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wri0thesley · 5 months ago

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cw: cunnilingus, not sfw, arranged marriage reader wearing a gown (no pronouns). based on this post from a few days ago. 3.1k

There's a pout on your pretty mouth that Wriothesley is utterly itching to kiss off.

It’s an expression he’s grown rather used to on the face of his spouse; somebody as properly born and bred to society as you finds themselves a touch adrift when faced with Wriothesley’s own gruff manner, his inability to kowtow to the strictures that Fontainian society attempts to place on those who have ascended to its lofty heights.

Unfortunately, when his availability had become common knowledge and eager parents had flocked to him in order to hawk their beloved children like so many lovely wares, he had found himself exceedingly drawn to you. To the stiff little way you held yourself and inclined your head, the way your voice had shook - the way that you hadn’t immediately tried to flutter your lashes and laugh at things that were not jokes.

It had not hurt that your family, though fine of name and lineage, had fallen somewhat into financial difficulty. Some parents had withdrawn their offspring from the game of courtship when it had become clear that though Wriothesley now had the title of ‘Duke’, he was still at heart a former criminal, and not the genteel fawning aristocrat they had expected to find.

(A title is not enough to take back over half a life spent in the fortress of Meropide, after all; not enough to scrub the memory of noses crunching beneath his fists, of what it feels like to end someone’s life even if it is for the greater good).

Your family, though, had needed the boost; the Mora and the prestige. And so you had remained achingly polite and maddeningly prim and proper and so very obviously inexperienced that the sweetness of it all made the back of Wriothesley’s teeth ache.

“Where are you taking me?” You ask him, in a soft whisper, as his hand fastens firmly but not bruisingly about your upper arm; as your husband maneuvers you away from the chatter of the ballroom. “You’ve barely greeted anyone--”

He knows you are scandalised; that your parents have taught you to be the gracious party guest, to bow and chatter idly and wax poetic about crystal champagne glasses. But Wriothesley has spoken to Chief Justice Neuvillette (just as out of place and adrift here as Wriothesley himself), and he considers that his duty properly done. He has no desire to do the things that are expected of him.

Not when that pout on your face - the way the light hits the glimmering petals of your lower lip - is begging to be kissed within an inch of its life, and the moonlight streaming through the windows is illuminating the curves of you in your pretty gown, and he knows that you will squirm and squeak and call him a dirty old man in that way he loves, your voice pitching with desire you’re still not sure about, the moment he has you alone at his mercy in one of the shadowed hallways of tonight’s party.

“Just to get some air,” he says, giving a smile that’s all wolf-bared teeth to the closest gentleman who dares to give you both a briefly disapproving look. “Isn’t it just so horribly stuffy in there?”

Your nose wrinkles, between your brows creasing. Wriothesley thinks about kissing every place the flesh furrows on your face, covering you in them until you’re helpless to do anything but laugh. He always feels like a hero when he has managed a laugh out of you; you seem to give them so rarely, and it’s such a darling little bell of a noise.

“It’s barely been ten minutes,” you settle on, the faintest hint of reproach in your voice. “It’s really not polite . . .”

What is not polite, he thinks, is the way that the run of his thoughts have turned to your dress, cut low enough to make people think indecent thoughts about you. There are no manners, either, to the fact he is thinking about the perfume he had watched you dab on this evening, and wondering how long he’d have to rut into you until the only thing that people could smell on you would be the musk of his ownership.

“They’ll live,” Wriothesley says firmly, steering you out into the hallway. “You ought to know nobody here really wants my esteemed company.”

There’s no bitterness in his voice. Wriothesley does not want to be beloved of this particular roiling mass of humanity; the aristocracy, in his experience, is all artifice. He may spend his time with criminals, but at least the criminal underclasses are usually honest about what they want. They’ve been taught that ‘you do not get if you do not ask, do not try, do not work for it’ - these people, this gathering of society schmoozers . . . they get simply by being born.

Of course, since he married you, there have been more invitations than before.

Part of it is curiosity - what kind of spouse will the Duke of the Fortress take? One like him, who does not conform? Some of them want nothing more than to ogle at you and find out your secrets, poke you in your softest parts so they know if you will be a weakness that they can later exploit. Wriothesley finds these people distasteful - at least some of the invitations come from those who have already met you, who have been charmed by your pretty manners and sweet way of speaking, who are hoping that perhaps you will be some calming influence on your uncivilised brute of a husband. He still doesn’t like these invitations, of course (any event in which he is forced to put on a stiffly starched shirt and button it to his throat, to fuss with cravats and tailcoats when he’d rather stick to his own clothes, are not generally met with much pleasure for him), but at least you always seem thrilled to get them.

It’s because of you he had accepted this one. When you had brought the invitation to him all bright-eyed and chirping, like a pretty magpie with a shiny coin, he had not been able to think of an excuse faced with you looking so utterly thrilled . . . and so he’d helped you choose a dress (he does so love you in black and red, and if he had chosen something cut low in the chest for reasons of his own, who is going to blame him when they see you?), and had travelled out of the Fortress in order to please you.

He’d only lasted ten minutes, but perhaps after he’s pleased himself the two of you can go back out into the throes and he will have the memory of what you’ve just done to dwell on as he pretends to care about the difference between the fish fork and the dessert fork.

“That’s just because you don’t let them see the real you,” you begin, but Wriothesley has seen what looks like a likely little hallway - secluded and dark, only one or two doorways leading off of it. He tugs at you, and though you offer a token resistance, you allow yourself after a moment to be pulled into the little alcove, and for your husband to cage you against a wall. Your breath catches, your lashes fluttering as your eyes flit to take in the breadth of him, the muscles, the way you are inescapably caught by him - and Wriothesley does not miss the desire that dances over your gaze. “Your Grace--”

“Mmm?” He asks, raising an eyebrow, lowering his face closer to yours so that he can see himself reflected in your eyes. His cock twitches at the way you bite your lip unconsciously, and he knows from the little gasp that you do not miss the sensation of it against you. “Am I doing something untoward again, sweetheart?”

