#Silver Cloud II

[les-belles-mecaniques]

1961 Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud II

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1960 Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud II

Legendary Actor Cary Grant in England with his 1960 Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud II. He kept this car in London. Grant also kept a nearly identical Silver Cloud III in Beverly Hills.

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud II Paramount, 2023 (1961), by Ringbrothers. A restomod Roller that has been upgraded with a supercharged 640hp 6.2-litre LT4 engine and Bowler Tru-Street 10-speed automatic transmission. The car has undergone a bare metal restoration and is finished in BASF Glasurit's "White as Fluff" finish. It forms parts of Ringbrother's presentation at the year's SEMA show

[mmelolabelle]

hc that hotd!aegon throws the feast after aemond comes back from storm’s end not because he wants to celebrate lucerys’ death, but because he is finally, finally not The Disappointment

nothing he can do from that point on will ever come close to the magnitude of aemond’s one fuck up, aegon is free

[untouchvbles]

Rolls Royce Silver Shadow II at Cassandra's Motorsports Open House (2023) in Pewaukee, WI.

[lovelykhaleesiii]

Hello!!! For the requests, can I request one for Aegon II? Pregnancy kink and maybe some family fluff with reader and Aegon's kids?

Divine Honour.

PAIRING: King!Aegon ii Targaryen x fem!Wife!Reader

WORDS: 1,515.

WARNINGS: domesticity, references of p in v sexual intercourse, pregnancy kink/breeding kink, lactation kink, breast play, swearing, possessive!Aegon ii, slight exhibitionism.

A/N - literally anything that involves Aegon with kids, domesticity and breeding/pregnancy kink is my weakness... I am a whore like that. hope you enjoy, I've combined these two requests :) also dedicating this as a little gift to you all in honour of the King's bday!!!!

"Father! When can we choose an egg for the babe? Meraxes has laid a fresh clutch!"

"How much longer must we wait for this babe?!"

"B-Bub!"

The uproar of their high-pitched, eager voices left Aegon defeated, as he swiftly picked his youngest in his bulky arms, lifting the little princess onto his seated lap, where she settled herself comfortably. Babbling incomprehensible sounds [as she was still yet a babe herself, only able to muster a few coherent words] and idly pointing at your round, swollen belly. Your elder sons on the other hand, twins nonetheless, found themselves encircling their father like hounds, pouncing at his sides, desperate for answers, as you waddled yourself over to the edge of the royal bed, where they outnumbered Aegon.

"How many times must I tell you this, boys? When the babe is ready to come, it will come! Any day now, you'll have either a baby brother or little sister that you can dote on and protect for hours on end... Is that understood?"

The silver-haired boys both ecstatically eyed each other, giddy with excitement and anticipation for the newest arrival into the family, refusing to stand still. Turning towards you, your youngest only a few minutes apart from his elder, Rhaego, warmly embraced your side, careful with his grip around your protruding belly.

"You will find us when the babe is coming? Promise us, mother, that you will!"

The streak of worry tinged across his small, growing face, was enough to melt your heart. He was your exact twin, with some of Aegon's Valyrian-esque features. A smaller boy than his brother, and far more emotionally attached to you.

"Of course, my love. I will need you by my side, okay?"

"Now the lot of you, off to bed! Your mother needs her rest-"

Aegon's deep, stern voice clouded the room, before being met with the sighs and sounds of defeat from his twin boys. Gesturing for your lady in waiting, Sara, to make herself present: leading the boys, Rhaego and Aenys, out, as you warmly kissed each goodnight. Your littlest babe remained safe and sound, wrapped in Aegon's arms, desperately trying to stay awake, as she drifted in and out of sleep.

"And this little princess—”

The sudden drop in his tone, speaking in a volume only above a whisper, and far more softer, was enough to prove that your little girl was Aegon's weakness.

"My little Aelora, just doesn't want to sleep. She has far too much fun with her Daddy."

He plants a tender peck on her head, as she brightly smiles up at her father, taking much of his likeness, before rubbing her small eyes with her tiny fists, edging closer to slumber.

"Here—Here, she just needs her mother's boring touch to put her to sleep”, you tauntingly exclaim.

In exchange for his amusement, you take the babe in your arms, cradling her above your belly, as you gently sway her, lulling her to sleep. Aegon finds himself walking towards the edge of the bed, as he begins to undress, unbuttoning his tunic. Watching you from a meek distance, he feels a palpable twitch beneath the dark fabric of his pants, feels more tighter than he had noticed moments before. His thick cock stirring with excitement, as he witnesses the surreal vision of you holding his babe, whilst carrying his other unborn child.

"You truly are a divine sight, my love... You've never looked more beautiful than you do now."

His heavy words caught your immediate attention, as your focus pans from the sleeping babe to Aegon, looking rather ravenously at you. Although his orbs a light lilac shade, his gaze felt rather dark and menacing, his plump, cherry lips licked and glazing in the candle light. He looked as though he could devour you right there and then, you were rather familiar with this particular sight of your husband.

"Is that so?" You softly chuckle, turning from Aegon to the silent babe, before resuming your attention once more unto him.

"I do not feel so. I feel I am at my heaviest, Aeg. You honestly do not mean to say I am-"

Pouncing to stand, his heavy and heated footsteps pace towards you, a firm grip tugging at your silky night gown by your hips.

"Speak no more, Y/N. You cannot fathom how irresistible you look to me in this very instance... Put her down, I think she's deep in her sleep now, Mumma."

The firmness in his deep voice, almost a mimic of a growling predator, was an occurrence you saw in court, with your husband upholding his position as King. Aegon had established himself as a formidable man, despite the doubts surrounding his succession. You obeyed his command, gently lowering Aelora into her crib, as you nestled the babe in her minuscule, handwoven duvet.

"Come here—”

Gesturing you towards the end of the bed, his wolfish eyes lingered over your every inch, every detail of exposed skin, his hands wandering in sync with the insatiable lust in his eyes, as though it was your wedding night all over again.

"You think you do not look divine? Carrying my precious babe not only in your arms, but in your womb as well? Do you not think it an honour to carry and bear the seed of the King? Need I fuck you s'more and plenty, my dearest. Swelling you with as many children as your body can take, for you to understand your significance, hmm?"

Thoughtless against his lust-filled words, you hadn't even realised how swift and deliberate Aegon's sensual movements were, snaking his sturdy arms around your swollen, tender body, weak against your husband's touch. His soft lips latched to your tender skin, suckling at the sweet crevices of your neck, feeling your Grace slowly making his way carefully down, towards your busting cleavage, as he sat himself down by the end of the bed, pulling you closer towards him, trapped between his thickly sprawled thighs.

"Does your King not make you feel good? Have I failed you as your sovereign and as a husband, hmm? Need I spoil you more than I have already?"

Candidly unbuttoning the few clasps of your low-cut ivory nightgown, your tender, perky breasts instantly exposed themselves to your Grace, each tit filling with milk in preparation for the royal babe. The wintry, crisp air of the night left your skin crawling with chills, and Aegon's calloused hands, groping at each breast did not numb the feeling at all.

"N-No- Ahh, Aeg—"

"So fucking sensitive, look at you... I did this, I did this to you, you do well to remember that—"

"Y-Yes, y-your Grace," You feebly whimper, one hand firmly clasped over Aegon's broad shoulder and the other tangled in the short strands of his platinum locks: desperate to keep composure, as he taunts your delicate body. Flicking his thumb over the peaking buds of your raw, sensitive nipples, deeply chuckling to himself as he earns a helpless moan from you.

"Your body knows exactly how to take, my beloved. Knows what it is expected of, made to take my seed so fucking well, huh? Look at how steady your belly grows day by day, our babe kicking healthily inside... How these tits swell with that sweet, heavenly milk of yours, hmm? You were born for this, my dear. Made ripe for the taking of the King himself."

Without a second to spare, not even so much for a breath, Aegon's ravenous mouth latched itself onto your breast. His warm, slick tongue flicking at your nipple, suckling fiercely, eager for a drop of flavour. Instinctively your hands immediately drop onto his hefty shoulders, nails digging into the thick padding of his apparel. As you gradually grew more accustomed to the exhilarating sensation, your hands travelled their way back up, busying themselves by tugging and pulling at his silver strands: occasionally even guiding Aegon's head deeper into your bosom, keen to satisfy your King's insatiable hunger.

M-My body at th-the disposal of th-the King... The g-greatest honour b-bestowed. K-Keep fucking me, keeping m-me full of his seed—"

The mouth clasped tightly around your breast, a hand remained groping, kneading at your swollen flesh, whilst his other roamed below, firmly squeezing and palming at your ass cheek.

His stout chest heaving breathlessly, as he regained himself: Aegon's mesmerizingly violet eyes fluttered shut momentarily, before gazing upon you intently, a sly smirk strewed across his handsome face.

"Hmm, that's right, my beloved... We might even populate the Red Keep alone, and everyone will know exactly who you answer to... Everyone shall know that I be the man who fucks you hard time and time again, how well your pretty cunt takes my cock and seed. And when your body shows, everyone will know how willing your body is craving to be full of me. My beloved loves the attention from her King, yes?"

"I do, Aeg."

"And I love you... And the children, even the ones you will bear in time... I love you, just as you are."

general taglist - @succnfuccubus @fan-goddess @malfoytargaryen @bibli0thecary @m1ndbrand @connorsui @elegantsplendour @arcielee @s-we-e-t-t-ea @sahvlren @watercolorskyy @hypnos-daughter-certified @urmomsgirlfriend1 @backyardfolklore @snowprincesa1

Aegon ii taglist - @who-told-you-this-was-butter @f4ll-for-you @jawline-of-steel @daughter-of-the-stars11

credit for divider - @/firefly-graphics

[gallifreyanhotfive]

Random Doctor Who Facts You Might Not Know, Part 69

One time while escaping from a cell, Romana commented that it would be child's play to unlock the door with her sonic screwdriver. She then said it was literally child's play as doing so had been a game back on Gallifrey. (Audio: Subterranea)

One of Jamie's distant relations became a spy during World War II and used the name "the Doctor." (Audio: Operation Werewolf)

On his report, Borusa gave Theta Sigma a 7 in the subject of "Physical Inactivity." He commented that his pupil seems to think he is a mountain goat. (Short story: Report on Term's Work)

Memory lanterns are Time Lord devices that resemble paper lanterns but record an individual's thoughts and memories. During the Time War, many Gallifreyans released these lanterns as a desperate ploy to not be forgotten, as they thought they would all die. (Novel: Engines of War)

Ben, Polly, and Jamie played with a ouija board on the TARDIS. This caused a dark cloud from the time vortex to slip inside Jamie's mind, affecting his behavior. The Second Doctor banished the cloud by reading a recipe for Bajaxx stew written in Ancient Gallifreyan. (Short story: Something at the Door)

Jarra To killed the previous overseer of the Axis. Eventually, a Time Lord came to investigate, but they killed them. By the time the Fifth Doctor and his companions landed there, they described the corpse as "rank" with oozing flesh and insect larvae. (Audio: The Axis of Insanity)

After leaving Nyssa, Tegan, and Marc behind, the Fifth Doctor had several adventures on his own. Eventually, he encountered his Eleventh self, and he decided to return to his companions because he didn't want to be like him - companionless and disparaged in 1892. (Audio: Thin Time)

Time Vortex leeches live in the time vortex, and the Doctor had thought they were a myth from Ancient Gallifreyan songs until one of them clung to his Eleventh self's TARDIS exterior. (Comic: Space in Dimension Relative and Time)

One time, a man called Gaylord Lefevre played a game of cards against the Toymaker. He cheated and used a needle to mark cards, but the Toymaker was aware of this and altered his cards to be a hand full of jokers when Gaylord wasn't looking. The Toymaker claimed he wasn't cheating but instead following a new rule that Gaylord had introduced - that cheating was acceptable. (Comic: The Greatest Gamble)

Gallifrey has a transtube, which is basically an underground train. It has a central station under the Capitol. (Novel: The Ancestor Cell)

One time after the Seventh Doctor was knocked out, he drowsily told Ace that he had had a terrible dream. A man with ringlets had been reaching out to him, saying, "Come in, Number Seven, your time is up." He was talking about the Eighth Doctor. (Audio: The Silurian Candidate)

Maria Mazzini once commented on how powerful the Fifth Doctor's thighs were - after slapping them. (Audio: Serpent in the Silver Mask)

One time, the Fourth Doctor decided to take Sarah Jane to Geshtinanna. The journey in the TARDIS took nine weeks, during which both became bored and tired. While traveling in the time vortex, the clocks in the TARDIS all stopped, and the Doctor then detected the remains of another TARDIS in the vortex, trapped their because the pilot had made the mistake of locking their course. They were worried that they too had fallen to the same fate and were unable to change course, but when the day of materialization finally came, they successfully materialized. The Doctor realized that the TARDIS had stopped all the clocks out of respect for her fallen fellow TARDIS. Even after nine weeks of travel, they materialized nowhere close to Geshtinanna. (Short story: Eternity)

The Seventh Doctor has shifted his genetic makeup enough to disguise himself before and mimic someone else. He admitted that he learned this trick from the Master, who frequently used regeneration as a disguise. (Novel: Original Sin)

On Gallifrey, there are two hundred and eight tenses in their languages. They don't translate well. (Novel: The Crystal Bucephalus)

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[chimcum]

The Enigma [II]

Synopsis: Two different worlds collide together, his and yours, resulting in something entirely unexpected. He had been living his life, walking through the pre-planned path. But what happens when a simple strawberry cheesecake navigates his course of life in a completely different direction. One that needs him to live, breathe, love, kill. Genre: strangers to lovers au, smut Characters: foreigner readerx native jk

You

The bustling hall symphonized sight and sound, the cacophony of it was a sensory overload. Students hurried past obligating to their job. Warm white lightings illuminate the surroundings, the glossy mahogany plywood reflecting the rays in all directions.

