#I MEANT AUTONOMY WAIT WAIT

[robotpussy]

I think, because of Hannibal and (maybe) bones and all, people have forgotten that cannibalism has been used as a metaphor for (and physically is) the manifestation of antiblackness and colonialism and a act of complete loss of autonomy. I don't think anybody on here has watched anything about cannibals that came out before 2015 or simply isn't attached to silence of the lambs/manhunter. cannibalism is very much racialised, even the term cannibal derives from the Spanish term used to refer to a group of people in the carribbean... it is just as much racist as it can be seen as a metaphor for forbidden desire - but the obsession with it from this majority white user base is definitely um. questionable

[wildflowercryptid]

thinking about kieran again... particularly about how i feel like he struggles with a weak sense of self and how him identifying so heavily with ogrepon, (or at least the version of ogrepon he originally knew,) probably helped him stabilize how he saw himself, only to have something he considered so core to his identity essentially ripped away from him. not only that, it was by someone he seemingly wanted to trust and open up to, (which i doubt he does very often.)

i definitely think that the way he's handling things is far from healthy, but i can get why he'd have such an intense reaction to losing something that was so important to him and basically being betrayed by someone he wanted to consider a friend.

[fishparasite]

i'm so angry at everyone and myself

[golden-redhead]

I think there's a lot of signs pointing to Jayce actually doing the right thing ...or at least the right thing based on the information available to him at the time.

We can't know for a fact just how much Viktor was changed and what his healing was doing to the people who came to him in the long run, but considering all the hints dropped by the writers, the situation is much less clear than we think. Obviously, everyone's first instinct is to condemn Jayce and his actions, especially because Viktor is one of fan favourites, but looking at the teaser for the next Act and what little we know about what happened to Jayce, I think it might have been necessary evil.

I think this scene of Viktor temporarily 'possessing' Salo in order to talk with Jayce points to just how fucked this little community that Viktor created actually is. There's a reason why everyone's getting those 'it's a freaking cult' vibes.

This scene made me more uncomfortable than anything else this season and I think it's clear that it was meant to make feel that way. There's something so uncanny about Viktor's voice coming out of Salo's mouth, especially paired with that look on his face and how Viktor seems to be able to see and experience things through him in this moment.

And then there's also the issue of all these people dying a horrible drawn-out death as soon as Viktor himself 'dies'. Yes, they came to him on their own, they asked to be healed, but did they really know what they are getting into? Did they know this is what might happen?

Some of them were already dying, true, but Viktor healed all kinds of people, some of whom most likely had their whole lives ahead of them. He, knowingly or not, inevitably sped up this process. Not all of them were consummed by Shimmer-addiction or permanently disabled like Salo.

And then there's also the fact of all of them basically abandoning their previous lives to serve Viktor and his community. Which, okay, makes sense, there's certainly a parallel with the community that Ekko created for Zaunites to keep them safe from Piltover and Silco's plans. They made an informed choice, though, and I don't think the same can be said about Viktor's cult-like commute.

They seem peaceful, yes, but also devoid of personality and entirely dedicated to Viktor and his cause. Of course, it can be explained by gratitude towards him and desire to be kept safe in a calm and peaceful environment, but it's taken to such an extreme point that it definitely crosses the line into uncanny territory in my eyes. Their hivemind behaviour is very unsettling and even though Viktor seems to frame his recent actions as some kind of greater good, I don't think it's necessarily true.

We have yet to find out what Jayce saw and who's in the right and who's in the wrong. Either way, as usual when it comes to Arcane, it seems to me that more than ever, everyone's a victim of the circumstances and tragedy spares no one.

Considering that Viktor is set up to be 'reborn', I can't help but wonder what it means for his community and if they will also be brought to life by whatever connection they have with him. It would be a fascinating choice given how Viktor's arc has always been about autonomy and making your own choices.

Arcane, it's been a pleasure having my heart torn out of my chest by you. Can't wait for the last Act.

[tnsophiaayaonly]

LUTALICA

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ YOU'RE A YANDERE, WELL, AN EX-YANDERE TO BE SPECIFIC. AFTER COUNTLESS OF TIMES OF KILLING YOUR BELOVED, YOU FIND YOURSELF SUDDENLY GAINING AWARENESS DUE TO SOME VIRUS DISTORTING YOUR CHARACTER FILES. NOW YOU FIND YOURSELF WEIRDED OUT WHENEVER YOU'D FEEL SO INFATUATED OVER THIS GUY, AND YOU SWORE TO STOP BEING WEIRD. UNAWARE THAT YOUR DARLING'S GAINED AWARENESS TOO.

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ MODERN AU. HIGHSCHOOL AU. YANDERE. AETHER, SCARAMOUCHE/WANDERER, XIAO, VENTI, KINICH, ORORON

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ CONTENT WARNINGS: OBSESSIVE/CONTROLLING BEHAVIOR: EXPLICIT YANDERE THEMES AND EXTREME POSSESSIVENESS. OBSESSION AND STALKING, INCLUDING BEING FOLLOWED OR MONITORED. PHYSICAL RESTRAINT & KIDNAPPING: DEPICTIONS OF PHYSICAL RESTRAINT, CONFINEMENT, OR KIDNAPPING. UNLAWFUL DETAINMENT (E.G., LOCKING DOORS, FORCIBLY PREVENTING ESCAPE). CYBERCRIME & DIGITAL MANIPULATION: HACKING, INTERFERENCE WITH PERSONAL DEVICES, AND DIGITAL BLACKMAIL. EMOTIONAL & PSYCHOLOGICAL ABUSE: MANIPULATION, GASLIGHTING, AND COERCION DESIGNED TO CONTROL OR ISOLATE. THREATS—IMPLICIT OR EXPLICIT—THAT UNDERMINE PERSONAL AUTONOMY. NON-CONSENSUAL ACTS: ANY NON-CONSENSUAL OR FORCED BEHAVIOR, EVEN IF MASKED AS “PROTECTION”. ILLEGAL BEHAVIOR & UNLAWFUL ACTS: DESCRIPTIONS OR DEPICTIONS OF ACTIONS THAT ARE ILLEGAL (KIDNAPPING, DOCUMENT FORGERY, THEFT, ETC.) MATURE THEMES IN GENERAL. MENTIONS OF MURDER. MENTIONS OF BEING AWARE IN A GAME.

: ̗̀➛ note that I DO NOT condone such actions irl, and this is a work of fiction. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. part 1 (scara, aether).

-`♡´- PART 2

╰⪼ XIAO - Quiet Kid

There was something intoxicating about a man who stood alone, who existed behind a veil of solitude so thick it made you ache to tear it apart. Xiao was distant, untouchable—wrapped in a silence so heavy it pressed against your ribs, made it hard to breathe. He was always watching but never speaking, and that only made him more alluring. A man like that—one who locked himself away—made you crave him, made you want to unravel him, piece by piece, secret by secret, until there was nothing left but you.

Approaching him had felt natural, easy—perhaps too easy. Maybe you had been invasive. Maybe you had overwhelmed him. But what was love if not consuming? If not overwhelming?

You loved him. And love meant protecting him. Love meant defending him. Love meant taking a knife to anyone who dared to wrong him, who dared to hurt him, who dared to exist in a world that wasn’t solely his. That wasn’t solely yours.

Every time he looked at you, your breath caught, your chest tightened, your body thrummed with something electric and all-consuming. Every time he hit you—his fist colliding against your jaw, his grip bruising your wrist, his voice laced with venom—you felt yourself sink deeper, deeper, deeper. Because love wasn’t meant to be gentle. Love was meant to be raw, brutal, desperate. Love was meant to hurt.

But your heart is hammering now in a way that is wrong. The rhythm is off—it isn’t the frantic fluttering of infatuation. It isn’t love.

No. It’s terror.

Not of him.

Of yourself.

The realization had crept up on you, slow and insidious, wrapping around your throat, suffocating, refusing to let go. The world cracked open that day, splitting apart to reveal a truth so grotesque you wished you had never seen it. This wasn’t love. It had never been love.

It was sickness. It was obsession. It was something twisted and cruel, something that left blood in its wake. Something that left bodies behind.

So you stopped.

You stopped watching over him. You stopped lingering at his side. You stopped waiting for him to notice you.

And then, you disappeared from his life entirely.

At first, Xiao found relief in your absence. Finally, you were gone. Finally, you had faded into nothing. That was the way of the world, wasn’t it? He was meant to be alone. He had always known that. And you—you had been nothing but an annoyance, a pest, a thorn in his side that made others wary of him, that made them avoid him.

Good.

He preferred it that way. He had convinced himself of that.

Until he didn’t.

Until he noticed the silence.

Until he realized that no one was checking on him, that no one was leaving meals at his doorstep, that no one was shoving their way past his walls just to see if he had eaten, if he had slept, if he had even bothered to take a breath.

You had been there. Always there. Always pushing, always prying, always dragging him away from the edge of something dark and inevitable. Your presence had been suffocating, overwhelming, unbearable—but it had kept the abyss at bay. It had given him something other than his own self-loathing to focus on.

And now, it was gone.

And he hated it.

The first time he saw you again, it was by chance. A fleeting moment. A brush of shoulders in the crowded hallway, the briefest touch of warmth, gone before it could register.

He had turned, expecting—no, knowing—you would be there, clinging as you always did, eyes bright with devotion, lips already forming his name. You should have thrown yourself at him, babbling, touching, breathing him in like he was the only thing that kept you alive.

But you didn’t.

You flinched. Your body recoiled as if burned, eyes widening in something—fear?—before you stumbled back. And then, before he could even process it, you ran.

Cowardly. Pathetic.

The sight of it—the sheer absurdity—made something inside him curdle, twisting in ways he didn’t understand. His hands clenched before he realized they had even moved, nails digging into his palms, his breath leaving him in a sharp, uneven exhale.

You had always been relentless. You had always been constant. He had expected you to be there, to remain, to orbit him like a dying star until you burned out completely. It was a law of nature. You were his shadow, his echo, his ever-faithful devotee.

But you had left.

And that was unacceptable.

He didn’t think. He didn’t pause. He didn’t even acknowledge the decision before it had already been made. His body moved before his mind could catch up, following the remnants of your presence like an instinct, like a curse.

It was only when he stopped that he realized where he had gone.

Your classroom.

Not his martial arts practice. Not anywhere he was meant to be.

Just here.

And there you were.

Alone.

Perfect.

Waiting.

A gift, wrapped in trembling uncertainty, left unguarded.

How convenient.

He stepped forward, silent, a shadow stretching toward you, inevitable, inescapable. The air in the room grew heavier, thick with the weight of his presence. You didn’t notice at first, too lost in whatever thoughts had stolen you away from him.

He hated that.

He wanted to be the only thing in your mind.

“I noticed you’re not watching over me like before.”

His voice, smooth yet edged with something he couldn’t quite name, shattered the fragile quiet.

You startled, shoulders jerking, a visible shudder running down your spine. The reaction sent a slow, burning satisfaction curling through his chest.

Good.

He wanted you to squirm. He wanted you to feel the weight of him pressing down, suffocating, overwhelming. He wanted you to remember what it was like to be trapped beneath his gaze, helpless against it.

Slowly, cautiously, you turned to face him.

Your eyes—wide, startled, flickering with something fragile and afraid—locked onto his, and something in his stomach twisted. He had never seen you look at him like that before.

He didn’t like it.

“Is everything okay? I—”

He hesitated.

He never hesitated.

You stared at him for a long, quiet moment, lips parting, something uneasy forming in your expression before you finally spoke, your voice small, uncertain.

“Hi, uhm... I just... didn’t feel like it?”

Didn’t feel like it?

What?

His expression didn’t change, but something inside him cracked, splintering apart like glass under pressure.

Didn’t feel like it?

What the hell did that mean?

He didn’t understand.

You were supposed to be obsessed with him. You were supposed to be relentless. You were supposed to be his.

And yet, you had pulled away. You had turned from him. You had abandoned him in a way he didn’t even have the words to describe.

He left without another word.

But he wasn’t done.

Because he cared.

And now, he had to make sure you never, ever stopped again.Xiao began to shadow you without you knowing, his presence slipping into the spaces between heartbeats, between footsteps, between the seconds you thought you were alone. His silent, unrelenting gaze followed your every move, desperate to re-create the security he once felt in your presence. He had never known peace until you—until the fleeting warmth you unknowingly offered became the only thing that could keep him grounded. But now, as you drifted away, he felt something far worse than pain.

Everywhere, you felt eyes. Eyes in your room, eyes in class, eyes in the hallway. Even in the sanctuary of your home, the walls felt thinner, the air heavier, thick with something unspoken yet suffocating. The feeling clawed at the edges of your sanity, making you flinch at shadows, second-guess your reflection, your every step. The more you willed yourself to move on—to silence the obsession you once had for Xiao—the more the stare burned into you, relentless, inescapable.

It all came to a head one night. Unable to bear the gut-wrenching paranoia curling in your stomach, you stayed late at school, convincing yourself that being in the presence of others—teachers, janitors, anyone—would dispel the eerie sensation of being watched. But schools were not meant to be occupied past dark. The halls, once filled with chatter, now yawned empty, the fluorescent lights flickering like a dying heartbeat. And when the school finally closed, leaving you with no choice but to step into the night alone, the dread settled deep in your bones.

You walked home, hyper-aware, your head snapping to every shifting shadow. Left. Right. Back. Front. No matter where you looked, you felt the presence—closer than before, pressing against your senses like invisible fingers ghosting over your skin.

And then—

A hand grabbed your shoulder.

You almost screamed. Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, arm swinging to strike at the unseen assailant. But before the blow could land, your wrist was caught, effortlessly, as if your resistance was nothing but a fragile illusion.

"Why are you walking home so late by yourself?"

Xiao’s voice was steady, his grip firm but not painful—possessive in its restraint. His golden eyes, once so distant, were dark now, unreadable, bottomless. They bore into you, pinning you in place as effectively as the fingers wrapped around your wrist.

Your breath hitched.

"I—"

"I’ll walk you home."

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command.

There was no room to refuse.

So you agreed.

But you didn’t expect him to take a different route.

Didn’t expect him to hold your hand tighter and tighter until your fingers tingled from lack of blood.

Didn’t expect the slow realization—the creeping horror—that this was not the way home.

"Xiao… this isn’t—"

He stopped walking.

And before you could react, before you could scream, before you could even think of running—

The world blurred. The air vanished from your lungs as his arms encircled you, an iron cage wrapped in the illusion of warmth.

The next time you opened your eyes, the walls were unfamiliar. The air smelled like incense, like something sacred and ancient. And the bed beneath you—

No.

You couldn’t move.

Panic surged through your veins as you struggled, your wrists bound, your breath coming in shallow gasps. A shadow moved in the dim candlelight, and then, there he was—watching you.

Xiao knelt beside you, his eyes a storm, turbulent with something raw, something terrifyingly tender.

"I’m sorry. This is the only way I can keep you with me."

His voice was soft, almost regretful, but the hunger in his gaze betrayed him.

The need. The greed. The unbearable devotion.

It was too much to bear.

He reached out, fingers ghosting over your cheek, tracing the shape of you as if to memorize, to claim. He leaned in, breath warm against your skin as he whispered apologies between desperate kisses pressed to your temple, your brow, your lips. Each one trembling with emotion, each one a prayer, a curse.

For being selfish.

For indulging in his desire.

For making you his karma.

And this time, no matter how much you fought, how much you begged—

He would never let you go.

╰⪼ VENTI - The Free-Spirited Musician

You were always so lost in life—adrift, untethered, drowning in an endless sea of monotony and despair. Everything was dull, every breath drawn out like a cruel mockery of existence itself. Until him.

Venti was sunlight in a world that had long since dimmed for you. He was laughter spun into melody, an ever-burning ember of warmth that thawed the ice in your chest. He made you feel alive for the first time in forever, and that was something you could never let go of.

You became utterly, hopelessly infatuated—no, that wasn’t strong enough. You were obsessed. You craved him the way a dying man craved air, the way a starving soul would gnaw through bone just to taste something real. Just being near him sent tremors of euphoria through you. Your eyes shone like they had never before, cheeks stained in an endless blush, heart thrumming like a frenzied drumbeat. It was maddening. It was intoxicating. It was love in its rawest, most terrifying form.

People noticed the change. One day, you were nothing—a hollow thing, with empty eyes and lips pressed into a thin, lifeless line. The next, you were a flurry of energy, glowing, vibrating with an unsettling kind of devotion. You trailed after him like a shadow that refused to fade, clinging to every word, every note, every scrap of attention he threw your way. Others whispered, wondered. How could someone shift so violently, so suddenly? How could mere presence turn a person from despondence to delirium?

Venti laughed it off at first, waving away the murmurs of concern. He had always drawn people to him; he was used to it. He thought it was flattering—endearing, even—how your face lit up the moment you saw him, how your fingers twitched with the desire to reach out but never quite dared.

But then the disappearances began.

Posters littered the walls, faces of men who had once crossed paths with him—some he barely knew, some he had laughed with once or twice. One by one, they vanished, swallowed by some unseen force, leaving nothing behind but fading echoes of familiarity.

At first, he dismissed it as coincidence. The world was vast and cruel, and people vanished all the time. But as the list grew, as his name was the only common thread among the missing, as your unwavering, feverish adoration never wavered—

He knew.

It had to be you.

Still, he never said anything. He never confronted you. What would he even say? He wasn’t afraid of you, not really, but there was something in the way you looked at him—like you would tear apart the world just to keep him in your grasp.

And yet, something changed.

One day, you stopped waiting for him after class. You stopped lingering near the places he frequented. Your fingers stopped twitching in his presence, your eyes no longer burned holes into his back. You became tame.

And then, you became distant.

It started subtly. A missed lunch here, a forgotten conversation there. You stopped seeking him out, stopped giving him that wide-eyed, desperate look as if he were the only thing keeping you tethered to this world.

Then days passed. And passed. And passed.

Until he almost never saw you at all.

And for the first time, Venti felt something foreign stir in his chest. Something wrong. Something akin to loss.

Why did it feel like something was slipping through his fingers?

One day, it was lunch. You were eating alone on the rooftop, the wind always so great up here, the vast sky stretching endlessly before you. It was peaceful—too peaceful, the kind that made your chest feel hollow rather than full.

"Oh, there you are!" Venti's voice shattered the silence, making you flinch. He strolled up to you with his usual carefree grin, but something in his eyes gleamed sharper than before. "How are you? Did you have a great day? Did you miss me? Have you eaten?" He bombarded you with questions, eyes flicking over your face like he was searching for something—something that used to be there but wasn’t anymore.

You blinked, staring at him in disbelief.

"What?" His smile didn’t waver, but his head tilted slightly, studying you. "Where did that passionate devotee go? I miss the love you brought me, even if it drove me nuts sometimes." He chuckled, but it was hollow.

Your stomach twisted, nausea creeping in.

"I always thought your wild devotion was the spark that lit up my days," he continued, plopping down beside you with a sigh, stretching his arms behind his head as if this were just another casual afternoon. Then, his tone shifted, quiet, almost vulnerable. "Now… it’s as if someone turned the music off."

You said nothing. You couldn’t. Because you felt it too.

You had always clashed with his breezy, untamed spirit—your dependency on him, your suffocating adoration, it had overwhelmed him. And yet, despite everything, Venti had secretly enjoyed it. He had basked in the knowledge that someone loved him that intensely. That someone cared so desperately.

But now? Now, you were slipping away. Your passion diluted, your obsession faded. And Venti—

Venti didn’t like that.

At first, he thought he would relish the peace, the freedom. But now, with you sitting beside him like a ghost of the person you once were, staring at him as if he were nothing but a fading dream—

He felt unmoored.

He missed the frantic, fevered glint in your eyes. The way your hands would shake with excitement just to be near him. The way you needed him, so entirely, so absolutely.

And if that fire had gone out—

Well.

Maybe it was time he rekindled it.

You just left. Without a word, without a second glance. As if all the time you spent together, all the laughter, all the stolen moments—none of it had mattered to you.

He didn’t like that.

No, he hated it.

It gnawed at him, a quiet, festering wound that refused to close. He watched—always watching—as you slipped further away, as you filled the space he once occupied with others. He saw how easily you could talk to them, smile at them, laugh in a way that used to be just for him. Why them? Why not him?

No.

That wasn’t how this was going to go.

If you wouldn’t come back to him willingly, then he would make sure there was nowhere else for you to turn. At first, it was subtle—an offhand comment here, a lingering stare there. But when that wasn’t enough, when you still insisted on keeping your distance, he decided to be more... persuasive.

His playful teasing took on a sharper edge, something darker, something crueler. Every time he saw you speaking to someone else, he found a way to fix it. After all, he was well-liked, charming, the kind of person people wanted to please. It wasn’t hard to “convince” others to keep their distance from you. A few rumors, a well-placed lie, a casual suggestion whispered in the right ear—it was all so easy.

And when you finally noticed, when you finally turned to him with confusion in your eyes, with nowhere else left to go…

Well.

That’s exactly what he wanted.

It started small. Innocent, almost. A missing phone here, a misplaced wallet there. Little things. Things that could happen to anyone, right? Maybe you were just being careless, distracted.

But then it kept happening. Your keys would vanish right when you were about to leave, only for him to miraculously “find” them hours later, tucked away in a place you swore you never put them. Your phone would be gone just long enough to make you late for plans—plans that mysteriously fell apart afterward. Your student ID? Your bus pass? They’d disappear, rendering you stuck, stranded. And who else could you turn to but him?

He always had a solution, a spare key, a replacement card, an offer to cover for whatever you lost. With a teasing smile, a playful laugh, he’d hand your things back like he was doing you a favor. Like he wasn’t the one orchestrating it all.

And then came the incidents.

An urgent text in the middle of the night—

I think someone’s following me, can you come over?

A sudden injury—

I think I twisted my ankle, can you help me get to the nurse’s office?

A campus-wide alert—

There’s been a safety issue, everyone should stay inside.

Little things that forced you to linger, to stay just a little longer, to spend more time with him until being around him became routine. Until relying on him became second nature.

At first, it was annoying. Then it was exhausting. And then…

It was suffocating.

It felt like no one else existed. The world outside blurred, grew smaller, less real. The campus, once so big, so full of people, now felt empty. Just the two of you. Just him.

Wait—when did it get this bad?

Wait—when did the campus get so small?

Wait—why are you in his bed?

And why don’t you know how you got here?

i js realized idk how to proofread lmao, anyways, HERE YA GOOO aahhhhh, i've been busy with life

[jezebelblues]

(𝟏) 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒 | 𝐇.𝐒 ⋆𐙚₊˚

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥.

𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐤𝐨𝐧, 𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐲? 𝐨𝐫, 𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡, 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬.

𝐂𝐖: 18+ SERIES! age gap unspecified but everyone is legal, allusions to smut (in this part), fem!reader, innocent!reader, slight angst, not proof read.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 8.7k

❏ this is kinda just an introductory to this 🤨 but this also me testing the waters to see what kind of response it gets. i tried to give it a little more substance instead of just making it controversially young gf smut. but lmk if u only care for the smut fr. aiming for this to be a 3 parter possibly if anyone actually reads. okay bye love u

(be patient with me i do not have a writing schedule D: it’s just vibes over here)

there were things in life that demanded to be named. not as a matter of understanding, but as an act of survival. temptation. desire. guilt. words so small they barely held the weight of the emotions they described. words that felt inadequate against the reality of their presence, sharp-edged and infinite. harry had spent years pretending these things were separate—different flavors, distinct experiences—but now, in the quiet spaces between reason and instinct, he realized they were one and the same.

desire wasn’t the sweet fruit hanging low on the tree, waiting for him to pluck it. it was a persistent root that had grown into his bones, twisting through his ribs, wrapping around his heart. temptation wasn’t the serpent in the garden; it was the soil itself, fertile and dark, daring him to plant something reckless.

thou mayest. the illusion of freedom wrapped in the guise of agency. it was a promise of autonomy that demanded surrender. harry turned the phrase over in his mind like a stone, rough against his palm, smooth on the other side. it sounded noble, to choose. to be good, even when depravity tasted sweeter. but to choose implied that choice was ever truly his.

the idea unsettled him. if the end was written, if he was meant to fall, then what purpose was there in resisting? if the flame was always there, waiting for the moth, could he be blamed for burning?

but harry frowned at the notion, rejecting it like the apple beginning to rot. to believe it was inevitable was to strip himself of accountability. it was to call it fate instead of what it really was—a weakness he didn’t want to name aloud.

yet even as he denied inevitability, he could feel it breathing down his neck. the soft pull of gravity every time her eyes met his, wide and unguarded. her sweetness wasn’t like the syrupy fiction he had always known, too thick to be real. it was raw, unpolished, pure in its lack of pretense. he wanted to protect it, to shelter it, but how could he when his hands itched to touch it, to ruin it, to mark it as his?

guilt and desire were two sides of the same coin he couldn’t stop flipping. the choices felt infinite and yet singular, converging on her—the catalyst, the temptation, the embodiment of his undoing.

he tried not to touch her, not to look too long, but the world conspired against him. his name on her lips sounded like an offering. her laughter felt like a secret. the way she walked, talked, breathed—it all felt intentional, even though he knew it wasn’t. she was innocent of his thoughts. she had no idea the storm she brought to life in him.

and maybe that’s what made her so dangerous. because he had spent years building walls, convincing himself that control was his greatest virtue. but her presence felt like water—slowly eroding the stone, finding its way into the cracks he didn’t know existed.

he wanted to believe he had a choice. that he could walk away, untouched, untempted. but every step closer to her felt like destiny disguised as coincidence. her smile was a trap, but it was one he wanted to fall into, knowing full well there would be no escape.

harry thought of the apple in the garden. the lie it told about choice. the way it beckoned, its skin gleaming with the promise of sweetness. but the truth was, it wasn’t the apple that made him fall. it was the hunger that had always lived inside him.

thou mayest. the words tasted bitter now. because in the end, he knew he wouldn’t choose. he would only follow.

and maybe, he thought, that was its own kind of freedom.

— BOSTON

there were a thousand ways to love someone.

it wasn’t a single language. it was a mosaic of dialects, some of which he spoke fluently, others he fumbled through, and some he would never master. it came to him in whispers, in roaring applause, in soft apologies spoken under foreign moons. love, in its rawest forms, could be a sonnet sung aloud or the silence between breaths. it could bloom in the mundane, sprouting like ivy through the cracks of familiarity. but it could also unravel—untethered and wild—until it swallowed everything else whole.

now, though, it felt like a question he didn't know how to answer.

he had known it to be beautiful once, grand and uncompromising, like a symphony crashing through the walls of his chest. but now? now it felt softer, quieter. less a roar and more a whisper in the back of his mind, laced with something he couldn’t quite place.

april on the east coast was no season for romance. it was damp with promise, hesitant in its thaw. the skies hung low with slate-colored clouds, heavy but refusing rain, and the mornings were gray and cold enough to bite. it wasn’t exactly the kind of spring that painted postcards, but it had its own charm—the kind of charm that settled not in sight, but in sound. in the low hum of city life, the rush of trains cutting through tunnels, the steady rhythm of days repeating themselves.

this time, though, harry was restless.

juniper had left with a kiss on his cheek and a laugh in her voice, her belly round with new beginnings, her flight booked to london. “don’t let it go to your head,” she’d teased, pointing a playful finger at him. “just because you’re losing me doesn’t mean you’ll fall apart.”

he hadn’t fallen apart. not exactly.

but the void she left behind was wide, even if temporary, and it was her replacement who filled it.

YN arrived on a wednesday.

he had two days before the show. no real obligations until then, aside from this—meeting his new hair and makeup artist, seeing if she knew what she was doing before she had to work on him before a live performance.

he sighed, running a hand through his hair as he pushed open the door to his dressing room.

she was already there.

he paused for a fraction of a second, not expecting to see her yet. she stood near the vanity, back straight, hands clasped together in front of her, like she wasn’t sure what to do with them. on the counter beside her was a cup—one of those paper to-go cups, the kind that came from some overpriced café.

she turned when he entered, eyes widening slightly before she offered a small, polite smile.

