#alice journal of asks

[formulapookie]

I’m out of the loop, what happened with ale?

ok so. The thing is we don't actually really know.

Bez is rumored to be going out with Carola (Pecco's sister) but Ale has han out ALONE or in groups with Carola too, and none of their mutual friends was there, just the two of them. Suspicious.

On feb 19th Bez posted a picture, the end of pre-season tests, where Ale was present. On feb 23rd, not even a WEEK later, Bez posts another pic, but ale doesn't like it. We don't know when precisely Ale stopped following Edo, because Edo is sure as hell involved int his drama. Thing is, Bez unfollowed Ale, but Ale didn't unfollow Bez, even tho Ale hasn't interacted with any of Bez's latest posts. On the Edo side, Edo and Ale don't follow each other anymore, as Rivoluzione Romantica and Ale, completely cut off. Fact is, is Edo involved profoundly in this? Is it his fault for Bez and Ale fallout?

Cause here we got some theories now.

Ale and Bez both liked Carola, they had a fight over her, Edo took Bez's side, why? Maybe Bez liked her first, maybe Edo just sided blindly with him. Boh. (the thing is, none of the two was at Carola's birthday last week, so eh, this hypothesis is beginning to crumble)

Ale and Bez were friends before Edo came along, then, once it happened, Edo and Bez slooooooowly bean gravitating closer and closer, until BAM they started excluding Ale somehow, clue being the one tik tok Bez posted of him, Edo, and some other guys at Bez's house chilling and doing eye masks, with no Ale in sight. So Ale probably got angry, or sad, and exploded, fighting with the other two and ending up leaving the trio.

Now. We clearly have no clear idea, but ale changed friend group, he's with some other guys now, maybe we'll se him again, maybe not, boh who knows, but it's surely something very complicated that happened.

[calithso]

NATLAN TEASER... HRRJAKZ. SSDSM

HOT.. AOMEN

OHHHHHH MYGOD. THE WOMEN?!??? THE DESIGNS???? HELLO????? MY PRIMOGEMS ARE GONE. I'VE ALREADY 100% EVERY NATION. NATLAN YOU'RE NEXT

i can't do this is it bad i love their designs i'm sorry 💔

also mauvika biker gf real

[georgemilesirl]

“Our parting is almost like looking forward to a death.”

—June 23rd, “Go Ask Alice.”

[nortonwifey]

much to think about from today and last week's lore exchange 😗

[susiephone]

i just finished rereading "unmask alice" by rick emerson and am once again ready to resurrect beatrice sparks just so i can fight her personally. though tbh i feel like the fair thing would to be resurrect alden barrett's mother too and let her take a crack at her.

[alicewritten]

In the most recent Ask Polly, “Passion Requires Slow Cultivation”:

[victorluvsalice]

Valice Calendar: If It Wasn't Official Before Then, It Sure Was Official Then

Wondering what I'm talking about? Well, we've reached one of the last couple of dates to celebrate on my Valice( r) Calendar -- specifically, this is the first mention I could find of one of my Alice muses for LJ RP calling one of my Victor muses her "boyfriend." The context for this one was that I was doing a personal "88 Advent" fic-a-thon for my LJ of stories of 88 words in the days leading up to Christmas, and the fic for that day was a meta one featuring one of my Marty muses encountering my new Alice muse (who was intended for "Beyond The Rift," the game I mentioned back on the "thinking of fanfic" day) having just made gingerbread. And being suspicious of said gingerbread as she'd made it under the tutelage of Ms. Plum from Corpse Bride. XD At any rate, this is what I wrote immediately under the fic:

Yes, this is FuturePossibleRift!Alice, who insists on hanging around my head. -Alice: Well, my boyfriend's here!- -Rift!Victor: pleased blush-

So yeah -- I was definitely shipping it beforehand, but this was probably the final nail in the coffin of me ever trying to get free of this ship again. Victor was Alice's boyfriend, and that was that. And it's been that ever since. :) Really glad I never convinced myself this was a horrible ship -- it's been a real source of joy in my life over the past fifteen years. And I'm glad so many of you seem to enjoy it as well. Here's hoping for many more. :)

[heroineimages]

Do you like Alice in Wonderland?

It's okay. I haven't seen the cartoon in a long time, or read the book in even longer. Though I'll always love Sterling Holloway's wonderfully creepy performance as the Cheshire Cat. I also remember seeing a live-action one from like the '70's that gave me nightmares as a little kid.

Thanks for the ask!

[torpublishinggroup]

The Library at Hellebore by Cassandra Khaw

The Hellebore Technical Institute is for the gifted: Anti-Christs, Ragnaroks, and monsters in the making. But on graduation day, the faculty feast on their students. Trapped in the school’s vast library, Alessa Li—kidnapped and forcibly enrolled—must lead her classmates in something they were never taught: how to survive.

Out July 22, 2025!

Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil by V. E. Schwab

From V. E. Schwab, the #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue: a new genre-defying novel about immortality and hunger.

Santo Domingo de la Calzada, 1532.

London, 1827.

Boston, 2019.

Three young women, their bodies planted in the same soil, their stories tangling like roots. One grows high, and one grows deep, and one grows wild. And all of them grow teeth.

Don't Sleep with the Dead by Nghi Vo

Nick Carraway has built a quiet life in 1930s New York. He's good at watching high society and pretending: pretending to be straight, to be human, to have forgotten the summer of 1922. But when a familiar face appears one dark night, he realizes Gatsby, dead or not, isn’t finished with him. In all paper there is memory, and Nick's ghost has come home.

Brighter than Scale, Swifter than Flame by Neon Yang

With an armored, oath-bound hero reminiscent of The Mandalorian and the Asian-inspired epic fantasy of She Who Became the Sun, Neon Yang’s Brighter than Scale, Swifter than Flame is a stunning queer novella about a dragon hunter finding home with a dragon queen.

Infinity Alchemist by Kacen Callender

Only an elite few are legally permitted to study the science of magic—so when Ash is rejected by Lancaster College of Alchemic Science, he is forced to learn alchemy in secret. Caught by brilliant apprentice Ramsay Thorne, Ash is sure he's about to be arrested—but instead she makes him an offer: help her find the legendary Book of Source, a sacred text that gives its reader extraordinary power, and she’ll keep his secret.

The River Has Roots by Amal El-Mohtar

In the small town of Thistleford, the Hawthorn family tends enchanted willows and honours an ancient compact to sing to them in thanks for their magic. Sisters Esther and Ysabel are devoted to the trees, and even more to each other. But when Esther rejects a forceful suitor for a lover from Faerie, the bond between them—and their lives—are put at risk.

