WIP

WIP

“Seriously,” Lo’s voice was laced with mischief, a smirk playing on his annoyingly stupid face. “C’mon now, love. Quit trying to make this all my fault. You and I both know that you were into this.”

MASTERLIST;

(the empty selections are an overlook on what and who i write/i will write for)

KPOP─☆*:・ﾟ

SEVENTEEN:

Jeonghan

• mon ange analogique

MANHWA─☆*:・ﾟ

WIND BREAKER:

Vinny Hong

• imperfectionist (on-going) - 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

OMNISCIENT READER'S VIEWPOINT:

AISHA/AYESHAH'S SECRET:

ANIME─☆*:・ﾟ

BUNGOU STRAY DOGS:

MORIARTY THE PATRIOT:

VANITAS NO CARTE:

FILMS/BOOKS/SERIES─☆*:・ﾟ

PERCY JACKSON:

AHS:

REIGN:

GAMES/AUDIO & VISUAL NOVELS─☆*:・ﾟ

GENSHIN IMPACT:

TEARS OF THEMIS:

RESIDENT EVIL:

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Strong!Niece!Reader

Read Ch 1 here

Summary: The year is 123 AC. You are the eldest of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen’s children. Both fearful and fiery, you are fiercely protective of your little brothers and share a deep bond with your dragon, Gaelithox. Your life is forever changed when Laena Velaryon’s demise calls your family to Driftmark, reuniting you with your twice-widowed uncle, Daemon Targaryen. The events that follow change the course of Westerosi history.

Chapter warnings: graphic violence, grief, period-typical grossness towards illegitimate children

WC: 5.1k

Series rating: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI

A/N: Like Chapter 1 , this chapter also contains dialogue and blocking from Episode 7 of House of the Dragon, followed by total canon divergence. See this post about the ages and timeline for this canon divergent AU. This series is cross-posted to AO3.

You wake to the sound of shuffling feet and the echo of whispers amplified by the stone corridors outside your bedchamber. You groan into your feather pillow, immediately recognizing your brothers’ voices. Jace and Luke have always been terrible at being quiet. 

Half-asleep, you wonder why your brothers are out of bed in the middle of the night. Arrax and Vermax are still on Dragonstone, which eliminates the possibility of them attempting to saddle their dragons (not that that was yet feasible for Luke, but you knew that would not stop him from trying behind your back). You relax at this conjecture, but it does little to assuage your concern. You think of Gaelithox with a pang, closing your eyes. You are inundated with the sight of rippling sea grass and sand racing by in a blur behind your eyelids. Your boy is also restless tonight, circling the island instead of finding somewhere to roost for the night. 

 You have half a mind to simply roll over and let sleep retake you, and you politely tell your dragon to cease his prowling.  And, your brothers are likely just out to explore the palace, you reassure yourself. You know that Jace and Luke are enamored with the many artifacts from the Sea Snake’s voyages displayed in the Hall of Nine. 

However, knowing them, they will likely break something, and perhaps that will be enough for Lord Corlys to disinherit Luke from succeeding him as Lord of Driftmark. Or they might sneak down to the beach and meet their death beneath the waves, a frantic voice inside your head insists.  

Suddenly, you are wide awake, leaping out of bed to throw on your slippers and dressing gown. You must be sure of their safety. Besides, the castle is teeming with guests you know do not wish either you or your brothers well.

As you near the door, you hear the high-pitched voices of who you only assume are Baela and Rhaena. The desperate edge to them makes a jolt of panic radiate out from your chest. You press your ear against the wood as the children talk over one another.

"Who could it have been–" 

"Perhaps she simply decided to find a different place to sleep for the night–" 

"No, Jace. She's old. It's not like her. Someone stole her, I know it–" 

"Whomever it is will answer to me–" 

"Let's go! We're wasting time," Luke chirps much too loudly. The rest of the children shush him, and you hear the patter of their feet as they scurry down the hallway. 

A chill ripples through you. You pull the door halfway open before turning back to snatch the small dagger sitting on your bedside table. 

Although you have had little use for it yet, the small weapon is still your most treasured possession. It is forged of swirling silver and black steel, curved like a dragon's claw with Gaelithox's likeness carved into the bone handle which fits perfectly within the palm of your hand. It rests within a sheath of soft leather that you often feel against the skin of your calf or thigh, as wherever you go, so does the weapon. Your father–your real father–had gifted it to you on your eighteenth name day nearly three years ago.