Professors and in-charges barked commands, motioning the poor juniors in various directions. Chairs and tables were arranged on the stage , bouquets of flowers placed on them beside each placard.

Small plastic bottles laid on tables near the walls, the cool condensing on their surface, leaving droplets of water behind.

Picking one from the table, I unscrewed the cap, the seal yielding to the gentle pressure of my fingers left a satisfying a pop. Bringing the bottle's opening to my lips, I chug the water down, the icy liquid numbing my insides.

Detaching the bottle away, I inhale a long mouthy breathe, relieving my teeth. Leaning my rear side on table edge, folding my right arm on my front, placing my left elbow on it, I sipped the water leisurely.

Glancing around the hall, I peer at each moving thing, taking in the atmosphere.

Medallions and title badges were meticulously being placed in trays. Carrying out the task with a smile across her lips, the young girl, possibly a freshie, really seemed overjoyed.

Her cautious actions, seemingly calm, having a frantic manner of their own, perhaps overwhelmed with the responsibility of such prestige.

The feeling of revulsion churns within my stomach, like a dark cloud it persists over me, raining down judgmental thoughts even though I fight to maintain a neutral perspective.

Taking pride in holding other's achievement?

Averting my gaze, I try not to entertain the thought again, but my conscience as always crawls back to the negativity.

"오, 진짜? 몰랐���. 그럼 많이 놓치겠네."

A deep voice echoes near me, drifting in my direction pulling me out of my trance, the face of the voice pretty known to me.

Dressed in a crisp white shirt and black trousers, he holds a hard disk under his black coat with one hand and a cellphone to his ear with the other.

Sending me a cute smile, he waves his hand in the air, the device greeting me before his hand could, his trailing voice a familiar chime in among all.

Unfolding my arms, I place the used bottle back on the table, mentally noting to throw it right away after this.

Sliding his phone into his pockets, shifting his complete attention on me, the guy extends his palm out infront, gesturing for a handshake.

Clasping his palm in mine, I once again get reminded about his size. His fingers engulf my small(er) palm while I barely manage to get a hold of his.

"Was definitely not expecting you." remarking in a smug tone, he lets go of my palm, my fingers involuntarily clenching into a fist.

"Yeah I am sure you did not." I respond in a sarcastic tone, "But you know, I like disappointing people."

He reciprocates my shrug with a cheeky nod, chuckling at the act.

His voice trails in my ears as he continues the conversation while I try to savor the visual infront of me with the utmost subtlety.

His hair, slicked back with gel, gleamed under the soft light. A silver chain, its links glinting, adorned his wrist. The first two buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a hint of his toned chest. He was a vision of masculine perfection, a masterpiece crafted by the gods themselves.

I snap out of my frenzy of thoughts, a sudden pitched voice calling out a name brings our conversation to a halt.

"Namjoon!!"

A girl his age appears out of the blue, her shriek voice paining my eardrums as she continues to interact with him, her actions best categorized as annoying atleast by me.

Jungkook

Aiming the ball at the rack of balls in the storage area, focusing my vision, overlooking the huge distance I purposely widened, I threw the ball with all my last strength and bingo!

Seeing the basketball coach approaching me, his hands busy clapping as words of appreciation left his mouth, praising my shot, I walked upto him closing half of the distance in between to not bother him taking more steps.

"Great shot Jeon!!", he praised, hands coming up to pat me on the back making me retreat, not wanting him to have touch my all sweaty back.

"It's fine my boy, I have been a sports person too. There's no problem in appreciating my captain's great game." his palm came in contact with my left bicep nonetheless, patting the skin with pride and praise.

His rough voice and appreciative tone continued as he reminded about the upcoming national university basketball match, the qualified teams, and how it was necessary for us to win.

"The upcoming match is a big deal for us, we are the only ones worthy for the win. We have to bring the trophy home Jeon. We can not miss this." he amplified, hands offering me my handtowel, holding onto the water bottle with other.

"I know sir, I promise to not let you down. I will bring the trophy home.", I affirmed, conforming to his command as I wiped the sweat off of my face, taking the head band off.

Nodding at my response with a confident smile on his face, he strolled around, his walk having the hint of a limp as he approached other team mates.

"Let's freshen up! We have to attend the seminar as well. Only an hour is left before our phones start ringing to no shit.", Taehyung peeked, seating down on the bench nearby, drying the sweat off of his hair.

"Yeah I thought so too, let's go your place. I don't want to shower in the locker rooms today. They must be reeking by now.", rolling my eyes back as I spoke, my voice gagging, disgust evident on my face.

Nodding in agreement to my suggestion, "Yeah. Let's just change into tracks and get the hell out of here. I can't bear the sweat any longer. Gosh I can wait to jump in the shower holy mother," standing up from his seat, he tossed the towel back in his bag before pulling out the tracks.

The cold water drips down from the showerhead, washing away all the sweat and dirt, the low temperature of water creating a dense mist that obliterates the view of the tiles and glass.

The sound of the water falling is soothing as I comb my hair back with my fingers and rub my face. The earlier shivering now fades away, my body accustoming to the cold water.

Cleansing myself for the last time, I step out of the shower, grabbing the towel nearby before wrapping it around my waist.

Peering at my reflection in the mirror, flexing my muscles a couple of times, I check myself out.

Lathering a generous amount of moisturizer on my skin, my skin absorbing the foam, I sprayed the sweet dark musk perfume on my neck, the fragrance leaving a heavy and sensual atmosphere around.

The scent birthing a thought about a certain wooden rose fragrance as I looked down, the shining colored glass only fueling the sensuality in the air.

The evocation of the thought moved my head upwards, my eyes scanning over my own features in the mirror with an unsettling gaze.

Shaking my head side to side, physically dismissing the thought, I untangled the clothe around my waist to dress up, not wanting to waste any time.

Chugging the cold juice down my throat, I pushed another glass infront offering the guy as he stepped out of his own room, hands occupied with his own hair.

Taehyung picked the glass up from the table before muttering a thank you, walking past me to open the fridge to take the strawberries out.

Strawberries.

"Ahg... have some, these ones are really good, Minnie bought these..", Minnie, his girlfriend, had a real sweet tooth.

Picking one out of the basket, bringing my hands near my mouth, I bite onto the red gem, the sweetness melting like ice into my mouth, my eyes closing on their own.

"These are really good, where did she get these from?," I inquired as I took another bite of the berry, my tongue not wanting the taste to fade away.

"I don't know, but I'll let you know" he answered as he placed the basket down, going back to the fridge.

Placing two cold water bottles on the counter in front, he reminded " Let's hurry up before they get started with their shit, I don't want them to even ring my phone" stating in a flat tone, he expressed his displease for the poor council students who were simply obligated to do so.

"Yeah, let's go."

Stepping inside the lobby, we were engulfed in the buzz of activity. Constant moving of students here and there, some carrying huge boxes, others just walking by, some volunteering, some enjoying their drinks in hand, some leaving their classrooms, some just causing chaos.

We walked towards the elevator, eliminating the option for stairs, to not bother our already spent legs.

Pressing the ground floor button, patiently waiting, I looked around just to have a tea and remembrance of the people passing by.

Pinging of the elevator indicated it's arrival, making me turn back straight as we boarded inside.

Another ping sounds in the machine after a few seconds, the elevator doors open revealing the second floor. The particular space out of the whole campus was the most crowded, reason: A Honoring Ceremony For The Achievers Of The University.

Disregarding the piling soreness inside me, I careened in the forward direction, mindful not to collide with someone in the way.

A sudden wave of vibration erupts through my pockets, making me pull my phone out of the space.

"Dong-jae"

Sliding the toggle towards right, I placed the phone next to ear, my head turning sides to look around.

"Turn right, then look straight", the guy on the phone speaks as I followed his directions.

Waving his phone in the air, gesturing me to reach upto him, there stood Dong-Jae in his usual, black fit, his face mirroring my disinterest.

Brushing past a few people on the way, I adjust my position, shifting my weight back and forth to avoid any mishaps.

Suddenly, my steps halt in their trance, my body going all stiff. Waves of shock and surprise come crashing down on me as I try to process the past few seconds.

An unexpected physical interaction, a mere nudge of shoulders, sent chills running down my spine, the electric touch spreading through my chest.

A hypnotizing aroma of deep wooden rose scent lingering in the air slides into my olfactory senses, my eyes going saucer wide recalling the face that wore the scent.

Her.

Jerking my head around, my body moving as if a reflex, my face in the direction a certain someone might have gone.

Engaged in a conversation with the student council president, hands holding onto the hard disk, my front facing her side. The familiar aroma of wooden rose, carried by the cool air around, confirmed my suspicions.

It was her.

"Jeon!!", a sudden forceful shove, aimed at my back, jolted me forward, "You deaf or what?", the two guys flanking around me, one clearly more pissed than other, spoke in unison.

"Huh?", snapping out of frenzy, my voice tumbling as I spoke, my confused reaction doing little to no help improving the expressions on either of their faces.

Letting out a pair of indignant huffs , Dong-Jae shook his head at me, grabbing me by elbows to drag me inside, beside me walked Taehyung, seeming unfazed by the play.

Looking straight ahead, I spot the young woman entering the hall, stopping for a moment near the barricaded ribbons to get her ID checked.

Her raven hair, seeming shoulder length from my spot, moved in a soft motion from side to side, her hands coming up to her face to rake the strands aside.

The knot in my stomach grows again as I blink my eyes without a halt, moving eyeballs to sides to clear my vision. A flurry of thoughts emerge in my head, the core of all: Why is she here?

'She is a student here as well', the thought disrupts the growing tension in my head, my hearts races as I eye her hands on the table, the blue strap of the ID card wrapped around on her wrist affirming to my conclusion.

[cherriecove]

A Courtship of Politics and Passion (Part 1)

Jacaerys Velaryon x Hightower!Reader

Summary: Cannon divergence, Rhaenyra Targaryen is queen after the Dance of The Dragons. In order to secure peace and ensure her son is able to take his rightful place on the throne after her she decides to make allies out of previous enemies. Cherrie's Note: Hi Guys! thought I would try something new with this one and I am not sure how I feel about it. Please feedback with your opinions! Masterlist | Next Part

The Red Keep was alive with the hum of conversation, the clinking of goblets, and the soft melodies of minstrels playing in the background. Lords and ladies from every corner of the realm were gathered for the royal feast, a display of the Targaryen dynasty's power and grandeur. Long tables draped in crimson and black, the colours of House Targaryen, were laden with exotic dishes from across Westeros and Essos. Golden candelabras cast flickering shadows across the hall, while the walls echoed with laughter and murmurs. Yet, beneath the opulence of the evening, an undeniable tension lingered, weaving through the crowd like an unseen spectre.

At the heart of it all sat Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, her presence unmistakable atop the Iron Throne. The sharp edges of the throne's swords reflected the light, a stark reminder of the power it represented—and the blood that had been spilled to keep it. Rhaenyra, now seasoned by years of rule and the bitter lessons of war, held herself with a regal composure. Her violet eyes, piercing and calculating, swept over the gathered courtiers with the practised gaze of a monarch who had seen both treachery and loyalty in equal measure. Her silver hair, cascading down her back in intricate braids, gleamed under the hall's torchlight. She had fought too hard for her crown to be complacent now.

Beside her stood Jacaerys Velaryon, her eldest son and heir, the future of the Targaryen line. His face, usually marked by the confidence of youth, was clouded with a grim solemnity. He had witnessed the horrors of the Dance of the Dragons, the civil war that had nearly torn their family asunder. The weight of the crown, one day destined to be his, already seemed to press heavily upon his shoulders.

Tonight, however, it was not the memories of the war that darkened his mood but the arrival of a particular guest—a guest whose very presence stirred old wounds.

Lady Y/N Hightower had made her entrance at court earlier that evening, drawing the attention of every eye in the hall. The daughter of one of the most powerful houses in Westeros, she embodied grace and poise as she moved through the gathering, her green silk gown flowing like water around her. Her beauty was undeniable, with her high cheekbones, delicate features, and eyes that gleamed with quiet intelligence. Yet, to Jacaerys, the green of her dress was more than a simple fashion choice—it was a reminder of the bitter rivalry that had once divided the realm.

The Hightowers had been instrumental in backing the Greens during the succession crisis, when Aegon II, spurred by the manipulations of his mother and the ambitions of his grandsire, Otto Hightower, had tried to claim the Iron Throne. The conflict had pitted Targaryen against Targaryen, nearly destroying their house in the process. The enmity between the Hightowers and the Targaryens had run deep ever since, and while the war had ended, the scars it left behind had yet to fully heal.

Rhaenyra, however, was no fool. She understood the precariousness of her reign, the fragile peace that had been brokered after the war. She had outlasted her enemies, but she knew that victory alone was not enough to secure the future of her family. Political alliances were now the key to maintaining the delicate balance of power, and Lady Y/N Hightower represented such an opportunity. The Hightowers, with their vast wealth and influence, could either be formidable enemies—or invaluable allies.

"This marriage," Rhaenyra said softly, leaning toward Jacaerys as they observed the feast below, "will strengthen the realm. With the Hightowers under our banner, no one will dare question your claim when the time comes."

Jacaerys clenched his jaw, his gaze fixed on the goblet of wine in his hand. "The Hightowers betrayed you, Mother. They sought to tear our family apart. And now you ask me to marry one of them?"