“hi.” her voice was soft, a little hesitant. “i’m YN.”

he took a few steps inside, nodding once. “harry.”

she nodded back, exhaling quickly, like she was trying to steady herself. then, she gestured toward the cup.

“i got you a latte,” she started. “i—i wasn’t sure what you usually drink, but i thought it might be nice. to—y’know. start off on the right foot.”

he glanced at the cup, then at her.

she was nervous. he could see it in the way she shifted her weight slightly, in the way she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

it was a nice thought.

but he hadn’t touched dairy in years.

he didn’t say that, though. didn’t want to embarrass her. instead, he just gave her a small, appreciative nod.

he reached for it, offering a gentle smile. “thanks.”

she looked relieved when he took it, her smile relaxing a little.

harry held the cup, feeling the warmth of it against his palm. he could smell it, the sweetness of whatever syrup she’d probably had them put in. vanilla, maybe. something soft.

he set it down on the vanity without taking a sip.

YN didn’t seem to notice, already turning to grab her kit.

“so,” she breathed, glancing at him as she unzipped it, “juniper gave me some notes on what you like. she said you prefer a really natural look.”

harry nodded, lowering himself into the chair. “yeah. don’t like when it feels too heavy.”

“got it,” she murmured, more to herself than to him, before pulling out a few brushes.

he watched her in the mirror as she worked, as she moved with careful, practiced hands.

she was quiet at first, focused. then, after a minute, she glanced at him.

“have you always done your own hair?”

he blinked, caught slightly off guard. “what?”

“your hair,” she said, brushing her fingers lightly through the strands. “juniper said you’re pretty particular about it. that you usually style it yourself.”

he huffed a soft laugh. “yeah.”

she smiled a little, just a flicker, before returning her focus to her work.

harry swallowed.

this was fine.

just a job.

just another day before a show.

but the latte sat untouched on the counter, the scent of vanilla lingering in the air.

harry had a feeling she’d linger with it.

there was just something about her, something that felt unguarded. almost naive.

she wasn’t, not entirely—he learned that quickly. she had edges, sharp ones when needed, but she wielded them sparingly. the rest of the time, she was all soft hands and big eyes, a honeyed warmth that seeped into everything she touched.

and harry?

harry was careful not to touch her at all.

there was a distance he liked to keep, a careful line between himself and everyone else. not because he didn’t care—he cared more than he’d admit—but because he knew what could happen when he let someone too close.

still, she had a way of leaning past those lines. not intentionally, but like ivy, like roots. like something that simply grew.

by the time april had given way to may, harry found himself watching her more than he should.

she hummed when she worked, soft melodies that floated through the room like ghosts of songs she couldn’t name. she wrote everything down in a little notebook, scribbling furiously with a pen that always seemed to run out of ink at the worst times.

he’d caught her once, shaking it with a frustrated pout, her lips pressed together in concentration.

“you alright there?” he’d asked, the words slipping out before he could think better of it.

she’d blinked up at him, startled, and then laughed, “another losing battle with this pen.”

“you have t’tap it against your forehead twice.” he’d replied, biting back a smile.

her eyebrows furrowed, but she did it anyway—lightly tapping the clicky part against her head, glancing at harry before trying to write again.

of course it didn’t work. he was just messing with her—wanted to see if she fell for it, wanted to see if she’d listen.

it was easy to fall into moments like that with her.

too easy.

thou mayest. a soft hand offering an apple, a question left unanswered. but he had his own questions, ones that wrapped themselves around his throat and refused to let go.

there were a thousand ways to love someone, and harry had spent his life learning only a fraction of them. though sometimes he wondered if he’d been learning them for her.

— EDINBURGH

he had always thought of temptation as a slow build, like the simmering heat of a kettle left on the stove, a soft whistle at first that could grow into a shrieking insistence if ignored too long. but that night, in the quiet sprawl of his hotel suite, it didn’t simmer. it coiled.

the city welcomed them with a gray drizzle and jet lag that stuck to the skin like damp clothes. the flight over had been long, hours stretched taut over time zones and turbulence, and by the time he made it to the room, he wanted nothing more than to shed the weight of travel.

his suitcase lay half-open on the floor, a quiet surrender to the fatigue he couldn’t shake. a glass of water sat on the bedside table, untouched, condensation pooling beneath it. harry stretched out on the mattress, arms behind his head, eyes closed but nowhere near sleep. the city murmured beyond the window—a muted symphony of car horns and distant voices—and he let it play in the background.

his phone buzzed.

yn: did you get back to the hotel okay?

he smiled faintly at the screen, her name like a flame too warm to look at directly. his fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before he responded.

harry: all 10 fingers and toes. safe and sound.

harry: you get back okay?

the reply came almost instantly, her eagerness spilling into the space between them.

yn: mhmmm. i’m just brainstorming a few ideas for upcoming shows :) if you give me a penny, i’ll give you my thoughts.

a laugh huffed through his nose.

harry: consider a penny given, then.

he settled deeper into the bed, phone balanced in his hand as he waited. the seconds stretched into minutes, the screen dimming twice before the vibration returned. when it did, it wasn’t just one text, but a cascade—a waterfall of thoughts so uniquely hers that he could almost hear her voice speaking them aloud.

it was color theory, ideas layered with excitement, messily typed but earnest. how the blues of certain lighting might dull the warmth of his skin, or how curls framing his face might draw more focus to his eyes.

yn: does that make sense?

he hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

harry: absolutely. honored to work with such talent.

her suggestions were good—better than good, really. but it wasn’t the content that had his heart pacing against the walls of his chest. it was the way she thought of him in terms of details. the curve of his hair, the way light caught in his eyes. how she looked at him as if he were something to be fine-tuned, polished, perfected.

he set the phone down, staring at the darkened ceiling.

it wasn’t the first time he’d felt it, the pull of her presence. she had a way of moving through spaces as though she belonged in all of them. she was sharp where it mattered and soft everywhere else, a tangle of contradictions that didn’t feel contradictory at all.

he wasn’t blind to it, either—the closeness, the fleeting touches she didn’t seem to think twice about, the way her laughter lingered in rooms after she left them.

and yet, he couldn’t let himself fall. not into this.

his hand twitched toward the phone again. temptation was a voice now, low and insistent, curling in his gut. he thought of her in her room, probably cross-legged on the bed with her notebook splayed open and a pencil tucked behind her ear, her face alight with whatever new idea had struck her.

she was likely still wearing the hoodie from the plane, the one she had pulled over her knees to keep warm. she had smiled at him through the terminal, soft and shy, a blush touching her cheeks as she said goodnight.

his phone buzzed again.

yn: i think the messy curls could make your eyes look softer. i’m rambling, sorry! just a thought :)

it wasn’t fair, really. the way she existed so effortlessly, the way she lingered in his mind long after she’d left the room.

but temptation had a thousand faces, and tonight, it wore hers.

harry: never stop rambling.

— GLASGOW

it felt colder than it should have for may. the overcast sky hung low, gray and swollen, threatening rain that would inevitably come. harry didn’t mind it, though—he liked how the cold made his skin prickle, how it made the air feel cleaner when he breathed it in. but more than that, he liked how it kept everyone huddled indoors, tucked into the warmth of the stadium where soundchecks were already underway.

YN was perched on a stool near the mirrors, her knees pulled up just enough to keep her feet from dangling. she had been quiet all morning, focused, her delicate fingers meticulously painting tiny daisies onto the nail of his pinky.

“some steady hands there.”

she glanced up at him, and for a moment, her cheeks burned pink. “i have to. can’t mess up, right?”

“you could,” he mumbled, leaning forward slightly, his tone teasing. “might not mind.”

her lips twitched, barely concealing a smile, but she quickly ducked her head back down, letting her hair fall into her face like a curtain. it was something she did often, he noticed, as if she were hiding—not just from him but from something bigger.

he didn’t press. not yet.

“what color’s next?” he asked, tilting his head to look at the neat little bottles lined up on the counter.

“yellow,” she replied softly. “you said you wanted bright.”

“a sunshine yellow, then.” he watched her carefully as she reached for the polish, her fingers trembling ever so slightly before she steadied them again. “you’re sweet, you know that?”

her hand froze midair, and he swore he saw her breath hitch. she looked up at him then, her wide eyes meeting his, and he felt it again—that pull.

“what?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“you’re sweet,” he repeated, the corner of his mouth lifting into the faintest of smirks. “makes me wonder if anyone’s ever told you that before.”

she blinked, her lashes fluttering like the wings of a moth caught too close to a flame. “i–i don’t know.”

his smile deepened, but there was no malice in it, only warmth. “well, you are. just thought you should know.”

YN turned her attention back to his nails, her head bowed so low now he could only see the crown of it. the pink flush on her cheeks had deepened, spreading to the tips of her ears.

he liked that. he liked how easily she reacted to him, how her softness made him feel like he could step closer without shattering her completely. but he also hated it, hated how it clawed at his resolve, making him forget all the reasons he’d told himself to stay away.

when she finished the daisies, she leaned back, examining her work with a satisfied little nod. “done.”

“you’re sure?” he asked, lifting his hand and turning it this way and that, letting the light catch the glossy polish.

“positive.”

“looks perfect,” he said, though this time he wasn’t teasing. “thank you.”

her lips parted, just slightly, like she wasn’t sure what to say.

before she could speak, the sharp click of the dressing room door broke the moment, and jeff stuck his head inside.

“five minutes, harry,” he called, already looking at his phone as he spoke. “got people waiting.”

he nodded, his expression unchanged, though the moment felt heavier now, disrupted by the intrusion. “right. cheers.”

jeff disappeared again, the door clicking shut behind him.

he stood, stretching his arms above his head, and caught the way YN watched him out of the corner of her eye before quickly looking away.

“i’ll get you something from the vending machine.” he mentioned casually, already fishing into his pocket for his wallet.

her head snapped up. “you don’t have to—”

“hush,” he interrupted, grinning now. he stepped closer, reaching for her hand, and put four quarters into her palm. “you’ll need this. unless y’plan on charming the machine into spitting one out for free.”

her fingers curled around the coins, and she blinked up at him, her lips parting as if to argue. but she didn’t. instead, she offered him a soft, grateful smile.

“thank you.”

he only hummed as she slipped the quarters into her pocket and hopped off the stool, glancing at him one last time before heading for the door. when she was gone, the room felt too still, the faint trace of her perfume lingering like an echo.

he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. his nails gleamed in the fluorescent light, the little daisies smiling up at him like they knew something he didn’t.

meanwhile, the vending machines would glow faintly at the far end of the hallway, their soft hum breaking the quiet. YN shuffled closer, her shoes padding lightly against the concrete floor.

but the faint creak of a door opening behind her made her pause, her head turning toward the sound.

he was there again, stepping into the hallway and heading the opposite direction.

harry moved with the kind of unhurried confidence that made it seem like the space around him belonged to him and him alone. his legs carried him in long strides, the sharp crimson of his trousers catching the dull overhead lights with every step. the matching red suspenders hung loose, swinging lazily at his sides, as though he’d been interrupted mid-motion while shrugging them up.

his shirt was unassuming—blue and striped, halfheartedly buttoned. the fabric clung to the broad line of his shoulders before softening at his waist, tucked neatly into his trousers. the buttons stopped low, of course, just enough to reveal the sharp dip of his collarbones and a teasing stretch of bare skin below.

YN’s eyes lingered longer than they should have, tracing the slope of his jaw, the faint stubble along his chin, the way the fabric shifted across his back when he moved. it was unfair, really, how tall he seemed here, how he could fill even the emptiest hallway with his presence.

he hadn’t noticed her yet. his head was down, focused, his mouth pressed into a line of mild concentration. whatever jeff had needed him for was probably important, judging by the speed of his stride.

but then, as though he’d sensed it, he looked up.

their eyes met briefly—just a flicker, but it was enough.

harry’s pace slowed for a fraction of a second, his brows lifting in faint recognition as his gaze settled on her. he didn’t smile, not fully, but the corners of his mouth twitched like he might’ve.

YN felt her stomach twist, that now-familiar warmth creeping up her neck and blooming across her cheeks. she wasn’t sure why she felt caught, like she’d been caught looking when she hadn’t meant to.

“get your cola yet?” his voice carried down the hall.

she managed to shake her head, “not yet.”

“better hurry, then,” he nodded toward her, resuming his stride. “press’ll be crawling through soon.”

he didn’t wait for her response, his figure already retreating, his strides long and effortless as he disappeared around the corner.

YN let out a slow, shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her fingers unclenching one by one. she glanced down at the quarters in her palm, their edges pressing faint imprints into her skin.

when she turned back to the vending machines, the glow seemed a little brighter, the hum a little louder, but the air in the hallway still felt heavy. she slid the coins into the slot one at a time, their metallic clinks echoing in her ears, and pressed the button for a coke.

her fingers closed around the bottle, and for a moment, she stood there, staring at the blurred reflection of herself in the machine’s plexiglass. her cheeks were still flushed, her heartbeat uneven—only harry could manage such a reaction without even doing anything.

he wasn’t even looking, she thought, shaking her head as she straightened up. he wasn’t even looking anymore. but it didn’t matter, not really. her stomach still fluttered like it always did.

she kept herself busy while harry was off handling whatever jeff had thrown his way. it was easy, most days—finding small things to do in the dressing room, small tasks that helped settle the nervous energy she always seemed to carry.

she tucked loose bits of makeup back into their designated compartments, straightened the mess of brushes and bottles that had accumulated along the counters. the quiet helped, too, though she occasionally paused, distracted by the faint voices coming from the small television mounted on the wall.

the scottish accents were thick and lilting, pulling her attention away entirely when she let herself linger too long. she’d tilt her head toward the screen, catching snippets of an old comedy show she didn’t recognize, before shaking herself out of it and returning to her task.

her coke was still cold against her palm, condensation slicking the skin of her fingers as she took small, absentminded sips. but when she ran out of things to tidy, out of ways to fill the silence, she left the dressing room, wandering through the backstage halls.

this was a habit of hers, especially in new places. she liked exploring, even if the halls all tended to look the same—narrow and gray, the faint hum of activity reverberating off the walls.

voices carried from somewhere distant, bouncing in ways that made it impossible to pinpoint their origin. she walked slowly, her free arm occasionally brushing against the rough cinderblock walls.

then she stopped.

her eyes caught on something hung up on the wall—a plaque with a faded photo and an inscription below it. she stepped closer, squinting to make out the worn text, her head tilting slightly as she read. it must’ve been a gift to the stadium years ago, a relic from a time before she was even born.

the faint hum of voices seemed to grow louder as she stared, but she didn’t move. her thoughts wandered as she read the plaque’s history, the drink cool in her hand, her sneakers shifting on concrete like she couldn’t bear to stand still.

but after a beat, she decided she’d seen enough.

she spun on her heel, ready to continue her aimless walk, but she bumped into something solid before she even realized she wasn’t alone.

“oh!” she gasped softly, jerking back slightly, enough to regain balance.

it wasn’t just something solid—it was someone.

harry.

his hand brushed against her shoulder instinctively, steadying her with a light touch that felt more deliberate than it probably was. he let out a breathy laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he glanced down at her.

“didn’t see y’there, sweetheart.”

the word hit her square in the chest—not the casual murmur of her name he usually used but something gentler, more pointed. he rarely called her that, maybe once every few days at most, and it always left her struggling to figure out if he meant anything by it.

she blinked up at him, still flustered, her heart kicking up in her ribs as she took a step back. he towered over her, as always, broad and imposing in such a narrow place. the suspenders she’d seen earlier were in place now, stretched over his shoulders, accentuating the sharp lines of his frame. and even though she’d only finished fixing his hair a short while ago, it already looked tousled, like he’d run his fingers through it more than once.

her cheeks heated, but she smiled anyway, nodding toward the plaque on the wall in an effort to distract herself. “was lookin’ at this.”

he followed her line of sight, the faint curve of his mouth lingering as he took a moment to glance it over. “from the old firm game,” he muttered, “back in ‘39.”

“oh.” she breathed, her eyes darting between him and the plaque.

“not to be confused with the old firm of ‘71,” he added, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looked back at her fully.

YN’s eyebrows furrowed as she tilted her head, trying to place the significance.

he leaned in slightly, his shoulder brushing hers lightly as he continued, “–where a bunch of people died.”

the words were said so casually that it took a second for them to register, and by the time they did, he was already walking off.

she gasped, following after him, “what do you mean?” she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief. “people died here?”

he glanced back at her briefly, his expression unreadable, though his lips still carried the faintest hint of amusement. “mm-hmm.”

“well…what happened?” she pressed, quickening her pace to match his.

instead of answering, he slowed just enough to turn toward her, his hand reaching out with an ease that made her breath catch. without a word, he plucked the coke from her hand, his fingers brushing hers for the tiniest moment before he raised it to his lips.

“stadium disaster,” he said finally, his voice calm, ending with the quietest of sighs from his swallow.

he handed the bottle back to her with the same ease, his fingers grazing hers again as the cool glass settled back into her hand.

“that’s it?” she asked, incredulous. “just stadium disaster? that’s all you’re giving me?”

he glanced down at her, “you’ve got a phone, haven’t you?”

“well…” she paused, the faintest of frowns on her lips, “you can’t just drop a bomb on me ‘nd walk away.”

he chuckled, pushing open the door leading back toward another corridor. “can’t i?”

YN opened her mouth to argue, but the door clicked shut behind him, leaving her standing there in the middle of the hallway.

she frowned further, tipping the bottle back to finish the last swallow before tossing it into the recycling bin with a soft clink. without much thought, her feet carried her toward the door he had disappeared through, her curiosity prickling like static under her skin.

it wasn’t that the news upset her, though the thought of people dying here was unsettling, sure. it was more that this stadium—the one they were standing in right now, bustling with life and noise—had that kind of history to it. stadium disaster. how vague. it wasn’t much to go on, and her mind raced with questions she couldn’t quite tamp down.

was it safe for harry to perform here? was it haunted, for god’s sake? and how did he know about it so casually, like it was the kind of trivia everyone carried around in their back pocket? was it some bit of history he’d picked up while preparing for the tour? or—she glanced down the hall, chewing her lip—was he just messing with her?

she pushed through another set of doors, the muffled hum of activity on the other side growing louder as it swung shut behind her. the hallway was wider here, brighter, with distant voices overlapping in a way that made it hard to pinpoint where they came from.

her eyes scanned the space ahead, searching for that familiar figure. he wasn’t hard to spot—tall and broad, the opposite of waldo.

“harry! wait, please!”

he slowed, turning his head just enough to glance over his shoulder. he smiled when he saw her, but he didn’t stop walking.

she huffed, her stride quickening against the floor as she caught up to him.

“s’not fair to tell me something crazy like that and leave me behind.”she mumbled, her voice low enough that only he could hear.

“like what?” he asked, feigning innocence as he glanced down at her.

“stadium disaster,” she repeated, rolling the words on her tongue like they didn’t make sense. “what does that even mean?”

he shrugged, his steps slowing slightly to match hers. “means what it sounds like, doesn’t it?”

“but thats not really an answer, though.”

he stopped then, turning to face her fully, and the sudden weight of his attention made her heart stutter.

“happened after a football match,” he said, his tone even, almost conversational. “old firm derby. too many people trying to leave at once—crush at the exit. sixty-six dead.”

“sixty-six.” she echoed.

he nodded, his expression steady, though his eyes softened slightly when they met hers.

“and…they still use the stadium?”

“course they do.” he shrugged again, slipping his hands into his pockets. “was decades ago. fixed it up after.”

“but how do you know all that?”

his lips twitched, just slightly, and for a moment, he looked almost sheepish. “read about it some time ago. thought it was interesting.”

“interesting.” she mocked, shaking her head, though her lips curved faintly into a smile.

“don’t look at me like that,” he mumbled, a teasing edge creeping into his voice. “you asked.”

she let out a soft huff, though the faint smile still tugging at her lips betrayed her. before she could think of a retort, harry turned and began walking again, and she followed, of course.

his casual indifference to the conversation left her buzzing with curiosity. she hesitated for a moment before blurting, “do you believe in ghosts?”

“ghosts?”

“yeah,” she nodded, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “you said all those people died here. i don’t know—places like that feel like they’d…hold on to something, don’t you think?”

his lips curved into a faint smirk, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes, something thoughtful. “you think this place is haunted?”

she shrugged, looking ahead instead of at him. “maybe. you don’t?”

“not really.” he said simply, his tone light but firm. “don’t reckon i’ve seen enough to believe in all that.”

she frowned, glancing up at him again. “you’ve never had anything weird happen? not even on tour?”

“plenty of weird happens on tour,” he said with a low chuckle, his hand briefly brushing the suspenders at his chest as though adjusting them. “but nothing spooky. unless you count jeff turning into a ghost every time i ask him to sort something out.”

YN couldn’t help but laugh, the sound escaping her before she could stop it. “that doesn’t count, harry.”

“then no,” he replied, his voice calm but edged with amusement. “can’t say i’ve had the pleasure of being haunted. you?”

her smile faltered, her gaze dipping to the ground for a moment. “no, but…i don’t know. places like this make me wonder.”

he hummed low in his throat, tilting his head as if considering her words. “like we’re all just leaving little bits of ourselves behind.”

“yeah,” she said softly, nodding. “something like that.”

they lingered in the doorway, YN a bit unsure whether to turn back toward the dressing rooms or find something else to preoccupy herself with. this was where harry was supposed to disappear, where their brief exchange would end, and where she’d return to her usual wandering.

but he didn’t move just yet. instead, he reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. the motion was slow, his rings glinting faintly beneath the fluorescents.

“you haven’t eaten today?” he asked, though the tone of his voice wasn’t really a question. it was low and steady, more like a statement.

her lips pursed slightly as she tilted her head, giving the question more thought than she probably needed to.

“mm,” she hummed, narrowing her eyes playfully as if she were weighing the truth. “no—yes!” she corrected herself quickly, a sheepish smile breaking across her face. “yes. i had breakfast and a snack earlier.”

his lips twitched, the corner of his mouth lifting as if he were fighting the urge to smile. he didn’t say anything right away, just kept his eyes on her.

then, without a word, he pulled two twenties from his wallet, “here.”

YN blinked again, her eyes flicking between the money and his face, confusion blooming across her features. “what? no, harry, i can’t—”

“take it,” he interrupted gently, his voice soft but firm. “go get something decent. don’t let mitch con you into eating crisps f’dinner again.”

she hesitated, the weight of his gaze pressing on her as she chewed her bottom lip.

“seriously,” he added, a faint smile tugging at his mouth now. “you’ll be doing me a favor. don’t want you passing out on me, yeah?”

her cheeks flushed slightly at his words, but after another beat of hesitation, she finally reached out and took the money, her fingers brushing against his briefly as she did.

“thank you…again.”

he only hummed, shrugging his shoulders casually—as if he didn’t just hand her forty bucks for a measly lunch.

and then, just as she thought he might disappear into the room ahead, he glanced at her again, his green eyes steady and bright under the harsh lights.

“don’t wander too far.”

she smiled faintly, her fingers tightening around the money. “i won’t.”

— COVENTRY

her hands were slowly starting to become his favorite greeting.

the way they moved with a gentle rhythm, purposeful but soft, like they carried a melody he couldn’t quite place. it was the third week of the european leg, the air damp with the kind of lingering rain that clung to the skin and made hair curl at the edges. backstage was bustling, but in the quiet moments, when she flitted around him with a quiet focus, all harry could see were her hands.

small, unadorned, sweet.

she was touching up his face, her thumb dragging gently beneath his eye to smooth out a smudge. her breath smelled faintly of spearmint and the watermelon candy she had earlier. her eyes stayed fixed on the task, as if this moment was just another stitch in the fabric of her day. but for harry, it was a tear in the cloth.

she was too close. he could see the faintest sheen of her skin under the lights, the curve of her neck, the way her collarbones shifted as she moved.

lust wasn’t a stranger to him. it had been loud before, all-consuming. but this was different. this was quieter, heavier. something he was trying to smother, yet it refused to die.

he went cold that day. avoided her gaze, clenched his jaw, kept his hands tucked into his pockets like they might betray him.

but it only made her more thoughtful.

he saw her the next morning, her hair clipped loosely at the back of her head, strands falling lazily like they’d escaped on purpose. the change was subtle, but in the way she crafted herself into something sharper, more focused. the clipped hair gave him an undisturbed view of her neck, the hollow of her throat, the delicate slope of her shoulders.

he was undone.

a thousand images pressed against his mind, unwanted but insistent—his hands spanning the column of her throat, bruises painted like watercolored violets blooming along her collarbones—an evidence of his claim—the curve of her jaw tipped back as she let out a sound meant only for him.

harry forced himself to retreat again.

she thought it was her breath next.

he noticed how she chewed bright green gum in a way that drove him mad, like it was an absent habit, the piece of gum rolling in slow movements. sometimes her tongue would peek past her lips as though she were about to blow a bubble but stopped halfway through.

harry had to sit down once after that, shaking his head like he could dislodge the thoughts from his skull. he thought of how her pretty lips would look wrapped around his cock. he could almost feel it—the warmth, the wetness, the sound. he wondered if she’d be as quiet as she usually was, or if she’d scream his name loud enough for the entire stadium to be reminded of who they’re here to see.

and now, she was kneeling by his side backstage, her fingers curling into the hem of his trousers to fix the cuff.

she smiled softly as she worked, her eyes flicking up to meet his for the briefest moment.

“you’ll trip over these on stage if they aren’t fixed.”

he swallowed thickly, nodding, unable to form words. the thought of her on her knees, innocent and sweet, flooded his mind like a storm surge.

“there.” she sat back on her heels, her hands brushing against his ankles as she admired her work.

he looked at her, bathed in the golden backstage light, her hair still clipped back, her lips parted slightly as if waiting for his approval.

he clenched his fists.

the flow of time bent around her, her presence a rippling disturbance in the current.

harry shifted abruptly, muttering something about needing to check on mitch, and left the room without looking back.

— MANCHESTER

the hotel was hushed, its grandeur dimmed by the evening hour. soft light spilled from sconces along the walls, pooling against polished floors, while the faint hum of distant conversation echoed through the lobby. most of the crew had disappeared within minutes, doors clicking shut as they vanished into their respective rooms, leaving the space cavernous and still.

but not harry. and not YN.

her room wasn’t ready yet—something about cleaning and turnaround, an oversight that had left her standing at the front desk with an apologetic smile and her suitcase at her side.

“shouldn’t be more than half an hour,” the clerk had assured her, but YN had waved it off, her soft it’s fine laced with the kind of understanding that always made harry’s chest tighten.

instead of heading to his own room, he had lingered. he didn’t know why, or perhaps he did and simply didn’t want to acknowledge it. either way, he found himself sitting in a low-slung armchair in the lounge just off the lobby, the soft leather cool beneath his hands as he leaned back and stretched his legs out.

she sat across from him, perched delicately on the edge of a matching chair, her fingers fidgeting idly with the zipper of her bag.

his eyes flicked to her now and then, his eyes catching on the faint curve of her profile, the way her shoulders lifted slightly when she let out a quiet sigh. she didn’t seem restless, exactly—just waiting.

the room was sparsely furnished, its decor understated but rich. in the far corners, small tables stood with chessboards carved into their surfaces, their pieces arranged neatly in expectation.

it was YN who noticed them first, her head tilting slightly as her gaze lingered on the nearest table. after a moment, she rose from her chair, her movements unhurried as she approached the board. her fingers brushed lightly over the edge of the table, tracing the grooves of the squares as if testing their texture.

harry watched her from his seat, his elbow resting on the armrest as his hand brushed over his jaw.

“do you play?” she asked suddenly, her voice soft but carrying across the quiet room.

he smiled as he stood, unfolding himself from the chair with an ease that made the movement seem almost languid, and crossed the room to join her.

“a bit.”