He lets his voice roughen a touch on the word; the patois of the criminal flavouring it in a way that reminds you he is dangerous, and you pout so sweetly and let out the quietest little whine that he doesn’t know how he stops himself from having his way with you right then and there. There are many untoward things he would like to do to you; many untoward things he is planning on doing to you, right here, in public.

“It’s indecent . . .” You gasp - but you still wrap your arms around his neck, and still pull him in to let him kiss you hot and hungry and fierce as a wolf. He cannot get enough of the way you taste beneath him; there is sugar that lingers on your lips even when he hasn’t seen you imbibe anything but a single glass of champagne when offered. He wants to devour you; to taste every part of you, until his mouth only remembers the lingering remnants of your own.

You gasp, pressing your body - soft and impossibly pliable - against his wherever you can reach him, hard planes of muscle meeting the softer give of your flesh beneath your gown.

“You seem to like it well enough,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to whisper it into the delicate shell of your ear, delighting in the way the words make you shiver. You try to school your face to sternness, but your own desire betrays you even as you try and pull your dignity around you like a cloak.

“B-But, Your Grace, in public--”

“Mm . . . doesn’t the thrill of being caught make it seem all the sweeter?” He gives you a grin that shines like the sharks that sometimes float past the Fortress, serenely serrated. You squeak in a cross between dismay and longing as he sinks to the floor, and his big, scarred hands find the hem of your gown to begin pushing it up your ankles.

The frills and fripperies of lace and ribbons look almost wicked, in those hands; fine, delicate concoctions of fabric and satin that were not made to be man-handled. You shiver at the thought of his grip ripping through them; of fine fabrics being rent asunder in his hands as you know he is capable of.

“We shouldn’t--” You whisper, in that pitching whine of ‘don’t’ that is only a step away from ‘please don’t stop’.

His palms - he will not even grudgingly wear full gloves - feel cool, even through your stockings, as he slides them up your calf. His chuckle is a rough-spurred thing, and before you can say anything further he has disappeared beneath your skirts entirely, and you find yourself clinging to the moulding on the wall behind you to try and get some semblance of purchase.

He tugs at one of the ribbons that keeps your stockings held up, and from the hot puff of air against your bare thigh, you know he has done so with his teeth. Your pulse flutters in your throat, your vision fair spotting with the mixture of feelings that Wriothesley’s actions are drawing forth from you - desire and shame and wanting and need and unsurety, all mixing together inside of you in a cocktail of arousal so potent you barely know how you stand it.

A wet, open-mouthed kiss is pressed to the spot above your stocking, on your bare thigh. You feel the graze of his teeth against the soft skin, unseen by anyone aside from him. Unmarked by anyone aside from him (you have learnt that the Duke is very fond of using his teeth, during his bed-chamber escapades; you have learnt more at his mouth and his fingers and his mercy than you had ever thought that you would have cause to know).

Wriothesley’s cock is so hard in his too-tight formal trousers that he can barely think of anything but the pulse between his thighs, but the moment he has his head beneath your skirts and he can scent your arousal on the air, all thoughts of tending to his own almost-painful erection instead turn to tasting you, smelling you, burying himself inside of you until you are a helpless mess.

He knows that logically you taste, probably, of the oils and the powders and the lotions you use, on your skin and in your bath. Perhaps a touch of your own sweat - but to Wriothesley, the taste that lingers on the tip of his tongue as he takes his time kissing up your thigh, working towards the apex between them, is nothing short of ambrosial. He can hear his own breaths, hard and panting, but he has never been the kind of man who lets himself feel shamed for doing what he wants.

“You’re dripping,” he grunts, and the muscles in your thighs jump, tensing, as if you’re cringing at what he has said - and though he cannot see you from his place beneath the skirts of your gown, he can gladly imagine the expression on your face. You’re darling. He wants to kiss you until you can’t breathe and fuck you until you can’t walk; but for now . . .

He settles by kissing over the softness of your mound, letting his hot breath once more fan out over that most intimate part of you. He hears you whine again from somewhere above him;

“Wriothesley, you’re being obscene . . .”

He lets his mouth fully envelope your cunt; lets his tongue lathe out across your folds, flickering against your clit in a way that makes you violently jerk. The moan that you let out is muffled - one of your own (gloved, as is right and proper in society) hands has flown up to your mouth. Though he will miss the sound of your enjoyment unencumbered, he supposes it is better for privacy if you at least make an attempt.

“So you want me to stop?” He growls, the taste of your slick lingering on his tongue, honey-thick and just as sweet. To drive in the point of what you would be missing, he lets himself give your clit - the swollen nub standing to attention, as if begging him for more - a kitten lick.

“Don’t even think about it, you scoundrel,” you say, whisper-soft and gasping, and Wriothesley knows you cannot possibly fail to sense the curve of his lips against your cunt.

“As you wish,” he says. “Never let it be said that I don’t take my duties as a Duke and a gentleman seriously.”

And he returns to his task with voracious excitement.

He has done this to you before, but never in public - never with you standing, never with the threat of discovery looming over his head . . . he finds he does indeed quite enjoy the thrill, so he takes his sweet time exploring your folds with his tongue, letting himself be even wetter and messier than he’d normally be.

The sound is indeed obscene, as he delves the tip of his tongue between your folds - as he finds your pulsing entrance and toys with it, slipping just a little of the flexible muscle inside of the channel until he feels you try and clamp down on it, before he returns to the wet circling of your fluttering hole.

His nose presses directly into the softness of your mound, grinding against your clit with every slight adjustment of his head. Normally, you’d at least be able to tug on his hair as he did this (and he’s rather fond of that too - the way you do even that so neatly, so apologetically), but now you are entirely at his mercy and it is obvious from the tremble in your thigh, as if you are going to swoon to the floor at any moment.

