#Rage against the calamity

[canaryintergalactic]

I think we should normalize giving wizzrobes bird motifs again. anyways.

pretty much got so lost trying to come up with lore for all of them that I just smashed them into @bugcatcherwill 's Rage Against the Calamity so I guess they're RAtC OCs now HFJSHDJHSH

I am a very passionate advocate for Wizzrobes with feathers and pointy beak noses !! Svihel and Seak/E-36 just have very sleek feathers I PROMISE THEY'RE NOT BALD

Image text & small extra details under cut !!

Fern [Fire Wizzrobe] // Alive but in critical condition // Gerudo Highlands // Defected // Literally freezing to death in a crevice on the border between the Gerudo Desert and Highlands. Oops // Didn't even defect on purpose, the Malice literally abandoned it because it couldn't handle the temperatures where it was stationed.

Tephra / F-27 [Fire Wizzrobe] // Alive // Castle Town Outskirts // Malicious // Aspiring Elder of Fire, definitely has detailed plans to essentially assassinate the current Elder but keeps getting sidetracked because it's stupid /j // MEAN

Cinders [Meteo Wizzrobe] // Alive // Nomadic but lingers near Eldin // Defected // Basically the exact polar opposite of Frifer; has absolutely zero hope in literally anything at all and hides away in caves or secluded stretches of Eldin waiting for anything but the Calamity to find it.

--

Rime [Ice Wizzrobe] // Alive but probably insane // Lanayru // Defected // New to the whole defection from Calamity Ganon thing and is kind of really weird about it, often relapses into old habits and then abruptly remembers it's Not Supposed to Do That and freaks out at itself.

Svihel [Ice Wizzrobe] // Alive // Gerudo Highlands // Defected // Moraine attempted to save Svihel from being indoctrinated but was killed in trying to escape with it. Svihel was taken and raised under the Calamity's influence but didn't take long to defect after it found out what happened to its tubayse.

Moraine [Blizzrobe] // Dead [Hunted down by the Elders, murdered by the Elder of Fire] // Defected, basically Rezek if Rezek got fucking decimated trying to save Ashen.

--

Pirouette "Roue" [Electric Wizzrobe] // Alive // Nomadic // Defected // Defected doesn't necessarily equate to benevolent this thing is so evil. Also partners with Sisu [not pictured], a bre-fen red maned Lynel who was exiled because it somehow lacks elemental resilience. They fuck shit up together.

Rain [Thunder Wizzrobe] // Dead [Gored by a Molduga] // Defected, a secret Dinju was never able to share before it was too late for both of them. Not sure if anyone would ever even find out about it. This one's more of a long shot I made for pure indulgence but I didn't know who else to put in the last spot in the Electric/Thunder Wizzrobe row lol

Seak [Pronounced Sake] / E-36 [Thunder Wizzrobe] // Alive // Far stretches of Tabantha // Malicious // Lawful evil type deal, probably gets its Malice forcefully expunged like Fern because it shows too much mercy despite still being relatively nasty -- probably the best Ganon's Wizzrobes have to offer personality-wise though /hj

[klee-0]

Posting this here for @amber-dragonfly because her ao3 fic Rage Against The Calamity has had me obsessed for like a few years now-

Sledge is probably one if my favourites but they're all so good I can't choose hshejshd

Im gonna do the others later too

[amber-dragonfly]

Is this Zayl-core

I think it is :)

[jesshq]

I forgot to post these on my tumblr but these were gifts to the author of one of my fav Zelda fanfics: rage against the calamity by @bugcatcherwill

The first one: was a drawing of their monster ocs Ashen and Kehwees playing with some chuchu and keese for a celebration drawing of getting to 100 chapters

And the second one is of their OC Sahpira when it gave up its robe sleeves as a small thought I had of how it looked like after it lost them

[mystic-hunter]

I did it again! Another chapter of this little fanfiction of a fanfiction. Go read Rage Against the Calamity by @bugcatcherwill. It's been really fun reading the story and writing my own story. Little thing though. This chapter was going to be longer but it was getting to long. So I've already started work on a 3rd chapter.

I was the first to rouse myself awake.  This was not surprising.  I got out of my bedroll and put my doctor's mask back on.  My mind went to the rumors as I began my daily preparations.  It had been a few days before since the duelist had heard them and relayed that information to us.  This did not come as a shock to me.  Especially given the letter I had received that set me and my little group on this adventure.  But even before I should have seen the clues.  Accepted the facts.  The many autopsies I conducted on the monstrous creatures.  It made way too much sense now.  I was blinded by magic when I should have kept my eyes on science.  Well the past is the past.  Nothing to be done about it except reevaluate and retheorize.

But in my deep thoughts I failed to notice the other early riser of our group The Duelist was overlooking the northern cliff we camped out on.  He had his specially designed Hawkeye Binoculars on.

“Hello Duelist.  What do you see on our path today?”

“Ah Magpie I should have known you would be up.  But to answer your question… nothing.  We should reach the lab by this afternoon with any luck.”

“Good.  Well I believe everything is packed and ready to go when our other two allies awaken and pack their personal effects.”

And so we waited.  When everyone awoke and was ready we once again started to move across the yellow and orange trees of Akkala.  Soon I saw our goal at the top of the hill.  Ferrous broke into a sprint to get there faster.  As the rest of us ran to catch up we saw something interesting.  There was already a Sheikah at the door.  Lab equipment adorned his form.  He spoke in a questioning and stern tone, “What business do you all have to be in this little corner of the world?”

It is at this point I take out a letter emblazoned with the insignia of the Sheikah from my coat pocket.  I quickly push to the front of the group and hand the letter to the man, “You sent this letter to me Doctor Robbie.  You said you had something of great importance to discuss and could use my knowledge of anatomy.”

At the mention of the meeting and letter the man immediately softened his tone, “Ah you must be Magpie then?”

“That is correct.”

I was able to catch the looks of my comrades as we were ushered inside by Doctor Robbie.  They all had either confusion or anger plastered on them.  Only Ferrous was unreadable given the mask and hood they wore.  I could tell they wanted to ask questions but were rushed in too quickly to get words out.

Immediately We all were face to face with a whole small group of monsters.  A red bokoblin, a blue moblin, a green lizalfos.  I swore I even saw a glimpse of a hinox through the back window.  It was clear this was more than a simple house call like the letter I got insinuated.  Although there were two missing.  The wizzrobes I read about were missing from the little group.  Before I could linger on that any longer though, the lizalfos immediately ran up and greeted us with the butt of a spear in front of me, “Hello there!  My name is Zayl.  Who are you?”

The spear in my face immediately put some of my allies on alert.  Specifically Ferrous, who’s hand started crackling with a black lightning and Duelist, who had half drawn their rapier.  I simply hooked my arm around the spear and responded, “You may call me Doctor Magpie while I am here.”

Ferrous’ hand lowered but still crackled with energy as they spoke, “Magpie.  We have to talk.  First of all, what the fuck?!  Second, HOW!?”

“Please let us not swear so freely in the presence of patients.  To answer both your questions,” I took out the letter again, “I was called here by Doctor Robbie as he needed a professional anatomist and medical doctor to help him with some and I quote ‘unique’ patients.”

This time Duelist spoke, clearly upset, “Magpie I hope you know this was a complete breach in our trust of you.  You lied about why you wanted to come here.”

“I never lied.  I said I got a call to collaborate with a fellow doctor and was needed in North Eastern Akkala.  Where was the lie?”

Duelist simply grumbled as he turned to leave the building.  He will come around.  I know it.  I then turn my attention back to Zayl and the other monsters, “So I will be upfront about why I am here.  I was called by Doctor Robbie to do some medical check ups for all of you.”

They all seemed to be off put so I corrected my statement, “There will be no use of a scalpel or cutting open of you unless I find something truly wrong with you.  But I highly doubt that will be necessary considering my glancing diagnosis.”

Doctor Robbie cut me off as he got everyone's attention, “alright folks I think we should let the good Doctor do his job shall we?  So Doctor!  Who shall you look at first?”

“I think there is no better place to start than this one in front of me,” motioning to Zayl.

“Excellent.  Alright so you can use the little back room to do your work,” as he pointed to a small room in a small corner of the home.

Zayl spoke up clearly distressed, “Wait um when you said no cutting open were you serious?”

“Of course, I am a doctor not a tyrant.  My job is to heal.  Well let us have a look at you.  The rest of you.  Do not be afraid of my little posse.  They do not mean any harm,” and so I took Zayl into the little back room.  It was well lit and had a simple high seat for patients.  “Please sit up on here if you would not mind Zayl.”  It took its place on the seat, “You do not have to say but I am curious as to what happened to your tail,” I could tell by it grabbing its tail and cuddling it close that it did not like the topic, “Understood.  We will leave that question forgotten then.  Now open your mouth please.”  It did so without fuss.  I took a look inside and did my normal routine.  Even with the difference in species it wasn’t all that different in terms of health.  Slightly stained but clean sharp teeth made to hold fish after being grabbed by that long tongue.  “Okay.  Now please change your colors to your surroundings please,” again Zayl did so without fuss.  Its skin goes from the vibrant and slightly shiny green to a dull brick-like texture that matches perfectly if it were not for one eye trained on me and the other constantly zipping to other parts of the room.  It is stressed out.  I should wrap this up quickly.  “Alright.  One last thing and then you can take a break.  Please grab this with your tongue but do not swallow it,” as I threw an empty bottle up in the air, there was a flash of pink flesh and I saw the bottle dangling from Zayls tongue.  “Alright that should be about everything for now.  We will pick this back up when you are more comfortable.”  Zayl seems to let out a breath I did not even realize it was holding.  It quickly gathered itself and left the room.  This was going to be a challenge if Zayl was supposed to be the most outgoing. This was going to be much harder.

I also hope I wrote everyone well enough! I mentioned I got stuck on Zayl's cadence and speech pattern so I do hope I did good. I always did think it would feel uncomfortable in a doctors office given the tail thing.

[amber-dragonfly]

LMAOOOOOOO

Rezek occasionally thinking of what happened to the Wizzrobe it fought and freed in the Yiga Hideout, hoping it's finding its way in the world. Especially after the success with the Wizzrobe trio it hopes Ire will find the same love in living.

Completely oblivious to the fact that Ire's just being an angsty little edge-gremlin somewhere and won't stop screaming "THIS IS YOUR FAULT REZEK YOU RUINED ME I HATE YOU AND WILL RIP YOU APART WITH MY BARE HANDS"

God when their paths collide again,,,

for you and your warped reflection

[ameliathornromance]

Your Orc’s vision is blurry as he comes to below the rubble. He’s paralysed, can’t rotate his head to look around and see what’s going on.

But he can smell it. Iron and smoke mix to mark the scent of death and calamity. His eyes adjust as his eyes dart around frantically.

Black clouds plume above him, a fire crackling in the corner of his eye, its heat warming the left side of his face. 

Screams echo around him, their owners out of sight. The whinny of horses follows them, your Orc’s stomach dropping as he realises what’s going on.

Monster Hunters.

Your Boyfriend tries to push himself up, search for some kind of weapon to defend his home with. Only for his body to refuse to comply, keeping him rooted to the ground.

He needs to defend his home. He needs to stand up; he needs to protect you-

His blood freezes in his veins. Where are you?

Your Orc remembers that the pair of you got into bed together. He remembers hearing you laugh as he scuttled his fingers up your waist, tickling you. 

He remembers the feeling of your soft lips pressing against his, wishing him goodnight. 

You can’t have gone far. While you were a human, you had grown close to the Orcs and their camp. You wouldn’t just abandon them when they needed you the most. Let alone just up and leave him.

An ear-piercing shriek rips through the air. Your boyfriend’s eyes dart to the source, where he sees you.

Soot and red cover your ripped nightgown. He’d never seen you run so fast in your life. Never seen you look so scared before.

He tried to shout at you, to tell you he’s over here, he’s coming to help you. But his voice remained shut away in his throat, his mouth refusing to form the words. 

Your Orc watches as you trip and fall over a tent nail and scramble into the rubble of it. A man on horseback advances on you, his cloak fluttering in the wind as he cracks a whip in the air. 