Notes from a Regicide by Isaac Fellman

After losing the parents who saved him from an abusive home, Griffon Keming is left with a single journal—his father’s, written from death row. Bloodstained and grief-soaked, it tells a love story between two artists on fire. Notes from a Regicide is a heart-wrenching tale of trans self-discovery with a sci-fi twist from award-winning author Isaac Fellman. 

Tell Me I’m Worthless by Alison Rumfitt

Three years ago, Alice spent one night in an abandoned house with her friends, and her life has spiraled since. Memories of that night torment Alice, but when asked to return to the House, she knows she must go. Alison Rumfitt’s Tell Me I’m Worthless is a dark, unflinching haunted house story that confronts both supernatural and real-world horrors through the lens of the modern-day trans experience.

Not enough books? Check out our other list!

[drdemonprince]

I worry that today’s generation of kids on the internet have never gotten to develop much digital agency or form safe, empowering relationships with older people. More broadly, I think our current culture of isolating children from all unrelated adults, supposedly in the name of their “protection” only causes them to become more ignorant, lonesome, and vulnerable to exploitation.

There are many ways in which restricting youth access to information technology and training adults to avoid all contact with children makes kids even more powerless and dependent.

If a child cannot post their sexual health questions on Ask Alice or go searching around online, then they have to believe whatever they hear from their parent or priest. If a young person longs to taste the freedoms of adulthood but aren’t given any room to explore, then the grown-up in their DMs telling them that they are so mature becomes a hell of a lot more seductive.

And if a kid never gets to search for sexual content online, learn about adult sexual experiences, or touch themselves and find pleasure in the privacy of their own minds, they may never fully learn that their body is them, for them to enjoy and express themselves however they see fit.

For queer youth, the dangers of isolation are amplified. A study published in the journal Child Protection and Practice in April of last year found that LGBTQI+ children face an elevated risk of grooming and sexual abuse because they are discriminated against by peers, preached against within their religious communities, and mistreated or kicked out of the house by their families — and also, because an adult with no respect for boundaries might be the only person offering to talk with them about queerness or sex.

It’s very difficult to know the difference between a healthy relationship and exploitation when a predatory adult is the first queer person a kid ever knows. If a relationship with an abuser is the only way that a teen ever gets to live out their queerness or explore their budding sexuality, then it becomes immensely difficult for them to walk away — leaving the groomer is like tearing off a crucial part of themselves that never gets expressed otherwise, or even seen.

This is also true of children who have the early rumblings of kinky sexualities, too — when you long to be controlled or tied up, you need a safe outlet to learn and fantasize about doing such things consensually one day. If you do not know that such options exist, you’ll settle instead for abuse. The more options that a child has to learn about sexual practices, to meet other queer people of ages, and to form appropriate relationships with unrelated adults, the harder they become to manipulate, and the more power they have to walk away.

...

Being a minor is a position created by legal oppression, but most people consider a minor’s lack of freedom to be so natural and morally correct they don’t even recognize it as oppression. Instead, they see it as protection, a healthy separation between the world of the human and the not-quite-human yet. Though they would never admit it, a minor is not the same thing as a person to them, for a minor can be thrown out of public spaces, locked away, silenced, disregarded, and left to rot in the ways full persons are not.

I believe that we queer adults are failing our younger siblings by refusing to play a part in raising and looking after them. We have chosen to privilege our individual safety from accusations of ‘inappropriate’ conduct over the need for queer youth to see their own sexualities and identities normalized, envision a diversity of possible futures for themselves, and seek aid and understanding when they are mistreated.

For those of us who’ve had the liberty to escape our ignorant hometowns, get on HRT, have joyous gay sex in dark rooms, or even just dance tenderly with a sexy androgynous stranger’s cheek pressed against our own, we have a responsibility to pour from our filled cups, and to remember what it was like to have no such access. As terrified as we are of losing our documentation, our access to medicine, and our legal rights, we must remember those queer people who presently have none of those things, and do all that we can to extend our aid to them.

I wrote about the troubling culture of the "MINORS DNI" bio, and how it contributes to the mass isolation of young queer people. You can read the full piece or have it narrated to you by the substack app for free here.

[trueccfiend]

songs, albums, and artists mentioned by eric and dylan

Eric

KMFDM

- “KMFDM is a favorite of mine” he said in his 25 things essay.

- He writes the song title "Kein Mitlied"

- He writes the lyrics to the songs "Son of a Gun", “Waste" and "Stray Bullet”

- Eric quoted Anarchy in Nate Dykeman's yearbook

- He also quoted Dogma in Dylan's yearbook

- Eric wore a black KMFDM shirt for their 1997 album and tour “Symbols”.

A crazy coincidence, the album “Adios” was released on April 20, 1999, the same day as the Columbine massacre. Adios, meaning “goodbye”, is eerily reminiscent of how 15 people died, including the two shooters, who were fans of the band.

RAMMSTEIN

- Like with KMFDM there is evidence Eric translated lyrics to the following Rammstein songs: Du Hast Du Riechst So Gut, Engle, Guilty, Herzleid, Kokain, Heirate Mich, Buck Dich, Tier, Bestrafe Mich, Klavier, Wilder Wein, Weises Fleisch.

- Eric also had a Rammstein sticker in the rear window of his car and had a Rammstein T-Shirt on in his Junior year school picture

OTHER

- Eric referred to the Nine Inch Nails song “Closer” in his journal during a rant about wanting violent sex with a woman, and that it was the "perfect song for me" in November 1998.

- Eric writes in 'You know what I love' rant that he loved The Prodigy

- Eric left the "Fly CD" to Susan in his will during one of the Basement Tapes (Fly - Bombthreat Before She Blows)

- There was a sketch found in one of Eric Harris's notebooks that referenced “Ich Bin Ein Auslander” by Pop Will Eat Itself

Dylan.

CHEMICAL BROTHERS

- Dylan writes "Chemical Brothers" in his journal. He references "Loops of Fury", a Chemical Brothers EP

- Lyrics to the song "Guilty by Gravity Kills" are printed in his journal.

- Dylan writes "Life is sweet Daft Punk Mix" - Daft Punk remix of Chemical Brothers - Life Is Sweet

- Dylan writes “Chicos Groove – The Chemical Brothers” in his journal.

- Dylan wore a red Chemical Brothers shirt with a rainbow across the chest for their song “Setting Sun.” He also wore a grey Chemical Brothers shirt for their album “Dig Your Own Hole”.