You shift to rest more against the wall and Wriothesley takes that as an excuse to manhandle you - he takes one of your thighs and slings it over his shoulder, unbalancing you but for a moment - but giving him far better access to the spot between your legs.

Far easier, like this, for him to use thumb and forefinger to tease the lips of your labia apart and to settle his mouth around the pearl of your clit.

You jerk in surprise again, more soft muffled whimpering coming from above. He can make out a few of the words - ‘scoundrel, rake, you filthy pervert, Wriothesley Your Grace please don’t stop--’

He is not a cruel husband, so he does not.

Your clit, pulsing with need, is drawn into his mouth - and Wriothesley takes great pleasure in suckling upon it the way that one might a particularly delicious candy, his tongue lathing over and over and over. You squirm in his grip, and he imagines your face as it always is when you are close to the edge. You tremble and sweat and shake for him and Wriothesley needs you to fall apart like he needs air.

He redoubles his efforts; his other hand clenches on your inner thigh, his forefinger finding the pulsing, clenching hole of your sex. As he sucks, he gently inserts just the tip of it inside of you, and oh, you are greedy for more than his mouth--

You come with a strangled cry that is not quite caught by your glove - a clamping of your thighs around Wriothesley’s ears, and a gush of wetness that Wriothesley is more than happy to let flow into his open mouth and down his chin, to stain the collar of his starched white shirt.

When your aftershocks are over - when you are trembling not so violently, and he trusts you to stand on your own two feet, he presses a kiss to your cunt before he returns your leg to the ground.

He disentangles himself from your skirts, his knees only aching a little - nothing, really, compared to the inescapable pulse of his cock where it’s longing to be pressed hot and deep inside of you. He does not bother wiping his mouth of your release - and when you see him, his face shiny and wet with the proof of your enjoyment, you huff in embarrassment and avoid his gaze.

You’re the sweetest little thing, he thinks again fondly. Even though you had moments ago been rutting against his mouth like the most brazen and desperate creature in Teyvat . . . now, faced with the proof of what you’ve done, you’ve gone over all proper again.

Deftly and firmly, he takes your chin in his hand and presses a kiss against your mouth, making sure your own taste lingers on the soft petals of your lips. He makes sure he takes full control of it; that it is a press of his ownership of you like his seal pressing into wax on the missives he writes down in the depths of the Fortress. If only you knew just how much of him you owned in turn.

“I think,” he says, his voice thick, “I feel much improved. And you were right, sweetheart, about it being rude to leave a party so quickly. Should we return back to the ballroom?”

#writing #genshin impact posting #not sfw text #wriothesley x reader #drabble #genshin impact x reader #wriothesley smut #genshin impact smut

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niki-phoria · 8 months ago

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WE'LL FIND OUR LOVE IN THE SKY

pairing: fushiguro megumi x gn!reader (no pronouns used) genre: fluff word count: 379

notes: megumi pretty boy !! this took FOREVER to write lmao, not proofread pls forgive any mistakes, title from the weeknd - love in the sky

“you’re so pretty.”

megumi furrows his eyebrows, glancing over at you. his gaze could almost be called a glare, but the deep flush that immediately spreads across his cheeks does little to intimidate you. “what are you talking about?” he scoffs.

you smile in response. megumi freezes when you reach up, brushing a stray strand of hair away from his face. it feels soft against your fingers - ink black and just short enough for it to avoid being caught in his eyes.

only illuminated by a sliver of moonlight, you smile. megumi watches as you intertwine your fingers together. hands that hold the power to summon the most dangerous of creatures are nothing but pliant in your hold.

you trace your fingertips along the callouses that litter his palms before leaning in to press a chaste kiss against his knuckles.

“you’re pretty,” you repeat.

megumi frowns. of all the words used to describe him, megumi most often agreed with average. nothing special.

he wasn’t the most powerful sorcerer. he was smart - probably smart enough to get him into a decent university - but not smart enough for him to consider it an asset. and his looks were nothing megumi cared to focus on for longer than the time it took for him to brush his hair in the morning.

but here you were - the most gorgeous person he had ever seen - calling fushiguro megumi pretty.

“pretty?” he repeats. the word almost feels foreign as it leaves his lips. “really?”

“of course.” megumi isn’t given time to think of a response before your lips brush against the junction between his neck and shoulder. his breath hitches in his throat when you shift, this time pressing another kiss against the edge of his jaw. then his cheek. and finally, you press a kiss against megumi’s lips.

you can just barely taste his mint chapstick as his lips mold against your own, unconsciously chasing after you when you pull away. you smile softly as you reach up to cup his face in your hands. megumi’s skin feels hot against your own, though you’re gracious enough not to mention it in the moment. “i love you, megumi.”

megumi playfully rolls his eyes; his lips quirk upwards into a soft smile. “i love you too.”

taglist (open! send an ask/dm to be added): @sunoooism

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merakiui · 1 year ago

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eden.

yandere!rollo flamme x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, nsfw, non-con, captivity, obsession, menophilia/period sex, vague references to the story of adam & eve note - a self-indulgent paradise crafted by rollo's generous, gracious hand.

Silvery slivers of moonlight spill through the space in the curtains, illuminating the fluffy sheets you’re currently entangled in. A sharp sting in your abdomen rouses you from your dreamless slumber, so agonizing it causes you to slowly curl in on yourself. Miserable and defeated, you groan and bury your face in the neighboring pillow. Now muffled, the sound can only carry on for however much capacity your lungs possess. It eventually fizzles out into a solemn, silent resignation that forces you to accept the third day of the monthly curse that is the menstrual cycle.

It’s a natural facet of your biology, but that doesn’t stop you from moping when you register the slick sensation between your legs.

This wouldn’t be an issue if he got me pads or tampons, you think, bitter with resentment and worn to exhaustion even though you’ve only just woken.

Awkwardly, you attempt to sit up and pull the covers back to check the damage. Rollo’s sheets are always spotless and fresh; he washes them every two weeks on Sunday afternoons, dedicated to following his schedule down to the letter. But then the pain persists, stabbing through to your very organs, and you resume your pitiful fetal position in hopes that the severity may abate.

