#captive consort

[sandythereadingcafe]

REVIEW:

CAPTIVE CONSORT (Thanatos Coven 1) by Jade Marshall & Rose Wulf at The Reading Cafe:

'charismatic and powerful characters'

[thereadingcafe]

[eowynstwin]

Speaking of books, if you’re a fan of

Kink

Court intrigue

High fantasy

I highly recommend the Terre d’Ange cycle by Jacqueline Carey. It’s set in an alternate timeline in which the Roman Empire never happened, specifically in a medieval(ish) France that worships a pantheon of angels who were the disciples of the child of Mary Magdalene and Jesus Christ (named Elua).

The first trilogy, beginning with Kushiel’s Dart, is about the adventures of a courtesan named Phedre that I can only describe as a divinely appointed BDSM submissive (an “anguissette,” in the text). She is the god of pain’s chosen one and is trained as a spy for the kind of courtly machinations that make Lannister shit look trite.

Also she gets led around on a leash by her high femme arch nemesis. Completely naked.

At a formal ball.

[reliquaryofflesh]

Thinking about the time I told him in detail how I’d get in his guts rather literally. How weak he’d become near the end. Implied I’d bring him back, and thought to myself how it would be just so I could do it again and again, my undying plaything. Thinking too of us disembowel!ng each other and pleasuring ourselves with the other’s viscera, or eating each other’s organs

How cruel that we can’t do such things in reality without consequence

[sweetfirebird]

... seven if you count today, as some might. Anyway.

A Suitable Captive, less than a week now!!!

[bookstattoosandtea]

Blog Tour, Exclusive Excerpt & Giveaway: Consort of the Dragon King by Ariella Zoelle Writing as Zarina Aston

Blog Tour, Exclusive Excerpt & Giveaway: Consort of the Dragon King By Ariella Zoelle Writing as Zarina Aston Bonded Hearts, Book 2 At long last, King Kitsuki’s fated mate returns. Can they overcome the dangerous threats and form a mating bond before it’s too late? After six hundred agonizing years, Kitsuki’s intended has finally returned to him. Their reunion is full of joy and sorrow, as the…

[tearlessrain]

please help me- i used to be pretty smart but i’m having so much trouble grasping the concept of diegetic vs non-diegetic bdsm!

gfkjldghfd okay first of all I'm sorry for the confusion, if you're not finding anything on the phrase it's because I made it up and absolutely nobody but me ever uses it, but I haven't found a better way to express what I'm trying to say so I keep using it. but now you've given me an excuse to ramble on about some shit that is only relevant to me and my deeply inefficient way of talking and by god I'm going to take it.

SO. the way diegetic and non-diegetic are normally used is to talk about music and sound design in movies/tv shows. in case you aren't familiar with that concept, here's a rundown:

diegetic sound is sound that happens within the world of the movie/show and can be acknowledged by the characters, like a song playing on the stereo during a driving scene, or sung on stage in Phantom of the Opera. it's also most other sounds that happen in a movie, like the sounds of traffic in a city scene, or a thunderclap, or a marching band passing by. or one of the three stock horse sounds they use in every movie with a horse in it even though horses don't really vocalize much in real life, but that's beside the point, the horse is supposed to be actually making that noise within the movie's world and the characters can hear it whinnying.

non-diegetic sound is any sound that doesn't exist in the world of the movie/show and can't be perceived by the characters. this includes things like laugh tracks and most soundtrack music. when Duel of Fates plays in Star Wars during the lightsaber fight for dramatic effect, that's non-diegetic. it exists to the audience, but the characters don't know their fight is being backed by sick ass music and, sadly, can't hear it.

the lines can get blurry between the two, you've probably seen the film trope where the clearly non-diegetic music in the title sequence fades out to the same music, now diegetic and playing from the character's car stereo. and then there are things like Phantom of the Opera as mentioned above, where the soundtrack is also part of the plot, but Phantom of the Opera does also have segments of non-diegetic music: the Phantom probably does not have an entire orchestra and some guy with an electric guitar hiding down in his sewer just waiting for someone to break into song, but both of those show up in the songs they sing down there.

now, on to how I apply this to bdsm in fiction.

if I'm referring to diegetic bdsm what I mean is that the bdsm is acknowledged for what it is in-world. the characters themselves are roleplaying whatever scenarios their scenes involve and are operating with knowledge of real life rules/safety practices. if there's cnc depicted, it will be apparent at some point, usually right away, that both characters actually are fully consenting and it's all just a planned scene, and you'll often see on-screen negotiation and aftercare, and elements of the story may involve the kink community wherever the characters are. Love and Leashes is a great example of this, 50 Shades and Bonding are terrible examples of this, but they all feature characters that know they're doing bdsm and are intentional about it.

if I'm talking about non-diegetic bdsm, I'm referring to a story that portrays certain kinks without the direct acknowledgement that the characters are doing bdsm. this would be something like Captive Prince, or Phantom of the Opera again, or the vast majority of bodice ripper type stories where an innocent woman is kidnapped by a pirate king or something and totally doesn't want to be ravished but then it turns out he's so cool and sexy and good at ravishing that she decides she's into it and becomes his pirate consort or whatever it is that happens at the end of those books. the characters don't know they're playing out a cnc or D/s fantasy, and in-universe it's often straight up noncon or dubcon rather than cnc at all. the thing about entirely non-diegetic bdsm is that it's almost always Problematic™ in some way if you're not willing to meet the story where it's at, but as long as you're not judging it by the standards of diegetic bdsm, it's just providing the reader the same thing that a partner in a scene would: the illusion of whatever risk or taboo floats your boat, sometimes to extremes that can't be replicated in real life due to safety, practicality, physics, the law, vampires not being real, etc. it's consensual by default because it's already pretend; the characters are vehicles for the story and not actually people who can be hurt, and the reader chose to pick up the book and is aware that nothing in it is real, so it's all good.