Hopefully, you will never have any need of this, he had said, but I am deeply invested in your safety, Princess. 

Hearing the ghost of his deep, warm voice inside of your head makes you feel as though your heart has been wrenched straight from your breast. 

As you slip the blade into the deep pocket of your forget-me-not blue dressing gown, you think fondly of the days–days when you told your mother you were flying, the Dragonkeepers that you were taking extra time studying with your Septa, and your Septa that you were attending to Jace and Luke–where Ser Harwin had taught you how to use it properly. 

Don't stab, slash, his voice says again as you bolt out the door. Looking frantically up and down the hallway, you see the hem of Luke's nightshirt whip around the corner to the back staircase, and you hurry after the group as quickly as you can, taking care to tread lightly. 

The secret to fighting with a dagger is using it to disarm, Ser Harwin had said. Even Blackfyre itself is useless if the forearm of its wielder is cut to the bone. 

You cannot say precisely what has you so on your guard tonight, but there had been something deeply unsettling in the few of the children’s words you could make out. 

You follow them down flight after flight of stairs, deducing that they must be headed for the lowest exit, which opens out through a tunnel to the shoreline. Another prickle of fear shoots down your spine. Suddenly, you are lightheaded and queasy. 

Many would see your death, and Jace's and Luke's… even baby Joffrey's, as a cause for celebration. You even consider that Baela and Rhaena, as innocent and bereaved as they had looked during the funeral proceedings, might have been put up to something sinister. Although it is unthinkable, ghastlier things have happened in your family, especially as of late. 

Descending the last set of steps, the group turns a corner, heading down the sand-floored tunnel which opens out to the coast. You linger behind with your back pressed to the sandstone wall, just around the corner. Their pace slows. And that is when you hear, 

"It's him," one of the girls states sharply. 

"It's me," a boy's voice replies haughtily. It is neither Jace’s, nor Luke’s. 

You gasp softly, clapping a hand over your mouth. 

What in all Seven Hells is Aemond doing here? 

"Vhagar is my mother's dragon!" 

And, suddenly, the pieces fall into place. The girls’ cries about her being stolen. Jace and Luke’s indignance. Everyone knows there is nothing for which Aemond longs more than a dragon of his own. But, surely, even he is not so uncouth as to–

"Your mother's dead," your boy-uncle declares callously. "And Vhagar has a new rider now." 

"She was mine to claim!" a high voice cries, which must belong to Rhaena. You recall that when you were putting Jace and Luke to bed, they had explained that Baela had a dragon, too, and Rhaena wished for one more than anything, saying that she would claim Vhagar when she recovered from the loss of her mother. 

"Then you should have claimed her," Aemond shoots back. "Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride. It would suit you." 

Your hands are shaking, the layers of your night rail and dressing gown damp with perspiration and sticking against the weathered foundation. 

Then, you hear one of the girls grunt through gritted teeth and the muffled sound of someone hitting the sand hard, followed by the unmistakable sound of a fist finding its flesh and bone target, as you hear Aemond yell in pain. 

"Come at me again,” he retorts, “and I'll feed you to my dragon!" 

Enough, you think. You will not hide and allow them to destroy one another, no matter the severity of what Aemond has done. You have little love for Grandsire and Alicent's children–for your young aunt and uncles have shown you none–but you know that justice ought not to be dealt here, and certainly not like this. 

You pull the dagger from your pocket, grasping it with both hands and unsheathing it smoothly. The swirling steel of the blade glints menacingly in the amber torchlight. You exhale a shaky breath. Of course, you don't mean to use it–only to signify the gravity of the situation. 

The thud of several more blows echoes through the passage. Now, you command yourself. Making yourself as hard and unyielding as the steel in your hand, you force yourself to step around the corner, just as Aemond kicks Jace in the stomach, knocking him to the ground. 

There is something dark about this violence. It is no training yard scuffle. Your heart jumps into your throat as your eyes dart over to Luke as he runs at his uncle, shrieking and flailing with all the ungainly aggression of a starving dragon hatchling trying to tear apart its prey. Aemond knocks him down with little effort.

