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say-al0e · 6 months ago

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Electric Touch

Rating: M | This is smut! No one under 18, Minors DNI!

Summary: Following your marriage to Prince Aemond, you did not imagine there would be a bedding ceremony. Nor did you imagine yourself falling so quickly for the one-eyed prince. But you quickly learned he was more than met the eye. | Ft. Anon request for "“What part of I want you and only you do you not understand?” + “Love makes you weak but, god, I’d rather be weak with you by my side than face a life without you.” Warnings: Bedding ceremony, PinV, guarded Aemond, Aegon is an asshole (briefly, then he's gone), one mention of death in childbirth (not graphic, very brief), allusion to Aemond's brothel trip. Anything I missed, let me know and I'll tag it. Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!Reader (wife!Reader) Word Count: 5.1k Requests are Open | HotD Taglist

The fire blazing in Aemond’s eye was not what you expected. It was not fueled by desire, a lust for his new bride or the exciting conquest of claiming your maidenhead as you’d long been warned. It was not bright or joyous, a fire befitting the occasion of your wedding night. Instead, it was dark - angry, a wild blaze threatening to torch everything in its path with little regard for the consequences.

Though your new husband had been nothing but kind to you, polite and even occasionally charming, for the first time since stepping foot into King’s Landing, you finally understood why so many tended to avert their gaze lest they face Aemond’s ire.

Before you stood Aemond One-Eye, a fierce dragon rider whose presence commanded attention, and you struggled to keep from withering beneath his gaze as you held his dark look with an even one of your own.

Around you, his apartments teemed with life. Drunken revelers laughed as they surged into the room and circled the pair of you, some of them shouting tawdry jokes while others lamented the loss of the right to the first night. Regardless of their mood, it seemed as if every man in the realm fought to be at your side in a room that once felt so spacious but now left you struggling to catch your breath as they began tugging at pieces of your clothing.

As many hands clumsily tugged at well-tied laces and the heavy fabric of your gown, a few highborn ladies - friends you’d made in the short time you’d been at Court - dutifully removed Aemond’s clothes with much less vigor than their husbands or brothers or cousins.

Aegon led the charge, grin on his lips and breath reeking of wine as he leaned in close. Aemond’s gaze faltered for only a moment, turning to his brother and flashing a warning even the drunkest of men could read very clearly, before it returned to you as Aegon pointedly ignored him. Your drunken good-brother chose, instead, to tip your chin with fingers sticky with wine and draw your gaze away from your husband.

“Do not worry, good-sister,” he began, voice loud, despite his performative attempt at a whisper. He spared Aemond a look, eyes glinting with a mirth that bordered on malice - before he returned his gaze to you. “I made sure my brother was well-educated in the art of pleasure but should you find yourself wanting, you need only say the word.”

By design, you were not given the chance to respond. The last of your garments was removed from your body and Aegon released his grip on your chin to grab your waist.

The sea of revelers parted. Amidst a cacophony of cheers and jeers, a few murmurs as to how it was a shame your father had agreed to wed you to a man they saw as less than whole, Aegon and one of his friends carried you through the crowd and deposited you into Aemond’s bed.

It was only when you were settled amongst the furs and linens that they were all finally ushered out of the room.

If you were honest, it surprised you that Aemond allowed the bedding ceremony in the first place. The idea was put forth by his brother, a suggestion he’d barely blinked an eye at, but it was plain to see just how adversely the entire spectacle affected him as he approached the bed.

Aemond Targaryen, the very image of his house’s beauty and fire, stood before you with his face a mask of composure you had yet to see fully slip. There were cracks, glimpses into the churning abyss that lingered just beneath the calm surface, and you could see them beginning to spread as a jeer from the crowd echoed just beyond the steel and wood of the door.

There was a flash of hurt, a glimpse so brief you felt certain you’d imagined it, before he swallowed and his jaw tensed. He steeled himself, his resolve, and you could see the mask slip back into place.

“My prince,” you began, voice far quieter than you intended as you sat upright to meet his gaze. “I do not-“

A hum escaped your new husband as he stepped closer, pressing a knee into the soft surface beneath you and shaking his head slightly. “We will speak when there is no crowd standing guard just outside, waiting for evidence our marriage has been consummated. For now, we must fulfill our duty as husband and wife.”

There was an edge of finality in his tone, no room left for argument as he reached for you. Though his touch was not harsh, not as insistent or eager as the men who’d taken great joy in stripping you bare, it was firmer than you’d expected. In the weeks of your courtship, he’d lended an arm as you descended the steps in the garden or offered a hand as you climbed them - each touch soft, almost tentative, and as brief as could be considered proper.

It was wistful, possibly even naive, to believe the softness of his touch was affection or that it would continue as he pressed you back into the pillows. Aemond was not an outwardly affectionate man, that much you knew to be true, nor was he used to being treated so tenderly. His life had been one lived in a gilded cage, acquiescing to everything expected of him with little argument and even less connection. Love would not come easy to him, nor would affection.

Only time would bring him comfort, trust in you and the ability to be vulnerable, so you made no argument as he settled himself over you.

The dim candlelight made it difficult to see much - and you wondered how Aemond might react if you allowed yourself to savor the sight of him - but you took the brief chance you were offered to study him. Tall, lithe, muscular; he looked every bit the fearsome dragon rider and well-trained swordsman. Pale hair cascaded over his shoulders, a curtain that cast shadows over the sharp features of his face, but you could clearly see the intrigue in his eye as you lifted your hand to gently cradle his jaw.

Had you not been studying him so closely, so desperate to see some glimpse of warmth beneath the cool surface of your new husband, you might’ve missed his sharp inhale or the way his eye narrowed. Had you not been so enthralled by his appearance, you might’ve missed the way he swallowed or the split second he allowed himself to lean into your careful touch before the impassive mask returned.

Friends, some long married with babes while others had just wed, whispered and giggled when they shared what you could expect. Most of your friends lamented the act itself, thankful only that it often seemed to be over quickly, as many of their husbands were older lords in need of young wives to produce heirs. It seemed that few cared much at all about their wives’ pleasure and you’d wondered throughout your courtship if Aemond - though young, a man of your own age - might prove similar.

Now that the time had come to find out, you still felt wholly uncertain.

For a long moment, Aemond simply studied you. The deep lilac of his eye traced your face, shadowed by his hair and framed by your own locks - now free from the style your handmaids worked so hard to perfect - and his lips parted. He seemed poised to speak, though before he could, the sound of fists pounding the wood of the door broke whatever spell existed in the solace of the room.

Loud jeers from a drunken crowd reminded you both of your purpose, the reason you had been stripped bare for half the kingdom to see, and Aemond was the first to act.

Though you hoped for little and expected even less, Aemond wanted nothing more than to prove everyone wrong. He wanted to prove that he could be a husband, an adequate lover, a man who had everything and more. You had no way of knowing his motivation, not then, but you could see the flame in his eye as his hand fell to your hip.

With the hand still cradling his jaw, you managed to hold him in place as you leaned up and pressed your mouth to his. Since speaking your vows earlier in the night, you’d managed to steal two chaste kisses from your new husband - one just after the ceremony, in the few seconds you had alone before the feast began; the other, tucked in a corner before you were whisked away for the bedding. He responded well to both, stepping just an inch closer and allowing his lips to linger for a long moment, and you were pleased to find that he responded just as well to this kiss.

The ladies at court often lamented their husbands’ lack of skill or desire to share a kiss. They all sighed and confessed that the men found no use for it, no fun in it. It made you wonder if Aemond was humoring you, allowing you the kiss that seemed almost tender in nature, in return for your maidenhead - for your hand, your house’s newly pledged loyalty - but you knew well enough that your new husband was not one to indulge in anything he did not want to.

Hope bloomed, then, just beneath your ribcage that he might, someday, even grow to enjoy it as much as you suddenly found that you did.

Calloused hands began to explore your skin, touch light for a fleeting moment - almost reverent, almost tentative - before it grew steadier, more certain. The tips of his fingers left a path of fire in their wake, his skin always running hotter than anyone you’d ever met, and you nearly expected to find a visible path seared over the expanse of your torso as his hands dipped to your thighs.

As of yet there had been little outward sign of affection from your husband - everything felt like a courtesy, the actions of a well-educated prince, chivalrous out of duty only - and you knew that it might be wishful thinking to believe the slow drag of your husband’s hand up your inner thigh was anything more than slight trepidation. But you swore you could see the anger that burned so bright only moments ago morph into something closer to lust, desire, need.

Aemond’s fingers pressed firm into the plush of your thighs as he parted them and you bit the inside of your cheek to smother your gasp as his sharp gaze finally raked over your bare skin.

For all the wandering eyes, the lustful gazes that burned into your skin as so many lords of the realm crowded into the small room, it struck you in that moment that Aemond waited until you were alone to truly look. He waited until you were pliant beneath him, until you’d sated your own curiosity about him, to allow himself a glance at anything other than your face.

And despite the insistent jeers of the crowd beyond the door, he seemed determined to take you as he wished.

“They are expecting to hear us,” he reminded you as his fingers drew closer to your center. “Do not deprive us all of your charming voice.”

A handful of compliments had been levied at you from your new husband - more in regard to your intelligence than your most beautiful gowns, though one had ended with him calling you beautiful - but you still felt your cheeks heat as his fingers grazed your slit.

The swipe of his fingers was almost clumsy, less self-assured than he always seemed to be, but the thought gave you some comfort. Neither of you could disappoint the other if you were on somewhat equal footing.

Aemond’s touch grew more insistent, more assured, from the moment his fingers grazed the small bundle of nerves that wrenched a gasp from your throat and had your nails pressing into the muscle of his shoulders. He focused there, thumb circling the now aching pearl, as his fingers gathered the increasing slick. The deep lilac of his eye had almost vanished, replaced nearly entirely by lust-blown black, but it remained on your face - watching intently with every noise that spilled from your lips.

As desperately as you wanted to close your eyes, to hide from the intensity in his gaze, you found yourself unable to look away from his face. The sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the barely there flush that set high upon his cheeks; he was beautiful, regal, and you couldn’t help yourself.

“Gevi,” you breathed, hoping the word sounded as effortless falling from your own lips as it did from his. Your thumb brushed his cheek, just beneath his scar, and you could see the flash of an emotion you could not recognize in his eye.

For a moment, he remained silent, fingers slowing to a barely there press, before he tipped his head. Your hand slipped, fell to his jaw, and you realized it was calculated - purposeful - even as his gaze softened. “My clever wife,” he hummed, matter-of-factly, as the corner of his mouth lifted in something akin to a smile. “Full of surprises.”

A response formed on the tip of your tongue, nowhere near as witty as you hoped for, but the press of Aemond’s fingers into your core stole your breath and all coherent thought. The sensation was odd, unlike any you’d ever experienced, and you could feel your brows furrow as your body attempted to make sense of what was happening. It was not as unpleasant as you expected, nor as pleasurable as you hoped for, but you imagined that both would come in time.

Despite his appearance, his brusque manner, Aemond was not harsh. His touch was no longer soft, no longer tentative, and you could still feel the weight of his hands on your thighs despite his touch having moved, but he seemed to take note of the way you winced when his fingers began to press a little too quickly - a little too hard - and adjusted accordingly.

Soon enough, you found a delicate rhythm - an insistent press of his fingers, an exploration unlike any you’d ever felt, as you used the grip on his jaw to pull him into another kiss.

This kiss was different, heavier. It was hungry, a clash of teeth and tongue and noses that made the backs of your eyes sting. His teeth nipped at your bottom lip, a bite harsh enough to draw blood, and you inhaled sharply as he lapped at the copper staining your lips.

The copper tang seemed to spur Aemond on, remind him of his duty and the audience waiting for it to be done. He moved with a renewed vigor, with a confidence you’d quickly come to associate with him. His fingers pressed deeper, searching, and he only seemed content when you broke the kiss to fill the room with a breathless moan of his name.

Warmth spread over your skin, a combination of his body heat surrounding you and your own pleasure coursing through your veins. Every swipe of his fingers, every circle of his thumb over the aching bundle of nerves, made the edges of your vision white and the air harder to obtain.

It was then, as your stomach tied itself into knots and your nails sank into the toned skin of his back - his shoulders, his chest, his arms; wherever you could reach, desperate for some tether to reality - that he replaced his fingers with the filling warmth of his cock.

With every noise that fell from your lips, the noise outside the door grew louder. It felt as if the whole of the realm waited just beyond the wood, ears pressed to the door, and Aemond seemed acutely aware of your audience. Gone were the tentative touches, the firm but still careful brushes of his hands. After a few careful initial presses of his hips to yours, he began to sink into you in earnest.