NINE INCH NAILS

- Dylan writes ‘NIN’ Nine Inch Nails at the bottom of his journal

- He mentions "Downward Spiral", the NIN album, and often draws spirals in his journal and in his school planner

- He mentions the song Hurt

- Dylan is seen wearing a grey NIN shirt for their album “The Downward Spiral” towards the end of the “Eric at Columbine” home video.

- Dylan also references other NIN songs such as "Now I'm Nothing", “Happiness in Slavery”, “Something I can never have", and “Piggy".

OTHER

- In his planner, Dylan writes “I’m not a trendy asshole don’t give a fuck if its good enuf for you”. These are lyrics from The Offspring song “Smash”

- Dylan quoted the lyrics from “Beautiful” by the Smashing Pumpkins. He also owned their album “Siamese Dream.” (Fun Fact: Eric disliked the Smashing Pumpkin, and jokingly referred to them as the “Ghashing Bumpkins”).

- "Rammstein" is mentioned in Dylans journal. One of the boys purchased "Stripped" CD.

- Dylan writes "KMFDM - Brute" in his journal. He also wore a KMFDM shirt for their album XTORT in his “interview.”

- White Zombie - Black Sunshine: Dylan writes that this song should be played over the "hate" section of his website.

- They Might Be Giants - Particle Man: Dylan wrote for it to be played over the "hacking" section of his webpage

- Alice In Chains - I Stay Away: Dylan wrote that this was to be played over the "other cool mus." section of his webpage.

- 2Pac - Hit 'Em Up - the lyrics are written (incorrectly) in Dylan's school planner.

THE MARILYN MANSON DEBATE

Did Eric and Dylan actually listen to Marilyn Manson? Friends of the two boys have denied that they were fans of his. And while there is no actual evidence to suggest that they did listen to his music, Dylan did have a poster of him in his room.

“Mrs. Klebold indicated that Dylan had a poster of Marilyn Manson and that she asked him about it, and in particular asked him what it meant. Dylan had told her that it didn't mean anything and that he didn't really listen to lyrics of Marilyn Manson music, however, did listen to the music.” (Columbine; Jeff Kass).

Additionally, Eric apparently did sometimes listen to Manson, given that he had written M.M- initials in his journal.

This behaviour seems kind of odd for people who “weren’t fans” of at least SOME of Marilyn Mansons music, but I digress.

[formulapookie]

what is the likelyhood of you being concerned about me and adora ever cooking together- like i would be incharge of actually cooking the food and she’d get to chop and season the food-

I would probably have you arrested before you could even get close to a kitchen knife or an ingredient

[rosieinthemultiverse]

i mini shifted last night

completely. on. accident.

i have attempted to shift probably 1,000 times. i have been on this journey since 2021, and i have attempted every iteration of a shift. i have occupied every level of care and attention. i have done it all. and then done it again a hundred more times.

heartbeat! airplane! lucid dreaming! awake back to bed! void state! alice in wonderland! raven! julia! staircase! sinking! falling! deep meditation! yelling at the universe! commanding the 3D! being angry! being happy! aligning my chakras! seeing psychics! deep meditation! journaling! not journaling! taking breaks! shifting every night! burning letters! talking to the sky! moon water!

everything!

over and over and over!

and then last night, i fell asleep with a subliminal on and woke up in a different room.

for the past few weeks, my shifting attempts have been characterized with a very desperate phrase: “i will go wherever you send me.”

i was so sick of the pressure of ending up in my scripted dr, that i decided to remove it entirely. the past few times ive attempted to shift, i’ve visualized 3-4 random but safe places and let myself drift. if i can shift once, i can shift again, so there’s no pressure to land in my dr on the first try.

last night, i fell asleep with a subliminal playing. i wasn’t trying to shift, and i knocked out quickly. i woke up in the middle of the night, and i could feel the cold wall against my back even though my eyes were closed. i was in those precious first moments of consciousness where you don’t know where you are. i realized slowly that my bedroom at home is not close to the wall, and i must be at school. that’s when it hit me — i shifted.

i decided to affirm that i had shifted. i don’t know why, but it was just my instinct. i knew instinctually exactly which dorm i was in. it wasn’t even my room, it was a friend’s! after maybe fifteen seconds, i opened my eyes, and i could tell even in the darkness that i was exactly where i thought i was. i laid there for a second and tried to feel the posters on the wall. i got up and did a few reality checks. i had all my fingers. i could do mental math.

i knew that i was at a sleepover, and at this point, my friend woke up and asked if i was okay. i said yeah, and i went into the bathroom to try to ground myself more and maybe look at myself in the mirror, and i ended up shifting back unintentionally and immediately falling back asleep.

BUT A WIN IS A WIN!!!!!

i am capable of shifting!!!!!!! im going to go back tonight and see if i can ground myself this time. eeeeeeeeeek

[georgemilesirl]

“Who am I to try to be the bridge between two worlds? Me, the weak one that can’t even control my own destiny.”

—June 21, “Jay’s Journal.”

[aemondsbabe]

The Queen

summary: dairy/letters & lingerie kink || alicent stumbles across a secret of yours and is more than happy to make it come true

pairing: modern!alicent x f!reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, wlw, pre-established relationship, dom!Alicent, sub!reader, queen honorifics used in the bedroom, lingerie kink, use of a leather crop, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, thigh riding, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 3.3k

a/n: happy day seven of 12 days of smuff!! i went into a fugue state and wrote 10 pages in 2 hours. the hold that olivia cooke has on me should be studied by science. anyway.

12 days of smuff masterlist!

gif creds to @olliviacooke

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

🌟add yourself to my taglist to be notified when i post new fics!

Alicent’s POV

She was humming, swaying her hips to a new album she’d downloaded earlier that week as she smoothly moved the duster along the wooden surface of your nightstand, careful as she guided it between the lamp and the small potted plant you loved so much. Getting a bit too into the music she was listening to as she tidied up your shared bedroom, though, she accidentally bumped against the growing stack of books on your nightstand. 

“Shit!” Alicent hissed as a few went tumbling to the ground. Sighing, she bent down to grab them, half-heartedly cursing you for insisting on buying new books before you’d finished the ones you had. 

“Huh?” She wonders outloud, pausing the music on her phone when she sees her name scrawled in your familiar handwriting. Her fingers brush over the soft, leather bound book as she picks it up, her lips pursing as she reads the words “Personal Journal” embossed on the front in fancy gold lettering. Her brown eyes widen and quickly glance around the room, despite the fact that she knows she’s the only one home. Biting her lip, she runs a finger over the spine of your diary, weighing her options. On the one hand, she knew it would be a horrible invasion of your privacy to look but… well, what if it was something important? 