Rhaenyra's expression softened, but her voice carried the weight of hard-earned wisdom. "We can no longer afford to dwell in the past, Jace. The realm cannot survive on grudges. Peace is built on pragmatism, and Lady Y/N represents a chance to put old rivalries to rest."

Jacaerys glanced across the hall at Y/N, who sat at a place of honour among the noblewomen. She was poised, her demeanour betraying nothing of the storm that brewed within the room. Her beauty was undeniable, but all he could see was the history her name carried. The name Hightower was stained with betrayal in his eyes, and he struggled to separate the woman from the house she came from.

The greens, the banners of their enemies, still haunted him. They had flown high during the civil war, a symbol of the division that had nearly destroyed House Targaryen. To see them again, even in the form of a gown worn by the woman he was now expected to marry, stirred a deep unease within him. Could he truly trust her? Could he trust her family?

"I will speak with her," Jacaerys said after a long pause, his voice laced with reluctance. "But if this peace is false, if they betray us again..." He trailed off, his eyes darkening. "The consequences could destroy everything we’ve fought for."

Rhaenyra studied her son, recognizing the weight of his hesitation. She understood his doubts, for they echoed her own. Yet, as queen, she had learned that sometimes survival meant making alliances with those you least trusted. "I know," she replied quietly, her hand resting briefly on his arm. "But sometimes, Jace, the only way to ensure the future is to risk the past."

As the evening wore on, Jacaerys's gaze remained on Lady Y/N. He would speak to her, as his mother had requested. But in his heart, the seeds of doubt had already been planted, and he feared that peace, however tempting, might come at a far greater cost than anyone was willing to admit.

[crappymixtape]

because of you • part one

PART II • PART III • PART IV • PART V • EPILOGUE // REQ -> @sattlersquarry ❝ an enemies to lovers fic with Steve? 💙 maybe they have to put aside their differences to fight upside down stuff and realize they actually have a lot in common 👀 • 18+  | ( 2.1k – little bit of king!steve, mostly angst with a dash of fluff, enemies to idiots in love, steve x reader )

B E C A U S E O F Y O U • P A R T O N E 🎶 good girls ( john carpenter remix ), chvrches

“Why is she even here?”

“Steve!”

A loud smack cut the air in two as Robin slapped a hand against Steve’s shoulder, rendering the rest of group there in Max’s trailer silent.

Your arms were crossed tightly over your chest, cheeks burning under his gaze, lips twisted into a scowl and trying hard to hold back the daggers you wanted so badly to throw at him.

“She doesn’t know what the hell we’re up against! How’s she supposed to–“

“Steve, none of us knew either, cut her a break.”

“Cut her a break and then what? We all get eaten by a fucking melted people monster?”

“That’s not fair–“

“It’s fine! It’s fine, Nancy,” you cut the girl off, standing quickly from your spot on the couch.

They’d been talking like this since you showed up. Like you weren’t right there in the room with them and honestly you kind of wished you weren’t anymore.

“I need some air,” you grumbled before giving Steve a pointed glare and shouldering open the front door.

The air outside was crisp as you sat down on the front stoop. Not a cloud in the sky and sunlight washing everything in soft golden light, but it all still felt so dark. Like it was harboring thick shadows. Long, spindly, and pitch black. Waiting to wrap their twisted fingers around you.

Waiting to dig into you and squeeze tight.

Waiting to lift you twenty feet into the air and snap your bones like twigs.

Waiting to leave you for dead.

And here was Steve fucking Harrington asking what right you had to be there. Asking what purpose were you gonna serve amongst this “holier than thou” joke of an army. Steve, Robin, Nancy and Eddie had already gotten their asses handed to them by what they’d called demobats, Steve arguably needing serious medical attention, and they wanted to go back? It took everything you had to not leave right there on the spot.

Hell, maybe you should, you thought for a minute. You didn’t owe them anything, especially Steve, but you did owe it to your best friend. The one who basically had a hit out on him. The one who wouldn’t hurt a goddamn fly, but all of Hawkins had already decided he was guilty and you weren't about to leave him.

Eddie.

❝ SO SAVE YOUR BREATH, GIVE A LITTLE OF WHAT YOU HAVE LEFT – DO THEY KNOW SOMETHING I DON’T? ❞

You met him two years ago under the bleachers at the Homecoming football game. It seemed like the perfect place to smoke the joint you’d messily rolled in the car right before you’d come into the stadium and apparently you’d been right, but someone else had already laid claim to it...

“Hate to break it to you sweetheart, but this is kind of my spot.”

He’d been all black leather and denim. Dark curls and clove. Silver rings and chains and heavy boots and maybe you should’ve been more intimidated, but the smile lines at the corners of his mouth gave him away.

“Don’t see a sign anywhere,” you’d shot back, no hesitation. Looked over at him all skeptics and attitude and took a long drag from your joint. Blew the smoke off in his direction and it made him grin like an idiot.

“Been sellin’ weed down here for like…the last three years so–actually, yeah. What the fuck, man. Someone owes me a sign.”

...And that was it, you were a goner. Laughing mid-toke and coughing so hard you cried and it made him feel so bad he gave you a baggy for free. Eddie "the freak" Munson and you – best friends.

Skipped all the stupid dances and football games with you. Paraded around the lunch room like an idiot with you. Threw fries back at the jocks for you when they called you a loser and sat on the floor in the bathroom with you when you cried.

So fuck “King Steve” Harrington.

You had every right to be there, probably even more than he did and you were gonna tell him to his face, but—

“Can I sit?”

The sudden sound of someone else made you jump.

“Jesus, Eddie.”

“Sorry,” he chuckled and sat down next to you. Gave you a sidelong glance and a small lopsided smile. “He’s really not so bad–”

“You’re joking. Right? Tell me you’re joking.”

The boy hummed, dropped his gaze down to the rings wrapped around his fingers and twisted the one on his thumb.

“He doesn’t want me here. None of them do,” you grumbled, frustration fed further by his non-answer and it pulled his eyes back up to you.

“Hey now, that’s not true–”

“Yes it is! Even Nancy looks at me like a kicked puppy.”

That pulled a laugh from him. Made him scoot closer to you and bump his shoulder into yours. “Listen, sweetheart,” the nickname made you soften, but you tried to keep your scowl in place, “We’re all in over our fuckin’ heads, hm? And Stevie boy…he’s seen some shit. He’s just trying to–”

“Just trying to what? Be a complete dickhead about it? Mission accomplished.”

Eddie sighed and roughed a hand over his face. Rested his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers together. He knew what you felt because he’d felt it too. Knew what it was like to get laughed at and mocked in the lunch room. Knew how it was supposed to be between him and the other boy. Hell, he nearly cut Harrington’s face off with a broken bottle a few days ago, but one thing was clear.

Change was possible and Steve Harrington was proof, he just wasn’t great at showing it.

“Alright. He could be less of a dick,” he conceded, propping his chin in his hand and looking at you with his big brown eyes. How could you be mad at that?

You mumbled under your breath about that not being the only thing, but fine, okay, only for you, Eds.

Reaching over he flicked at your fingers and looked at you from under his curls with a stern pinch between his brows. “He’s helping me, sweetheart. They all are. Shit, without them I’d probably be in jail already. Or in Carver’s trunk,” he tried a laugh, but it fell short at the end with the weight of his words and it made you grab at his hand and squeeze it.

“Shut up,” you chided softly, no heat behind it. The anger that had been swelling in your chest all but extinguished.

Silence settled between the two of you then, heavy and tinged at the edges with worry. With everything that was at risk and it started to gnaw at the pit of your stomach. What if you couldn’t fix it? And even if you could, this Vecna asshole was about to end the world anyway so what the hell did it matter?

How were a bunch of kids going to do anything about it?

“Ahem,” the door knocked into your back and jolted you back to earth. Pulled a gasp from you and when you looked up over your shoulder you felt your anger return ten fold. “We’re leaving, geniuses,” Steve announced, pushing at you with the door.

“Least you know you’re an idiot,” you mumbled under your breath, standing up from your spot to glare at him at eye level.

“Real cute,” Steve shouldered past you on the stoop, took the last two steps in one go and turned to face you both as he landed on the grass. “For you, Munson,” he said, throwing a mask at Eddie, “Courtesy of Mayfield.”

“What’s that for?” you couldn’t help asking as Max appeared at your side and pointed so casually – too casually – at the mask.

“Gonna steal a Winnebago. Get that on, dingus. Let’s go.”

“Nice,” Eddie grinned up at the red-headed girl and yanked the mask on over his head, “Thanks, Red.”

“Let’s go,” Steve urged, waving his hands at everyone to get out of the house and you felt your heart racing.

“Steal a Winnebago? Eddie. Fuck that–”

“Honey, I’m already a wanted man–” Eddie cut you off and readjusted the ridiculous looking mask a bit. “–c’mon,” he said, tugging at your belt loop to get with it.

“I–that doesn’t mean you can just steal–”

“We’re way past that,” Dustin chimed in, shoving past you just like everyone else, “Besides, if the world’s gonna end anyway, what’s it matter?”

Shit. The kid had a point. It was probably fine. It was just a trailer. Maybe you could give it back afterward? You needed it more than they did. Right?

“Dammit,” you grumbled under your breath, now the only one still standing around. “Wait for me!”

❝ THEY TELL ME I’M HELL-BENT ON REVENGE, I CUT MY TEETH ON WEAKER MEN, I WON’T APOLOGIZE AGAIN ❞

The first time you ran into Steve Harrington was sophomore year. In the hallway before Click’s class. You were cramming everything into your bag, but struggling with your history book when you heard it coming.

Tommy Hagan’s stupid laugh.

Your stomach sank, eyes glued on your things and trying to ignore it. He was in your science class the year before along with his ditzy girlfriend Carol and they always made sure to get a spot in the back just to make out.

“Need some help?”

When you finally looked up at him he’d stopped right in front of you, the grin on his lips sharklike as Carol smirked out from under his arm. Another boy you didn’t know was standing just behind them wearing a stupid member’s only jacket, half unzipped, and had hair that sat perfectly in place. Too perfect.

“That looks heavy, hm?” Tommy said grabbing your book, voice all saccharine sweet and sharp around the edges. Flipping through the pages he pulled a face, clicked his tongue and weighed it in his hand, then made a show of dumping it on the floor. “Whoops. Sorry!” he half-laughed and your cheeks burned.

“Bite me, Hagan,” you snapped back, bending down to grab your book, and it only made his grin grow wider.

“Ooo. She’s fiesty today, Stevie. I like it.”

And then he chimed in. Stevie. The had-to-be-douchebag that everyone called 'King Steve.'

“Probably on her period,” he said scoffing a laugh, all confidence and bravado and the look on his face was so smug. Thought he was so clever and funny and when you finally turned around it was to take the two steps up to him in one.

“Really? My period? So original.”

It made him swallow hard. Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he blinked back the flicker of surprise glinting in his eyes. He took a quick glance at Tommy like he didn’t want to disappoint him and then hardened his expression. Crowded down over you and nodded.

“Explains you being such a bitch.”

And it took the air from your lungs. Stuck in your sides sharp like a knife and you felt your throat tighten as Tommy and Carol snickered, but you wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction. Not here.

“Yeah. Bet you wish you had an excuse for being such an asshole,” you cut at him and it pulled an Oh shit! out of Tommy as he doubled over laughing, Steve’s mouth dropped open in shock.

Your feet couldn’t carry you away fast enough as you shoved your book in your bag and turned to leave, but you refused to run. Refused to let them see weakness, and as Tommy yelled down the hallway after you about tampons you raised a middle finger high in the air to punctuate just how much you hated them all.

Eddie met you in the bathroom after that, the one nobody used on the other side of school, and you told him everything. He let you have the joint he had tucked behind his ear for emergencies, listened to you and told you they weren’t worth it. Especially not Steve. Because even though Tommy started it, Steve was the one who dug in. Could have left it alone but didn’t and that was what really got you.

How obvious it was he knew how shitty they were being, but went along with it anyway because he had to maintain his status. Had to uphold how ‘cool’ he was and keep the line in the sand drawn between him and ‘the freaks’ like you.

So he wouldn’t get a second chance.

And he wasn’t worth your time.

Not then and sure as hell not now.

[ NOTE: THIS IS PART ONE OF A THREE PART SERIES, PART TWO AND THREE TO COME SOON ]

crappymixtape™ • steve harrington masterlist // stranger things masterlist ♥️ reblogs and comments keep me going, friends! ily! ♥️

[novaursa]

Please please please 🙏🏻🙏🏻 publish your Arthur Dayne and Targaryen stories! I have always wanted to read those but there were never enough of them. For me it would be ultra win because I absolutely LOVE your writing and have been following you for quite a while and have read almost all what you have published

The Price of Fire (1)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Paring: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is second child born to King Aerys II and Queen Rhaella. Timeline and plot are all over the place to suit the story.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (all warnings are up for this one, Aerys II is a warning on his own)

- Word count: 6 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy

- A/N: So, here it is. I hope you enjoy it. This was made as a one long chapter, but I had to separate it due to the character limit here. For more parts of this story and my other works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Next chapter: 2

You stand in the Great Hall of the Red Keep, at your brother's side, beneath the shadow of the Iron Throne. The dark room echoes with the low murmur of lords and courtiers, their whispers mingling with the crackle of distant torches. Your head is bowed, your gaze directed to the cool stone floor, every inch the obedient princess that King Aerys II expects. But as the flicker of torchlight catches on polished steel, your eyes drift upward—just for a heartbeat.

Ser Arthur Dayne, resplendent in his armor, stands tall and unyielding among the Kingsguard. The white cloak draped over his broad shoulders reflects the firelight like the dawn. His expression is the picture of calm, yet his eyes—those pale, lilac-gray eyes—meet yours in that fleeting moment. Warmth curls in your chest, unbidden and unmistakable. There is a softness in his gaze reserved only for you, a silent promise hidden within those depths, something tender amidst the ironclad duty.