“teach me?”

he nodded, pulling out a chair for her. “sit, then.”

he sat across from her after she settled, her fingers resting lightly against the edge of the table as she watched him reach for the pieces.

his hands moved with practiced ease, his rings catching the light as he adjusted the arrangement of the board. his fingers brushed against hers briefly when she leaned forward to help.

“these are pawns,” he said, his voice steady as he pointed to the row of small pieces. “move one square forward, except on the first turn—then it can be two.”

she nodded, her brows furrowing slightly as she leaned closer, her eyes following the path of his hand. his voice was calm, measured, and she found herself drawn to the rhythm of it, the way he spoke as if the game were a story he was unfolding just for her.

“bishops go diagonally,” he continued, sliding one across the board with a smooth motion. “rooks in straight lines. knights—well, they’re tricky. they move in an L shape.”

her lips curved into a small smile as she watched him demonstrate, the pieces clicking softly against the board.

“like this,” harry muttered, his fingers brushing against hers again as he nudged her hand toward the knight.

her breath caught faintly, though she didn’t pull away. instead, she let her fingers linger, her eyes flicking up to meet his for a brief, unguarded moment.

“got it?”

she nodded, her throat tightening as she swallowed the knot that had risen there.

“show me.” he encouraged, leaning back slightly but keeping his gaze steady on her. “go ahead.”

she hesitated for a moment, her fingers hovering over the pawn in front of her as her concentration shifted onto harry—focusing on the way his hips bucked as he tried to get comfortable in his seat, the way his thighs spread apart, wide enough that his knees brushed against the legs of the table.

and it’s like he knew the reason why her cheeks flushed. he was still leaned back, his hands folded and resting against his belly as he watched her. just watched. his breathing was even, the tip of his tongue sliding between his lips as they part.

“you stuck?”

her eyes immediately snap back to the pawn. “no,” she murmured before she slid it forward.

the game moved slowly, each turn deliberate as he guided her through the motions. his voice stayed calm, patient, though the weight of his presence felt anything but.

she leaned forward more as the game progressed, her elbows resting on the table as she studied the board. harry mirrored her unconsciously, the space between them narrowing with every move.

her laughter broke the quiet at one point, soft and sweet, when her knight moved in the wrong direction and harry teased her gently about it. the sound lingered in the air, threading itself into the quiet like a melody, and harry found himself smiling despite the tension coiling in his chest.

she hesitated, her fingers hovering over a bishop as she tried to map out her next move. YN glanced up at him briefly, catching the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and quickly looked away.

“what?”

“nothing.” harry replied easily, though his smirk deepened.

“you’re doing that thing,” she said, her lips curving into a small pout.

“what thing?”

“that thing,” she repeated, her hand gesturing vaguely toward him. “the… i-know-something-you-don’t thing.”

he huffed a low laugh, shaking his head slightly. “m’not doing anything.”

her pout deepened, but she turned her focus back to the board. she moved her bishop with careful precision, setting it in place with a soft click before leaning back slightly, a triumphant smile blooming on her face.

“checkmate!”

he didn’t move at first. he simply blinked at the board, his lips twitching faintly as he leaned forward, his hands resting lightly on the edge of the table.

“is it now?”

YN’s smile faltered, her confidence wavering as she glanced back at the board, her eyes flicking over the pieces. she felt him lean closer, his presence warm and steady, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the space between them.

“you’ve got my king in a corner,” he muttered, his tone calm but edged with something almost teasing. “but…”

harry’s hand moved then, adjusting one of his knights. the piece landed with a firm click, the move clean and calculated.

“check.”

YN stared at the board, her lips parting slightly as she tried to make sense of what had just happened.

“but—” she started, her voice trailing off as her eyes darted between the pieces.

he leaned back again, his smirk returning as he watched her. “close, though.”

her cheeks flushed, the warmth spreading up her neck as she let out a soft huff, her gaze dropping to the table. “thought i had it.”

he shrugged, already starting to put the pieces in its original places. “almost, sweetheart.” he breathed, eyes fixed on checkerboards of black and white. “s’just a part of learning, hm?”

she glanced up at him then, her eyes wide and uncertain, and he held her gaze for a moment longer than he should have.

before she could respond, the faint hum of footsteps drew their attention toward the desk. the clerk from earlier stood there, holding out a small keycard.

"miss YN?"

she blinked, startled for a moment before realizing what it meant. her room was ready.

he stood first, his movements unhurried as he straightened, his presence still commanding even in the small act of standing. he turned toward her, his hand brushing briefly against the back of her chair as he gestured toward the desk.

"guess that's your cue.”

she hesitated, glancing back at the chessboard, its pieces nearly in their original places, before rising to her feet. she smoothed her hands over her pants, her eyes flicking to his.

"thanks for staying with me.”

he nodded toward her, a small smile on his lips. “anytime.”

too close to the sun, he thought.

but god, wouldn’t she be worth falling for?

[hisfavegirl]

The Price of Desire - Reader!Targtower

Summary : The weight of duty, of expectations, of being torn between love and obligation—had slowly crushed you beneath it. Your brothers had fought over you, your fate decided not by your own heart but by the desires of men who would never understand you. And when their words turned cruel, when the halls of your home became a battlefield of whispers and accusations, you had done the only thing you could.

Warning : Angst, Self-Neglect and Starvation, Emotional and Psychological Distress, Family Conflict and Betrayal, Forced Expectations and Loss of Autonomy, Death and Loss, Verbal and Emotional Abuse.

a/n: Dividers is from @zaldritzosrose , check her blog to see more.

The gardens of the Red Keep were bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun, the scent of blooming roses and fresh-cut grass weaving through the warm air. You walked along the stone path, the skirts of your gown trailing behind you as your ladies-in-waiting flanked you on either side. Their laughter mingled with yours, the high, melodic sound echoing against the castle walls as one of them whispered something scandalous about a lord’s wandering hands at last night’s feast. You clutched your chest in feigned shock, eyes sparkling with mischief, before giggling behind your hand.

But then, like a gust of cold wind cutting through the summer warmth, the laughter died. The shift in the atmosphere was palpable. You felt it before you saw them.

Your brothers.

Aegon, Aemond, and Daeron moved toward you, each with a different intensity in their gaze. The three of them, varying in temperament yet bound by blood, were like shadows cast upon the garden’s beauty—too alluring, too dangerous.

Aegon was at the forefront, his golden hair catching the sunlight, a lazy smirk curling his lips. His violet eyes, often clouded with indulgence, now held a sharper edge, a possessive gleam that made your stomach tighten. Behind him, Aemond walked with measured grace, his sapphire eye gleaming as his remaining violet one locked onto you. There was always something unreadable in Aemond’s gaze, something both terrifying and intoxicating. And then there was Daeron—your sweet, charming younger brother, his boyish handsomeness a deceptive mask for the sharp cunning that lurked beneath.

“My sweet sister,” Aegon purred, reaching for your hand. His fingers, warm and calloused, enclosed around yours, his thumb brushing lightly against your knuckles. “You look radiant today. Doesn’t she, brothers?”

Aemond hummed, his eye raking over you in a way that made your skin prickle with awareness. “She does. Though I imagine Father would prefer her dressed in something less… distracting.”

You scoffed, playfully pulling your hand from Aegon’s grasp. “Must you always tease me, Aemond?”

His lips twitched, the ghost of a smirk. “Must you always give me reason to?”

Daeron chuckled, stepping closer. “Ignore them, sweet sister. You are a vision, as always.” His fingers brushed against your wrist—so light, so fleeting, yet enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Aegon’s smirk deepened as he leaned in, his breath fanning over your ear. “Tell me, little sister… who are you trying to tempt with that dress?”

Heat bloomed across your cheeks, though you refused to let them see your flustered state. “It is merely a dress, Aegon.”

“A dress meant to lure men into madness,” Aemond muttered, his voice edged with something dangerous.

You rolled your eyes but grinned nonetheless. “If you three are done tormenting me, I am going to our father’s chambers to read to him. You may join me if you wish.”

Aegon tilted his head, his smirk never faltering. “Shall we, brothers?”

Aemond and Daeron exchanged glances before nodding.

And so, the four of you walked through the corridors of the Red Keep, each step heavy with something unspoken, something electric. The air was thick with tension—an intoxicating, forbidden tension that neither of them dared voice but all of them felt.

The heavy wooden doors of your father’s chambers creaked as they swung open, the familiar scent of burning incense and old parchment wafting toward you. The room was dimly lit, the golden glow of candlelight flickering against the stone walls, casting elongated shadows across the space. You stepped forward with a soft smile, the warmth of anticipation bubbling in your chest—only for your breath to catch at the sight before you.

Rhaenyra and her husband, Daemon, stood near your father’s bedside.

The air in the chamber shifted, the once welcoming warmth turning thick and charged, almost suffocating. Behind you, your brothers stilled, their presence shifting into something tense—something dangerous. You could feel it in the way Aemond’s body went rigid beside you, the way Aegon’s usually easy smirk tightened into something unreadable, and the way Daeron hesitated just slightly, his hand hovering near the hilt of his belt as if uncertain whether he would need to defend you.

Rhaenyra was as radiant as ever, her silver-blonde hair cascading down her back in intricate braids, her violet eyes sharp and calculating as they flickered toward you. She smiled—soft, practiced, but not without caution. Beside her, Daemon stood like a shadow, dark and unreadable, his sharp lilac gaze dragging over you with something more intense, something far more dangerous than what lay beneath your half-sister’s careful demeanor.

“Sweet sister,” Rhaenyra greeted, her voice warm, though there was something else laced within it—curiosity, perhaps? Or suspicion? “It has been far too long.”

You returned her smile, stepping forward with grace, the fabric of your gown clinging to your form in all the right places, accentuating the curves that had long since drawn the attention of men throughout court. You knew you were a temptation—an irresistible, forbidden fruit. And you knew the way the men in this room fought to resist you, to mask the hunger in their eyes.

“Rhaenyra,” you said sweetly, reaching out to clasp her hands. “I am glad you are here. I had not expected you so soon.”

Daemon chuckled, low and smooth, and you did not miss the way his gaze dragged over the delicate curve of your throat, the exposed skin of your collarbone. “Your nameday is a special occasion,” he drawled, stepping forward, his voice like silk and steel entwined. “And we would not dare miss the opportunity to celebrate you.”

Behind you, Aegon scoffed, the sound filled with a mix of amusement and irritation. “Celebrate?” he echoed, voice dripping with mockery. “That is rich, coming from you, uncle.”

Daemon only smirked, unfazed by the tension crackling in the air. He turned his gaze to you again, slow and deliberate. “I must say, little niece,” he murmured, “you have grown into quite the vision.”

The compliment was bold—too bold. Aemond tensed beside you, and you could feel the restrained fury rolling off him in waves. His fingers twitched, curling into fists at his sides. Daeron, ever the golden boy, kept his expression schooled, but you did not miss the way his jaw clenched. And Aegon… Aegon laughed, a sound devoid of humor.

“She has always been a vision,” Aegon said, stepping forward, positioning himself closer to you, as if laying claim. “But you would know that, wouldn’t you, uncle?”

Daemon’s smirk never wavered, his violet eyes gleaming with something unreadable—something dangerous. “Indeed,” he mused, tilting his head as if contemplating a move on a cyvasse board. “Though I wonder… does she know just how tempting she is?”

You felt your pulse quicken, heat creeping up your spine. The weight of their gazes—Daemon’s, your brothers’—burned against your skin, sending shivers dancing across your arms. There was something intoxicating about it, something wickedly thrilling.

Rhaenyra, sensing the unspoken tension, cleared her throat, breaking the spell. “Enough, Daemon,” she warned, though there was a knowing amusement in her gaze as she looked between you and your brothers. “We are here for my sister’s nameday, not to provoke a fight.”

Aemond exhaled sharply through his nose, stepping beside you, his presence grounding yet possessive. “Then perhaps our uncle should remember his place,” he muttered, his voice edged with venom.

Daemon only laughed—low, dark, and knowing. He turned back to you, offering his hand. “Come, niece. Will you not sit with me? Indulge an old man with your company before you begin your readings?”

You hesitated, your heart pounding against your ribs. You could feel the weight of your brothers’ stares, the silent warning in their stiffened postures.

You smiled, soft and demure, though the weight of Daemon’s lingering gaze sent a shiver rolling down your spine. He was temptation itself, a man born of fire and chaos, but you were no fool. To accept his invitation would be to step too close to the flame—and you knew, without a doubt, that the men behind you would not allow it.

So, with all the grace and poise of a daughter of kings, you tilted your head, auburn curls cascading over your shoulder as you replied sweetly, “Perhaps another time, uncle. My father awaits me.”

Daemon’s smirk did not falter, but there was something dark in his eyes—something intrigued, something almost amused—as he inclined his head in mock acceptance. “Of course, little niece. Another time.”

With that, you turned away from him, your silk skirts whispering against the stone floor as you walked toward your father’s bedside. The flickering candlelight cast warm shadows across Viserys’ frail form, his skin pallid, the weight of his years pressing upon him like an unbearable burden. And yet, when he looked at you, his expression softened, his tired eyes crinkling at the corners as you leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his sunken cheek.

“Father,” you murmured, your voice as tender as the touch of your lips. “I found a new book in the library today. I think you will like it.”

Viserys let out a slow, rattling breath, his smile faint but genuine as he nodded. “You always… find the best stories, sweet girl.”

Your heart ached at the sound of his voice—so weak, so fragile. Once, your father had been strong, a king whose presence filled a room. Now, he was but a shadow of himself, and it pained you more than you dared admit.

Behind you, your brothers hovered like sentinels, their looming presence a silent promise of protection. Aegon leaned against a nearby pillar, arms crossed, but his usually lazy demeanor was absent; his sharp violet gaze was locked onto Daemon, watching, waiting. Aemond stood just behind you, close enough that you could feel his heat, his fingers twitching ever so slightly as if resisting the urge to reach for you. And Daeron, ever the quiet observer, remained near the doorway, his expression unreadable.

It was a silent warning.

Daemon would not come near you again. Not tonight.

And yet, the gods were not done testing your resolve.

Before you could even open the book in your hands, the chamber doors swung open once more, the sound of hurried footsteps filling the room. You turned in surprise, only for your breath to hitch at the sight before you.

Jacaerys and Lucerys.

Your half-sister’s sons.

They strode into the room with the easy confidence of princes, though their eyes immediately sought out their mother. Rhaenyra smiled at them warmly, but the tension in the room had already shifted, thickened, crackling like embers waiting to ignite.

Because as soon as Jacaerys’ gaze landed on you, his steps faltered.

For the briefest moment, he hesitated, his dark eyes widening ever so slightly as they raked over you—not in the way one looks upon a sibling, but in the way a man looks upon something he desires.

And Lucerys, younger though he was, was no better. His gaze flickered downward, tracing the delicate curve of your figure beneath the fine silk of your gown, before he quickly averted his eyes, his jaw tightening.

Your brothers noticed.

Aegon scoffed, a knowing smirk curling his lips. “Oh, this is rich.”

Aemond’s fingers curled into fists at his sides, his sapphire eye gleaming dangerously. “It seems our dear nephews have forgotten themselves.”

Daeron said nothing, but the shift in his posture was unmistakable—a silent readiness, a quiet threat.

Rhaenyra, ever the queen in waiting, arched a brow at the sudden tension. “Surely you all can behave for one evening?” she chided, her tone light but firm.

But Daemon? Daemon only smirked.

He had noticed it too.

And he was enjoying every moment of it.

Jacaerys cleared his throat, tearing his gaze away from you as he turned back to his mother. “We came to see you before the feast,” he said, though his voice was tighter than before. “We only just arrived.”

Lucerys, ever the quieter of the two, simply nodded, though his hands were clenched at his sides.

You tilted your head, amusement dancing in your eyes. “You must be tired from your journey.”

Jacaerys met your gaze then, something unreadable flickering behind his dark eyes. “Not at all,” he said smoothly. “In truth, I rather enjoy being here.”

Aegon laughed, low and knowing. “Do you, now?”

The room was a battlefield without swords.

Your brothers. Your half-sister’s sons.

Daemon watching from the sidelines, amusement gleaming in his eyes like a man who enjoyed watching the world burn.

The chamber had grown quieter as the evening stretched on, the only sounds filling the space being your own voice, soft and steady, weaving tales from the book in your lap. Viserys had drifted into slumber somewhere in the midst of your reading, his breath slow and shallow, the weight of his age pressing heavy upon him. You watched him for a moment, your heart aching at the sight of how fragile he had become.

Carefully, you leaned down and pressed a delicate kiss to his sunken cheek, your lips brushing over his skin like the whisper of a promise. “Rest well, Father,” you murmured.

With gentle hands, you closed the book in your lap, its worn leather cover cool beneath your fingertips. But just as you prepared to rise, the chamber doors groaned open once more, breaking the quiet.

You turned your head just in time to see your mother step inside.

Alicent Hightower carried herself with the poise of a queen, her deep green gown clinging to her form with all the elegance of a woman who knew the power she wielded. Her auburn hair, the very same shade as your own, cascaded over her shoulders in thick waves, her eyes sharp as they swept over the room—taking in the presence of your brothers, your nephews, Rhaenyra, and Daemon all lingering within the king’s chambers.

For a brief moment, her gaze softened when it landed upon you.

“You should begin preparing for the feast,” she said, her voice calm but firm.

You nodded, knowing better than to protest. “Of course, Mother.”

Slowly, you rose from your seat, smoothing out the delicate fabric of your gown as you turned toward the rest of the room. Your brothers remained where they were, watching you with unreadable expressions. Aegon, still leaning lazily against the pillar, smirked as if he knew something you didn’t. Aemond stood tall and rigid, his sharp gaze never straying from you, while Daeron remained quiet, observing, always waiting.

And your nephews

Jacaerys’ jaw had tensed when he heard your mother’s words, as if the thought of you leaving unsettled him. His dark eyes followed your every movement, something flickering behind them—something intense. Lucerys, younger though he was, shifted his weight as if debating whether to say something, but ultimately kept his silence.

You turned to Rhaenyra last, offering a polite nod. “It was good to see you again, sister.”

She smiled, though there was a knowing look in her gaze. “And you, sweet sister.”

But it was Daemon who spoke next.

“Leaving so soon?” he mused, his voice slow, deliberate. “Such a shame. I was quite enjoying your company.”

Your heart gave a traitorous flutter at the low timbre of his voice, at the way his violet gaze dragged over you with a heat that should not have been there—not from your uncle. Not from a man who had already claimed a wife. And yet, there it was, burning between you like the fire that coursed through your family’s veins.

Aemond stiffened at your side. “She has preparations to make,” he said coolly, his voice edged with something dangerous. “You will have to find entertainment elsewhere, uncle.”

Daemon only smirked, as if he relished the way your brothers bristled at his presence, as if he enjoyed pushing them to their limits just to see how far they would go.

Aegon, never one to miss a chance to stir chaos, let out a low chuckle. “Gods, it’s almost amusing how you all circle her like wolves.” He tilted his head, his violet eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Tell me, little sister, does it not exhaust you—being the object of so many affections?”

His words were playful, teasing. But there was something else beneath them—something possessive, something dark.

You met his gaze, unflinching. “Affection is not a burden, dear brother,” you mused, tilting your head ever so slightly. “But I suppose you would not know much of it.”

Laughter rippled through the room, but Aegon only smirked, as if your sharp tongue amused him rather than wounded him.

Jacaerys stepped forward then, his expression unreadable. “May I escort you?”

The question was innocent enough, but the way he said it—the way his eyes locked onto yours with something that felt like longing—was anything but.

Before you could even part your lips to answer, Aemond stepped closer, his presence a silent threat. “That will not be necessary.”

Jacaerys’ gaze snapped to his, the tension between them palpable.

For a moment, the chamber was silent.

And then Rhaenyra sighed, shaking her head. “Come, Jace, Luke. We will see her at the feast.”

Jacaerys hesitated, his jaw tight, but eventually, he relented. With a final glance in your direction, he turned on his heel and followed his mother and brother out of the room.

That left you with your brothers. And Daemon.

You let out a soft breath before nodding once. “I shall take my leave.”

Daemon was still watching you, still smirking, as if he knew something the others did not. But he said nothing.

Instead, it was Aegon who moved first, pushing off the pillar as he reached out and traced a single finger along your wrist before murmuring, “Don’t keep us waiting too long, little sister.”

Aemond said nothing, but when you turned to leave, you could feel the heat of his gaze burning into your back and Daeron, Daeron simply watched. Silent. Calculating. As if he, too, was waiting for his turn.

Your chambers were alight with the glow of countless candles, their soft flames flickering against the polished mirrors as the maids worked around you with quiet efficiency. The scent of roses and myrrh clung to the air, a delicate perfume that only added to the anticipation humming in your veins. Tonight, the Red Keep would be alive with music, laughter, and the undeniable tension that had been simmering beneath the surface for far too long.

You sat poised before the vanity, your auburn hair being woven into intricate braids, cascading down your back like strands of molten copper. The maids worked carefully, twisting and pinning each lock into place, adorning your hair with pearls and golden pins shaped like the seven-pointed star—a silent homage to your mother’s faith.

And then there was the dress.

Deep emerald, rich as the forests beyond the Reach, clinging to every sinful curve of your body. The corset cinched your waist to perfection, accentuating the swell of your hips, the fullness of your chest. The neckline plunged low, revealing the soft, tempting swell of your breasts, a display meant to command attention—to tempt, to ensnare. The fabric shimmered in the candlelight, each movement sending ripples through the delicate embroidery, as if the very dress was alive with seduction.

From the reflection in the mirror, you caught sight of your mother standing behind you.

Alicent Hightower’s expression was unreadable at first, her sharp green eyes sweeping over you with careful calculation. Then, slowly, a smile curled her lips, and she reached forward, her touch surprisingly gentle as she brushed her fingers over your cheek.

“You are my daughter,” she murmured, the warmth in her voice sending a shiver down your spine. “More Hightower than Targaryen.”

The words settled deep within you, filling you with something heady, something powerful. You had always known your blood was a battle of two legacies—one of fire, one of faith. But tonight, clad in emerald, you were no dragon’s daughter. You were a queen in the making.

Your lips curved into a smile, tilting your head into her touch. “That pleases you, doesn’t it, Mother?”

Alicent hummed softly, tilting her chin as she studied you, her fingers tracing a slow path down your arm. “It does,” she admitted, voice as smooth as silk. “The court will see you tonight and know that you are not like her.”

Her.

Rhaenyra.

The unspoken name hung heavy in the air, a shadow neither of you acknowledged.

A knowing look passed between you, the understanding silent but absolute. You were not like your half-sister—the wild heir who ruled over Dragonstone, the reckless Targaryen who let fire consume all in her path. No, you were something else entirely.

You were fire carefully contained within glass, dangerous in its restraint.

You reached for your mother’s hand then, pressing it gently between your own. “I will not disappoint you.”

Alicent’s lips curled ever so slightly. “You never have.”

The moment stretched between you before she finally stepped back, casting one last approving glance over you. “Come,” she said. “The feast awaits.”

And as you rose to your feet, the emerald silk flowing around you like liquid temptation, you knew that tonight—tonight, the Red Keep would burn, not with dragonfire, but with the fire of desire.

The grand doors of the throne room swung open, the polished gold and iron catching the glow of the torches. Your mother walked beside you, her posture as regal as the crown that adorned her auburn hair, guiding you forward with a hand light on your wrist. But it was you the court watched.

The moment you stepped inside, the room fell into silence.

Noble lords and ladies, knights and bannermen, even servants lingering at the edges of the hall—all had turned to look at you. It was not mere curiosity that held them breathless, nor was it simple admiration. No, what filled the air was something heavier, something darker. A hunger unspoken yet understood.

You could feel their eyes—tracing the shape of you, the curves the emerald silk accentuated, the delicate rise and fall of your chest beneath the low neckline. The corset cinched your waist to perfection, making you look like something carved by the gods themselves. Your auburn hair shimmered in the candlelight, twisted into elegant braids that revealed the graceful column of your neck, a sight meant to be admired, perhaps even worshipped.

Your mother kept walking, unbothered, her grip on you steady as she led you toward the high table where your family awaited.

Your brothers were the first you noticed.

Aegon lounged back in his seat, a goblet of wine in hand, but his violet eyes had darkened with something unreadable as he watched you approach. Aemond sat straighter, his sharp, calculating gaze never once wavering from you, his lips parted ever so slightly as if you had stolen his very breath. And Daeron, usually quiet, stared as if he was seeing something forbidden, something untouchable.

Your nephews were no better.

Jacaerys tensed when he saw you, his grip tightening on the armrest of his chair, his chest rising and falling just a little too quickly. Lucerys, younger but no less captivated, had his brows slightly furrowed, as if he could not decide whether he wanted to look or look away.

And then there was Daemon.

Your uncle. Your father’s brother. A rogue prince who should not have looked at you the way he did.

His lips curled into something amused, but his eyes… his eyes were devouring. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his goblet to his lips and took a sip, his smirk deepening as if he had all the patience in the world to play whatever wicked game he was entertaining in his mind.

You inhaled softly and took your seat, your mother standing beside you as she turned to address the court.

“As Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, it is my honor to welcome you all on this joyous occasion,” Alicent’s voice rang through the hall, smooth and powerful. “Tonight, we celebrate my daughter, a beacon of grace and virtue.” Her gaze flickered down to you then, pride gleaming in her green eyes. “May this night mark the beginning of a prosperous future for her.”

She raised her goblet, and the court echoed her gesture, lifting their cups in unison.

“To the princess,” she toasted.

“To the princess,” the hall repeated.

You lifted your own goblet, your lips curving as you took a sip. But even as the feast began, even as the music filled the air and laughter broke the tension, you could still feel them watching you. Your brothers. Your nephews. Your uncle.

A shiver danced down your spine when you laughed at something Helaena murmured beside you, a soft, genuine sound that made her smile in return.

And then the mood shifted.

A shadow fell over your table as a tall figure stepped forward, his presence commanding, his movements purposeful.

Lord Cregan Stark.

He was unlike the men of court, unlike the lords who whispered behind their goblets and played games with empty words. He was a wolf, broad-shouldered and solid, his dark hair falling past his shoulders, his storm-gray eyes piercing as they locked onto yours.

“My lady,” Cregan said, his voice deep, steady. “Would you grant me the honor of a dance?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Aegon shifted in his seat, fingers drumming against the table. Aemond’s jaw clenched ever so slightly, while Daeron, though polite, was watching intently. Jacaerys’ lips pressed into a thin line, his fingers tightening against his goblet, and Lucerys shifted uncomfortably.

Daemon merely smirked, waiting.

You tilted your head, meeting Cregan’s gaze with a slow, knowing smile. “It would be my pleasure, my lord.”

You placed your hand in his, his warmth enveloping you as he guided you away from the table, away from the stifling heat of the gazes that followed your every step. And as he led you to the dance floor, as his hands settled on your waist, firm yet respectful.

The hall was alive with music, the soft melody of strings and flutes weaving through the air like a spell. The flickering glow of a thousand candles cast golden light across the polished marble floors, where lords and ladies twirled in elegant unison. Yet, for all the splendor of the feast, the attention of the court was not on the revelry.

It was on you.

Cregan Stark’s hand rested at your waist, steady and firm, his grip possessive yet respectful. His other hand held yours, his calloused fingers brushing over your knuckles with each step. He led the dance effortlessly, his strength guiding you through the turns, the folds of your emerald gown swirling around you like a whisper of temptation.

“You look breathtaking tonight,” he murmured, his deep Northern accent laced with something softer, something only for you.

The warmth of his breath against your ear sent a delicious shiver down your spine, your cheeks flushing despite yourself. You let out a light giggle, tilting your chin up to meet his storm-gray eyes, finding them filled with a quiet intensity.

“You flatter me, my lord,” you teased, your voice honeyed, the smile on your lips both coy and knowing.

Cregan chuckled, his thumb brushing idly against the back of your hand. “I only speak the truth.”

You felt their eyes on you.