You find yourself imagining how easy it would be to summon Gaelithox and have him burn the petulant craven of a silver-haired prince until he is nothing but crumbling ash and charred bone. 

Your eyes close as your dragon jolts from his slumber, snorting and grumbling. 

Lykirī , you plead with him. Lykirī, donus taobus. He nestles his head back down on the soft grass. Calm down, sweet boy. 

Syrī, you praise him. Good. 

As your eyes fly back open, Jace springs back to his feet and, with newfound fervor, finally knocks Aemond to the ground. Baela and Rhaena seize the opening and begin beating him with their fists. 

If they had noticed you, they would have said so by now. 

Now. You order yourself. With Aemond on the ground, subdued, it will be the easiest to call the rest of them off. Jace and Luke will obey you, and the girls will follow suit. 

You hold the blade at your side as you stride forward. 

As Luke approaches Aemond, the pale-haired prince shoots a hand out to wrap around your little brother's throat. 

"Leave him alone!" you yell, charging towards them. 

Aemond stands. Not heeding your warning, he picks up one of the many rocks that litter the passageway, brandishing it at Luke, who is still struggling against his grip. 

"You will die screaming in flames just as your father did! Bastards." Aemond spits the last word as if the mere mention of it is as acrid as freshly spilled blood. He looks from Jace to Luke, to you. 

"My father's still alive!!" Luke sobs, struggling against his grip. A pit of dread forms deep within your stomach. 

Aemond stares you down, bearing a look so cold and cruel it obliterates any remorse you might have had about harming him. 

"He doesn't know, does he?" Aemond laughs mockingly. "Lady Strong." 

He releases Luke, who bolts toward you, hiding behind your skirts. He turns on Jace, still on the ground, scrambling backward. 

Your legs propel you forward. Time slows. Aemond raises the rock. You glimpse his lily-white forearm, exposed by the torn sleeve of his emerald green doublet. 

Don’t stab, slash. You will be clean.

You approach from the side, aiming for his arm just as he begins to swing the rock down. But, before your claw-like blade makes contact, Aemond turns to face you. 

It is too late. You are already driving the blade up through the air as if to slice his hand clean off, pouring your fury into pulling your late father's gift through the unblemished flesh of the boy who dared to insult his memory. 

But, when steel pierces skin as easily as if it is soft, ripe fruit, it is not Aemond's arm through which it tears. 

And then, blood sprays. It splatters across your face and down the thick fabric of your pale blue dressing gown–warm and metallic and unmistakable. Aemond howls, falling to his knees and clamping his hands over the right side of his face as he wails in agony. The swirling steel in your hand shines crimson, the vicious, curved point of the blade metamorphosed into the gore-smeared talon of a monstrous beast.

And this is the part where the prince who stole the dragon ridden by Lady Laena, your great-grandsire Prince Baelon, and Queen Visenya herself becomes a sniveling boy once again. This is where the dagger should fall from your hands as you realize the severity of what you have done. This is where your knees ought to buckle, so grotesque is the sight of gash that you have scored through the right side of your boy uncle's face–a hideous, unquestionably deliberate slash running straight through his eye-socket. 

But, you feel none of those things. Instead, it is as if you are surrounded by a warm, soft bubble. The continued clamor of the children, their scrambling and frantic squealing as Ser Harrold and Ser Arryk round the corner and rush to Aemond's side, is muffled as if you are under warm water. You are borne away on a gentle current of calm euphoria, a serene beacon in a sea of chaos. 

Let this be a lesson, you think. To anyone who dares to hurt those you love the most. 

But, the high is evanescent. A dam breaks as you wipe the dagger with a handful of fabric from the skirt of your dressing gown. The tight knot of guilt in your chest unspools as you sheathe your dead father's blade once more.

If you have done what you think you have, Aemond will carry this hurt with him forever. 

"Gods be good," Ser Harrold whispers as he examines the wound, and your exhilaration disappears entirely–a dwindling flame suddenly snuffed. 

All you are left with is the sobering truth that you have permanently maimed a child–your kin, no less. All because he dared to speak the truth. 

* * * * * * * *

The following day, you lie in far later than you usually do. When you finally rouse, your first thought is that you must leave as soon as possible. You have no desire to remain at High Tide for one moment longer. 