She shook her head at the thought. She wasn’t going to be one of those snooping partners! You already told her everything anyway, it’s not like there would be anything in your diary she didn’t already know! You were basically an open book, in fact, it was one of the things she loved most about you – your willingness to be so honest and transparent. 

No, she thought, carefully setting the diary back on your bedside table, I’m not going to! I’m simply – 

Okay, sue her. She’s only human and her name was right there! She’d make it up to you. 

Glancing around one more time, she flipped open the leather-bound book, flipping through it to the page she’d spotted a moment ago. She found it pretty quickly and nervously bit on a nail as her eyes scanned over the page, noticing the date first. It was from only about a week ago. She read on.

I’m not even sure how to bring up the topic, it doesn’t really seem like something you’d just bring up at the dinner table? Like, “Oh, honey, yeah work was great today! Kevin from accounting is finally getting married, I know! Can you believe it? Oh. yeah, one more thing! Can you boss me around in the bedroom like a drill sergeant?” I mean, come on. 

What if she isn’t even into it? What if she wants to be the submissive one? I don’t think Alicent’s totally vanilla, I mean, there have been so many sparks of… something. Sometimes she tells me to do something, usually innocuous like making sure the door’s locked before we leave or to get the laundry hamper from the closet but… God, the way she says it makes me shiver. And when she’s talking on the phone to someone at work? That authoritative voice makes me melt. 

Sigh. I just need to find the courage to ask. 

Alicent finally finished the entry and looked up from your journal, blinking as thoughts raced through her head. After a minute, she closed the notebook and placed it carefully back on your bedside table, just like it was before it fell off the table. 

She could barely keep the smirk off her face as she grabbed her purse and keys and shut the front door behind her, a devious, delicious plan quickly forming in her head. 

She knew exactly how to make up for her actions. 

Reader’s POV

You sigh as you unlock the front door, quickly tossing your keys into the small bowl on the entryway table before kicking off your shoes.

“Babe?” You called, furrowing your brows at how unusually quiet the house was. Alicent’s car was in the driveway and normally she’d be playing music by the time you got home but today… nothing. You’re about to call out again when the sound of heels clicking down the hallway makes you stop in your tracks, your bag falls from your hand as your girlfriend finally appears from around the corner.

“Good day at work?” Alicent asks coolly, tilting her head as she leans against the doorway. Meanwhile, you feel dumbstruck as your eyes scan over her appreciatively, taking in every dip and curve as if you’d never seen any of them before. Your eyes skim over her outfit, a black, lacy bustier perfectly framing her chest, with a matching black thong clinging to her soft hips, fishnet stockings held up by an enticing garter belt, all the way down to black, pointed toe heels. She’d even taken the time to straighten her usually curly hair, smoothing it down into a clean, nearly intimidating style. 

She smirked, brown eyes sparkling at your awe-struck expression, smiling when your eyes finally landed on her face; you couldn’t help but swallow when you saw that she was wearing that expensive red lipstick she only brought out for special occasions, the one you love so much. 

Her heels click on the wood floors as she strides over to you and it’s only then you realize that she has something in her hand – a black leather crop. The sight of it makes your knees weak. 

“I asked you a question, baby,” she says gently, locking eyes with you as she gently cups your cheek with in her hand, “It would be rude not to answer.” There’s a hard edge to her voice that makes you lose what little train of thought you had.

“I… uh,” you stutter, blush rising to your cheeks as you stare helplessly at her, fighting to keep your gaze locked on hers, “W-Work was good, yeah. Same as… as usual.” You finally finish, your chest already heaving as you rub your thighs together, desperate before you even know what’s going on. 

“How wonderful,” she smirks and leans in, giving you a sweet kiss like she normally would, but today it has your head spinning, “What do you think of my little surprise?” She asks, though there isn’t really a question in her tone – she already knows your answer.

“I love it,” you breathe, hardly giving her time to finish speaking as you let your gaze wander over her yet again. “What, uhm,” you cough nervously, “What gave you the idea?”

She smiles again, shrugging; you nearly jump out of your skin when she softly runs the leather crop up the inside of your thigh, starting at your knee and stopping tantalizingly close to your core. “Just got the sense that maybe you’d be into it…” She says casually, like you’re talking about the weather, “Was I right?”

All you can do is nod your head, but that’s not good enough, apparently. Her eyes narrow and she wraps a hand around your neck, not too harshly, mostly just sitting it there but it’s enough to make you whimper in the back of your throat, breath catching as her perfectly manicured red nails just barely dig into your delicate skin. “I don’t think that’s the proper way to address me, is it?” She coos, a faux pout to her lips. 

“N-No,” you say shakily, your eyes searching hers, “No… ma’am?” You try, inwardly cringing at how your voice squeaks. 

She clicks her tongue like a disappointed mother, the sound going straight between your legs, as she fixes you with an intense stare. “Baby, you know how I sometimes call you princess?” She asks, smiling proudly when you eagerly nod, “Well, tell me. Who’s more in charge than a princess?”

Your throat goes dry and you swallow thickly, darting your tongue out to wet your lips before speaking. “T-The queen?” You ask softly, pride feathering out in your chest like the train of a peacock when she smiles and nods again.

“That’s right!” She praises, almost as if she was speaking to a child; perhaps you should be offended at her condescending tone, but, if anything, it just makes your heart beat faster. “The queen. Do you want me to be your queen today, sweet one?” Again, you nod, so she continues. “So, address me properly.”

“Yes, my queen.” You breathe the words, core clenching softly around nothing. 

“Very good,” she praises, leaning in and lightly brushing her lips over the pulsepoint on your neck, “Do you want to keep being a good girl for your queen?”

“Yes, your grace, please.” You say with an eager nod, feeling like you’ll explode if she doesn’t touch you, or so something soon.

“Then be good for me and go to the bedroom,” she nods as she speaks, her big brown eyes looking directly into yours, “And strip.” She finishes coolly, leaving you no room to argue. 

You nod quickly and practically leap down the hallway, blushing when you hear her giggling behind you. As soon as your feet hit the soft rug in the bedroom, you tug at your clothes, quickly shedding your sweater and work trousers before unclipping your bra and sliding your underwear down your legs, haphazardly shoving everything into the hamper because you just know she’ll say something about the mess if you don’t. Finally, not knowing what else to do, you stand by the bed, arms clasped in front of you.

She doesn’t make you wait long and you bite your lip in anticipation as her heels click slowly down the hallway, smiling shyly when you finally meet her gaze again as she enters the room. Just like you knew she would, her eyes immediately dart to the hamper and her smile widens when she sees your clothes from today resting on top. 