A cry of his name rang through the room, fanning the flames of the fire outside, and your body seemed trapped in the path of the blaze.

Every word of gossip you’d heard from friends seemed true, impossibly, all at once. There was an ache between your thighs, a stinging pain that replaced the pleasant ache of desire, and a dull pinch at your hip as Aemond’s fingers pressed into your skin. The entire room was too hot, almost stifling, and the noise rang in your ears. The tawdry jokes and laughter in the hall, the rustle of linen, the lewd sound of Aemond’s cock pressing into your center, the keening of your moans, the huff of his breath; it was almost too much.

Each sensation that washed over you was distinct but beginning to muddle together.

Despite yourself, your best efforts to take the affection given to you by your husband and appreciate them, you found yourself hoping for something softer, something easier, something better.

Aemond was lost in that moment, stuck somewhere in the back of his own mind, and you could only whisper his name in hopes that he might allow you a moment to catch your breath.

“Aemond, I - please.” The whispered plea, gasped into the night air and barely audible over the cheers still echoing in the hall, seemed to break his reverie. It returned him to the moment at hand - the pinch of your brows as the ache between your thighs plagued you, the curve of your mouth as you fought to keep your composure, the sting of your nails biting into his shoulder - and gave him pause.

The snap of his hips faltered, slowed from the near manic thrusts to something more even, and you eased the grip on his shoulder as you inhaled eagerly.

That deep purple gaze swept across your face, searching for something you could not readily provide, before he squeezed your hip in what you chose to interpret as an apology. You accepted it, easily, and offered him a tentative smile as he continued pressing forward - still firm, still deep, only slower now.

Giggles from the past, old whispers that there was real pleasure to be found in bed, began to return to the forefront of your mind as Aemond’s new pace began to replace the pinch and ache between your thighs with that devastating warmth you’d only just experienced. Everything felt too hot, too bright, too much, and the thought must have been clearly written across your face as Aemond hummed.

“Take your pleasure,” he encouraged, voice low in your ear as he leaned in close. “Then, I shall have mine.”

Warmth continued to flood your veins. Fire lapped at your skin, consuming you entirely, and you took no notice of the noise that escaped your parted lips as you allowed Aemond to continue pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

The end was as beautiful as you’d heard, as blissful, and you could feel yourself melting into the plush of the bed as goosebumps erupted across your skin and your heart thundered in your chest. All that mattered in that moment was Aemond; the weight of him atop you, the warmth of his skin as he pressed himself impossibly closer, the low rasp of his voice as he all but whispered expletives.

That pleasure was only heightened by the warmth that flooded you as Aemond stilled atop you, a curse on his lips and head thrown back.

It was a beautiful sight - something worthy of committing to memory, something so beautiful you only hoped to see it again and again. And you only hoped your new husband felt the same as he tipped his head to study you once more.

Aemond lingered only for a moment, his gaze softer than you’d seen directed at you, before he pulled away. Another squeeze to your waist was the only affection he spared before he stood and pulled the white line from his bed. He shifted you carefully - almost tenderly - to remove the fabric then strode across the expanse of the room to the door.

Without ceremony, he wrenched it open and tossed the stained fabric into the crowd.

A loud cheer echoed through the halls, drunken revelers delighting in the evidence of your consummation, but was quickly cut off with the slam of the heavy door.

The crowd grew quieter, noise drifting back in the direction of the hall still filled with older revelers - opting to spend their time discussing matters best saved for an in-person meeting - and you took the brief moment to catch your breath as Aemond did the same.

For just a moment, he lingered near the small table that held a pitcher and glasses, before filling them with wine and bringing them to bed. He handed you one, nodded his acknowledgement to your thanks, and settled back onto the plush fabric at your side.

Silence fell over the room then, a welcome but almost overwhelming lack of sound after hours surrounded by a cacophony of noise. For the first time since you woke that morning, you found that you could hear yourself think.

Every thought centered upon your new husband.

Aemond Targaryen was a mystery. Rumors about him swirled through the realm and whispers abounded at court. None seemed to be in agreement, however.

Some thought him to be fierce, a fearsome warrior who would make a fine knight should he find himself so inclined. Others insisted that Vhagar was his only asset and that he was nothing more than a loyal hound devoted to his family. Others still insisted that the only person Aemond could ever be loyal to was himself and his own interests.

There were whispers that he was cold, unfeeling. There were rumors that he had no interest in anything other than books, that living people meant little to him. But you were beginning to see the truth.

Try as he might to hide it, the nature of his soul that he buried so deeply, you were beginning to see him for who he truly was.

Aemond wanted the things he’d never been given. He sought reassurance, comfort, love. He wanted to be wanted - truly wanted, desired; not needed because he possessed the largest, oldest dragon. And though your match began as a political alliance, you hoped to prove that he was worthy of his desires as you shifted closer and reached for his hand.

“Aemond,” you began, voice quiet as you hoped desperately he would not push you away, even as he tensed. To your relief - and surprise - he did not. Instead, he simply glanced at your linked hands before turning his full attention to your face. “Believe what you wish, but I am glad that it is you I married. I do not want Aegon or any of the other lords lingering about the castle. I did not accept this betrothal without thought and I hope that you will believe me when I say there is no other I could want.”

Though it was slight, you could see the raise of his eyebrow. So, with a sigh, you placed your cup onto the table and grasped his hand with both of your own.

“When my father made it known that he intended to offer you my hand, I was given more attention at court than I ever wanted. I never cared much for it all, but suddenly, it seemed as if everyone wanted me to join them.” With a weary sigh, you began to trace nonsensical patterns over the back of his hand. “Everyone had a tale of Prince Aemond they wished to share. Some heard word from a brother or cousin, others whispered tales from their own trips to the Red Keep. I heard so many whispers about you that I began to lose track of who whispered what. I have always held whispers in little regard but it grew so frequent that I nearly worried I might meet a monster.”

The moment you paused, Aemond hummed thoughtfully. “Targaryen’s are said to be closer to gods than men. Perhaps monsters are included.”

“Perhaps,” you agreed, pausing your tracing to glance up at him from beneath your lashes. The deep lilac of his eye met yours and you felt your cheeks heat. “But you are no monster. You are just a man. I was given the chance to reject our union. One word, and I would’ve been spirited away to some lesser lord. But I chose to stay.”

“Why?”

It was a genuine question, accompanied by a look you recognized as being tinged with skepticism. In response, you smiled at him.

“Despite your flaws, real or imagined or embellished, I find myself drawn to you. You have the beauty and fire of your house. You are proud, but not a braggart, quiet but not without charm. You are a noted swordsman and a dragon rider, yet you take no pleasure in tourneys. You are young and capable, intelligent and thoughtful. Of all the qualities one could want in a husband, you possess most."

This earnest admission was met with yet another hum of acknowledgement from your husband, a thoughtful rumination as he allowed the compliment to linger for a moment. Only then, after seeming to savor your words, did he ask, “Which qualities do I lack, wife?”

Had you not grown so accustomed to studying every twitch of his brows, every curve of his mouth, you might’ve missed the hint of a smile he wore. It was a question asked in jest, teasing, and you allowed yourself a laugh.

“Time shall tell,” you assured him, returning his barely-there smile with a soft one of your own. “Though, I would never dare call you perfect, lest your head swell to the size of Vhagar’s.” Aemond allowed you a glimpse of a true smile then, fleeting, but you savored the sight just the same. It brought a strange warmth to your chest, wound the hope that bloomed beneath your ribcage into a tendril that squeezed your heart, and you offered his hand a gentle squeeze. “I understand why we were wed. But I have hope that even if we do not find love in one another, we shall find friendship at the least.”

“You would not ask for more?”

“Men’s battles are fought in fields, at sea, on dragon back,” you answered, carefully turning his hand in yours to trace his palm. “A woman’s battle is fought abed. If I were to die there, my only hope is that it would be for someone I cared for, someone who cared for me.”

That lilac eye studied your face once more, more intently, and you could see the weight of your words settling on his shoulders as he realized that he was no longer alone, nor did you have any misunderstandings as to what this life meant for you both. Though he was the spare, pushed down in the line of succession by his brother’s children, he was expected to have a family and in return for giving him heirs, all you asked of him was companionship.

“I believe you shall be a fierce warrior,” he declared, gaze dipping to your fingers gently sweeping across his heated skin.

“And I believe you are all I could have hoped for in a husband,” you confessed, hoping he might agree - that he might declare you to be all he could’ve hoped for in a wife.

And though he seemed unopposed to you, he instead asked, “Do you believe that truly?”

“I do,” you confirmed, pausing your tracing to meet his eye. “I’ve long been afraid of marriage, of becoming trapped with someone who cared little for me, but I am more afraid that growing to love you will be easier than I ever imagined.”

“Love makes you weak,” he all but whispered, though the words held little conviction and even less weight. They were the words of someone afraid, someone unused to love and affection, and you met them with a gentle smile.

“Perhaps it is a good thing we are married, then. I believe love makes you stronger. My father loved my mother and he fought like hell to return to her each and every battle he waged. Love provides motivation,” you offered, only to be met with another thoughtful hum. Rather than pressing, you shifted the conversation after a moment of silence. “Why did you allow the bedding ceremony?”

Aemond paused for a moment and seemed to consider his answer. “I had every intention of forgoing it,” he confessed, free hand tracing the lip of his glass. “Then, we met and it was selfish, I suppose. I have something most men in King’s Landing will covet - a comely wife from a noble house who has made me the sole object of her affection. Allowing the ceremony provided an opportunity to boast, to show that while they may look, you are mine. No other will know the pleasure of your company.”

The reasoning behind his allowance was understandable, even more so when you considered that he was the second son of a man who scarcely remembered his sons in the first place. It was not often he was given something others desired, not often he could be envied, and you could not begrudge him the opportunity he’d taken.

“I am yours,” you agreed, lifting his hand to place it over your heart. “While I believe love will make us stronger, I would not mind being seen as weak, just so long as you are by my side. Others may whisper or believe what they wish but know, lord husband, that I want you and you alone. I look forward to the future and hope the gods bless us with a long and happy marriage.”

“I shall leave faith to you,” he declared, though the words were softer than you believed he intended. “But I have little doubt that you will be left wanting.” Aemond turned, then, and removed the eyepatch covering his eye. The sapphire glimmered in the dim candlelight and you squeezed his hand to keep yourself from reaching out for him.

“Gevi,” you repeated, smiling upon the full face of your new husband.

Aemond’s mouth curved once more, a touch more noticeable, before he sighed and shifted to lie amongst the pillows. “Sleep, dear wife,” he encouraged, pulling you into the pillows at his side.

With the morning sun, your new life would begin. As tentative as you’d once been, you no longer felt any fear. There was far to travel, much to be gained in the way of your new husband’s trust, but you imagined he was right; neither of you would be left wanting, so long as you had the other.

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Author's Note: It's my first time writing for Aemond (or anything GoT/HotD related) so I hope it's alright. I didn't want to go too soft but I also didn't want to go too mean/cold? I dunno. Let me know what you think! :)

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen imagine #hotd smut #aemond x reader #aemond x reader smut #aemond smut #aemond oneshot #v's fics #hotd imagine

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bluecollarmcandtf · 3 months ago

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Dating a ghost isn't easy...

I love my boyfriend. I really do, but his death has put a strain on our relationship. At least Halloween is close which means his spirit is close too. Like always, I spend lunch alone at our favorite cafe, waiting for him to fill the empty seat next to me. I jump when a burly worker throws his heavy frame down, blaring a husky, "Hey sexy! Give your man a smile!"

"Danny?" I ask, shaken by the guy's abrupt arrival and more-than-rough countenance.

"The name's Gordon," he bellows back, draping his dirty arms and legs aggressively outward, "But yeah, it's me sugar, your dead boyfriend. I thought you'd appreciate me showing up in a hunky body of the working man!" He flexes one of his thick arms and flashes challenging looks at some of the nearby customers.

His crass words make me shudder. My Danny was soft-spoken, charming, and thoughtful: nothing like the rude, stinking gorilla in front of me. Sure, a big hairy construction worker like this is great to fantasize about, but it's less exciting when that hulking body is sitting right there. His cocky mannerisms, sour body odor, and wandering eyes that seem to undress everyone they land on: it all adds to the growing pit in my stomach.

"You just gonna stare, sweet-lips?" he goes on, snickering with Gordon's deep timbre, "Spent the morning jackhammering the sidewalk, but now I could hammer your organs out!"

"Danny!" I blush, checking to see if anyone overheard. They're already staring, probably wondering why this guy sat down at this nice cafe caked in mud, "Can you cool it with this Gordon-the-macho-construction-worker vibe? I know you can't help it, but it's a bit much!"