this difference is where people tend to get hung up in the discourse, from what I've observed. which is why I started using this phrasing, because I think it's very crucial to be able to differentiate which one you're talking about if you try to have a conversation with someone about the portrayal of bdsm in media. it would also, frankly, be useful for tagging, because sometimes when you're in the mood for non-diegetic bodice ripper shit you'd call the police over in real life, it can get really annoying to read paragraphs of negotiation and check-ins that break the illusion of the scene and so on, and the opposite can be jarring too.

it's very possible to blur these together the same way Phantom of the Opera blurs its diegetic and non-diegetic music as well. this leaves you even more open to being misunderstood by people reading in bad faith, but it can also be really fun to play with. @not-poignant writes fantastic fanfic, novels, and original serials on ao3 that pull this off really well, if you're okay with some dark shit in your fiction I would highly recommend their work. some of it does get really fucking dark in places though, just like. be advised. read the tags and all that.

but yeah, spontaneous writer plug aside, that's what I mean.

[julietcpulet]

Maomao: Jinshi keeps getting me involved in such troublesome scenarios. Whatever he’s mixed up in I wish he’d stop making it my problem.

Also Maomao: Goes to confront a woman she believes tried to have consorts miscarry. Goes with Suirei because she wants the resurrection drug. Goes off in a foreign village, where she’s a captive, to investigate a creepy storehouse. Mouths off to Lady Shinmei. Attacks a bunch of snakes and poisoned bugs in a torture pit, then eats them.

But yes, Jinshi gets her into trouble 😂

[harunayuuka2060]

Yuusuke: *belly dances, captivating both the female clients and the men watching, his movements fluid and mesmerizing*

The female clients: Whaa~ ♥

Ace, Deuce, and Epel: ...

Ace: Damn.

Epel: If this had been ancient times, Yuusuke would have been chosen as a consort.

Deuce: ...

Deuce: Doesn't he get cold wearing that?

Ace: I doubt— Hey, isn't that Idia-senpai?

Yuusuke: Thanks for lending me this outfit, Idia. Are you sure you don't want anything in return?

Yuusuke: I can give you a kiss if you want. *winks*

Idia: Nononono! You allowing me to record you while dancing is enough.

Yuusuke: I see. By the way, what are you planning to do with it?

Idia: I'm currently designing a character mwehee.

Yuusuke: With me as your concept? *chuckles* I'm flattered.

Idia: You're conventionally handsome so, yeah...

Yuusuke: Is that so? *gets too close*

Idia: No, dude! Don't kiss me!

Yuusuke: Aww. *chuckles* Okay.

Vil: Yuusuke, you should hide for now.

Yuusuke: Hmm?

Vil: Aside from Idia, someone else recorded a video of you and uploaded it online. Now, the video of you dancing has gone viral.

Yuusuke: Do the comments say how sexy I look?

Vil: ...

Vil: *frowns*

Yuusuke: *chuckles*

[syhli]

emperor!sylus x apothecary!reader. inspired by the apothecary diaries.

The waft of brewed pomegranate drifts through the air. It’s a tasteful cloud that dances at the tip of your tongue even without opening your mouth. Thankfully, unlike that of mint leaves or mugwort, the emperor’s preference to the fruit allows a welcome fragrance that invites something warm. It’s a perfect facade to lure in faulty individuals under the guise of a blanket draped over your shoulders on a chilly night.

For as long as you’ve been appointed, the emperor holds himself to a reasonably fearsome reputation. Spoken of as the fiercest ruler in history’s records, he’s a relentless, merciless power who sat on the throne. Most importantly, his own court was deterred by him. They answered to every beck and call, afraid that the smallest error would have their head on a pike.

You found it ridiculous, so to speak. 

You carried yourself in the manner, for your steps towards the emperor wherever he resided is always in confident stride compared to the cowardly steps everyone else took.

Where pomegranate was pungent in the parlor where beheadings would frequent, it was sweeter the moment you stepped through the doors. Answering, out of annoyance, another summon from Sylus.

With a furrowed brow and an indignant huff, you shut the doors behind you.

Sitting behind a low table was the man himself, resting in comfort. The rest of his royal robes discarded except one. Loose pale silk that spills out to reveal his bare chest, pathetically clinging to the edges of his shoulders as his outstretched arm rests on a propped knee. 

A gold pipe with intricate, regal carvings rests between his fingers—and with your presence, he slowly turns his head.

Unlike with his other servants, the rigidness of his sharp features melts into a playful smirk when you’re within his line of sight.

His shameless display stirs warmth within you. Despite the blush tickling your cheeks, it doesn’t sway your frustrations. You lift your sleeves to hover before the lower half of your face and bow, “Your Majesty. The servants said it was urgent.”

“You don’t have to be so formal when it’s just the two of us.”

He sighs with indifference, bringing the pipe back to his lips for a brief moment before setting it down on the mahogany surface. For a moment, you think you see him puff his chest like a child who was just told no.

“Why you insist,” he continues, tilting his chin towards you. “Beyond my simple instruction… it makes you reckless. Defying me with such an attitude.”

“I am neither consort nor servant. I don’t have any reason to speak to you like the cowards you string like puppets.”

You had always been sharp-tongued in your privacies with Sylus. It was a privilege you took advantage of considerably, and for someone as mindful as yourself, you knew when the moment was right to make use of that. 

But the silence that was typically unperturbed between you two felt heavier. 

Sylus’ gaze felt sharper as he stood. 

You didn’t know whether to keep yourself grounded like always, or make a run for it.

Was this the feeling that all the attendants carried on with every day?

“You’re a foolish girl,” he exhales, chuckling as he approaches you. Dark ruby eyes find yours, then his fingers cup your chin to tilt upwards.

“So brash, aren’t you?”