Rhaegar shifts beside you, the smallest of movements, but enough to bring you back to the present. His silver hair glints under the dim light as he turns his head ever so slightly. You feel the weight of his gaze, even without looking. He caught it, just as he always does—the silent exchange that passes between you and Ser Arthur. Your brother says nothing, but you know Rhaegar too well. He fears for you, not because he disapproves, but because of what your father might do should the king’s fractured mind discover this delicate thread of affection. Aerys has grown unpredictable—dangerous—in his madness since Duskendale, and the court is rife with suspicion and fear.

"Y/N," Rhaegar’s voice is gentle, barely a whisper, but it pulls you from your thoughts. You glance up at him, noting the concern that shadows his violet eyes. "It is nearly time for Father’s entrance. Be mindful, please."

You nod, an obedient response, though your heart is still tangled in that single look shared with Arthur. "Of course, brother," you murmur, the words escaping like a breath you didn’t know you held.

Before you can say more, the heavy doors groan open. All conversation dies instantly, and the tension in the hall thickens like a storm cloud. King Aerys sweeps in, his once regal bearing now marred by the gauntness of his frame and the wild gleam in his eyes. His silver hair, long and unkempt, hangs like a veil, doing nothing to mask the haunted expression etched across his face. The court bends the knee, yet you remain standing beside Rhaegar, who doesn’t flinch. You sense Ser Arthur’s presence still, always close, but your eyes remain trained forward. For now.

“Where is my son?” Aerys’ voice rings out, sharp and edged with paranoia. His eyes dart wildly around the hall before settling on Rhaegar. “Here you are, at last,” he sneers, the words twisted with mockery. “And your sister, too. Always so… dutiful.” The king’s gaze slides to you, and you force your face into an expression of perfect neutrality. The madness lurking behind his eyes makes your skin prickle, but you do not falter.

Rhaegar steps forward, ever the prince and heir, with a grace and poise that belies the tension simmering beneath. “Father,” he addresses Aerys with that same calm tone, though you can hear the tightness underneath. “The court gathers to hear your will.”

The king’s laughter bursts out, a brittle sound that echoes unpleasantly. “My will?” he repeats, almost mocking. “Yes, my will indeed… I shall have it obeyed.”

You feel it again—Arthur’s eyes on you. You dare a quick glance toward him, longing to feel the comfort of that gaze, the reassurance that you are not alone in this court of shadows. For the briefest instant, your eyes meet his, and despite the chaos that surrounds you, there is something grounding in that unspoken connection. Rhaegar shifts again, but this time, he does nothing to draw attention to your exchange. Perhaps he understands that in this court, where every move could be watched and twisted, a single kind look is the only sanctuary you have.

The tension in the room grows as Aerys' mood shifts again, unpredictably. “They plot,” he hisses, half to himself, half to the court. “Everyone plots.” His eyes land on you again, a flash of something sinister crossing them. But before he can speak, Rhaegar smoothly steps forward, drawing his attention away.

“Father, the lords await your command,” Rhaegar says, with a tone that brooks no refusal.

Aerys blinks, seemingly caught off guard by his son’s boldness, then barks out another shrill laugh. “Yes… yes, they do. We mustn’t keep them waiting, must we?”

The king’s focus shifts to the matters of the realm, his erratic mind drawn elsewhere, and the danger passes—for now. But you know better than to assume safety within these walls. As the court proceedings drag on, your mind drifts back to that moment—just a glance, but in it, you found strength.

You have long wondered how much longer you can endure the gilded cage of the Red Keep. And how long Ser Arthur can maintain the distance that duty demands. There are lines neither of you should cross—lines your brother understands all too well. But as you catch one final glimpse of Arthur at the edge of the hall, you can’t help but wonder if one day, one of you will step over that line, consequences be damned.

The gardens of the Red Keep are a rare oasis amidst the dull and somber atmosphere of the castle. The scent of blooming roses and honeysuckle mingles with the warmth of the afternoon sun, a welcome contrast to the cold, shadowed halls you’ve grown accustomed to. It’s a rare gift, this stolen moment of freedom. Your father’s whims are unpredictable, and more often than not, he keeps you locked away like a caged bird, much like your mother. You shudder at the thought of her—of the haunted look in her eyes and the endless hours she spends trapped in her chambers.

But today, you walk among the flowers, the soft crunch of gravel beneath your slippers a soothing rhythm. Beside you, Ser Arthur Dayne maintains a respectful distance, his hand resting on the hilt of Dawn, but you can sense his ever-watchful presence. His silent vigilance offers a comfort that words cannot. Even in a world as perilous as yours, with schemes and shadows lurking around every corner, there is a rare peace in these stolen moments with him.

You pause by a fountain, letting your fingers trail through the cool water as your gaze lifts to the sun-dappled trees. For a moment, you think you see a flicker of movement in the shadows—something, or someone, watching. You stiffen, narrowing your eyes, but whatever it was vanishes as quickly as it appeared. Varys, you wonder? The Spider is known for his silent comings and goings, slipping through the cracks in the walls like a wisp of smoke. Your heart skips a beat, unease rippling through you.

Ser Arthur steps closer, sensing your discomfort. “Is something amiss, my lady?” His voice is low, a quiet rumble that always soothes you.

You hesitate, searching the shadows once more, but find nothing. “Perhaps just a trick of the light,” you murmur, though you are not entirely convinced. “These gardens hold more eyes than petals, it seems.”

He gives a slight nod, acknowledging the subtle warning in your words. “In the Red Keep, one is wise to assume they are always being watched.” There’s an undercurrent of concern in his tone, though his face remains as composed as ever.

You continue walking, this time with him closer than before, and the silence stretches between you, comfortable in its own way. You want to speak, to say something meaningful, but the walls of the Red Keep have ears that are eager to twist even the most innocent of conversations. Still, you crave the solace of his voice, the reassurance that he is not merely your sworn sword, but a kindred spirit in a place devoid of trust.

“Do you ever miss the lands beyond these walls?” you ask, keeping your tone light, as if you were asking about nothing more than the weather. “The Dornish marches, the green fields of the Reach… there must be so much more color there than in this dreary castle.”

Arthur’s expression softens, and for a brief moment, the stern knight disappears, replaced by the man beneath. “There is beauty in those places,” he replies, his voice laced with a wistfulness that rarely surfaces. “But it is not the land that makes one long to return. It’s the people—the bonds we forge. Even the most barren desert can feel like home if it is shared with those who matter.”

Your heart stirs at his words, though you must force yourself to remain composed, even as a longing thrums in your chest. He has always spoken carefully, never crossing the invisible lines that bind him to duty, yet somehow, you hear more in his words than what is spoken aloud. It’s a delicate dance, this back-and-forth between propriety and affection, a dance you’ve grown far too familiar with.

“You speak of home,” you reply softly, allowing the faintest of smiles to curve your lips, “but I wonder… can such a place be found within these walls?” You meet his gaze, searching his eyes for an answer he cannot give outright.

He holds your gaze, the sunlight catching the dark strands in his hair, and for a heartbeat, it feels as though the world narrows to just the two of you. But even here, in the relative seclusion of the gardens, you both know better than to let such moments linger too long.

Arthur’s expression shifts, returning to the disciplined mask of a knight sworn to serve. “Home is not always a place, my lady,” he says, with a hint of something deeper beneath the words. “It is where we find those who understand us, who see us for who we truly are.”

You swallow, your pulse quickening. For a moment, you wish you could strip away all pretense, speak freely, and tell him what you truly feel. But such wishes are dangerous. Instead, you look away, focusing on the roses lining the path, their petals a vibrant red, like spilled blood.

“We must be careful, Arthur,” you say at last, your voice barely above a whisper. “The more we understand one another, the more dangerous it becomes.”

He nods, a subtle acknowledgement that you both tread a perilous line. “I will always protect you, Y/N,” he says, his tone so low that it is almost lost beneath the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves. “Even if it is from dangers neither of us can see.”

The sound of distant footsteps snaps the moment back to the harsh reality of your lives. A servant rounds the corner, head bowed, but you know better than to believe you’ve gone unnoticed. Eyes are always watching, ears always listening. The game of shadows never ends.

“Come,” Arthur says, his voice now cool and formal again. “We should return before your father sends for you.”

You nod, but as you walk back toward the keep, you steal one more glance at him from the corner of your eye. He remains steadfast, a silent guardian, and yet, in that brief look, you know the truth: you are not alone in this twisted web of power and duty. In a world where trust is a luxury, you have found it in the one man who should be least able to give it.

The sun has dipped below the horizon, casting shadows through the torch-lit corridors of the Red Keep. The air cools with the onset of evening as you walk in silence beside Ser Arthur, each footstep a measured echo in the darkened hall. The weight of the day, of the court’s endless politics and the careful masks you must wear, presses down on you, but beside him, there is a comfort in the silence. It is an unspoken understanding, the kind that has grown between the two of you over time. Your heart aches with the tension of things left unsaid, desires left unrealized, but this is the life you’ve been given—duty, restraint, sacrifice.

You reach your chambers at last. The door, carved with intricate dragon motifs, looms before you, signaling another night alone, locked away as though you were a fragile thing in need of constant guarding. Arthur moves ahead to open the door, his hand brushing against the wood before he pauses, turning back to you. The look you exchange in that moment says more than words ever could. His eyes, that soft lilac-gray, are filled with a longing so deep that it nearly undoes you. You catch your breath, torn between the duty you know he must uphold and the yearning that flares every time you see him.

“Goodnight, Ser Arthur,” you say quietly, your voice betraying a tremor of emotion despite your best efforts.

“Goodnight, my lady,” he replies, the words careful, yet heavy with something unsaid. His eyes linger on yours, as if he is memorizing the moment, a stolen fragment of time he can carry with him through the dark hours of the night.

Reluctantly, you step inside, closing the door with a soft click. On the other side, Arthur remains, taking his place as your silent sentinel, guarding the one person he cannot bear to lose.

Arthur stands there, unmoving, his hand still resting on the hilt of Dawn as he watches over the door. The corridor is empty, save for him, yet he knows better than to relax. The Red Keep is never truly quiet. Whispers travel faster than ravens, and secrets are carried by the very walls. Yet, as the minutes stretch into hours, it is not the shadows that gnaw at him—it is the battle raging within his own heart.

How long has he been fighting this? The pull he feels toward you, the forbidden warmth that rises in his chest whenever you so much as glance his way? As a knight of the Kingsguard, his vows are clear: to protect, to serve, to remain untainted by the desires of the flesh. But those vows are meant for ordinary service, for loyalty to the crown, not for resisting the affection that has grown between you. Not for denying a feeling that has grown stronger with every quiet conversation, every fleeting look.

Arthur draws in a deep breath, trying to quell the storm within him. He recalls the words he was told as a young knight: Duty above all else. He has lived by that creed, upheld it in every way, yet here he is, torn by feelings that are as dangerous as they are undeniable. You are more than just a royal charge to him; you are a woman with whom he has shared moments of unguarded truth, glimpses of a bond neither of you can fully express. And it is agony.

His thoughts betray him, wandering to what might have been if he were not bound by duty. If he could cross that threshold, take your hand, and offer something more than just the cold protection of a sword. In those rare moments when the world seems to fall away and it’s just the two of you, he wonders—could there ever be a place for them, a world where duty does not shackle his heart?

But these are dangerous thoughts, traitorous even. A man in his position cannot afford such indulgences, not when a single misstep could destroy everything. And yet… he cannot help but wish.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulls him from his thoughts. Ser Barristan Selmy, clad in the white cloak of their shared brotherhood, strides down the corridor with the ease of a man who has seen the passage of many years and many battles. His expression is unreadable, but there is a knowing gleam in his eyes as he comes to stand beside Arthur.

“Ser Arthur,” Barristan greets with a nod, his voice low and gruff.

“Ser Barristan,” Arthur replies, nodding back.

For a moment, neither man speaks. The silence stretches, thick with unsaid words, until Barristan breaks it, his gaze shifting to the door you just passed through. “She’s been locked away more often lately,” Barristan comments, almost absently, though Arthur can hear the edge of concern in his voice. “It’s a cruel thing to keep a young woman caged like that.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens. “It is for her protection. You know as well as I do that her father’s mind is… unstable. She is safer in there than at court.”

Barristan grunts in acknowledgment, but his eyes remain on Arthur, assessing. “Perhaps. But protection comes in many forms, doesn’t it? Sometimes, what we think is shielding someone can be its own kind of harm.”

Arthur turns to look at him, something shifting in the air between them. “What are you saying, Ser Barristan?”

“She cares for you,” Barristan says, his voice lowering, almost a whisper in the stillness of the corridor. “Anyone with eyes can see it. Even Rhaegar knows, though he does nothing about it. Perhaps he understands more than we give him credit for.”

Arthur’s heart hammers in his chest, but he forces himself to remain composed. “It is not my place to speak on such matters,” he replies, his voice tight with the effort to maintain control.

“No,” Barristan agrees, “it isn’t. But there are times when duty and honor are not the only things worth considering.”

Arthur turns to look at the older knight, caught off guard by the unexpected words. “What are you suggesting, Ser?”

For a moment, Barristan is silent, his gaze distant as though lost in memories of his own. Then he fixes his eyes on Arthur, a sharp gleam in them. “Go in to her,” he says, each word deliberate.

Arthur stiffens. “I cannot.”

“You can,” Barristan says, his voice firm. “And you should. I’ll stand guard.” He steps closer, his tone softening as if offering Arthur a lifeline. “I’ve fought beside you, watched you for years. You are the finest knight I’ve known, but even the finest deserve something for themselves. Go to her, if only for tonight.”

Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but the words die on his lips. The longing he’s kept buried surges to the surface, nearly overwhelming him. Barristan’s words cut through the chains of duty that have held him in place, offering a glimpse of a path he’s denied himself for so long.

“Do not hesitate, Arthur,” Barristan says, his tone almost fatherly now. “She is alone, and there is no telling how long she will be safe in this place. Give her what comfort you can.”

Arthur’s breath catches, his resolve crumbling under the weight of his desires. He knows what it will mean if he steps through that door, the line he’ll cross, the oaths he’ll bend. But in this moment, with Barristan’s silent permission, he feels a rare clarity.

“I’ll stand guard,” Barristan repeats, a final push.

Arthur nods slowly, his decision made. He turns toward the door, his hand hovering over the handle. There is no hesitation this time, no second thoughts. The pull is too strong, the ache too deep.

With one last look at Barristan—who merely inclines his head in a gesture of understanding—Arthur opens the door and steps inside.

And as the door closes behind him, sealing the two of you away from the world outside, all pretense of restraint falls away.

The door clicks shut behind Ser Arthur as he steps into your chambers, the soft sound echoing in the silence. For a moment, neither of you speak. The tension hangs in the air, heavy and electric, the culmination of all the glances, all the stolen moments, all the words left unsaid. You turn to face him, your heart pounding, your breath caught somewhere between anticipation and fear.

Arthur’s eyes meet yours, filled with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. He takes a single step forward, his expression torn between his unwavering sense of duty and the undeniable pull toward you. “We don’t have much time,” he murmurs, his voice hushed. “Ser Barristan is standing guard, but even that might rouse suspicion if anyone notices.”

The words are practical, laced with urgency, yet you can hear the longing beneath them—the way his resolve wavers just at the sight of you. Slowly, you approach him, your movements deliberate, as if savoring every second that this forbidden moment allows. You reach up and gently place your hand on his cheek, the roughness of his stubble beneath your fingertips grounding you in this reality. It’s a tender touch, yet it speaks volumes—of trust, of yearning, of the unspoken bond that has grown between you.

Arthur closes his eyes briefly, leaning into your touch as though he’s starved for it. “I’ve fought this for so long,” he confesses, his voice low and filled with a vulnerability he rarely allows himself to show. “But I can’t fight it anymore, not when you’re right here before me.”

“There’s nothing to fight,” you whisper in return, your voice trembling with emotion. “It’s just us, Arthur. Let it be just us tonight.”

He opens his eyes, and in them, you see the struggle slip away, replaced by something far more powerful—desire, affection, and a need that can no longer be contained. The distance between you closes as his hand reaches up to cover yours, pressing it more firmly against his cheek, his gaze never leaving yours.

Without another word, he dips his head and captures your lips in a kiss, the contact sending a rush of heat through your entire body. It’s soft at first, tentative, as though he’s afraid of breaking the fragile moment. But as you respond, leaning into him, the kiss deepens, filled with all the pent-up longing you’ve both kept hidden for so long. There’s a sense of inevitability to it, as though everything has been leading to this very moment.

Arthur pulls you closer, his arm wrapping around your waist, and you lose yourself in the taste of him—the warmth, the tenderness that gives way to something fiercer, more urgent. The shackles of duty, of propriety, fall away with every breathless kiss, every brush of his lips against yours. You feel the way his resolve crumbles completely, giving in to the desire you’ve both tried so hard to deny.

Your fingers move to the clasps of his cloak, undoing them with trembling hands, and he mirrors your movements, his touch reverent as he loosens the laces of your gown. There is no haste, no rush, just a careful savoring of each step, as though this moment is too precious to hurry. His gaze never leaves yours, even as he helps you slide out of your garments, the fabric pooling at your feet. His eyes hold a mix of awe and devotion, as though he’s committing every detail to memory.

When at last you stand before him, bared to one another in every sense, the air between you crackles with an unspoken intensity. He leans in to kiss you again, and this time, it’s different—slower, deeper, filled with a longing that borders on desperation. His hands roam over your skin, gentle but with a hunger that betrays the careful restraint he’s clung to all this time.

You guide him toward the bed, your steps slow and deliberate as if savoring every heartbeat that passes. He follows, his gaze locked on yours, his breath uneven. When you reach the bed, he pauses, a moment of hesitation in his eyes as he considers the weight of what you’re both about to do.

“Are you certain?” he asks, his voice hoarse, laced with concern. “I don’t want to rush you, to take something from you that can never be undone.”

You shake your head, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you pull him closer. “There’s nothing to take,” you reply, your voice firm with resolve. “I want this, Arthur. I want you. We’ve waited long enough.”

His eyes darken with emotion as he brushes a strand of hair away from your face. “Then I’ll be as gentle as I can,” he promises, though you can see the struggle within him—the battle between the desire to cherish you and the need to finally give in to what he’s denied himself for so long.

He lowers you onto the bed with a care that makes your heart ache, his hands steady as they explore every curve of your body, learning, memorizing. His touch is soft at first, as though mindful of your innocence, but you can see the restraint it takes for him to hold back.

But you don’t want restraint—you want to feel all of him, every part of him that’s been hidden behind layers of armor and duty. You urge him on, your hands running down his back, pulling him closer, until there’s nothing left between you but skin and breath and the shared heat of your desire.

“Don’t hold back,” you whisper, your voice laced with urgency. “I don’t want to waste this moment away, Arthur. Not when we don’t know how long we have.”

That’s all it takes for his control to finally snap. The tenderness gives way to something more primal, the repressed desire that has simmered beneath the surface for far too long. He kisses you with a fervor that leaves you breathless, his lips trailing down your neck, your shoulders, igniting every inch of skin he touches. The world outside ceases to exist—there’s only the two of you, the night wrapping around you like a cloak, hiding you away from prying eyes.

When he finally joins you, the connection is nothing short of profound—a culmination of all the longing, the stolen glances, the silent promises. He moves slowly at first, every motion careful, measured, as though determined to savor every second. But the intensity between you builds quickly, and the tenderness is soon overtaken by the passion that neither of you can hold back any longer.

Your hands grip his shoulders, your bodies moving in perfect sync, lost in the rhythm of your shared desire. The quiet gasps and whispered names fill the air, mixing with the scent of sweat and skin, creating a heady blend of sensations. Arthur’s restraint slips further as he gives in to the raw need you both feel, his movements becoming more urgent, driven by the fear that this moment could slip away too soon.

There’s a desperation in the way he holds you, as though he’s trying to make up for all the time lost, all the years spent denying himself what he truly wanted. The pleasure builds between you, cresting like a wave ready to break, and when it does, it’s a shattering release, a culmination of everything held back for so long.

In the aftermath, you lie tangled together, breathless and sated, your hearts pounding in time with one another. For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths, the feel of his warmth against your skin. He traces his fingers down your arm, a touch so gentle it feels like a whisper.

“I would stay with you forever, if the world allowed it,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion.

You press a kiss to his chest, closing your eyes as you savor the feel of him beside you. “We’ll hold on to this, for as long as we can,” you reply softly. “No matter what happens after tonight, this will be ours. No one can take it from us.”

The night stretches on, but the weight of reality begins to creep back in. You know this can’t last, that dawn will bring with it all the complications of duty, honor, and the dangers that linger beyond these walls. But for now, wrapped in Arthur’s arms, you allow yourself to forget all of that and simply live in this moment—this rare, fleeting moment of stolen bliss.

Outside the door, the world continues its relentless march forward, but in here, time has stopped.

The door closes with a soft click as Arthur steps out into the dimly lit corridor, leaving the warmth of your chambers behind. The cool air of the Red Keep wraps around him like a shroud, dragging him back into the reality he’d forgotten, if only for a few stolen hours. His breathing is still unsteady, his mind caught between the echo of your touch and the ironclad duty that now presses against him like a vice. 

Ser Barristan Selmy stands just a few paces away, as stoic as ever, his white cloak still and pristine in the faint torchlight. The older knight’s eyes flicker briefly to Arthur, assessing, but there’s no judgment there—only understanding, a silent acknowledgment of what has passed.

“You���ve stayed longer than I expected,” Barristan says quietly, his voice carrying no hint of reproach, only a simple statement of fact. He steps closer, his expression a mix of resolve and sympathy. “I hope it was worth the risks.”

Arthur swallows, finding it difficult to summon words after everything that has transpired. The remnants of emotion still cling to him—longing, guilt, the ache of knowing that he must return to the rigid lines of his duty. “It was,” he replies, his voice rough with a mixture of exhaustion and conviction. “But it doesn’t change what we are sworn to do.”

“No,” Barristan agrees, his gaze steady. “It doesn’t. We are bound to our oaths, but that doesn’t mean we must be devoid of humanity.” He pauses, a slight softening in his expression. “What you did tonight, Arthur, was not an act of betrayal. It was an act of compassion—a rare thing in this place.”

Arthur nods, grateful for the older knight’s understanding. “Still, I fear what may come of it. The Spider watches from the shadows, and the King’s paranoia is ever-growing. If word of this reached his ears—”

“It won’t,” Barristan interrupts firmly, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “I’ll see to that. We both know the risks, but we also know what she means to you—and what you mean to her.”

There’s a pause, heavy with the weight of shared knowledge. Arthur knows that Barristan isn’t just speaking as a fellow knight, but as a man who’s seen too many lives ruined by the cruel machinations of the court. Perhaps that’s why Barristan gave him this brief window of time—to allow him something that might never be allowed again.

“I’ll take over here,” Barristan continues, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’ve done enough for one night. I’ll ensure she’s safe.”

Arthur opens his mouth to argue, to insist on staying by your door as he always has, but Barristan cuts him off with a raised hand. “You need rest, Ser Arthur. You’ve carried more than your share of burdens. Go now, before the dawn comes. Clear your mind.”

For a moment, Arthur hesitates, torn between the instinct to stay near you and the reality that his own inner turmoil needs time to settle. Barristan’s gaze is firm, the kind that speaks of years of wisdom and experience. In it, Arthur sees a quiet reassurance—the knowledge that your safety, for this night at least, is in trusted hands.

Finally, Arthur nods, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Thank you, Ser Barristan,” he says, the words laced with genuine gratitude. “For understanding.”

Barristan inclines his head. “Go on now. I’ll see you at first light.”

Arthur takes one last look at the door that separates him from you, as though he’s memorizing every detail, before turning away and walking down the dim corridor. Each step feels heavier, dragging him back into the rigid role he must play—knight, protector, but no more than that. And yet, beneath the weight of his duty, there’s a quiet resolve growing within him, stronger now than ever.

As he moves farther away from your chambers, he whispers to himself words he cannot say aloud, promises he dares not utter in the open air: I will protect you, no matter what it costs me. I won’t let this night be the last of us.

When Arthur is finally out of sight, Barristan remains by the door, his expression hardening into a steely mask. He knows what must be done, knows that tonight’s brief lapse in duty was a risk, but he also knows that for people like you and Arthur, such moments are the only refuge you’ll ever find. In this pit of vipers, compassion is a rare weapon.

Barristan draws his sword just enough to feel its reassuring weight before sliding it back into its sheath. He positions himself firmly by the door, his posture unyielding.

Anyone who might come near—whether servant, spy, or shadow—would find no easy entrance tonight. He would see to that.

The night stretches on, and as the first tendrils of dawn begin to creep through the narrow windows of the Red Keep, Barristan’s resolve solidifies. Whatever trials lie ahead, whatever darkness waits in the days to come, he knows one thing with certainty: he will stand guard here, not just out of duty, but out of a fierce determination to protect something fragile and rare in this world—a connection forged not in power or ambition, but in something far deeper.

For now, the corridors are quiet, and the weight of the world rests on Barristan’s shoulders alone. As the morning light begins to cast long shadows down the hall, he remains vigilant, his eyes sharp and his stance unwavering. There are few allies in this place, but for tonight, there is one more who stands between you and the dangers lurking just beyond the door.

The great hall is awash in flickering candlelight as servants move briskly between tables, offering plates of roasted meats, spiced wine, and fruits glazed with honey. The scent of rich foods mingles with the dampness of stone, a constant reminder of the Red Keep’s shadowed, ancient halls. King Aerys II sits at the head of the table, his gaunt figure draped in extravagant robes, the crown of sharp, twisting steel glinting on his brow. Beside him, Rhaegar sits with a composed air, the prince’s expression calm despite the underlying tension that hums in the room.

Standing behind them, silent and vigilant, are Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Gerold Hightower, their white cloaks stark against the gloom. The Sword of the Morning keeps his gaze trained forward, a mask of cool resolve firmly in place. But beneath that practiced exterior, unease coils in his gut. He knows better than to trust the rare moments when Aerys seems almost lucid, for they are often the prelude to something far darker.

Dinner passes in relative silence at first, save for the clinking of cutlery and the occasional murmured words between lords seated at the distant ends of the table. Aerys, however, remains fixated on his son, his eyes glittering with a manic edge. The King has grown more erratic in recent years, the grip of paranoia tightening its claws around his mind, but tonight there is a sharpness to him—a deliberate cruelty that seeps into the air like poison.

“My dear Rhaegar,” Aerys croons, his voice dripping with false affection as he dabs at the corners of his mouth with a silk cloth. “You’ve always been the good son, haven’t you? Always so… composed. Yet, I wonder, do you keep such composure even in matters of the heart?”

Rhaegar meets his father’s gaze with the practiced calm of someone who has weathered countless unpredictable storms. “I seek to serve the realm, Father, in all things,” he replies evenly, though Arthur notices the subtle tightening of the prince’s grip on his goblet.