The Orc tries to shout as the whip’s end wraps tightly around your ankle. The horseman cackles as he drags you from the rubble, you shouting, screaming and kicking at the leather whip. 

Tears are streaking down your cheeks as the horse rider dismounts and walks over to you. His face twists and contorts as he yanks you to your feet and throws you over his shoulder. 

You beat your fists on his back, shrieking at him to let you go. But you stop as your lock eyes with your boyfriend. 

Rage rips through your Orc’s body, but it’s not enough to force himself up. The roar in his throat never breaches his lips.

Your tears roll down your cheeks at a faster pace now. You bury your head in your hands as the Monster Hunter throws you onto the back of the horse and clambers up onto it. 

The Monster Hunter digs his feet into the sides of the horse and charges away from the camp, you still sobbing on the back of the horse. 

And finally, your Orc speaks.

“No!”

The Orc bolts upright in his bed, chest heaving up and down. He looks around frantically at the dark interior of his tent, the smell of smoke and iron gone from the air. 

His eyes flicker to the tent’s entrance, then to his weapon propped against the bed frame.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

Your Orc whips around to face you. Worry fills your eyes as your eyebrows furrow. Your soft hands cradle the muscle of his upper arm. 

The adrenaline dies as your Orc Boyfriend looks you over. 

There’s no blood on your nightgown, no soot or dirt smudged on your cheeks. 

The Orc freezes for a moment, watching you. “How… I don’t…” A sob chokes his words. 

“You’re shaking,” your voice was so soft, so quiet compared to the screaming he’d just heard.

The Orc looks down at his hands, watching as his fingers tremble. He swallows hard as he looks back at you. 

“You’re alright.” He manages. 

You give him a sympathetic smile. “Of course I’m alright, why wouldn’t I be?” 

Without warning, the Orc pulls you into a hug. He buries his head in your neck, inhaling your scent.

You flinch at his sudden affection, but lean into him once you hear a shuddering breath escape him. Wrapping your arms around him, the Orc lets out another breath.

You’re alive and well. The camp isn’t being attacked. 

It was all a nightmare. A bad dream. 

Hi! Thank you so much for reading my story! If you like this kind of content, you should check out my Patreon! There, I post stories twice a week and earlier than I post on Tumblr. I also post exclusive stories there too where you won’t be able to find anywhere else.

If you’re not sure about signing up, I have a 7 day free trial enabled on my £2 tier so you can see if you like my work written there!

Taglist <3

@sunndust @greenie-c

[pukefactory]

⫘⫘⫘⟢ BURNING UP ⟢⫘⫘⫘

！ Summary: Burning Spice Cookie X Reader Headcannons

！ Character(s): Burning Spice Cookie (Cookie Run Kingdom)

！ Genre: Headcannons, SFW

！ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

！ Image Credits: @the-name-is-loser

⚡︎ Burning Spice Cookie is a walking calamity, a force of nature that leaves ruin in his wake—yet somehow, amid all that destruction, you remain untouched. Not because he is gentle, but because something primal within him refuses to let harm befall you, for better or worse. The same hands that wield a parashu large enough to cleave mountains will rest against your cheek with an unsettling tenderness, as if testing whether you are truly real. He is gentle only with you, but it is difficult to discern whether his tenderness is unconditional.

⚡︎ You alone are permitted near when the flames rage too wildly, when the thirst for battle consumes him entirely. His soldiers know better than to approach in those moments—only you can step into the inferno, your words cutting sharper than any blade. And though he snarls, though embers crackle in protest, he listens. He listens only to you, even when his temper demands more violence.

⚡︎ Burning Spice Cookie rules over the Wild Spices with an iron fist, yet his soldiers cannot help but notice that the Great Destroyer seems different when you are near, even when merely in his vicinity. The world remains his to raze, his destruction inevitable, yet now there are pauses—moments where his grip slackens, where his fire dims just enough. They wonder whether you are his weakness or his undoing, but one thing is certain: they are relieved that someone, something, holds him in check, even if only indirectly.

⚡︎ There is no subtlety in the way he loves. It is all-consuming, overwhelming, as if he is trying to burn his presence into your very soul. He does not merely hold you—he engulfs you, his strong arms wrapped tightly, his body’s heat nearly unbearable. His kisses sear, his touch brands, and yet you never pull away. Beneath all his bluster and bombast, there is someone to love, even if it burns.

⚡︎ The tattoos that snake across his body, glowing like embers beneath his skin, are ancient sigils of destruction. One morning, you wake to find a new mark pressed against your collarbone—delicate, intricate, unmistakably his. When you confront him, he only grins, sharp teeth glinting like gold. “Now the world will know who you belong to,” he says, his loud, rough voice laced with satisfaction. He never tells you how it got there, only that it is permanent.

⚡︎ He does not sleep—not as you do. Instead, he paces, restless even in stillness, his gaze locked onto the horizon as if daring it to challenge him. Yet on the rare nights he does rest, it is only when you are near, curled against his side. The fire within him does not burn so wildly then, lulled into a rare, fleeting peace he dares not disturb. Burning Spice Cookie may not crave tranquility, but when you are beside him, sleeping soundly, he finds himself wishing—if only for a moment—that the quiet could last forever.

⚡︎ No one challenges Burning Spice Cookie and lives. His mere presence demands submission, his power absolute. And yet, you meet his gaze without fear. You argue with him when no one else would dare. He should be furious. He should strike you down. But instead, his laughter booms through the hall, delighted and unrestrained. “Finally,” he rumbles, “someone who does not bore me.”

⚡︎ Possession is deeply ingrained in him, and he makes no attempt to conceal it. The moment another so much as looks at you in a way he does not approve of, the heat of his presence alone is enough to make them shrink back. Should anyone be foolish enough to test his patience further—well, the Wild Spices are already rich with ashes. What is another to the pile? He takes great pleasure in striking down those who dare insult or threaten you, even if the discovery first fills him with unbridled rage.

⚡︎ Once, you asked him if he ever feared being extinguished. The notion was laughable—what force in this world could possibly snuff him out? But then his gaze lingered on you, a flicker of something unreadable in his molten eyes. “Perhaps,” he mused, his voice softer than expected, “I do not burn as brightly when you are not near.” That night, his arms gripped you a little tighter. You understood his meaning.

⚡︎ Burning Spice Cookie is a creature of devastation, a war god cloaked in fire and fury. And yet, when it comes to you, his destruction takes a different form. He would raze the world a thousand times over if it meant keeping you safe. Not because he is kind, nor because he has changed—but because the thought of a world without you is a fate he refuses to accept. If you came into his life, then you must be here for a reason, even if he does not yet understand it. But he knows one thing with certainty—he needs you to stay. No matter the risk. No matter the cost.

[klee-0]

Rezek serves cunt any time of the day and night so I decided to draw one of my favourite scenes with it included

(Full panel below the cut)

@amber-dragonfly

[amber-dragonfly]

When I showed a family member RATC they ended up reading it past 3am several nights in a row despite knowing nothing about the Zelda franchise other than Link and Zelda (no one's immune to the blorbo brainrot ehehehehehe)

But what really got me was when she said "The whole time I was WAITING for you to bring Frifer back through some magic McGuffin, but you never did and I got sad over its death all over again..."

And.........yea that sure sums it up LMAO

It's about the denial and bargaining nearly everyone goes through reading RATC. It's about seeing the most wonderful character, the desperately needed light in a dark world, undergo the most unfair of circumstances and telling yourself "Surely, this isn't the end? Surely, such a perfect character won't stay dead forever? Surely, there's some magical perfect combination of actions the characters can do to bring it back?"

At that point, Rezek's cycle of grief becomes out own. Frifer's absence becomes so loud that you can almost hear its voice where there would be silence. The old wounds open up and we're forced to reconcile with the finality of its death all over again. We experience Frifer's last glance at Rezek, as its body disintegrated, over and over and over.

And it never gets any easier...

[doumadono]

Silent Waves, Silent Wounds - Touya Todoroki x Reader

A/N: today's episode broke my heart and made me cry uncontrollably. With a nice prompt set for this week's challenge in a community I'm part of, I decided to combine the two. I just hope my Touya will survive. Gif was made by @gamergirl-niffler

MY HERO ACADEMIA

Touya's first breaths of freedom were laced with the sterile scent of antiseptics and the distant echoes of calamity.

Beneath the flickering streetlights of Musutafu, shadows twirled across the damp pavement, casting the world in veils of half-truths and murmured secrets.

It was upon a night cloaked in despair that Touya Todoroki, shrouded in the remnants of his shattered past, escaped the suffocating confines of what should have been a sanctuary. The hospital, ostensibly a bastion of healing and hope, had morphed into nothing but a prison, all under the malevolent gaze of All For One.

In a moment fueled by raw desperation and a primal urge for freedom, Touya, with hands trembling and heart pounding against the cage of his ribcage, ignited the very foundations that had ensnared him. Flames, hungry and unrestrained, licked upwards, clawing at the structure with a ferocity. Fire roared through the hallways, a fierce, unforgiving inferno that consumed everything in its path — medical charts, synthetic bed linens, the false promises of recovery.

As the inferno raged behind him, Touya stumbled into the cold embrace of the night.

The city loomed large and indifferent, its countless lights flickering like distant stars, unreachable and cold. Each step was a battle, his body a map of wounds both fresh and long endured, scars that told tales he could barely remember, tales of a mere boy who once dreamed of heroism but found himself ensnared in a nightmare of his father's making.

He moved through the shadows, a spectral figure haunted by the echoes of his past and the uncertain horrors of his future. Tonight, the world was both his enemy and his ally, hiding him from those who would seek to drag him back to that hellish place, yet offering no comfort from the relentless grip of his solitude and sorrow. His face, marred with scars that told stories of a tragic past and unresolved pain, was not one that people usually turned to for comfort.

As he navigated through the dimly lit streets, his eyes were cautious and wary of the stares that followed him like specters.

It was then he saw you - a girl sitting alone on the curb, your sobs cutting through the muffled sounds of the city like a siren’s call. You were young, perhaps no older than he, with tears streaking your cheeks and your shoulders trembling under the weight of your unseen burdens.

Despite his fears and the fresh pain of his own memories, something within him stirred - a remnant of the hero he once aspired to be. Hesitant, he approached you, his voice barely above a whisper after he cleared his throat, trying to sound normal, even though he knew it was no longer possible. “Hey, are you okay?”

You jerked your head up, your eyes wide with a mixture of fear and surprise as they landed on his disfigured features.

For a heartbeat, Touya thought you would scream, run away, or recoil in horror.

But then, something remarkable happened - your expression softened, and your initial fright melted into a sad, understanding smile. “Not really,” you confessed, wiping your tears away with the back of your shaking hand. “My dad… he drinks too much. And my mom, she doesn’t really care. She threw me out tonight. Said she’d had enough of me being useless.”

The words struck a chord in Touya. Abandonment, pain, a longing for something better - themes that resonated deeply within his own life. Sitting heavily beside you on the cold curb, he offered you a timid smile, one that seemed almost out of place on his scarred visage. "I’m sorry,” he said, his voice a mixture of warmth and a chilling detachment born from years of conditioning under his father’s harsh regime. “I… I know what it’s like to feel like you have no one.”

You studied him, your reddened eyes lingering on his scars with a curiosity born from your own pain rather than judgement. “What happened to you?” you asked gently, perhaps too gently for the horror that his story contained.

Touya looked away, his eyes tracing the patterns of light and shadow on the ground. “I don’t remember everything,” he confessed. “But I know I was trying to prove something to my dad. It didn’t end well, as you can see.”

You sat in silence, the world around you bustling with life, yet oblivious to the shared moment of grief between two strangers.

People passed by, their glances sharp and sometimes filled with a disdain that neither of you were unfamiliar with.

Sensing Touya’s discomfort, you made a decision. “Let’s go somewhere else,” you suggested, a spark of resolve lighting up your tear-stained face. “Somewhere away from prying eyes. I know a nice place, if you'd like to join me.”

Touya nodded casually, “I think I’d like that. I have nowhere to be anyway.”

Without another word, you stood, holding out you hand to help him up. Your touch was warm, a stark contrast to the coldness he had come to expect from the world.

