found no displeasure in your company, as of yet. *reaches down as if to adjust his cape to step back, masking his signal to Wyrm that they’re going to walk* Shall we go inside though? I’m freezing.

Caryalind: Ah, yes. Forgive me. *gestures for nerevar to walk ahead before glaring at the guards with an expression that could make any grown Mer cry*

The guards: *scramble up the stairs and to the door, holding it open for them while another runs inside to frantically inform elenwen who just arrived*

Wyrm: *shuffling quietly beside nerevar and into the embassy, feeling relief wash over him as he finally sets foot inside, only to nearly empty his bowels as a woman’s voice greets his father and friend*

Elenwen: By the gods! Your highnesses- Lord thallery- In-indoril nerevar! Please forgive me had I of known you’d be coming-

Caryalind: Had you have known?! You’re to tell me you didn’t receive a single letter? A note? Not a mere hint of correspondence from myself? My father? Not even the council of my arrival? Nor anything from Lord nerevar and the houses who all signed off on approving this meeting?!

Elenwen: I- I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this your grace-

Nerevar: *stands idly by hiding his pleasure at watching her squirm, just quietly adjusting himself and lifting his cape in a manner to look like he’s simply shaking the snow off of it. Everyone completely oblivious to the invisible dunmer sneaking off behind the bar*

Wyrm: *creeps around past the guards and behind the counter, spotting malborn enjoying the show* pssst. Psssst malborn it’s me. Don’t acknowledge me just unlock the door like you’re grabbing wine like we planned.

Malborn: *looks down towards the voice but quickly corrects himself making it look like he was just looking for something* okay- *stands upright* gods did I leave it in the kitchen again? *turns and opens the door before opening the kitchen door* Tsavani is the dustpan in the storage again? One of the bottles wasn’t turned correctly and went off.

Tsavani: why would you need a dustpan for that? And what is that smell?

Malborn: That smell is the wine, the bottle exploded when I popped the damned cork. *walks around and opens the door to the storage, grabbing the dustpan and sighing with relief as he feels Wyrm tap his leg letting him know he’s going by* Maybe if you’d spend more time turning the bottles instead of rubbing your face in moon sugar I wouldn’t need the dustpan! *huffs walking back out and locking the door*

Tsavani: Shhhisssk! Get out of here. *huffs*

Malborn: *grabs a wash cloth as he goes by, selling his act of cleaning up a spill as he walks back out to the party, making eye contact with nerevar for a brief moment*

Nerevar: *tilts his head in acknowledgment of him letting him know he sees without giving him away* … *looks back at the rest of the party, pretending he’s listening to elenwen frantically trying to smooth things over and Ondolemar droning on towards other higher ups* good luck hla aka…

*meanwhile*

Wyrm: *holding his breath as he creeps further into the embassy, trying not to make a sound as he passes by the thalmor mages leaning against a counter by the door, feeling a strange sense of familiarity to them and the building itself as he wonders if Taliesin knew them, their names their families, if he lived in these very walls, befriended them*

Thalmor Mage: You heard about Piper?

Thalmor Guard: Yes, dreadful isn’t it? They found master Sanyons body rotting beside those filthy dogs, Piper though? No where in sight. They thought maybe it was wolves or he was used by the necromancer they encountered whilst scouting for their remains.

Thalmor Mage: It’s tragic isn’t it. I hope his family can find peace that he died serving the dominion… such a waste of a skilled tongue… At least master Sanyon was proven right about the shrine though~ that really wiped the smirk off Elenwens face.

Wyrm: *pouts for a moment hoping he’d of heard taliesins real name, but quickly sucks it up and hurries along out the door as the guards suddenly get up to go about their duties* gods that was cl- *covers his own mouth seeing a thalmor mage patrolling the snowy courtyard nearby him*

*a few minutes later*

Wyrm: *sighs with relief as he enters the main offices and quarters of the higher ups only to find it seemingly empty* okay… just need to find Elenwens offi- *pauses seeing his fingers beginning to appear, and panicking realising he only has one potion left* okay quickly I can do this. *sneaks his way over to the offices, rummaging through one and finding nothing, before entering Elenwens and opening a chest* yes! *reaches in pulling out 4 dossiers, barely containing his glee as he finds one labeled esbern*

???: hm? Hello?