Perhaps that makes you a coward–a craven, even–but making haste back to Dragonstone ahead of Mother, Father, and your brothers will not change the consequences you know you will face for the previous night’s behavior. Mother usually allows you to do as you like, but you know she will draw the line at this. Whether it is here on Driftmark, or later on Dragonstone, you know that you will answer for your behavior. 

But, you doubt she would object to you flying ahead, as long as you send word ahead of time. Especially since you have come of age, she allows you to make your own decisions. You come and go at the Red Keep as you like, explore the city, travel, hunt, hawk, and fly your dragon as frequently as suits you. But, most importantly, you are twenty years old, and she still has not forced a marriage upon you. However, that does not stop her from trying to sway you to do so anyway. 

You really ought to marry, darling, she says over supper from time to time. There is not an unwed Lord in the known world who would not be pleased to take you as his bride. And, indeed, her words ring with truth, as there is not a week that passes without her receiving a raven bearing a message from a lord begging for your hand.

But, to everything Mother says, there is much more she does not say, and the unsaid resounds louder than whatever calculatingly soft, subtly sweet entreaties she deigns to speak.

You ought to marry… because that will ensure an alliance to bolster her succession. There is not an unwed Lord in the known world who would not be pleased to take you as his bride… because of your title and your dragon. 

But, even still, it is not lost on you that you, at least, have a choice, which is more than any other bastard girl in the realm is afforded. And yet, for now, you have chosen not to choose. 

And, against your better judgment, still confined to your guest chambers at High Tide, you cannot help but replay the events of last night; the memories crash down upon you, as ruthless as the white-capped waves do against Driftmark’s coast.  

"We know, Father," Aegon's words echo in your head. "Everyone knows. Just look at them." 

You wince as the night’s ugliest memory flashes before you, of Aemond dropping to his knees in the sand with blood seeping from his mangled eye; how the syrupy, ruby-red fluid had oozed grotesquely through his small, pale fingers–his hands desperately clapped against his face in a futile attempt to staunch the flow. 

How the sight of it had thrilled you, if only for a second, and how you cannot bear to contemplate what horrific things that must say about you. 

What followed had been a blur.  

The knights of the Kingsguard promptly escorted you to the Hall of Nine, and as Maester Kelvyn gave Aemond milk of the poppy to numb his agony and stitched up his face, it seemed the entirety of the palace’s occupants filtered in to bear witness to the goings on. 

Soon, Grandsire demanded the truth of what happened as Jace and Luke cowered behind you.

Mother and Daemon walked in together not long after. 

You recalled that she looked as elegant as ever, still wearing the gown she had worn for the funeral. Her silver hair was still tightly wound around her head in the elaborate braided style she always favored, looking from Aemond to Jace and Luke to you.  

She strode directly to you in the center of the room while Daemon leaned in the doorframe. Your grand-uncle’s eyes widened with concern and darted frantically around the room before finding Baela and Rhaena, who were clinging to Princess Rhaenys. Then they affixed on you, Mother, and your brothers. You relaxed.

When you recounted to Grandsire what you had done ("The Princess ambushed the children and attacked Prince Aemond with a knife!" Alicent accused rabidly) that yes, you had slashed Aemond's face open and wounded his eye, but it was in defense of Prince Jacaerys, that you treacherous young uncle was about to do worse to your brother with the mean-looking rock, that no one in their right minds could fault Rhaena and Baela for their anger, and that you had only meant to disarm Aemond, not take his eye. 

"And he called her Lady Strong!" Luke piped after you finished your account. 

You stared at the stone floor, feeling Mother's eyes boring into you reproachfully, but you still did not dare to look up. You could not bear it.

Luke could never hold his tongue when he most needed to. You wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. 

And, although Grandsire bellowed demands for an end to the "interminable infighting," and begged you all to "make your apologies and show goodwill to one another," an almost laughable request given what had preceded it, it was only Alicent who actually objected.

"That is insufficient," she said desperately. "Aemond has been damaged permanently, my King. Goodwill cannot make him whole." 

"No, Alicent," the King replied, exasperation clinging to his raspy voice, "but I cannot restore his eye." 

"No, because it's been taken." 

"What would you have me do?" 

"There is a debt to be paid." The Queen's voice cracked, her wide brown eyes filling with tears. She turned, gaze fixed immediately upon you. 