Together, you walked through the deserted streets, your steps in sync, until the city sounds faded into the background, replaced by the soothing rhythm of waves crashing against the shore.

Beneath the expansive canopy of the night sky, the beach lay deserted, bathed in the ethereal, silvery glow of the moon. The ocean before them transformed into a shimmering tapestry, each wave weaving threads of light across the dark canvas of water. It was here, with the cool sand cradling your steps and the vast, relentless sea stretching into infinity, that you discovered a fleeting sanctuary — a momentary escape from the ravages of your tormented existences.

As you settled onto the sand, the ocean's eternal murmurs surrounding you, Touya found himself unexpectedly comforted by the raw, natural beauty of the scene. Yet, he was taken aback when you revealed that it was not just chance that brought you to this tranquil haven in the dead of night.

“I come here often, especially after fights at home,” you confessed softly, your eyes reflecting the moonlight like fragments of a broken mirror. “The sound of the waves… it calms the storm inside me. Maybe it can do the same for you.”

Touya hesitated before his voice broke the silence. "I'm like these waves," he murmured, his voice tinged with a haunting sadness. "Crashing again and again, with no control, no end. I don't even remember why I started… what I was trying to prove." His gaze was lost to the horizon, where the dark sea met the darker sky, his face a mask of sorrow sculpted by the silvery light.

"It's hard, isn't it?" you said softly, pulling your knees closer to your chest, feeling the chill of the night seeping through your clothes. "Feeling like you're caught in a storm with no shelter in sight. I sit here, night after night, wondering if the screaming will ever stop, if there will ever be a night without tears, without all this emptiness."

"Does it help? Coming here, hearing the waves?" Touya asked.

"It doesn't stop the pain," you admitted, "but sometimes, it makes it bearable. The sea doesn't judge, doesn't demand. It just is. And for a little while, I can just be too, without worrying about the next wave that might knock me down."

"I wish I could remember what peace feels like," he confessed, his words blending with the whisper of the wind.

You reached out, your hand brushing against his, a small gesture of comfort in the overwhelming vastness of your shared solitude.

"Maybe we can't go back to who we were," you suggested, your voice a tentative whisper against the symphony of the sea. "But perhaps we can find new reasons to look forward to the sunrise."

Touya's hand trembled slightly under yours, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he gripped your hand, his hold tentative but needing the connection. "I'd like that," he said, a flicker of a smile ghosting across his lips, as fragile and fleeting as a wave’s crest as a single tear rolled down his cheek. "To look forward to something, to hope for something better."

[jesshq]

I found this bokoblin here I’m currently defrosting it then after I broke it free I left it be, to survive with some fruit

He reminds me of one of the main characters from a great Zelda fanfic I been reading lately and how it met link in the it’s prequel ^^~

It’s called rage against the calamity the story I been reading and it’s by a fellow tumblr user @bugcatcherwill

Keep up the amazing work on rage against the calamity @bugcatcherwill

Can’t wait to read what happens next

[mystic-hunter]

I wrote a little something something for @bugcatcherwill's Legend of Zelda fanfiction Rage Against the Calamity. Go check it out. It's really good and cute! Anyway have my fanfiction of a fanfiction featuring my OC's.

The atmosphere of the stable had changed. Even out by the most destructive mountain in Hyrule, the Foothill Stable had a different air about it.  No longer did our little group get the strange glances it did.  Now, people seemed to jump at the new rumor.  Whatever it was, I wasn’t really paying attention.  Out with the old and in the new I guess.  But because of these rumors more people were staying at this stable.  Meaning we would have to camp out… again.  Oh well, Magpie was at least a good cook, Eisen could set up a passable fire pit for me to light, and the Duelist was off doing… whatever he often did at stables.

But when the fire pit was set up and with the fire roaring from a simple snap of my fingers the Duelist returned to our little campsite.  Eisen, ever the talker of the group, was the first to talk in his thick accent, “So vhat information did you glean from your frittering with the common folk of the horse pens?”

“Well I found out something quite interesting,” Duelist said before sitting down in front of the fire, “Apparently there are rumors of monsters out and about-”

“Well that seems quite normal,” I responded, “What possible reason is there for such a simple thing to be spread around that people seem to forget our little group exists?”

“If you would let me finish.  Apparently these monsters have defected against the Calamity and they plan to destroy said Calamity.”

I couldn’t help myself.  I burst out laughing loud enough that even some of the people outside the stables gave me a look, “Seriously?  Monsters?  Working to destroy the Calamity?  Oh please.  Do I need to remind you that it is from that very Calamity they are spawned from?”

“I am well aware of that fact.  I am merely repeating what I heard inside.”

This time it was Eisen’s turn to speak, “But vhat veason could zey have to fabricate such a tall tale wizout palpable evidence to support zeir imbecilic claims?”

“I don’t know, nor do I really care.  If there are such monsters out in the world.  I would very much like to meet them.  I’ll believe these claims if I ever see it.”

Suddenly from the background was Magpie's small yet deep voice muffled by the long-beaked doctor’s mask, “Are you not yourself someone who fights using dark magic Ferrous?”

“The origin of my magic is completely different and you know it bird boy.”

“That is not the point I am making.  What are those monsters but more creatures with working organs and hearts beating in their chests?”

“Just get to the point already, goddesses!!”

“Why would a force such as the Calamity create monsters with more detail than necessary?  It does not have need to.  You know this.”

That… actually made a lot of sense.  Why make monsters with all the little things when you could just have all the empty space filled with nothing but malice?  Unless of course there’s a different reason for it all.

“You know, comrade?  I believe you are onto somezing wiz that line of zinking.”

Now the Duelist cut in, “So correct me if I am wrong masked one,” he said addressing Magpie, “what you seem to be getting at is you believe these wild ideas because they have a functioning form?”

“But it makes sense,” I cut in before Magpie could, “Why would you create all those organs if they are just simple creations of malice?  You wouldn’t have a reason to!”

“Why?  You have failed to explain your conjecture!”

“Because when you create a construct of magic.  Especially dark magic like the malice you don’t need to have a complete body.  That’s a loose explanation of the stal monsters and those malice eyes that spawn those bubbles.”

That seemed to shut the Duelist up as he contemplated it for some time.  Again he spoke, “So I guess we will have to start keeping an eye out for any beings that do not fit in now.”

“Why?  It’s not like they’ll want anything to do with us.”

“Not according to the rumors.  They apparently wish to build relations with the other peoples of Hyrule.  Plus it is not like we can say much about the composition of our little posse.”

Duelist had a point.  We are one of the weirdest traveling groups in Hyrule so we do have something in common with these supposed monsters.  Who would have thought that we would have anything in common with monsters.  But one thing was clear.  With everything that’s happening now.  If more monsters break free from the Calamity.  There will be dues to pay.  Not just for the monsters.  But for all of Hyrule.  I can’t even count the number of monsters me and my group have put down simply because they were there.  I would hate to think they actually had minds behind the veil of malice that could see our actions.  Cause what we’ve done is downright genocide.  No ifs, ands, or buts about it.  Welp… I’m not getting any sleep now.  But I guess tomorrow is a new day.

And that's it for now! Also have some art of my little guys.

I had so much fun writing this. Again thank you to @bugcatcherwill for allowing me to write about their guys even if this first chapter(?) really only mentioned them in passing. Maybe another chapter is in order to have them meet.

[ruzz9]

The Prefects' Bathroom

NSFW +18

Severus Snape x Fem!reader

Summary: In a mischievous bid to sow chaos, Peeves disturbed the dungeons with another prank, feigning urgency to provoke Snape by claiming someone was being attacked in the Prefects’ Bathroom. His shrill laughter echoed as he watched the professor storm in, wand raised, only to find his most exceptional seventh-year student, naked amidst the foam.

A/N: I had a lot of fun including Peeves, and I couldn’t resist adding a bit of humor. The emotions are so intense that even I felt truly uneasy. Enjoy!

Warnings: Smut, Student/Professor, Nakedness, Blow Job, Eating Out, Fellatio, Cunnilingus, Mature Content, Dominance & Submission, Power Struggle.

Glossary: Iridescent – Reflecting rainbowlike colors that change with the angle of light.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Peeves floated through the hallways with his usual mischievous expression, eyes sparkling with malice and a crooked grin of pure mischief. He had seen something interesting, something juicy: the young Slytherin prefect, in her final year, sliding gracefully into the Prefects' Bathroom.

It wasn’t the first time he had noticed the strange tension between her and the harsh Potions professor. There was something in the way their gazes crossed fleetingly, in his sharp responses, and in her daring composure.

Peeves loved chaos, and this scene cried out for his intervention.

With a shrill giggle, he fluttered through the hallways until he slipped into the dungeons, where he knew he would find the feared Severus Snape. His voice echoed against the stone walls with theatrical drama.

"Professor, professor! Something terrible is happening in the Prefects' Bath!" he wailed in false anguish. "An evil spirit is attacking a poor student! Oh, what horror! What calamity!"

Snape, who was reviewing potions with an air of tedium, lifted his gaze with a grimace of annoyance. Peeves’ mere presence was a synonym for trouble, and if the specter had decided to come to him, it had to be something serious enough to bother him.

"Explain," he growled impatiently, his voice laden with suspicion.

"Blood, screams, wails! A dreadful crime, professor! You must hurry before it's too late!"

He needed no further prompting to act. With a swift movement, he grabbed his wand and advanced with long, determined strides. His cloak billowed behind him like the smoke of a snuffed-out candle as he ascended the stairs, every fiber of his being prepared to face the worst.

The door to the bath was closed, but a simple spell was enough to fling it open.

"What the hell is—?!" he began to exclaim, but the words died in his throat. And then, time seemed to freeze.

The warm steam from the perfumed water clouded the air, enveloping the room in an ethereal veil. Amidst the iridescent foam, the young student turned her face, startled, her eyes meeting his in an instant that felt eternal.

In a single blink, he saw her skin, pale and damp, the delicacy of her figure submerged in the warm water, barely covered by the foam clinging to her skin in a fragile attempt to conceal her.

The girl's breath hitched for a moment. Her arms lifted instinctively, crossing over her chest in a gesture of modesty that only accentuated her nudity.

Snape reacted immediately, turning around with a sharp motion, his cloak extending like a shield between them. His jaw clenched, and he gripped his wand so tightly that his knuckles paled.

Behind him, Peeves burst into laughter, floating in the air with a triumphant expression.

"Oh, what a charming sight, professor! Have I ruined an intimate moment? What a pity!"

Snape felt a furious heat rising up his nape.

"Peeves!" he roared with barely contained rage. "I swear I will make you disappear from this castle if you don’t leave this instant!"

The mischievous ghost twisted with laughter before retreating. He slammed the door shut with a sharp finger snap, leaving only the echo of his mockery behind.

Snape cursed under his breath, his tone rougher than usual.

"Peeves, damn it…" he turned slightly toward the door, testing it in vain. "He’s locked us in."

His fingers tensed around his wand. With a brusque movement, he attempted an unlocking spell, but the specter had done a good job. When Peeves’ prank magic was involved, it could be a nuisance even for the most skilled wizards.

He exhaled in frustration. "Get dressed. Now," he ordered, without turning around, his voice severe.

He heard the water shift as she moved, the soft splash as she emerged from the bath, and for a second, he thought she would obey. But then, instead of the rustle of fabric being put on, he caught a different sound—the distinct trickle of water sliding over her skin, drop by drop, falling onto the marble floor.

And the footsteps.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Approaching.

Snape shut his eyes tightly. He couldn't turn around. He couldn't move. His entire body tensed at the awareness of her presence behind him, the warmth of her breath mere inches away. And moisture started to seep through the fabric of his cloak, marking the contact of her bare body.

A shiver coursed through him. Not from the cold, but from the blistering awareness of what was happening.

"What are you doing?" His voice came out rougher than he intended, betraying the tension in his throat.

She didn’t answer immediately. Her hands, damp and trembling, clung softly to his back, as if afraid he might vanish if she pressed too hard.

"I don't want to get dressed." Her whisper was barely a breath of air, yet each word pierced into his back like a curse.

Snape felt his breathing grow heavier. His jaw clenched even tighter.