The weight of their stares burned into your back—your brothers, your nephews, your uncle. They watched, silent, their expressions unreadable, but you could feel the tension thrumming beneath the surface like a beast ready to bare its fangs.

Yet, for this moment, you let them simmer in their jealousy.

As the dance slowed, Cregan’s hand at your waist lingered, his touch warm even through the layers of fabric. He studied you, his expression unreadable, but there was something contemplative in the way his eyes roamed your face, something deeper than mere attraction.

“Tell me, princess,” he began, his voice lower now, meant only for you. “What future do you see for yourself?”

The question was innocent on the surface, yet there was weight behind it, a meaning that stretched beyond mere pleasantries. He was not just asking about idle dreams—he was asking about your fate, your marriage.

You smiled, tilting your head, your fingers curling ever so slightly against his shoulder as you looked up at him through your lashes. “Why, my lord? Are you asking for yourself?”

The tease was meant to fluster him, to make him chuckle and shake his head.

But instead, he smiled. Slow. Certain.

“Yes,” Cregan said, his voice unwavering.

Your breath hitched. The answer was unexpected, yet the certainty in his tone sent something thrilling through you, something unfamiliar and dangerous.

He did not laugh it off, did not turn it into jest. He meant it.

Your lips parted slightly, but before you could respond, the music ended. The spell broke, and applause filled the hall.

Cregan stepped back, still holding your hand, his fingers brushing against yours before he finally released you. His gaze lingered, as if he was memorizing every inch of you, as if he was already claiming you in his mind.

And when he turned to leave the floor, you stood there, breathless, as the weight of his words settled over you. Behind you, at the high table, the men who had watched you so closely all night were seething.

As you made your way back to the high table, you could feel the weight of their stares pressing into your back. Your brothers, your nephews, your uncle—each one had watched your dance with Cregan Stark with something unreadable in their eyes. Aegon swirled the wine in his goblet with slow, lazy movements, though the grip he held on it was far from relaxed. Aemond sat rigid in his chair, his jaw tight, while Daeron kept a carefully neutral expression, though his fingers tapped restlessly against the table. Jacaerys and Lucerys were no better, the tension rolling off them in waves.

And then there was Daemon.

The Rogue Prince leaned back in his chair, his smirk faint but ever-present, watching you with an amusement that did not quite reach his eyes. There was something else there—something more dangerous, more possessive.

You ignored the storm brewing behind you and settled back into your seat beside your mother, who turned to you with a small, knowing smile.

“You danced beautifully, my love,” Alicent murmured, her voice warm yet sharp enough to cut through the tension at the table.

“Thank you, mother,” you replied sweetly, though you could still feel the ghost of Cregan’s hand on your waist, his words lingering in your mind.

Alicent exhaled softly, setting her goblet down with a quiet clink before turning to face you fully. “I received no less than ten marriage proposals for you this evening,” she remarked, her voice laced with amusement.

You blinked before laughter bubbled up from your lips, light and airy. “ten? My, I must be quite the temptation.”

The table was silent.

Aegon let out a short scoff, but he said nothing, merely tipping his goblet back as he took a long drink. Aemond’s fingers curled into a fist against his lap, while Jacaerys glanced away, his jaw tightening. Daemon smirked, swirling his wine, but his eyes never left you.

Alicent, ever the picture of grace, simply smiled at your reaction. “You are, my love. The most sought-after bride in the realm.”

You hummed in response, tilting your head in mock contemplation. “And yet, I have no intention of marrying so soon after my nameday,” you mused, your lips curving into something teasing. “Surely, I deserve more time to enjoy my youth before I am given to a lord?”

Your mother nodded in agreement, reaching to brush her fingers over your cheek in a rare display of affection. “I believe that is wise. There is no need to rush such decisions.”

A sigh of relief rippled through the table.

Aegon visibly relaxed, though his expression was unreadable. Aemond exhaled slowly, his tense shoulders loosening ever so slightly. Daeron nodded in silent approval, while Jacaerys and Lucerys both seemed to ease, though they still looked wary.

Daemon simply chuckled under his breath.

You took a sip of your wine, allowing the tension to settle. You had no doubt that they would fight for you, that this battle for your hand was only just beginning.

And as the feast continued, you smiled to yourself, knowing that tonight, you had won.

Laughter and music still filled the hall, the rich scent of spiced wine and roasted meats lingering in the air, but you barely noticed any of it when you heard your name being called.

“Sweet niece,” came the familiar voice, deep and warm, laced with affection and something else—something darker, something possessive.

Your head snapped up, and your eyes widened before a delighted giggle escaped your lips. “Uncle Gwayne!”

Without thinking, you rose from your seat, your emerald skirts swishing around you as you rushed toward him. Gwayne Hightower stood tall and proud, his fine tunic of deep green embroidered with golden thread, his auburn hair combed neatly, his sharp features softened only by the small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

He opened his arms just as you threw yourself into them, wrapping you in a strong embrace. The scent of leather and polished steel clung to him, mingling with the faint hint of the oils he used in his hair.

“I have missed you,” you murmured against his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your hands.

“And I, you,” he said, his voice a low rumble as he tightened his hold on you just a fraction longer than necessary.

From the high table, your mother’s body went rigid, her goblet still in her grasp, though she did not drink. Alicent’s sharp eyes watched the way her brother held you, the way his large hand rested on the small of your back, the way his thumb brushed—so subtly it could have been imagined—against the fabric of your gown.

She was not the only one who noticed.

Your brothers had gone completely still. Aegon’s once-lazy posture stiffened, his fingers tightening around his goblet until his knuckles turned white. Aemond, who had been methodically cutting into his food, now simply held the dagger, his single eye locked onto you with an unreadable expression. Daeron’s polite demeanor had slipped, his lips pressed into a thin line.

And Daemon—Daemon was smirking. Amused. But not pleased.

Your nephews were no better. Jacaerys and Lucerys exchanged glances, their hands curled into fists against their laps, the easygoing air they carried all but gone.

Oblivious to the tension your embrace had sparked, you pulled back just enough to look up at Gwayne.

“I have something for you,” he said, reaching into the pouch at his belt.

Curious, you watched as he pulled out a velvet box, flipping it open to reveal an exquisite necklace. A delicate golden chain with a striking emerald pendant—a stone so deep in color it seemed to burn with an inner fire. The craftsmanship was impeccable, the edges of the gem catching the candlelight in a dazzling display.

A soft gasp escaped your lips. “It’s beautiful, uncle.”

“Not as beautiful as the one who wears it.” His voice was quiet, meant only for you, but the words sent a shiver down your spine.

Slowly, he reached up, his fingers brushing against your collarbone as he clasped the necklace around your throat. The touch was fleeting, yet deliberate, his fingertips lingering just a second too long against your bare skin.

You smiled, completely unaware of how your mother’s grip on her goblet had turned to iron.

“You spoil me,” you teased, touching the pendant with a soft laugh.

Gwayne merely smirked, his gaze flickering down to the way the emerald nestled perfectly above the swell of your displayed cleavage.

“I only give what is deserved.”

The silence behind you was deafening.

Aegon set his goblet down with a loud clink, his lips pressed into a thin line as he stared at the necklace now resting against your chest. Aemond’s jaw ticked, his fingers curling into his palm. Daeron’s eyes darkened, though he said nothing.

Jacaerys let out a slow breath, as if steadying himself, while Lucerys glanced at his brother, sharing an unspoken thought.

Daemon, watching it all unfold, merely swirled the wine in his goblet, smirking to himself.

Alicent, however, had had enough.

“My love,” she said, her voice cool, yet sharp enough to cut through the thick tension, “it is time to return to the table.”

You turned to her, tilting your head slightly, but nodded. “Of course, mother.”

With one last glance at Gwayne, you offered him a smile before returning to your seat.

And as you settled back beside your mother, completely unaware of the storm brewing around you, you could not help but touch the emerald at your throat—completely oblivious to the way every man at the table watched, their gazes dark with something far more dangerous than mere admiration.

The warmth of the wine lingered on your tongue as you watched your mother rise from her seat. There was something in the way she moved, something deliberate and sharp. You tilted your head slightly, curiosity sparking in your chest as she turned away from the table, her emerald skirts swaying as she stepped down from the dais.

You followed her with your gaze, brows furrowing when you saw where she was heading.

Straight toward her brother.

Gwayne barely had a moment to react before Alicent reached him, her slender fingers curling around his wrist in a grip that was deceptively strong. Without a word, she pulled him away from the crowd, leading him toward the farthest, quietest corner of the throne room.

The torchlight flickered against the stone walls, casting long shadows over their tense figures.

Alicent did not release him, even when she finally came to a stop. Instead, she tightened her grip. “What do you think you are doing?”

Gwayne merely raised a brow, amusement flickering in his eyes. “You’ll have to be more specific, dear sister.”

Alicent’s nostrils flared, her auburn brows knitting together. “Don’t play coy with me,” she hissed, voice low, sharp. “The way you looked at her, the way you touched her—”

Gwayne chuckled, a sound so rich and unbothered it only made Alicent’s anger burn brighter.

“She is a beautiful young woman, Alicent,” he said simply, tilting his head. “Surely you cannot blame me for noticing.”

Alicent let go of his wrist as if burned, stepping back, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “She is my daughter, your niece.”

“She is not a child,” Gwayne countered, his voice smoother than silk. “She has come of age. And not just I have noticed.”

Alicent froze.

Gwayne took a slow step forward, watching as his sister’s body stiffened. His voice dropped lower, dangerously knowing. “Have you not seen the way they look at her?”

Alicent’s throat bobbed.

“She is… exquisite,” Gwayne murmured, and his eyes flickered over to where you sat at the high table, laughing softly at something Helaena had whispered to you. The emerald at your throat gleamed in the candlelight. “They are all drawn to her. Aegon. Aemond. Daeron.” His lips curled slightly. “Even Daemon.”

Alicent’s fingers dug into the fabric of her skirts.

Gwayne smirked. “And let us not forget Rhaenyra’s sons.”

Alicent’s breath caught. She had noticed it, of course she had. The way Aegon’s usual nonchalance melted into something far darker when his eyes lingered on you. The way Aemond watched you with quiet, possessive intent. Daeron, once easygoing and playful, had begun to stiffen when other men approached you.

And Daemon—Daemon had always been a tempestuous storm, but when it came to you, his interest was undeniable.

Even Jacaerys and Lucerys, who had once looked at you with the affection of kin, now watched you differently.

Alicent inhaled sharply.

“You know it to be true.” Gwayne’s voice was quiet now, almost teasing.

Alicent forced herself to regain composure. “She is my daughter,” she repeated, steel laced in her tone. “She is of Hightower blood.”

Gwayne’s smirk deepened. “Then you should know better than anyone, dear sister—fires are not so easily tamed.”

Alicent did not reply, her jaw tight as she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving Gwayne standing there, chuckling softly to himself.

And across the room, unaware of the storm you had ignited, you smiled as you toyed with the emerald at your throat, feeling the weight of more than just jewels resting against your skin.

The moment your mother returned to her seat beside you, you noticed the slight tension in her frame. Her expression was schooled into one of quiet composure, but the way her fingers curled slightly against her lap told you something had unsettled her.

Before you could ask, a servant stepped forward, bowing deeply before presenting a small, intricately carved wooden box. “A gift from His Grace,” the servant announced, his voice respectful.

You blinked in surprise, curiosity sparking in your chest as you reached for the box. Your fingers traced over the delicate carvings of dragons entwined with flames before you carefully lifted the lid.

The candlelight caught on the glint of metal, and your breath hitched.

Nestled inside was a necklace of the deepest, richest gold, the links delicate yet strong, polished to a gleaming perfection. At the center, a striking pendant—a dragon wrought in rubies and black diamonds, its wings fanned out as if mid-flight. It was regal, ancient, breathtaking.

A soft gasp escaped your lips as you lifted the necklace, letting it dangle from your fingers. The gemstones caught the light, casting small reflections across your skin like scattered embers.

“It is stunning,” you murmured, completely enthralled.

Beside you, Rhaenyra leaned in, her gaze sharp yet amused. Then, recognition flickered in her eyes, and her lips parted slightly before curving into a knowing smile.

“That,” she said, voice laced with intrigue, “is Queen Rhaenys the Conqueror’s necklace.”

Your head snapped toward her, eyes wide. “Truly?”

She nodded. “It was gifted to her by Aegon himself, a token of his devotion.” Her expression turned thoughtful. “For years, it has been kept among the royal treasures, untouched… until now.”

A squeal of delight bubbled up from your throat before you could stop it. “Father gave this to me?” you breathed, tracing a reverent finger over the rubies.

“You should be honored,” Rhaenyra said, though there was something unreadable in her gaze as she studied you. “It is a symbol of both power… and temptation.”

A rich chuckle came from across the table.

Daemon.

You looked up to find his violet eyes watching you with something darkly amused, his lips curved in that ever-present smirk. He swirled the wine in his cup lazily before tilting his head.

“I daresay it suits you,” he drawled.

Something in his tone sent a shiver down your spine. “Does it?”

Daemon’s smirk deepened. “Rhaenys herself was the very image of beauty and temptation,” he mused, gaze sweeping over you in a way that made your skin prickle with heat. “A woman whose presence could turn the heads of lords and warriors alike. She was both admired… and feared.” He lifted his cup to his lips, taking a slow sip before adding, “Just like you.”

The words wrapped around you like a velvet caress, thick with meaning. Your heart pounded in your chest, but you kept your composure, offering Daemon a coy smile.

“Then I shall wear it proudly,” you murmured, tilting your chin slightly, “as a true daughter of House Targaryen.”

Daemon’s smirk didn’t falter, but something flickered in his gaze, something unreadable.

A servant stepped forward to help fasten the necklace around your throat, and as the cool metal met your skin, a hushed silence fell over the table.

You could feel the weight of their stares.

Aegon’s gaze was unreadable, but his fingers clenched around his goblet. Aemond’s single eye gleamed with something dark, dangerous. Daeron, normally composed, had an edge of tension in his shoulders. Even Jacaerys and Lucerys, who had once looked at you as kin, now studied you with something else entirely.

The weight of the necklace was nothing compared to the weight of their eyes.

And in that moment, you realized—Rhaenys the Conqueror had been a legend, a queen whose beauty and power ensnared the most formidable men of her time.

And now, you bore her gift.

A gift… and a warning.

The necklace rested against your skin, a stark contrast to the deep emerald of your gown. The gold gleamed under the candlelight, the rubies catching every flicker of fire, glowing like embers against the lush green fabric. Your mother had planned tonight meticulously—your coming of age would be marked by the embrace of your Hightower roots. The rich green, the corset that accentuated your curves, the low neckline designed to tempt and yet uphold your grace—all of it was meant to solidify your place as a daughter of Oldtown, a woman of noble refinement.

But Viserys had other plans.

By bestowing upon you the necklace of Queen Rhaenys, he had made his declaration. You were not merely the daughter of Alicent Hightower. You were the blood of the dragon, the daughter of a Targaryen king. The weight of the gift settled upon you, not just in metal but in meaning. You belonged to the fire, not to the tower.

A delicate whisper from beside you caught your attention. Helaena, lost in her own world as always, murmured something beneath her breath, her pale eyes unfocused as she stared at the flickering flames of the chandeliers.

“The dragon wears the crown of another… flames dance, waiting to consume… the pillars crumble, but the serpent coils tighter…”

You frowned, tilting your head toward her. “What did you say, dear sister?”

Helaena blinked, her trance breaking as she turned toward you with a dreamy smile. “Nothing,” she murmured, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from your shoulder. “You look beautiful tonight, sister.”

Before you could press her further, movement in front of you pulled your attention away.

Your brothers.

All three of them—Aegon, Aemond, and Daeron—stood before you, their towering figures casting shadows against the table. Each wore a different expression, yet their intentions were the same.

“Dance with me,” Aegon grinned, offering his hand first. His violet eyes held a glint of mischief, his smirk lazy yet expectant.

“Dance with me,” Aemond echoed, his tone softer yet no less firm, his single eye burning with an intensity that sent a shiver through you.

Daeron, the youngest yet no less commanding, simply tilted his head with a small smirk. “You cannot deny your favorite brother, can you?”

Three brothers

Three sets of expectant gazes.

You laughed, the sound light, teasing. “Must I choose?”

Aegon’s grin widened. “Would you prefer all of us at once, sweet sister?” His voice was low, suggestive, meant to elicit a reaction.

Aemond scoffed, shooting him a sharp glare before turning his focus back to you. “A proper dance, not one of your drunken antics,” he murmured, as if he were the only one capable of offering you something respectable.

Daeron simply chuckled, shaking his head. “Perhaps we should let her choose instead of fighting like fools.”

You tapped your chin playfully, your gaze flickering between them. The attention was intoxicating, the possessiveness in their stares making your skin prickle.

“You are all so eager,” you mused, tilting your head. “It’s quite endearing.”

Aegon arched a brow. “Endearing?”

Aemond’s lips twitched slightly, a ghost of amusement hidden beneath his usually stoic expression.

Daeron merely extended his hand further, his blue eyes gleaming. “Come now, sister. The night is young, and you deserve to be celebrated.”

Smiling, you placed your hand in his, allowing him to guide you toward the dance floor. The moment your fingers touched, you heard a low exhale from one of your other brothers—Aemond, perhaps. Or Aegon.

Possessiveness was a trait none of them lacked.

As Daeron led you into the first steps of the dance, you could feel their eyes lingering, burning into your back. The weight of their gazes was heavy, intense. You had been theirs before—beloved sister, treasured princess. But tonight, something had shifted.

Tonight, they did not just see their sister.

Tonight, they saw something more.

Something untouchable.

Something they all wished to claim.

The music swelled around you as Daeron twirled you effortlessly across the dance floor. Laughter bubbled past your lips, his touch light yet firm against your waist as he led you through the steps with ease. Unlike Aegon’s wild revelry or Aemond’s measured control, Daeron danced with a natural charm, playful yet undeniably graceful. His eyes sparkled as he leaned in, murmuring, “You truly are the most beautiful creature in the room tonight.”

Your cheeks warmed, though whether from the dance or his words, you weren’t sure. “Flatterer,” you teased, your fingers tightening briefly in his grasp.

But the moment of lightness was met with a heavy contrast.

At the edge of the dance floor, Aegon and Aemond stood, watching.

Their gazes were unwavering, dark and unreadable, their postures stiff with barely concealed tension. Aegon had a goblet in hand, swirling the wine absentmindedly, though he had not taken a sip in some time. Aemond, meanwhile, stood still as stone, his eye trained on the way Daeron’s hand rested against your waist, the muscle in his jaw twitching.

And then came the voice that cut through the tension like a blade.

“Enough.”

Alicent’s tone was sharp, quiet yet firm, meant only for her sons to hear. She did not move toward them, but her presence was enough to demand their attention.

Aegon chuckled first, his lips twisting into a knowing smirk. “Something wrong, Mother?”

Alicent’s eyes were unreadable, flickering between her eldest and second-born before settling on Aemond, whose expression remained carefully blank. She took a slow breath, steadying herself before speaking again.

“She is your sister.”

Aemond turned his head then, his eye glinting in the low candlelight. “Yes,” he murmured, tilting his goblet slightly, letting the wine coat the edges, “she is.”

Alicent’s frown deepened. “You will not entertain thoughts beyond what is proper.”

Aegon let out a low, amused hum. “Proper? Mother, you forget—our blood is not solely Hightower.” He took a slow sip of his wine, pausing for effect before adding, “We are Targaryens, too.”

Alicent stiffened. “That does not mean—”

Aemond interrupted her, his voice softer but no less pointed. “And Targaryens,” he mused, swirling his goblet lazily, “have peculiar customs when it comes to marriage, do they not?”

Alicent’s breath hitched.

It was a subtle reaction, but one her sons did not miss.

Aegon’s smirk widened. “Oh, Mother,” he crooned, feigning innocence, “you knew this day would come, didn’t you?”

Alicent said nothing, her fingers tightening into her palms.

Aemond set his goblet down, straightening. “Viserys has already claimed her as his daughter before the court,” he stated, his tone carrying the weight of undeniable truth. “She is as much a Targaryen as we are. And our ancestors—” He stepped closer, his voice lowering just enough to make his mother hold her breath. “—would not find such things unnatural.”

Alicent turned sharply to Aegon then, as if expecting him to dismiss his brother’s words, to make light of the situation as he always did. But for once, Aegon’s smirk did not reach his eyes.

“She’s no little girl anymore, Mother,” Aegon said, his voice devoid of its usual playfulness. “Everyone in this hall sees it.” His gaze flickered back to the dance floor, where you were still lost in laughter with Daeron, oblivious to the quiet war waging behind you.

Alicent followed his gaze, and for the first time that night, true fear laced her expression.

Because Aegon was right.

Everyone had seen it.

The way lords whispered about your beauty, the way men looked at you with admiration too impure for a princess. Even Gwayne, her own brother, had held you in a way that had sent unease twisting through her chest.

But worse than that—her own sons saw it, too and they did not just see their sister. They saw something much, much more dangerous.

Alicent let out a slow, measured sigh, pressing her fingers to her temple as if warding off an oncoming headache. The candlelight flickered against her features, the strain in her eyes unmistakable as she regarded her eldest sons.

Aegon smirked, tipping his goblet back before speaking. “It’s not just us, Mother.”

Alicent’s fingers curled against her palm. She did not want to hear this. She did not want to acknowledge it.

Aemond tilted his head, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “You’ve seen the way they look at her.”

Alicent exhaled sharply, but Aegon continued, undeterred.

“Our uncles,” he mused, swirling his wine lazily. “Our nephews. It seems,” he cast a glance across the room, his gaze dark with knowing, “our dear sister has bewitched them all.”

Alicent’s lips parted as if to argue, but no words came.

Because she knew.

She had seen Daemon’s watchful eyes when you had entered the hall, the way his lips had curved ever so slightly when Rhaenyra had remarked on your beauty. She had seen Jacaerys tense when you had smiled at Cregan Stark, his jaw clenching with something too close to envy. Even Lucerys, sweet and young as he was, had looked at you with a boyish admiration that was almost painful to witness.

And Gwayne.

Her own brother.

Alicent closed her eyes for a brief moment, composing herself before she spoke. “You will not speak of this again.”

Aegon chuckled, amused by her feigned authority. “Oh, Mother,” he sighed, “denial does not suit you.”

Aemond leaned closer, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down his mother’s spine. “She is no longer a child, Mother. And the men in this room?” His eye flickered to the high table where you had just finished your dance. “They all know it.”

Alicent wanted to argue. To scold them. To command them to stop.

But before she could speak, the sound of your laughter rang through the hall once more.

She turned in time to see you stepping away from Daeron, your cheeks flushed from the dance, your gown clinging to your curves in a way that left nothing to the imagination. The candlelight caught on the necklace around your throat—the necklace gifted by Viserys, by Rhaenys before him. A claim in its own right.

And then, before you could retreat back to the high table, Aegon was there.

He caught your wrist, his fingers curling around your delicate skin, and with an effortless tug, he pulled you back toward him.

A surprised laugh escaped your lips. “Aegon!”

His smirk was wicked as he spun you effortlessly into another dance. “What?” he teased, his voice warm against your ear. “You’ll dance with our little brother but not me?”

You let out a breathless giggle, letting him lead you into the next steps. “You didn’t ask.”

Aegon hummed, his grip tightening slightly at your waist as he twirled you in time with the music. “Must I ask, little sister?” His voice dipped lower, almost lazy in its amusement. “When you belong to us already?”

The words sent a shiver down your spine, though you weren’t sure if it was the way he had said it or the way his touch lingered just a little too long.

At the edge of the hall, Aemond watched.

His hands curled into fists at his side, his expression unreadable, though something dark lurked beneath the surface.

And beside him, Alicent turned away.

Because for all her warnings, for all her prayers, she knew one undeniable truth. No matter how much she fought against it, you were a temptation none of them could resist.

Alicent’s fingers tightened around Daeron’s wrist, her grip firm yet desperate, nails pressing into his skin as if she could anchor him back to reason. Her voice was hushed but sharp, laced with a mother’s warning.

“This is wrong, Daeron,” she whispered, her words edged with quiet fury. “You have lived in Oldtown long enough to understand that.”

She searched his face, expecting guilt, shame—anything that might reassure her that one of her sons had not fallen victim to the same temptation that plagued his brothers.

But Daeron only chuckled.

His violet eyes, gleamed with something unreadable as he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so that only she could hear.

���I am a Targaryen, Mother,” he murmured.

A shiver ran down Alicent’s spine.

Aemond’s laughter cut through the moment, low and knowing. He stepped closer, resting a firm hand on Daeron’s shoulder, squeezing it with something between amusement and approval.

“Well said, little brother,” Aemond murmured, his lips curving into a smirk.

Alicent’s breath hitched.

Her grip loosened on Daeron’s wrist as realization struck her like a cruel tide, pulling her under without mercy.

Daeron had been raised in Oldtown, surrounded by piety, by the faith, by the teachings of decency and morality. And yet, here he stood before her, unrepentant, unashamed, speaking with the same ease as Aegon, as Aemond.

The corruption had spread further than she had feared.

She turned her gaze toward you, standing in the center of the great hall, still dancing with Aegon, your laughter like a melody sweeter than the music itself.

You were a vision of temptation, the candlelight kissing the emerald silk of your gown, the bodice sculpted to perfection, your beauty effortless, intoxicating. The necklace from Viserys—the symbol of his claim, of your Targaryen blood—rested against your skin, stark against the deep green of your dress.

She had raised you to be a Hightower.

She had dressed you in the colors of her house, had spoken of duty and virtue, had ensured you were set apart from the fire that ran rampant through the veins of the Targaryens.

And yet—

She saw it now.

In the way Aegon’s hand lingered at your waist, fingers flexing ever so slightly as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

In the way Aemond’s eye never left you, dark and calculating, as if he were already plotting his next move.

In the way Daeron stood beside her, unconcerned, unbothered, as if he had already accepted what she could not.

And worst of all, in the way the rest of the hall had taken notice, silent witnesses to the unspoken battle unfolding before them.

Daemon watched from the high table, sipping his wine lazily, amusement flickering in his eyes. Jacaerys and Lucerys sat stiffly beside their mother, jaws tight, eyes dark with something unspoken. Even Cregan Stark, noble and honorable as he was, had not torn his gaze away from you all evening.

Alicent’s lips parted slightly, but no words came.

Because for all her prayers, for all her efforts to shield you, she knew— You were not merely a Hightower. You were a Targaryen. And the men in this room would burn the world for you.

As the music swelled to its final notes, Aegon dipped you low, his grip firm yet effortless, his golden hair falling forward slightly as he held you there for a breath too long. Your heart pounded against your ribs as his face hovered close to yours, the scent of wine and something distinctly Aegon filling your senses. His lips curled into a knowing smirk, eyes gleaming with mischief as he leaned in—not to claim your lips, but to press a lingering kiss against your cheek, just at the corner of your mouth.

Your breath hitched.

Aegon chuckled, the sound deep and sinful, before pulling you upright once more, his hands lingering at your waist. He steadied you as if you had truly lost your balance, though you knew it was merely his way of keeping you close for a few moments longer.

“You should enjoy your feast, little sister,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, a promise wrapped in a command.

Before you could respond—before you could even fully register the heat simmering beneath his words—another figure stepped into your path.

Aemond.

His presence was like ice after fire, a stark contrast to Aegon’s reckless heat. Where Aegon was playful indulgence, Aemond was sharp control, deliberate, focused. His single violet eye burned into yours, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he extended his hand.

“May I have this dance?” His voice was smooth, laced with something unreadable, something that sent a shiver down your spine.

You giggled softly, the sound breaking the tension, though your stomach fluttered at the intensity of his gaze. “Of course, brother.”

Aemond’s fingers curled around yours, his grip cool yet firm as he guided you back to the floor. The moment Aegon released you, you felt the shift—where Aegon had been lighthearted and teasing, Aemond was something else entirely.

Possessive. Calculated.