"Fuck! Just shut up and kiss me already," he grunts, leading his heavy body covered in sweat with puckered lips in my direction.

"Danny sto-OH!" I can't help but melt into the bulky embrace. With arms like Gordon's, I don't have much choice, and though his breath smells like cigarettes and his skin is slick with sweat, I enjoy finally kissing my boyfriend again even if it is through the mouth of some ridiculously unmannered construction worker. At least I've got my boyfriend back!

"That's my boy," he growls low in my ear, and I feel a strong hand squeeze my ass tightly through its filthy work glove. Fuck! Danny is so assertive inside this Gordon character.

"Babe, please not here," I wheeze from the effort of escaping the intensely strong grip, "And not with Gordon. Aren't you tired of being an dumb, hairy ape yet?"

"Not at all!" he announces as he reclines in his seat, almost yelling with Gordon's loud voice.

I shake my head, admittedly feeling more and more amused by this rough-around-the-edges giant. Ever since Danny passed away and started possessing people, I realized hopping into bodies wasn't like the movies. He didn't just jump into some dude and take over, his soul became entwined with that other person. All of his hosts have personalities, memories, and habits that bleed into Danny as long as he's wearing them. Honestly, more of the host shines through than my actual boyfriend does, but regardless of who he possesses, his love for me is never affected. I suppose that's enough to put up with some of the more unpleasant quirks of each guy he takes over.

"I don't mind walkin' around in Gordo's boots," he grins at me, obviously at home in the man's sun-dried skin, "But lemme see if I can find a cleaner stiff to hop in for ya."

With that, Danny hoists himself off chair. I swear every move he makes in that body is startling, shaking the table with the ruckus of his tool belt being carelessly whipped around. Seeing the burly worker stand there with his hands on his hips makes me almost regret suggesting he swap out of the body. Sure the mud, sweat, and body hair makes my skin itch, but imagining that thug attacking me with his careless dominance is turning me on: not to mention the tight ass beneath that denim.

"Lunch break is almost over. Needa head back to the yard," he growls and then catches himself, "I mean Gordon does. I'll be back in someone else to finish this fuckin' date!"

"You're a real working man, Gordon," I tease, understanding this character a bit better "I'm sure you're the big boss on site."

"You bet yer ass, I am," he thumbs his chest proudly, "Someone's gotta keep the guys runnin' smoothly. Who else gonna do it?"

"Well I'll let you get back to work. Hopefully I'll run into you again. Maybe at home tonight?"

"Hell yeah!" he bursts, "I'll hop in this guy later, so I can take a look at your plumbing. Anything you need! ...I'll be your handyman, baby!"

"Hope you don't mind getting your hands dirty," I wink, and he flashes me one last wild grin from Gordon's face. That grin falters, and the construction worker shudders. His eyes still stare at me, but I can tell they don't recognize me anymore. Danny's left his body.

"Uh, sorry 'bout that," the real Gordon mumbles, "Dunno what came over me."

"Don't worry about it."

"We know each other?" he asks, pawing at his head in desperate confusion, "We been chattin' like we do. Only just realized I don't think I know you like I thought I did." The poor guy's mind is probably racing with conflicting ideas.

The laborer chuckles nervously. I can tell Gordon is completely unsure about what he's been doing. Danny seems to have that effect on his hosts. Understand that they're still conscious while he possesses them; his thoughts just merge with their own. So, right now, Gordon the rough-neck construction worker is trying to reconcile the fact that he's been thinking of me as his boyfriend for the last twenty minutes. The poor guy's probably never had a gay thought in his life! Yet he just spent his break flirting with some random guy at a random cafe. He even kissed me, and I'm pretty sure Danny was imagining some rather homoerotic things with that guy's head.

"Sorry, man," I shrug, pretending to be just as clueless as he is.

"Fuckin' queer," his face hardens into a glare before he leaves our inexplicable lunch date.

"See you tonight, Gordo!" I call lightheartedly.

The construction worker gives me an intense scowl, but I can see blushing cheeks under that matted beard. Danny definitely had some sexual thoughts while possessing that guy, and Gordon seems completely embarrassed that those thoughts were in his head. Well, his opinion on the subject will completely change once again tonight when Danny hops back in.

"Afternoon, sir," a voice hums to my right, "Got some time to thank me for my service?"

"Danny?" I immediately gasp.

"In the flesh," the policeman flirts with a cool voice, "At least, in your hometown hero's flesh." Danny enjoys a sip of coffee and shoots me a smile from the man's sparkling white teeth.

"Uh, are you sure you should be inside a cop," I whisper, leaning in so our fellow cafe-goers won't hear. They were already staring when a big blue-collar bear sat opposite me, but now their intrigue is growing from this man of the law. It doesn't help that this cop is a local celebrity! Nearly everyone's seen him on the news. With a face like that, it's no wonder the force chose him for public relations.

"Allow me to introduce myself," he extends a capable hand, "The name's Officer Steele."

"Well, officer," I try not to swoon too hard as Danny forcefully shakes my palm, "I'm-"

"You're my lover," he interjects warmly, "I know you like a man in uniform, sir. Why not enjoy the best guy this town has in uniform?"

"Wow, I..." I fumble, "...yup. Are you sure I'm not keeping you from anything important?"

"I've got patrol duty today," he nonchalantly answers, "But the town’s quiet. Besides, a guy’s gotta take a break sometime, right? Can’t be all work and no play." The officer's sneer is dripping with pride, clearly keeping a high opinion of himself! I doubt this man would be so open if Danny weren't in their making Steele think I'm his lover. Who knew the cop was as arrogant as he was charming?

"Aren't your fellow police counting on you to protect and serve, officer?"

"Oh sir, I can show you how well I protect and serve. And my men know better than to question me. I mean, look at me. Who else is gonna chase down the perps? Certainly not those doughnut-loving desk jockeys.” Steele stares me down with a confident, haughty look as he rises out of the chair. It's hard to do anything but listen and watch when Danny's wearing a guy like this. His eyes grip me in a trance while his fingers undo his shirt buttons.

"Like what you see, sir?" Officer Steele smirks.

I can only answer with a dumb nod as I drink in the sight of his chiselled torso. Somehow the dusting of blonde fur only defines his perfect musculature further. At this point, everyone in the cafe has stopped to gawk at the cop stripping in the middle of their lunch.

"You make one hell of a cop, Danny," I breathe.

"It's Officer Steele, remember?" he winks, and bounces his pecs, rippling the fabric dangling off his shoulders, "I work out twice a day, before and after my shift. Sure it helps keep the town safe, but I also just like the citizens of this town to see me as the hot, muscular cop of their dreams. I love their eyes on me when I pull them over or walk past on patrol. They're always intimidated, jealous, or turned on."

With this Danny looks around at the people around him, matching their stunned expressions. I'll admit that I'm a little surprised by how vulnerable my boyfriend is getting with this cop's inner thoughts. Maybe this is all how Steele actually feels, but I doubt the officer would want to share it with the world!

"Maybe we should slow down," I suggest.

"Do I need to get out my handcuffs, sir," the cop purrs, his tone sharpening as he steps closer, "I'm used to having a good girl waiting for me at home, but I want that to be you tonight. Men are a whole lot more capable than women afterall. I'll be late from the gym, but I'd like supper ready. Think you can handle that?" His big hands hold me squarely at the shoulders while he stares down in my eyes. For a second I'm lost in the proximity of his handsome face and statuesque muscles.

That's when I notice the ring.

"Jesus, Danny!" I chastise.

"It's Officer Steele!"

"No! Jump out! You hopped into a married man!" Honestly, part of me is relieved to find something wrong. Officer Hadley was starting to freak me out, and now that I know he's married to a woman, his sexist comments are starting to make a lot more sense.

"Oh, come on," the cop rolls his eyes, "She doesn't have to know. You're my boyfriend, anyway! You won't find a hotter guy than me!"

I put my foot down and give Steele a look, appealing to the Danny I know is somewhere inside him. Like I'd hoped, he relents and let's out one more sigh of frustration. Then the cop's meticulously trained body shivers and his eyes lose their intense focus. In seconds, Danny's spirit slips out of the cocky cop.

"Woah!" Officer Steele gasps, "Why did I do that?" He looks just as confused as Gordon did, frantically trying to button up his shirt and lose the attention of everyone in the cafe.

"Beats me," I play dumb, "Hope your wife doesn't hear about this."

"No!" the cop stomps over, "That wasn't what happened. I wasn't...coming on to you or anything. I'm not even into men!"

"Seemed like you were..." I press.

"I don't know what I was thinking. I'm going home to my wife tonight. You are not..." Steele glances around warily before whispering, "...my boyfriend. Got it!"

"Of course, Officer," I assure him, enjoying the rapid crumbling of his confident swagger.

The policeman lingers around the cafe to collect himself and straighten up his uniform. I can tell he'd like to say a few more words before leaving, but he thinks twice with the crowd of witnesses and strides off forcefully. I wonder if a guy like that would lash out if we weren't in such a public place. His poor wife better watch out tonight. I can't believe my Danny was inside a guy like that! The thought of his good-natured demeanor mixing with that man's entitlement and aggression makes me sick; not to mention his antiquated ideas about gender roles!

That's what's always so tricky about dating my boyfriend through a neverending series of hosts. Sure, I get to sleep with a rotation of the hottest characters I want, but the bad gets mixed in there too. I have to put up with his body's offensive ideas, mean comments, and weird behavior. I know I can't blame Danny for it, but while he's possessing those guys, those are his thoughts as much as they are theirs. It's just unsettling.

"Sorry about that," I hear behind me.

"You're in the waiter now?" I feign a smile, unable to hide how tired I've grown.

Now that the cafe is rid of the policeman and construction worker, the atmosphere of the place seems to go back to normal. People turn their attention back to the food on their plates or the screens on their phones.

"Can I get you another cup? It's on the house," the cafe server tries to lighten the mood.

"Danny, I'm just tired..." I admit, "Wait, what's the name now?"

"It's Josh," the waiter replies, "But I am sorry about being inside that cop. I just want tonight to be special you know. That's why I've been combing the town for the biggest, hottest guys to jump in. You deserve the best!"

"Josh...Danny, you don't need to give me the best. Sure it'd be fun to mess around with you inside Gordon or Officer Steele, but right now I want you to be in someone that makes me feel like it used to. I miss you, the real you."

"I guess I really did pick some bad ones today," the waiter chuckles, smiling with dimples in his cheeks, "I felt so manly and tough in Gordon; like I didn't give a shit about anyone except my man. In Steele I felt so cocky and sure of myself, and honestly a little too entitled to you. It's hard to realize if I'm in the wrong with each of these guys. In their heads, they all believe themselves to be right, and I can't help but think the same in the moment."

"I know," I sigh, frustrated by the influence these guys have over my ghost boyfriend, "How do you feel in Josh the waiter."

Danny perks up in the cafe worker's body. I have to admit that this guy's energy is infectious, and he's far from bad looking. His broad shoulders look perfect for hugging, and he smells faintly of coffee. I don't know how I never noticed him working here before. I must've been preoccupied, looking for ghosts, to miss a charming barista like Josh.

"I have to admit something," Danny says with Josh's sweet tone, "I've got a crush on you. Had it for awhile. You're the hot guy that always sits here during lunch."

"Well, I'd hope you have a crush on me. You are my boyfriend afterall," I snort.

"No, I, Josh, have a crush on you," he smiles.

"Oh," I'm at a loss for words. Somehow this feels like a whole new can of worms. I'm flattered, but unsure. Is it weird if I flirt with someone that has a crush on me while my boyfriend is inside them? They're both conscious right now, so it's genuine right? But am I really flirting with Josh as long as Danny is in there too. Does flirting with another guy while your boyfriend is possessing him count as cheating? I can't even keep track anymore.

I don't have time to think before Josh/Danny has rushed over and pulled me into his arms. It feels just as good as I imagined to be in the waiter's embrace, and it feels even better to kiss. This guy, this Josh, seems romantic, kind-hearted, and gleeful; he reminds me of what it was like when Danny was alive. Before I know it, my boyfriend/new crush is clocking out of work and leading me to his car, holding me close, and whispering in my ear, "Happy Halloween, babe."

I love the spooky season.

#gay possession #halloween #gay ai art #fall vibes #male mind control #blue collar worker #gay boyfriend #gay

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teojira · 7 months ago

Note

Really enjoyed your headcanons on Caeser and Proximus, do you mind doing the same with Noa?? 😊🙏

[Noa and day to day life with him!] [Headcanons!]

Summary: Noa takes you back with him to his home, and the clan accepts you as one of them. Even if you're concerned otherwise.