"This is reckless," he muttered. "You have no idea what you're doing."

She slid her fingers down his soaked cloak, letting them rest on his sides, as if trying to feel him closer, as if waiting for something.

"Maybe I do," she murmured.

He narrowed his eyes, feeling the storm of emotions raging inside him. He should push her away. He should reprimand her. He should find a way to break Peeves’ damn spell and get out of there.

But for the first time, Snape didn’t know how to escape.

A sudden pull at his wrist caught him off guard. His wand was snatched from his hand with unexpected speed, and before he could retrieve it, a splash confirmed its fate.

He turned his face just enough to avoid looking at her directly, but his sharp gaze swept across the marble floor, struggling to contain his growing irritation.

"Do you think this is a game?" His voice was a low growl, dense with warning.

Far from intimidated, the young woman let out a barely audible laugh, a playful whisper that sent an uncomfortably pleasurable shiver down his spine.

"I don't know, Professor…" her tone was soft, almost pensive. "But if it were… I'd say I'm winning."

Snape felt a violent pulse in his temple—a mix of fury and something far worse, something that made him feel out of control. His most efficient student, the one who rarely made mistakes in his class, the one who had always maintained flawless composure… was now acting with unsettling brazenness.

"Two hundred points from Slytherin if you don't put an end to this nonsense right now."

But she didn’t stop.

She pressed closer, her warm body against the drenched fabric of his cloak. Snape remained utterly still, as if every muscle in his body had forgotten how to react.

"highly doubt you'd dare to take that many points from your own house." she whispered against his ear, sending a shiver down his neck.

Snape turned his body, still without looking directly at her, respecting her decency. He intended to respond, to push her away, to curse her if necessary, but then— her palm descended, soft yet firm, pressing against the evidence of his torment.

His body reacted before his mind could catch up, a sharp exhalation escaping his lips as he felt the pressure of her fingers against the hardness he had been trying to ignore.

His self-control was hanging by a thread.

The pressure of her hand was a silent challenge, an assertion of power he hadn't expected from her. Snape remained motionless, caught between the need to put an end to this madness and the betrayal of his own body, burning under her touch.

And then he felt her lips—barely a brush, a fleeting kiss just along the line of his jaw, so close to his ear that his breath hitched.

Her breath trembled softly against his ear before her lips trailed lower, following the curve of his jaw with calculated slowness, while her fingers explored with the same boldness.

"Tell me to stop…" she whispered, her voice laced with poisonous sweetness. "And I will."

Snape opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on the empty space before him. He could do it. He could put an end to this with a single word. And yet, silence stretched between them—taut, searing.

She smiled against his skin and descended along his neck, tasting, marking him with barely-there kisses. With deft fingers, she attempted to undo the buttons of his robe… one, two… but then she realized the daunting task before her. An endless row of stubborn buttons, each one defying her with the same impassivity their owner always did.

For a moment, she wondered whether Snape dressed like this out of sheer habit or as an elaborate defense mechanism against situations like this. How long did it take him to undress each night? Was there some secret enchantment for this?

She sighed against what felt like a punishment imposed by its wearer. Her hands abandoned the impossible mission, gripping the fabric instead.

He exhaled—a sound caught between a sigh and a warning.

He had yet to dare to look at her—not her face, not her body. His gaze remained fixed elsewhere, clinging to a last vestige of control, of respect, of sanity. Even in the midst of his confusion, of his body’s betrayal, he restrained himself under his own composure.

And that irritated her. She wanted to see him break.

With an intrepidity she would never have dared in any other context, she took his chin between her fingers, forcing him to turn his face toward her. A gesture she wouldn’t have dared in a rational state—not against a man so dominant in every fiber of his being. But in that moment, her need to fracture his control outweighed her fear.

Snape’s face burned with fury. His dark, piercing gaze locked onto her with a weight that was overwhelming. His mere presence was already imposing, but now, with anger vibrating through his expression, he seemed capable of consuming her whole.

Inside, she felt a shiver of warning. She had touched a dangerous boundary. But she did not retreat.

If she had wanted to provoke him, she was succeeding—just not in the way she had imagined.

Snape knocked her hand away with a sharp, firm motion, pushing it down forcefully, forbidding her from touching him again. His fingers closed around her wrist in a tense grip, his hand trembling just slightly—a barely perceptible gesture of something she couldn’t quite decipher. Was it fear? Nerves? She didn’t know. But if it was, he masked it instantly beneath the authority that was second nature to him.

And then, without warning, he gripped her wet hair in a demanding tug, tilting her head back, forcing her to look at him.

He did not see her body. He did not see her nakedness. Only her eyes. An abyss of warning, of danger, of absolute dominance. And when he guided her head downward with an imperious gesture, the message was clear.

She obeyed with insolent grace, never looking away, as if even in submission, she insisted on defying him. And just as her face reached the right height, the professor freed himself from the unbearable constraint of his erection. Her parted lips released a warm breath over his sensitive skin before the first contact—an ethereal touch that made him exhale unsteadily.

He closed his eyes for an instant. As if he could ignore the tremor in his own hand, still tangled in her wet hair.

She was in no hurry. She traced a slow, torturous path along his cock, exploring with the devotion of someone savoring a sin, drawing shivers with each advance, with every gentle pressure of her lips and tongue.

Snape was tense. The contact was a sweet poison. Her delicate hands framing his length, while her mouth followed its own course, outlining his shape with an almost sickly devotion.

His breathing grew heavier, uneven, and for a brief moment, his grip tightened before loosening slightly—an internal battle between rejection and surrender. She sensed the conflict in every small tremor of his muscles, in the stiffness of his body, trying to stay firm, in the deep exhale he failed to contain.

Each slow caress of her tongue against his skin was a silent declaration, a deliberate exploration. She could feel the way desire and fury intertwined within him, how his body betrayed his mind, how the respect he had fought to uphold was unraveling under the weight of raw, burning need.

When her lips fully enclosed him, Snape let out a low, strangled groan, a barely restrained curse that echoed against the marble walls.

The air grew thick. She felt the authority in the way Severus guided her movements, the firm pressure of his hand in her hair, the way he tilted her, now looking eyes with her.

A ragged sigh escaped him, his other hand sliding to her nape, his fingers hesitating for an instant before gripping her—caught between necessity and resistance.

The water that had pooled on the floor rippled softly around them, accompanying the sound of his breathing, of his barely contained murmurs.

"Merlin," he muttered through clenched teeth, his voice low, torn apart by pleasure.

She, lost in the act of pleasing him, quickened her pace slightly, drawing him further, deeper, closer to the edge of no return. Their gazes met again, searching, waiting for that final surrender.

And when she saw it, when she felt him shudder, his release spilling into her mouth, It was a sight that left her stunned. His grip held her firm, forcing her to swallow every drop of him.

His breathing was still erratic when he pulled her up, grasping her waist with a firm touch that did not ask for permission. She barely had time to catch her breath before feeling her back collide against the cold marble wall. A gasp left her lips as the contrast between her fevered skin and the icy surface.

He loomed over her, his chest brushing against hers, his warm breath ghosting over her neck. His hands, large and insistent, traced her damp body, outlining the curve of her waist, descending slowly, as if he wished to memorize her through touch alone.

"Do you think this will go unpunished?" he murmured against her ear, his voice low, charged with something dark and simmering, still marked by the pleasure that had barely begun to fade.

Her eyes met his with the insolence of someone who had already tasted victory.

"And what will you do, Professor? Punish me... or keep enjoying my rebellion?"

The question barely had time to leave her lips before he claimed them in a kiss—one that was anything but gentle It was deep, consuming, a mixture of frustration and desperate need. His fingers tangled in her wet hair, tilting her head back to devour her, to demand, each breath from her lips.

His hand descended with a clear intent, trailing down between her thighs with the same slow, torturous patience with which she had unraveled him moments before.

She arched against the wall, eyes closing, trapped between the icy marble and the fire of his touch. Her breath caught in a ragged gasp as he finally touched her with the precision of someone who knew exactly how to unmake her.

His mouth found her neck, grazing it with a teasing bite before whispering with dark satisfaction:

"Now it's my turn."

And without further warning, he brought her to submission, offering no reprieve, allowing no space for another insolent provocation.

The words were still hanging in the air when his hands closed around her thighs, parting them. There was no haste in his movements.

She gasped as his lips traveled down her neck, leaving a damp trail over her skin, still glistening with water. His teeth grazed the curve of her collarbone before moving lower, tasting her with unhurried delight.

His mouth descended with precision. His firm hands held her hips in place, steadying her as he took his time, exploring her with an exactness.

The first flick of his tongue made her shudder, her fingers gripping the marble behind her in a futile attempt to remain steady.

His rough hands pressed more insistently against her flesh, a silent command to keep still.

And then, he sank into her center with the same torturous patience with which she had undone him before. Every movement was deliberate, every touch carefully placed with purpose. His tongue traced slow, teasing circles, while one of his hands traveled up her abdomen to her chest, fingers curling in a silent, possessive demand.

She arched against him with a muffled moan, her erratic breathing mingling with the soft splashes of water against the floor. He felt the tremor in her legs, the sweetness of her surrender growing with every calculated stroke of his tongue, with every breathless sigh he drew from her lips.

"Professor—" her voice broke into a pleading gasp, but he did not yield.

He held her firmly as he increased the intensity, pushing her further, deeper, to the very edge of sanity.

And when he finally felt her break—when her body tensed under his touch and his name fell from her lips in a shuddering whisper—he lingered a moment longer, savoring her, prolonging her descent until there was nothing left of her but a trembling form in his hands.

He rose slowly, his mouth still glistening with the evidence of his recklessness. His eyes burned as they met hers, still half-lidded with pleasure, her parted lips struggling to catch her breath.

"Now we're even," he murmured, his voice rough, dangerous.

But when his fingers once again traced the sensitive skin of her thigh, when his smirk darkened into something wicked and knowing, she realized—he was far from finished with her.

[solsticehymns]

speed drive: drabble

f1 driver!james potter x reader / fluff / victory celebration

Got the top down, tires on fire / Who are you? I'm livin' my life / See you lookin' with that side eye / Wow, you're so jealous 'cause I'm one of a kind

summary: James Potter lives for speed, but no checkered flag, no victory, no roaring crowd has ever mattered as much as reaching you at the end of every race.

a/n: honestly i know little to nothing about f1, this was mainly inspired by @ikkyfics moodboard for f1!james and it rly got to me... i was thinking about it a lot so i got inspired to write!! AND TELL ME THIS SONG WOULDNT BE ON F1 DRIVER!JAMES’ PLAYLIST. lolol i hope you like ittt!!! xoxo, sunny ☀️🌻

wc: 417

The race is over, but James is still moving—always toward you, the one thing that remains constant in a life measured by speed.

The paddock is an electric blur of movement, a chaotic ballet of Ferrari engineers flooding the garage, telemetry screens still flickering with post-race data. The atmosphere is thick with the pungent fumes of burnt rubber and high-octane fuel, long black lines marking tire degradation still streaking the asphalt. In the background, the lingering cheers of the crowd ripple through the circuit, a steady chant of his name echoing into the evening air.

James is only looking for one thing.

You.

He moves with the same precision he has on the track—decisive, effortless, a vague shape in motion. His helmet swings carelessly from one hand, his fireproof suit peeled halfway down, revealing the sweat-slick fabric clinging to his skin. His curls, damp from the heat of the cockpit, stick to his forehead, chest still rising and falling in the aftermath of 58 laps teetering between control and calamity. But the moment he spots you—standing at the edge of the garage, clad in his colors, his number stitched into your sleeve—everything else fades to white noise.

Then he's kissing you.

There’s nothing delicate about it—no hesitation, no restraint. His free hand finds your face, fingers curling at your jawline like he needs something to ground him, like he’s still hurtling through the straight at 320 km/h. He tastes like salt and sweat, like exhaustion woven through triumph, a collision of raw adrenaline and aching familiarity. The faint tang of race fuel clings to his skin, mingling with the scent of something wholly, undeniably, James Potter.

“You were brilliant,” you murmur against his lips, fingers tightening in the collar of his fireproofs, the fabric still hot from the battle he just fought on track.