It does, but you think you’re just tricking yourself into believing so.

You can feel the blood soaking through your white nightgown, and the sodden fabric molds itself to your rear in a very unpleasant way. Shuddering, you blink back tears.

I wanna go home.

Home, as it happens, has felt less and less temporary with each passing month spent in Twisted Wonderland. You’ve come to associate the familiarity of Night Raven College and its student body with comfort and contentment. It’s your home away from home. A long, long way from home. But it’s all you’ve ever had since the Dark Mirror beckoned you forth, and it’s served as your solace for a while.

Initially, you felt trapped and alone, uncertain of your fate and what this could mean for your life. But now you realize that no amount of feeling stuck at school could ever compare to this—to real confinement.

Your capture and, subsequently, your captor’s inexplicable infatuation are the result of arbitrary observation. In his frigid, heavy-eyed stare, you fit the criteria for a definition of purity he has constructed for his own abstract conduct. Untouched by magic, unable to conjure even the simplest spell, you are the speck of hope within Pandora’s box—a blessing enshrouded in sin.

“It must be taxing to live amongst mages so often,” he had said, as if to extend sympathy.

Foolishly, not quite understanding where those words were coming from, you replied in jest, “Believe me, it is. The amount of times I’ve nearly been caught in the crossfire when my friends get into heated arguments… Yikes.”

Rollo Flamme is a righteous man, and thus it is his duty to build a pristine paradise for you. An Eden of his own creation, its sole purpose to safeguard you from the pollution that is magic and, by extension, mages.

But purity cannot be found here, for Rollo is a devil in this garden. Potted plants adorn the floor; it’s something of a floral jungle, filling the room with perfumed scents and pretty sights. You’ve made note of their habits—of every flower that wilts and rises once it’s watered, of every petal that pries itself open under the moon’s glow and closes come sunrise, of every stem that’s trimmed to prevent excess.

Rollo Flamme prefers tidy spaces, so this well-kept garden is sterile and peaceful. You’ve likened it to a morgue filled with dead things—or soon-to-be dead things, as most plants cannot thrive forever no matter how diligent the botanist.

He barked a humorless, monosyllabic laugh at your declaration. “Unless you’ve chosen to view yourself as a rotting corpse, which you are not, your comparison is both unwarranted and untrue,” he muttered, and that was the final utterance of that subject.

Conversations with Rollo are always impossible, which is why you’re dreading this next one when he turns the key in the lock. The sound is like a gunshot in an empty room: explosive. As if echoing your discomfort, your cramps worsen in their intensity and you suck in a shaky breath through grit teeth. You hear the door shut and lock, sentencing you to an exchange with an unwanted warden. He walks into a mostly serene scene, his glacial gaze sweeping across the room to pick apart any interruptions in this slice of Shangri-La.

“I’ve brought dinner,” he announces, and you lift your head to peer at the tray in his hands.

“I don’t want your grapes and croissants,” you spit. “I want something warm.”

“It is warm.” Stepping closer, he sets the tray on his desk. You spy wispy tendrils rising from a bowl of soup. “Sit up and eat before it goes cold.”

You attempt that, halfway up on your elbows, but then your abdomen tightens and you slump back into the sheets. “Hurts,” you whine, clutching your stomach.

Rollo sniffs at the air, brows furrowing. His shoes click out an even rhythm against the floorboards, stopping at your bedside. Without ceremony he yanks the duvet away and you hiss at him, humiliated even though it’s normal. Your skin prickles with a chill, and it’s made even worse when you see the fiery glint in his eyes—the perceptive sort of glaze that overtakes his pupils when he’s observing you. His eyes crawl down your figure, stopping at the stain sullying your satin nightgown.

“Ah, you’ve leaked.”

“Obviously,” you snap. “I did this yesterday, too. When are you going to get me pads? Or tampons? I’ll even take a towel at this point or toilet paper. Anything is better than this.”

Rollo shakes his head. “You’re perfectly fine as you are.”

“Free bleeding like this is filthy and unsanitary.”

“So I’ll simply clean you.”

You drag your hand down your face and groan. “Rollo, please. It hurts, and it’s wet and uncomfortable.”

“You’ve illustrated these points more than clearly.”

“So then… Then do something about it!”

He narrows his eyes at you, silently taking issue with your demand, before he hums his consideration. His face settles into something neutral while he removes his hat and shoes, dutifully setting them in their respective places.

Rollo surprises you when he climbs onto the bed, kneeling over you with the tiniest trace of a smile.

“Spread your legs. I’ll have a look.”

Fresh horror blooms on your already distraught countenance. You bickered with him over this yesterday when he’d brought a wet rag to your inner thigh, seething at you to stay still while he wiped you down. You’d wrestled with him for ownership of the rag, insisting in panicked huffs that you could do it yourself. Your slap had rung out in the silence, rendering Rollo stiff with stormy emotions. He’d relinquished the rag, scoffing at you for being ungrateful and resolving to scribble in his diary for the rest of the day—a prisoner to his own silent treatment.

Now, as his cold fingertips creep up your legs, you feel less hungry and more sick.

Weakly, you shake your head at him, sinking deeper into the pillows. “I… I can do it myself…”

“With what? The nightgown you’ve already dirtied?” He tilts his head at you and smiles an odd smile. You can’t place it, whether it’s smug or sweet, but it soon becomes the former when he throws your words right back at you: “That’s filthy and unsanitary.”

“You don’t have anything either,” you retort, only to grimace once more.

Rollo exhales through his nose, amusement flashing in his dreary eyes. “Because I’m not going to clean you. Not yet.”

Ice crystalizes within your veins, and the tension in your legs slackens enough for him to pull them apart. “What?”

His hands stray dangerously close. You stiffen, nerves tangling with panic. “There are ways to alleviate menstrual cramps. You should be aware of them, so I see no need to go into detail.”