Word count: 1k (Jesus christ)

Warnings: None that I can think of! Can be read as Platonic or Romantic! You and Noa are attached to one another. (Yes, this is me projecting.)

A/N: Noa is so near and dear to me, I literally did not mean for this to be so long, and I STILL cut myself off. This is 1k words worth of headcanons for him, and it is not enough. I'm Noa's #1 fan, I am sorry to all my friends and family who have to hear me talk about him constantly.. Ask me for Noa anything, and I will give you the world.

Do me a favor and strap the fuck in for this it's alot.

I am so glad someone asked about Noa bc I got ALOT to say.

Noa has had it with humans, Mae put him, his clan, and countless others at risk, he should not trust humans, really he shouldn't, but he can't help it. She also betrayed you in the process, and now you're alone.

You agreed to help him and Mae against Proximus, you're the only one who actively goes up against Proximus as well.

Swinging and trying your best to try and get Proximus off of Noa, yelling and crying while the other apes just stare in fear. (Later on they apologize, but you don't hold it against them.)

It's a huge risk to invite a human with them again, but then he remembers Rakas words, Caesars words, and decides he can't told another's decisions over you.

So when he gently grabs your hand in his, looking down at you with a strained smile, blood seeping from his lips, you follow, back to his clans land.

Now on to the good stuff, it's kinda awkward finding your place among the eagle clan, the elders are gone, his father Koro is gone, there really is no guidance as to where to place you.

You drift mostly, either helping Dar or helping with the young ones, teaching them how to read and write, helping fish, farm, the basic tasks.

Dar loves you by the way, doting on you and making sure no one messes with you in a harmful way. She teaches you their customs and traditions, all the while playfully teasing you about Noa. She's a mom, she knows.

You're happy with your work, happy with your place among the clan. It's genuinely shocking how much they were willing to forgive and to not hold any grudges against humans after one ruined everything.

It helps that Noa takes accountability for you, somehow so trusting that you will not cause harm. His faith in you speaks volumes and you remind him everyday that it won't go to waste.

All he does is send you a sweet smile and ruffles your hair.

You find yourself helping Noa alot with crafting new tools and contraptions, being a second pair of eyes that can catch onto things he can't.

"Very smart." "Thank yo-" "For an Echo." and he does that stupid cute little sniff afterwards and it makes it tremendously hard to hit him.

He's such a little shit I fucking hate him.

You're his shadow when his duties permit, he's taken on a higher role of the clan, sometimes going out for days at a time but you're always at the edge of the Village waiting for his return, anxiously working your bottom lip until you see him in view.

You're both extremely attached to one another, Soona and Anaya become attached to you too, dragging you along in everyone's free time to go climbing, to eat, to hunt, just about any group outing has you as their fourth member.

Noa was worried about them accepting you, but they love you just as much as he does.

It makes his heart swell when he sees you and Soona together, giggling about something surely only you both understand while Anaya groans and complains about being left out.

It's like you've always been meant to be with them, to round out their group.

Soona and Anaya will offer to be the one to carry you this time, they do want to, genuinely, but Noa won't let them 99.9% of the time, He's used to your weight, he trusts that he can keep you safe the best. (Says the ape that literally almost died multiple times doing stupid shit)

"Noa worries too much, they will be fine." "Anaya is clumsy. Can't trust you to carry yourself, much less echo."

He tries not to carry you everywhere, but it is so much more convenient than waiting for you, so he scoops you up often enough that the stares don't bother you anymore.

Remember how in the movie, all the apes sleep together communally? Well you're at first extremely nervous about that, not wanting to ask what exactly are your accommodations because surely they don't want you there with them.

Actually, Noa does, so jot that down.

When you shyly move away, he raises his palm up at you, nodding to the space besides him.

When you don't move, he gently tugs you down, laying on his back and shutting his eyes. The clan hasn't really fully rebuilt and started to gather things needed for shawls and coverings, so it's not strange to him that you cuddle up to him to steal his warmth, peeking an eye open to see your face squished into his side, knocked out.

He wraps an arm around you, incasing you in more warmth.

This is a nightly routine until you finally take it upon yourself to throw yourself on him, he chokes out a breath as you make yourself comfortable.

Soona and Anaya usually join in, he cannot fucking breathe but he's so happy that it outweighs it.

When Mae inevitably shows back up, she sees you out in the distance, you look so genuine happy, so at peace with where you are. You even have some eagle feathers in your hair, integrated into their life that it shocks her.

It's enough to make her put the gun away, grasping at Rakas necklace like a lifeline, sucking in a deep breath to stop her from crying.

Maybe apes and humans can live at peace with one another after all. She hopes you prove her wrong.

ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏᴏɴ!

#feel free to ask me for more noa hcs! (PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE)#teddy asks ♧#planet of the apes x reader #planet of the apes #kingdom of the planet of the apes #kotpota #pota #Noa #Planet of the apes Noa x reader #Noa x reader #teddy loves apes ☆

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youremyheaven · 8 months ago

Text

Venusians: The Cult of Exclusivity

In my research, I have stumbled upon Venusians either being drawn into cults or being cult leaders. It did not surprise me particularly. All Venusian nakshatras (Bharani, Purvaphalguni, Purvashada) are ugra nakshatras known for being "violent". Venus is in itself, a harsh planet. In fact, all the benefic planets (Jupiter, Venus, Mercury & Moon- in that order) are harsh and for good reason; its natives have to be "purified" by the working of those planetary energies to earn its blessings. Venus values exclusivity and separatism. There is a reason why Venus attracts Venus. It is a kind of elitism. We talk about how rare beauty and glamour is these days and we fawn over the nonchalance and effortless cool of low key & mysterious celebrities. If someone or something is plastered everywhere, it loses its "special" feeling, Venus does not mingle with the masses, Venus sets the standard, its THE blue print but it does not involve itself with anything directly, they like to sit back and watch others ape them.

All 3 Venus nakshatras have yoni animals that point to a highly sexual nature and high libido. Bharani with its elephant yoni signals an immense sexual appetite (elephant being the largest land animal and yoni animal), Purvaphalguni and its rat yoni points to freaky deaky sexual behaviour and Purvashada and monkey yoni ,,, well,, monkeys are known for their lovemaking and how human like it is so..

Sex is a big focus of all 3 Venus nakshatras, with Bharani's themes of birth and death and its symbol literally being the yoni, Purvaphalguni representing the pleasures of the bed and being symbolised by the front legs of the cot and Purvashada with its connection to water, where life originated. Venus is more than just beauty and beauty itself is more profound than "looking good". Venus is beauty, romance, love, creativity, harmony, values etc.

I have talked about Venusian men and their tendency to be drawn to violence before. If we think of sex, it is a kind of violent act in itself, there has to be a back and forth of domination and submission. If we look at animals, male animals often kill other males to eliminate competition and establish themselves as the alpha that the females pick but even in coitus with female animals (literally watch any nature documentary) the male takes on a very aggressive, dominant approach and they often look like theyre trying to kill each other (people say things like "making love like animals" for a reason, sexual courtesy is a humane, civilised approach but animals are not wired that way). In Venusian men, this kind of aggressive erotic sexual persona is very apparent and Claire said these men embody "big dick energy".

Occult knowledge is gatekept and one literally cannot access it until one is initiated into it. Regardless of whether or not we recognise it as such, there are cults of knowledge all around us and we do not even know of their existence unless we've made it past their barrier and can access it. even explaining things defeats the purpose because only someone who's ready to understand it will be able to. Its nature's way of shielding itself from the unwise or the unworthy. you can be surrounded by this knowledge and still not be able to tap into it, if you do not have the discernment. this is a kind of Venusian exclusivity.

If you think about it beauty is pain. These days we see people literally endure pain to be beautiful via cosmetic procedures but this has always been the case, victorian women used arsenic to keep their skin pale and glowy and ammonia in their hair. footbinding was a common custom for Chinese women. but even beyond enduring pain to be beautiful, if you're beautiful you will have to endure pain, be it in the way others hurt you and ostracize you out of jealousy or in how people just assume crazy shit about you. Venusian women NEED to remain lowkey bc they're more susceptible to evil eye.

(im thinking of the song pretty hurts by purvaphalguni sun beyonce 👀)

anywaaayys (me going on a random tangent exhibit 62772). we know that Venusians value and need exclusivity, they're the most clique-y in some ways and this is what makes them drawn to cults lol. A cult is as exclusive as it gets. nothing screams "im not like the others" than being a part of a cult lol

Osho- Purvashada Stellium (moon, mercury and venus)

Osho was an Indian spiritual guru and mystic. His commune and the crazy shit that went on there was the subject of the docu-series Wild Wild Country.

Sadhguru- Purvaphalguni Sun

he is an indian guru. i think its interesting how cults have to have a physical existence by way of a commune that people gather in or live in, its not just conceptual if ykwim. i think this is another manifestation of Venusian exclusivity. entering into a cult means entering and inhabiting a different world. Osho had Rajneeshpuram, Sadhguru has his Isha Centre.

Sun Myung Moon- Bharani Moon

He was the leader of the Unification Church, a famous South Korean cult and he claimed to be the Messiah

Moon was intent on replacing worldwide forms of Christianity with his new unified vision of it, Moon being a self-declared messiah. Moon's followers regard him as a separate person from Jesus but with a mission to basically continue and complete Jesus's work in a new way, according to the Principle.

Nirmala Srivastava- Bharani Moon conjunct Mars

aka Mataji Nirmala Devi, she was the founder of the religion called Sahaja Yoga. She claimed that she was a divine incarnation, more precisely an incarnation of the Holy Spirit, or the Adi Shakti of the Hindu tradition, the great mother goddess who had come to save humanity. This is also how she is regarded by most of her devotees. she has said that she was born "self realised" and spent her life "helping" others do the same

The Venusian urge to start a new religion 😤😤😤lol

Religion is exclusive and if you do not have the discipline to endure its rules, you cannot gain access to its blessings. Religion esp eastern religion is extremely Venusian af, there are wonderful blessings for those who devote themselves to it and cruel sickening punishments for those who disobey. thats as Venusian as it gets

Anandamayi Ma- Bharani Sun, exalted Venus in Revati as her atmakaraka

She was an Indian saint, teacher, and mystic. She was revered as an incarnation of Hindu goddess Durga.

Her life was suffused in Bhakti Yoga and she was considered an epitome of "divine grace" that inspired the societal cultural milieu to lead the path of service, love and constant remembrance of the divine. Her followers experienced her spiritual attributes including precognition, faith healing and miracles. Paramahansa Yogananda translates the Sanskrit epithet Anandamayi as "Joy-permeated" in English. This name was given to her by her devotees in the 1920s to describe her perpetual state of divine joy.

she wasn't a cult leader or anything, just a guru even though she rejected even that label (spiritual gurus are a dime a dozen in india, no one who's actually worth their salt will label themselves as a guru)

i think Venus' connection to religion, cults and the occult is underexplored af. the highest form of love is devotion and religion/cults demand it of their followers making it a very Venusian experience. sex, love and religion are all closely connected, people experience trance like states when they're orgasmic or during periods of intense meditation (it can also be artificially induced via drugs etc but euphoria is naturally experienced through either prayer or sex) if you look at paintings of Hindu gods and goddesses, their eyes always seem so blissed out? same goes for truly spiritual people, you can immediately sense the tranquillity of their energy and the dreaminess of their gaze, like they're not of this world.

even the word "Ananda" which means joyous, etymologically means "without end" (Ah- meaning "without in Sanskrit and nand- meaning end) so the goal of any spiritual pursuit is self realization/actualisation and a person who achieves that seems joyous all the time. Many spiritual gurus have Ananda as part of their name as well.

Swami Vivekananda- Purvashada Rising

He was a monk, philosopher and religious teacher who is widely credited with introducing Hinduism to the West.

“All love is expansion, all selfishness is contraction. Love is therefore the only law of life. He who loves lives, he who is selfish is dying. Therefore love for love's sake, because it is the only law of life, just as you breathe to live."- Swami Vivekananda

Paramhansa Yogananda- Purvashada Sun

Paramahansa Yogananda was an Indian-American Hindu monk, yogi and guru who introduced millions to meditation and Kriya Yoga through his organization, Self-Realization Fellowship / Yogoda Satsanga Society of India.

Mother Theresa- Bharani Moon & Saturn, Mars in Purvaphalguni

Mother Theresa was an Albanian nun who came to India and helped the poor and the needy. She established charitable settlements that have come under fire for mismanagement and misappropriation of funds.

Now I'll talk about some people who've gained a cult-like following or were revered in their time and considered akin to God.