"I shall have Princess Rhaenyra's daughter's eye in return. I will let her choose which one, a courtesy that she did not grant my son." 

You froze, shaky fingers clasping the blade still hidden in your pocket. You looked down the front of your dressing gown, which still bore the rusty red splotches of Aemond's blood. 

"My dear wife–" Grandsire pleaded. He and Queen Alicent began to bicker. 

"You will do no such thing!" Mother said firmly, grabbing your wrist and positioning herself before you. You thought you heard Alicent demanding that Ser Criston take your eye on her behalf, but to your relief, he did not obey. 

Grandsire declared the matter finished, following it with, "And let it be known that anyone whose tongue dares to question the birth of Princess Rhaenyra's children shall have it removed."  The echo of his threat hung heavy in the hushed hall. No one dared to pierce the silence with a reply, until Mother spoke.

"Thank you, Father."  She ran her thumb soothingly up and down your wrist. 

That ought to have been the end of it. 

But, when Alicent snatched Grandsire's Valyrian steel dagger from its sheath at his waist and charged at Mother, for the second time that night, your feet moved of their own accord–thinking that you could put yourself in the middle and that together, you and she could overpower her. 

But, strong arms held you back before you could attempt to break up the second confrontation of the evening. 

"Do not maim anyone else tonight, Princess," your grand-uncle whispered dangerously. He had you braced so tightly against him that you could not struggle. "Lest I drag you from this hall myself." 

"And do what?" you hissed, spitting out a mouthful of your own hair. "Imprison me in my chambers?"

"Tempting. You ought to be taught a lesson." 

A thrill of a different breed surged through you as you felt his strong body pressed against your back. But, before you could dwell upon it any further, you cried out in horror at the sight of Alicent brandishing the dagger at your mother, the two women locked against each other as the Queen hurled insult after insult at her. Everyone was shouting, Luke was screaming, and Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk were restraining Ser Criston, who you realized was looking at you and Daemon with a murderous glimmer in his onyx-black eyes. 

"Exhausting, wasn't it? Hiding under the cloak of your own righteousness," Mother shot back at Alicent through gritted teeth, luminous alabaster skin shiny with perspiration in the firelight. "But, now they see you as you are," she hissed. Even with a Valyrian steel dagger in her face, she was as composed as ever.

You knew not who overpowered whom, but Mother stumbled back, a gash now on her forearm…the second time of the evening that the blood of the dragon had been needlessly spilled... 

You do not realize that you have managed to get out of bed and are now pacing the bedchamber, haunted by the image of the wound on Mother's arm–so like the one you had meant to inflict upon Aemond in the first place.

If ever there had been time for her to punish you, now is it. 

You rifle frantically through the gowns in your trunk in search of your riding leathers tucked away at the bottom. Although you usually favor dressing in shades of blue–turquoise, sapphire, and teal fabrics fill your wardrobe–your leathers are all black and the fastenings ruby red. The coat is tailored especially for your figure, hugging your waist and hanging down in soft pleats that twirl and flounce as you walk, and the black breeches allow you more freedom of movement than any of your lavish gowns. 

Once you are dressed, Doretta, your favorite handmaid, braids your hair, weaving the wild strands tight and close to your scalp. She chatters about everything and nothing–the fascinating artifacts displayed in the palace, the sweeping views from the island, how terribly sad it is that Lady Laena passed, but how lovely the ceremony was–it is why you adore her. While her steadfastly chipper demeanor is often tiresome, this morning it quiets your racing thoughts. When she finishes your hair, you dismiss her, instructing her  to take a message to Mother that you will depart early. 

As she scurries from your room, your thoughts drift to Gaelithox. Wake up, you tell him. It's time to fly.  

You feel the familiar heady rush of excitement as his eyes fly open. He pushes himself onto all fours, shaking the sand and dust from his massive body and startling a flock of seabirds that rise into the air, twittering noisily before flying over the bay. 

In your younger days, Gaelithox would not have behaved himself during a night like this. When you had had tantrums as a child, so would your boy, wreaking havoc in the dragon pit, spewing flame, and terrorizing the dragon keepers. Of course, he had been much smaller then, and you shudder to think of the consequences if the both of you lost control now. 

It is a peculiar connection, your bond with Gaelithox going far beyond what is typical of a dragon and its rider, even for a Targaryen. 