“What a good girl I have,” she praises as she saunters over to you, her hips swinging enticingly as she moves. Without another word, she sits on the edge of the bed and gently places the crop down next to her on the bedspread, before she beckons you over with a crook of her finger, “You like your queen’s special surprise for you, huh?” She questions, tilting her head as she peers up at you, her hands resting gently on the curve of your hip. 

“Yes,” you nod, your eyes trailing down to her cleavage before you can help yourself and it’s only then that you notice that she’s breathing nearly as hard as you are, a blush extending down her pale neck and chest, “I love it, my queen, so much.” You nearly whisper, dizzy at the thought that she might be enjoying this just as much as you are. 

“Don’t you think you should thank me for your surprise, princess?” She asks coolly, smirk widening as she sees a look of realization in your eyes. 

“Yeah, yes, please,” you nearly beg, already tempted to sink to your knees.

She smirks at your eagerness, all but laughing when you whine as she pushes herself back further, out of your grasp and into the center of the bed, making enough room for you in front of her. Again, she crooks her finger and you hastily follow after her, kneeling between her fishnet-covered legs. With another smirk, she silently spreads her legs, bending them at the knee enough that the heels of her shoes dig into the bedspread. 

Something between a gasp and a whimper escapes your lips as you let your gaze travel down, between her legs, where you’re met with the shocking realization that the black thong she has on is indeed crotchless. Your eyes stay glued to her center, now beautifully framed by two strips of lace fabric; the sight makes you lick your lips without thinking, taking in the way her folds shimmer, even in the low light of the bedroom. Finally, you manage to rip your gaze away and lock eyes with her again, your blush deepening at the hazy look in her eyes as she leans back on her elbows. 

“Go on, princess,” she breathes, that familiar, aroused rasp finally present, “Thank your queen.”

You spring into action, wrapping your hands around her soft thighs as you lean in, kneeling between her legs. Your eyes flutter as you look up the length of her body while you press soft, sweet kisses to the inside of her thighs, your eyes widening when you see her lean over and quickly grab the crop. 

You jolt as she brings it down, smacking one ass cheek with it, not enough to hurt but enough to leave behind a pleasant little zing. “I don’t believe I asked you to tease me,” she admonishes, a playfulness to her tone still as her other hand brushes into your hair, red nails scratching soothing against your scalp, “Thank me properly.” She commands, guiding your head to exactly where she wants it.

You’re more than happy to obey and you press a kiss to the center of her folds, right on her clit, moaning against her as you feel it twitch against your lips. She lets out a breathy moan as your tongue licks a long, straight line up her center, right down the middle, before your lips gently seal around her bud. 

Your eyes flutter closed again as you softly suck at her clit, moaning lowly in your throat at her familiar sweet taste. You move in just the way she likes, kissing and licking over her heat with a practiced ease, pride blooming in your chest with every moan, whine, and sigh of your name. You shake your head against her, attempting to bury your tongue in her twitching core as the tip of your nose teases her clit, your chin dripping with her when you finally pull back. 

“Princess, fuck,” she breathes above you, head tilted down so she can watch as you feast on her, “Fuck me, come on.” She orders, giving another sharp little spank to your bum with the crop. 

You do as she says, smiling as you flick your tongue over her bud while you glide two fingers through her folds, making sure to get them nice and wet before you slide them carefully into her, relishing the long moan she lets out as you do. You can’t help but whimper as her walls clamp down tightly, pulsing around your fingers as you crook them up in the way you know she loves, your lips sealing softly around her clit again, eyes fluttering as you watch her chest heave. 

“Good fucking girl,” she whimpers, accentuating each word of praise with another slap of her crop against you, the pleasant sting you clench around nothing, “Make your queen come, princess, good girl.” She moans, tilting her head back as you redouble your efforts. 

Your arm aches as you fuck your fingers into her, keeping them quirked up against that small rough patch within her, but you pay it no mind, focusing only on the hand in your hair and the taste of her in your mouth, your hips canting desperately in the air. 

You flick your tongue against her bud once more, in just the right way, and it sends her over the edge with a gasp. You moan into her as the hand in your hair tightens and her walls rhythmically squeeze against your fingers, nearly tight enough to push them out. You move steadily, bringing her through her high as you have so many times before, only stopping when she finally goes lax against you. 

You press kisses against her thighs and hips as she comes down, breathing heavily above you. Eventually, the hand in your hair tightens once more, and you sigh happily as she pulls you up. 

“You did so good,” she praises softly, her voice breathy as she presses her lips against yours; she moans softly as your tongue licks into her mouth before she pulls away to trail kisses down your neck, “So good for your queen, my sweet princess.” You sigh happily, eyes fluttering shut as you straddle her, one of her legs between yours.

Your eyes shoot open as she bends her leg, pressing her fishnet covered thigh firmly against your center with a knowing smirk. “Goodness,” she gasps, her beautiful brown eyes widening once she feels how wet you are against her, “I think you deserve a reward too, for treating your queen so well.”

“Please, holy shit,” you gasp, your hips already moving on her leg, the pattern of her stockings adding a delicious friction, “P-Please, your grace.” You quickly correct yourself when she brings her crop down once more, making your back arch. 

“Good girl,” she whispers, mouthing at your neck. She lets the crop fall to the bed again as she cups your ass with both hands, guiding your hips as you move against her, “Take what you need, princess, you earned it.” She breathes, smirking as you shudder above her. 

You nod mindlessly, swallowing thickly as you already feel the knot in your stomach tightening dangerously, each drag of your clit over her stockinged thigh sends shockwaves up your spine. Your breathing gets heavier and heavier as you get closer and she smiles happily, bouncing her thigh against your wet core in the way she knows drives you insane. 

“My beautiful little princess,” she whispers, red lips ghosting over your chest, “Behaving so well for her queen.” 

You fall apart once her lips seal around one of your nipples, sparks of pleasure bursting behind your eyelids as she carefully sucks the sensitive bud into her mouth, gently teasing at it with her teeth. Your body tenses up as your walls clench again and again, your fingers grabbing at the sheets as you gasp her name. 

Finally, your eyes flutter open as your high subsides. Thankfully, you have just enough presence of mind to roll to the side, cuddling against her as your chest heaves. 

“Holy shit,” you breathe through a small laugh, your face flushed as your eyes meet hers. 

“So, you liked it?” She asks, a shy lilt to her voice now that both of you have had the chance to come down. 

“Liked it?” You question, staring at her wide-eyed, “I… I loved it. That was incredible.” You breathe, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder, “Where on earth did all that come from?”