Eva Peron- Bharani Sun

Known by her nickname Evita, she was an Argentine politician, activist, actress, and philanthropist who served as First Lady of Argentina from June 1946 until her death in July 1952. She was revered by the lower economic classes and helped enact a number of reforms and policies to their benefit. She also helped bring about the passage of Argentina's women's suffrage law. even decades after her passing, the grip she has on people in Argentina is crazyyy.

fun fact: Madonna, Purvaphalguni Moon & Rising played Evita in the movie of the same name in 1996.

Tito- Bharani Sun

Josip Broz, commonly known as Tito, was a Yugoslav communist revolutionary and politician who served in various positions of national leadership from 1943 until his death in 1980

He was a popular public figure both in Yugoslavia and abroad. He remains a popular leader in the former countries of Yugoslavia. Tito was viewed as a unifying symbol, with his internal policies maintaining the peaceful coexistence of the nations of the Yugoslav federation. his legacy lives on and he was a VVV popular

Rasputin- Bharani Moon

He was a quack with no actual powers but man did he have a following

Rasputin was a Russian mystic and holy man. He is best known for having befriended the imperial family of Nicholas II, the last Emperor of Russia, through whom he gained considerable influence in the final years of the Russian Empire

Historians often suggest that Rasputin's scandalous and sinister reputation helped discredit the Tsarist government, thus precipitating the overthrow of the House of Romanov shortly after his assassination.

Taylor Swift- Purvashada Rising

Taylor's chokehold over her fandom is insane. I think it's due to her PA Rising bc wheww

There is a reason why Venusian influence is sooo common in the charts of it girls and icons. Venus is THE blue print, it makes others want to be like you and imitate you and also claim they hate you or dont know you all in the same breath.

Trisha Paytas-Bharani Sun & Jupiter, Ketu in Purvaphalguni

Trisha has a cult like following whether u want to admit it or not. Girlie has been doing this for a decade and a half and is still somehow relevant?? literally most of her contemporaries have been cancelled or left the platform and she's still standing?? despite a gazillion controversies that too lol

Now I'll mention some famous celebrities who are in/have been in cults

John Travolta- Purvaphalguni Moon

He was/is a Scientologist

Park Bogum- Bharani Moon & Venus

Bogum is part of Jesus Centred Church which is a cult and he was apparently even given his name by the founder/leader of the cult. There have been rumours that Bogum left the controversial church/cult and joined a normal church but there isnt enough info to confirm this

Nazanin Boniadi- Purvaphalguni Moon

She is a former Scientologist who was "trained" to be Tom Cruise's gf before he met Katie Holmes. read about the crazy and torturous stuff she was subjected to and you'll wonder why tf scientology hasn't been shut down by the government yet

Ruslana Korushnova- Purvaphalguni Moon

She was found dead at 20yrs old under mysterious circumstances. i do not think she committed suicide at all but she spent some time at the Rose of the World which is a culty organisation.

British TV producer and filmmaker Peter Pomerantsev has theorised that Korshunova's suicide was related to her involvement with Rose of the World, a controversial Moscow-based organisation which describes itself as "training for personality development". While researching for a documentary into Korshunova's death, Pomerantsev learned that the model spent three months attending training sessions at Rose of the World. These sessions—which encourage participants to share their worst experiences and recall repressed memories—are modelled after Lifespring, whose controversial methods were the subject of multiple lawsuits for mental damages in the US during the 1980s. Korshunova attended training sessions with a friend, Ukrainian model Anastasia Drozdova, who committed suicide under similar circumstances in 2009. Friends of the two women reported changes in behaviour after several months at the Rose. Korshunova became aggressive, while Drozdova experienced violent mood swings and grew reclusive; both lost weight. After three months of training, Korshunova returned to New York to look for work, where she wrote of feeling lost and doubting herself. Rick Alan Ross, head of the Cult Education Forum, argues that organisations such as Rose of the World "work like drugs: giving you peak experiences, their adherents always coming back for more. The serious problems start when people leave. The trainings have become their lives—they come back to emptiness. The sensitive ones break." Only months after leaving the Rose, Korshunova was found dead.

Michelle Pfeiffer- Bharani Sun, Purvaphalguni Moon, Rohini Rising

She was involved with Breatharianism, a cult that believes that you don’t need to eat food (Say what?!). She joined after moving to Los Angeles and looking for a group to feel comfortable with. They focused on diet and exercise but believed that people could live by sunlight alone at the highest level of the cult. She actually realized that she was in a cult after helping her first husband Peter Horton prepare for a movie role where he played a cult member. She said, “We were talking with an ex-Moonie, and he was describing the psychological manipulation and I just clicked.” (crazy to me that the not eating real food did not click??)

Rose McGowan- Purvaphalguni Sun & Mercury, Mars in Bharani

She spent her childhood in the Children of God cult and her family fled from its clutches after they started advocating for adult-child sexual intercourse🤮🤮🤮

Sharon Tate- Purvaphalguni Moon

Sharon wasn't a member of a cult but a victim of one :((((

Sofia Hayat- Purvaphalguni Moon

Sofia was a model, then she quit the industry to be a nun, now she calls herself a shaman and a healer and posts weirdly sexual vids on IG

Zaira Wasim- Purvaphalguni Moon

she quit acting to devote herself to religion and because she felt that being in Bollywood made her lose touch with her faith.

This is a very Venusian experience imo and one of the reasons why Venus thrives in keeping itself hidden or taking away other people's access to it is because otherwise Venusians feel contaminated almost?? other project onto them heavily and they feel clouded by it, unsure of their own identities. they feel like they're losing touch with themselves. many Venusian celebs are known for frequently changing their persona (Bella Hadid, Ariana Grande etc come to mind) the more time they spend exposing themselves to others, the more confused they become about who they are, they lack a stable self image.

Religion and faith can act as stabilisers and help these natives feel more grounded.

A reason why Venusians (idk if you noticed by most of the gurus were Purvashadas and most of the followers I mentioned were Purvaphalgunis, with an equal mix of Bharani natives in both) are drawn into cults is also because Venusians can only thrive in Venusian environments?? Otherwise they feel desolate and lost, a lot of people join cults because they don't feel understood or connected to people in their normal life. cults look for people who need help, and give it to them on predatory conditions.

Purvashadas are often spiritual leaders/gurus but seldom blindly devoted followers because being the final Venus nak, it transcends this toxic grip of Venus. Purvaphalguni is the height of Venus and these natives are constantly seeking spiritual truth and belonging but never quite ascending, as it is Venus at its most indulgent. Bharani is the first Venusian nak and I have found that the first nak of any planetary dominance is in some ways its "softest" manifestation, its the baby among the naks. The nak in the middle is the peak/height of that planetary energy and thus, the most cruel or harsh manifestation of that energy along with the concluding nak but the concluding nak also kind of transcends its influence??

high fashion/luxury etc is also very Venusian bc theyre the ones who covet having things others dont have. anywayyys this is just a stray thought lol

hope this was informative!!

#venus #bharani #purvaphalguni #purva ashadha #astrology notes #sidereal astrology #vedic astro notes #astrology observations #astrology #astroblr #nakshatras #vedic astrology #astro observations #astro notes

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thewhisperingtwenties · 2 months ago

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a very brief overview of chimpanzee facial expressions ^__^

(cut for Long and because i know some people find chimpanzee “fear smile” scary, so i dont want to jumpscare people lmao. fair warning, i move on quickly but there is a very scared chimpanzee under the cut. keep in mind that this expression is off-putting for a reason; the animal is communicating distress.)

(i am NOT an expert, and i have only been researching this topic for a limited time. this is just my understanding from what i have read from people who actually know what theyre talking about, lol. take this all with a grain of salt)

its a common misconception that chimpanzees only “smile” when they are angry, and while this is partially true, i would like to explain a bit what this expression means, and how its different from a chimps “happy smile”. i will also be touching on how you can tell the differences in an actual context.

lets start with a very obvious example. below is a well known stock photo of a chimpanzee “smiling”, or expressing whats actually referred to as a ‘fear grimace’:

clearly, this chimpanzee is extremely frightened and upset. i believe this chimp is juvenile as well, so the emotion is especially intense, in such a way that i think itd be fairly obvious to most people that this chimp is not happy. (he is likely being exposed to intentionally disturbing stimuli behind the camera in order to capture this expression)

basically, this face is more of a warning than anything; like a cat growling or puffing up its fur to communicate that it is frightened or dislikes what you are doing. this face is used by chimps to communicate discontent to each other, and doesnt necessarily lead to any kind of aggressive action; basically, this chimp is saying “stop! i dont like that!” or, in another situation, it might be used by chimps to communicate that they are on edge and somewhat wary of a situation, all in all it is not an inherent sign of aggression.

this image in particular is kind of hard for me to look at, so ill move on. for reference, below is a photo of what an adult chimpanzee looks like in a similar situation

i think that this is slightly more difficult to understand the emotion on a first glance, mostly because this looks a lot like a human smile. our brains automatically process this expression as joy. clearly it is not, though, so how can we, as humans, easily tell this apart from a chimp that is happy?

well, the easiest, most affirmative sign to look out for is actually the presence of the top row of teeth. below is a chimp making a friendly smile; hes ready to play!

notice how his top teeth are completely hidden by his upper lip! this is essential in the way chimps communicate to each other that they are friendly and not looking for a fight, and it is the expression you will see most often when observing chimpanzee interactions. people who work with chimps are often trained to make this expression instead of our normal full-teeth smiles, as to not frighten them.

here are some more examples! two young children playing together, a happy adult, and two female friends interacting cordially. do you see how their top teeth are almost completely hidden? this is key to understanding that they are comfortable!

chimps are extremely social, so it is incredibly important that we understand their social conventions and language when interacting with them. our many, many similarities cant blind us to the differences in how we present and express ourselves, and we must respect their space and unique societies, not treating them as if they were human (putting clothes on them, socializing them only with humans, etc.), because they are not, and treating them as though they are can be extremely harmful to both parties.

okay, so weve talked about a fear grimace and a cordial smile, but what do they look like when theyre actually happy? i think this is an expression that most people would be familiar with:

you can almost hear the noise they are making from these images… the soft breathing and cooing they make when pleased, interested, or comfortable. its very recognizable, and is a wonderful noise to hear.

anyway, below i have attached some short chimp videos that i enjoy. i ask that you watch at least one! theyre an interesting look into how they behave

youtube

#the twenties whisper #ape lands of love #i made like all of this at midnight #lol #I LOVE CHIMPS #Youtube

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darlingofvalyria · 1 year ago

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"DAUGHTER, PLEASE!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"—your grace, I urge to hold her—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you must raise the Hells unto Winterfell.

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

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

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

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

Even then, you plotted every step you took.

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

Against the husband that dared make a fool of her.

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

"Where are my daughters?"

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"... Yes. Nothing."

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

"D-Dragonstone?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was your brother. No one else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I will ask you how high."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aegon blinked. "Tubī daor. Not today."

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

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

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

Whale? No.

Dragon. Dragon bone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That night, you took your first flight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No more.

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

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

"Now, we speak nothing of what happened."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You weren't stupid.

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

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

And for Jace, you had banished him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well. There's getting a calm bath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Less of a dragon, more of a fairytale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You mark each indescretion. You keep a tally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did not mean...

Did not mean to have a dalliance with another woman?

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

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

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

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

"Huh?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don't let up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His throat bobs.

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

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

"My lady," Dyanna greets behind you.

"Hm?"

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

"And?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Precisely what I thought, milady."

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

Game, set.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You curdle, you keep, you poise.

"My love?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It will be him.

Your plan moves, your web is perfect.

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

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#jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon fanfiction #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon x you #jacaerys velaryon x y/n #prince jacaerys #hotd jacaerys #dark!reader #jacaerys smut #jacaerys velaryon smut #jacaerys fanfic #jacaerys fanfiction #elle writes !! ꒱ ↷˗ˏˋ🍒#₊˚ପ⊹ hightower green 🕷

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winterrrnight · 9 months ago

Note

reader x bsf!rafe when they have a small argument but make up with lots of cuddles :((

oh saying I’m in love is an understatement. I could NOT come up with any idea on what the argument can be about so I’m so sorry if this feels so vague 😭😭 imagine whatever you want LOL

bsf!rafe who just cannot see you mad… <3 listen to dreams, fairytales, fantasies by a$ap ferg, brent faiyaz & salaam remi, I heard it on repeat while writing this hehe <3 cw: suggestive content (no actual smut!), lots and lots of tension between them (when is it not there?!) <3 for: @viawritesstuff (I love you to the moon and back ml 🤍) <3 pictures are only for reference!

part of this little universe <3

“Oh come on I said I was sorry!” Rafe sighs as he follows your footsteps, as you’re rushing up the stairs of Tanneyhill. You don’t say anything, just quietly rush up the stairs with your back to him as he keeps on following you, him right at your heels.