Wyrm: *quickly shoves the books into his bag before fixing his cloak over his armour as he fumbles for his last potion only to run out of time as he sees a tall justiciar walking towards the offices* crap- *hides the potion knowing if he uncorks it he’ll be heard and trapped regardless* huh? Hello? *steps out into view, his cloak doing enough to make him look more like a well dressed traveller than a thief*

Rulindil: *halts in his tracks taking in the unusual elf and trying to place why he seems familiar* Ah. And who might you be?

Wyrm: *trying to think fast, knowing he may need to fight if this goes south* O-oh I’m Wyrm Gro Shub. From the college of winterhold. I’m here at the behest of-

Rulindil: *finally clicking why he recognises him* Oh yes, Ancanos little companion. I was hoping I’d get to meet you some day. May I ask- why you are here though?

Wyrm: *blinks and shuffles nervously trying to look shy as he clears his throat* A-ah I didn’t realise he was- telling others about us already h-heh. I’m here on business with the bards collage actually- they, have a manuscript that was stolen from the arcanum some time ago and it turned up in their records. Ancano he, well. He asked me to come gather some of his belongings for him and to inform his superiors he’ll be extending his stay to observe the new arch mage Mirabelle Ervine.

Rulindil: New arch mage? What happened to Savos?

Wyrm: that’s- still under investigation I’m afraid. In truth nobodies really sure what happened. We just know there was a loud bang and suddenly he was laying dead in the courtyard covered in casters burn.

Rulindil: HA! *claps his hands together in delight* Even the most ‘powerful’ of mages can never be as powerful as their own egos. *steps closer getting a better look at the younger elf* I must say Ancano was correct with describing you in his letters as well. You certainly are an, interesting but, lovely sight, but- how did you get into the offices?

Wyrm: oh I arrived unaware of lady Elenwens party and I was directed here. Rather rudely I might add, I got shoved by like they didn’t want me to be seen and then thrown out into the courtyard and directed here to speak with, well, I’m assuming you? I couldn’t really hear what they said with my head in the snow.

Rulindil: *recalling all the guards along with elenwen in a panic over Caryalind & Nerevars arrival and completely believing his words, recalling how ancano referred to him as naive and innocent and simply assuming he’d be a terrible liar* Oh gods, do forgive me I’ll be sure to reprimand them accordingly. *walks over to his desk and pulls out a chair* please, sit. I’ll go retrieve Ancanos belongings for you and perhaps we can discuss more about his dealings in the collage?

Wyrm: oh, um, yes thank you. *bows his head respectfully before sitting down*

Rulindil: Splendid. I’ll send a guard down with refreshments, it may take me a while. *walks off upstairs, completely unaware of the dunmers true intentions*

Wyrm: *sits patiently, fidgeting with his mechanical hand and looking innocent until the justiciar passes by the balcony* … *gets up and hurries down the stairs he’d spotted before uncorking his last potion and hurrying into a scene of nightmares, a torture room, a heavily guarded, torture room* …Oh biscuits.

*a few minutes later*

Voryn: *sighs cleaning the blood off his hammer after smashing the frost trolls head in like a watermelon, watching the trap door with growing anxiety as Kaidan & Inigo pace nervously* if he’s not out in 10 minutes I’m going in there.

Kaidan: I’m not letting you go in alone.

Inigo: yes my friend it is a death wish to go in there by yourself, our friend will be-

Wyrm: *suddenly drops down from the trap door and rolls over the ledge directly into voryns lap* Ugh!! Oooowwwwwwww- ATA!

Voryn: Wyrm! *pulls him into his arms holding him tight* by the gods yo- *lifts his cape* In your underpants!! Where’s your armou- *blinks watching as a Breton suddenly rolls down from the trapdoor dressed in Wyrms guild armour*

Etienne: Thank you! I owe you my life!!! *waves to Wyrm before running out of the cave exit*

Wyrm: I gave it to him.