You observe his disheveled appearance; but even with those long, silver tresses out of place, he looked so much more captivating. If he weren’t an emperor with deathly prowess, he’s walking temptation incarnate. Even for you, who always resisted brothels and debauched districts, Sylus carried a presence filled with nothing but silent seduction. 

Whether it was pleasure or punishment, he was irresistable.

“...Sylus,” you finally relent, your voice quieter in embarrassment of addressing him so casually. 

“Why did you call for me? You said it was important.”

“It was.”

The emperor smiles, shifting the soft grip of his fingers into his knuckles running along the side of your neck. His touch was warm, despite it being this minimal sensation. You can’t find it in yourself to pull away from his gaze.

Sylus then cups your face, pulling you from your thoughts. He had prepared himself for a rather vulnerable declaration, until his thumb brushed against your cheek. Even in the dim light of his chambers, he could make out the slightly reddened skin, giving a low hum. Gone in seconds was his playful gaze—his eyes narrow.

You were stricken only moments ago, as you were on your way to him.

“Who did this to you?”

You grimace, pushing away his hand as you turn your head.

“It was nothing. Just some of your untouched consorts. Petty jealousy and all.”

“No.” He demands, guiding you to look at him again, “Is harassment frequent for you here? I want the truth.”

It truly wasn’t bothersome. You expected the treatment in an environment like the imperial palace. And for all the tyranny that word of mouth made Sylus out to be, you encountered it more frequently with his hires than the emperor himself. It was either tyrannical ego or cowardly devotion. Both extremes at the betting hand of winning his favor.

Something that was given to you so easily. An apothecary who entertained him more than anything else in all his years of living; surviving until he wound up where he is now.

“You’ll execute them if I say yes, won’t you?”

Sylus smiles, a ferocious glimmer in his eyes. 

“Is that what you truly desire?”

© SYHLI 2025. DO NOT TRANSLATE, COPY, OR FEED TO TRAIN A/I.

[ozzgin]

Count Orlok x Reader Posting a preview of the idea I've had because I can't muster the motivation to write a full fic for it :') content: gender neutral reader, dubcon, captivity, obsessive behavior

When you were sent to the Orlok Castle, you assumed it would be a quick affair. It was the usual business talk, you'd been told, so you entered the gloomy courtyard with haste and obliviousness. You didn't expect that the great gates would immediately shut behind you, or that you'd be promptly and unceremoniously prevented from leaving.

The count explained to you, with factual nonchalance, that you were promised to him as a consort. By whom, you demanded to know, staring the man down incredulously. You were offered a foreign, unfamiliar name.

"I wouldn't expect you to recognize it," he retorted between heavy breaths. "It's been over a century."

It could very well be longer than that, though he shan't bother with numbers. The important details are in his hand: the clawed fingers clutch onto an old, faded letter, which you pry with increasing alarm. The writing is intricate, and you don't understand the language. Romanian? Old Romanian, perhaps? Narrowing your eyes, you can almost discern some words you've encountered during your stay in this country.

"How does this relate to me?"

"It's all there, isn't it?" he takes a moment to observe your confusion, a sardonic smile creasing his features. "Your ancestor."

He searches his pocket and hands you a second letter, this time in your native language. This is a visibly more recent document, probably translated for your sake. It's a deal, an arrangement, written by a self-proclaimed solomonar. You've heard the old people at the inn talking about it; ancient wizards, initiated priests who've studied the secrets of the world under the Earth's mantle. They bring forth the storms and tame the dragons. Count Orlok himself, it seems, is a fellow solomonar who traded his soul to the devil for everlasting life. This time it was your ancestor proposing a deal in exchange for fiendish powers, promising one of his descendants in return.

You'd find it all to be folk and nonsense if you hadn't witnessed the ghoulish creature's prowess firsthand.

"Why me," you cry out, scouring the paper once more. A descendant, it says, yet nowhere does it mention any kind of particularity beyond bloodline. There must've been some distant cousin who could've taken your place just as fine.

The decaying carcass of a man can only chuckle, taking his seat at the end of the grand table. The answer you're seeking is exceptionally simple: he wanted you. Oh, he's waited years for the right human. Decades upon decades, quietly awaiting his reward in all its splendor, until, at last, you came along. He knew from the moment you were born that you'd be the one at his side.

He taps the wooden surface impatiently, eyeing your neck with greed. He's not a brute, you see, he'll give you the time to accept your fate. Make no mistake, however: you are to be his, and there is no escape from it. No one - and he truly means it - no one shall ever love you to the same depths of fervor and pathos.

[brunchable]

Winter King Masterlist

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑶𝒏𝒆 - I Was Enchanted to Meet You

Trapped in the palace gardens, Y/N’s escape attempt is interrupted by a mysterious charming man who offers to help. Little does she know, the man she’s avoiding is the one lifting her over the wall.

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑻𝒘𝒐 - I Wish You Would

The Kingdom's court is treacherous, and enemies lurk in the shadows, waiting to exploit any sign of weakness. Althought Y/N is determined to be a worthy queen of the crown, she find out that The King is as elusive as he is captivating.

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑻𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒆 - Cruel Summer

Y/N finds herself struggling to prove that she’s more than just a pawn in this dangerous game of power. But when Winnifred demands answers, it’s not just Y/N’s loyalty to the king being tested—it’s her resolve to carve out a place for herself in a world determined to see her fail.

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑭𝒐𝒖𝒓 - Afterglow [18+]

After a tumultuous separation, Queen Y/N receives a desperate letter from King James Bucky Barnes, pleading for her presence in Annecy. Reluctantly, she agrees to meet him, only to be confronted with unresolved emotions, simmering tension, and a fragile hope for reconciliation. Amidst grand dinners and intimate revelations, Bucky strips himself bare—not just of his regal façade but also the deepest scars of his past. In the midst of courtly games and political intrigue, will their love survive, or will it be another casualty of the crown?