While Mother is still the youngest dragon rider the realm has ever seen, the dragon keepers had always praised you for your mastery of nonverbal commands at the same age–a feat that many riders never accomplished.

But, I do not command him, you had replied, many years ago. Instead, you and Gaelithox seem to share the same soul, the same mind. It is as if you are two parts of a whole, and, as you had matured and learned to temper your emotions, so had he. The Dragonkeepers had told you that the only living dragon and rider who also exemplified this type of bond were Prince Daemon and Caraxes (and this one was odder still, for he was not the Blood Wyrm's first rider), and before that, between his mother, your great-grandmother Alyssa, and Meleys. 

It is your favorite thing about yourself–your one quality that makes you, undeniably, a Targaryen. 

As you tug on your blood-red gloves and stride towards the door, you nearly run headlong into Doretta in the doorway. 

"Begging your pardon, Princess," she says. "But, your lady mother has requested a word with you before your departure. She asks that you make haste to the cliff which overlooks the bay towards King's Landing." 

"Did–" you stammer, "did–she mention what she wishes of me?" It seems an odd request. If Mother is planning to reprimand you, you suppose that it is best to do it somewhere secluded. But, if privacy is what she desires, you do not understand why she will not simply wait until you return to Dragonstone. 

"Forgive me, Princess, she did not. Only that the matter was pressing." 

* * * * * * * *

You stand looking over the choppy waters of Blackwater Bay, watching the royal ship depart with Sunfyre, Dreamfyre, and Vhagar gliding through the air above. 

Mother stands to your left. She is wearing your favorite overcoat–deep maroon with a collar of thick, black fur. And, unexpectedly, on her left is Prince Daemon. 

He is dressed in black and charcoal gray, shoulder length silver hair neatly tied back. You find yourself admiring the sharp slope of nose, the gentle curve of his high cheekbones. You are unsure why she has brought him here. Perhaps it is because she feels you owe him an apology for how you had addressed him yesternight at the funeral wake.

Behind you, on the grassy summit of the island, your dragon waits patiently. He is dismayed that you are not already soaring through the sky back to Dragonstone. 

Gaelithox is, fittingly for a dragon, black as obsidian. You admire the way his scales shine, the sun highlighting their iridescence–how, at certain angles, they throw hints of green, violet, and gold. He is younger than Syrax, yet already nearly as large, and you cannot help but think that, at this rate, he will eventually rival Balerion in size. He looks out of place, crouched on the grass with the pastoral backdrop of blue sky and sea behind him. A creature the likes of him belongs amid the smoke and ash of Dragonstone, surrounded by the foggy sea and the black sand and the smell of brimstone, which have always felt the most like home to you. 

You hope that whatever Mother has summoned you here for is brief. You do not wish to spend a moment longer on this blasted island. 

You gaze at her imploringly. You had exchanged greetings with her and your uncle when you landed, but no words have been spoken beyond that. 

Daemon stands with his hands resting on the pommel of Dark Sister. Something tugs at your insides as you are reminded of how it felt when he held your own hand. He looks from the ground to the castle, to the sea, but never at you or Mother.

He looks... nervous?

Mother takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

"As I prepare to rule, our family must take every step necessary to ensure that my claim is not so easily challenged," she says, looking as regal and formidable as the Conqueror's first wife. However, there is something in her tone, something heavy and foreboding, which makes your limbs feel like lead. She turns to face you, and the midday sunlight glints off her silver hair and the sea below. 

"I understand, Mother," you reply. 

"You grand-uncle and I…" she trails off, smiling to herself, before meeting your eyes once more, "we conversed at length last night. Of all that has transpired at court in his absence. And now, regrettably," she says, her demeanor turning icy, "we are far worse off than even we were when we arrived." 

Ashamed tears well in your eyes, and a lump forms in your throat. Mother only speaks the truth, but it does not lessen the sting of her disappointment in you. 

"Prince Aemond's behavior was deplorable, to be sure," she continues. "But the further… calamities of yesternight only weakened our cause further–"

"Mother–" you protest, "you must know that I never meant–" 

She clasps your face between her soft, ringed hands. "I know, my love. But, just before you were born, your Grandsire once told me that the truth does not matter, only perception. And, as it stands now, the Hightowers all believe that you, a woman grown, took the eye of your own uncle, a boy, over an insult." 