He exhales a breathless laugh, forehead pressing against yours, eyes fever-bright. “Nearly lost it at turn six.”

You tip your chin up, meeting his gaze: feral, untamed, still caught in the space between euphoria and exhaustion. “But you didn’t.”

His grin is slow, deliberate—unapologetically, infuriatingly confident. Ferrari’s prodigy, their reckless virtuoso, straddling the line between brilliance and disaster, and loving every second of it.

“Had to make it back to you, didn’t I?” he murmurs, pressing a fleeting kiss to your temple.

The celebration rages around him—a sea of red, jubilant mechanics, roaring fans—but James doesn’t look away from you.

Because trophies tarnish, engines fail, and records get broken... but you? You’re the only thing he'll always have.

☀️🌻 masterlist

[darlingofvalyria]

❝I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage. I will not be swept aside.❞

[ The Prince Jacaerys Velaryon should have known his wife better— or at least, her ire, for when his trysts with the bastard Snow reached the Spiders and soon, the ears of his Princess Consort, rage and war drummed for Winterfell, demanding heads.

—Maestre Kevan, Volume IV of The Bastard Eater, passage chapter under 'The Flame that Sung for the North'. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 10,062 ] [ series masterlist ] | jacaerys velaryon x targaryen aunt!reader (aegon's twin sister), one-sided aegon ii x reader, jace x sara snow

contains— canon divergence - manipulative reader, targcest, smut, angst - post-vizzy t death, rhaenyra is queen - mentions of children, pregnancy, childbirth - allusions to infidelity & character death(s) - targaryen madness, revenge, domestic violence (not jace), unhinge behaviour, intense use of 'bastard', profanity, gaslighting, guilt-tripping - this is basically gone girl, you gone girl jace - dark fic - mentions of depression (aegon ii), allusions to suicide (not reader) - nsfw: oral (f receiving), breeding kink, creampie - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.

a/n— i didn't think i was going to do the sara snow thing, but herewe are. also i just wanted an excuse to go absolutely ape shit. reader gets very intense, like thoroughly unhinged. this is literally me supporting women's wrongs. it is also quite insane that this reached 10k and it's still just the first part lmaooo + comment, reblog & like at will!

"THAT FUCKING BASTARD! THAT GODSDAMNED, WHORE-FUCKING STRONG HALF BREED!"

Your shrieks echo stone and shadow, interrupted only by the things you pick up and hurl. Anything your hands grab, you throw and spit obscenities against, rage and tears ruin your pretty visage. The fury swept past your cherub features, a dragon breaking through the Hightower seams, upending fire and roar from the pits of your being.

"HOW DARE HE?! I GAVE HIM AN HEIR! I BROUGHT HIM PEACE! I BETRAYED—" you roar, pulling your pearl dagger— a gift from your Strong Bastard of a Husband — and throwing it to your vanity mirror, glass shards exploding. "— MY KIN!"

"DAUGHTER, PLEASE!"

Arms wound across your torso—hardened and chain-mail — as you fight against your bounds before a pain flashes to your cheek. Your rage quiets, hard breaths from your lungs. You turn your tear-stained anger to your mother and her palm, fright and terror on her regale visage.

Death of a spouse becomes the Queen Dowager in her pale blue robe and unbound spirals of auburn hair. Peace had begotten a realm that is balanced on the lineage you had produced for the Queen, her heir, and your own, as the new Princess of Dragonstone. With Otto Hightower for evermore banished to Oldtown, Kings Landing had been brought to a flowering kindness.

Queen Rhaenyra's ascension had been a wondrous affair, fit the for the first crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Not a Queen Consort, not a Queen Regent. An heir who rose for the crown always meant to be hers.

But the calamity that brewed in her ascension... no. You paved the peace. T'was you who wrangled the Great Houses that proved allyship to your twin brother's banner, you who blessed her with tranquility of a rule that will be known for ages that will precede you all.

And now her son... her son dared to destroy everything.

A conversation floats above your head, by your Queen Mother and her sworn shield, the Ser Cole, but you barely hear anything past the ringing in your head.

The Targaryen Madness the sheep so call it, an idle voice, faint and familiar, whispers in the niches of your brain. It has infected you so. It breathes, fuelled by the air wrought by your husband's betrayal. It sings, sweet love. It sings.

"—your grace, I urge to hold her—"

"—she is my daughter, Ser Cole, I am not in danger. Release her."

Justice, the voice shrieks? Screams? But it is so soft in your head, a wail of a memory, a woman or a man? must be had. No dragon falls in such disgrace.

The tight wound over your torso is unleashed but the knight is not far, tensed to cage you, when your mother grasps your elbows as you grab hers, nails digging into the thick fabric of her hem that she still winces, your grip steel-tight.

"My darling, please. I cannot help you if you do not speak what ails you." She brushes her hand desperately across your face, smearing your tears, trying to find the daughter she bore past the savagery and madness that beholds you now. "What has happened?"

You draw a tightened, harsh breath to your lungs, rattling your bones that you quiver in your attempt for sanity.

"I am being shamed, mother," you whisper. Stark, violet eyes meeting the worried round, brown of hers. "The Strong bastard is whoring himself to another, a Northern bastard."

A cackle falls your lips as alarmed gazes are exchanged above your head.

"Y-You cannot say such things aloud, sweet girl," your mother hushes your madness, pulling you close to her chest as she shoots a glance at the door.

Criston checks outside, but only your maids linger. Dyanna presses a finger against her lips, catching the knight's eye, and the rest scatter, surely to make sure that no one that need not know of their mistress' words is within reach. A shiver still runs his spine. He will never get used to the quiet, almost non-verbal way your connection worked and reached. Your Spiders weave webs all around, even as their mistress sunders with rage.

"Mayhaps you are mistaken, for sure the prince is loyal, and he adores you—"

You pull back against her, teeth bared. She flinches and Ser Cole steps forward, wary. "It is the third missive now that I have received. Did you think I would not have confirmed twice— thrice? I didn't believe it the first time! But three people have now confirmed that all this time, in the guise of rallying his mother's cause in the North, he is spending ample time with the Lord Stark's bastard sister. His bastard fucking sister!"

Your mother's horror catches that of Ser Criston's, but your fury is your own, you are a dragon trapped in the ruin of your own making, of the webs you had spun so cleverly to get to this point, and you cannot stop.

"I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage, my blood spilled the birthing bed for it." A cry leaves your lips as your grief and rage pools like ichor from your chest to the floor. Alicent is torn away from you— your nails had gone through her robe and she had cried in pain, a mimick of your own, a mother to a daughter to a mother to a daughter, a cycle, an Ouroboros — and you fall to the floor, grasping at your chest.

"I will not be swept aside. I will not be ignored."

A gasp falls from your lips as your mind moves to a quiet, still place. The tremble fades, your rage and grief whirls, collects, as you push it all back inside your chest.

Your madness must be sharpened for it be used as a sword.

And you cannot let him be happy in another's arms.

If you cannot drag them to the Hells, sweet dragon, the idle voice hums, hisses? Screeches. Your ancestors— all of those who have succumbed to dreamy madness — appears in the corners of your vision like soldiers. Awaiting for you to join them. Awaiting the blood that you will spill.

Then you must raise the Hells unto Winterfell.

"...my daughter?" Alicent calls, hesitant. Cole hovers but does not approach, standing guard in protection of the Dowager. It breaks her heart to see you this way, a young woman still, much older than she was when she married but only because you had always sought your future. You had always had a hardened scale, far stronger than she.

Even when you made your entrance to the world— the unmeasurable pain of bringing not one, but two heirs into the world, her firstborns, all at once — you had never cried. The maestres, maids, they worried for you, as your twin brother had not stopped crying, so alive and red, raw from the wound of being fresh.

But you... you had not made a sound.

The entire weight of your being— your mind, your emotions — even then, you wrangled them close to your very centre, never letting them stray too far from the edges of your fingertips. As if any release must be made with a perused thought. An incentive of reason.

Even then, you plotted every step you took.

Now, Alicent watches as her firstborn daughter suctions all her emotions— that Targaryen madness that plagued the blood of her husband, his ancestors — and made her ploy.

Against the husband that dared make a fool of her.

The silence beckons nightmare. Old fear flickers inside the Queen Dowager.

"Where are my daughters?"

"What?"

"My daughters," you repeat, a hair's breadth louder than the first time you spoke. Your eyes flutter upward. The deadened gaze curled Alicent's heart in fear. "Where are they?"

"In the nursery, with the twins and Maelor. Helaena and Aegon are watching them."

You offer your hand up mutely, and Cole exchanges one last, lingering look with the Dowager, before offering his own. You stand up, thank him softly, and brush and clean up your face to the best of your ability. An utter calmness over your visage.

"Tell no one of what I had told you," you say, fixing your hair and rubbing the red from your cheeks. One minute there is madness, the next there is nothing. There is only a girl. A woman. A princess. "No one knows apart the three of us, and if you ever decide, Ser Criston, that nigh is the glorious time for you to betray my mother or I, know that the last thing thing oyu will fear is the Stranger's hand when I am through with you."

Your mother shouts your name, horrified. "What are you thinking? What are you plotting?"

You cup Alicent's face, smiling ever sweet. "Your innocence will keep you safe, mother. All I ask, for the heart you keep for your children, that you keep this between sealed lips and tilted chin. You know nothing, yes?"

"... Yes. Nothing."

You place a tender kiss on your mother's head. "Keep Daenera and Aemma safe for me. Aegon and I are flying to Dragonstone promptly. Sweet Helaena does ever so get overwhelmed by watching all of the children by herself."

"D-Dragonstone?"

Your sweet smile touched with poison, stretches. "It is high time I take a dragon for myself, don't you think so?"

While an insecure obsession had fraught your younger brother about claiming a dragon, you had met it with indifference.

For how can you not mourn the loss of Aemond's sight, staring in quiet horror the entire time as the maestre did his best to salvage the muck mess of blood and nerve endings, before the old man had shaken his head, and you turned to the small bowl that contained your brother's eye, unable to look at anything else.

Not even when your mother's rage was met with apathy and anger, her demands for justice nothing more than a woman's insanity, a mother's grief that must be swept away, tucked under a chin and a sadness she will never get rid of.

"Do not mourn me, mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon."

Your soft-hearted, darling, baby brother. None of his words had thawed the freezing of your heart, the grief under the swell of your breastbone.

Your own mourning was kept between teeth and tongue, as you had slept with your siblings that night. The four of you, tucked under the wing of the other, Aemond close to your chest as possible, as quiet, hot tears ran down your face. Every moan of pain or whimper he made in his sleep tore at each new vein inside of you.

"Dragons are the symbol of our House's power," Aegon had once said, windswept hair you tried to tame with your fingers, smelling fresh of Sunfyre and winds.

"And yet, there were no eggs in our child beds." He stiffened while you smiled sadly, curling your twin's hair away form his face, making him presentable and dusting the bout of sand that managed to find his leathers. You had been scolded long before by your grandsire of how you coddle Aegon, how you defend him, mother him more than your mother ever could, but you cannot stop. You were meant to care for him, tethered you once were inside your mother's womb together, you hold him steady now.

Whenever he was lost, whenever his sadness overtook him, wrung your brother dry of life, you bat the Stranger's hand and bring him back.

"But we have proved them wrong," he insisted. "All of us, even Aemond with Vhagar— the war queen, Visenya's dragon — we have claimed ours. Daeron all the way Oldtown has Tessarion, even Helaena has Dreamfyre. And yet you insist..."

You wound your arms over his torso, keeping him close in a silly hug where you sway and dance him around. A laugh escaped him while you inhaled the scent of smoke, soot, and that grime stench of beast.

Aegon on his good days lacked the bottle-edge of wine, of cheap salts from the waft of the soiled, Silk Streets.

This was your brother. No one else.

"I fare better without one," you whispered in his ear. "I appear innocent, sweet almost, without a beast in my command. They look at me with nothing but pity and the urge to protect me. Our father likes me like this, his poor, lovely daughter without a dragon of her own, listening so intently to his histories of Old Valyria. Our sister is eased, as one daughter is plagued by dreams and struggles with the real world, while the other cannot even claim a dragon of her own. Poor princess, Hightower blood must have thickened in her veins. She too, is no threat."