“I know, yes, but—” You swallow thickly and push his reaching fingers away before they can curl around the hem of your nightgown. “Rollo, please don’t…”

“You’ll feel better,” he assures you matter-of-factly, whispering the words like that will change anything. “This is better than medicine and safer than magic.”

You shift beneath him, unsettled. “A… A hot compress will do. Y-You’ll get yourself dirty. Also! A-Also… If we don’t wash the sheets soon, it’ll stain.”

“Let it. It will serve as a reminder to both of us. A reminder that, though you may ruin these sheets with all manner of bodily fluids, they will still remain pure.” He lifts your nightgown, leaning close to your ear while palming at your stomach. You angle yourself away from him, eyes squeezed shut. “It’s because you’re perfect and clean, untainted by magic, that you are able to exist here. I envy you…”

His bare hand is cold against your warm belly and it travels lower, his fingers hooking around the waistband of your panties. You stifle a whine, tears welling up behind your eyelids.

“Rollo…”

“Even your voice…” He inhales deeply, high off the scent of you—metallic and pungent, a natural musk more enticing than any flowery perfume. “Everything about you is so clean, even the very blood that pools between your legs… Just a moment in your embrace is enough to wash away the layers of filth that accumulate on my person. Perhaps you might even manage to scrub beneath my skin, wash out every ounce of magic that rests within… Would that I could, I’d break myself into pieces so that you may reassemble me—build a better me. A me without magic. If only…”

His other hand slithers into yours, squeezing tight. You’re arrested by the strain in his tone when he speaks next, so full of yearning and desperation. Covetous. Shameless.

“If only.”

“R-Rollo, please stop…”

“Yes… Yes, of course,” he babbles, nodding to himself. “I’ve likened you to a concept—to purity alone—but you are more than that. The embodiment of it… An angel. Otherworldly, immune to the poisonous effects of magic… Yes, that is what you are. An angel bereft of flaws.”

He fishes his celestial-patterned handkerchief from his pocket and presses it to your lips next. Your eyes snap open to find him now much closer than before, and you have but a moment to brace yourself before he leans in. The kiss is indirect, the both of you separated by the cloth, but the intention is there. It sticks to you even after he’s lowered the handkerchief. You are too pure and he is too filthy, which is why your lips must never touch.

Contradictory because he’s kissed you before.

Rollo drags your blood-soaked panties down to your knees. You shudder like a frail leaf caught in autumn’s harsh breeze.

“I’ve saved you—freed you!—from those…those villains. So you must allow me to indulge.” He shakes his head, his licentious, lustful stare smoldering to such a scorching degree it brands impure, unhealthy love upon your bare flesh. “I will indulge because I have been nothing but agreeable. This—” his fingers brush your slick folds, testing the waters— “is a wonder no magic could ever hope to reproduce. This is just you. Perfect, pretty, pure you…”

Experimentally, his digits dip shallowly inside. You flinch and inhale a sharp, frantic breath, your stomach somersaulting and knotting itself all at once. Complicated feelings stir within you as you writhe under his invasive touch. Your effort to escape is halfhearted; it’s too painful to move, so instead you attempt to clamp your legs shut. He tuts at you and slips his hand out from your hold to pet along your thigh.

“There goes a certain tale,” Rollo says, breathless as he continues his patient exploration. His eyes rove over your pussy like he intends to imprint it in his memory, and he doesn’t shy away from the crimson rivulet that runs down his palm when he sinks his fingers in further. You grit your teeth, melting against the pillows like an angel stamped in snow, and your free hand strangles a fistful of sheets. “In which a pair lived together in paradise, but it was temptation that ultimately led to their downfall. It is a doomed narrative.”

You’re breathing heavily now, your eyes flicking from the ceiling to the many plants that surround you on all sides, each one in full bloom. It feels as if you’re on a bed-turned-boat in a sea of greenery.

A sea of divine fertility.

With a skillful curl the two fingers delve deeper, pressing up against your gummy walls. Against your better judgment, you whine, loud and bawdy. His touch soothes, but then it stings. It makes you want to peel yourself open and step out of your skin so that you may subject it to a vigorous washing. It makes you despise the scent of flowers. It makes you fear the sound of the bell as it tolls unfailingly every single day. It makes you wish you’d never opened your mouth to respond to his words all those weeks ago.

Tears slip from your lash line. “Stop… Please stop…”

“Perhaps this is that same story made modern. Perhaps you were sculpted specially for me and I for you.” A third finger joins the other two working you open. Paper-pale skin is coated in brilliant vermillion, the very color of ardent desire. “Perhaps we are destined to fall together, born anew in someplace purer…”

The slow, steady drag of his fingers is more tempting than the ripe redness between your thighs, and you force yourself to gaze sidelong at the soup sitting abandoned on his desk. He plucks at each of your tangled, dewy strings, unraveling them with graceful strokes, and you’re pulled along on the blissfully uncomfortable current, treading between someplace grounded in reality and fantasy.

From above, at the bird’s eye view, you have become a garden for Rollo’s twisted whimsy.

You return to yourself when he eases his fingers out, stalling for a silent beat, before he thrusts them back in in one fluid motion. It punches the air from your lungs, has you throwing your head back with a weepy howl. He watches this with fierce scrutiny, curious at a clinical level.

“You’re beautiful,” he admits, spreading his fingers inside you. “My world. My panacea. My angel.”

“No… No, no.” You sob, your chest heaving with every wail. You can smell yourself on the air, the sharp scents of iron and sweat. Your pussy weeps blood, devastated at the hands of a monster, and yet it can’t stop affixing itself to him. A mold meant to suit his design. “Please… Please take it out.”

A shadow of contemplation passes over Rollo’s flushed countenance and then he’s reaching over to dry your tears, dabbing at your face with his handkerchief. “You’re okay. It doesn’t hurt anymore, right?”