She giggles softly, a guilty look appearing on her face. “Promise you won’t be too upset with me?” She asks softly. 

“Of course,” your reply is instant as you card your fingers through her soft hair, “Just tell me.”

“I was cleaning a few days ago, when I had that day off,” she explains, swallowing as you nod along, “And I… may have accidentally knocked your diary off the table and then got curious when I saw my name and… yeah.” She finishes, teeth biting at her lower lip. 

Your face reddens a bit, instantly knowing which entry she must’ve seen, but you merely shake your head, about to tell her not to worry about it when she starts speaking again.

“I do feel really bad about it,” she sighs, continuing quickly, “I know it’s a breach of trust but I saw my name and then… I’ll make it up to you, I pr – !” 

She gasps as you cut her off with a sweet kiss, shaking your head dismissively, “Consider it made up.” 

“You aren’t mad?” She asks hesitantly.

“Mad?” You echo, laughing softly, “My sexy girlfriend bought ridiculously hot lingerie, and a riding crop, just to surprise me and fucked me to within an inch of my life and I’m supposed to be mad at her over a little diary?” Both of you dissolve into a fit of giggles as you finally finish, nuzzling happily against each other, “I think not.” You quip, smirking as your eyes search hers. 

“Okay, yeah,” she says with a small eye roll, “I am pretty great, huh?”

“And oh so humble,” you laugh, pressing kisses over the curve of her shoulder before leaning back to smirk at her, “Your majesty.”

tagged lovelies: @helloworldiamnotarobot @drakonflames @marysucks-blog @watercolorskyy @valeskafics @iamaegontargaryenwife0 @aemshaircare @1997babyyyy @lovellies @little-moonbeam-666 @blackswxnn @alerisc @fan-goddess @wickedfrsgrl @moonriseoverkyoto @echos-muses @schniiipsel

(tags are based on your answers to my google form; if you were mistakenly tagged, please contact me & update your answers on the form! thank you!)

[beggamoth]

To Wed A Dragon. pt 2

summary | Viserys I Targaryen, being geopolitical genius he is, arranges a marriage between his dangerously serpentine second son Aemond and a wildling of pure First Men blood: the elusive Omega daughter Daemon left rotting in Runestone. It’s all bread and circuses and targcest.

pairing | alpha!!aemond targaryen x fem!!omega!!reader with implied social anxiety

parts | 1 2 3

tags | TW!!! OMEGAVERSE!!! VERY OOC AEMOND!!! not proofread. i wal half dead when i was writing it so. slowburn (sort of). very very chopped english. consists of aemond’s journals. also vague helaegons in this part.

wordcount | 3,3k

any kind of feedback is highly appreciated!

______________________________________________________________

1st Moon, 128 AC. Three days post-scenting. The wind was rattling the windows. I was in a mood for conquest

It is time to court her.

As per tradition, both Andal and Valyrian, and as demanded by decorum, I have begun the official pursuit of Lady [name] Royce, my betrothed, my mirror opposite, my current academic project disguised as a person. Courtship, according to both the maesters and my mother, must be gentle. Considerate. Intentional. Signs of attention should not be suffocating so that the future mate does not leap headfirst but leave enough room for them to have a misconception of having a choice in the matter.

They have clearly never courted a creature who looks like she might bolt at the sound of her own name.

ADVICE RECEIVED (Most of it Unasked For, and All of it Questionable):

Alicent, exasperated, very opinionated on the matter of courtship but barely experienced one of her own:

“Ask about her interests. Write her a short poem. Compliment her mind. She may appear shy, but she’ll highly appreciate your attention.”

Yes, Mother. I shall compose an ode to her inability to make small talk.

Criston Cole (eternally bitter and inexplicably proud of it):

“Be gallant. Provide gifts of use. Things that show you think of her needs.”

I considered giving her a ten foot pole or a thick veil so she’ll have more ways to avoid eye contact.

Aegon (for some reason shirtless, half-lying on a chaise, playing with Helaena’s hair):

“Just pin her to a wall and tell her she’s pretty. Worked for me.”

Yes, brother. And now you have enough bastard children for us to never worry about the end of the Targaryen line. Helaena (lying with her stomach on Aegon’s lap, reading a book upside down)

“Make a trail of honey cakes from her solar to yours. Can’t promise that she’ll be smitten, but you’ll have her attention.”

…All right. This one may be the most efficient I’ve received so far.

COURTSHIP STRATEGY, WEEK ONE:

Gift #1: A first edition on Old Vale legends. With vivid illustrations that saved their first colours.

She received it with the enthusiasm of a tree being shown fire. Mumbled “thank you” like it was putting a strain on her vocal cords.

Gift #2: A small potted herb known to soothe nerves.

She asked if it was “meant to imply something.” I said yes. She did not laugh. Neither did I.

Gift #3: A dragon figurine carved from obsidian.

She flinched when I handed it to her. Not because it frightened her—because she feared she might drop it. I told her it was just stone. She looked like I’d insulted its honor.

SOCIAL EXPERIMENTS (Results Inconclusive):

It'd been a surprisingly hot winter. The sky was painted in pale, anemic colours. The paths in godswood in the Red Keep were eroded by the rain and became wet as clay. The Weirwood tree was rustling above us. I sat beside her on sprawling white roots. Close. Not indecent, but enough that our sleeves brushed and I found myself in a vacuum of her scent - maple and that sweet thing whose name is unlikely to be found in any language. Anyway, it made the hairs on my scruff stand up.

Meanwhile, she began reciting trade routes aloud under her breath, as if invoking shipping lanes would exorcise my proximity.

I asked her about her favorite book.

She blinked once. Said:

“The one where everyone dies before the ending. No one talks in it.”

(She is either a genius or indeed mentally challenged. Possibly both.)

I offered to spar in the yard, half-joking. She responded:

“I’d rather be hit by a carriage.”

I liked that one, actually.

If some brave fool finds this journal and decides to laugh at my failed transgressions-- I dare him. Because criticism is something we can avoid easily by saying nothing, doing nothing, and being nothing.

Moreover, I do not consider it a failure.

At no point has she refused me. That is the linchpin in this operation. She has not said no. Has not run. Has not, to my knowledge, attempted escape via hidden passage or came to my mother begging to annul the engagement.

This is tacit permission.

I think she simply doesn’t know what to do with me. Most don’t. She is disoriented by my attention – like a little shivering rabbit pulled out of its hiding place by a fox who is in no hurry to eat it, for some reason.

(There’s something beautiful in that. In being someone else’s overwhelming.)

I believe it is working.