You pulled back, smiling at him. "They like me better like this. Pitiful, compliant, nothing but a sweet and pretty flower that sways in the Spring breeze. A beautiful decoration but no more."

He rubbed a thumb on your arm, a worry knot on his forehead. Aegon adored you but he struggled to piece together where your plot lies. You are a web-spinner, forever dancing out of reach, catching prey and lengthening your intricacies. "Is that why you hide your training with Aemond alone? Ser Criston is mother's sworn shield, he would not mind—"

"I will not place my secrecies to a knight with a soiled cloaked," you snorted. "No matter how tall he stands beside our mother. I trust no one but my kin. And I know that no matter how heavy you drink, sweet Aeg of mine, my secrets are your own."

He took your hand, kissing the back of it, stare impregnable. "As your blood is my own, our fire is one flame. I go where you tell me to."

You kissed his cheek, a reward, laughing. He smiles proudly at the sound. At this time, you dangled yourself to your brother as bait as the pressure from your grandsire to make him King started rising. You had been given notice that he had been talking to House Lannister, Wylde, even some Riverland lords.

You did not mind becoming Aegon's second wife. Just as his namesake, he will have his Rhaenys and Visenya. Unlike the Conqueror however, he would adore his Visenya more than a true flower. Helaena would enjoy that far better.

"And if I tell you to jump?" you half-purred.

"I will ask you how high."

Memories and choices break and tide as you scramble for hold on the rocky cliff face. Dragonmont in the dark is a behemoth beast, a screech or two breaking like lightning crackles, or the familiar drum beat of wings before the silence consumes once more. The stench of fire, of beasts and carcasses helps cloak the darkened night.

"Udligon ñuha brōzagon, Answer my call," you hiss into fraudulent emptiness, hands gripping rocky edges until your blood beads, "you fucking lizards."

"Have you gone mad!?"Aegon shouted, trying to pace with your run to the dragonpit.

A rocky laugh broke out from your being, not deigning that with a reply. Aegon huffed angrily.

"Alright, tell me this then. How are you so sure I'm not just about to put you on a bleeding volcano to die? We claim your dragon in the morn, sister. First thing before we break our fast. I'm sure by then, Vermithor or—"

You whipped your head around, pulling halt. "I leave tonight to claim my dragon. Whether it is you and Sunfyre who gets me there, or Aemond and Vhagar, is no matter to me. I will claim one tonight. It is up to you to decide now if we tell Aemond or not."

Aemond, whose anger is wounded tight, the barest excuse for war always at the edge of his hum. The misstep at Storm's End had cost him everything. Had cost your mother everything. Queen still, Alicent Hightower had bent the knee and offered her life in exchange for mercy. Before Rhaenyra passed judgement, Viserys I had passed.

It didn't matter that you had ensured a higher dosage from the Harrenhal witch in his usual milk of the poppy. Your spiders moving with ease through the silent channels you had established long before your own flowering.

The Red Keep had scrambled, the Heir with it. It was enough time for Lucerys to have come out of the red, confirmed to live through the worst of it without as much as a broken bone. Arrax however, had been badly maimed, and would no longer take flight. But he and his rider would live. Aemond would live. Alicent would have her son. Rhaenyea will have hers, and the crown.

Kevan had done his duty unto you while you settled the storms in Dragonstone. You rewarded him handsomely.

Aegon sighed. He too, would like your honour avenged, but not for the sake of war. "As you wish, sister. I hope you know what you're doing and I am not about to send you to your death."

Just like what you did to your mother, you reached forward and cupped his face. If before, your touch stills his heart and floods his cavities with warmth, a flash of fear strikes the twin son at the eerie smile on your face.

"Skoros morghot vestri? What do we say to the god of death?"

Aegon blinked. "Tubī daor. Not today."

You smiled. "Trust me, sweet Aeg. It is not my death the Stranger will take. Not until the fjords of the North are at my mercy."

"Iksan kesīr sir naejot māzigon ñuha sikagon pakto! I am here now to claim my birth right!" Your scream echoes and falls, repeating back to you. There is a hum, like an electric current that sizzles and pops inside your blood and marrow, and you scramble higher and higher on the rock. Your blood does not sing for the dragon lairs, but above. Up and up, jagged edges cut your skin and dress, the wind whipping with sea mist, but nothing, no one, can clamour you as you reach the peak.

At first you see nothing but darkness and hollow sounds. But you let your eyes adjust, a hiss breaking out of your dry lips as you stumble. You look down. What you first thought were rocks and wayward bones of cattle is bigger.

Whale? No.

Dragon. Dragon bone.

You look and will every sense that your eyes do not. The smell that is drowned— iron. Bones bigger than a person. Than cows and whales. Bones of fearsome beasts. Darkness moves, taking form, more than shadow. Scales hewn rough and jagged, as if stone themselves. Midnight black moving with the gentlest of sighs.

As soon as you realise what— or who — is in front of you, the eyes open with an intelligent gleam. Your heart jolts at the emerald irises that gaze back at you, slitting at the appearance of a human.

'The stench of death follows him', the voice of an old keeper hums into your ear. You no longer remember who told this to you, but the words ring true in your memory. 'Scales of midnight, as if hewn from darkness and death. A harbinger, your grace, an omen of the darkest nightmares.'

"Rytsas. Hello." You smile, ever sweet, ever charming.

This is a thread you had never felt before. Not one of your own making, but something older. A golden thread that led the eyes of Daenys the Dreamer. That spun the ties of Aegon the Conqueror. The voices that herded your madness had gone quiet in the mad rush to get here, but now their presence thickens. Words you cannot hear, nor understand, flood the silence as dragon met rider for the first time.

Keepers and historians have called him he, but every bone in your body tells you that the being before you is a she.

And wouldn't that make sense? A cannibalistic being is a woman?

She opens her maw, only ever slightly, smoke and fire crackling out of it. Molten lava in the belly of her insides tease the cool, night air and warms you.

Her version of a smile. Hello, she seem to say.

"Māzīs. Come," you say, giggling. "Dohaerās. Serve."

That night, you took your first flight.

That night, the Cannibal took her first flight with her first— and only — rider as well.

❝ . . . It is said that the formerly named "The Cannibal" had been entranced by the hunger of his new— first and evermore — rider. Prince Aegon the Elder who had escorted his twin sister that very night with Sunfyre, had looked up in alarm and fright to a maddened screech. Excitement and laughter pouring out from the newly bonded Dragon and Rider had soon turned fear into awe.

Gaelithox, she had been named as they had ridden until dawn broke by the rider who loved her 'till the end of their days, was said to have seen a mirror in Her Grace. The fathomless hunger for blood and organ from the same bodies of their kin. For Gaelithox ever hungers and satisfies for the same meat as her, at the height of her grief and ire that fuelled the Queen Consort to climb Dragonmont by hand, she too hungered for the throats of her traitorous blood.

Gaelithox will only have one rider in her whole life, as she found no same twin soul as akin in the Bastard Eater Queen. Their bond moved as if two bodies beheld one soul.

She shied from humans, and oft found too rough with other dragons. Vhagar was an exception, oft seen acting as an elder sister to the Queen's dragon when neither royal rode them and played in the skies. Smaller dragons were forbidden to approach her however, nor was she allowed in the dragonpit after almost devouring the flightless Arrax.

She died two moons after the Queen's death, delivering her final flames for her rider and would never more breathe her infamous green flames akin to Wildfire, ordered by the Crowned Heir, Princess Daenera Velaryon. It is said that the princess attempted to bond with the cannibalistic dragon but it refused.

The dragon spent her last moons in heartbreak, oft seen in Dragonstone and the Red Keep, circling her rider's most favourite places. Her final resting place is at the very top of Dragonmont from whence the Queen claimed her. It is said that the Queen's crown, the one the King Jacaerys had gifted her after the birth of their first sons, the Princes Laenor and Gaemon, is said to be placed there, as well as a portion of her ashes.

It is said that the King and the Queen's twin brother, the Prince Aegon, personally made the trek in remembrance.

It is widely suspected that Aelyx, Princess Daella's dragon, the youngest child of the King and Queen, may have been Gaelithox's only existing hatchling for he too is made of rough, midnight scales. The dragon that bred with her remains to be unknown. ❞

—Maestre Kevan Noratz, Volume X of The Life and Lies of the Emerald Flame, passage chapter under 'The Time of Hunger: Gaelithox'.

You leave Gaelithox to a mournful goodbye on Dragonstone, pressing your forehead against her hard, scaly head, promising to come back, of exchanging her diet for fat, juicy whales, for more wind-whipped rides, before riding back on Sunfyre with Aegon. The younger dragon would not rise from the beaches in fear of the cannibalistic elder, but you made ensuring promises to teach Gaelithox not to chew your dearest brother's dragon.

You had gone most of your life without the feeling of a bond beneath you, warm and alive and wild, and the roar and stench that though new, felt so familiar in your ribcage— you will fly again. And with your brothers beside you. With Helaena and her lovely Dreamfyre.

To think they had taken this from you too, to placate them. To play into their hands like a mewling kitten.

No more.

It is paces before fast is about to break when you both touch back down to Kings Landing. The Keep busying with its occupants, servants and maids bolstering with quickened feet to ensure the lords and royals are awakened with full, poached meals, dresses and coats readied for their lords and ladies, a new, glorious day under the Reign of the Black Queen.

"What now?" Aegon asks, trying to keep with your pace but he is fatigued, failing to stop his yawns. The excitement of last night had come upon him like a fog, and he is missing his bed. Hells, he is missing the bed he stays with his wife if it meant he would get a full night's sleep in the hours of the day.

"Now, we speak nothing of what happened."

He turns to you, frowning. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." You beam, nodding in favour of soldiers and maids who bow in reverence to the Crown Princess. You know you smell of dragon and night, and you need a bath. And to talk to Dyanna before you seek your daughters. "I will need time and people. The board must still be set for me to perfectly execute what I have in store."

"Alright." He yawns again. "I'll be in my quarters, passed out, if you need me. Please do not need me until sup."

You laugh breathlessly, grabbing his hand and giving it a wet kiss. "I will give you your rest, be assured. Kirimvose, dōna lēkia, Thank you, sweet brother."

The words are simple, said in a quiet murmur heavy with love and meaning. Aegon presses a loving kiss to your head, unable to stop himself winding an arm around you.

"Syt ao, va moriot, ñuha prūmia. For you, always, my heart."

As you break to each other's chambers— his, to sleep, you, already meeting Yna and requesting for a bath — you don't notice the lurker that watched the intimate moment between twins, humming in amusement before it moves to follow you.

Back in your quarters— your marriage quarters as Jacaerys had requested that you forgo having your own, not wishing to part with you — the maids are already busying themselves airing the room, moving to follow your usual routine. The only thing breaking it is the tub now in the centre.

"Thank you," you say to Yna as she picks out the pins from your hair, shrugging off your dress in the process as soon as the maids had untangled the lace behind you.

"Call for Dyanna," you tell them as they bow and leave, the door clicking softly behind them. Plans must be made. Bath for now.

With the world stifled for a second, left with only you and your thoughts, you plunge your body under too-hot water, sighing  against the aches and pains in your body. Dragon-riding is a new endeavour to your muscles, and though enjoyable, was still too new.

You sigh as tears fall from your eyes, blinking exhaustedly against soft, humming daylight. You had always known that love, as it is, is a maiden's folly. A foolish, hapless play meant to fool young girls into thinking the world is kind; a pretty place.

It was an even farther thought from you, a princess of the realm. At a young age, it has been drilled to you that your womb is a rare commodity. Your body has never been your own, a piece meant to be moved in a bigger game that you are used for, not play.

You weren't stupid.

If there's a few things Otto Hightower had ever granted you, apart from gifting you his keen prowess in moving power beneath your fingertips, in hungering for more, for better— it is understanding what each person is, who they can be, how you can move them. A flatter, a flair, a push. As a man, there is much to be desired about your grandsire; he used people, used family to pursue power, but you can't truly fault him for that as you were the same.

You just took better care of the people under your wing.

And for Jace, you had banished him.