You shake your head in protest rather than respond, chewing your bottom lip to shreds. A feeble whine slips through and you arch into him when his thumb presses down into your clit and prods at your hood. It happens all too fast. You tighten and loosen all at once, your mouth dropping open and eyes rolling back. The sheets are soaked through and properly soiled now, but that fact doesn’t lessen the seismic ecstasy that drapes itself over you like a veil. Your vision whites out and you fall, fall, fall through the waning vestiges.

Your heart drops into your stomach at the realization.

It doesn’t hurt anymore.

“You’ve done well.” He slides his fingers out, and the gooey squelching wrings a shudder from you. This time he grants you one of his rare smiles—the authentic, sincere kind—while he presses the pads of his fingers to his upturned lips, dyeing himself in your essence. You blink through encroaching tears, an ocean that obscures your vision and fuzzies his figure.

His fingers dig into the plush pudge of your thighs, thumbs rubbing soothing circles along your adductors. You open yourself again, involuntarily blossoming in this garden of iniquity.

“Good,” he praises again, whisper-soft. “You’re only permitted to be this way with me. Anyone else would simply tarnish your sweetness. They’d take advantage of your ability to cleanse even the foulest of filth. But I…”

Rollo, still clothed and now libidinous in his impatience, fumbles to pull himself free. His throbbing erection presses against your stomach, the final piece to force this puzzle to completion.

“I will always lay myself at your altar.”

You beg him not to, but every objection goes unheard. His hips connect with yours; he’s holding back, if only just barely, pressing onwards slowly, his breath coming in huffs and grunts. To savor it. To know the feeling firsthand and engrave it into his very being, from his fingers to his toes. To immerse himself in the red rain of a shackled angel.

To color a picturesque paradise in cardinal sin.

Just beyond the windows of Eden, swathed in midnight luminescence, a glorious city set aflame burns bright, overtaken by fiery flowers.

#yandere twst #yandere twst x reader #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere rollo flamm #yandere rollo flamm x reader #yandere rollo flamme #yandere rollo flamme x reader #n/sfw #tw: noncon #tw: period sex

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bluecollarmcandtf · 4 months ago

Text

M O O N L I G H T ™

Pulling into the lonely gas station, my eyes quickly find what I'm looking for, a pair of blue lights emanating in the darkness. The glow is coming from the gas attendant's skull: clear indication that he's a Moonlight™ employee.

"Good evening, sir," he says with the overly-endearing tone of a gracious host, "How may I be of service tonight?

I don't hide my distaste for the pathetic menial worker, leaning on his mop and waiting for my reply like he's got the best job in the world. He doesn't actually believe that. He doesn't even know what he's saying, let alone doing!

"Just fill her up," I grunt.

"You got it, sir!" he beams, tending to my car with a pep that's out of place for the late hour.

Moonlight™ was the app that revolutionized working culture forever. It allows the user to sign up for a job while they sleep. All they have to do is doze off and some insufferable AI from Moonlight™ will resume control of the body via remote connection. People like it because they get paid work without experiencing all the boring hours and insincere customer interactions. Subsequently, they always get the same unbearably eager personalities stuffed in their bodies. Even without the glowing eyes, their idiotic grins would make them stand out a mile away!

"How has your day been, sir?" he contines mopping as the gas slowly pumps.

"Don't try to chat," I snap.

"Of course, sir," he doesn't miss a beat, smiling as he returns his neon gaze to the sidewalk he's swabbing.

I just roll my eyes and wander inside. The app doesn't record memories while it's in control, so this guy has no idea how humiliated he should feel. No one should have a shit-eating grin on their face working the night shift as a gas station janitor! I'd die before I gave up my dignity to Moonlight™ like this fucking loser!

On the TV behind the register, an ad plays...

The costumed man on the left steps forward and announces, "Join the revolution. There are over forty-two-million Moonlighter's taking advantage of their sleep! That could be you!"

The statistic makes me cringe. It's nearly doubled since the last time I checked...

The man on the far right of the screen happily taps in, adding, "We're constantly expanding our scope, so check with your employer! If your job doesn't already have a Moonlight™ option, then ask your boss to give you one!"

God, they're pressuring people now? Some jobs should not be done by an AI puppeteered Moonlighter...

Finally, the man in the center steps forward to deliver his lines, "Remember, Moonlighting is a safe and healthy way to not only make money but also get a good night's rest! Why work all day, when you can do it in your sleep!" his head turns, making it seem like he's smiling at either of his coworkers, "After all, we are!"

The three men laugh in unison, like true colleagues chumming up at work, but I know the truth. These three are worse than actors, they're empty marionettes for the Moonlight™ corporation. I doubt they'd ever even met each other in real life...

"Shut up!" I groan, smashing the power button to turn it off.

This world is going to shit. Moonlight™ has grown too large over the past year for there not to be some conspiracy or ulterior motive. I don't know what it is: the elite keeping the working class in their place, our government influencing our decisions, a foreign country converting us into their slaves! It all sounds crazy, but I don't think a single theory is impossible with an app like Moonlight™.

I'm the only one probing into this mess. I may have only worked as a detective for a few years, but I never did any of it fucking asleep!

A few days later, I track down my first lead...

"Good morning, sir," the garbage man says in that unnaturally smooth cadence they all have, "Is there any trash you need collected?"

"I just have some questions," I snort.

One hand pulls the hem of my shirt over my nose while the other swats at the flies. These garbage trucks are absolutely filthy. I doubt the garbage companies even bother washing them out anymore, but why should they if their workers are soulless husks without the ability to care? The man in front of me seems completely oblivious to the mixture of rotting smells and accompanying bugs. His glowing eyes don't even blink as a fly lands on his face, crawling through the hairs of his beard. He's probably lucky that he goes home with no memory of this downright awful job.

"Are you looking for employment with Moonlight™ incorporated?" his smiling lips stir the bug on his face, but it quickly buzzes into the moist retreat of the man's dark armpit, "I'd love to help you install the app and-"

"No," I cut, "Just open the truck. I accidentally threw out something I shouldn't have."