You are burning from the inside out. 

"You are in danger, my daughter," she says gravely. "As are your brothers. We all are. You have put us in danger."

You cannot disagree with this. 

"What would you have me do to assuage your worry, Mother?" you choke out. "I cannot restore Prince Aemond's eye. We cannot retrieve Vhagar for Rhaena. We cannot bring Lady Laena back from the dead, or–" 

Ser Harwin's face flashes before your eyes. You are surrounded by your own blood, both of whom know the truth, and yet, you cannot bring yourself to speak of your most profound grief.

"Look at me," Mother murmurs as you tremble. You hear Gaelithox mirroring your agitation, stomping and snarling from his place on the grassy summit. You steel yourself before locking eyes with her, and with vacant, violet irises she speaks. 

"I have always given you the freedom to choose your own path. But, now, there is something that I must ask of you, something you must do." 

"Anything," you find yourself saying.

"You must agree to be married," she replies. “Within the next two moon turns.”

Your pulse roars in your ears. "To whom?" 

A shadow of longing passes over her features. But, the expression is fleeting, disappearing as quickly as it came, morphing into something flat and unreadable.

"To Prince Daemon." 

time skip! ushijima wakatoshi + fem! reader | mdni | 1,226 words | established relationship, oral (f! receiving), rushed but also slow sex, creampie, size kink, aftercare, alcohol consumption (both), happy new year <3

23:27. wakatoshi has been getting progressively touchier with every sip of whiskey burning down his throat. his serious expression now long melted into a mess of pink-dusted cheeks and shy smiles. his large hand has found a new home curved around your waist and he pulls you closer still when a couple of his teammates approach you. it’s a statement. his touch feels possessive, like he’s claiming you. and you lean into it, head resting on his arm. 

maybe under different, more sober circumstances, you’d feel a pang of embarrassment at how the two men are gawking at you. their eyes curious, shifting between the two of you, amused grins as they ask what you’ve done to him. is he usually this adorable? toshi feels the blood rush to his head, the tips of his ears red, and he feels it on his tongue, an inappropriate confession that he would most definitely regret come next practice. but you laugh their comments away. “maybe i put a spell on him.” his fingers dig into your flesh. “he’ll turn back into a grump when the clock strikes midnight, don’t worry.”

23:59. olive eyes bore into yours, just the two of you in an invisible bubble at the packed rooftop bar. the countdown nothing but white noise as his thumbs run over the pretty lines of your face. he kisses you at the count of two, just shy of the turn of the year. it’s slow and deep and it burns your lips with a need for so much more. he’s reluctant as he pulls away, holds you close with his jacket draped over your shoulders as you watch the fireworks. they are nice but he’d much rather look at you, eyes all wide as you watch in awe.  

 00:15. his hand is on your thigh as you sit in the uber in complete silence. there’s a feeling of overflowing tension like just one single word would break whatever restraint is left between the two of you. teeth dig into your bottom lip, hand resting on his as you stare down the traffic lights, willing them to turn green.

it breaks when the door to your tiny elevator closes. there’s too much of him, and he’s too close and too warm and too impatient. and in a moment you can feel his touch everywhere. his lips on yours, demanding and relentless. his hand around your neck, but not squeezing, his thumb pushing your chin up towards him. you fall into the kiss, fingers clawing at the broad plane of his chest, whimpering around his tongue. 

you stumble through the hallway, not breaking apart even as he struggles to unlock the door. the farthest you make it is to the fluffy rug of your living room. he thinks you look angelic splayed out beneath him, lips swollen and shiny, your chest heaving with every laboured breath. he manages to take off his shirt - fingers fiddling with buttons that are way too small - before he’s kissing you again. it’s uncharacteristically rushed and erratic, his lips moving from your mouth to your chin down your neck and over your chest then back up again. muttering praises against your soft skin. “pr- pretty.” stuttered out over the hollow of your throat. the warmth of his breath making your hair prickle. “you are so pretty.”

and you’re just a mess under him, breathless and writhing and whimpering. reaching out to touch him and pull at his hair. and, god, he’s a mess as well. there’s a desperation to his touch, like every kiss might be the last, like you’re about to slip away from his hold. “i need- i need you.” his voice raspy, so deep it makes your belly coil with excitement. and yet it’s low and gentle. such a stark contrast to how his arms flex as he rips your panties off of you. delicate lace disintegrating under the force of his grip. 