Voryn: *sighs* oh gods you’re too sweet for your own good.

Kaidan: *wraps Wyrm in his cape as well* Let’s get back to the inn and wait for the others yeah?

Voryn: *nods smiling up at him* yes, I sense no distress from nerevar, I’ll let him know Wyrm is free.

Taliesin: *suddenly hurries in from outside having seen etienne run out, mistaking him for Wyrm at first given the armour* Wyrm just- *blinks seeing his lover safely bundled in Voryns lap* Oh little moth, my darling.

Wyrm: *immediately tears up reaching for him* t-Tali, teacup!

*meanwhile*

Nerevar: *watching Elenwen get drunk beyond words on wine as she has a meltdown in the corner fearing punishment upon punishment for displeasing Caryalind and himself* She’s going to regret a lot more in the morning than simply pissing you off.

Caryalind: Good. *sips his wine*

#wyrm dragonborn #caryalind skyrim #skyrim taliesin #nerevar #voryn dagoth #Kaidan skyrim #inigo skyrim

24 notes · View notes

grollow · 1 year

Note

Oh you said you wanted to write Hollow?

"Hollow opening up about how they feel" to anyone and about anything. Do with that what you will.

Have a Hollow.

CONTAINS MASSIVE W&G SPOILERS, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

break free || ao3

You are not surprised by his arrival. He is a frequent visitor to you in this place of lush green and life. He comes in secret, unguarded and hidden from the world. No one is to know that he is there – only you. And the sleeping goddess beneath the lake, perhaps. He stops in front of you and he stares at the twisting, winding shadow that is your form. You do not have to open your eyes to know that.

He is silent. He is always silent. He does not know what to say to you.

(You do not know what you want him to say.)

Your claws curl into the dirt beneath you; it is the first sign that you are awake and aware. Slowly, each set of your eyes open: two, four, six, eight. You gaze impassively, his kingslight absorbed into the darkness that makes up your mass. The void swallows it all and reflects nothing back.

He shifts, his claws curling into the layers of his wings, and he inclines his head back to look up at you.

“You must hate me,” he says after a moment. “Resent me for what I tried to do. For my lack of faith. It would be deserved.”

You do not respond.

“Greenpath is not part of Hallownest proper. It remains in the dreaming god’s control. And that, I believe, is why you are here. I would have you come back.”

You cannot. He offers only a prison for you, another place to keep you captive and you are so very tired of being held in chains, in stasis, at another’s will. Never again. You owe him nothing and you remind yourself of that in spite of everything inside of you screaming to do as he asks, to please him, as has always been your way.

You are not his Pure Vessel. You are not the Hollow Knight, either. You are the will of the void and you answer to no one.

You incline your head to the side. You flex claws again for a moment and then a sound rattles somewhere deep in your thorax. Your head lowers, until you are at eye level with him. You expect him to flinch away and he does not. There is a part of you that finds that not insignificant. He fears you. That much you know. He should. There is a part of you that wants to punish him. He did, after all, break you – more than once.

“You will not, will you?” he repeats. “Even should you leave this place… do you even want to?”

You exhale a low tendril of shadow that sweeps around him and you afford him a rare glimpse into your mind: the chance to hear your words.

He is privy to the void’s shared consciousness, and so he sees your younger self, your sister, your siblings. He is gifted the visual of them playing and your most dire wish to see them again, if not him. You share your fondness and you turn your head to the side.

You do want to go back. You want to know them.

He makes a noise in his throat that might be acceptance. It might also be approval. You do not know.

(You do not care.)

“If that is how you feel… then why? Why stay here?” he asks you, as if he does not know. In a rare moment of vulnerability, he asks you, “Are you waiting for me to beg? To plead with you? To grovel before the god of gods to give me back my child? I will, if it will do any good.”

There is a large part of you that would delight in such a show. You would like to blame it on the void writhing within you, or perhaps on your sibling, haunting your subconscious. Maybe even on the blinding light, devoured by your darkness. But no. If you are honest, it is all you. You would take great pleasure in the reversal of roles, in putting him in the position that you found yourself so many times.

You will not, though. You are not cruel.