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑭𝒊𝒗𝒆 - I Knew You Were Trouble

The court pressures James to consider a consort, while Y/N takes control by offering to choose the consort herself, leading to a heated arguement with James, who refuses the idea.

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑺𝒊𝒙 - Tolerate it [18+]

Y/N wrestles with her decision to make Wanda Bucky's consort, while political tensions escalate in the Kingdom. The council questions Bucky's absences, and Isaac continues to test him especially regarding Y/N. Bucky struggles with guilt and growing distance between him and Y/N.

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑺𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 - Look What You Made Me Do.

Y/N defies tradition by joining the equinox fetivities. Fitten in equestrian attire, she draws onlookers, including Thor, Loki and Pietro, while Bucky watches with visible frustration as others practically undress her with their eyes. Despite the tension, Y?N remains focused on the race.

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑬𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 - Bad Blood

✨️image was photoshopped by me

[novaursa]

The Flames We Share

- Summary: You tell your son the truth. He has more than the blood of dragons in his veins.

- Pairing: Gwayne Hightower/targ!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is Rhaenyra's younger sister and was bonded with Silverwing. These events happen right after The Blood We Choose. If you want to read all parts before this one in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Word count: 5 198

- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @sachaa-ff

The dungeons beneath Dragonstone were a cold, damp place, lit only by flickering torches that cast shadows that seemed to dance mockingly on the rough-hewn walls. The stench of rot and mildew clung to the air, seeping into the very stones of the fortress. Gwayne Hightower sat chained to the wall, bruised and dirty from his days of captivity, but his eyes were clear and resolute, fixed forward as he awaited what was surely his fate. His thoughts, however, were elsewhere—focused only on you, the woman he had risked everything for.

The sound of heavy boots echoed through the stone corridors, and he looked up as the iron door creaked open. Daemon Targaryen stepped inside, a predator’s smirk twisting his lips. He tossed a crumpled message onto the filthy floor in front of Gwayne’s feet. The black wax seal was unmistakable—bearing the sigil of House Hightower.

“Your father sends his regards,” Daemon drawled, a cruel edge in his voice. “He offers to trade his traitorous son for some stronghold I care little about. Imagine that—a worthless fortress in exchange for his even more worthless offspring.” Daemon’s eyes gleamed as he studied Gwayne’s reaction, searching for any sign of weakness.

But Gwayne’s expression remained stony. “You can say what you wish, Targaryen. My fate was sealed the moment I brought her to you.” His voice was hoarse but steady. “As long as Y/N is safe, I care not what becomes of me.”

Daemon’s lip curled in disdain. “Is that so?” He took a step closer, as if to loom over Gwayne. “Safe? You think she’s safe, having fallen from the sky, bleeding and broken? You think I would allow the woman who bore my son—my heir—to suffer any harm under my roof?” There was a dark gleam of possessiveness in Daemon’s eyes, as if the very notion of another man daring to care for you was an affront to his pride.

Gwayne’s gaze sharpened at that. “I want to see Vaeron,” he demanded suddenly. There was a tremor in his voice, a desperation that Daemon did not miss. “I want to speak with my son.”

Daemon’s anger flared at the insolence of the request. “Your son?” he hissed, voice low and dangerous. “That boy is a Targaryen—a dragon, not the product of some dishonorable tryst! Do you think I would allow him to be tainted by the shame of what you nearly brought upon my niece, siring a child on her without even the dignity of wedlock?”

Gwayne’s eyes darkened, yet there was a hint of mocking amusement in them as he stared up at the Rogue Prince. “And you believe yourself to be the righteous one? The man who slew his first wife in pursuit of power? Who consorts with whores while claiming the love of dragons? Tell me, Daemon, what makes you any different from me?”

Daemon’s smirk faltered, his face tightening with barely controlled rage. But Gwayne continued, his voice laced with bitterness. “She was denied to me—Y/N, I mean. If your brother had seen sense, had given her to me rather than feeding your ambitions, we could have avoided all this bloodshed. The boy would have been raised in Oldtown, under the guidance of both our Houses, and this war might never have happened.”

“Nothing could have prevented this war,” Daemon snarled, eyes flashing. “It was written in fire and blood long before you or I even took breath. But do not delude yourself into thinking you have anything resembling love, Hightower. What you claim as love is mere possession—an attempt to bind what you could never truly have.”

Gwayne’s jaw clenched at the words, but he did not respond. The two men stared at each other, the tension between them crackling like a drawn sword. Daemon took a breath, his composure returning as he straightened.

“I’ll have the boy brought to you,” Daemon said at last, his tone laced with scorn. “You may look upon him and see the life you were never destined to have. But do not forget—he is mine, and Y/N belongs to me now. She is a Targaryen, and you are nothing more than a failed traitor.”

With that, Daemon turned and strode toward the door. Before he left, he paused, throwing one last taunt over his shoulder. “Do not hope for mercy when your father trades you away like the pawn you are, Gwayne. Your life is worth little, even to those who should care most.”

The door slammed shut, leaving Gwayne alone in the darkness once more. But he did not feel defeated. Even with the chains biting into his wrists, he had no regrets for what he had done, for saving you and ensuring you were delivered safely to Dragonstone. In the end, it was not his fate that mattered—it was yours. Even in the heart of this cold, bitter place, the thought of you kept the warmth alive in his heart.

Because in the quiet shadows, despite all the titles and power Daemon clung to, Gwayne knew one truth that Daemon would never fully grasp—he loved you, wholly and without condition. And in his mind, that was a victory far greater than any throne or dragon could ever grant.

The soft crackle of the hearthfire filled the chamber, mingling with the scent of herbs and ointments from where Maesters had tended to your wounds. You sat by the window, Silverwing’s scales still etched into your memory, the pain a constant reminder of the battle you had narrowly survived. The healing was slow, but the bruises and cuts were nothing compared to the deeper ache in your chest. You weren’t sure what stung more—the death of your dragon or the desperate, foolish bravery of the man who had risked everything to save you.