Aerys chuckles, a sound like rusted metal scraping against stone. “Yes, yes, always the realm. But what of family, hmm? What of your sister?” His voice drops, taking on a conspiratorial tone, though it carries across the hall with chilling clarity. “Y/N, so delicate, so precious. A jewel I keep locked away from prying eyes.”

Arthur’s heart skips a beat, but he forces his expression to remain impassive, even as a chill runs down his spine. Aerys’ words are laced with something vile, a twisted obsession that’s grown more apparent with time. He knows the King’s madness festers around those he believes are his to control, and his daughter has become a particular fixation.

Rhaegar’s eyes darken, though he keeps his tone polite. “My sister is as devoted to our family as I am, Your Grace. Her loyalty is unquestionable.”

Aerys sneers, his smile twisting into something ugly. “Loyalty? Oh, I do not doubt her loyalty. She knows her place, after all. But I wonder, Rhaegar, is that enough for you? Is her… loyalty enough to bind her to our House as tightly as it should be?”

The prince doesn’t flinch, but the tension in his posture speaks volumes. “What are you suggesting, Father?”

Aerys leans back in his chair, tapping a finger against the armrest as if considering some hidden amusement. “She is of age now, and a Targaryen of purest blood. Shouldn’t her future be ensured with the right match? Someone who understands our bloodline, our legacy—someone who can keep her in line, if need be.”

Arthur’s fingers tighten around the hilt of Dawn, his knuckles whitening beneath his gloves. He can feel the weight of Ser Gerold’s gaze on him, a subtle warning that he cannot allow himself to react. It takes every ounce of discipline to remain composed, to bury the surge of anger and fear that rises within him. He knows too well what the King might consider as a “suitable match”—someone who would reduce you to a tool, a possession to be used and controlled.

Ser Gerold shifts slightly beside him, catching Arthur’s eye. His expression is stern, a silent command that needs no words: Hold your composure. Do not betray yourself.

Rhaegar’s voice cuts through the tension, cold and measured. “You speak of her future, Father, yet she has always served our family well. Surely her well-being should come before any considerations of… arrangement.”

Aerys’ laughter is sharp and sudden, making several of the lords at the table flinch. “Well-being? She is a Targaryen, Rhaegar. Well-being is a luxury we cannot afford! The blood of dragons flows in her veins, and it must be preserved—strengthened. Perhaps a union is exactly what she needs, to remind her of her place. Don’t you agree?”

Arthur’s heart thunders in his chest, but he dares not move, not even as his grip on his sword hilt threatens to snap the leather beneath his hand. Ser Gerold’s warning glance sharpens, and with great effort, Arthur forces himself to relax his hold, exhaling slowly to regain control.

Rhaegar’s expression remains unreadable, but his voice carries an edge when he speaks. “You are right, Father. The blood of dragons must be preserved. But that decision should be made with care, not haste. Y/N is a valuable asset to our House, and any match must serve our family’s interests above all else.”

Aerys stares at Rhaegar for a long, tense moment, as if searching for some hidden defiance. But when he speaks again, his voice is a dangerous whisper. “You would do well to remember that I am the one who decides what is best for this family. Your sister’s fate is mine to command, just as yours is. Do not think to challenge me on this, my son.”

Rhaegar lowers his gaze, an acknowledgment of the dangerous ground they tread. “Of course, Your Grace. I would never dream of questioning your judgment.”

The King watches him for a moment longer before a twisted smile spreads across his face. “Good. Very good.” He turns his attention back to the food before him, the conversation seemingly forgotten, but the tension remains thick in the air.

Arthur feels Ser Gerold’s subtle nudge—a reminder to stay focused, to not let his emotions betray him. He nods slightly, regaining his calm exterior, but inside, a fire burns, threatening to consume him. The thought of Aerys dictating your fate, of you being handed over to some vile lord who would see you as nothing more than a tool, fills him with a rage he’s never known. He wants nothing more than to protect you, to keep you from the clutches of a madman’s whims, but he knows how precarious his position is. One misstep could ruin everything.

As the dinner drags on, Ser Gerold shoots him one last, pointed look—a reminder that their duty is to the King, no matter the horrors they must witness or endure. Arthur clenches his jaw, burying his emotions deep within. He has no choice but to play his role, even as the weight of it threatens to break him.

But one thing is certain: the king’s words have only steeled his resolve. Whatever it takes, he will protect you—from Aerys, from the court, from anyone who dares to harm you. Even if it means risking everything he holds dear.

As the dinner finally draws to a close, Arthur and Ser Gerold move to escort the King back to his chambers, their white cloaks trailing behind them. The hall falls silent, but the echoes of Aerys’ twisted words linger in Arthur’s mind, a grim reminder of the battle yet to come.

And as he steps into the shadows once more, Arthur vows silently to himself: No one will decide her fate but her.

[chibsandchill]

Simple pleasures (18+)

Fandom: HOTD (house of the dragon)

Pairing: Aegon II x AFAB!reader

Summary: Aegon, brothel, talking, wine, more wine, sex, that’s it. Need I say more?

MDNI 18+

Warnings: p in v sex, Aegon, canon typical themes, grammatical and spelling errors (english is not my native language), slow start, not proof-read

Masterlist

-:-:-:-:-:-

The room smelled better than most brothels. It was a welcome change, as was the surprisingly expensive and tasteful decor. It was homely; soft, comforting, warm even. All it was missing was a hearth and Aegon might have believed it to be someone’s home. 

“Remove your shoes please.” 

Aegon wanted to protest, for who were you to command him? The need to disobey, to dig his feet so far in the ground he could never be moved, was ingrained in his very bones. What would you do, he wondered, were he to step onto the pristine fur with his muddied boots? Would you turn red in the face as you screamed? Would you simply ignore it and move on, aware that any and all wrong steps may instead lead you to the black cells? He almost salivated at the endless possibilities. Alas, the carpet looked like it would feel heavenly under his feet, and so he kicked off his shoes. You thanked him with a voice dripping with honey, sugar and all things sweet. It made his teeth ache. 

He stepped further into the room, onto the carpet. He dug his toes into it. Heaven, just as he imagined. It is soft, and warm, and the strands feel like silk against his skin. Another step, like walking on water. There was not a stain on it, nor a patch of fur bent out of turn. Twas like wading through clouds. 

You pulled the drapes shut. 

“Please sit.” You made a sweeping motion to a group of furniture. “Would you like some wine?”

Sit? Aegon was here to get his cock wet. But he was parched, and so he nodded. 

You balanced two pristine silver chalices on an equally shiny silver platter in one hand and an overflowing silver flagon in the other. Expensive, for a whore at least. Did you have a set for each customer? There was not a scratch on any of it, not a spot of dirt or smudged fingerprints. 

“Dornish red,” you told him as you filled his chalice exactly half-way. 

His throat tightened. 

“In my experience Dornish wine is quite… bitter. Less suitable for pleasure.” 

You chuckled. He was pleasantly surprised by the sound. Most of the whores had rougher voices and were not as quick to laughter. 

“‘Tis an acquired taste, aye, but I do believe you’ll enjoy this one. It’s sweet and yet rich in flavor. Truly there is none who make wine quite like the Dornish.”

Aegon raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were a whore, not a wine merchant.” 

 “I do not spend all day on my back.” You took a sip from your own chalice, resting a hand on a cocked hip. “A good whore knows her clientele, and well, mine prefer… simple comforts.” 

He looked at the room again. There were large tapestries nailed to the stone walls, though he was unsure what they depicted. Fourteen of them in particular, all in different colors and vague figures. Interesting choice, he thought, but at least it would serve to lessen the echoes of your pleasure later. If the other whores had half the taste and coin for interior decorating as you then perhaps his head wouldn’t ache like a horde of Dothraki screamers had ran him over, when he left the establishment.

Perhaps simple was not the word anyone would use to describe the would-be safe haven that you had created. Twas clear your clientele were highborn, and in Aegon’s experience they rarely longed for simple things, be it wine or decor. Even you were not simple; your hair was well-cared for and shone of oils and had strings of precious stones fell between strands, your dress was not of Westerosi make and clung to you. Even your perfume was nothing short of expensive. A silver necklace clung to your throat, and your fingers were heavy with rings. No, nothing about your craft was simple. 

“They pay you well for these simple comforts.” He said between sips of wine. You spoke true; he did care for it. 

As if reading his mind you spoke again. “I’ve already sent a bottle with one of your guards, it should be in your chambers well before you return.”

“The crown thanks you.” 

“Sarcasm is a family trait, I see.” 

You refilled his chalice with wine, voice as nonchalant as if you commented on the weather. And for Aegon, who’s very core dripped with debauchery, well, you might as well have. 

“As is the want for simple comfort, I assume.” 

Your smile is coy. “Aye, I’ve found that the more riches one possesses, the more they long for, well, simpler things. Comfortable furniture, conversations with a friend,” you move closer, your fingers brushing against his shoulders. Your breath is hot as it fans over the shell of his ear. “A hug. A…” your hands move over his shoulders, down his chest, “mother’s love.”

And then you’re gone. 

“Simple things for simple men.”

“I’m not a simple man.” Aegon scoffed. And he didn't long for his mother’s love. He’s experienced it plenty, as he had the back of her hand.

“No,” you say, “I don’t suppose you are. The blood of the dragon rarely is simple.”

Aegon drank the rest of his wine. 

“You talk a lot, for a whore.” 

“I’m not a simple whore.” 

“Perhaps not, but you end up on your back all the same.”

“And your coin ends up in my pocket. You claim not to be a simple man, Aegon Targaryen, and yet, you drink, whore, and sulk like any other man, only your features are not so plain.” 

“I could have your head for saying such things.” Aegon raised his chalice and gave it a wiggle. “If you insist on nagging my ear off I need to be far drunker than I am.”

You brought a different flagon. It’s decorated with green and red stones, and there’s words engraved along both the bottom and the top of it. It’s Valyrian glyphs, but Aegon cannot read it. He averted his eyes. 

The wine shimmers in the candle light. It’s gold in color and smells heavenly. 

“From the Jade Sea,” you said as you returned his chalice to him. “The Dornish are excellent wine makers but even their finest vintages taste like vinegar compared to the golden wines of Yi Ti.”

Aegon swirls the wine inside his chalice. Never had he seen a wine so… appealing; so mouth watering. He brought it to his mouth. It felt like silk as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful, and a pleasant warmth followed it. There was none of the awful burn that came with the household wine back in the Keep, and neither did it feel like a stone in his stomach. 

“I assume a bottle of this will be waiting for me in my chambers,” he jested. 

“It’s already there. I had it delivered yesterday. A… preview of our evening of sorts, though now it will be a memory of it.”

Doubtful. Aegon would hardly have the time to reminisce on his one-off evening with the oddest whore in all the known lands whilst drinking his body weight in wine. No, the bottle of Yi Ti gold would be one of many bottles strewn across his chamber floors when he would inevitably be sent into another week-long bender. Besides, you served it in a flagon, and thus Aegon would not notice which bottle was which sober, much less drunk. Though perhaps it would soothe his body’s protests, as it was currently soothing him now. He sipped at the drink like a babe sucked at his mother’s tits, not that Aegon had much experience with the latter. 

“What wine did you give my brother?”

Your lips quirked into a smile. It fit you. Yours was a face made for smiling. “One that fit him.”

“That’s awfully vague.”

“You don’t last long in this business if you’re loose-lipped.” 

He chortled. “The one-copper whores beg to differ.” 

There’s a tightness to your smile. “You’d be surprised at the secrets they possess. Those one-copper whores could topple dynasties if they so wished.” 

“And you?”

Has his brother confided in you? His uncle? His father? Did you keep secrets that could rattle the foundations of the world as they know it? Aegon was almost tempted to give you more, to feed the fire burning under his feet until even he burnt. There were cracks in his family’s rule– of every rule– small as mice, but plenty big for secrets and deceit. 

“Perhaps if you behave I shall tell you some.” 

A hot flash of something rushed up his spine. 

“And if I do not?”

“Then you shall leave with nothing.”

“I could command you to tell me.”

“You could.” You inclined your head. “But as some of my… friends are also of noble birth then your command will simply be a waste of breath, and I would rather you save it for what is to come. You will need it.” 

There it was again. That thrill; that heat that licked at his insides. He should have you punished for your insolence. Whipped perhaps, or maybe he would have your tongue. But Aegon admired fire, but even more so he admired those who looked upon him as you do; as if he is more than a rusted sword fit to be wielded as his family saw fit.

“You’re bold.” Aegon pushed himself off the armchair. He walked up to you, moving as if to touch you. You glanced down at his hands, at his arms, then at his face. His fingers trailed up your arm, your shoulders, over your collarbones and the column of your throat. Aegon’s touch was gentle, teasing almost, he wanted you to want his touch. And judging by how your breath hitched when he reached your throat, his caresses are more than welcome. “I like it.”

His hand cupped your face. You were soft and warm. A healthy blush spread up your chest from the hem of your dress. 

How far did it reach, Aegon wondered. Were you as pink and lovely and soft and warm- 

You leaned into his touch. And then you were gone, leaving him cold with his hand still held high in the air. He dropped it quickly, but the feeling of you remained. Aegon adjusted his clothing but it did not lessen the memory of how you felt pressed against him. 

How odd, he frowned, to feel as such over a mere touch of his hand against your face. It was not at all intimate. Like a blushing virgin seeing a glimpse of a woman’s ankles he stared after you, which is altogether odd for a man such as Aegon who cloaked himself in sin and lust. He who had visited the brothels so oft even the whores’ whelps recognized him by the sound of his fancy boots. Scarce were the mornings he did not wake with one hand on a warm cunt and the other on a supple breast.  