The worst part, you knew there was a good, fat chance you would care for the princeling. He was a kind man, a sweet man, and with a guiding hand, you could forge yourself the best husband for yourself as much as you can mould a great king and a wonderful father. Women's hands are ever carved to mould and prod men. We stand behind, a presence or a hand, an echo of power.

But your Jace had surpassed it all, and in the moons leading up to your present day, to giving him his heirs, two beautiful daughters, the promised full Valyrian colouring in the silver hair in Daenera, your eldest, the wide, violet gaze in Aemma— the name of his mother's mother, a request of him that you had kindly, graciously fucking agreed to — of course there is a part of you, the girlish, tender heart that you long thought you had buried to get here, would fall for the brown-eyed, wondrous man.

You sink deeper into the tub, sighing as you let yourself unravel—

When you feel it. A presence in your room. It's soft. Silent. Not a lot would feel as such, but as paranoid as you are, as you keep your spiders clean and pretty with your dewy-eyed webs— you know better.

Your mind runs with ideas on who it might be, and come to a few people. No true name rises. The Red Keep is flooded with spies and traitors. You test your luck, sitting up on the tub, raising an arm over the lip of it and flicking water with your fingertips.

"If you are here to kill me, I'm afraid it will be a lost cause."

He laughs, sardonic and edged and familiar, jetting a tingle down your spine.

Well. There's getting a calm bath.

"Perceptive as always, niece," he says, heavy footfalls approaching now that he has been caught. "I'm just here to say hello."

You raise your eyes, mouth curled but unsmiling at the man who acts as the biggest thorn to your plots. Daemon Targaryen has never fallen through your webs, on guard against your flatter, your push, or your flair. Of course, taking the position of his daughter might have forever burnt that road, but you would think he'd ease up just a little bit when his wife, the Queen, had warmed to you considerably.

Unlike your mother, you had never been hostile to your bitch of an elder sister. Just like your plots for Aegon and Jacaerys, and nodding along to thread your father had started but abandoned, foolishly thinking the realm would follow without him fully ensuring your sister's claim to the throne— you carefully maintained a polite farce with Rhaenyra.

Ultimately, this became a boon to you, as she had responded positively to your abrupt marriage to her son, even reminding her deranged guard dog of their own marriage. The cream to your lemon cake had been when you birthed Aemma, the Queen's most favourite grandchild thus far. When she was a babe, Rhaenyra was never far; almost, always holding your daughter, cooing at her cheeks, remarking her likeness to her namesake with pure fondness.

But Daemon Targaryen knew, in the deepness of his marrow, that there is something wrong with you.

"Hello," you answer primly. He laughs, leaning against the passage to your open balcony. "We could have had this elating greeting at fast, if you wish to break it with me and my own."

He scoffs, unable to hide his disdain at the thought. It breaks his stare of your naked visage. Men. "I would rather jump to the fighting pits, good daughter."

"How rude. Is that all?" You meet his gaze steadily, tilting your head. "If it is not obvious yet, good father, I am bathing."

An amused smirk. "I can see that." Lecherous fucking geezer. "No matter. I just have a... curious thought, a wonder I suspect you may be able to answer. See. Truly odd it is, for the keepers to alert me this morning that Sunfyre had taken a ride past the Hour of Owl." Your heart thuds in your ribcage and you do your best to keep your expression mildly irritated. "Not with one, drunken rider, but with another. It had taken them hours, only coming back when morning had already presented in the air."

He steps forward, slow, menacing, until he reaches the edge of your tub and crouches. Your gazes are still unmatched in height, defiant as yours might be.

"The distinct smell wafts them, a Keeper said, and one suspects that though one dragon left last night, two might have come back this morning for he had seen another fly away." His fingers dips into the water, swirling the steam without breaking eye contact. "I wonder if you know anything about it, darling niece of mine."

The mocking emphasis is not lost on you. If the Queen is the Realm's Delight, you were Darling of the Realm. A sweet, merry girl, the secondborn daughter of Viserys I who frequently fought for the plight of the small folk, who gathered friends of all kinds of lords and ladies no matter the standing of their houses to her own, visiting far lands and charming every person in any room. Who made any feast brighter, always sparkling, always the darling.

Less of a dragon, more of a fairytale.

You sit up, leaning, baring your breasts completely to him as you pull yourself up on the ledge he is crouched from. He leans back, only slightly, as you smile demurely. Sweet. Tart. On the edge of pulling his head and hitting it against the copper tub.

"I am unsure of what you suspect, or is accusing me of, kepus, uncle," you purr and there's a twitch in his mouth, a widen in his irises— men are so fucking simple — "I had been feeling down last night, as my husband, as you know, is beyond my reach at the moment as he rallies alliances for the good of the realm. My brother had simply offered to take me out riding, trying to quell my loneliness with an excitable flight I had never been afforded."

You tilt your head. "Even if there had been a dragon binded to my own, why why would I not regale the realm with news of my success? I have longed for a dragon of my own, but alas, I have not quite succeeded where most of the family have." You pout. His eyes flicker. "Mayhaps I am more Hightower than I am Targaryen."

A huff leaves his lips, the amusement in his smile arching to his dark, dark gaze. Before you can react, his hand had comes forward to hold your chin in a tight grip, your jaw aching soon enough at the fingers that dig against your skin, wanting to bruise, to break.

Though a tremble passes your body, you keep his stare, gritting your teeth as the pad of his thumb brushes your lips. Moments and desires thrum between a charged hatred.

The lust is twisted from wanting to fuck you to wanting to kill you. The line is not simple. Maybe that is your fate together.

But he can't. You are well too ingrained in his family now, loved by the people he cared about. You are untouchable. For now. This is a warning, waiting for you to stutter, to show your hand. Any show of your true intentions... he is more than happy to swing Dark Sister across your throat.

He releases you without another word, standing up and leaving through the front door, the door clicking shut.

You sink back into the bath, letting the water engulf you.

Your daughters are moons apart in birth, and there are only a few differences between them that people oft remarked they could be twins. Daenera is taller, spindly. Built like Aemond when he was younger. Her hair is spun moon and eyes of mullish blue. It reminds you of Daeron's eyes. You had named Daenera yourself, a gruelling birth that took the entire night. You promised Jacaerys he could name the second. He had chosen Aemma for a girl, Laenor for a boy.

Not a few moons later, you were with child again. Your husband pinked at the cheeks at the chiding from his family. When she cried into the afternoon sun—Aemma was born mid day, during a council meeting — he pain did not stop the laugh that came out of your mouth from the horrified expression from the Master of Coin as your water broke.

Aemma had a sweetheart face, cheeks much fatter than her older sister's, with a yellowish tinge to her hair, curlier too, reminding you of Aegon. And Aemma laughed more, her deep, violet eyes always half closed as she exploded in giggles and bright, sunshine happiness.

Sons they might not be, but you had given heirs for the throne. And for them, you would do anything to keep their futures intact. Bond with a dragon, face the Rogue Prince, upheave Winterfell. Anything.

You flounce to the nursery where you know the two would be, smiling sweetly at every person you pass as they bow in reverence. Most wore sights of confusion, their greedy eyes and wagging tongues drinking in the deep, emerald glisten of your gown.

It's an old dress, one you keep in the corner of your collection. It isn't as if you had forgo the colours of your mother's house, but playing court meant every movement, even the clothes you wear, can be meaningful. And since your marriage, your Jace liked you in Velaryon colours.

"A goddess come to bless," he gasped against your collarbone, keeping your legs high on his waist as he rutted into you before his teeth sunk on your skin. As newlyweds go, there is not a lot of teasing to be had for your husband to curl against you in a darkened alcove. Merely wearing his favourite colour on your skin has him panting like a dog. His favourite dress is a seafoam blue that dragged longer against the ground in a soft, almost-gossamer material with a silver belt.

Enticing him never took long, but you enjoyed the dance presented. You enjoyed the dark hunger that filled him until he grabbed you to take you because he just had to take you.

The fresh wound slices deeper as you imagine all the things Jacaerys is doing to the so called Sara Snow. The emerald green of your gown shimmers with your anger.

"Fucking bastards," you can't help but say aloud, nodding at the guards posted on the nursery as you hear the squeals of your daughter and the calm, even voice of your brother.

"Muña! Mother!" Aemma squeals, untangling herself from being pressed against Aegon's side as the children— Daenera and Jaehaera — cuddle around him, before running to you. Helaena is on the floor, entertaining baby Maelor. Your mother, hands twisting against her own, stands vigil by the window, staring far ahead.

You catch your secondborn, giggling as you pressed kiss after kiss on her face.

"I see everyone has started without me. Where is Jaehaerys?"

"You were late, sodjisto, aunt," Jaehaera grins gummily. Jahaera is only a year older than Daenera. Your daughters, five and a half and five respectively. "Jaehaerys is with kepus, uncle. They are training."

"Smart girl." You meet your brother's gaze, whose eyes had notably been staring at your dress, mouth turned down. "Why don't you three play with Helaena? I shall speak about Name Day gifts for your Uncle Joffrey for a bit, hm?"

As Aemma shrieks something about cakes, and Daenera dutifully kissing your cheek in greeting before she takes Jaehaera's hand, you turn to your brother and mother.

"Aemond?" you ask softly, keeping your voice out of earshot. Alicent shakes her head. You nod. "Good. We don't want him inciting a war before I have mine properly planned."

As the Dowager draws in a sharp inhale, Aegon grabs your hands, the worry pulled taunt in his eyebrows. "Are you seriously contemplating war, sister? Isn't there a better way to punish them?"

"What punishment does a man regale in?" you hiss, stepping close to him. "Or the Queen's heir for the bloody matter? When Aemond nearly killed Lucerys, and he confronted me as if I had ordered Vhagar to tear through his brother, I thought I had put to bed any doubts in our marriage. It seems that men stray, regardless. My daughters may be his heir now, but what is to say that bastard wildling he's found himself cock deep in produces a son? Will he shame me with a mistress? Or will he shame me with a second wife?"

Your mother's lips tightens, her fingers paling at how tight she is gripping her nerves.

"Bastard or not, if he takes her to wife, I will be nothing. Make that babe a son, and the realm will rally for it. Daenera is his heir. My daughters will not be forgone. I will not be pushed aside. This is mercy, brother," you say softly, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. "My last one. It requires time, moons, to unfurl. It requires seeding doubt and unfathomable inadequacy. Better if Aemond is none the wiser, Helaena the same. But I will need both of you for this to work. It is the only time I will ever ask. For me. For my daughters."

"And you will punish Winterfell with a war?" your mother asks, frown pulled deep. "That is the plan?"

"I will not. I won't do such a thing so blatant, mother, you know me better than that. But this is my last mercy, and it will be the last. For the next time he offends me so, I do not care if Rhaenyra feeds me to Syrax. I will put a dagger through his heart, heir or not."

The Prince Jacaerys comes back not a week later. Though he comes back to the same castle with the same occupants— your shiny new threads gleam. The stage has been set, a play ready to act. You had sent more spiders in the North, keeping a close eye to every blasphemy your husband has been enjoying in the absence of his duties, and as the rage in you quietly grew with each new whisper, your determination hardens.

You mark each indescretion. You keep a tally.

You count for each fall your blow will land on him.

Vermax lands with a screech and a heavy thump, your husband leaping off him with a grin on his face, matching the one you own, waving your arm joyously with Aemma in your arm and Daenera beside you, holding to your skirt as she grinned at her father.

Aemma wiggles under your hold, and you let Jace get close enough before you set her down, laughing, "Okay, okay!" Her laughter carries through as she scrambles like a bull to her father. A squeal peals out of her as Jace picks her up just in time and tosses her in the air.

"Want to meet kepa, father, sweet girl?" you whisper to Daenera, running a hand down her hair before she nods, breaking out into her own sprint, hugging her father as he greets them with laughter and kisses.

You let them have their time, and this, at least, eases your heart truthfully. A kind reminder that Jace adores his daughters.

You stay at the edge of the entrance, your too-wide grin softens into a smile. You were dramatic, nothing new about that, but even in the pale, pearl blue of your dress in silky, Myrish lace, the emeralds in your heavy, golden belt winks. Green ribbons twisted in your hair alongside fresh flowers. When the trio of your family treks toward you, silver-haired babes clinging to your dark haired prince, you serve a wink at the girls and they untangle themselves from their father while you stepped forward.