A knock at the door broke your thoughts. “Come in,” you called, and the door creaked open to reveal Vaeron. The boy’s silver hair glinted in the evening light, and his blue eyes—so much like his father’s—fixed on you with concern.

“Mother,” he said quietly, stepping inside. “How are you feeling today?”

You smiled softly at him, though your heart ached as you looked upon him. “I am mending, sweetling. Stronger with each day.”

Vaeron nodded, yet his expression was troubled. He came closer, sitting on the edge of your bed, the worry in his eyes clear. “I heard… I heard Daemon talking about him,” he murmured. “The man in the dungeons—the one who saved you. Is it true he defied Ser Criston Cole and fled with you from Rook’s Rest? They say he’s a Hightower. An enemy.”

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. The boy was no longer the child you had once cradled; he was growing, his curiosity sharp and his mind keen. He deserved the truth.

“Yes, it’s true,” you replied, voice gentle. “The man who saved me is Gwayne Hightower. He… he betrayed his own kin, risked his life, and rode through the chaos to bring me here, to safety.”

Vaeron’s brow furrowed in confusion. “But why would he do that? Daemon says he’s just trying to make amends for his family’s treachery. That he’s nothing more than a desperate fool.”

You shook your head slowly. “It’s more complicated than that, my dear. Gwayne… he did it out of love, out of loyalty to someone who meant the world to him once.” You hesitated, the words heavy on your tongue. The truth was a blade you’d kept sheathed for too long, and it was time to draw it, no matter how much it might wound.

Vaeron looked at you expectantly, sensing the weight of what you were about to say. You reached out, taking his hand in yours, needing the touch to anchor yourself.

“Vaeron… the man in the dungeons, Gwayne Hightower… he is your father.”

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. Vaeron’s eyes widened, the shock raw and unfiltered in his young face. He pulled his hand away, as if trying to distance himself from the revelation. “What?” he breathed out, voice barely above a whisper. “My father? But… Daemon… I always thought…”

You nodded, pain lancing through your heart as you watched him grapple with the truth. “Daemon has raised you as his own, and in many ways, he is your father. But you have another father, by blood, and that is Gwayne Hightower. You were conceived out of a moment we both knew would never be more than a fleeting dream. He wanted to marry me, to build a life, but—”

Vaeron shook his head, backing away as he struggled to process it all. “No,” he muttered, as if denying the words could somehow make them untrue. “Daemon’s always told me I’m a Targaryen, that my blood is pure, that I am his son, a prince of the realm. How could—why didn’t you tell me? Why now, when he’s chained beneath us like some criminal?”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you blinked them back. “I didn’t want you to bear the burden of that knowledge before you were ready. You were always meant to be strong, to carry the legacy of the dragons. But Gwayne… he isn’t just a Hightower, he’s the man who saved my life when no one else dared. Whatever his blood, he does care for you in his own way, even from afar now.”

Vaeron’s lips trembled as he stared at you, his confusion and hurt palpable. “I need… I need to think,” he stammered, turning abruptly and nearly stumbling over himself in his haste to leave the room.

“Vaeron, wait—” you called after him, but he was already gone, the door slamming shut behind him. The sound echoed in the emptiness of the chamber, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

Your chest tightened with regret. You had known this moment would come eventually, but you had hoped it would be under different circumstances. There was so much more you wanted to tell him, so much more to explain. But for now, all you could do was hope that he would find a way to understand, to see beyond the conflict of bloodlines and names.

In that fleeting moment before he vanished, you had seen the storm raging behind his eyes—a storm you knew would not settle easily. And in that storm, you glimpsed the boy he had always been and the man he was becoming, torn between the truths that defined him.

But you could only wait, knowing that the choice between dragons and towers was his to make, even if it broke your heart in the process.

Vaeron’s footsteps echoed through the winding corridors of Dragonstone as he fought to steady his breath. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a heavy drum drowning out the world around him. The truth his mother had just revealed rang in his ears like a cruel jest—Gwayne Hightower is your father. The words were a blade lodged deep in his chest, twisting with every thought, every doubt that now swirled within him.

He turned a corner, the air cool against his flushed face, and found himself in the dimly lit dining hall. The large table at its center was set for the evening meal, though the room was mostly empty save for one figure seated at the end, absently twirling a goblet in his hand.

Jacaerys Velaryon looked up, catching sight of Vaeron. His dark curls fell loosely over his forehead, and his brown eyes narrowed in concern as he took in his cousin’s strained expression. “Vaeron?” he called out, his voice low but filled with the warmth of kinship. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s wrong?”

Vaeron stiffened, his gaze flickering away as he hesitated at the threshold of the hall. The weight of the revelation clung to him like a shroud, and for a moment, he wondered if it would be easier to bury it, to pretend that nothing had changed. But Jacaerys’ patient eyes, filled with genuine care, drew him in like a tether.

With a resigned sigh, Vaeron walked over and slumped into the chair opposite Jace, the firelight casting shadows on his troubled face. He didn’t speak for a moment, merely stared at the table as he tried to gather the words that had lodged like stones in his throat.

Jace leaned forward, the lines of worry deepening on his brow. “Vaeron, you’re scaring me. What’s happened?”

“I…” Vaeron’s voice cracked, and he swallowed hard before continuing, “I just learned something that changes everything.” He finally looked up, his eyes rimmed with uncertainty. “The man in the dungeons—the Hightower who brought Mother back from Rook’s Rest… He’s my father. My real father.”

Jacaerys’ eyes widened in shock, his goblet nearly slipping from his grasp. “What? But—Daemon’s always—”

“I know,” Vaeron cut in, voice strained. “I thought Daemon was my father, too. I grew up believing I was his son, a true Targaryen. But Mother told me just now that Gwayne Hightower is my sire. I’m… I’m a bastard.”