your breath catches in your throat when you feel his lips on your pussy, leaving sloppy kisses all over it before he sucks on your clit. he’s usually so attentive, so thorough as he runs his tongue through the dripping folds of your cunt, holds you spread open as you cum into his mouth. but not tonight. his whole body aches with the need to bury himself in you.

and he’s stuttering as he does. “i’m sorry.” gasping as he feels you clamp around his length. “i couldn’t wait, i’m sorry.”

“it’s okay, baby.” your tone shushing as you cup his cheeks. “you feel so - ah - so-o good.”

“i love you.” he fucks you slow and deep, the tip of his cock nudging against your cervix with every thrust. “i’ll take care of you.” his body completely covers yours, caged by his arms on the side of your head. and you can feel every part of him, the warmth radiating off his skin, the weight of him on top of you. the little drops of sweat that roll between the ridges of his stomach. his lips never leave yours, swallowing every one of your moans and feeding you his. foreheads pressed together. he’s so close, so so close. and you’re making it so hard for him to not give in to his orgasm. you’re just so perfect, and you make the prettiest noises, and he’s so in love with you. he squeezes his eyes shut, using every last bit of energy left in his body to last just a little longer. whining with how raw and sensitive his cock is. and the moment he feels your pussy twitching around him, he’s painting your walls white. his fingers clutching at the carpet below. 

his body spent and limp as he collapses on top of you. and you wish you could stay like this forever but you can barely breathe underneath the weight of him. “ushi,” you whine, “you’re crushing me.”

wakatoshi mutters an apology as he flips you over but still holds you close to his chest. his hand smoothing over your hair. “i love you.” and you know he’s not going to let go of you.

“i know.” the contentment almost palpable in your words. “i love you.”

and within seconds he’s lightly snoring. you giggle at the thought of how you must look right now, his pants half off, sticky with sweat and cum, his cock still inside you. but you don’t have the heart to wake him. 

04:43. your eyes flutter open as he lifts you into his arms. the next thing you feel is the softness of your bed, and his hands working diligently to take off your dress. you drift in and out of sleep as he disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a warm, wet towel. “i’m just cleaning you up.” his voice is as soft as his hands running over your thighs. and you fall in love with him all over again (for the third time tonight) as he picks out a pair of cotton panties and slips them up your legs. and a fourth time when he pulls your favourite shirt of his over your head. 

you fall asleep with your face pressed to his skin and the feeling of his heartbeat beneath your palm, and a lingering whisper of i love you on your lips.

thank you for reading! interaction is very much appreciated! ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Hakuouki ~The Floating World~ Behind the Scenes Chap. 1

From the author: It should be obvious because Hakuouki franchise in general isn’t suited for younger audience but just to be sure, please be at least 18 before reading it <3 This fanfic series may contain lots of sensitive topics (including blood, gore, death, smut and so on) so isn’t recomended for readers who may feel hurt by these. But if you are still here and want to enjoy some dark themes with pretty boys and a bit too clever Reader/MC, please have a seat ^^

Chapter 1: Utsukushiki Zankoku Na Sekai    

“I told you I’d carry him,” sighed Saito, shaking his head at Okita’s actions. He was actually the first one to suggest himself to carry the man. However, Souji protested that Hajime would just keep dragging the man’s legs against the ground, seeing that he was considerably shorter than the wretch. By saying this, the brunet decided on being a better candidate. And these were the effects of his words… The delinquent met no other future than laying spread on the ground.

“Well, he was sleeping tight,” said emerald-eyed, cocking his head at the man, “…and still is.” He shrugged, the tip of his shoe nudged the stranger’s cheek. He did not budge an inch though.

Saito leaned down to touch the neck of someone whom he assumed to be a man. Feeling the pulse, he couldn’t help but breathe out with relief. The fall probably was not that painful but it could end up in a tragic way. Fortunately, their witness did not die. Dragging him all the way here, to the center of town, would not make any sense if he were not able to survive the journey to the Shinsengumi’s headquarters.

“My turn.”

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OCs in WIP

Day Romanov x Logan Jacobs