The music resumed, slower this time, the kind of melody meant for whispered secrets and stolen glances. Aemond’s hand found the small of your back, guiding you effortlessly, his touch a stark contrast to Aegon’s playful teasing.

“Was his dance satisfactory?” Aemond murmured, his tone neutral, yet the way his fingers pressed against your waist told another story.

You tilted your head at him, amusement dancing in your eyes. “Aegon is always entertaining.”

“Hmm.” Aemond’s eye darkened slightly, his jaw tightening for the briefest of moments. “And yet, he lacks restraint.”

You giggled again, twirling as he led you into a graceful spin before pulling you back against him, closer than before. “And you, dear brother? Do you have restraint?”

Aemond’s lips curved into something that was not quite a smile but rather a promise—dark, unreadable, tempting.

“For you?” he murmured, voice dipping lower as his thumb traced the line of your spine through the silk of your gown. “I would find it… difficult.”

Your breath caught, your fingers tightening slightly against his shoulder as his words settled between you, heavy with meaning. You could feel eyes on you—your mother’s sharp gaze, Daeron’s silent amusement, Aegon’s knowing smirk. And further still, others watched too—Daemon, Jacaerys, even Cregan, each man attuned to the unspoken war brewing over you.

And yet, in this moment, none of them existed.

There was only Aemond, the slow, deliberate movement of your bodies, the heat simmering beneath the surface, waiting—aching—to ignite and the knowledge that this dance was only the beginning.

Aemond spun you in his arms, his grip firm yet fluid, guiding you with the kind of precision that came so naturally to him. You giggled, breathless, your laughter ringing through the hall like a melody of its own. For once, something shifted in Aemond. His usual stoicism cracked, and to your delight, a rare, genuine laugh escaped his lips.

The sound was deep, unfamiliar yet mesmerizing, a contrast to the sharp edges that usually defined him. Your eyes widened, and you couldn’t resist teasing him, your fingers grazing his shoulder as he pulled you back into his embrace.

“You laugh?” you gasped, feigning shock. “Seven hells must have frozen over.”

Aemond smirked, his grip tightening at your waist for the briefest of moments, his eye burning into yours with something unreadable. “It seems you’re a rare cause for such things, sweet sister,” he murmured, voice low enough for only you to hear.

Your stomach fluttered at the weight of his words, but before the moment could linger, the music swelled to a close. Aemond reluctantly released you, his fingers trailing down your arm as you stepped away. You turned to see Aegon watching you both with a knowing smirk, Daeron shaking his head slightly, as if amused by the silent war between them.

With a playful grin, you turned to your brothers. “As much as I enjoy being fought over,” you teased, eyes twinkling, “I wish to dance with my dear sister now.”

Before anyone could protest, you stepped away from Aemond’s hold, your hands reaching for Helaena at the high table. She blinked up at you in surprise, but when you tugged at her wrist, she giggled, allowing you to pull her onto the dance floor.

The moment you twirled her into your arms, she let out a soft, delighted laugh, her usual quiet demeanor momentarily forgotten. You beamed at her, holding her hands as you both swayed to the rhythm of the music.

“You look beautiful tonight, sweet sister,” Helaena murmured, her lilac eyes soft as they took you in.

“As do you,” you whispered back, twirling her once more, watching as the candlelight caught the silken embroidery of her gown.

For a brief moment, there were no heavy gazes watching your every move, no silent battles waged between men staking their unspoken claim. It was just you and Helaena, two sisters lost in laughter and movement, the weight of the world lifting—if only for a dance.

But even then, in the periphery, you could feel them.

Aemond’s eye never left you. Aegon’s smirk never wavered. Daeron watched with a contemplative expression. And beyond them, your uncle, your nephews, even Cregan Stark—each man drawn to you, their gazes hungry, possessive, waiting.

And somewhere, in the shadows of the grand hall, your mother watched too, her lips pressed together, her heart warring between pride and unease.

Because tonight, you were not just a daughter of House Hightower. You were a Targaryen. A dream in flesh. A dangerous temptation and every man in this room knew it.

Helaena twirled you with a delighted giggle, her soft hands slipping from yours as you spun. But the moment your feet found the ground again, you stumbled—straight into the warmth of a firm chest. Large hands caught you, steadying you with ease, fingers splaying against your waist like they had every right to be there.

Surprised, you blinked up, your breath hitching as you met the sharp, knowing gaze of your uncle.

Daemon Targaryen smirked down at you, his violet eyes glinting with something wicked, something amused. His grip did not falter, his hands firm on your waist, holding you close.

“Apologies, dear uncle,” you giggled, tilting your head up at him, your voice laced with playful innocence.

Daemon hummed, tilting his head as if considering your words. “If you truly wish for my forgiveness,” he drawled, his thumb grazing ever so slightly along the curve of your waist, “then you must grant me a dance.”

A laugh bubbled from your lips at his audacity, at the ease in which he spun his mischief. You knew what a dance with Daemon meant—it was not just steps upon the floor, not just a mere twirl in the candlelight. A dance with Daemon was a declaration, a game played in full view of those who would rather see you untouched, unclaimed and yet, the challenge in his gaze, the amusement that danced across his lips—it was irresistible.

“Then I suppose I have no choice,” you teased, placing your hand in his.

Daemon chuckled, his grip tightening around yours before he pulled you effortlessly into the dance. He led with confidence, his steps assured, his movements fluid. Unlike your brothers or Cregan, who danced with the stiffness of men too aware of the eyes upon them, Daemon moved like he had nothing to prove—only to enjoy.

His hold on your waist remained firm, guiding you through the dance as if you had always belonged there. His smirk never faded, his gaze never strayed from yours, and the longer you danced, the more you could feel the weight of the room shift.

You knew they were watching.

Rhaenyra’s lips had parted slightly, her brows furrowed as she observed you in the arms of her husband. There was something unreadable in her expression—curiosity? Worry? Perhaps even amusement.

Your brothers, however—Aegon, Aemond, Daeron—they looked ready to set the hall aflame.

Aegon swirled his wine in his cup, but his grip was too tight, his knuckles white. Aemond’s jaw was clenched, his eye burning into Daemon’s every move. Daeron, who had only just danced with you moments ago, looked less amused now, his lips pressing into a thin line.

And yet, you did not stop.

Daemon spun you effortlessly, his hand grazing the bare skin of your back as he pulled you close once more.

“You are quite the temptation, little niece,” he murmured, his lips barely a breath away from your ear. A shiver ran down your spine, though whether from his words or the heat of his touch, you could not say.

“Careful, uncle,” you teased, voice soft but laced with warning. “Some might think you wish to steal me away.”

Daemon only smirked. “Steal you? No, sweet girl.” His hand tightened on your waist, his fingers splaying possessively. “But if I did wish it, tell me—who would dare stop me?”

Your breath caught. The music swelled, the room held its breath, and as Daemon twirled you one final time, you wondered if perhaps he was right.

Just as Daemon’s final twirl sent you back into his arms, your mother’s voice cut through the haze of music and candlelight.

“Sweetling,” Alicent’s tone was firm, though not unkind, a command wrapped in maternal concern. “You should rest. You have danced more than four times tonight.”

For a brief moment, you hesitated, still feeling the lingering warmth of Daemon’s hands at your waist. But you were nothing if not your mother’s obedient daughter. So, with a graceful curtsy, you excused yourself from the dance floor, ignoring the smirk Daemon sent you as he let go of your hand.

Aegon, Aemond, and Daeron all watched you closely as you returned to the high table. Their gazes were unwavering, following your every step, but it was your grandfather’s eyes you met when you finally took your seat.

Otto Hightower sat with his usual composed expression, but there was something softer in the way he looked at you tonight. As you settled into your chair, he reached forward, presenting you with a small, ornate box.

“A gift,” he said simply, his voice steady yet carrying the weight of something deeper. “From our family, to you.”

Curiosity sparked in your chest as you carefully lifted the lid. Inside, nestled within a velvet lining, was a delicate hairpin—an intricate piece of gold filigree, adorned with tiny emeralds that caught the light like captured stars.

A soft gasp escaped your lips as you lifted it gently between your fingers, the weight of history pressing against your palm.

“It belonged to your grandmother,” your mother murmured beside you, her voice quieter now, reverent.

Your gaze snapped back to Otto, your fingers tightening around the pin. He was watching you closely, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—a memory, perhaps, or something he could not quite say.

“My grandmother,” you repeated softly, running your thumb over the cool metal. You had never met her, only heard stories in hushed tones, only seen the way your grandfather’s face grew distant at the mention of her name.

Otto nodded. “She would have wanted you to have it.”

For a moment, there was silence. The hall still bustled with music and laughter, but here, in this space between you and your grandfather, time slowed. Your mother’s hand ghosted over your own, a rare, fleeting touch, before she withdrew.

“This is your heritage,” she said. “Not just Targaryen, not just fire and blood.” Her eyes softened. “But Hightower, through and through.” You swallowed, feeling the weight of the pin in your hands.

And then, as if compelled by some unseen force, you carefully lifted it to your hair, securing it into place.

A declaration. A choice.

When you looked up again, Otto was smiling. And, for the first time tonight, it was not a smile of politics or strategy. It was simply a grandfather’s pride.

For the rest of the evening, you found yourself seated beside your mother, occasionally leaning towards Helaena to whisper and giggle at her soft musings. The tension that had thickened the air earlier, laced with the weight of lingering stares and unsaid words, slowly faded into the background as you let yourself enjoy the warmth of your family’s presence.

Your mother, despite her earlier worries, seemed at ease now, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her goblet as she listened to you recount something amusing about the courtly ladies of Oldtown. Helaena, ever the dreamer, murmured something about spiders weaving threads of fate, her violet eyes unfocused as if she could see beyond the feasting hall itself.

And then—

“Princess.”

The voice was careful, almost hesitant, but it still carried across the table with the weight of someone who had been waiting for the right moment. You turned your head toward it, your expression lighting up when you saw who had spoken.

“Jace,” you greeted warmly, your smile coming easily, as it always did with him. He was standing near the table, his dark curls slightly tousled, his stance uncertain as if he had been debating whether or not to approach.

His shoulders squared under your gaze, and he cleared his throat. “I—uh, I wanted to tell you something. About Joffrey.”

Your brows lifted in curiosity, and you tilted your head, prompting him to continue.

Jacaerys hesitated for only a moment before exhaling sharply, as if bracing himself. “A few months ago, he snuck into the rookery at Dragonstone. Thought he could impress the maesters by learning to read Valyrian better than me.” A small, fond smirk tugged at his lips. “Instead, he ended up getting chased by an entire flock of ravens because he knocked over a tray of meat scraps.”

The image painted itself vividly in your mind—the young prince, all wide-eyed determination, only to be sent fleeing through the stone halls of Dragonstone with a mass of furious birds in pursuit. The thought was so absurd, so unexpectedly humorous, that you couldn’t help yourself.

You laughed.

A bright, genuine sound that bubbled past your lips before you could stop it, shaking your shoulders as you pictured Joffrey running for his life, the maesters shouting after him.

Jace relaxed at your reaction, a slow grin spreading across his face, but— The sound of sharp inhalations came from beside you.

You felt it before you saw it.

Your brothers’ gazes snapping towards you, their postures going rigid at the sound of your laughter—at the sight of you smiling so freely at Jacaerys Velaryon.

Aegon, who had been lazily swirling his goblet of wine, suddenly went still, his fingers tightening around the cup. Aemond’s jaw clenched, his single eye narrowing as he leaned back in his chair, observing the interaction with quiet intensity. Even Daeron, who had been placating your mother only moments ago, straightened, his previously easy demeanor shifting into something unreadable.

For a moment, the air grew thick again.

Jace must have noticed it, because his grin faltered slightly. His hand twitched at his side, as if he wanted to say more, but the weight of the stares around him made him pause.

You, however, ignored them.

Still smiling, you reached forward and lightly tapped his arm. “Jace, I would have given anything to see that.”

The warmth in your voice made him visibly relax, and he chuckled, shaking his head. “If I had known, I would have sent a raven. Maybe even let you see how the maesters struggled to catch him after.”

You laughed again, softer this time, but the damage was done.

Across from you, Aegon drained his goblet in one go, setting it down with an audible clink. Aemond’s fingers tapped once against the hilt of his dagger, slow and deliberate. Daeron simply exhaled through his nose, shaking his head in exasperation.

And from the corner of your eye, you caught your mother pressing her fingers to her temple, as if preparing herself for yet another night of managing the storm that was her sons.

As your laughter softened into a lingering smile, you turned your gaze back to Jacaerys, your eyes glimmering with a playful light. His expression was still caught between amusement and surprise when you extended a hand toward him, the invitation unspoken yet undeniable.

“Dance with me,” you said softly, the lilt of your voice teasing yet sincere.

For a moment, Jace hesitated, his dark brows lifting ever so slightly, as though he hadn’t expected such a request. But then, as if realizing how foolish it would be to deny you, his lips curled into a smirk, and he reached for your hand, clasping it gently before bowing his head in agreement.

“I would be honored,” he murmured.

As he led you onto the dance floor, you could feel the heat of countless eyes tracing your every step, the weight of silent stares pressing against your back. Your brothers. Your uncles. Even your mother, who, despite her earlier warning, watched with an expression that was unreadable.

But you ignored them all.

Because in that moment, as Jacaerys’ fingers settled against your waist, warmth seeping through the fabric of your gown, the world outside of your dance melted away.

The music swelled, a soft yet lively melody, and Jace guided you effortlessly into the rhythm. His grip was firm but not possessive, his movements confident yet careful, as if ensuring that you never once felt uneasy in his arms.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said suddenly, his voice quiet, meant only for you. Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the directness of his words.

Then you giggled, tilting your head up at him with playful scrutiny. “Just tonight?”

Jace blinked before chuckling, shaking his head as though realizing he had walked straight into your trap. “You always look beautiful,” he amended, his thumb subtly tracing against the curve of your waist, sending a shiver up your spine. “But tonight… you are radiant.”

The compliment sent warmth blooming across your cheeks, and you lowered your gaze briefly, unable to stop the small, pleased smile from tugging at your lips.

“You flatter me, my prince,” you teased lightly, though the sincerity in his words made your heart quicken.

Jace merely smirked, dipping his head slightly so that his breath brushed against your ear. “Only because it is the truth.”

The way he said it, with such quiet conviction, made your stomach flutter.

He kept you engaged throughout the dance, his voice a steady, familiar comfort as he asked about your days, your interests, your thoughts. He laughed when you recounted a humorous tale of courtly gossip, and you blushed when he praised you for your wit, your kindness, your charm.

And then, as the music slowed into a more languid melody, Jace’s grip on you subtly shifted, his hand pressing just a fraction tighter against your waist as he leaned in slightly.

“Tell me,” he murmured, his voice gentle but laced with something deeper, something more curious. “Will you be wed soon?”

The question caught you off guard, though in truth, you should have expected it. You lifted your gaze to meet his, searching his expression. There was no jest in his tone, no teasing smirk on his lips—only a quiet, genuine interest.

For a moment, you considered your answer.

Then, with a slow, knowing smile, you tilted your head at him. “I intend to enjoy my youth a little longer before becoming some lord’s wife.”

Jace exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head as though unsurprised by your response. “That sounds like you,” he admitted, amusement flickering in his brown eyes. “You were always too free-spirited to be tied down so soon.”

Your smile widened. “Would you rather I be married?” you teased, arching a delicate brow at him.

Jacaerys hesitated only for a moment before his fingers curled slightly against your waist.

“No,” he admitted, his voice lower now, more intimate. “Not yet.”

The honesty in his tone sent a thrill through you, a warmth that settled in your chest and spread through your limbs.

But before you could respond, the music swelled into its final note, and Jace—perhaps sensing the moment was slipping away—grinned before spinning you one last time, drawing a surprised laugh from your lips.

When the dance ended, he bowed slightly, his fingers reluctantly slipping from your waist. “Thank you for the dance,” he said, his voice softer now.

You smiled, dipping into a playful curtsy. “Anytime, my prince.”

And as you turned back toward the high table, you could still feel the warmth of his hand lingering against your skin, even as the weight of a dozen burning gazes followed your every step.

The night had stretched long, filled with laughter, whispered confessions, and stolen glances that burned with unspoken meaning. You had danced until your feet ached, until the music blurred into a haze of notes and murmured voices, until exhaustion settled deep into your limbs like a slow, creeping tide.

Now, as the grand feast continued in the throne room, your mother’s hand lay firm yet gentle on your back, guiding you away from the lingering eyes that had followed you all evening. The corridor was quieter, the torchlight flickering against the cold stone walls, and for the first time since the celebration began, you could finally breathe.

Alicent remained silent as she led you to your chambers, though you could feel the weight of her thoughts pressing against the air between you. It was not until your maids opened the heavy wooden doors that she finally spoke.

“You did well tonight,” she murmured, her voice soft yet edged with something unreadable. “You carried yourself with grace.”

You turned to her, exhaustion pulling at your features, but you smiled nonetheless. “It was a celebration, Mother. I merely enjoyed myself.”

She hummed in response, but said nothing more as your maids moved to unfasten the intricate clasps and pins that held your gown together.

As the layers of heavy brocade and embroidered silks slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet in a whisper of fabric, you exhaled a long, relieved sigh. The weight of the dress had been suffocating, the jewels that adorned your neck and wrists had dug into your skin, leaving behind faint imprints of their presence.

Your mother stepped closer, her fingers carefully undoing the last of your necklaces before placing it atop the vanity. She lingered there for a moment, staring at the delicate strand of gold, her expression unreadable.

Then, she finally spoke. “You received many offers tonight.”

You blinked at her reflection in the mirror, tilting your head slightly. “Offers?”

Alicent met your gaze in the glass, her brow lifting ever so slightly. “Marriage proposals,” she clarified. “More than fifty.”

You laughed, the sound light, almost amused. “Fifty? That is… excessive.”

Your mother did not laugh with you. “You are of age now,” she reminded you, smoothing her hands over the thin fabric of your nightgown as one of your maids finished tying the ribbons at your back. “It is only natural.”

Your smile lingered, though it softened with something more thoughtful. You turned to face her fully, your bare feet cool against the stone floor. “I have no intention of marrying so soon after my nameday,” you admitted.

Alicent studied you, and for a moment, something in her eyes—something wary, something uncertain—flickered. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by quiet understanding.

“Good,” she murmured, though her voice held a touch of relief. “It is your choice.,”

Her approval settled warmly in your chest, and you reached for her hand, squeezing it gently.

“Rest now,” she said, brushing a loose curl away from your face. “I will have the maids bring you tea to help you sleep.”

You nodded, exhaustion finally pulling at your limbs as you settled onto the edge of your bed. Your mother watched you for a moment longer before turning to leave, her steps quiet against the stone.

As the door shut softly behind her, you exhaled, tilting your head back slightly. The room was quiet now, save for the soft rustle of your maid arranging your covers.

The weight of the evening still clung to your skin, the echoes of laughter and whispered words lingering like ghosts in the dark. And yet, despite the exhaustion, despite the heaviness in your limbs, you could not shake the way certain gazes had followed you tonight.

Lingering. Burning. Waiting.

With a final sigh, you slipped beneath the silken sheets, your fingers tracing absentmindedly over the faint imprints of jewelry that still marked your skin.

Tomorrow, the world would still be watching. But for now, in the quiet of your chambers, you allowed yourself a moment of peace.

The morning sun filtered through your chamber windows, bathing the room in a soft golden glow. You sat before the vanity, running a fine-toothed comb through the loose waves of your hair, still lost in the haze of the previous night’s events. Your mind replayed the music, the laughter, the whispers that had danced along your skin like a lingering touch.

But then, a firm knock at your door shattered the quiet.

“Enter,” you called, setting the comb down as the door swung open.

Ser Criston Cole stood there, clad in his dark armor, his expression unreadable yet laced with something guarded. He bowed his head slightly. “Princess, your presence has been requested in the throne room.”

You frowned slightly. “By whom?”

“Your mother and father,” he answered. “At once.”

A strange unease coiled in your chest, but you simply nodded, smoothing out the delicate fabric of your gown before rising to your feet. As you stepped toward him, he fell into step beside you, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword as he led you down the long corridors of the Red Keep.

The walk to the throne room felt longer than usual, your mind racing with possibilities. Was this about last night? Had something happened after you left?

The great doors to the throne room were already open when you arrived, and as you stepped inside, the first thing you saw made your breath hitch painfully in your throat.

Your father—King Viserys—sat upon the Iron Throne.

But it was not the image of strength and power that the seat of kings should hold. No, he looked… fragile. Weaker than you had ever seen him before. His form slumped slightly, his skin paler than it had been the previous evening. The weight of the crown seemed almost too much for him to bear.

Your heart shattered.

Still, he managed to lift his head, his weary gaze finding yours as a small, almost wistful smile touched his lips. “My daughter.”

You stepped forward, a lump forming in your throat. “Father.”

The air in the throne room was thick with tension, every noble, every member of court, standing still as though the very walls held their breath. You glanced to the side and saw your mother, her face carefully composed but her hands clasped tightly together—a sign of her unease.

Aegon, Aemond, and Daeron stood nearby, their expressions unreadable, though you could see the way their shoulders had gone rigid. Even Otto Hightower’s gaze was sharp, calculative, as if already measuring the weight of the conversation that was about to unfold.

And then, your father spoke.

“The Prince of Dorne spoke to me this morning.”

The words echoed in the vast chamber, bouncing off the stone walls, settling like a heavy weight upon your chest.

Your brows furrowed slightly. “The Prince of Dorne?”

Viserys inhaled slowly, as if gathering his strength. “He has come with a proposal,” he said, voice rasping with age and illness. “He seeks your hand in marriage.”

The throne room fell into utter silence.

Frozen. Unmoving.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Marriage.

The word rang in your mind like a tolling bell.

You felt the shift in the air immediately—your brothers standing even straighter, their gazes darkening, the tension rolling off them like an approaching storm. Your mother’s lips parted slightly, her grip on her own wrists tightening just the slightest bit. Even Otto, always composed, blinked in what might have been the faintest trace of surprise.

And yet, it was Daemon’s reaction that struck you the most.

The Rogue Prince sat upon the steps of the throne, one arm draped lazily over his knee, his expression unreadable. But there was something sharp in his violet gaze as he looked at you—something assessing, something dangerous.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to speak, though your voice was softer than you intended. “The Prince of Dorne…” You trailed off, tilting your head slightly. “Why me?”

Your father’s gaze softened. “Because you are the only daughter of House Targaryen and House Hightower,” he murmured. “You are a union of fire and faith, and Dorne seeks peace through marriage.”

You pressed your lips together, mind racing.

A political marriage.

A way to secure peace.

A cage wrapped in golden silk.

You glanced at your mother, searching her face for anything—approval, dismay, reluctance—but Alicent’s expression was unreadable, her brown eyes flickering with something only she understood.

And then, a new voice broke the silence.

“They would send their prince here for her?”

The voice was low, edged with something dangerous. You turned slightly and met Aemond’s gaze. He stood tall, arms crossed over his chest, his single eye burning with something close to fury.

“How interesting,” Aegon mused beside him, though his smirk did little to mask the tension radiating from him. “Dorne must be truly desperate.”

Your father’s gaze flickered toward your brothers, but it was Daeron who spoke next, voice calmer but no less sharp. “Has my sister given her thoughts on the matter?”

Silence.

And then, all eyes turned back to you.

You inhaled deeply, gathering your composure before meeting your father’s gaze once more. “I am honored by the proposal,” you said carefully, choosing your words like a blade poised at your throat. “But marriage is not something I have considered so soon after my nameday.”

Viserys let out a slow breath, exhaustion weighing him down. “I do not wish to force you into anything you do not want,” he murmured. “But this is an offer worth considering.”

You nodded, though your mind was still reeling.

Alicent finally stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on your arm. “You do not need to decide today,” she reassured, though her voice was firmer than usual. “We will speak more of this later.”

You exhaled, allowing her touch to ground you. “Thank you, Mother.”

Still, as you turned to leave the throne room, you could feel the weight of their gazes upon your back—your brothers, your uncle, the entire court. And you knew, without a doubt, that this proposal had stirred something dangerous in them. Something possessive. Something that would not be easily tamed.

The gardens of the Red Keep were bathed in the golden light of the afternoon sun, the scent of blooming jasmine and citrus trees heavy in the warm air. The whispers of rustling leaves and the gentle trickling of the fountains did little to ease the tension coiled in your chest.

Your mind was still reeling from this morning’s announcement. Marriage. To a Dornish prince. The words felt foreign on your tongue, the idea of it unsettling despite your carefully composed response in the throne room.

As you wandered the winding paths of the gardens, trailing your fingers along the soft petals of a blood-red rose, a strange sensation crept over you. The unmistakable feeling of being watched.

You halted mid-step, your gaze flickering to the side. And there, leaning against the stone archway that framed the garden, stood Prince Qyle of Dorne.

He was watching you.

A knowing smile played at his lips, his dark eyes flickering with something unreadable, something amused. The wind tugged at his sun-kissed curls, and his silk garments—deep shades of gold and burnt orange—clung to his form, a stark contrast to the blacks and reds of your own house.

The moment your eyes met his, he pushed off the wall, walking toward you with the easy grace of a man who knew his own charm.

“Princess,” he greeted smoothly, his voice carrying the distinct accent of Dorne, lilting and warm, like honey dripped over fire.

You inhaled deeply before offering a polite smile. “Prince Qyle.”

He extended a hand toward you, palm up, fingers long and elegant. “Might I have the honor of accompanying you through the gardens?”

You hesitated only a breath before slipping your hand into his, ever the proper princess. His fingers curled around yours, warm and firm, as he led you along the cobblestone path.

“You are even lovelier beneath the sun,” Qyle murmured after a moment, his gaze drifting from your face to the curve of your bare shoulders. “Though I imagine your beauty does not fade under moonlight either.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, tilting your head slightly. “You flatter me, my prince.”

“I only speak the truth,” he countered smoothly, glancing down at you with dark eyes that gleamed with mischief. “Is it wrong to admire the woman who might one day be my wife?”

Your steps faltered slightly, but Qyle’s grip on your hand remained steady.

“You assume much,” you mused, recovering quickly. “I have yet to accept any proposal.”

He chuckled, the sound low and rich. “Of course. But in Dorne, we are taught to go after what we want.” His thumb brushed lazily against the back of your hand, an innocent gesture yet intimate enough to stir something unfamiliar in your stomach. “And I find that I want you, Princess.”

Your breath hitched, and for the first time, you truly looked at him. Not as the political pawn your father wished to wed you to, but as a man. A man who was undeniably attractive, undeniably confident. His presence was unlike that of your brothers, your uncles. He did not look at you with possession, with a claim already placed upon you. No, he looked at you like a conquest he intended to win.

“You are bold,” you murmured, arching a delicate brow.

“And you are captivating,” he returned. “Tell me, do your Targaryen princes court you so openly? Or do they whisper their desires behind closed doors?”

You hesitated, unsure of what to say. Because the truth was, your brothers—Aegon, Aemond, Daeron—held their affections in a way that was more dangerous than mere words. They hovered, they watched, they claimed you in ways unspoken, ways that made your mother’s wary glances linger longer than they should.

Qyle studied your silence, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “Ah,” he mused, “so they do not speak it aloud, but it is there.”

You gave him a pointed look. “Are all Dornishmen this presumptuous?”

“We prefer to think of it as honesty,” he replied easily, before tugging you to a halt beneath the shade of a towering orange tree. His free hand reached up, plucking a ripe fruit from the branch. With a flick of his wrist, he pulled a small dagger from the sheath at his waist, slicing the fruit open in one smooth motion.

The scent of citrus filled the air as he lifted one of the slices to your lips.

“Try it,” he murmured.

You hesitated, your lips parting slightly as he brushed the fruit against them. The juice dripped down your chin as you took a bite, the burst of sweet and tangy flavor flooding your senses. Before you could react, Qyle reached forward, his thumb sweeping over your chin to catch the stray droplet of juice. His eyes flickered to your lips. Your breath stilled.