(You are not kind, either.)

The void does not give back what it takes, you tell him; it is a familiar explanation and he looks at you. And I find that neither do I.

The wyrm – your father, you correct belatedly – leans away from you. He looks down, and you are fairly certain the sorrow is actually sincere. He does regret that he hurt you. The problem is that regret cannot undo actions, as you know all too well. The scars that mar your body are proof of that.

He thinks that you hate him. You decide to rectify that. If you are giving him words, you will not hold back.

Hatred is not the emotion that I feel for you. It is a perversion of love, that emotion. I will always love every version of you.

He does not believe you, as evidenced by the slow turn of his head. You are not surprised. That is not all that you have to say.

You pick him up, then, and he flinches in your claws as you lift him. You raise yourself up, to your full impressive stature, eyes shimmering brilliant white in the same hue as the glow that comes off of his body.

But I will never trust you again.

He flinches visibly at the reprimand – for that is what it is, and that is what it is intended to be – and then bows his head.

“I will not deny that I deserve that, but this isolation is punishment for yourself as much as it is me. Have you not denied yourself so much? What good, to continue such a farce? You want to be around them. Be around them. Is this not a prison in and of itself? Self-imposed, but alone.”

You are not alone. There are about thirty mosscreeps hiding within your shadows.

You do not argue that point. What you instead settle on is, You do not offer acceptance, but a cautious dance. You do not offer a home, but unspoken conflict: a war where neither side wishes to act. You do not want me. You want the potential of who I could have been, who you want to see. I am a monument to your failures, father, not your successes. I am not here to absolve your guilt.

He flinches at that and you set him back down on the ground. You do not shift forms, tempting though it is; there a part of you that wants to be in the more comfortable, more familiar one. Because speaking to him as such… it makes your heart race; it makes your breathing rattle; it makes your shell crawl. You are afraid. Of yourself. Of his reaction. Of everything.

You are so tired of being frightened, though.

(You are so tired overall.)

He does not argue with you. Good. There is no good argument that he can make. You are correct and you are resolute in that knowledge. Steadfast. Confidence feels strange, but it is not an unwelcome change.

“But you are alone,” he says, and you –

For a moment, you are sad to hear it. He is sincere and that is the problem. He genuinely does not want you to hurt. Your pain was never his wish, but it was always an unintended consequence. Now his is collateral to your whims.

Perhaps I will go to the Nightmare King’s island, you tell him. He did invite me, after all.

That gets you another flinch and he turns away from you. You are not sure what emotion he is feeling, but you know that he does not enjoy the idea.

“If I tell you not to, you will leave before I am even out of Greenpath, will you not?”

That question amuses you. You are not quite that spiteful. You have not yet made a decision on whether or not you will take his invitation. A place of acceptance would be nice, but the very same reason that you are hiding in Greenpath at all would remain: you are filled with an endless hunger that you do not want to put others at risk over.

And you have had your fill of being used and swayed by other gods.

Just the same, if he can teach you to contain that, you might be able to look past your distaste for what he is, and that is tempting. It is a decision that requires much thought, and truthfully… you’d rather be sleeping.

“You must do what is right for you,” he tells you and you turn your head. “But you are missed. You are asked about, always. They know that I know where you are. I would send them here, if I thought you would be at all grateful for the visit. You do not want them here, though, do you?”

Am I not dangerous? Is that not your opinion? A threat to you, to them, to Hallownest?

That is bitter and mean, you realize. You do not apologize.

(You are not kind.)

He looks at you for a long moment, and then he sighs. He turns his head and he says to you, “You belong here with us. You are wanted.”

You do not believe him.

He lapses into silence and you let it happen. You do not feel a compulsion to argue further.

After all, you are right. You are dangerous. To him. To your loved ones. To Hallownest.

You are the most dangerous creature of all. And that is why you stay away. For their safety. Never for yours.

(You are through being at someone else’s mercy.)

#ashe writes #w&g #drabble #prompt #hollow knight #hk fanfic #spoilers for white & gray if you're reading that #this will make absolutely no sense if you haven't #this is your last warning

49 notes · View notes