“You’re eager,” you said to him with a slight smile. “I like it. It makes one feel wanted… desired, does it not?”

“Do you have more wine?” 

A flash of something passed through your eyes. “Of course.” 

“Go on then, fetch the next one.” 

You offered your hand to him. You didn't demand his answer, nor his thoughts. You took only what he freely offered. It left him feeling strangely full, and less like the hollowed out stranger he oft saw at the bottom of his bottles. 

He took your hand. Warmth flooded back into him. 

Pushed into a corner of the room was a large bed. It was similar to the one he had in his chambers, a bit too similar. Still, it looked comfortable enough. It certainly didn’t suffer from a lack of pillows, nor had you spared any expenses on neither the frame nor the make of the mattress. 

You gestured for him to sit down before you walked over to grab a third flagon of wine. Gods, Aegon was sure to be stumbling back to the Keep following your night together if the pace you were handing him drinks was to be considered. Still, Aegon sat fell down on the bed with a lack of grace most unbecoming of a noble. It was even softer than he imagined. 

He cared for conversation, he did, truly, but his cock had been aching for relief since you opened the door and any longer and he thought it might burst. Did you not see the lust in his eyes? Did you think to quench the burning desire in him with expensive wine? Nay, Aegon reckons his mother will have to collect his charred remains were you not to touch him. 

At last, after what felt like an age, you turned. Have you always walked as such? The sway of your hips were almost hypnotizing. A smile lit up your face, though he could not tell what kind of smile it was. He had no need for more wine, for his mind was buzzed and his hands longed to trace you. 

You didn’t bring the flagon you’d been observing. Mayhaps it was a bad fit. Aegon doesn’t care. 

“Are you familiar with how the wine merchants of Yi Ti make it?” You asked. 

He shook his head. Why in the hells would he know that?

You’re close enough that he could smell you again. Your touch is soft as you cup his face, thumb swiping over his bottom lip. “Wine is fermented grapes, as I’m sure you already know.” Your voice is a touch lower, more seductive. Odd, considering the subject, Aegon mused. You moved to straddle him, and he welcomed you with his hands falling onto your hips, his legs separating to bring you closer. ‘Tis a dance he is familiar with, finally. “The type of wood that is used is different with every maker,” one of your hands fell on his thigh. He swallowed a hiss when your hold tightened. “The merchants from Yi Ti? They use a very particular breed of tree to make the vintage I just served you. It is a known…” your hand released his thigh only to brush over his crotch, “aphrodisiac.”

“Uhuh.” Aegon nodded. So long as you kept your hands on him he’d feign interest in wine making. 

Pathetic. A brush of a hand makes him harder than he’s ever been before. 

The brush turns into a flat touch, which then turns into a caress. ‘Tis all teasing, in the end. Like the smell of a pie wafting out from under the gaps in the kitchen doors; ‘tis there, and yet, it is not. It’s a promise of a future reward. 

Aegon tightened his hold on your hips before pulling you forward until you sat as close as physically possible. And still did he want you closer. It’s a crippling need of his; a dark pit of emptiness that can only be temporarily filled with the closeness of another. It came back stronger, deeper, each time. Still, it gnaws at him, like a gnat buzzing in his ear. 

Closer, it whispered. 

Closer, it shouted. 

He would crawl inside your skin and live there, and yet it would not be enough. Nothing ever was. The voices would remain, and the abyss inside him growing ever larger, like a looming shadow spreading its rot to every interaction. Soon, Aegon would be as rotten as his thoughts, as his desires. He would be the failure of a man his mother believed him to be. 

You showed no signs of seeing his struggle for you pressed yourself ever closer until he felt your heart beat against his. Aegon surged forwards, slotting his mouth over yours in a dance that was oh so familiar to him. This, he knew how to do. If you’re surprised by it you don’t show it. 

You’re a whore, of course you’re not surprised by him kissing you. 

Briefly Aegon wondered who out of them were the best kisser, him, his brother or his uncle? How many Targaryens had warmed your bed? Had his father stumbled into your arms and sampled all that you had to offer? Had you woven tales of wine merchants and the likes to them as well? 

Did he kiss like his uncle? 

He knew he did not fuck like his uncle, for the whores spoke often of his uncle’s talents, and his obsession with taking them from behind like a hound. Aegon found he did not care for that, but he reckoned his uncle’s fancy came more from a desire to dream of fairer features than the pleasure of it. 

You pulled away from his lips. Strings of saliva connected the two of you together, and Aegon would never admit it, but he found himself chasing after your lips. 

“Undress.” You said and pushed at his clothed chest. 

He raised a pale eyebrow. 

“If you insist.” 

He shrugged off his tunic easily enough, but his trousers, well, he’d have to move you to remove those and Aegon found himself very reluctant to part from you or your body. Aegon tapped your thighs and you wrapped your legs around his waist. He stood from the bed and pulled down his trousers, kicked off his shoes and then fell back on the bed. 

“Fuck.” Aegon grunted. 

You laughed. 

“Lay back.” You told him. 

Aegon did as you asked. The pillows were harder than he thought, but in a good way. His head didn’t sink in, but rather rested on it. They reminded him of his own pillows. Strange, but he was too horny to care. 

He’s already hard when you grab his cock. Aegon gets nothing from your expression apart from desire. No surprise at his size, but neither disappointment. Not delighted at finding him hard and ready for you, nor dismayed. Curious. His heart skipped a beat at the uncertainty of it all. With common whores he knew how to act – where to touch, what to say. They swooned and gushed over every aspect of him, slobbered on his cock whilst moaning about his size and girth like they had never seen a cock before. But this? This silent appraisal, the almost tender hold of him as you swiped across his tip, as you traced the vein and cupped his heavy balls? This, this was unfamiliar even to him. 

“Are you ready?” You broke the silence. 

“W-what?”

It was an odd question. For as long as he had visited brothels, for as long as he had laid with others there had never been this out-of-place pause in… affairs. It all followed the same pattern; greetings, some petting, then sex, and then he’d leave. He didn’t know what to do with your question, what did you want? What answer should he give? 

Were you going to sit on his face? Many of his conquests enjoyed that, and while Aegon wasn’t overly fond of it and was prone to feeling trapped if it went on for too long, it was never a question asked out loud. It was the moving of hips, of knees closing in around his head and a warm, wet cunt dropped on his mouth. 

You swiped damp hair off his forehead, there’s a strained expression on your face. Aegon doesn’t like it.

“Are you ready?” You repeated. “Do you want this?” You clarified. 

Gods yes, he wanted to say. I think I’ll die if we don’t, he wanted to say. 

“Oh. Yes.” Aegon said instead. The odd expression on your face didn’t waver. 

Curious. 

You released his cock, and he shuddered. Instead you brought your hands forward and gripped his shoulders, leaning forward. Your eyes never left his as if searching for something. You scoured his face, watched his every microexpression. 

He just wanted to be inside you already. 

But he laid frozen beneath you. 

‘Behave’. Echoed through his mind. 

Then, your hand is back on his cock. You bring your hand up and down, loosening your hold and then tightening it. You seemed acutely aware of him – of his reactions. As if reading his mind you adjusted your hold, your speed, the pressure, even the angle as his pleasure ebbed, grew, and lessened. 

Odd as you were, you were a good whore. Skilled, certainly. But odd nonetheless. 

His toes curled, and a familiar warmth grew with your movements. Aegon wasn’t silent, he was a man proud of both the pleasure he felt and the pleasure he gave. And so he moaned, and he shuddered, and he groaned. It echoed far louder than he’d thought, and were it not for the gleam in your eyes he’d surely fall silent. 

He was about to tell you to stop; that he was seconds away from spilling into your hand, when you pulled away. 

Perhaps you were a mind reader after all. 

Your grip on his cock is loose but firm as you guided him inside you. Heavenly warmth enveloped him, and your walls felt akin to silk. Aegon knew little of love, but if he knew anything, it was that love surely felt like this. Like two pieces connecting. 

Your eyes flutter closed as you bring yourself down. By the time you’re flush with his pelvis Aegon has started to pray to all the gods to let him last a little longer. It is too much and yet it is not enough. His body ached for release; beads of sweat formed on his forehead from trying to stave off his orgasm. 

But you seemed like you were above it all, like something ethereal. In the throes of your pleasure – as you forced yourself to rise and then fall on him like it was your gods given duty – you shone, and Aegon had never seen anything more beautiful. Your sounds of pleasure are music to his ears, and yet it is whispered. 

Aegon pressed a thumb against your clit, and you trembled at the sudden touch. Then you moved ever faster, and Aegon tried to match your pace. He alternated pressure as you had before, he pressed circles and squares, and he spelled his name, and all others he could think of. 

Aemond. 

Daemon. 

Viserys. 

Jaehaerys? 

He’s soon lost to his pleasure as well, in the way you impale yourself on his cock and force him out of his thoughts and into the present. He knew not what names he pressed into your clit, not what names or family he used to elicit more and more moans from you. It is not enough. He ate up your pleasure as if it was his own. 

You batted his finger away from you before forcing his hands above his head where you held him by his wrists. 

“Behave.” You told him through your teeth. 

Redness spread across his face and a thrill rushed through his body. 

“You’re still dressed.” He realized. How he had missed that, he would never know. It feels like a sin to have been so caught in his own pleasure, or rather the chase of it, that he had neglected even that. 

Aegon blinked and you’ve ripped your dress over your head without missing a beat. 

He blinked again. Too stunned to react. 

Breasts. 

‘Twas like an out of body experience watching himself reach for your breasts, to feel the soft flesh under his fingers. He cupped them, thumbing at your nipples. 

He knew not what to focus on; your body, you, or the delicious torture of your hips slapping against his. Aegon felt in that moment like he was one and ten and he stumbled into his first pillow house. 

Aegon shook his head. 

“Focus on me,” you said as if sensing his thoughts. You tore his hands from your breasts and held them above his head again. It brought him back to you, and he gulped. He thought he might have felt small with the way you loomed over him, but he found that he did not. 

Fighting against the whirlwind of pleasure was a losing battle, and the hand you laid flat against the side of his face was his undoing. He burrowed his face in the crook of your neck as wave after wave of pleasure washed over him. It’s not a quick affair. He feels as if there’s no end to the white hot pleasure that shot through him. You didn’t stop your movements, instead you slowed down until you rose and fell in slow languid strokes. 

Aegon’s eyes burnt. 

“Did you finish?” He asked whilst panting when he didn’t feel like he was drowning anymore. 

You looked as if you were glowing, like the mother unveiled smiling down at him. 

“Your pleasure is my pleasure.” 

“Fuck.” He let his head fall back. “You didn’t. Fuck. Give me a moment and I’ll-”

“Nay, Aegon.” You laid beside him. He felt empty as he slid out of you.

Not close enough, the voices started again. 

“There will be other nights.” You soothed his bruised ego. 

“You truly are the oddest whore I’ve had the pleasure of fucking.”

You laughed. 

Aegon moved closer to you, though his skin crawled as the sheets below his sweaty skin seemed to tear at his skin. He pressed himself into you, resting his head almost tentatively on your chest. It felt good, he realized. And safe. Aegon melted into your embrace as you reached over to play with his hair. 

“So about that secret,” he glanced up at you, “what wine did you give my brother?”

“Myrish fire wine.” 

Aegon roared with laughter so loud that his chest ached. 

[saradika-graphics]

DIVIDERS MASTERLIST

AESTHETIC - CELESTIAL

— Stars & Space | Sun

— Stars & Space | Moon

— Stars & Space | Planets

— Stars & Space | Purple

— Stars & Space | Beige/Grey

— Dark Space

— Zodiac Dividers

AESTEHTIC - PRIDE

— Ace

— Bambi Lesbian

— Genderfluid

— Genderqueer

— Pan

AESTHETIC - FOOD

— Bakery | Part ii

— Chocolate

— Coffee/Tea

— Citrus

— Pancakes / Waffles

— Peaches

— Pies

— Pizza/Spaghetti

AESTHETIC - OTHER

— 50’s Neon Diner

— 70's Music / Flowers

— 80's Music / Rock

— Academia

— Angel / Cherub

— Arrows

— Art Deco (Blue Version)

— Art Nouveau

— Artist/Crafts

— Beige Daggers

— Blue & Orange Feathers

— Blood

— Cameras/Photography

— Car/Roadtrip

— Casino / Cards | part ii

— Celtic

— Chess Pieces / Card Suits

— Clouds

— Coffee / Cigarettes

— Cottagecore / Dark Academia | part ii

— Cowboy | part ii | dark | space | christmas

— Cute Pastel

— Eclipse

— iOS Emojis | part ii

— Fairy Lights

— Fantasy Weapons

— Forest

— Gems & Pearls

— Goblincore

— Music Notes

— Ocean | Part ii | Part iii

— Off-Center Dividers

— Pink/Coquette (blue & purple)

— Pirate/Mermaid

— Rain/Storm

— Ravens/Moons/Roses

— Red/Black Scroll Work | Silver/Gold

— Red Riding Hood

— Rings (Engagement/Christmas)

— Royalty | part ii

— Skeleton (black) | (grey/white)

— Smutty | Pastel

— Spooky Red / Deer

— Stained Glass

— Tech Dividers (green/black) | blue/orange

— Vampires | Royalty

— Viking

— Vintage Telephone

— Waves / Leaves

— Weapons

— Witchy

— Werewolves

— Windows/Webcore | part ii | part iii

✨(Everything was made using Canva - so check that app out if you’re looking to make your own! Credit is not required but a reblog would be great if you use! 💕) ✨

[frenchcurious]

Cary Grant en grande-Bretagne avec sa Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud II 1960. - source Cars & Motorbikes Stars of the Golden era.