The word hung heavy in the air between them, laden with shame and confusion. Vaeron felt his chest tighten again, the sting of doubt gnawing at him. What did that make him now? Was he even truly a part of this family? A dragon in name only, born of a union that should never have been?

Jacaerys’ expression softened as he saw the pain in Vaeron’s eyes. He set down his goblet and leaned closer, trying to find the right words. “Listen to me, Vaeron,” he began, voice steady and laced with a touch of empathy. “We’ve both been raised with more lies and expectations than most people could handle. But if anyone understands how it feels to question who you are, it’s me.”

Vaeron blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

Jacaerys gave a rueful smile, leaning back in his chair as he stared into the flames. “I’ve heard the whispers, the taunts—people saying I’m no true Targaryen because of my questionable blood. They mock the fact that I don’t have silver hair or violet eyes, that I look more like a commoner than a prince. And sometimes… sometimes, I wonder if they’re right.”

The honesty in Jace’s voice caught Vaeron off guard, pulling him out of his own turmoil. He had always admired Jacaerys—his confidence, his sense of duty. He had never imagined that his cousin carried doubts of his own.

“But you’re still recognized as one of us,” Vaeron murmured, brow furrowed. “You’re still heir to the Iron Throne, still a dragon. No one would ever dare deny that.”

Jace nodded, but his gaze remained distant. “True, but that doesn’t erase the whispers. Even with the dragon blood flowing through my veins, I’ve always felt like I had to prove I’m worthy of the name Targaryen. But you…” He looked back at Vaeron, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You look like a Targaryen. No one would ever question your blood—silver hair—you were born a dragon, even if your father wasn’t one.”

Vaeron’s breath hitched at the kindness in Jace’s words. But it didn’t soothe the ache gnawing at his heart. “Does it even matter, Jace? If I’m truly a bastard, what does any of this mean? My whole life, I’ve been told I’m meant for something great, but now… now I don’t even know who I really am.”

Jacaerys’ expression grew firm, his voice taking on a rare edge of command. “It means you choose who you are, Vaeron. Blood alone doesn’t decide it. You were raised in this family, loved by your mother and Daemon alike. That is what makes you one of us. Not some Hightower who’s rotting in a cell.”

Vaeron’s throat tightened at the thought of Gwayne, the man who had defied his own House, who had thrown everything away to save the woman he loved. Did that make him worthy of being called a father? Could that kind of loyalty outweigh his bloodline, or was it too little too late?

“I need time to think,” Vaeron murmured, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just… a lot.”

Jacaerys reached across the table, placing a reassuring hand on Vaeron’s shoulder. “You’ll figure it out, cousin. You’re not alone in this, alright? Whatever you decide, you’ll always have me and the rest of your family behind you.”

Vaeron nodded numbly, grateful for Jace’s support but still lost in the sea of confusion and emotions swirling within him. The questions gnawed at him relentlessly, leaving him torn between the man he had always believed himself to be and the truth that now threatened to shatter that identity.

The tension clung to the air in the dining hall like smoke, heavy and suffocating. Vaeron sat in silence after Jacaerys left, lost in the maze of his thoughts, unable to untangle the twisted knots of his emotions. His whole life had been built on one truth: that he was a Targaryen, son of Daemon, a prince destined for greatness. But now that truth had shattered, and he felt like a child cast adrift on a stormy sea, unsure of where to turn.

The sound of footsteps approached, measured and deliberate, and Vaeron looked up to see Daemon entering the hall. His expression was unreadable, though his sharp eyes missed nothing as they swept over Vaeron’s troubled face. For a moment, the prince said nothing, merely studying his son—his real son in all but blood—with a calculating gaze.

“You’re brooding,” Daemon finally said, his voice low and tinged with an edge of dry amusement. “A trait you didn’t inherit from your mother, I’d wager.”

Vaeron clenched his fists on the table, unable to meet Daemon’s eyes. “Everything I’ve ever known about myself is a lie,” he muttered, his voice thick with anger and confusion. “How am I supposed to believe anything now?”

Daemon’s gaze softened, but his voice remained firm. “You think this changes who you are?” he asked, stepping closer. “You think some whispered secret about your parentage wipes away the blood that runs through your veins? You are still a Targaryen, still my son in every way that matters.”

Vaeron’s eyes snapped up, a flash of frustration crossing his face. “But I’m not,” he insisted, his voice cracking. “I’m not truly your son, not by blood. I’m just… a bastard. A mistake.”

Daemon’s expression darkened, and he took a seat across from Vaeron, his presence commanding and unyielding. “Is that what you truly believe?” he asked, his tone both gentle and sharp. “That blood alone defines who you are? You were raised in the shadow of dragons, with the legacy of kings and conquerors shaping your every step. That is no lie. I’ve taught you, guided you, prepared you for the world because I chose you as my heir, not because of whose seed sired you.”

Vaeron looked away, struggling with the conflicting emotions swirling within him. “But… why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his voice a whisper now, tinged with the pain of betrayal. “All this time, you let me believe…”

Daemon sighed, his gaze growing distant as if recalling a memory long buried. “Because you needed to grow up without that burden,” he said quietly. “What good would it have done to burden you with a truth that might have only confused you, made you question everything? You were born a Targaryen in all the ways that matter. I’ve treated you as such, and so has your mother. That will never change, no matter who your true father is.”

Vaeron’s chest tightened at the mention of his mother, and he shook his head. “But now I know, and I can’t just pretend it doesn’t matter. That man in the dungeons… he’s the reason I exist, and yet he’s a stranger to me. How can I make sense of that?”

Daemon leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the wood. “Gwayne Hightower might be your blood father, but that doesn’t mean he has any claim over you,” he said with a hint of disdain in his voice. “He made a choice back at Rook’s Rest—one that I don’t entirely understand myself. He risked everything to bring your mother back here. Perhaps he thought it would redeem him somehow, or maybe he truly cared for her in his own way. Either way, he’s asked to speak with you.”