Not quickly. Not visibly. It would be the peak of naivety to expect her to throw herself at my neck and shower my face with kisses if I handed her a dandelion or a recite stanza of High Valyrian poetry in Common Tongue adaptation. Not at all.

But I see the signs:

She no longer looks mortified when I sit beside her.

She only stammers when spoken to directly, not peripherally.

And from what her maid said, she keeps the dragon statue I gave her on the mantelpiece. The most prominent place in the room.

A lesser man might interpret her discomfort as rejection.

But I am not lesser.

Her uncertainty is not refusal, but it is formation. A thing taking shape under pressure.

She will come to want me. Perhaps already does.

And if she doesn’t… well.

I am very good at making people think they do.

[margin sketch] Aemond’s drawing of the courtyard: himself in elegant posture, offering a gift. [name]: hiding behind a bush, labeled “Bush of Emotional Avoidance.” Caption: “Courtship: Going Very Well.” ____________________________________________________

1st Moon of 128 AC, midday.

She did it.

She reciprocated. Or tried to.

And gods help me—I responded with all the consideration of a marble statue nodding at a crying child.

She wants to match me. I can see it. The hesitance isn’t fear now—it’s shame. Performance anxiety. Which, I must say, is fascinating to watch in real time.

Today, it happened.

THE CONTEXT:

It was the beginning of the year. It was warm, hot even. It was as if evil forces had tempted the spring to show an omen, and it had rushed into the Red Keep a few moons early to create a commotion.

I was in the library. Alone, ostensibly. I had no desire to go outside to look at the buds bursting prematurely. And then there she was, hovering near the fireplace like the ghost of Hamlet's father. No retinue. No buffer.

She was holding—gods help us all—a sachet.

Cloth. Stitched. Ridiculous.

One of those scent pouches maiden Omegas sometimes make when they’re still fresh from their moonblood and haven’t yet learned shame. But this one had effort. Clearly stuffed with herbs and—something richer beneath. Her. Not in full heat, but close enough that the scent had ripened into maple.

She held it out.

“I…” she began. “I thought… you might want this. It’s not strong. Just—something for when you’re away.”

The earnestness. The sheer catastrophe of it.

She was blushing so hard she looked sunburned. Her fingers, fresh from the needlework, were trembling slightly—likely from nerves, or effort, or from the sheer strain of doing something. Her scent was pulled taut like a bowstring.

And what did I do?

MY RESPONSE (EXACT QUOTE, HANDWRITING SHAKY FROM LINGERING SHAME):

“How quaint.”

HOW QUAINT.

I said it. I said it. With the tone of a lord admiring a child’s clay dragon with four legs and one wing.

I never meant to mock it. I was—impressed? Amused? Touched, in the way one is touched when a bird lands on your shoulder and doesn’t shit on you?

But the words came out wrong. Or perhaps perfectly in keeping with who I am: someone so used to asserting authority that sincerity baffles me.

HER REACTION:

She blinked. Her eyes veiled with tears

Her mouth opened, then closed, and she gave a nod that was meant to be a shrug but failed at both. Then she set the sachet gently on the table beside me—like an offering at a tombstone—and said:

“Sorry. That was stupid.”

She turned, fast. The movement snapped. Like she’d been hit.

I didn’t stop her. I should have. I did try, belatedly, to say something—anything—but she was already halfway down the corridor, walking too fast, head ducked low.

Her scent lingered.

But it had changed.

No longer maple and warmth.

Just something sharp.

Like embarrassment.

Like trying not to cry.

[three paragraphs heavily blotted. Next page, written hours later]

I am not sorry.

Let me be clear.

I am not sorry for what I said, only for the response it provoked. There is a difference.

Her attempt—sweet, strange—was admirable in the way fledgling efforts often are. But it was not what I’m accustomed to. I did not scorn her. I simply reacted as I would to a performance unfit for the stage it presumed.

Apparently, this was the wrong approach.

Apparently, she is the kind of girl who mistakes discomfort for failure.

Fine.

Let her learn through spectacle.

OPERATION: APOLOGY,

Mission Objective: Show Lady [name] that I valued her gesture.

Subtextual Objective: Reassert dominance. Assert control over the narrative. Burnish my image as both gallant and superior.

What would most men do?

A letter? Weak.

A verbal apology? Unmemorable.

A second gift? Uninspired.

What did I do?

THE GESTURE:

I commissioned a tapestry.

Not a small one. A full-wall Vale-work tapestry, stitched by three master weavers overnight, featuring:

Her sigil entwined with mine. A map of Runestone rendered in gold thread. A seven-pointed star replaced with a stylized dragon eye. Vhagar’s, for the ones who know.

A line of text beneath, in High Valyrian:

“She Who Is Seen Shall Be Feared Not.”

(Because subtlety is for cowards.)

It was unveiled—publicly—during midday meal, hung behind her designated seat in the dining hall, with an appropriate flourish of music and actual scented petals scattered by handmaidens trained in choreographed petal-distribution.

I may have stood as it was revealed. And may have said aloud:

“For Lady [name], my betrothed. That she never doubt her place beside me.”

HER REACTION:

To call it “poor” would be like calling dragonfire “warm.”

She froze.

No. Worse. She locked. Every joint seized up. Her expression did not contort—it vacated. Her eyes widened, but there was no expression or rational thought behind them, only raw animalistic panic trying to claw its way out.

She stood. Abruptly. No curtsy, no word. Her chair scraped violently against the stone floor, a sound that seemed to rupture the air.

And then—

She bolted.

Half-walked, half-fled. Past lords and ladies. Past Alicent’s gasp and Aegon’s snort and Criston’s narrowed eyes.

I watched her go.

MARGIN SKETCH:

A very large tapestry with dramatic flames and glowing embroidery. In front of it, a stick-figure of [name] drawn mid-sprint, labeled “fleeing the scene of emotional crime.”

POST-MORTEM:

Mother came to my chambers that evening. She was... not pleased.

“You terrified her, Aemond,” she said, hand clutching the seven pointed star on her chest like she was considering whacking me with it.

“It was a grand gesture, a part of the courtship,” I said.

“It was a spectacle,” she snapped. “That girl can barely speak above a whisper, and you turned her into a performance!”

We ended up in an argument that led us nowhere, except my mother snatched all the hair oils back in retaliation. Woman’s pettiness knows no bounds, indeed.

BUT.

I do not regret the gesture.

It was labourious. Artistic. It was precise. It elevated her. It told her: you matter enough to move me to grandeur.

If that frightens her, then let her learn to stand taller.

Let her understand that being desired by a dragon is not a gentle thing. ______________________________________________________________

1st Moon of 128 AC

She is avoiding me.