And then—

“Step away from my sister.”

The voice was low, edged with warning, and it sent a shiver down your spine. Qyle did not move immediately. Instead, he smirked as he turned his head, meeting Aemond’s gaze with the air of a man who enjoyed pressing his luck.

Aemond stood at the edge of the garden path, his single eye gleaming with barely restrained fury. His hand was resting on the hilt of his sword, fingers tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

And behind him, Aegon was watching, arms crossed over his chest, his usual smirk absent from his face. Daeron lingered slightly behind them, his mouth set in a tight line, his violet eyes flickering between you and Qyle.

Qyle exhaled a quiet chuckle, releasing your hand with a deliberate slowness. “I see that your brothers do speak, after all.” He turned his gaze back to you, his smirk softening. “A pity. I was enjoying our time together.”

You swallowed hard, glancing toward your brothers, whose expressions burned with something dangerously close to possession.

“I should return,” you murmured, your voice softer now. Qyle gave you a slow, lingering look before stepping back. “Until we meet again, Princess.”

And with that, he turned and strolled away, leaving behind nothing but the scent of oranges and the smoldering gazes of your brothers.

The moment Qyle disappeared from sight, a firm hand clamped around your wrist.

“Aemond—” you gasped, your voice barely above a breath as you felt yourself being yanked forward, the warmth of the Dornish sun replaced by the cool shadows of the Red Keep’s stone corridors.

His grip was unrelenting, his pace unyielding. His fingers dug into your delicate skin, as if determined to brand himself upon you, to remind you that you were not meant to slip through his grasp.

“Aemond, stop!” you pleaded, your free hand grasping at his wrist, nails digging into his sleeve in desperation.

Behind you, the hurried steps of your other brothers echoed through the hallway, a silent pack following the scent of their own fury. Aegon and Daeron trailed close, their own breaths heavy with something dark, something possessive.

But Aemond did not stop.

His pace quickened, his long strides forcing you to stumble slightly, your slippers barely catching the stone beneath you. The sudden jolt of nearly losing your footing sent a sharp pang of fear through you.

“Aemond, please—!”

Your words were cut short as your foot slipped on the edge of the stairway leading to another corridor, the world tilting as your body lurched forward. A gasp tore from your lips. But before you could fall, strong arms encircled you, halting your descent.

“Enough!”

The voice rang through the hallway, sharp and commanding, cutting through the tension like a blade through flesh.

Aemond froze.

You barely had time to register the warmth surrounding you before you were enveloped in the soft, familiar scent of lavender and myrrh.

Your mother.

Alicent held you close, her grip tight as if she could shield you from the fury that lingered in the air. Her hands trembled slightly as she ran them over your arms, her eyes scanning you for any sign of harm.

“Have you lost your minds?” Alicent’s voice was sharp, laced with an emotion you couldn’t quite place—fear, anger, desperation. “Dragging her through the Keep like a common prisoner?”

Aemond’s jaw tensed, his fingers flexing at his sides. He said nothing, his eye burning with something dangerous, something unresolved.

“She was with him,” Aegon muttered, his voice laced with something bitter, something possessive. He took a step closer, his gaze flickering to yours. “She let him touch her.”

You stiffened.

Alicent turned her gaze to you, her brown eyes searching yours with an urgency that made your heart pound. “Is this true?” she asked, her voice softer now, pleading.

You hesitated.

Because what could you say? That a man simply held your hand? That his fingers had brushed your lips? That for the first time, someone outside of your own blood had looked at you as a woman, not a sister?

Before you could answer, Aemond scoffed. “She let him,” he repeated, his voice bitter, sharp as Valyrian steel. “She stood there and let him feed her fruit like some Dornish whore.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“Aemond—”

“You should be grateful it was only her wrist I grabbed,” he continued, his voice low, venomous. “He touched her. He dared put his hands on something that does not belong to him.” Something. Not someone.

Your stomach twisted at his words.

“I do not belong to you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, but the force behind it made all three of your brothers still.

Aemond’s eye darkened. Aegon clenched his jaw. Daeron, who had been silent until now, inhaled deeply, his eyes clouded with conflict. Alicent’s grip on you tightened, her own breath shuddering.

“You are my daughter,” she whispered, her voice thick with something pained, something exhausted. “Not some prize to be fought over.”

Aegon chuckled darkly. “Tell that to them,” he muttered, motioning toward his brothers before glancing at you. “Or better yet, tell it to yourself, sweet sister.”

Your breath hitched.

Alicent turned sharply to her eldest son, fire flashing in her eyes. “Aegon, enough.”

Aegon only smirked, tilting his head slightly as his gaze flickered over you, lingering. Alicent exhaled shakily before turning back to you, cupping your face between her trembling hands. “You will not see him again,” she said, her tone firm but laced with desperation.

You opened your mouth to protest, but she shook her head.

“No.” Her voice cracked slightly. “I will not allow this. You are to be married to a nobleman, not to be some Dornish prince’s plaything.”

You swallowed hard.

Married.

You knew it was inevitable. Knew your duty was to be bound to some lord, some prince for the sake of your family. But you had not expected it to happen so soon. Had not expected it to be dictated so harshly. Alicent turned to Ser Criston, who had been standing near the corridor in silence, watching the scene unfold with a clenched jaw.

“Take her to her chambers,” she ordered.

You wanted to argue. To protest. To remind her that you were not a child to be locked away. But the moment you met Aemond’s gaze—the storm raging behind his eye, the quiet fury simmering in Aegon’s smirk, the way Daeron simply looked away, as if he could not bear to meet your stare—you knew there was no winning.

Not this time.

So you swallowed your pride, inhaled deeply, and turned toward Ser Criston.

“Come, Princess,” he murmured, his voice softer than you expected. You followed him without another word. and behind you, you could feel their eyes watching. Burning. Waiting.

The door shut behind you with a quiet but final thud, sealing you inside the familiar sanctuary of your chambers. Your heart pounded in your chest, a wild, desperate rhythm that echoed the chaos inside you.

Your maids hesitated by the door, their hands clasped together, glancing at each other with uncertainty.

“My lady, are you certain—”

“Lock the door,” you interrupted, your voice sharp, unwavering.

Their eyes widened slightly at the demand, their hands twitching at their skirts. The weight of their silence was almost suffocating, thick with unsaid protests.

“Now.” Your tone left no room for argument. With hurried movements, they obeyed, the sound of the key turning in the lock cutting through the stillness of the room. You exhaled, your breath unsteady as you watched the small metal object slide beneath the heavy wooden door, glinting faintly in the dim candlelight.

And then, with the sharp tip of your slipper, you kicked it. The tiny key skidded across the floor, disappearing beneath the folds of the heavy curtains by the window.

Lost.

Just like that, you were alone.

Isolated.

Your body trembled—not from fear, but from something deeper, something raw that clawed at your insides. Frustration. Desperation. The realization that no matter how high the walls of this keep stood, you would never truly be safe.

Not from them.

Not from yourself.

With slow, measured steps, you moved to the center of your chambers, the silence pressing against your skin like a suffocating shroud. The air was thick with the remnants of the night, of heated glances and possessive touches, of whispered claims disguised as protection.

You pressed a hand to your temple, trying to will away the storm raging in your mind. Aemond’s grip, unrelenting around your wrist. Aegon’s smirk, knowing, taunting. Daeron’s quiet acceptance, his silence louder than any words. Your mother’s desperation, the exhaustion lining her face as she clung to you like she was trying to keep you from slipping away.

And then there was him.

Prince Qyle.

A man who had done nothing more than offer his hand, his voice soft with admiration, his presence unfamiliar in a way that was almost… freeing. But freedom was an illusion.

You had seen it in the way Aemond’s eye burned with quiet fury. Felt it in the way Aegon’s voice curled around the word belong. Heard it in the way Alicent had whispered, you will not see him again.

A bitter laugh escaped your lips.

This was your fate. Not as a daughter. Not as a princess. But as a prize. A thing to be possessed, claimed, stolen before another could reach out and take you first.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your gown, nails digging into your palms as you closed your eyes. The weight of your brothers’ stares still lingered on your skin, seared into the very marrow of your bones.

Would they come for you?

Would they be the ones to break through the locked door, to take what they had already deemed theirs? Or would you be left alone in this gilded cage of your own making, waiting, waiting— Always waiting.

The soft murmurs of the court faded into a distant hum as Alicent excused herself from the King’s solar, her movements hurried, her heart heavy with unease. The absence of your presence at supper gnawed at her, twisting something deep inside her chest. You had never missed a meal before—never isolated yourself like this.

Not until tonight.

Behind her, the hurried steps of her sons followed, their presence a silent defiance of her attempt to dismiss them. Aegon, his smirk long gone, walked with a tension that rarely graced his usually careless demeanor. Daeron, quieter, but no less persistent, exchanged glances with Aemond—whose face was unreadable, his one violet eye dark with something she could not name. When Alicent reached your chambers, she twisted the doorknob.

Locked.

A tight, sinking feeling settled in her stomach as she knocked, her voice firm yet laced with motherly concern. “Open the door, darling.”

Silence.

She knocked again, this time more urgently. “It’s me. Please, open the door.” Then, finally, your voice came—muffled by the thick wood separating you from them.

“Go away.”

Alicent stiffened.

“My love,” she tried again, her palm pressing against the door as if she could reach you through sheer will alone. “Please, don’t do this. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Your laugh was sharp, bitter—so unlike the melodic giggles she had cherished for years. “You already know.”

Her lips parted, but before she could utter another word, Aemond’s voice cut through the dimly lit corridor, low and tainted with something dangerously close to regret.

“Sister—”

“Do not call me that.”

A beat of silence.

Then, your voice again—shaking, but no less sharp.

“Is that what you see me as, Aemond? A Dornish whore?”

The words hit like a blade to the gut. Alicent’s breath caught in her throat as her eyes snapped to Aemond, whose entire body went rigid, jaw locking as he stared at the door as if he could will it to open. His fingers twitched at his sides, the leather of his tunic creaking under the pressure of his clenched fists.

Aegon let out a slow, exhaled curse under his breath. Daeron—sweet, quiet Daeron—simply stared, his expression one of quiet horror. The weight of what Aemond had done, of what he had said, settled upon them all.

“Aemond,” Alicent whispered, her voice barely audible, laced with a disbelief she rarely allowed herself to feel.

He said nothing. But he didn’t have to, because the damage was already done. She turned back to the door, pressing her palm against the wood once more, desperate, pleading. “My love, he didn’t mean it.”

A humorless chuckle. “Didn’t he?”

Alicent’s throat tightened, her nails digging into the door as she shook her head. “You know your brother. You know how he is when—”

“When he feels threatened?” Your voice was mocking now, brittle as shattered glass. “That is what I am to you all, isn’t it?”

Alicent felt her heartbeat in her ears, a sickening pulse that echoed your words. Aemond’s breaths grew heavier beside her, and when she turned to him, she saw something in his face that almost looked like fear.

“I never meant—”

“You all meant it.” Your voice wavered now, and that was what shattered her the most. She could hear it—barely contained, restrained but present nonetheless. The hurt. The betrayal.

A mother knows.

“Sweet girl,” Alicent whispered, pressing her forehead against the door as if the cool wood could ease the burning ache inside her. “Please, let me in. Let me see you.”

Nothing.

And then— “I don’t want to see any of you.”

The finality in your tone was the last dagger to her heart. Alicent took a step back, her vision blurring as her fingers trembled at her sides. Her sons stood behind her, silent, unmoving—each lost in the weight of what had transpired.

Aegon sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “Well, Aemond, you’ve really fucked this one up.” Aemond said nothing. Because for the first time in his life— He had no way to fix it.

The days bled together like ink seeping into parchment, each moment stretching into the next, void of meaning, void of color. The once-vibrant world beyond your chamber door had dulled to nothing but distant echoes—pleas, whispers, the muffled arguments of those who had betrayed you.

You did not respond.

You did not move.

You only existed, trapped in this fragile shell of silence, your body curled atop your bed, clutching the porcelain doll that had once been your childhood comfort. Its glassy eyes stared at you, unblinking, soulless—a perfect reflection of the emptiness festering inside you.

Your lips were dry, chapped from disuse. The only thing that passed them was the occasional sip of water, just enough to keep you breathing, but never enough to make you feel alive. You had not eaten in days. The hunger clawed at your ribs, a dull ache that never quite left, but you welcomed it.

It was a distraction from the deeper, more unbearable pain. Outside your door, the world did not stop. It never did.

“Please, my love,” your mother’s voice trembled as she knocked softly against the wood, as she had done every morning, every night, every moment she could. “Just open the door. Just let me see you. Let me help.”

Nothing.

A pause. A shuddering breath.

“Your father asks for you,” she whispered. “He is growing weaker. He… he misses you.” Your fingers clenched around the doll. Your throat tightened. But you did not move. Another knock—louder, more insistent. This time, it was Aegon.

“Alright, this is ridiculous,” he huffed, frustration laced through the forced casualness of his tone. “You can’t just lock yourself away forever, little sister. You’re being dramatic.”

Still, you did not answer.

A sigh.

Then, Aemond’s voice—lower, restrained, guilty.

“Sister.”

It was not the word that made your stomach twist. It was the way he said it. Soft. Measured. Uncharacteristically vulnerable. Like he knew the damage he had done. Like he hated himself for it. A beat of silence passed.

Then another.

Then—

“I should not have said those words.” Aemond’s voice was quiet now, stripped of the sharp arrogance it usually carried. “I do not expect you to forgive me.” A pause. A swallow. “But please… come out.”

For a fleeting second, your grip on the doll loosened. But then you remembered. The way they had dragged you from the gardens. The way Aemond’s fingers had tightened around your wrist. The way he had spat those words at you, branding them into your skin like a searing blade.

Dornish whore.

And suddenly, the ache in your stomach was nothing compared to the one in your chest. You turned onto your side, pressing your cheek into the pillow, curling further into yourself.

From outside, the silence stretched.

Then, a sharp thud. Aemond’s fist against the door. “Aegon’s right,” he muttered, his voice colder now, tinged with something unreadable. “This is childish.”

A deep breath.

“And you are stronger than this.”

A single tear burned its way down your cheek. Not because of his words. But because a small, treacherous part of you wanted to believe him. That night, as the voices faded, as the knocking stopped, as the world quieted once more— You lay there, unblinking, the doll still clutched to your chest. And you realized— It was easier to feel nothing at all.

The door creaked as it swung open.

For the first time in days, you stood there—frail, silent, hollow. The dim candlelight flickered across your pale skin, casting shadows beneath your lifeless eyes. You did not look at them, the ones who had begged for your presence, who had knocked upon your door until their knuckles bruised.

Your mother inhaled sharply, her hands trembling at the sight of you. Aegon straightened from where he had been slouched against the wall, his usual arrogance replaced with something unreadable. Aemond’s eye flickered with a mixture of relief and something else—something sharp, something laced with regret. Daeron, the most innocent of them, simply stared, his lips parting as if to say something—only to stop when he saw the emptiness in your gaze.

You said nothing, You did not smile. You simply turned, your feet carrying you through the halls of the Red Keep, your brothers and mother trailing behind you like shadows.

No one dared to speak.

Not as you made your way through the winding corridors, past the looming figures of guards, past the lingering scent of burning candles and incense, past the hushed whispers of servants who had all but given up on ever seeing you again.

Not as you stepped into the threshold of your father’s chambers.

The air was thick with the scent of decay, of sickness. The once-mighty Viserys the Peaceful lay upon his grand bed, his body withered, his skin ashen, his breath shallow. His crown—your birthright, your family’s legacy—lay abandoned beside him, untouched, a symbol of a kingdom that was slipping through his fingers.

Your throat tightened. You had prepared yourself for this or so you had thought.

But nothing could have prepared you for the sight of him like this—so weak, so small, so far removed from the father you once knew, the father who had doted on you, who had once held you upon his knee and told you tales of Old Valyria, of dragons, of kings and queens long past.

Your lips parted—only for nothing to come out.

You could not speak.

The words—the grief—lodged itself in your throat, suffocating you. So you simply stepped forward, your trembling hands reaching for his. His skin was cold, far too cold, and yet, when your fingers brushed against his, his eyelids fluttered open.

For a moment, he looked confused.

Then—recognition.

“…Daughter,” he rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper. Your lips trembled. You tried to answer him, to let him know you were here, that you had returned.

But no sound came.

Your voice—your strength—was gone.

A broken breath escaped you as you simply sat there, your fingers curling around his frail hand. Your silence spoke louder than any words ever could.

Behind you, you heard movement. Your mother and brothers had followed you inside, standing just beyond the threshold, hesitant, watching. Alicent’s hand covered her mouth, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Aegon looked away, his fingers flexing at his sides as if struggling to remain composed. Aemond’s jaw tightened. Daeron’s lips pressed into a thin line.

They were seeing you now—truly seeing you. The shell of the sister they had broken. The princess who had locked herself away and emerged without a voice, without the light that once resided in her eyes. And for the first time— They understood the weight of what they had done.

The warmth of your father’s skin lingered against your lips as you pressed a trembling kiss to his forehead. His breathing was shallow—so faint it was barely there at all. You lingered for a moment, fingers ghosting over his fragile hand before you pulled away.

The room was suffocating. The scent of burning incense, the dim candlelight flickering against the stone walls, the sound of your mother’s quiet weeping—it was too much.

You needed to leave.

Your feet felt like lead as you turned toward the door. Each step was a battle, the weight of exhaustion pressing against your limbs. Days without eating, without truly living, had stolen the strength from your body, but you pushed forward.

One step. Another.

Then—nothing.

Your knees buckled.

A choked gasp escaped you as the world tilted, the stone floor rushing up to meet you. The sound of your mother’s frantic cry rang in your ears, distant, as if she were calling to you from the other side of the world.

“No—no, my love—!”

Hands grasped at you—familiar hands, desperate hands. Your mother’s arms wrapped around you, cradling your body against her as if she could keep you tethered to this world, as if her love alone could rewrite fate.

Your brothers were there—Aegon cursing under his breath, his usual arrogance replaced by something raw and broken. Aemond’s face was unreadable, but his fingers clenched into fists so tightly they trembled. Daeron’s lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.

You tried to breathe.

Tried to hold on.

But it was too late.

A smile ghosted your lips as your blurred vision settled on your mother’s face, her emerald-green eyes wide with terror. You reached for her, brushing your fingertips against her cheek, feeling the warmth of her skin one last time.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Then—nothing.

The world faded.

A great darkness enveloped you, pulling you under like a tide, deeper and deeper until there was no pain, no sorrow, no weight upon your chest. The exhaustion that had plagued you for so long melted away, replaced by something light, something free.

And then—

“Daughter.”

Your eyes fluttered open.

The room was gone. The heavy stone walls, the flickering candles, the throne that had cast a shadow over your entire life—none of it remained.

Instead, you stood in a grand hall bathed in golden light, the scent of dragonfire lingering in the air. The warmth of the sun kissed your skin, and the wind tousled your hair as if it were welcoming you home. And there—by the great arched window—he stood.

Your father.

Not the frail, dying man you had left behind, but the King he had once been—the man who had lifted you onto his knee and told you stories of Balerion the Black Dread, the father who had placed a crown of flowers atop your head and called you his brightest star.

Tears welled in your eyes, but they did not fall.

You were a child again.

A little girl with wild laughter, with bare feet against the cool stone floor, with a heart that had never known sorrow. With a soft giggle, you ran to him—your small hands reaching, your father’s arms opening wide to catch you. And as he lifted you into the air, spinning you as he had done long ago, you knew— You were finally home.

The great hall was silent.

Not the silence of peace, nor of reverence, but of grief—a silence so thick it suffocated, pressing upon the lungs of those gathered like a heavy fog. No one spoke, no one dared to. Even the torches along the walls burned lower, as if mourning alongside the kingdom.

At the center of the throne room, upon a bed of silken drapery, lay two bodies.

Viserys, King of the Seven Kingdoms, Ruler of the Realm—lifeless, his once-golden crown now set beside him. His frail body, no longer suffering, no longer withering away under the weight of his reign.

And beside him—you.

Draped in a gown of the purest white, the very color meant for a bride, not a corpse. A cruel trick of the gods, a mockery of fate itself.

Your hands were folded delicately upon your chest, as if in sleep. Your golden lashes rested against your cheeks, your lips curved into the faintest of smiles. A bride for no one. A daughter lost. A sister stolen.

Your mother knelt beside you, her trembling fingers brushing against your cheek. Alicent Hightower—Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the unshakable force behind the throne—wept. She did not care for who bore witness. She did not care for propriety or for the expectations of a court that demanded strength from her.

“This is not how it was meant to be,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, broken. “Not like this.”

Aegon stood at the foot of the bier, his face unreadable. His lips parted as if he wished to speak, to say something, but what words could undo what had been done? What jest, what arrogance, what careless remark could shield him from the agony of losing the only sister who had never seen him as a failure?

Aemond did not move.

He stood still as a statue, his lone eye locked upon your face. He had mocked you, taunted you, called you a Dornish whore in a moment of bitter rage—he had hurt you, and now you were gone. His fingers twitched at his side, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He would have given anything to take back those words, to undo that night, to fix what had been shattered.

Daeron, the youngest of your brothers, let his tears fall freely. His hand clutched at yours, gripping your cold fingers as if he could will life back into them. “Please,” he whispered. “Please, wake up.” But there was no answer, no warmth in your touch.

Helaena sat beside your mother, her sobs soft but unrelenting. She had dreamed of this. She had seen it before it happened, and yet she had been powerless to stop it. Her delicate fingers traced idle patterns upon the silk of your gown, as if trying to etch your presence into her memory before it faded forever.

The court stood at a distance, their faces a mix of sorrow and unease. Lords and ladies, knights and advisors—all gathered to bear witness not to a joyous union, but to a tragedy that would haunt the realm for years to come.

It was supposed to be your wedding.

You were meant to stand before them as a bride, draped in finery, adorned in jewels, a crown upon your head as you took your place beside a husband of your choosing. Your mother was supposed to smile as she placed a veil upon you. Your brothers were supposed to drink in your honor, to fight over who would have the first dance.

Instead, you lay cold and still, untouched by time, wrapped in the shroud of death. Your mother’s fingers curled into your gown, clutching at the fabric like a lifeline.

“My love,” she murmured. “My sweetest girl.”

She had lost her youth.

She had lost her husband.

And now—she had lost you.

Aegon turned away first, unable to look any longer. He stormed out of the hall, his shoulders trembling, his grief masked by frustration. Aemond lingered, his fingers twitching at his side as if he wanted to reach for you but couldn’t bear to touch something so fragile. Daeron did not let go.

Your mother did not move.

The bells of the Red Keep tolled in the distance, their solemn chimes echoing through the castle, announcing to the realm what they had lost.

A King.

A Princess.

And with them, the last remnants of innocence in a world that had always been far too cruel.

Tag List : @danytar @julessworldd @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @giirlinblack @searatarg @vaelry @callsignwidow @hayleythecannibal @ceoofglytchell l @ashblooddragons @laedeviour @venusbyline

[angelsleepinggurl]

𝐢'𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐬

cw: fingering in a library

.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧

it’s pathetic to say but books seem to be the only friend you’ve been capable of making at high school. it doesn’t bother you as much as it used to, who would want to befriend lying, back-stabbing, drama-causing bitches? you simply didn’t have time to deal with that anyway. the only thing in mind is your dream school, waiting for you arms outstretched and all. you find yourself in the library yet again, past school hours, deciding to hole yourself up in the silent room until closing hours, then studying more in the comfort of your own room. exciting friday evening!

frustrated, you puff as you get stumped by another question. today simply isn’t your day and you can’t understand why not. everything seems to be going the same. unless-

your thoughts are interrupted by a familiar figure strolling over to you, sporting the usual bedhead and that infuriatingly lazy smirk. of course.

kuroo tetsurou drags the chair out from beside you and sits on it backwards, as if that was somehow charming. what, is this supposed to be sexy? "hey, princess," he drawls, looking at you through his raven-black hair, his voice slow and syrupy. you respond with nothing more than a glare and a pointed nod toward the 'silence in the library' sign above your head. "no one follows that stupid rule," he says, deadpan. you roll your eyes and pointedly shift in your seat, turning your back to him. "aw, don’t be like that," he purrs, his tone almost teasing but as lazy as ever. there's something catlike about the way kuroo moves and talks like he’s never in a rush. every word seems deliberate, almost annoyingly slow. "i just wanna have a little fun," he whispers, leaning in, his face far too close for comfort.

you can practically feel the smugness radiating off him. and of course, he’d choose now to be a distraction. an unfamiliar hand circles the flesh around your knee, the owner of that hand grins at you, chin resting in his hand. you slap it away, not tolerating any of his nonsense. “fine.” he says in surrender, arms lifting off. “i won’t get up to anything. you would sigh in relief but you know better than that. “but can i just…” the same sneaky hand back on your exposed leg, thumb gently rubbing circles on the soft skin. “keep it here. to keep you company. and mostly because i can.” this makes you loosen up.

right. your autonomy has been stripped from you.

you turn to face your books properly, deciding to delve into your material again, maybe this time you’d focus better. “good girl, see that wasn’t so hard.”

silence envelops the both of you as it’s meant to be, and it’s fine. he really isn’t bothering you, the problem is your sensitivity. you’ve realised that your fogged-up mind was due to your lack of release. a kuroo being here, his hand shifting higher and higher, every occasional grope being tighter than the last has you subconsciously squeezing your legs together. you’re hoping he won’t notice, especially as you keep switching legs to cross and avoiding squeezing your thighs together but soon it's evident on your face and how you’ve not picked up your pen after 5 whole minutes. you’re sitting staring holes into your maths book, hoping you don’t make as much of a twitch to give him the wrong signal. a signal on which he picks up.

“don’t stop because of me, really. i’m just here to watch you work is all.” you can’t even snap back at him as you’re focusing on no sounds slipping past your lips. “but,” he says carefully, leaning close. if you need to ever ‘let lose’ you know who to come to. i mean I'm not a study expert like you, but i do know… that if you’re not in the right headspace, then it’s hard to remember what you’ve learnt. i may know a few ways to help unwind. say the word and i’m yours.”

“ohh.” it’s quiet when you succumb to him, allowing this. but you can’t help it, you feel pent up and your mind isn’t thinking clearly.

“i’ll take that.”

you’re gonna hate yourself for this.

“make it quick.” you snap, readjusting your sitting angle to allow room for his hand.

“oh honey, i don’t rush my work.” he informs you, eyes locking with yours as he looks up.

great.

“what if we-”

“get caught?” he finishes, tearing his gaze away from your legs and to you. “don’t worry, i know that one of your big concerns, that won’t happen. unless you can’t keep your mouth shut.” with a slow hand, he lifts the fabric of your skirt, cold air rushing further up your legs. “you really are a soaker. look at that.” he exclaims, the only time his eyes seem to widen as he soaks in the sight of your drenched cunt, wetting your panties.

usually, you would feel a flush of embarrassment but the need the need to come is stronger. cautiously, kuroo slips his fingers down the undergarment, the gentle pads of his fingers reaching your clit. you sigh softly as with gentle rubs he soothes your stress. you place your hands around his arm, which seems to be working its magic as you’re finding it difficult to sit still in your chair. you see him wanting to tease you about your inability to stop squirming, which he bites back upon seeing your targeted stern look. you’re actively pushing down moans in the silent library, the only sound is chairs shuffling, pages rustling and pens rolling. not the sound of a girl having her pussy played with when anyone could come in and spot the two students in the act, getting them expelled.

but it’s all too thrilling. maybe for kuroo more than you. he doesn't notify you when his fingers slip from your sensitive bud and down into your throbbing cunt. you instinctively squeeze your thighs together, the sensations getting stronger and making it harder for you to control yourself. it’s almost as if kuroo is chasing the high himself, the way his fingers pump and curl so rhythmically, fingertips brushing against your g-spot every so often. “shh baby, we don’t wanna get caught now do we?” purrs in your ear, clearly enjoy how flustered he’s making you and how powerful you make him feel. you close your eyes and drop your head back, rather than focusing on not riding his fingers subtly. “don’t need to hold back on my account, you can ride em if you wanna.” kuroo’s laser-sharp focus and attentivity to subtle details like that almost freak you out. as if he’s almost watching. “come on princess ik you want it.” he says with a smile, that you can feel on your cheek. pressed against it and feeling defeated as his smug grin boasts itself in your face. you almost have half a mind to push him off and leave, but in that way, you don’t get satisfied, you don’t release, you don’t win. “there’s a good girl.” he hums as you give into your corporeal desires, and start rolling your hips towards him. you hate you admit it, but he is damn good. he knows how to work those fingers.

your hair falls in front of your face again as you lean it forward, feeling the pressure build-up within you faster than usual, your sweet release seems to be approaching much more hurriedly. £fuck I'm close I'm gonna come.” you pant out breathlessly, still aware to keep your voice down.