I study the man's frozen grin for anything. It's a test. The Moonlight™ AI is designed to accept demands from free-willed customers, but I have a suspicion that the building nearby is an undocumented base for the company. If I'm right, the company would hate for anyone to root through the garbage of their secret lab...

"...I apologize, sir, but the garbage has already been compacted, and it is unsafe for non-employees to look inside. Please let me know what it is you are looking for and I will search for you."

His artificial glee didn't wane, but the blue light in his eyes did flicker just barely. This guy might be asleep, walked around by remote AI tech, but I could still tell he was lying. I'd like to see one of the Moonlight™ detectives figure that out. As I said, some things are better done the old-fashioned way...

"Well, thanks anyway," I snark, planting a slap on his sweat-soaked back. He says something about it being his pleasure as he resumes handling the garbage, flies eternally buzzing around his smiling head and glowing eyes.

Continuing my investigation, I pop down in the sewer, looking for an underground entrance to Moonlight™'s secret lab...

"Are you lost, sir? Let me help you."

I've had to breathe through a mask to put up with the heavy cloud of steaming sewage, but the Moonlight™ septic worker seems fine, smiling with an open mouth, specks of God-knows-what dried on his teeth.

"No, I'm where I should be," I dismiss him and march past.

Suddenly a muddy glove sticks out and holds my chest. "I'm afraid you cannot pass, sir," his smile is as strong as ever, but the trademark glow of his eyes intensifies.

I've never felt more sure about my suspicions. This mind controlled worker seems ready to fight rather than let me pass. I wonder if this poor soul knows he's being used as a guard as well as being a Moonlight™ sewage worker.

"Why don't you show me the way out then," I relent.

"Of course, sir," his hand removes itself from my chest, leaving a dirty print, "The sewer is a dangerous place for civilians."

I follow as he marches me out of the sewer. It's better to leave and come back later with a plan. Today, I confirmed my suspicions, but tomorrow, I'll finally see what secrets they're cooking up in that lab. I return home and end the day with the satisfaction of being close to a major discovery. Sleep finds me quickly...

Waking up in my bed, I check my phone and find an unsettling message waiting for me...

"Congratulations on finishing your first shift with Moonlight™!" the text reads, "Here is a photo of you hard at work last night!"

"What the FUCK!"

I jump out of bed, but instantly everything feels off. My back aches and my legs are more tired than they were last night! My pajamas are uncomfortable, pinching in areas like someone else dressed me in them! My mind is racing with confusion, and an overwhelming sense of self-consciousness rushes over me. My face burns from the violation, but most of my fear is focused on the strange feeling lingering in the back of my private area.

"What did they do to me?" I try to be pissed, but all I can do is whimper.

Suddenly my phone rings...

"Hello," I growl.

"Good morning, sir," a familiarly gracious man's voice rolls through the call.

"Tell me who the fuck this is!"

"Someone who noticed you snooping the other day, sir," his voice sounds like it's smiling.

Suddenly it clicks. Whoever's calling me from Moonlight™ would never use their own phone and voice. They must be using some poor schmuck that thinks he's working an honest job right now. How am I ever supposed to find who's behind all these layers of lies?

"You can hind behind your brainless puppets," I sneer, "But I will not stop looking into this fucked up company!"

"But now you're one of our puppets, sir. I'm not sure how much credibility a detective has if he spends his nights working the room at the dirtiest club in town..."

"That's sick..." I whisper, thinking about the picture on my phone. The idea of me gleefully stripping for a room of disgusting old men makes me shiver.

"Good luck with your investigation, sir," the voice continues, "But just understand that every time you sleep, your body will get up and report to that club. I have to admit that you're hiding a rather tight body under that trench coat of yours."

"You were there?" I mutter.

"Oh I had to meet the man poking his nose where it didn't belong, sir. I got very familiar with you. You were very friendly last night, so I poked something of mine where it didn't belong."

The voice on the other line laughs, and all I feel is utter humiliation. I hang up the call and stare at the photo he'd sent. It was me alright, smiling like a maniac in the gayest outfit I've ever seen. I didn't like my body being dressed like that. I hate that I was happily busting my ass for the enemy. He had to have been getting off at my humiliation last night. I'm sure he relished every second of what he did to me. I don't even want to think about the sensation left in my ass.

I need to push this investigation faster.

Because tonight, when I go to sleep, I'll be helpless to prevent this from happening again.

#gay mind control #blue collar worker #unaware #work slaves #moonlight

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dreamscribee · 7 months ago

Text

💎His Diamond💎

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡

𓍯 Anthony Bridgerton x female reader

𓍯 Here's PART 1 and PART 2 - Don't skip ahead! Make sure you've caught up on the other chapters. This might be longer then the previous chapters, but trust me, it's totally worth the read!

𓍯 Summary: Lady Y/N, praised by the Queen for her grace and talent, captivates Anthony Bridgerton with her music at a lavish ball. Their emotional connection deepens as they share a heartfelt moment, signaling the beginning of a budding romance.

𓍯 Word Count: 750 (words), 4,174 (characters)

𓍯 This may be the final chapter for this romantic adventure with Anthony Bridgerton, but if we get this post at 200 notes, I'll take that as a sign to continue this story. Do you want to keep the love alive, dear readers?

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡

As the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting golden hues across the bustling streets of London, Y/N found herself standing in the grandeur of the royal palace. Nerves fluttered within her as she awaited her audience with the Queen, her mind swirling with questions and anticipation.

When the appointed hour arrived, Y/N was ushered into a lavishly adorned chamber where the Queen sat upon her throne, regal and imposing. With a gracious nod, the Queen beckoned Y/N closer, her eyes alight with curiosity.

"Your Majesty," Y/N began, her voice steady despite the racing of her heart, "I am deeply honored by your request for an audience."