Not subtly. Not in an attempt to play coy.

Systematically.

I have not seen her in three days, despite orchestrating half a dozen “accidental” routes through the Keep, the library, the godswood, the corridor that leads past the kitchens where she sometimes steals honeycakes, as Helaena had told me. She walked like a shadow among shadows and I would admire her art of folding herself like parchment if it didn't annoy the fuck out of me.

At first, I thought it was shyness. Shame. That I had overwhelmed her with my affections (true), and she needed time to recover (also true). So I gave her space.

Three days.

That was a mistake.

Because today, I heard something I was not meant to hear.

LOCATION: Alicent’s solar.

METHOD: Standing outside the partially open door under the pretense of inspecting the embroidery on a nearby tapestry.

WHAT I HEARD:

[name]. Speaking. In whole sentences.

“Please, Your Grace,” she said.

“I understand the arrangement was forged with intentions that—politically—seemed sound. But I do not feel safe. Not because he’s cruel. But because he’s so much. I’m not—I’m not strong enough to share a life with someone who ticks when my stitches are uneven and makes me look like a laughingstock to prove a point.”

I froze.

She wasn’t stammering.

She wasn’t whispering.

“I’m asking you—not out of disrespect, but fear—can you annul the engagement? Quietly? Please.”

My heart went very still.

ALICENT’S RESPONSE:

“[name]. Listen to me. This match came from the King’s own lips. He wanted Aemond to have something—someone—to anchor him. He believed your blood, your temperament, might calm him. Might balance him.”

“He said it would unite the family again. That you were a bridge.”

There was a pause.

“I don’t even know if he remembered which son he was talking about,” Alicent added, softly. “He may have meant Aegon. Or… gods, perhaps he thought Daeron was Aemond. But the decree was made. And it will not be unmade. You must—you must try. You won’t be the first woman and Omega in history to step over yourself for a man. If it will make you feel any better.”

Then silence.

Then—something even worse.

The sound of her crying quietly. The kind of crying where nothing moves except the breath.

And I stood there, behind the tapestry, like a complete fool, oblivious to the life of the Keep bustling around me. Enraged or embarrased – it is still hard to tell what I was supposed to feel.

______________________________________________________________

I met her in the inner yard the same day. She tried to walk past me with her head bowed, but I grabbed her forearm – firmer that I’ve expected from myself.

THE CONVERSATION (If One May Call It That):

Me: “So this is it? One little halt, and you’re sobbing on the knees of a Queen like a little girl? Do you really think that hiding like a rat will somehow make all the pressing matters less pressing?”

Her: “You’ve heard it.”

Her voice had heat in it. For once.

Her: “You don’t think you did anything wrong, do you?”

Me: “Lady [Name]. I think I did everything exactly as expected. If it wasn’t what you wanted—why didn’t you say so earlier?”

Her: “Because I didn’t know how to say, ‘you scare me,’ without you taking it as a compliment.”

I opened my mouth. She interrupted me before a word fell from my lips.

Her: “You look at me like I’m a part of some grand scheme that exists only in your head. You don’t actually see me. You see—some version of a wife who makes you feel like a king. And that’s not me.”

Her: “You don’t talk to me. You talk at me. Like I’m a locked door you’re very proud to be kicking in.”

Her: “I tried, Prince Aemond. I made that stupid sachet, and you laughed at it. You probably didn’t mean to, but it doesn’t matter. You think you’re being kind when really you’re just—overpowering. All the time. And you always look at me like I’m supposed to be grateful.”

She laughed. Laughed, short and disbelieving, the kind of laugh people give when something breaks clean in the chest.

Her: “But I’m not. I’m not grateful, damnit! I didn’t want this. I didn’t want you. I didn’t want to be married to the one person in the Seven Kingdoms who makes me feel like I’ve been handed a blade and told to hold it by the edge.”

“And gods help me,” she added, voice rising, cracking open, “I think I like you, and that makes it worse. Because you’re the worst man I could possibly be besotted with. And I hate it. I hate that you’re so convinced you’re always right.”

“And I hate that you’re not always wrong.”

THE MOMENT (Capital T, Capital M):

She turned around, her hair whipped in the air. With quick, jerky steps, she started walking away. I grabbed her shoulder.

Everything that followed it felt like some weird haze.

She pushed me. I clutched at her palm. She scratched me. I grabbed her chin.

It devolved into a childish brawl with the servants and courtiers looking on helplessly, because even in my weird state I would never have seriously hurt her, but I couldn't let her hurt me - just as I couldn't let her go. The mere thought of it made my teeth ache.

At one point, she sank her teeth into my palm. I hissed. And on inertia, I bit her shoulder, tearing through the fabric of her dress with my teeth.

We were breathing like animals. Both bleeding slightly. My fingers dug into her shoulders, bunching up thick woolen fabric I somehow managed to bite through. My mouth tasted like wool. Her mouth left a shallow mark on my palm.

Then it happened.

The scent broke.

All of it. Instinct.

I smelled her—maple and warmth, the damned sweet-throb of it—and it responded in me like a flare catching oil. My pulse kicked. My eye sharpened. My hands trembled like a boy’s.

It was a pulsing wave that starts low and rolls over the bones. A tightness in my spine. A need to punch a wall and then kneel in the Sept near the statue of Maiden until it wears off.

My body locked. My breath caught.

I released.

Not rut, not fully—but the prelude to it, sharp and possessive.

My scent wrapped around hers. She inhaled. Hers answered.

Permanent markers.

Teeth. Blood. All this and that..

Not enough to seal a mating bond—but enough to make it clear to any Alpha, Beta, or high-ranking bastard with a working nose:

She is no longer unclaimed.

We are scented.

Publicly. Permanently. Irreversibly.

Just scent and heat and the knowledge that if anyone touched her now I’d cut their fingers off.

Her face expressed absolute, abject horror.

She pulled away, slow, like she thought moving too fast would trigger an explosion. Her eyes were wet, wild.

“You—you ruined it.”

“You made it real.”

And then she ran. Again. But her scent clung to me like smoke on a burned house.

We were meant to suffer in symmetrical silence, not accidentally become half-mated in the middle of a shrubbery.

I cannot undo it.

And more than that—

I do not want to.

Now she’s mine. mine. mine.

[written with a lot of pressure on the quill, all letters of different sizes]

She can weep. She can beg. She can try to scrub me from her skin.

It’s too late.

We’ve begun.

And I intend to finish it.

MARGIN SKETCH: Aemond sitting in the dust, raising one hand in the air, face solemn. Labeled: "Silence, brain. Cock is thinking.”