Vaeron stiffened at the words, his heart lurching in his chest. “He wants to see me?”

Daemon nodded slowly. “He does. He requested it, though he knows the choice is yours to make. I told him I’d send you, but the decision is yours. You can go to him, or you can ignore it and leave him to rot where he belongs.”

Vaeron’s mind reeled, torn between the curiosity gnawing at him and the fear of facing the man who had upended his world with his very existence. He shook his head, his voice trembling as he spoke. “I can’t. Not today. I don’t even know what I’d say to him… what I’d ask.”

Daemon studied him for a moment before nodding in understanding. “That’s your right. You don’t have to face him until you’re ready—if you ever are.” He reached out, placing a hand on Vaeron’s shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. “But know this, boy: whoever sired you, you are still my son. You bear the Targaryen name because I have claimed you as my own, because you were raised with fire in your blood. No man, be he Hightower or otherwise, can take that from you.”

Vaeron looked up at him, searching Daemon’s face for some trace of deception, but all he saw was the fierce loyalty and pride that Daemon had always shown him. For all his faults and ruthlessness, Daemon had been the only father Vaeron had ever known. And in that moment, the boy clung to that truth like a lifeline.

“Thank you,” Vaeron murmured, his voice small but filled with genuine gratitude. “I just… need time. To sort through it all.”

Daemon’s lips curved into a rare, almost affectionate smile, one reserved for the few he held dear. “Take all the time you need,” he said quietly. “But remember, you are a Targaryen, and no truth will ever change that. Not in the eyes of those who matter.”

With that, Daemon rose from the table, giving Vaeron a final nod before turning to leave the hall. Vaeron watched him go, the conflicting emotions still swirling in his chest, but there was a newfound clarity in his heart. The path ahead was clouded, and the shadow of Gwayne Hightower’s existence hanged over him like a specter. But for now, he knew where he stood—with the family that had shaped him, that had loved him despite the secrets and lies.

But deep down, in the quiet recesses of his mind, he knew that one day he would have to face the man who had saved his mother and who claimed the title of his father. Just… not today. Today, he would hold on to the identity he’d always known and trust that, in time, he would find his way through the tangled web of blood and loyalty.

For now, he was still Vaeron Targaryen, son of Daemon—trueborn or not, dragon or not, he was still a part of the legacy that burned brightly in the heart of House Targaryen. And that was enough to anchor him, at least for tonight.

The corridors beneath Dragonstone were dark and damp, the oppressive chill seeping into Vaeron’s bones as he made his way toward the dungeons. It had been a week since his world had been upended, a week of wrestling with the truth of his parentage. He had tried to push it aside, to focus on the training sessions with his cousins, the books his mother insisted he study, the words of comfort from Daemon. But every night, when the candles burned low and the castle quieted, the thought gnawed at him: if he didn’t face the man in the dungeons, he would never truly understand where he came from—or who he was.

So here he was, descending deeper into the belly of the fortress, the iron doors looming ahead. A guard nodded and stepped aside, allowing him entry. The door creaked open, revealing the shadowed cell where Gwayne Hightower sat slumped against the cold stone wall, chains rattling faintly with his every breath.

Gwayne’s face was bruised and gaunt, the days of imprisonment leaving their mark on him. But his eyes, so strikingly similar to Vaeron’s own, flicked up the moment the boy entered. Surprise and something softer—something like hope—flashed in his gaze.

“Vaeron,” he murmured, as if testing the name on his lips. “You came.”

Vaeron stood just inside the threshold, tension thrumming through his body. He wasn’t sure what he had expected—anger, indifference, desperation? But all he felt was a tangled mix of emotions that refused to settle.

After a long silence, Vaeron finally took a few steps closer, his voice tentative as he asked, “How could I not? I had to face you… or I couldn’t live with myself.”

Gwayne’s expression softened, a flicker of pride and sorrow crossing his face. “You’re braver than most would be in your position,” he said quietly. He shifted slightly, wincing at the pull of his wounds and restraints. “How… how is your mother? Is she recovering?”

Vaeron’s heart tightened at the genuine concern in Gwayne’s voice. Despite everything, despite the shame and anger swirling within him, he could not deny the sincerity of the man’s question. “She’s getting better,” Vaeron replied, a hint of guardedness still in his tone. “But her injuries are still bad. The fall from Silverwing was…” His voice trailed off, unable to find the right words.

Gwayne nodded, his jaw clenched as if in shared pain. “She’s strong. She always has been. I knew if I could just get her here, she’d fight her way back.” His voice grew hoarse with emotion, and he averted his gaze for a moment before looking back at Vaeron. “Thank you for telling me.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint drip of water echoing through the dungeons. Vaeron swallowed the lump in his throat and finally spoke the question that had been burning in him since he decided to come here. “Daemon says you’re a traitor,” he said, his voice low but unwavering. “That you can’t be trusted, that you’ve betrayed your family and your House. But… you saved my mother. You risked your life, your honor, everything.”

Gwayne’s expression didn’t change, but something deep and resolute flickered in his eyes. “Daemon’s right—I am a traitor to my own kin, to my House. I turned my back on everything I was raised to uphold. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

The simple conviction in his words struck Vaeron like a blow. He could see the truth of it written in every line of Gwayne’s face, in the quiet determination that had driven him to this point. Vaeron wanted to challenge him, to demand answers, but instead, he found himself asking, “Why?”

Gwayne’s lips curled into a faint, sad smile. “Because she was worth it. Your mother was worth more than any loyalty to my House, more than any honor I might have clung to. You see, I loved her long before any of this war came to pass. I wanted to marry her, to build a life with her, but your uncle, King Viserys, had other plans. When she was given to Daemon, I knew my place would only ever be on the outside, looking in.” He paused, eyes darkening with the weight of old wounds. “But that didn’t change how I felt. When I saw her falling in battle, when I saw Silverwing plummet… I didn’t think about anything else. I just acted. I’d rather be a traitor and live knowing I saved her than be a loyal man and watch her die.”