“Come on, you know I’m sorry,” he sighs as he sees you enter his room. You’re about to close the door right at his face, but he jams his foot in at the right moment, causing the door to be just slightly ajar. You shut your eyes close and intake a deep breath, your back still facing him as you realise the door didn’t close properly.

You’re standing in the middle of the room, your body tensed and Rafe just simply watches you as he leans against the doorframe. The warm rays of the sunset outside glow inside his room through the flimsy, white curtains. He takes a deep breath and enters inside silently, letting the door close with a soft click. With hushed steps he makes his way to you, standing right behind you. You can feel him breath down on your neck, the warm air causing the hair behind your neck to stand up.

“Hey…” he whispers softly, one of his hands coming up to gently graze across your side. “Listen to me, yeah?” He breathes into the side of your ear, his lips subtly skimming across the shell of your ear. He can’t exactly see your expression, but god, if he can, he’ll see just how your breath is caught in your throat, your eyes fluttering momentarily.

“You know I didn’t mean any of it that way yeah?” He whispers, both of his hands now gently grazing your sides, his touch now becoming more firm, more… present. “I could never say anything like that to you and you know that…”

His arms now wrap firmly around your waist, and you can feel him gently pull you closer to him, your back now pressing firmly against his chest. He moves his head to the side of your face, resting his chin on your shoulder, his cheek pressing against your hair. He takes a deep inhale, letting his eyes close for a moment as he lets the scent of your shampoo and your perfume fill his senses and devour his mind completely.

You ever so subtly lean your head in the other direction, letting him rest his head comfortably on your shoulder. Your hands land on top of his; which are resting right on top of your stomach.

“Can never upset my favorite girl hm?” He whispers, pressing a soft kiss on the side of your head. “Can never see her sad… can never let her ever be upset with me…” he continues to softly coo in your ear. He slowly trails his lips down from your temple to the side of your neck, hovering over the soft skin for a moment.

“The…” kiss “sweetest…” kiss “girl…” kiss “ever...” kiss

His voice is reduced to dulcet tones, his kisses velvety against your skin. A soft gasp leaves your lips as the repetitive kisses are layered across your skin, your body automatically leaning back into him. Rafe brings his hands to the sides of your waist and gently turns you around so you are facing him.

Your eyes sink into his soft, blue ones, your mind starting to feel just a bit dizzy from the slightly amorous bubble you’re both fitted into.

Rafe only softly smiles at you as he lets his fingers slip into yours, your hands intertwining tightly as he leads you to his bed. He helps you sit down, and starts to take off your jacket, pulling down the zipper. You move your hand to remove it yourself, but he gently pushes your hand aside, saying something about how he’s making up to you right now. He takes the jacket off you, draping it on the back of his desk chair. He gets down on his knees and carefully takes your shoes off, gently placing them at the side of the bed. With a gentle push on your shoulders, he lets you lay down in his bed, covering you with the duvet.

He himself takes his own jacket and shoes off, and slips under the duvet next to you. He’s quick to let his arms wrap around your waist again, pulling your head onto his chest.

“You forgive me yeah?” He whispers softly, your own arm draping across his torso as you get comfortable against him.

“Yeah…” you mumble, nodding against his chest as you nuzzle your face into his chest. He smiles softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. His fingers gently thread to your hair, causing your eyelids to get heavier with each moment.

“My sweet girl…” is the last thing you hear him whisper to you before you’re pulled into a deep slumber.

— —

send me any of your thoughts for this specific universe if you have any! <3

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eu-nicola · 2 months ago

Text

the finish line part 2

summary: you are the girlfriend of Lando Norris, Max Verstappen's rival with whom the tension between the two is undeniable.

warnings: love triangle, forbidden relationship, tension, infidelity, etc

word counter: 8107

author's note: english is not my first language

mention: @drama-lama-mother @bunnies-p1tst0p

After an intense night, dawn came too quickly. Lando had to fly early to Qatar for his next race, and although you always tried to accompany him, this time your own commitments kept you in another direction.

You gathered your things and went down with him to the car that would take you to the airport. The journey passed in silence, and both of you clung to that last shared moment. Once at the airport, you took his hand and gave him a supportive smile. As you said goodbye, Lando hugged you tightly, as if he wanted to retain some of your energy for the days you would be apart.

“Take care and don’t forget to send me news,” he said, giving you a kiss on the forehead before moving away.

“Of course. And you, don’t forget to sleep,” you answered with a smile. “And to win, if you can.”

You both laughed, and after one last hug, Lando headed towards his boarding gate. You followed him with your eyes until he disappeared into the crowd.

Once Lando left, you headed to your gate. The flight to Monaco awaited you. You would spend a few days busy with your own obligations, but there was something about that little distance that also gave you space to reflect.

During the flight, you tried to focus on the tasks at hand, but your mind inevitably wandered to the race and to Max. The memory of the party was still fresh in your mind: his smile, his unavoidable presence in the lounge, and that spark that always lit in you, even when you didn't want to admit it.

When the plane landed in Monaco, you felt grateful to have a few days to yourself, although you also knew that you couldn't completely escape the thoughts you carried with you.

As soon as Lando landed in Qatar, your phone buzzed with his message. “Landed and ready to start the week. Missing you already,” the text read, accompanied by a couple of smiley emojis. The simplicity of the message brought a smile to your face and you responded without hesitation, sending him encouragement and reminding him that you would be watching every session of the race weekend.

However, during those days in Monaco, between relaxing walks and afternoons in cafes overlooking the harbour, there was something that disturbed the peace you were trying to maintain: the complete absence of news from Max. The last time they had spoken by text, the conversation had extended longer than you had expected. It had been casual, almost innocent, but a part of you had felt that something had been left hanging. That something, perhaps, could continue if one of you took the next step.

And yet, not a single message. Nothing. The days passed, and though you hated to admit it, every time your phone vibrated with a notification, a spark of anticipation would rise in your chest, only to die down when it wasn’t him. You kept telling yourself that you weren’t going to be the one to break the silence, that if Max wanted to talk, he would have to do it. You weren’t going to give him that privilege of knowing that you had been waiting for something from him.

Despite this, you couldn’t ignore the latent annoyance that built up with each passing day. Why had he shared so much in those previous messages if now it seemed to just disappear? It wasn’t logical. To push the doubts out of your mind, you immersed yourself in your affairs at home.

As the race weekend approached, you tried to convince yourself that this was all just a whim of your mind, that Max was just another driver in a world where competition and ego were always at the forefront. It didn’t mean anything, right?

Well, it did mean that, the sun was softly streaming through the window as you enjoyed a quiet breakfast on the small balcony of your apartment.

Suddenly, a notification lit up your phone screen. At first, you ignored the impulse to look at it right away, not wanting to admit that you were so attentive. However, curiosity won out and as you looked, your eyes widened a little more. It was Max.

"Why aren't you in Qatar?" the message said, direct and blunt. "I thought you would arrive a few days later. Aren't you coming?"

For a moment, the message left you unsure of what to respond to. After so many days of silence, it seemed like it was the most normal thing in the world. You bit your lip, trying to decide whether to ignore it or respond, and finally, the frustration you had been building up for days came to the surface.

"It's none of your business, Max," you wrote back, in an attempt to keep your distance, to make him see that his disappearance had been noticeable.

It was only a few seconds before his response appeared. It was almost like he had been waiting for a sign from you. “I didn’t know you missed me,” he replied, accompanied by a smile emoji, as if this was all a game to him. “Seriously, I thought you would come.”

You shook your head, trying not to fall for his game, but then a new text came through. “Maybe you’re not coming because you know what’s going to happen,” he wrote. “I’m going to win. Don’t you want to come watch? This time, it’ll be my new championship.”

You felt a pang of nerves mixed with something you didn’t want to admit. Still, you resisted. You didn’t want him to think that only his words could convince you.

“What makes you think I care?” you wrote back, trying to sound nonchalant.

“I know,” he replied immediately. “I felt it at the last race. And I know you felt it too.”

You took a breath, feeling those words land right where you didn’t want them. Your pride forced you not to answer, to let the conversation hang in the air. So you put your phone away and decided to ignore him for the rest of the day. You kept telling yourself that you weren’t going to fall for him, that his ego wasn’t your responsibility. However, as the hours passed, the phone continued to vibrate from time to time. Each message from him added a little spark of intrigue, and although you didn’t read them right away, you knew Max wasn’t giving up.

Finally, after hours of silence on your part, you opened the conversation. There were more messages, each one a little more persuasive than the last.

“You know I want to see you? I can’t shake the idea that you should be here,” one said. And then, another text, reading it almost as if you heard it: “Come to Qatar. Not to see him. Come to see me.”

At some point in the afternoon, Max became more direct, his words more forceful. “I want you to be there when I become champion. There is no other time like this, and you know you want to see it. And I want to see you.”

Those last words echoed through your mind, even though you wanted to downplay it. You were on the verge of doubt, trying to hold firm, but the intensity of his messages shook that resistance.

You didn’t respond, at least not that night.

The next morning, after a night in which your thoughts had kept you awake, you decided you could no longer resist. In an attempt to convince yourself, though, you chose your words carefully. You picked up the phone and, after a moment of hesitation, texted Max.

“I’m going to Qatar,” you began, keeping your tone neutral. "But not to see you. I'm going to get Lando."

The text went out and you stared at the screen, knowing that his response wouldn't take long. And sure enough, within a few seconds, the incoming message icon lit up your screen.

"Sure, sure," Max replied, and you could even imagine his mocking smile as you read. "Just for Lando, right? Let's just say I believe it."

You rolled your eyes, resisting the urge to respond to his sarcasm. It was frustrating that he was so clear about the effect he had on you, that he knew exactly how to play with words to provoke you. You decided that the best response was to ignore him, so without giving it another thought, you put the phone aside and focused on another important task before leaving: calling Lando.

Hearing his voice on the other end of the line calmed something in you. The simplicity and sincerity that Lando conveyed to you was a refuge, and that was exactly what you needed at that moment.

—Hey, how are you? —you asked, trying to sound casual.

—Well, a little tired after all the training —he answered, and you could imagine him in some room of the hotel, surrounded by the preparations for the race week.

—Listen… —you took a breath—. I've been thinking, and I'm going to go to Qatar. I want to see you. I miss you.

There was a small silence on the other end of the line, and although it only lasted a second, you felt it like an eternal heartbeat. Lando seemed surprised, and perhaps even a little nervous.

—Really? —he finally said, his voice sounding incredulous—. Well, yeah, sure… Come on, I'd love for you to be here.

It comforted you to hear it, although in some corner of your mind you felt that the main reason for this trip was not so simple. Despite everything, you wanted to be with him, and the idea of cheering him in person while he competed excited you. Lando didn't need too many explanations, and you were grateful for that, because you weren't prepared to give them either.

—Perfect, I’ll see you soon then —you said, smiling through the line. He sighed, and though there was a hint of strangeness in his voice, he seemed genuinely excited.

—Yeah, I can’t wait —he replied, and after a few more words, you hung up the call.

You wasted no time. As soon as you got off the call with Lando, you sprang into action. You moved around the apartment almost mindlessly, gathering the things you would need for the trip. Fresh clothes for the scorching Qatar weather, something fancy for whatever evening event was coming up, and, of course, your race tickets. The excitement began to grow with each item of clothing you folded and packed into your suitcase.

When you went in to check the flights, you found that there was only one that would fit in to get you to the first practice the next day on time. It left at 3 in the morning, which meant you would barely get any sleep, but the thought of getting there early and surprising Lando at the track gave you the motivation you needed. You bought the ticket without hesitation.

The rest of the night was a whirlwind of preparations. You tried to go to bed early, but with every passing second, your thoughts became intertwined: the idea of meeting up with Lando again and, deep down, the tingle of knowing that Max would be there too.

At 2:00 am, you grabbed your suitcase and left the house, feeling the mix of tiredness and excitement coming in waves. You arrived at the airport just in time and, while waiting to board, you checked your phone one last time. There was a notification from Max.

“On my way?” the message read, simple and direct. He knew you weren’t going to be able to resist going.

You pressed your lips together, debating whether to answer or ignore him again. But finally, with a sigh, you decided to put your phone away. If he wanted to know, he could just keep wondering.

You got on the plane and, although you tried to sleep, your thoughts wouldn’t let you rest. With each passing hour, you felt the mix of emotions increase: the anticipation of seeing Lando, and the intrigue of how you would feel when you saw Max in person, after that series of messages that had stirred you so much.

At 11:00 am, you landed in the hot climate of Qatar. You got off the plane and, while you waited for your bags, you wondered what would come next.