A choreographed dance, not giving him time to think. To pause.

Every step is calculated, every item on your body— the silk, the small seahorse that locks your dress behind you, the tint on your lips to the oil in your hair and body — is made to perform. You engulf him in you as if you want to suffocate his senses, your arms wrapping around him with sweet kisses pressing on his face, his neck.

Most in the dragonpit looked away, others, scandalously amazed and enchanted, watch as the princess is undeniably enthralled with her lord husband.

His laughter rumbles across his body, infecting your own, smelling of dragonback and crisp winds. You wonder if your nose is more heightened, you would be able to smell his whore in him, but you don't. It's just him. Your Jace.

Your body moulds against his as his arms tightens around you. When you lean back, you sweetly press a chaste kiss on his lips, grinning.

"What is this?" he huffs a laugh, meeting your doeful gaze. Your fingers curl around his chin, his cheek, idly tapping and touching as if you are committing so much newness to memory.

"Kostagon iā ābrazȳrys daor jaelagon zirȳla valzȳrys? Can a wife not want her husband?" you ask softly, pressing a few more kisses before sucking the last one just under his ear. His body shudders. You hide your smirk. "Skori ēza issare qrīdrughagon tolī bōsa? When he has been away too long?"

A yearning look tints your gaze from under your lashes, and you have to stifle the winning smirk as guilt pinches his face.

"My apologies, my wife. I did not mean to be away from you for long. From the girls." As his eyes flick to his daughters, your mask momentarily sharpens into clear distaste. The urge to dig your fingers into his eyes until he is bleeding and screaming under you is one you tamper with great distress.

Did not mean...

Did not mean to have a dalliance with another woman?

Did not mean to fall into bed with a fucking bastard, you insidious cunt, while I await here with your heirs?

Your anger thrums, nestled deep in your heart, it breathes. You school your face the moment he turns back to you, bringing your hands to his lips, kissing each finger with reverent tenderness. His brown eyes smoulder, rubbing your bare— irises widening — back.

"If you wish it, I can be on my knees for my apologies, my princess."

Your mouth curls. "I'm afraid that might have to be quite later, my prince."

"Huh?"

"The Dowager Queen hoped to congratulate you on your successful campaigning. Reaching as far as the North so frequently, we planned a feast for your return." Eyes shinning, you cup his face. You hope the guilt eats him raw from the inside out. Like worms. Like termites. Hungry, hungry, hungry. "We have never been more proud of you, I have never been more proud of you."

You laugh brightly, ignoring the way he squeezed you just a bit harder that mere second the same time his eyes tightened. "The moment I told the girls of it, they had begged to dance with you." Then you bit your lip, frowning slightly. "I... I understand if you are tired, 'tis a long journey after all, I did try to tell them you might want to rest, we can sneak you—"

"No, no, my heart, of course I would be happy to, I— I want nothing more." He brings you close, face disappearing into your neck. "Thank you. I love you."

You hum, carding your fingers through his hair. "As I love you."

For the rest of the feast, you dance just at the edges of his fingertips, ensuring that you permeated his sights and senses despite it. A game. A dance. When he thanks revelries who congratulate him, who ask him of his adventures, you proudly stand beside him, dutiful as the wife that you are, spearing him with compliments as much as you can. Hands squeezing his arm, your oils swallowing him with your smell.

When dinner came, you take chances massaging his thigh, sliding a salacious grin that had him blushing, ever so sweet, green— making you wonder what kind of fucking bastards do that he finds your attention so swallowing.

You don't let up.

Whenever he, in turn made a move, you sidestep, flutter a smirk, a wink; always escaping, letting him grow frustrated as the night went on.

Your one respite from taunting him had been when he danced with his daughters, making a gallant show of asking them, even Jaehaera. Giggles and spins, the ladies of the court fawn and coo.

Even now, you're making him to be the perfect man. The endearing husband, the wondrous father, the brilliant prince, the perfect lord.

To execute your plan, it must be made with a surgical precision. A slice that guts him to his knees, that breaks his spirit and quenches the whispering, wicked madness nestling with your ire. On another cheek, he must remain upright and upstanding, as to keep your daughters' future in perfect order.

You catch the domineering gaze of Daemon Targaryen, idle as he is, on the side of his distracted Queen, talking to a highborn lady. You don't look away as you toast him your cup of Arbour Red before you pucker your lips for a taste. Your eyes move to where your husband is already looking, flushed red and sweaty from all the dancing, your girls, preening and giggling around him.

You tilt your chin at him, a challenge in your gaze, before you slowly pull your lips away from your wine, stained red.

His throat bobs.

It will be a long, arduous game. Full of pitfalls and tightened webbing. One trip can kill you. But once the machinations are in order, once everything and everyone is in their proper places... oh, you cannot wait for the dance the dragons will make.

A flutter, a simpered footstep. Then a rustle of a dress as one bows.

"My lady," Dyanna greets behind you.

"Hm?"

"The spiders in the ice have met the pup in the snow."

"And?"

"The pup is not suspicious, in fact, they might go as far as to say that the pup is lonely. Though others largely understand her existence... no one likes a bastard."

You snort. "No, they don't, do they?"

"The wolf cares for the pup though, and is largely protective of his only sister."

"Hm. Complicated, but not impossible. Have Meera change the tone of my missive. A softer edge. Sweet but not overtly. Ensure the prerogative of politeness. Then have it sent to the Rookery. The proper channels."

You sigh, taking the edge of your braid and twisting through the ribbons your maid tangled between them. Tonight, you had elected Targaryen colours. A black dress akin to scales and a low, exposed back and dipping front, held together in red ribbons and silver chains. One that might be too on the nose, but the constant, feverish stares from your husband made it worth it.

"We have to ensure a good relationship with the Warden of the North, don't you think so?" You have not looked away from your husband since your maid came, and as he whispered something in Daenera's ear, nodding off to her grandmother with Aemma towed, he turned towards you, one stride after another.

"Precisely what I thought, milady."

"Go," you order her for the last time, giving her your cup, just before Jacaerys reaches you.

Game, set.

Worshipping you has always been something Jace excelled at. At the least, his cock was much larger than most, and without the preparation of his tongue and mouth, it burned. At most, he oft found himself holding your shaking thighs, your head and shoulders left on the bed as he feasted on you like a man starved, hungered for your nectar, the sounds you make, and the shaking of your body as you reached your peak on his tongue.

"J-Jace, please, I—" Your breath stutters, a hiccup escaping your mouth, but he is not letting up. On his knees as only a lordling can with his back straight, he is holding your thighs, your lower back, eating your cunny for the third time of the night.

As soon as he had reached you, he grasped your waist, whispering against your hair in a rumbled groan, "You are torturing me so, my wife. We leave. Now."

"Now?" you echoed, amused. "This is a feast in your honour."

"My honour is already hanging by a thread. The revelry will go on without us. I want to have my fill of you."

And fill he had. He didn't even wait to get you out of your dress before he had pushed your skirt upward, gone on his knees, and got his tongue inside of you.

Now, you are overwhelmed, overstimulated as you are hazy, gripping the wrecked sheets as your peak reached you once more. A strangled, breathy cry of his name falls between your lips as your back arched impossibly so, and instead of letting up, this seemed to fuel him harder, the muscle of his mouth working harder inside of your cunt, hands digging into your flesh to keep you steady.

It builds with a stimulation unending, and just as you're on the throes of your last high, it builds again, quick and fast this time, shuddering gasps of, "o-oh gods, g-gods, Jace!" is the last thing you are able to shout before your fourth peak breaks against the shudders of your last one, your wetness exploding, and you start crying before he lets up.

Your blubber becomes laughter, and he is soft as he lies you down, massaging your thighs as you twitched. He hovers above you, running gentle hands across your arms, kneading through skin, before he reaches your face. He's still in most of his clothes, his long white shirt and breeches, but his mouth is covered in your wetness before he wipes it, obscene in the prettiness of his face and messy locks from where you had tugged and grabbed.

He presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, so close to your body, all too tangled in your soul, and can feel his hard cock upright and wanting against your belly, but he pays it no mind. Concern mars his features as he brushes down your hair.

"Are you alright, my love? Too much?"

You shake your head, brushing your hand down his chest. "N-no, I am well. I just never did that before."

He smiles, kissing your closed eyelids before he brings you close to his chest, cuddling you deep. "You deserve all the pleasure I can give you," he says against your hair. "I have been gone far too long. Consider it my apology."

You hum, eyes open. "Apology for what? You were doing your duty, nothing more, ñuha zaldrīzes, my dragon." You feel him stiffen as you keep your voice soft, caring. "I understand duty far better than you. It is what I love most about you."

You look up, taking his chin between your fingertips as you stared at those warm, brown eyes. "You, who carries your honour like a shield and your duty like a sword. I feel as if the gods had blessed me a husband far better than I should have had for I know I do not deserve you."

"H-how can you say that? You are—" He swallows. "— You are the most excellent woman. The mother of my children. You... You are the one I do not deserve."

Your head falls back against his chest, gripping his shirt. Only by your teeth had you stop yourself from screaming.

You curdle, you keep, you poise.

"My love?"

But you pay him no mind, pushing him on his back as you straddle him, your hands working quick to unlace his breeches until his cock slaps against his stomach, end red and swollen. A sharp hiss falls from his lips as your hand tugs on it once. Twice.

He calls your name, spits it really, eyes blown with lust as he holds your waist, unsure if he should lift you off him or grind you against his aching cock.

"I want you inside me," you whimper, plead, feeling his cock twitch at your words, your false, yearning gaze. He mistakes the burned tears of anger in your eyes as unbridled want. "I have gone so long without your warmth, your cock, swelling inside me, your seed nestling deep, taking root—"

"Yes," he gasps, fingers digging into your doughy sides, pulling you up, moving you around whilst you grabbed his length and directed inside your wet, hot cunt inch by inch, filling you so thickly you can feel him in your throat. It takes time, patience and grit, but you're wet enough and you're determined. Once he's fully inside of you through a choked moan of your own, his neck arches, head thrown back. "Fuck! Yes, y-yes, there you are, my g-good fucking girl."

You move slow at first, taking him, bracing one hand on his knee, almost testing the feel him of back in the familiar contours of your cunt. Veins pop between each groan and choke that shudders through him whilst praise, your name, the possessive titles— my love, my wife, my princess — is spit in between.

When the heat tightens in your belly, you shift positions, placing both palms on his chest, and riding him without abandon, bouncing up and down as you watch with a sharp eye as his release builds. His hips move on their own, fucking up in you as you meet his thrusts with equal vigour, and it's delicious. It's heated. You grind your swollen folds against his mon and your cries make him thrust up harder into you, calling your name, denting your doughy hips.

You don't stop, your pleasure at the back of your mind, wanting him to unravel, to break— a final cry of your name dissolving into a choked moan, spilling his seed deep inside, the continuous snap of his hips digging it deeper into your womb.

But your last peak is still tightening, so you press a quick kiss on his chest, a bite really, before you continue to chase your own high, a hiss slipping his lips but moving your hips with his iron-grip, stutters of, "d-do it, reach your high, f-fuck! fuck!"— Your head throws back, nails digging his skin as your cunt clenches his cock in a vice grip, forcing his hips to snap up once more, twice, until you fall, slumping against him.

When he kisses the top of your head, murmuring words you ignore, you close your eyes.

Your plan is in motion. The missive will be sent to the Lord Stark, in pursuit of an innocent friendship. The spiders you have placed on the Northern bastard are set, and a dragon flies in Dragonstone with your bond in its blood.

Your Jace is home. He will fall in love with you all over again. His wonderful daughters and darling princess, he will regret the events that have transpired in the cold. In his head, he will make promises to do better, to be better, that whatever happened is a blip. A mistake that will not happen again. but you know, he will trip. He will wander once more.

But you will make sure that the next time he does so, he will regret it for the rest of his days.

Because it is not you who will burn Winterfell to the ground.

It will be him.

Your plan moves, your web is perfect.

Now, the spider waits for the idiot fucking flies to feed on.

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