[eyesxxyou]

𝖕𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖑 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖊𝖆 🏴‍☠️🐚

| ii. two| rough voice, gentle hands

🐚・・・pirate!Hobie x mute!siren!reader.

𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔱: smoking, blood, fire, mentions of nightmares, crying, treating wounds

↳ ❝ the battle of wanting to be a good person and the fire of revenge ❞

𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱

Hobie felt as though he was suffocating. Sweat clung to him like a second skin against his flesh. Sleep eluded him every time he so desperately reached for it. The sway of the ship did not comfort him as it usually did. It did not lull him to sleep like being held in his mothers tender arms and rocked slowly into slumber. It did not hum in his ear the tune of his childhood and offer the respite of home.

He stared out of the window beside his bed. The moon was full and partly hidden behind pale clouds. It shone so softly on the calm waters and made it sparkle like silver under the light. His fingers traced imaginary shapes on his tummy to soothe the turbulent thoughts plaguing him. Closing his eyes was not an option. Closing his eyes meant being haunted by the sight of two pearls, white and glassy and dead. He wasn’t sure who they belonged to. You or his mother.

Anxiety ate away at Hobie. It carved pieces of his soul, whittled away at the contours of his being with the intent to leave nothing behind. He trembled as if he were cold but the thin film of sweat layering his body said otherwise. Nights like these were not uncommon. If he wasn’t having a nightmare about his mother, he couldn’t sleep at all. He wasn’t sure which he preferred, if any.

Hobie sat up and sat off of the side of his bed, running his hands down his face with a heavy sigh. He thought of you, of your weeping frame in that cage looking up at him with those haunting eyes. He thought of the way you looked at him, the way you lingered, the way you looked so much like his mother in a way— helpless.

Hobie gripped his sheets and looked out the window once more. It was stifling in his cabin. The air was thick and hot with humidity. He needed fresh air and maybe a cigar to soothe his nerves enough to find some peace in sleep. Ale would be nice, drink himself to sleep so even if he did have a nightmare he wouldn’t remember it. But everyone was asleep below deck and he didn’t want to stumble about in the dark, risking an angry, sleepy crew member cursing at him.

He got up and grabbed a lanturn. He took his time lighting it and placed it carefully on his desk. It cast just enough light to let Hobie look through his desk for a stray cigar he had in one of the drawers. Once he found it, he took the lantern and his cigar and grabbed the dagger he never went without before he left his cabin.

The deck was eerily silent. Every creak of the wood under his boots made him wince. The air was cool, the wind was salty, and the moon shone so brightly that the lantern was mostly unneeded. The Mary Jane swayed softly with the calm water that kissed and caressed her sides and kept everyone in her hull fast asleep except for her captain who made his way towards the side of the ship.

Hobie placed the lantern down on the ledge and took out his cigar. He leaned against the side of the ship, placing the end of the cigar in the small flame encased inside the lantern to light it before taking it between his full lips. He took a drag with the wind, embers burning away at the end. And as the smoke passed between his lips, he let go of the tightness in his shoulders and the knot in his stomach. The smoke was musky and rich and eased Hobie's nerves more than the comfort of any human other than his mother.

His mother, you, his mother, you. He couldn't close his eyes. Eyes, white eyes, pearls hanging off your hips, his mother's corpse, the tremble of your lips, the decaying of her jaw, half her skull exposed.

His fingers gripped the edge of the ship, lip curling. Hobie took another long drag of his cigar and held it in a tight grip between his lips. He shook his head and rubbed his face. Burying his face in the palms of his hands, he groaned loudly with frustration. This was a torture Hobie wished on no one.

Hobie sat there with his face in his hands for a long while, occasionally bringing his cigar to his lips to smoke from it. His head ached, his chest tightened, and he longed for a home that no longer belonged to him.

There was a splash in the water. Swiftly, Hobie took his hands from his face and looked over the side of the ship down into the dark waters below. It must have been a fish, nothing more. He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw stars behind his lids and then white. Shakily, he took another drag from his cigar and let the smoke tumble from trembling lips.

Another splash. Hobie opened his eyes again and almost dropped his cigar into the water when he saw a head peeking up through the darkness just enough to reveal completely white eyes staring blankly at him.

It was you. Even in the darkness, he knew for certain it was you lurking in the waters, staring at him now with the same eyes that kept him from sleeping. He couldn't quite believe it was you and for a moment thought he was dreaming. This must have all been some elaborate scheme conjured up by his mind, set out to ruin his life and drive him into insanity.

He rubbed his eyes again, pinched his arm, and you were still there. You looked at him with an almost child-like wonder, your head breaching the water a little more to reveal the rest of your face. Water rolled down your cheeks like the tears had before, shimmering under the moonlight like little droplets of pearls.

Hobie looked towards the door that led below deck. It was still quiet. He almost wanted to retrieve Gwen to ensure his mind wasn't making fantasies, to ensure he wasn't dwindling into madness.

He looked back to you, his lip curling with distaste. “Wha’cha doin’ here?” 

You stared at him, your head tilted subtly to the side as you waded closer to the ship. Hobie sneered at you. “Are ya daft or sometin'? I let’cha go free. Get outta here.” He waved you off, attempted to shoo you away like one swats away a pest but you remained, moving ever closer to the ship.

You placed a clawed hand against the hull of the ship. Hobie watched in horror as you used your claws to grapple into the wood and climb your way up the side of the ship.

Hobie stumbled back, his hand retrieving his dagger as you climbed onto the ship and placed your feet aboard his deck. You glanced at his knife and trembled, whimpering softly.

Hobie had almost forgotten how ethereal you looked. Memory did your beauty no service. You were something handcrafted, something so meticulously designed it almost made him believe in a higher power. But he couldn’t let your deadly looks make him lose sight of what you really were. A danger.

“What do ya wan’?” He bared his teeth at you, fingers white-kuckling his dagger. His eyes were sharp with caution, shooting up and down your decorated body covered in pearls, seaweed, and shells. Your patches of scales almost twinkled with iridescent light. How could something so gorgeous be capable of such mass destruction and devastation? Nature was a cruel mistress.

“I let ya go. I coulda killed ya but I didn'. Ya gotta death wish or sometin’?”

You were clutching your shoulder; the one that had been injured before. You were shivering, looking so soft and vulnerable. It was clear you needed help. You had only wrapped up your shoulder with seaweed but it was bleeding through with the strenuous task you had just done.

You fell to your knees before him and looked up at him. You were tired and in pain. It would be easy to kill you now and be done with it. No one would know of his sin. You would plague him no longer. He would sleep well at night knowing you would never destroy anyone with your beauty again.

But how could he harm such a defenseless thing? If you wanted to kill him and his crew there were easier ways to do it. No– you were asking for help from him of all people. Maybe you figured that because he had helped you before he’d help you now when you needed it most.

Hobie should kill you. He knows he should. Your kind takes entire ships down indiscriminately, lure innocent people into the ocean to never be seen again or to wash up on shore days later with bleeding ears and whitened eyes. He had every reason in the world to kill you and let you rot out at sea like your victims.

But a softer part of him, the part who took in strays and gave them a home, asked him, ‘Is this who you really are? Killing someone that's so clearly asking for your help? Is that who you want to be?’ The battle of wanting to be a good person and the fire of revenge.

This was not right. Killing those in need of help would make him no better than the sirens he despised so much, no better than you and your kind. Hobie’s lip curled into a scowl. He would help you but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He’d be better than you, better than the whole lot of you. 

Hobie took his dagger and shoved it away into his belt at his hips. He raised his hands as if to surrender to you and got down low to show that he was no threat. You watched him slowly approach and something in your eyes told him you were scared. “Look, ‘m no’ gonna hur’cha.” His voice came off a bit abrasive though he tried to be gentle. You whimpered at him as he placed a hand on your shoulder, your lips pulling back to bare your teeth at him.

He backed away a bit. “You wan’ my help or no’?” He bit back at you. “You can go back t’where ya belong if no’.” His eyes were sharp and his lips were pressed, holding back a sneering frown. He made it clear. He did not need to help you, didn’t even want to in some sense. If you didn’t want it, he wouldn’t go out of his way to convince you to accept his help.

Your gaze shifted, you looked away for a moment. You were considering it. Finally, you yielded and stood, allowing Hobie to come close enough to touch you. Your skin was cool to the touch, water droplets clung to you, rolling down the dips and valleys of your body, your decency just barely hidden by coverings of seaweed.

His fingers slid over your skin, over the scales and fins of your forearm. You shivered, trembled so subtly under his warm touch. Your extra appendages were sensitive, his fingertips just barely grazed your fin. You almost tore your arm from his hold, but Hobie took your hand, taking a quick look at your webbed fingers carefully grabbing it. He stood before you, tossing his cigar over the side of the boat and into the water. You looked at him but he never seemed to look at you straight on. He’d catch quick glimpses of your gaze before letting his snap away elsewhere.

“Stay quiet.” Hobie’s voice was firm. “Do ya understand?” He grabbed the lantern from the ledge and held it up between the two of you to get a look at your face. You were pretty. Soft and delicate looking. He always expected sirens to look more…severe, more sharp and lethal-looking. The light reflected off of your eyes and made them glow gold. You nodded wordlessly.

Hobie guided you by your hand and led you below deck into the hold separate from where the rest of the crew slept. The dim fire from the lantern served as your only light in the darkness. It only illuminated the first few steps before you before the darkness swiftly rushed back in, biting at your heels.

He took you to where the few medical supplies they had were stored and brought up crates where you could sit with the lantern while he got bandages and a bottle of whiskey. Hobie placed the lantern down beside the two of you, it’s dim light glowing just enough that he could see your glittering frame.

“How’d ya get this anyway?” He grumbled, reaching out with tender fingers to carefully unwrap the seaweed you had haphazardly tied around the wound. “Harpoon or sometin'?” You nodded slowly, fingers mindlessly twiddling with each other in your lap. Your eyes keenly watched him, traced the contours of his face. Hobie pretended like he didn't feel your gaze grazing his face.

Eyes flicking between your exposed wound—bloodied and irritated by the salt water—and your eyes, tracing the lines of his being with endless bounds of curiosity, he swallowed. He grabbed the bottle of whiskey. “Hold still. And don't bite.” Using his teeth, he popped open the cork of the bottle and poured the liquid inside over the wound.

You flinched away from him, fangs bared just for a moment at the sting. A low growl erupted from your chest somewhat instinctively.

“Growlin’ a’ me will get’cha nowhere.” He set the bottle down and grabbed the strip of cloth he was using as a bandage. Your lips formed into the smallest touch of a pout. You wiggled and writhed away from him. Hobie scoffed. “Gettin’ pouty won' get me either. Now stop movin’. Makin’ this much harder than it needs t’be.”

His voice was rough but his fingers were gentle. He traced over your skin with tender care– bandage in his hand– and began to wrap it tightly around your shoulder. He made you lift your arm a little so he could wrap it under the hinge of your arm. Hobie leaned in close. He was sure to focus his gaze on your wound though he could feel the burning gaze of your pearl eyes on him, lingering.

“Ya got a starin’ problem or sometin’?”

You did not grace him with a response. No shake or nod of your head. You simply stared. You did have a problem.

Hobie finished up wrapping your bandage with a quiet, “there”, and leaned away from you to hopefully get some space and breathe. You sat with your hands on your thighs, staring with wide, bright, white eyes. He was disturbed by you. Your vague allusion to human-ness made him uneasy, the way you stared made him uneasy, you made him uneasy.

“Leave. Ya got whatcha came fo’.”

You did not budge. You sat and stared with your head cocked to the side a little. You almost looked like a puppy, confused, eager, a bit ditzy.

Hobie almost wanted to be endeared. Instead he got annoyed. “Did ya no’ hear me? Go!” He pointed towards the hatch that led up to the deck. “Ya don' belong here ‘n ya know i’.” It was harsh, cutthroat, as if he had taken his dagger and jabbed it through your chest.

Hobie looked at you and could see the beginnings of tears glossing over your eyes. Your full, bottom lip trembled in a way all too familiar to him. Your tears reflecting in the light, tears like the pearls that hung off of your frame. Even if you couldn't sing, you were a siren in your own right. Your tears were your song and could lure even the toughest of sailors to their doom.

Curse you.

“Fine, fine, just– stop cryin’ would’ja? You can stay here fo’ the night but ya in the mornin’. Ya hear?” Rough voice.

You nod vigorously with understanding. You watched tearfully Hobie stand up with the lanturn and take your hand in his. Gentle hands. “Come on, we gotta hide ya. Don't wan’ my crew knowin’ ya here. Yer gonna give ‘em a fright.” He tugged and you stood, stumbling along behind him further below the ship into the hull.

Hobie took you to the room where they kept all the gunpowder and ale and moved a large barrel to the side so you could lay in the corner behind it. He looked around and found a sack of potatoes he summarily dumped out and tore apart so you could use it to cover yourself through the night.

“Don't leave this spot ‘til I come get ya in the mornin’. Understand?”

You nodded and grabbed the sack, looking at it in confusion. You slept underwater or on rocks. You’ve never used anything of the sort in your life. Hobie took it from you and made you lay down before draping it over you. “See, t’keep ya warm.”

Hobie moved the barrel back into place to hide you in case any of his crew came in to grab any ale in the morning. He’d come back for you as soon as day broke over the horizon before anyone woke up to usher you back off the ship and out to where you belong.

He was going to just walk away when something in him made him turn around and tell you, “good night”. Something soft and human. Something sympathetic and understanding.

And you purred a little tune along the same lines.

[untouchvbles]

Rolls Royce Corniche at Cassandra's Motorsports Open House (2023) in Pewaukee, WI.