After collecting your bags, you quickly headed to the exit and raised your hand to call a taxi. You barely gave the driver the address of your hotel, you leaned back in the seat and closed your eyes for a moment, trying to calm the mix of emotions that invaded you. The ride was short, and soon you found yourself in the lobby of an elegant hotel, just a few blocks from where you knew Lando was staying.

Once you were in your room and put your suitcase aside, you took out your phone to send him a message. “I arrived. “I’m at the hotel I mentioned. Let me know when you’re free.” You took a few seconds before texting him the exact location, wanting to surprise him a little more. It wasn’t long before Lando responded.

“You’re here! That’s great. I’m pretty busy today, but I’m trying to make time to see you. I’m glad you got here safely.”

You smiled as you read the message, but you had barely finished reading when another notification popped up on your screen. It was from Max.

“So you’re here already?” his message read. “I’m right next to Lando, you know? I saw him checking his phone and I knew right away it was you. I’m coming to see you as soon as I can.”

You bit your lip, trying to ignore the rapid pace of your heartbeat. Even though you couldn’t see his expression, you could perfectly imagine the satisfied smile on his face when he knew you were in Qatar. He knew he was going to make it so you were there, which was part of what motivated him.

You decided not to respond right away and just let him wait. You left your phone on the bed, and went to take a quick shower, trying to cool off and clear your mind. But even the water didn’t seem to dispel the mix of emotions that were brewing inside you.

When you returned to your phone, you saw that there were no more messages from Lando, but Max had left another, short and to the point: “See you soon.”

The next day, the atmosphere at the track was charged with excitement and tension. It was qualifying day, and all the teams seemed to have the same goal in mind: pole position. You knew that this day was crucial for Lando, who had prepared every detail, every corner, every braking with precision. You had only received a couple of quick messages from him since you arrived, which was not unusual. You knew that when it came to racing, Lando completely immersed himself in his world, seeking perfection on every lap. You didn't want to disturb him or interrupt his concentration, so you decided to support him in silence.

Arriving at the McLaren paddock, you greeted some members of the team and took a place near the screens where you could watch the live broadcast and the times of each driver. Nerves invaded you as you watched the cars preparing to go out on the track, the roar of the engines increasing the adrenaline in the air.

Even though you had gone there to support Lando, a part of you couldn't help but think of Max. You knew he was also going for that pole with the same intensity, maybe even more, and you found yourself in a strange dilemma, unable to define if your expectation was for Lando, for Max, or for the confrontation between the two.

Qualifying began, and on the screen you saw the times go by quickly. Lando's car was fast, his times were among the best in each sector, and you felt the excitement and pride of his performance. You knew how much it meant to him to get that pole, and watching him fight for every tenth kept you on the edge of your seat.

But then, the screen showed Max's times. Impeccable, calculated and fast. He seemed to push the limits with every lap, and his name went up and down the scoreboard in a constant battle with Lando. You couldn't help but hold your breath every time their names changed positions.

Qualifying moved quickly. Q1 began and from the start Max made it clear that he was going to be hard to beat. On every lap, in every sector, his times stood out above the rest, marking a solid lead that everyone in the paddock noticed. Every time his name appeared at the top of the screen, you felt a mixture of pride and a strange uneasiness, as if you were witnessing something inevitable.

Lando was also doing an excellent job. His times kept him in the lead, securing his passage to the next round, but he couldn't get past Max. It was as if the track belonged solely to the Dutchman at that point.

Q2 came, and the competition intensified. The top drivers brought out the best in their abilities, and the times became tighter. Despite the pressure, Max continued to lead each lap with almost insulting ease. Lando, for his part, held firm, striving to close the gap.

The time came for Q3, the final round. The teams made their adjustments, and the tension in the air was almost tangible. This was all or nothing, and both Max and Lando looked ready to leave it all on the track. You watched intently as the first out was Max. His lap was flawless, every corner taken with precision, every braking at just the right point. The time he set was impressive, setting a pace that few, if any, could match.

Lando left shortly after, and the McLaren team held their breath as he completed his lap. The times were very close, but in the end, it wasn’t enough. Max kept his place at the top of the leaderboard, securing pole, and Lando was right behind him in second.

As the clock ticked down to the end of Q3, the result was final: Max would start the race from pole, with Lando beside him on the front row. All around you, the excitement in the McLaren paddock was palpable, but there was also a mix of frustration. You knew the team had gambled everything to get pole, and that Lando had given it his all. Still, you couldn’t help but feel a spark of excitement at seeing Max there, dominant, certain that he had achieved his goal.

As the teams began to pull out and the drivers prepared for interviews, you received a notification on your phone. It was a text from Max.

Max: “Are you going to be there tomorrow?” It would be a shame if you missed it.”

You read the message and couldn’t help but smile, although you refused to let him know the effect his words had on you.

After qualifying Lando wasn’t in the best mood at the end of the day. Although he had the satisfaction of starting in the front row, you knew that second place wasn’t what he really wanted. But while he was immersed in strategy and mental preparation, you felt that you needed a break too.

Back at your hotel, you tried to relax to clear your mind and prepare for what would be an intense day. You lay back on the bed, letting yourself be carried away by the soft tranquility of the room, when your phone vibrated. Unlocking it, you saw Max’s name on the screen. He had been the one to start the conversation that morning, and since then the messages hadn’t stopped.

“Everything ready for tomorrow?” he had written, with that confident tone that always seemed to surround him.

“That depends on who you ask,” you replied, keeping the conversation on safe ground.

“And you? Ready to see me win the championship?” It wasn’t a question, but a statement. Max seemed so sure of his victory that, for a moment, you found yourself believing it too.

“So you’re that confident already?” you typed back, trying to downplay it.

“Of course,” he replied quickly. “I’m going to win, and the best part is that you’re going to be there to see it.”

A tingle ran down your spine, a mix of anticipation and the strange energy that only he seemed to bring out in you. You tried to hide your excitement, but his answer came before you could even type anything else.

“And I want you at the celebration, huh? No hiding. You’re going to party with me.”

You checked the message, trying to decipher the tone behind his words.

“I wouldn’t be so sure yet,” you finally typed, trying to regain control of the conversation. “The race can take many turns, you know?”

“You’ll realize,” Max replied. “Tomorrow, when I’m holding up the trophy, you’ll know I was right.”

For the rest of the day you spent in complete isolation, with those messages in mind, feeling their words repeating themselves in your head. With nothing urgent to do, you ordered room service and decided to stay in the room, in an attempt to clear your thoughts before the big day.

When the day of the race dawned, you prepared yourself with special dedication. You knew that the paddock would be full of stares and cameras, and you wanted to rise to the occasion. You chose a fitted white dress that highlighted your figure, with delicate gold details that sparkled in the sunlight. You looked at yourself one last time in the mirror, giving yourself courage to face what would be a long and intense day.

Arriving at the track with Lando, the excitement in the air was palpable. The energy and expectations made each step more exciting than the last. While he headed to a meeting with the team, you decided to take a stroll through the paddock, admiring the hustle and bustle and feeling the adrenaline that always filled you when you were surrounded by the cars and drivers. You had done this many times, and you always enjoyed exploring every corner of the place.

It was in one of those hallways that you saw him: Max was there, standing, talking to a woman you recognized immediately. Kelly. The same Kelly that there had been rumors that he was dating for months. The surprise was immediate, and before you could contain yourself, you stood watching them. Max and her were chatting away, and he, aware of your presence, barely turned his head and looked at you with a half smile. The spark of defiance in his gaze infuriated you even more.

You couldn’t contain the urge to look at him defiantly, letting him see in your eyes that you weren’t the least bit impressed. Or at least, that was what you wanted to convey. However, the mix of anger and jealousy was becoming more and more evident, so, before you let yourself be affected, you turned around and walked away quickly, feeling the heat on your cheeks. Max knew perfectly well what he was doing, and it bothered you to realize that he understood how you felt.

It wasn’t long before your phone vibrated in your hand. It was Max.

“Jealous?” the text said, with that mocking tone that you perfectly imagined.

You rolled your eyes, not intending to fall for his game, but your fingers moved quickly over the screen. “Please. I have better things to do than worry about that.”

“That’s what all jealous people say.” His response came in seconds, with a wink in the text that made you press your lips together, annoyed. “Do you want me to prove it to you?”

“You’re hallucinating, Max,” you replied, feeling your patience slipping away.

“I don’t think so,” he replied bluntly. “Because at the end of this, I’m going to have you, regardless of your little boyfriend.”

You stared at the message, unsure of how to respond to such a direct statement. It was almost as if he had already decided the outcome and was just waiting for the right moment to make it happen. The confidence with which Max spoke made your hands shake, and deep down, even though you refused to admit it, a part of you was tempted by his words.

You swallowed deeply, closing the conversation without answering, trying to focus on the real purpose of being there: supporting Lando.

When night fell on the circuit, transforming the track into a spectacle of light and shadow. The excitement of a night race in Qatar filled the air, and as you walked towards the paddock, you felt the energy of the place resonate in your chest. Everything was ready for the big moment; The cars had been checked, the teams were in position, and the atmosphere was so electric that you could barely contain your excitement.

As you reached the McLaren area, you noticed that the entire team was focused on their screens and communications.

From your spot in the paddock, you could see the starting grid. The cars lined up under the bright lighting of the circuit, reflecting the glare of the spotlights and cameras that captured every detail.

Time seemed to stand still as the traffic lights came on, one by one, until, finally, they went out, and the deafening roar of the engines filled the air. The cars launched themselves towards the first corner, and from the start, the fight between Max and Lando was fierce. Lando had had an excellent start, almost at the same level as Max, and in the first laps he stayed close to his rival, pushing whenever he could, looking for the perfect gap to overtake him.

In the tight corners, both drove to the limit, taking advantage of every millimeter of the track. Max did not give up ground, defending himself with precision and blocking each attempt by Lando. Every time Max closed the line, it was as if he was issuing a silent challenge, telling him without words that he wasn't going to give in. From the paddock, you could barely breathe, following every move with your heart in your mouth.

The tension mounted lap after lap. Max and Lando's cars seemed to dance on the track, in an almost choreographed showdown in which neither of them allowed the slightest error. As the race progressed, Lando tried several times to find an overtaking line, but Max anticipated every maneuver, frustrating all his efforts.

As they reached the halfway point of the race, Lando finally found a small opportunity. Taking advantage of a stretch of the main straight, he attempted an inside pass, going wheel-to-wheel with Max. From where you were, it looked like he would succeed; however, Max responded immediately, braking at the last second and forcing him to take a wider line into the next corner. The crowd held their breath as the cars nearly touched each other, and you felt the adrenaline keep you on the edge of your seat.

You knew this was the kind of rivalry that defined championships. Max and Lando weren't just competing for points; each was fighting to prove their worth, to prove who was the true leader on the track that night. And even though you were there to support Lando, you couldn't help but feel the same thrill every time you saw Max hold his own with that mastery of his. It was a combination of talent and confidence that was almost hypnotic.

In the final laps, the intensity reached its peak. The two drivers pulled away from the rest of the field, and every corner, every straight, was a battle of nerves. Lando stayed glued to Max, looking for any opportunity to snatch the lead. But Max, with the calm of someone who knows victory is within reach, continued to maintain his lead, showing why he was on the cusp of securing the championship.

Finally, the final lap arrived. Lando made one last desperate attempt to overtake him in one of the final corners, but Max, with an impeccable move, held the line and blocked the way. The cars crossed the finish line, and Max’s name appeared at the top of the screen as the winner of the race… and the new world champion.

The roar of the crowd filled the air as Max pumped his fist from the cockpit, celebrating his victory. Lando had driven a spectacular race, coming so close to victory, but the result was clear. You looked over at the Red Bull area, where Max's team was celebrating euphorically, and you were surprised to see yourself smiling, despite everything. You had witnessed an unforgettable race, one that would go down in history.

After crossing the finish line, Max's celebration was immediate. As soon as he got out of his car, he threw himself into the arms of his team, surrounded by applause and cheers. The members of Red Bull greeted him with hugs and pats on the back, some even with tears of emotion. The image was shocking; Max, with his helmet still on and his arm raised, had become champion once again, and the whole world was there to see it.

Meanwhile, you remained in the McLaren paddock, waiting for the trophy ceremony with the engineers and other members of the team. Although second place was not what Lando had dreamed of, you were proud of him. His effort on the track had been spectacular.

From your position, you could see Max take off his helmet and raise his arms towards the crowd, who responded with cheers and shouts. The smile on his face was radiant, filled with a satisfaction that he couldn't hide, and seeing him like that, it was impossible not to feel a mix of admiration and... something more. You shook your head, trying to erase those thoughts, focusing on the moment that was unfolding on the track.