Vaeron’s chest tightened, torn between resentment and reluctant understanding. “You say that like it was noble, like it justifies everything. But it’s still treason. You abandoned your family. You betrayed your own.”

Gwayne’s expression grew more serious, his voice a low rumble in the dim light. “Yes, and I will face the consequences of that. I know what I’ve done, and I’ve made my peace with it. But you must understand, Vaeron—whatever Daemon tells you, whatever anyone says—you are my son. I know I have no right to claim you, not after all these years, but it doesn’t change what you are to me.”

Vaeron felt the words hanging in the air like a challenge, daring him to acknowledge the bond that existed between them, even if he wished it didn’t. He looked down, his fists clenched at his sides. “I don’t know what I am,” he admitted, his voice strained. “I was raised to believe I’m a Targaryen, that I’m Daemon’s son. Now everything feels like a lie. How can I be both?”

Gwayne’s gaze softened, the hardness of his demeanor giving way to something almost tender. “You are both,” he said quietly. “You were raised as a Targaryen, with all the fire and pride that comes with it. That is a part of you. But you’re also my blood, whether you like it or not. And you get to decide what that means for you.”

Vaeron’s mind spun with conflicting emotions—anger, guilt, a flicker of something like pity. He wasn’t sure if he could ever see Gwayne as his father, not in the way Daemon had been. But he couldn’t deny that the man who sat before him had risked everything for his mother, for the chance to protect her even when all seemed lost. And for that alone, he couldn’t simply dismiss him.

After a long silence, Vaeron finally shook his head. “I can’t face you—not today. There’s too much I don’t understand, too much I still need to figure out.”

Gwayne nodded, accepting the decision without protest. “I won’t ask for more than you’re willing to give,” he said softly. “But know that I’m here, for as long as they allow me to draw breath. And whatever choice you make, whatever path you choose—I will always be proud of you.”

The words stung, leaving Vaeron with a raw ache in his chest. He wanted to respond, to say something more, but the weight of everything—his own confusion, the war, the fractured loyalties—was too much. He turned abruptly, leaving the cell without another word, his thoughts swirling in a tempest of conflicting emotions.

As he walked away, the echo of Gwayne’s voice lingered in his mind, a reminder that some truths, no matter how painful, couldn’t be ignored forever. But for now, he needed time to reconcile the man he had always believed himself to be with the truths he couldn’t yet fully accept.

And so, Vaeron returned to the world above, leaving the man who called himself his father to the shadows, knowing that one day—perhaps too soon—he would have to confront the reality of who he truly was.

[reliquaryofflesh]

I promise to take good care of you.

I’ll cook for you, clean house, cuddle with you every chance I get, give you enough chain so you can move around, make love to you whenever you need, sew up your wounds when I’m doing fucking them, make sure you stay nice and warm and comfortable, and keep you safe from anyone who might try to take you away from me.

You’ll never want to leave me. Not that you could if you wanted to.

You’re all mine and I love you. I love you.

[sweetfirebird]

A Suitable Captive

A Suitable 'Verse story set in the time of the Earls

The mysterious figure known as the Wild Dog has risen up to crush and humiliate the Earls who control the North. Fen, son of a powerful Earl, has been sent to form an alliance to benefit his father’s plans against the bold rebel. There are many kinds of alliances in the world of nobles, but political alliances often grow to include the intimacy of lovers or even marriage, and Fen has been ordered to use his famed beauty seduce his intended, regardless of what he feels. But Fen has no love for his cruel father or in forming any kind of alliance with a noble his father prefers. He takes his first chance to run, only to end up lost and hungry in vast wilderness… where he is found by the Wild Dog himself.

Lan, called Wild Dog by furious Earls who don’t like to be challenged, looms over Fen and most others, and yet carries Fen when Fen is too weak to walk any longer. He allows his friends to tease him and ensures his people are fed before he sits for his own meals. Fen, who has rarely known kindness, is captivated. But Fen is also an Earl’s cub, and if the Wild Dog can change rules that have always existed, then so can Fen. Without his father’s say he offers an alliance of his own, promising to use his knowledge of the nobles to help the Wild Dog achieve his aims. No seduction is required, although for the first time in his life, Fen considers it. Each time Lan listens to him, or pulls him close to share warmth as they sleep, or shows that he trusts Fen, Fen wants him in a way he barely understands.

But Fen is more powerful than he realizes or that his nickname of “Flower” would suggest. He sees destiny at work when he looks at Lan. The Wild Dog is something greater than a mere Earl, and fate, or the fae, have placed Fen in his path. Now it’s time for Fen-the-flower to decide if his agreement with Lan might become more—an alliance, or marriage, for the ages.

(Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Wild Dog.)

(Or, A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to My Cousin's to Flee a Forced Alliance)

(Or, Things to Do in the Mountains When You're on the Run From Your Father and Your Fiancee and You're Captured by a Hot Rebel)

(Or, Master and Commander: Fen Gets Tied Up and Has Feelings About It)

I'll stop now.

Anyway. A Suitable Captive--December 26th!

(Content tags on the copyright page as usual. It's a standalone but reading the other two ain't gonna hurt the experience.)

[bookstattoosandtea]

Release Blitz, Excerpt & Giveaway: Consort of the Dragon King by Ariella Zoelle Writing as Zarina Aston

Release Blitz, Excerpt & Giveaway: Consort of the Dragon King By Ariella Zoelle Writing as Zarina Aston Bonded Hearts, Book 2 At long last, King Kitsuki’s fated mate returns. Can they overcome the dangerous threats and form a mating bond before it’s too late? After six hundred agonizing years, Kitsuki’s intended has finally returned to him. Their reunion is full of joy and sorrow, as the once…