“i know, i know, i can tell. i’ll make you come real soon.” his lips attach to your jaw as he kisses along it. £fuck you’re tight.” he states, removing his lips from you and focusing on speeding up and working his fingers faster, thrusting harder. now the chair is squeaking against the floor and your heart is racing, from fear, excitement and pure bliss of all the sensations blurred into one. kuroo places a large hand over your mouth, covering it firmly as he feels your high approaching. it takes a few more seconds before you’re squealing muffled squeals into his palm, closing your eyes and pointing your toes. “ cumming all over my finger like that, didn’t take you for a messy girl.” his fingers are drenched in your arousal and neediness. dripping in pure out as he peels his hand away slowly. drinking in the sight of your puffed-out state, trying desperately to silently catch your breath in the library. your composure is lost as you place your hand on the edge of your chair to keep yourself upright, hair slightly sticking to your face and legs still in the air as you come down. “messy girl,” he coos. “this is no way to leave the school, don’t want your cum ruining the carpet now do we, open wide.” you follow his instructions without a second thought, your mouth opening wide on command as his fingers invade it. you suck without being told to, your tongue swirling around his digits as you look up at him with your larger doe eyes.

“there’s a good girl. hey fun idea, wanna take this to the table? i can think fo a couple ways to make you cum faster.” you deadpan at his suggestion. your face does not even crinkle in the slightest to show the least bit of amusement.

“was that supposed to be funny? that’s no funny. please leave now, you’re disrupting our silence.”

“the only thing disturbing the silence was your loud ass pussy, but whatever you say princess.” he shrugs,

⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲

(please send a dm or comment on my the pinned blog to join.)

taglist: @slutkoo

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫…

𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫…

[spectrechosts]

The vampire stands silently in the doorway of my study.

She waits for my invitation, though she does not require it. She is inside my lair already, comes and goes to do my bidding. I know not why she hesitates, why she watches me work from a distance. Perhaps she plots my downfall?

Many a necromancer has met their end between the jaws of a vampiric servant. The vampire is far craftier than the mindless zombie, the puppet skeleton. The vampire is prideful, scheming- has goals and desires all its own. The autonomy that makes one useful also makes them a threat.

"Come in."

She glides across the room soundlessly, kneels beside my desk chair, head down. Her subservient demeanor is- excessive, she lays it on much too thick. I'm not fool enough to question if it might be sincere, only if it's meant to hide that she's using me or that she simply wants me dead.

"I have quelled the villagers as you asked, my penumbral Mistress."

~Penumbral Mistress~, feh, who falls for such simpering acts?

"Their newly dead are being carted to your mausoleum, and the excavation of their graveyards is back underway. All is as you desire."

Suspicions aside, she does good work. Such uprisings used to set me back weeks, now she settles them in a few nights at most. Whatever she plans, she's useful enough to be worth it.

Besides, I am no neophyte, playing with forces beyond her control. I am a necromancer, and she is undead. The moment she lifts a hand against me will be the moment she is flayed from within, her unbeating heart exposed to the light of the sun for her treachery.

"Excellent," I say. "What do I owe you for your services?"

She deigns to lift her head, to look at me.

"I wish to taste you, my Mistress."

Ugh, vampires, predictable.

"Very well. Open."

I take her chin with one hand as she opens her jaws. My other hand I rest on her cheek, placing my thumb into her open mouth. I swipe it across her teeth, trace it up a sharp fang and press the pad into the needle-tip until it punctures the skin. I pull off the fang and press my now-bloodied thumb into her tongue, holding it to the floor of her mouth.

Through it all she doesn't move an inch. She watches me wide-eyed, unblinking, unbreathing. I am of course warded against the hypnotic gaze of her kind, though- I don't feel her trying to use it. Perhaps she does this to lower my guard, in the hopes that one of these feedings I'll forget, I'll trust her enough not to bother. Perhaps she is so beneath me it doesn't register.

Perhaps she is simply stupid, and doesn't even think to try.

She swallows softly as I hold her there, the tiny amount of blood enough to bring color to her cheeks.

"Enough," I say, removing my thumb from her mouth. The vampire whimpers softly, but I am far too important to be made a meal. "Slake your thirst on some peasant, I have work to do."

She swallows again, her eyes pleading before she casts them back to the stone floor.

"Of course, Mistress."

[luvyeni]

❛CONTROLLINGBF! SUNGCHAN❜ ( headcannons )

warnings? 18+

request: imagine you in a relationship with sungchan, his controlling nature dictates every aspect of your life, from your appearance to your social interactions. despite his intentions to protect and care for you, his constant need for control suffocates your sense of independence, leaving you yearning for freedom and autonomy.

authors note. i hope this is what you meant , i hope you like it🤍

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

CONTROLLINGBF!SUNGCHAN who isolates you from everyone, never letting you leave home alone or without his premission.

CONTROLLINGBF!SUNGCHAN who basically does everything for you — waking up before you, picking out clothes for you to wear — clothes that he picked out and bought. "i don't really like this." "what do you know baby , you'd wear shorts that look like panties and a shirt that shows off what's mine if i let you — just be a good girl and put this on."

CONTROLLINGBF!SUNGCHAN who doesn't makes you tell him everything when you go out , where you're going; how long— and who's gonna be there. "it's only for a few hours." "with them? no baby im sorry remember last time you went out with them, she had you out all night drinking, not this time, tell her you won't be coming."

CONTROLLINGBF!SUNGCHAN who has a iron clad grip on your arm when you're out for you so you don't go so far with out. "but— i won't wait for you if you get lost, so no let's go."

CONTROLLINGBF!SUNGCHAN who doesn't see why you're so sad all the time, he's gives you a nice life , he takes care of you, buys you things, he doesn't understand what's so important about going outside. "i just want so space and to do things alone for once chan , just once, it's so suffocating being with you sometimes."

CONTROLLINGBF!SUNGCHAN who gaslights you when you start talking about going out without him. "it's only a few hours chan and you like this friend." "baby what if you get hurt , you know you can never pay attention that's why i come with you, how about we stay in tonight, please , maybe next week okay?" and just like always you say —"okay."

CONTROLLINGBF!SUNGCHAN who uses sex as form of distraction to keep you from even thinking about going outside, holding you close like you're going run away, thrusting deep into your cervix whispering into your ear. "you're mine, from your head down, this pretty pussy including, it's mine , and i'll kill anyone who says other wise." and you believe him, he hasn't killed anybody, but you wouldn't put it past him.

CONTROLLINGBF!SUNGCHAN who wants to consume your every being , he'll do what ever he needs to do to achieve that.

©️LUVYENI

[tarotlexa]

PICK A PILE READING- your prophecy

this is by far my longest reading available for free, i decided to do a reading specifically on your prophecy in this lifetime and i added some oracle cards into it for good measure. remember, this is a collective reading so take what resonates and leave what does not, as usual.

also, i want to specify that one can have different prophecies in one lifetime so you can take this however it comes to you (one of many, the main one and not pertaining to you at all). this is for those who are feeling lost on their path or they're feeling the pull for something greater.

let's start!

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀✦ ⠀ ⠀　　　　　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀* ⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　. .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　✦⠀　   　　　,　　　　　　　　　* 　　　　　⠀　　　　⠀　　, ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　 　　⠀　　　⠀.　 　　˚　　　⠀　⠀  　　,　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀  　　　　　⠀✦⠀　 　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　.　　　　.　　　⠀ 　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　 　　　˚　　　　　　　　ﾟ　　　　　. 　.⠀　　⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀, 　　　*　　⠀. 　　　　　.　　　　　　　　　　⠀✦ 　˚　　　　　　　　　　　　　　* .⠀ 　　　　　　　　　　.　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　✦⠀　   　　　,　　    　　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀✦ ⠀ ⠀　　　　　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀* ⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　. .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　✦⠀　   　　　,　　　　　　　　　* 　　　　　⠀　　　　⠀　　, ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　 　　⠀　　　⠀.　 　　˚　　　⠀　⠀  　　,　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀  　　　　　⠀✦⠀　 　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　.　　　　.　　　 　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　 　　　˚　　　　　　　　ﾟ　　　　　. 　.⠀　⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀, 　　　　　✦⠀　   　　　,

pile 1: your soul carries fire my friend, you were never meant to walk a well-worn pretty little path. from the start you had an innate primate destructive force in you that could burn bridges, forge new roads and defy expectations. you have spent so much of your past feeling stuck, waiting for the right moment, consistently hesitating and asking yourself if you were ready, even when the stars aligned specifically for you. you are a catalyst for change, the wheel of fortune has turned for you shifting your fate in ways you may not yet understand. you will or have already experienced burdens heavier than most would ever be able to handle but this is because you are strong enough to carry them (even though you shouldn't have to). one of your past lives may have been one of suppression and control, perhaps you were silenced or stripped of autonomy or held back by forces beyond your control, but not in this lifetime. you're keeping yourself prisoner because it's the safest choice but you are meant to command and to create and to lead. you are not here to follow others. surrender to your untamed vision and power, this lifetime simply demands it. break the cycle now or it will repeat itself over and over again. YOU ARE READY FOR IT.

bonus oracle card: sleep with the darkness, you are nervous to accept your instincts which you might have been judged harshly for in the past. you have to learn to coexist with them, watch and observe that inner darkness of yours, it wants to be heard and seen. for some of you that might be your fear of being seen, of being known and yet you are here to shine your light upon the world. do not be afraid of being seen, that is exactly what is needed of you right now. post more of yourself, your art, your vision and whatever you've been hiding from the world.

pile 2: in this lifetime, you are the seer. you might be psychic, clairvoyant or simply have amazing medium skills. you have always known too much, even as a child you sensed things before they could happen, felt emotions you couldn't name and saw through people instantly. but this wisdom has come at a cost: pain, sleepless nights, a deep yearning for something that feels just out of reach. there have been betrayals by both lovers and friends, disappointments, times when you question EVERYTHING, including your place in the world. your prophecy is not one of suffering but of ascension.

you don't belong to just one place, one idea or one version of yourself. i feel like some of you are shifters or manifesting very deep life changes. your past self tried to fit in, to build a home in places that were never meant for you, seeking the approval of people who weren't right for you. this lifetime is about reclaiming your autonomy, redefining what stability means to you. you're a spiritual wanderer, a seer who's meant to acknowledge hidden truth and break away from toxic family cycles. you are meant to uncover what others fear to see, do not mourn the past for it was simply the foundation for your awakening.

bonus oracle card: very on point with the reading itself, we got the card of transmutation. your body begins to change from within, every cell in your body perceives the transformation into something new, something different. you will learn to recognise your true form but right now you are in the midst of your transition, allow change to happen instead of stalling it. it is bound to happen anyway. use this evolution in your favour.

pile 3: in this lifetime you have sought harmony, balance and peace around you. you might have been raised in a chaotic environment that was unsuitable for your needs as a child. the balance you seek is not simply peace, it is mastery. you have lived many different lives torn between responsibility and freedom, love and solitude, structure and chaos. but this time, you are meant to unify them. your past was marked by restriction, duty-bound expectations that limited your potential. the ace of cups calls you towards a different path, a destiny filled with emotional depth, prosperity and a profound connection to your own desires and your real self.

you will build something great in this lifetime, something that has to deal with legacy and structure/order. it could be a career, a family, a movement but your role is that of the architect. your prophecy is about becoming the foundation for others in a way that will solidify the stability you have been seeking. the storms you have weathered will give way to clarity and success, no matter how doubtful you've been of those in the past. you will become a major force in the lives of others, use this influence well. this lifetime is yours to build.

bonus oracle card: the power of memories. our memories are treasure chests through which we can access the most archaic parts of us and once opened we do not choose what we remember, but we can choose what we want to work on and how we will make place for those memories in our life. before we move forward, what steps do we need to take to make peace with the past? what importance do we give to the past and how can we put it into perspective? what do we heal and what do we decide to keep with us forever?

as always, thank you for reading <3

[lottiesdolly]

threads

༄ patrick zweig x reader

༄ patrick likes to control you

You never meant to get involved with Patrick Zweig.

It started as a fleeting glance across the room—a moment too long, his dark eyes lingering on you as if he already knew how this would end. Patrick was charming, impossibly so. He spoke in a cadence that made you forget yourself, that made you believe he was the only one who truly saw you.

And maybe that was true.

At first, it was subtle. The way he always seemed to know where you were. The texts that arrived before you could even think of sending one. “Did you miss me?” when you swore you wouldn’t fall for his games. His voice, low and amused, whenever you tried to pull away.

“You don’t really want to leave, do you?”

You should have.

But Patrick had a way of making it seem like your choices weren’t really yours at all. He was always two steps ahead, weaving his words around you like silk. When you hesitated, he tilted his head just so, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips.

“You’re smarter than this,” he whispered against your skin one night, fingers brushing your wrist as if testing your pulse. “Smarter than them. That’s why you’re here. With me.”

He made it sound like a privilege.

The first time you tried to end things, he laughed. Not cruelly, but softly, as if indulging a child’s tantrum.

“End what?” he asked, his hands sliding into the pockets of his coat. “This isn’t something you can walk away from.”

There was no anger, no desperation. Just quiet certainty, the kind that made your breath hitch.

He kissed you then, slow and deep, and when he pulled away, his fingers ghosted over your cheek.

“I take care of what’s mine,” he murmured.

It was a warning as much as it was a promise.

And you?

You weren’t sure if you wanted to escape him—

Or if you wanted to see just how far he would go to keep you.

You used to believe in autonomy. In choices. In the ability to walk away from things that no longer served you.

But Patrick Zweig was an exception to every rule.

It wasn’t love at first sight. Love wasn’t the right word for what this was. It was something far more insidious—woven between silences and glances, in the way he made you feel small and seen all at once. Like you were a puzzle he had already solved, the answer resting in his palm while you scrambled to understand the pieces.

At first, it was little things. The way he always anticipated your needs before you voiced them. How he knew your schedule down to the minute, even when you hadn’t told him. A drink waiting for you before you could order. A ride waiting outside before you even texted.

"You should be careful," a friend had warned one night, their voice hushed. "He watches you."

You had laughed. The kind of nervous, dismissive laugh that barely reached your throat.

"I watch over you," Patrick corrected later when you mentioned it. His fingers traced the curve of your jaw, his touch featherlight, as if you were something delicate—something he had to handle just right to keep from breaking.

"That’s different."

"Is it?"

And somehow, it never felt like you had the right answer.

It was the second time you tried to leave that you realized the truth—there was no leaving.

The first attempt had been a fluke, something he barely acknowledged with a smirk and an indulgent sigh. The second was different.

You had packed a bag, a small one, the kind that didn’t raise suspicion. You had made plans—quiet ones, untraceable. You would disappear for a while, let the city swallow you whole until you could breathe again.

But when you stepped outside, Patrick was already there.

Leaning against his car, arms crossed, looking as if he had all the time in the world.

"You must be lost," he mused.

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag. "I need space."

He tilted his head. "No, you need me."

And that was the thing—he said it with such certainty, such absolute belief, that for a moment, you doubted yourself.

Patrick stepped forward, his movements unhurried, measured. "Tell me something," he murmured, his voice a low hum against your skin as he reached for your hand, intertwining your fingers like a promise. "Did you really think I wouldn’t know?"

He brushed his lips against your knuckles, a lover’s gesture that sent a chill down your spine.

"You don’t need to run."

"You don’t own me," you whispered, but the words felt weak, unsteady.

Patrick smiled then—soft, affectionate, as if you had said something amusing. "Oh, sweetheart." He brought your hand to his chest, resting it over his heartbeat. "You’re already mine."

You should have pulled away. Should have said no, should have fought harder.

Instead, you let him take the bag from your hand.

Let him guide you back inside.

And when he kissed you, slow and deep, the world shrank to nothing but the press of his lips, the warmth of his breath, the way he made you forget you had ever wanted to leave at all.

[changingplumbob]

Day fourteen - Connor group part 2/2

@corrienteallita, @eljeebee, @ethicaltreatmentofcowplants, @hashimasims, @jonquilyst, @riverofjazzsims

Isla: Woohoo! I'm so happy I won; I can't wait for our solo date, Deanna!

Kaye: Yes! *fist pumps* Wait Isla did you just curse?

Isla: Wait did I? No I meant like happy woohoo not woohoo woohoo

Kaye: *snickers*

Isla: *gasps then sighs* Okay I walked in to that one

Solo dates were two hours long. Deanna arranged for a beach trip and made some ice cream as a snack. She then did one friendly and one romantic interaction. The rest of the date was whatever happened autonomously.

Kaye is ambivalent about the beach but is excited for sun and ice cream. She turns the stereo to world radio, a station Deanna enjoys as well.

Deanna: When you were a kid did you enjoy school?

Kaye: I enjoyed school very much and joined EVERY after school activity I could! I had a lot of friends and just enjoyed being a kid

Deanna: Did you have a dream job as a kid?

Kaye: I wanted to be a magician when I was little. The whole abracadabra pull a rabbit out of a hat and make Elephants disappear. Dom was always happy to help and be my assistant in all my living room performances *laughs*

Deanna: That sounds so awesome! I wanted to be a pirate

Kaye: A pirate! Well me hearty if you're the Captain, can I be your first mate? *Winks*

Deanna: *giggles*

Kaye: Oh my I can't believe I just did that! Ignore me please. That's really cool though, did you get the chance to sail the seven seas?

Reminiscing on being kids, Deanna asks if there's any memory Kaye can remember really well.

Kaye: My favorite memory might be when my grandfather planned a family camping trip to Granite Falls. My uncle made it all about himself of course but it was great to just be part of nature, fishing and hiking and such. We had to do most of it at night but it was still really cool!

Gluttonous Kaye just couldn't leave the date without more ice cream!

Isla is happy to be at the beach. While it's not Sulani it's a scene similar to home that can help her feel at ease. Before getting ice cream Deanna asks her what music she might like. Isla isn't really sure so Deanna puts on Island radio.

Deanna: When you were a kid did you enjoy school?

Isla: Meh, I was neutral about it. It's like work; it's something that I just had to do. But I was never bad in school. I made pretty good grades. I guess the thing about school is that you're inside most of the day sitting down doing nothing, and that was pretty boring and lame to me as a Sulani girl

Deanna: You'd rather be outdoors in the sand? I can definitely relate to wanting classes outside

Deanna: Did you have a dream job as a kid?

Isla: Oh I can't tell you that

Deanna: I'll tell you what I wanted to be

Isla: Fine. I... I wanted to be a professional shell collector

Deanna: That's adorable!

Isla: *smiles* thanks. My dad collects shells and I wanted to be just like him when I grew up

Deanna: I may have wanted to be a pirate

Isla: *giggles* a pirate? That's hilarious. I'd have hired you to track me down the rarest shells, the magic ones

The talking and laughter continues as the pair grow closer.

Isla: One of my earliest memories is finding my first shell on the beach. My older brothers went jet-skiing, but I was too little to go with them, so I stayed on the shore with my parents and my younger brother. While me and my dad were making a sand sculpture, I found a small scallop shell! My dad was so happy for me and ended up placing my shell with his own shell collection. It's definitely a core memory for me

Deanna: That's so sweet! I love him already

When everyone was back at the villa contestants had three hours of skill gaining time. Room doors were locked and autonomy turned off to give everyone a fair go.

Berenice practiced gaming while a calmer Dee was determined to beat some virtual high scores. Isabella also played some sims forever to improve her video gaming. Isla and Nyami both chose to tackle some logic while a happy Kaye decided to work on comedy.

Devin: How are you feeling about your date with Kaye?

Deanna: Pretty good. She's funny and I think we get on well

Devin: And how about Isla

Deanna: *smiles* Yeah I'll admit I'm a bit smitten with her. She knows so much about Sulani

Devin (voiceover): So how are you feeling about Deanna at the moment?

Isla (voiceover): *blushes* Definitely smitten

When skill time was over room doors were unlocked, autonomy was put back to full, and contestants were instructed to eat dinner. Needs decay had been on the whole day. Deanna was not instructed to talk to anyone so interactions happened autonomously, she was also locked out of rooms so she would be available for contestants to interact with.

It appeared that the time gaming had calmed down Dee, who was once again able to see people without wanting to punch them. Deanna made vegetable tempura since Kaye is vegetarian- she's not accidentally eating meat on our watch! Isabella was in a flirty mood but didn't perform any romantic interactions, choosing to be friendly instead.

Then we had a surprise! Deanna was talking to Nyami when she decided to stand up and hold her hands! This is the second physical flirtation Deanna has done autonomously. Could Nyami be a hidden gem despite her early lower ranking? The pair hugged and chatted with Kaye and Isla while everyone else went to bed.

[generalluxun]

MLS6 Sublimation

An analysis of Marinette's behavior/reactions (by request) Salt-Free.

This post is in response to an ask, because tumblr ate that reply and posts save drafts!

The ask was in regards to my statement in another post that Marinette's actions were a 'control' move, asking me to clarify what that meant. I'm going to break it down here, referencing (but not quoting I do not have transcripts) on screen statements and behaviors

The goal is explaining, not vilifying.

I don't blame anyone for missing some of this, the messaging was very muddled in this episode and you could easily lose things in Marinette's breakneck word-vomit as well as some mixed messaging later in the episode.

You can break down Marinette's behavior re:Sublime like this:

Motivation:Fear

Response:Control

Tool:Friendship.

Early on we establish that Marinette is afraid. She's 'not jealous'(she claims) but she very much is catastrophizing. She envisions Adrien liking Sublime better than her and deciding to go out with her. We'll put a pin in this for later but for our purposes now this admits her emotion: She is afraid.

Her response to this fear is an attempt to gain a level of control over the situation. If she has control, she doesn't need to be afraid!(She thinks) She goes right back into her (worst) habits of the previous seasons. She gathers intel, follows/stalks/spies on people, and forms elaborate plans.

All of these are bent to trying to befriend Sublime- but friendship isn't the real motivation, just the tool. I have no doubt Marinette would like to be friends with Sublime bit in this instance that is not *why* she is going to these lengths. Marinette believes if she is Sublime's friend that somehow she(Sublime) won't want to date Adrien, or maybe just that Marinette could spot anything forming and head it off. -She will have more control.

And that's it really. I'm not going to dig into Marinette's specific behaviors as I think they were done 'for the show' you *could* make the final talk with Sublime into being a control move too (guilt/pity so that Sublime would feel bad 'stealing' Adrien) but I think that was more about shoehorning in a 'lesson' while not wanting to address the lesson set up at the start(for unknown reasons)

Now I am going to get into *why* what Marinette is doing is actually worse than what she has done before. If you can't stomach even a well intentioned critique of our protagonist, this is your warning.

In Sublimation Marinette is treating Adrien as an *object*. From the very beginning her fear discounts his agency. Marinette us afraid Sublime will be better and so Adrien will leave. It's 1+1 to her.

The fact that Adrien has openly and repeatedly professed his love for her doesn't seem to weigh for anything. Are we to assume her own love is so mercenary? If someone just slightly 'better' than Adrien came along, would she jump ship? I'd like to think not.

Now, this is a common (and very tired) romance trope, but it is one that needs to die, and it feeds poorly into Marinette's other behaviors. It also shows a regression. It was one thing to worry that an Adrien who she wasn't dating, who hadn't told her he loved her, might be wooed by someone else amazing(Kagami). It is something else entirely to consider him fickle and a mere creature to be dazzled by a new and shiny thing.

Her approach -inserting herself into Adrien's friendship- also disregards his autonomy. Her little 'my future friends' speech might seem cute, but with the knowledge of her fear and the lengths she goes to, it is clear- Adrien can't have female friends who Marinette doesn't have an eye on.

A healthy response is to wait to be introduced. It is good to have friends who are 'yours' outside of who you are in a relationship. Each party should know people who are not beholden to the other.

If she couldn't wait(which we will allow for, anxiety exists) ask to be introduced. Keeping Adrien in the loop and letting him have agency in the hows, whens, and ifs of things is still reasonably reapectful.

Going behind his back to forge a connection without his involvement and 'usurp' the friendship is is just flatly unhealthy. Yes Adrien makes light of it, but this is the abused boy who has been told the person who abused him was a hero. His ideas about autonomy and self-worth are a bit sketchy at the moment.

This is not all to say Marinette is a 'bad person'. It *is* to say what she is doing here is bad, top to bottom. Marinette behaved terribly in this episode. Do not do anything remotely resembling what she did. Do not take away any of her justifications as valid. They are the same logic that an alcoholic uses to say 'Just one won't hurt'.

Here's to hoping this particular arc of Marinette's journey ends quickly. It feels like a real step back for her.

[orangeave]

all the places light does not touch

wednesday addams x gn!reader

summary: there are places in wednesday that the light doesn’t touch and she can’t help but to put you in all of them.

words: 4.2k

orange speaks: final part to the great war (part one | part two). damn, it's been a hot minute, huh? apologies for the wait, but i hope y'all will enjoy this last installment.

Gravesoil clings to Wednesday’s nail beds, a desperate plea scratching against her vocal cords that she will never admit to beyond this moment. You are mumbling to yourself, a language she’s never heard of slicing through the quiet; the mother tongue of the beast that lingers in places she cannot reach nor see. Wild, bloodshot eyes survey the empty space in front of you and veins crowd underneath your lashes. There’s a pause before you hunch over, hands reaching up to grasp tightly at your head and – 

Wings ripple out of tearing flesh, blood soaking the floor underneath her former lover’s feet. An ominous, onyx liquid takes over the whites of your eyes, dripping slowly down the apple of your cheeks and leaving dark tear tracks in their wake that trail pass a shuddering throat. 

How foolish she was to forget what lays dormant beneath your skin, waiting to unleash itself upon the world. Control was hard fought and just barely won after each battle, a traumatic fear for the possibility of a blood-curdling outcome hardening the usual soft color of your gaze. 

Wednesday had always been there to placate the darker side of you but times were different now. The consequences of her wrongdoings were forming; in the shape of elongating teeth, in downy feathers expanding to three-times the length of your arm span, and in horns spiralling to reach the sky above them.  

You were horrifyingly marvellous. 

Gone is the fear from before, an innately evil force hunkering down to take its place. Tendrils of hellfire coat your skin in a blaze of heat that Wednesday can starkly feel, wraiths rising from the puddles of crimson ichor that is still shedding and staining ghoulish flesh. A sinister grin warps your features into a gruesome mosaic and she is wary of the scheming tug to your lips.

“Do you feel it?” You rasp, multiple layers of cadence making your voice echo and overlap into something otherworldly. Wednesday’s brows pinch, a frown of incomprehension downturning the corner of her lips. “The inevitable culling of this night, can you feel it?”

“Enough. You’re talking nonsense.” She sneers.

A shiver caresses the curve of her spine when you sigh solemnly in return, the ground trembling beneath your feet as you glide closer to her. Your left hand lifts and fingertips that resemble claws leave behind rivers of blood as you skim her jawline, thumb tucking into her jugular before the entirety of the extremity encloses around her throat. 