The national anthems echoed throughout the circuit. First, the anthem of Max's country, which he listened to with an expression of almost solemn pride, looking towards the horizon. In that instant, everything seemed to stop; the whole world was focused on him. Then, the Red Bull anthem, as the team members cheered and applauded from below. Lando, seeing the presentation of the trophies and the cheers of the fans, smiled sideways, and although frustration was evident in his eyes, he was also grateful for the opportunity and the recognition of his great career.

You silently watched every moment, every emotion captured on their faces. When Lando received his second place trophy, he turned slightly to where you knew you were, giving you a quick glance that seemed to say, “I tried.” You smiled at him, your heart full of pride, giving him a small gesture of encouragement to let him know you were there for him.

The most anticipated moment came at the end, when Max raised his championship trophy, and a shower of champagne began to fall on the podium. The drivers opened their bottles, spraying each other and celebrating in their own way, while the audience continued to cheer. The emotion was indescribable; the lights, the sound, the applause, everything combined in an explosion of joy. Max glanced down, and although he was surrounded by his own teammates, you noticed that his gaze went directly to you, as if he were looking for you in the crowd. A mischievous smile appeared on his lips when his eyes met yours, and you raised an eyebrow, letting him notice that, despite everything, you were impressed.

The applause continued as the drivers left the podium, and you stayed there for a moment longer, taking in the mix of emotions that the race had left behind.

As soon as they stepped off the podium, the festive atmosphere became tense. Max, still in a state of euphoria over his victory, walked through the corridors of the paddock surrounded by his team. Lando, for his part, had taken his second place with the greatest possible dignity in front of the cameras, but there was palpable frustration in his gestures.

The two drivers met on the way to the locker room, and although their teams tried to distance them, friction was inevitable. Max, noticing the expression on Lando's face, gave him a provocative smile.

“Nice try. “You know there’s only one champion, though,” Max said, in that arrogant tone you’d heard so many times and that inflamed his rivals so much.

Lando stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes flashing with contained fury. He couldn’t stand the brazenness with which Max was trying to provoke him after all the fighting on the track. The teams around them began to notice something was brewing, and some came closer in an attempt to intervene before things got out of hand.

“Yeah, Max, congratulations,” Lando replied, his voice controlled but full of sarcasm. “Some only care about glory and winning at all costs, even if they don’t have anyone to celebrate with them, right?”

Lando’s words made Max’s smile freeze for a moment. You knew how direct Lando could be when something irritated him, and this time he had struck a chord. Max took a step forward, his expression changing from amused to defiant.

“Don’t talk to me about celebrations, Norris. I don’t need company to be the best. Some are just here because they want an excuse to impress, but they don’t have what it takes to do it.”

Lando narrowed his eyes, the tension in his body evident. His team tried to place a hand on his shoulder to stop him, but he pushed it away without looking.

“Next year I’m going to fight you to the end, and I won’t need your cocky attitude to prove it.”

The words fell like a challenge, and at that moment, Max took a step towards Lando, her face just a few inches from his. Their gazes met, two pairs of eyes filled with pride and ambition that weren’t willing to budge.

“Whenever you want to try, Norris. But in the meantime, enjoy being second,” Max whispered in an icy tone, still staring at him.

The tension was palpable, and right then, it seemed like the situation was going to escalate even further. However, members of both teams quickly intervened, pulling them aside before either of them took another step. They were led in opposite directions, though both continued to glare at each other defiantly, not giving in one bit of their pride.

Meanwhile, you had witnessed the entire scene from a distance, watching as the rivalry that had begun on the track continued in every gesture and word.

After that little argument, as the hubbub filled the place, the idea of the party seemed increasingly distant for Lando. As soon as they returned to the hotel, you noticed that his silence became dense, almost sharp, as he avoided your gaze and his steps were heavy. You, trying to be understanding and wanting to ease the tension, tried to speak to him softly as the two of you went up in the elevator to his suite.

When you got to the room, Lando dropped his bag in the corner and collapsed onto the couch, letting out a frustrated sigh. You kept your eyes on him, knowing something was wrong. His gaze, lost somewhere on the floor, finally met yours, and his eyes reflected a mix of disappointment and something else that was harder to decipher.

“I’m not going to that party. I have nothing to celebrate today,” he said at last, his tone low and dry.

“Lando, you did amazing today. It was a hell of a race. Everyone knows you gave it your all,” you told him, trying to comfort him.

But your words didn’t seem to calm him down. On the contrary, he frowned and shook his head, frustrated. “And for what? I finished second, behind him again,” he muttered, full of resentment. You knew that “he” was none other than Max, and in that moment, you understood that their rivalry was affecting him much more than it seemed.

You tried to move closer to sit next to him, wanting to put a hand on his shoulder, but Lando pulled away, standing up and walking a few steps away. He looked nervous, and something inside you told you that this wasn’t just frustration from the race. There was something else, something that seemed to be building up between you for a while now.

“Lando, I know today was tough, but there are more opportunities. You’re an amazing driver, and second place is something you should be proud of…” you began to say, searching his eyes.

But he didn’t seem to want to listen. “Proud? Are you serious?” he interrupted you, his voice rising slightly. “Why are you telling me this as if you care so much? Sometimes it seems like you’re not here for me, but for… someone else.” His gaze was accusatory, and his words began to make your heart beat faster, in a mix of discomfort and a little fear.

“What are you implying?” you asked, not wanting to believe what you were hearing.

“I think you know exactly what I'm talking about,” he replied, crossing his arms and staring at you. “Every time he's around… every time Max shows up, it's like you tune out everything else. Even today, I saw you staring at him from the paddock. Why? What happens to you when he's around?”

His gaze was hard, full of reproach, and you felt the heat rise to your cheeks as you realized that you couldn't hide anything from him. You hadn't been entirely fair to him, you knew that. But you also didn't want him to throw feelings in your face that you hadn't even been able to fully understand.

“Lando, you're overreacting,” you said, trying to sound calm even though your voice was shaking. “I have been here with you, always supporting you. I came to Qatar to be with you in this race, to show you that I am on your side.”

“Really?” he replied, with a sarcastic laugh you had never heard from him before. “Because it doesn’t seem like you’re here just for me, to be honest. It seems like you stayed because you had something unfinished with Max, or am I wrong?”

His words hurt you, more than you wanted to admit. The tension between you had grown in the last while, and now it seemed like that bubble was finally bursting, revealing truths that you both tried to avoid.

“What do you want me to say? I can’t ignore that Max is here, I can’t pretend that he doesn’t exist, and you can’t demand that of me either,” you said, trying to keep your voice controlled. But Lando was too hurt to listen.

“I can’t go on like this. I need someone who is here for me, completely. I don’t want to be questioning whether my victories, my defeats, or even my own feelings, are being compared to someone else’s. If that’s what you feel, you better leave,” he said finally, pointing to the door.

The intensity of his words paralyzed you. He wanted you to leave. His eyes were filled with pain, and even though deep down you knew it hurt you too, you felt a deep injustice in how he was blaming you. But, after all, something in his pain was understandable.

Without answering, you took a deep breath, and turned around, moving towards the door. You felt the weight of each step, the rage contained in your chest, and also the pain of knowing that you had hurt someone you really cared about.

As you left Lando's room, a mix of frustration and pain accompanied you to the exit of the hotel. The argument still hovered in your mind, his words still echoing in every corner of your thoughts. You walked aimlessly, absorbed, until you finally took a taxi to your own hotel. You arrived, exhausted, but unable to relax. You dropped your bag on the floor and sat on the bed, staring out the window as the city vibrated with the night lights.

Almost instantly, your phone vibrated on the nightstand. It was a text from Max, asking if you were going to the party, as if everything between you was okay. His texts seemed harmless, but the situation with Lando was still too fresh and you weren't in the mood to deal with anyone else right now.

"I'm not in the mood, Max. I don't want to be disturbed tonight," you texted, trying to stay distant.

This time, Max didn't respond right away. You stared at the phone screen for a moment, waiting for a prodding that, for some reason, seemed inevitable. But there were no more messages. His silence was a kind of relief that allowed you to lie back on the bed, close your eyes, and try to relax.

Hours passed in a state of light sleep, with thoughts going back and forth between Lando and Max, between your feelings of guilt and what had just happened.

At 3 a.m., the phone vibrated again, and Max's name lit up the screen. You were surprised, and a mix of emotions washed over you when you saw the message.

Max: “Are you still awake? I want to go see you.”

You took a deep breath, and a part of you resisted answering. You didn’t want to see him; you felt like things were too tense and confusing, and the last thing you needed was to add to the complications. But, almost without being able to help yourself, you answered.

“No, Max. I don’t want to see you. It’s not the time,” you wrote firmly, hoping he would understand.

However, as always, Max insisted. The next message came quickly, almost as if he had already written it before you responded.

Max: “You know I want to see you, and I know you want that too. Come on, you have nothing to lose.”

You let out a sigh and, in the end, you let go of the resistance. Maybe the exhaustion of the whole situation was taking its toll on you, or maybe, deep down, you wanted his company. Without thinking too much, you sent him your location.

The message went through and, almost instantly, a sort of anticipation began to build in your chest. You knew that with Max, things were never simple, and that agreeing to see him right now, alone, at 3 a.m., would only add more complexity. But at that moment, logic seemed like a weak obstacle.

When Max arrived, the atmosphere was charged with a tension that you both understood all too well, but that neither seemed willing to fully cross. You shared a few intense kisses, with that contained urgency that had floated between you for so long. But every time Max tried to take things a little further, you stopped him. It wasn't the time; you still felt a mix of anger and confusion about what had happened with Lando. Despite his obvious frustration, Max respected your boundaries, settling for holding you while you fell asleep in his arms, feeling an unexpected comfort in his closeness.

The next morning, the light coming through the window gently woke you up. You opened your eyes and looked around, finding Max still asleep next to you. For a moment, calm seemed to fill you, as if the outside world didn't exist, as if everything was simpler than it really was. With a sigh, you reached for your phone to check the time, only to be met with a series of notifications that almost made you drop it.

There were dozens of messages and photos that your acquaintances had sent you. You opened the notifications one after another, and your shock and anger increased with each one. The images showed Lando with an unknown woman in his hotel, in a scene that left no room for interpretation. There were even several messages from him, written in a hurry and with a sense of panic that made your blood boil.

The impulse of frustration was so strong that, without thinking, you threw the glass on the nightstand against the wall, jolting Max awake. The sound of breaking glass echoed in the room, and he sat up quickly, looking at you in surprise and then with a sly smile.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, rubbing his eyes as he looked at the broken glass.

Without saying anything, you handed him your phone, showing him the photos and messages from Lando. Max stared at the screen in silence for a few seconds, and then let out a dry, carefree laugh, as if it all seemed ridiculously convenient.

“Perfect,” he said, his expression a mix of amusement and satisfaction. “Now we can both get out of here without any problems. You see, I was doing you a favor.”

The indifference in his voice made you furious. You pushed the phone away and looked at him with a cold expression.

“No, Max. This isn’t a favor, and I’m not going to take advantage of it. This could ruin us both, and I don’t want to be a part of that story.”

He raised an eyebrow, still with that spark of amusement in his eyes.

“Really? Because, frankly, it doesn’t seem like Lando is doing anything very different from you, am I wrong?” he replied, shrugging his shoulders. “Why are you so angry? He just did you a favor… He freed you from continuing to pretend that things were fine between you.”

You looked at him, feeling like every word was a blow. He was right, at least in part. It hurt you to admit it, but the difference lay in the feelings. Despite the tension between you and Max, the connection you had felt was something real and deep, something that, for some reason, felt authentic.

“It’s not the same, Max,” you said quietly. “Cause with you… with you, things are different. The difference is that I do like you, and he… he went and got himself someone.”

Max fell silent, his smile fading as he watched you. For the first time, he seemed to have understood the seriousness of what you felt, and his expression softened.

“So why are you still here?” he asked quietly, no trace of mockery. “Why stay with him if you know it’s not the same? Why stay with someone who doesn’t give you what you need?”

You fell silent, fighting your own thoughts. You knew there was truth in what Max said, but it all seemed too complicated. You were caught between what you felt and what you believed was right, in a situation where neither path seemed easy.

Without saying anything else, Max approached and took your hand, looking at you with a seriousness he rarely showed.

“I’m not going to pressure you,” he said softly, “but I want you to know that I’m here, if you decide that this,” he pointed to the space between you. “Is something worthwhile. It’s up to you.”

The intensity in his gaze made you feel a mix of emotions. You knew you had to make a decision, but at that moment, the only thing that was clear was that things would never be the same again.

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