The touch is light, there’s no weight in the action but Wednesday chokes all the same. A primal instinct of survival urges her to fight the hold because while running has never been in Wednesday’s repertoire, the need for bodily autonomy will always remain. Personal space is sacred when the world longs to claim and taint everything she’s ever come to own.

Nero; a first companion forcibly taken by the will of another. 

Tyler; a first kiss lost to the lips of a monster. 

You; a first something she’s afraid to name with an end she’s yet to come to terms with.

Each one is a death with its own cause and reaction but they all drive her further away into solitude, into a body built too big for her bones.

There’s a light within her that flickers and spiders which crawl from crevices dug into ivory calcium, seeking the warmth that it offers – it never lasts, they scurry with every faltering glow and Wednesday is left with the echo of an ancestor, of a destiny meant to be spent alone.

Be it by her hand or someone else’s, the truth of her fate lingers. 

Still, the scraps from the before she seldom acknowledges; when words meant to burn were just measly thoughts to create distance and a twin heart still laid next to hers, where a sense of forever was yet to fade and hope, however gross the negligence of it was, was able to reach even the unlit corners of her, craves to forget – just for a moment – that this is who she has to be. 

For everyone’s sake but most especially yours, Wednesday scatters those scraps until they exist in locations that are inaccessible, even to herself, and no one suffers more for it than she does. So, as she swallows back the bile of her desires, her tongue is sour with bitterness and syllables formulate an acrid speech that tries to chase away the taste of all that she wants but cannot have. 

“All I detect is your feeble minded attempt to frighten me. You’re a bleeding heart, Tesoro, we both know you’re too soft to follow through with your meagre threats. You never were tenacious enough to do what was needed to keep me, this is no different.”  

Regret is immediate; acid does not eliminate bitterness, it only serves to make the taste resonate deeper until she’s choking on the foul filth of an inescapable death. The true difference between you, she realizes, is that she’s not capable of being selfless without leaving scars on the ones she’s trying to shelter and that your way of being selfless only leaves you with more. 

A thick smog of shadows gather in the atmosphere, sharpening your features and maniacal laughter washes over the cusps of Wednesday’s eardrums. Her pulse jumps and she just knows that you felt it because your grip on her throat tightens at last, unapologetic nails becoming a barbed wire necklace that itches to splay her tendons for the world to witness. 

“Oh, Mulsa, that’s where you’re wrong.” You tsk with condescension. “Everything is different. I’m finally who I was always meant to be, existing outside of the fear that plagued me, and it’s all thanks to you. I have embraced my destiny, can you say the same?”

Mockery drips from your words and her reality suddenly shifts as she finds herself in a castle that assembles itself with a swish of your wrist. It reigns beautifully decrepit in nature; rotten beams of wood rib the frame, moss rests in divots of cracking stone, and moonlight glints through openings in the ceiling. You casually lean against a gothic throne of skulls that no one sits upon and Wednesday transforms into a court jester, in the presence of a lowly regent who pretends that they do not pull all of the strings behind the scenes.

“How long do you think you’ll last in this kingdom of solitude, Wednesday? Who else will you hurt in your quest for knowledge? And do the answers you find at the end of it all outweigh the expense others have to pay to get you there?” Your voice rumbles, ricocheting off stone walls before striking her exactly where you know it will hurt most.

Color touches her skin for the first time, anger and humiliation mingling to create a red sheen on pale flesh. It’s a sort of wickedness she never thought you to be capable of but perhaps she should have seen it coming. 

“None of that is relevant.” She whispers harshly.

“Isn’t it? Am I not the cataclysm of your choices? Is this not me paying your dues?” Massive charcoal wings beat; once, twice, three times – they propel you upward, high into the air and tree bark horns tilt your jaw back with their weight. Specks of blood rain down from the force, painting the surrounding layout maroon, dousing Wednesday in turn. You bare your arms outward, showcasing your new form to an audience of one.

Crisp, off-white linen hugs the muscles of your torso while the sleeves furl at each elbow. Three buttons are undone, revealing a prominent collarbone and a smooth expanse of skin. Dark beige slacks loosely clutch to long legs – one slightly bent at the knee, toeing the edge of the other as you hover in place. You are all neutral tones with monochromatic undercurrents, eyes drowning in a void of black reeking of judgement, and vibrancy is lost to a death by her own hands.

Wednesday licks her lips, catching droplets of metallic liquid on her tongue. Stagnancy overrules the scent of trees in the foreground and there is no reprieve as she suffocates on nothing but the truth. Her resolve is crumbling; you may not be a ruler of this kingdom but you do have an undeniable deathgrip on her heartstrings. If you were anyone else, that fact would be revolting. 

“Unless,” a pause. “Maybe this is what you wanted. You always did love everything dark and twisted.”

Slowly, you descend in front of her and there’s a soft click as the heels of your dress shoes settle down. Dust kicks up into the air, your wings breezing along the floor, and you wordlessly take four shallow strides around her. You come to stand behind her, breath fanning over the sensitive stretch of her neck. She can see you no longer but just your presence in itself is taunting.

There’s a brush of fingertips against her back, nudging her forward and before long she arrives at a set of steps. You shove her up them; the action makes her stumble and her balance is lost to the last stair. She falls into the vacant throne, which she now realizes belongs to her. Twin knees scrape the edge, making her body twist to relieve the pain and sit properly. 

Indignation rises to the surface at the mistreatment and Wednesday tries to swallow it, to keep away words that will only perpetuate this discourse, but it’s fruitless. “My proclivities aren’t your concern. Up to this point, every decision you have made has been solely yours. I am not to blame for your indiscretions.”

“Perhaps.” You nod, standing resolutely at the incline up to the throne she sits upon. “Truly, I’m not here for placations or reasonings. You are partially correct in assuming that this,” your hand waves around your form, “is not the inner workings of your… machinations.”

“Then why? What is this macabre display for?” Wednesday interrupts.

None of it makes sense; how easily you forfeit your earlier claims. 

“Because, in the end, this was never for you.” You start, something dark creeping along your legs. It rises to dwarf your already tall stature and features are slow to form but when they do, they are wholly monstrous and deeply unsettling. There is absolutely nothing in this world that compares and warning bells screech a dizzying spell of the danger to come should Wednesday choose to misstep in its presence.

Exaggerating steps loosen the hold it has on you, materializing into translucent flesh, and your body is distorted to her as the being stands in front of you. An arm raises, travelling up to your chest, and stuttering in wicked glee before plunging in. You gasp loudly, figure hunching over, and the being forces you straight with its free hand at your shoulder. With a dramatic flair, it rips its fingers out and they do not come back empty. 

Without care or regard, the beast walks away from you, and the sight that greets Wednesday grips her with terror. The facade of power fades to nothing and you are left human but skeletal. Wings, horns, the black void; they’re all gone, and exhaustion coats your dull eyes, your knees buckling to the floor. Falling forward, your shoulders rise, head ducking low as nailbeds of blood trace the cracking stone of the floor. Convulsions attack your spine, driving a body of bones further into the ground. 

“A distraction,” The beast rumbles in glee, an olden accent curling over its words. “To pull you away from the truth.” A bleeding, bruising heart rests in its palm; dark blotches covering the organ and Wednesday finds it disconcerting the way they pulsate, widening with each heavy breath you shudder. “We finally understand now; love is a weakness. For children who still play with toy soldiers, dreaming of the day they will change the world. It’s quite humorous, don’t you think?”

And there, right then, despite your best efforts to play it off as something else, Wednesday finally sees the evil for what it truly is: self-preservation. It is protection, disguising itself as rage. It is guardianship, shouldering all that you cannot and turning it into power. It is the heart in a beast’s hand, with a cage that moulds along its edges that wills itself not to break any further.

Red teeth gleam up at her, a grotesque smile staring straight through her, and dissuading her attention from the creature next to you. “I never wanted to change the world, Wednesday, not really anyway. But I did want you – not just the good parts but also the pieces of you that raged in contempt. I wanted the entirety of you: your doubt, your fear, your selfishness; the thousand-yard stare, the tempered soul, the frostbitten heart. I wanted the girl who despised even the thought of love.”

“No.” Wednesday utters except it’s too quiet, caught in her throat.  

“God, Wednesday, I wanted it all – everything you were willing to part with and nothing more. Yet, you turned your back on us and you didn't even have the decency to give me a valid reason why. I deserved better than a half-assed excuse as to why it had to end. But it’s okay. Blame is a two-way street and I was wrong too. I pushed and ignored every warning sign, dancing along boundaries and fed into your suspicions without a need to prove myself to be on your side.”

“No.” She tries again. 

(Still not enough, still on the cusp of- of-.)

“And I guess, this is all to say that we both had a choice and perhaps we chose wrong, though maybe the cards were always stacked against us. Now here we are, forcing each other to relieve it all over again, and it’s time to put an end to this. We finally get to have what we tried to cheat each other out of. You finally get to be free and I finally get to say goodb-.” 

“No!” The single word rips and tears and mutilates her throat in the effort to leave the confines of her voice box. All her life Wednesday has been toeing the line between devastation and freedom, a weak grip on her inhibitions, always viscerally trying to prove something or another. Until a sick sense of clarity washes over what this all means; one more loss, one more all alone, one final nail in the coffin. 

A death to rewrite all the others. 

Falling in love with you was like falling asleep, gradually then all at once, because it crept along the edges of her vision until it was too late and despite her aversion to it, it was warm. And the days that followed were everything she thought herself to be incapable of; the quiet nights, the sound of rustling sheets as she wrote pages upon pages on her typewriter, the dulcet tones of you humming along to vibrating strings, the laughter without reservation, the eyes full of a home made just for her, the hands that held her softly in the dark. 

And then, of course, the self-sabotage set in. Her wants and desires took a backseat to make room for fear, and somewhere in the midst, the ease of your love made way for her doubt and she swears you both lost something that day. The person she became to combat her loss of control isn’t something she’s proud of but maybe… maybe this is the part where she pleads with you to understand. Where she lays everything on the line; all her misgivings and the lies she tries to tell herself to circumvent all that she does not understand.  

When your eyes cut across her own, you look at her like you know, and the uncaged beast only laughs as your features close themselves off from her once more. The vulnerability seeps out, draining from trembling, bloodsoaked fingers, and replacing itself with indifference before Wednesday even has the chance to rearrange her thoughts into coherency. The pleas building in her throat die, falling into the void of every other thing she’s left unsaid.

How repulsive.  

Wednesday’s jaw clenches at her own inadequacy, teeth clicking in time with her shallow breaths. Hands of ice grasp tightly at each other while she tries to reform the truth she’s been meaning to say. It’s time, she attempts to coax herself. No longer will she bow to her lesser qualms. 

Enough is enough. 

“You were wrong.”

A feigned grace pulls her from the throne, rising up and carrying her down the steps that will lead her to you. Firm resolve weights each footfall to the stone beneath Wednesday, laying the groundwork for an outcome that doesn’t end with ties severed indefinitely. A disgusting amount of trepidation still lingers menacingly, but not for prior reasons. It washes over her because she knows that if she doesn't get this right and you walk away from her once again, it will be for the last time. 

As she reaches you, the beast rears up into the space between you, your heart ducking out of sight with a single movement. Up close, Wednesday can see the second the previous glee renders itself obsolete, paving the way for rage to form in its stead. Translucence melds into mortal flesh in an instant, further providing a barrier to you and it’s features constantly flicker; sweeping into each other, refusing to commit to a lone one. 

All of it is a warning: for you may have never been able to truly hurt her, but this beast holds no such inhibitions. And yet, Wednesday ignores it, skirting around the form with a brief flicker of eye contact. Rolling coals follow the movement, a sneer deepening the gouges at the corners of it’s mouth. Heat steadily rises at her back when she kneels before you, gaining in temperature, and a hearth set ablaze licks the skin of Wednesday’s nape, until sweat lines her hairline.  

“Before,” Wednesdays continues despite the duality of the cold shell holding your gaze captive and the heat at her back, her fingertips fluttering around your body but never settling. “You said you’d never be good enough for me.” A scowl crawls into her features, disdain vaguely clinging to her words. “You were wrong.�� 

Confusion briefly overcomes the frost but it’s not enough. You flinch with every syllable, as if her words still burn; like your flesh is a step away from igniting and she’s dousing you in lighter fluid. A battlefield sprawls before her, all of her own making, and each word is a precarious mark upon the earth, hidden with landmines Wednesday tries to sidestep. 

Wednesday thinks this might be part of her destiny that Goody forgot to mention – truth be told, self-loathing is akin to starvation; the hunger pains force you to eat yourself from the inside out until nothing remains. Perhaps that’s the most tragic intricacy of her fate, to commit atrocities for the sake of others' preservation, and to suffer all the more for it. Now, trying to find the medium between the two banks entirely on her willingness to push aside everything she’s ever thought to know about herself. 

As Wednesday gazes upon you; you with the sunrise in your eyes and the red candle wax burning lips, she clings to the notion that it isn’t the dying that scares her, but the insurmountable loneliness that follows in the wake of your departure. It is hollow and damning because you are attempting to leave, in more ways than one, and she is running out of options that will force you to stay. 

Longing breaches through the whisper of her words, “You were too much, in all the soft ways I desire to detest. Too good, too simple; too easy to love. And so, I wanted-” Wednesday’s breath falters, fingers folding to tear at the lines of each palm. “I wanted to make you pay, for forcing these ugly emotions upon me. I never wished to feel the juvenile propensity to need you, in all the foul ways weaker beings fall victim to. Yet, it is those feelings that beg of me to forfeit this charade, because, for however seldom I say it, I do love you.”

Finally, Wednesday reaches for your hand, knuckles scraping along the stone to slot her fingers between your own. “I’m in love with you, and it is all-consuming, vile, and entirely effortless. I may not know how it will end, but I believe there exists a place out there built just for the two of us; one that is otherworldly, and beautiful, and so, so alive. Destiny be damned.”

Wednesday watches as your eyes crawl the length of her face, an unreadable expression marring the expanse of your features. A shudder partly pulls your body away from her, a heavy exhale escaping your lips. She can’t tell whether her words were well received as you hunch your knees under your chin, cradling your elbows around the edges of your calves. Just as she goes to continue, desperation clinging to the fraying ends of her sanity, your free palm craters the ground beneath you. 

Long forgotten wraiths spiral into view and confusion tears her form upwards onto her feet, unwittingly losing the grip she has on you. They begin to chase her and the ground beneath her feet zooms out of focus as she tries to get away. They’re faster, upon Wednesday in mere seconds, and then she’s falling, falling, falling, and for a long moment nothing comes up to catch her.

Yet again, the scenery of the throne room changes and she stumbles to her knees in a foreign land. 

Grass bunches up between her fingers, wet and coarse, and a graveyard looms before her. Each tombstone lining the distance is marked with a name, cementing every loss she’s ever faced; not just of people, but places and emotions too. A beat passes before you appear at her side, steps away from an open casket set six feet in the ground. When she shuffles up to unsteady feet, the body within it looks suspiciously like you. 

Your voice carries on the wind, circling her as you murmur, “What if you’re wrong?”

There’s a slew of answers on the tip of Wednesday’s tongue, but most fall short, never quite encompassing what she truly wants to say. One, though, rises above the rest, so simple it makes her want to scoff. Instead, she pushes the sound down, and in the midst of the words that follow, a part of her realizes that she’s finally learning; understanding. There are things in the world that you need not fight, nor feelings that are too childish to accept. Some things are just simple; easy.

“But what if I’m right?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Wednesday sees you sway slightly in place, her words – honest at last – completely sinking in. With a noticeable limp stuttering your footsteps, you gradually move in front of her. The tips of your dress shoes scratch along the edges of her own boots as you eliminate every ounce of Wednesday’s personal space, your arm rising up in her peripheral vision. Hesitation faults the movement, and she recognizes the doubt for what it is: a fear she never meant to place within you; of her reaction, of her motives, of her.  

With time, she promises to herself to put all of her wrongs right, but for now, she gently latches onto your wrist, bringing your hand down to rest on the underside of her jaw. Your eyes flash with recognition before your forehead descends upon hers, a shaky breath exhaling against her lips that sounds like an okay. Suddenly boneless, your body sags, shoulders loosening as your other arm reaches around the small of her back, tugging her into you. 

You hold onto Wednesday tighter than she ever had the audacity to covet her desires and she cannot deny the sense of home that follows. 

Without fear, her feet lift up, gaining a slight height advantage to place a lingering kiss atop your head, but a figure drifts into focus before her eyes can close. The beast faintly shimmers behind the tombstone with your name on it that fades, a neutral expression on it’s face. It watches Wednesday closely, eyes of coal simmering into ash as it takes in your figure so entwined with her own. Your heart still resides in it’s palm, but even from here, Wednesday can gauge how loosely it’s grip is. A nod of a head and a quirk of lips beckons her, once last time, to take in another truth. 

Love has many faces, and seldom are they seen clearly.

Your heart finds its way back to its home as the beast settles, slowly descending in height, and it’s features melt into a vaguely familiar countenance. It is you, but aged, with laugh lines marking the corners of your eyes, and a nostalgic smile at the cusp of your lips. And it is an echo, of both your and her future, teetering on the edge of a forever that will soon be fully earned. 

( – there are places in wednesday that the light doesn’t touch and she can’t help but to put you in all of them.

but then you learn to become the light, and all the dark places shine.)

[pia-nor481]

She Looks Like a Star- Chapter One

Multidriver x reader (mostly Oscar this chapter)

With the growth of her fan base she decides it’s best to join a big company, what she didn’t expect was how scary it was actually going to be.

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She was nervous walking down the hall, wearing obnoxiously loud heels and a tight skirt, not sure how to feel while wearing what was unusual attire for her. Typically she spent her time in lounge wear, lingerie or nothing so having to wear business smart clothes was a little unnerving. Every few steps she looked at the document in the open folder, trying to find the correct room for the meeting she was supposed to be sat in, in about twenty minutes.

With her head pointed down and her mind in a whole other world she walked straight into a man in the dark hallway. "I'm so sorry, are you alright?" She was momentarily stunned by the Australian accent. "Yes, I'm fine, I should have been looking where I was going." After overcoming her bashfulness she looked up, and was met with a sweet smile, only then did she acknowledge the hand on her waist, keeping her steady. "Are you sure, It seems quite hard to walk in those shoes." He said in a lower volume, looking her up and down. Only now was she able to take him in; His messy brown hair, unusually pale skin considering his accent and the tight navy blue t-shirt showing off his strong arms. She was so taken aback that her only reply to the question was a quick nod. "I'm Oscar by the way. I think we'll be working together at some point soon." She smiled finally gathering her things and straightening out her clothes. "It's nice to meet you Oscar." 

"I'm still pretty new around here, but I have a year of navigation experience on you so...Where are you trying to go?" He asked, taking the folder from her arms, trying to save her from carrying too much. "Board room two. I'm supposed to be meeting Christian to discuss my contract and well the logistics of working here." Oscar let out a quiet 'Ah', hooking his arm through hers. "It might help walking in the right direction." He gently laughed, turning around. Her face became warm as they walked. "Don't worry, my first day was a complete mess. I was locked out of the building, seriously late to my first meeting and I waited at the wrong set for about twenty-five minutes. So you're actually starting quite well." Her nerves eased slightly, she could tell Oscar wasn't a particularly chatty person but it was clear how hard her was trying to almost comfort her. "So where did you work before coming here, I'm sorry to say that I don't think I recognise you. Then again I'm not really a big viewer." He said almost shamefully, not realising before he started speaking that it could very easily be taken in an offensive way. "No, no it's okay. I didn't really work with a big company, I did more amateur and home-shot videos. I'm guessing you worked for another company before?" She was unsure as to why it was almost embarrassing that she made all her content on her own. "Yeah, I worked for a smaller company for quite a while actually. You must be pretty talented to make those videos on you're own, especially if it meant you've landed a spot here." Oscar spoke with a sense of excitement during the latter half of the sentence. She looked down as she spoke, entrusting Oscar with fully guiding her. "I now this place is one of the best, but why did you leave you're last company?" Oscar sighed just thinking about it. "I had almost no autonomy. There were certain things I wanted to do, not just because I enjoyed it, but because it makes for a good watch too. But they always shut me down with out even considering it." Oscar seemed genuinely sad about it, she quickly spoke up, questioning how awful that must have been. "Yeah, it was really annoying. But a lot of the videos were scripted like that corny rubbish with the awful acting you usually see with ads. That was the worst. Although you won't fully escape that here, that's one of Sebastian's favourites to film." He laughed at the end. 

"Oscar, stop boring the poor girl." She looked up to see Christian pen in hand standing outside of what she assumed to be bored room two. "Alright, alright I'll go." Oscar said smiling, passing her folder back. "Don't forget you have a scene wit Lando today." Christian shouted towards him. "I know, set room four." 

"Sorry about him." Christian said, guiding her into the room. "So I'm sure you've read the terms and conditions regarding pay and so on. But I do want to elaborate on what would be you're schedule with us. I'm aware and happy that you will continue to film and post you're own content in you're own hours. So here you will be filming a minimum of three videos a week, and a least one of them must be with another actor here, and a maximum of nine, Of course we do not expect or require you to reach that number. So dates, ideas, sets and time allocation need to be made at least three weeks in advance, four weeks if you require and permits or new equipment of any kind. In addition to this, you will be meeting the other actors today and you will be doing a scene with one of them next week. We will have an additional meeting regarding that and what we call a logistics meeting with the other actor to ensure everyone is on the same page." One of the main things she took away from that was how much Christian was able to talk with needing to take a breath, the other was how much work would actually go into this job. "Right, I'm happy with all of that." She spoke rather quietly. "Great. You will also be meeting a few members of the production team, mainly the camera and sound crew which Toto is in charge of." She nodded swiftly as he continued to explain how the company works and what would be happening in the future.

"So you will need to sign here...here...and here." She did so and looked back up waiting to be told what was happening next. "So you have you're own private room here, it's like an office with a bed and a wardrobe. You will be added to the schedule and as you now have your company email feel free to join in and ask questions when needed. So any last questions?" At this point she was feeling a tad overwhelmed but was happy with the outcome. "No, all is good." She spoke with a small smile, slowly standing up. "Wonderful. I'll see you on Tuesday for the next meeting." They shook hands before she left and as soon as she was out of the room and the door was close, she let out a particularly loud sign of relief. Only now did she realise how taxing this could be

She made quick work of finding her office, initially struggling with the key before placing all of her belongings on the desk. She sat down taking a deep breath deciding it would be best to log in and check what he schedule was for next week. Tuesday she had a meeting with all of the actors, directors and some members of the logistics team to discuss the increase in shooting hours for the next set of holidays and what ideas would be used for those videos. That same day she had a meeting with Christian and Charles about their scene on the 14th. She was more shocked than she should have been. Already she was supposed to be shooting, she didn't even know what he looked like and yet she needed to come up with an idea for the video, and be able to put into words what her limits actually were. Before there was no need to plan ahead so much. She could just put on a pretty outfit, turn on the camera and have fun. Now it felt all too much, as though it was more than a fun and paying pastime. She was quick to shoot up upon hearing the knock at the door. "It's just me." Oscar shouted through the door, opening it quickly before sitting down. "So, how was the meeting?" He asked, leaning in as close as possible. She didn't notice to start but Oscar was only wearing trousers and a robe, his blue shirt missing. "It was okay, pretty overwhelming, but good." She said, bringing her eyes back to the computer. 

"Since you want to know and wont ask, Lando gets pretty handsy sometimes, that's usually why I film with him last, or wait a few days to film with someone else. It not a territorial thing, he just likes to see the marks." He spoke softly as he stood up, pulling the robe off. His collar was covered in love bites and teeth marks, while his back was painted with scratches. "Oh wow." Oscar just laughed at her lack of filter. "It's not as bad as it looks, and he's not like this with everyone." He said, eyes closed as the robe began to cover his skin again. "Oh, so you get special treatment. I see how it is." She giggled, avoiding his eyes, scared he's begin to dislike her. "I wish...He doesn't really film with the guys much anymore, I am of course the exception."

He took a deep breath before making sure the door was closed. " Since we're both pretty new I'll fill you in with all the secrets. Lando gets attached very quickly, it's so easy for him to love. That makes him a great person, one of the best you'll ever be around. But that trait is bad in this industry. He joined five years ago, along with George and Alex, but they aren't important to the story. When you start, Usually you're paired with just once actor for a while. For him that was Carlos, and for a lack of a better term he pretty much fell in love with him, but not in a 'I want to date' way. It's complicated. After a few years Carlos left to go to another company for a while and Lando was completely distraught and well angry with Carlos." She was a little shocked that Oscar was so willing to tell her so much. Then again it didn't really affect him. "So Zak, the head of the logistic team, paired him up with Daniel for a while, thinking it would do him some good, they're pretty different, but in a good way." 

Oscar was hesitant to continue, checking his watch every now and then, but since he started he couldn't really stop. "Yet Lando resented him. Daniel didn't take it to heart, knowing the whole situation. He's been here for eight years longer than Lando so he's seen a lot and could tell Lando was struggling. I'll be honest Lando is a massive brat usually, so that coupled with the whole situation was a lot. It made some great content sure, but it was still difficult for every one around them. Long story short they began to get along and at some point Lando fell for Daniel, may I add, both times it wasn't completely one sided. But when things got pretty good for them, Daniel took a break from filming all together, it broke Lando all over again." She took a sharp inhale at the end, it sounded devastating just hearing about it, so she could only imagine how it felt. "So Lando decided he didn't want to film with any of the guys anymore. He started working on some more kink based content with different actors. But slowly he's been coming back. So when I joined last year he didn't want any thing to do with me. Not in a mean way, it was more like he was apprehensive. And of course Zak decided to pair us up and well, we've been filming with each other at least twice a week since." He said shrugging his shoulders, finally doing his robe up properly. "Oh wow that's a lot. Is he not worried you're going to leave him at some point? Not to be disrespectful to you, but surely that's a concern of his." She said as Oscar stood up, motioning for her to do so as well. "First, you need to get changed as Christian has instructed me to accompany you while you meet the rest of the actors, so I'm going to turn around, promise I wont peek." He laughed, checking his watch again. She was quick to start stripping of her clothes, reaching in her bag for some more comfortable attire. "Second, of course he worried, wouldn't you be? But we're adults about it so its usually okay. Now that you say that, that's probably the reason I'm covered in marks." He trailed off, shocked that he didn't think of it sooner. 

She placed her hands on his arms, turning him so they were face to face. "Is this okay?" She questioned looking down at what she was wearing. Oscars eyes followed hers, although stopped much sooner than she did, he couldn't help but stare, mainly at her tits as he could see all the way down her top. He may fuck on camera for most of the week, but he was no better than the average man. "You look perfect." He didn't know what was making him so bold, usually he's quite reserved, not particularly shy, just not talkative. He doesn't know what's gotten into him.

"Come on, it's getting late and it's kind of required that you meet everyone on your first day." They walked out the door and back into another relatively dark hallway, towards on of the many break rooms; Oscar was told to go to the second 'bed set' break room. "So, why'd you tell me all of that?" Oscar didn't expect her to ask him to explain his actions but it seems he really had no choice. "I care about him, so in a way it's just me looking out for him." She hummed with a smile. "If it wasn't me that told you, some else would have, its no real secret. Well the events were not a secret but Lando's true feelings and how bad he really was at the time is more of the secret." After Oscar's little rant she began wonder if they were actually together or if it was once again a two side love relationship without the relationship. "So who's the first one on you're calendar, and don't try to hide it. I know I'm on there but you wouldn't have been staring at that screen so intensely if I was the first." She sighed at his words, ever the observer he seemed to be. "Charles." Oscar was pleased with that, thinking there wouldn't be anyone better. "Actually that's really good for you. He's a lot more sensual and romantic so I believe that Zak thinks he's the safest option because you're content is just you getting off when ever you feel like it, not too focused on the production." He began, not realising he was rambling. "I thought you said you didn't know who I was." She huffed with a teasing tone, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well maybe I lied...Okay I looked you up when you were in that meeting." There was a long pause until they reached the door.

Chapter Two