The Queen regarded her with a knowing smile before speaking, her words carrying a weight of importance. "Lady Y/N, it has come to my attention that you possess a rare quality—a diamond amidst a sea of gems. Your grace, wit, and the melody of your harp have not gone unnoticed."

Y/N's breath caught in her throat as she absorbed the Queen's words, feeling a warmth spread through her veins. To be declared the diamond of the season by the highest authority in the land was a validation beyond her wildest dreams.

With a graceful bow, Y/N expressed her gratitude to the Queen, her heart brimming with newfound confidence and purpose.

As the night of the ball descended upon London, the grandeur of the occasion seemed to pale in comparison to the radiance of Lady Y/N. Adorned in an exquisite gown that shimmered like moonlight, she took her place at the harp, fingers dancing across the strings with practiced precision.

As the night wore on and the ballroom swirled with the elegant movements of dancers, Anthony Bridgerton found himself utterly captivated by Lady Y/N. With each graceful note she plucked from the harp, she seemed to cast a spell upon him, drawing him closer with an invisible thread of enchantment.

Their dance carried them across the polished floor, weaving through a sea of swirling skirts and polished shoes. Anthony's gaze never wavered from Y/N, his heart pounding with a fervor he could scarcely contain.

"Lady Y/N," he began, his voice barely above a whisper, "since the moment I laid eyes on you, I have been entranced by your beauty, your spirit, your every breath."

Y/N's eyes widened with surprise, her heart skipping a beat at the intensity of Anthony's words. She had known him for such a long time, yet in his eyes, she saw a depth of emotion that stirred something deep within her soul.

"Anthony," she murmured, her voice trembling with emotion, "I... I never imagined..."

But before she could utter another word, Anthony's hand gently cupped her cheek, his touch sending shivers down her spine.

"Y/N," he continued, his voice now filled with a raw vulnerability that took her breath away, "in your presence, I have found a light that guides me through the darkest of nights. You are my solace, my sanctuary, my everything."

Tears welled in Y/N's eyes as she gazed into Anthony's, her heart overflowing with a love she had never known possible.

"Anthony," she whispered, her voice barely a breath, "I feel it too. With every beat of my heart, I feel it too."

And as they stood there, lost in each other's gaze, the world around them seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them, bound together by a love that transcended time and space.

It was then, amidst the whispers of love and the gentle strains of music, that Anthony dropped to one knee, a small heart shaped box nestled in his palm.

"Y/N," he said, his voice trembling with emotion, "will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? Will you stand by my side, not just tonight, but for all the nights to come?"

Y/N's breath caught in her throat as she beheld the man before her, his eyes alight with love and devotion. With a trembling hand, she reached out to touch his cheek, her heart overflowing with a joy beyond words.

"Yes, Anthony," she whispered, her voice a melody of love and longing, "yes, a thousand times yes."

And as Anthony slipped the ring onto her finger, sealing their love for all eternity, the world seemed to hold its breath, awaiting the dawn of a new chapter in their lives—a chapter filled with love, laughter, and the promise of forever.

#anthony bridgerton imagines #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton x reader #bridgerton netflix #bridgerton fic #anthony bridgerton

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adore-laur · 1 year ago

Text

MOTHER’S DAY

— a self-explanatory blurb from the dadrry universe 🌷

——

Toss. Turn. Sigh. Repeat.

Postpartum anxiety kept hitting you in explosive bursts like crash cymbals. Intrusive worries about whether your newborn was breathing or not ruthlessly stormed your brain. Surging heart palpitations that ebbed and flowed like the ocean tide weren't helping your internally erratic state.

She hadn't wailed those gut-wrenching cries in over an hour. It was a brief slot of time to catch up on your precious slumber, yet your melatonin was overrun by an influx of cortisol. Due to your ruptured sleep schedule, there was also a stinging sensation behind your eyelids. It felt like chlorine or lemon juice had seeped into your sockets ever since day and night swapped places.

The speckled sky of stars trickled through the linen drapes, painting moonbeams on the bedroom carpet and walls. By the looks of it, you'd undoubtedly be awake to behold the moment they metamorphosed into golden rays of dawn.

Heart thumping, stomach churning, and chest constricting, you surrendered your chance of a reposeful night of rest and silently slid out of bed. Harry was gently snoring on his side, facing away from you and dead to the world. Lucky him.

You padded over to the bassinet across the room. The moon made it visible enough to see the tiny bundle that was half you and half your husband sleeping there. Your trembling hand reached down and lightly rested on your daughter's belly. It has been a habit lately. Your eyes couldn't help but snap open in the middle of the night, the insomnia-induced anxiety getting you on your feet to check if the human you were responsible for was still alive.

When you felt her fast breaths, relief immediately flooded your bloodstream. You stayed by her until you were at ease with the steady rise and fall of her chest, then eventually tucked yourself back under the covers and leaned against the headboard. You were wide awake now, and it seemed like it would be another all-nighter. Jealousy festered inside you because of Harry and how he could effortlessly sleep through the night without panic. He'd been so gracious with heaving himself out of bed and calming the baby whenever it was his turn—a true natural when you needed it most. And during those instances, you pretended to be asleep so you didn't worry him. It was hard enough to soothe one agitated person, let alone two.

The digital clock on the nightstand flicked from 2:36 to 2:37. You bit your fingernails to pass the time. The weight and warmth of Harry beside you pulled you back down to earth, reminding you that you weren't doing this on your own. He was cheering you on, on the same page, and loving you unconditionally.

Almost as if he could hear your reeling thoughts about him, you heard his snores get cut short by a deep inhale before his hand subconsciously flopped against your thigh. Fatigued fingers felt around until his warm, heavy palm spread on your skin, giving it a tender squeeze. He then rolled onto his stomach with a raspy grunt and turned his head to face you.

In the faint moonlight, puffy eyes and a drowsy smile said hello. They greeted you with a gentleness that washed away the burdensome stones on your chest. He made you feel calm. Just one glance at him was the only solace you needed.

He was a tired, tired boy. Technically, he was a grown man, but moments like these revealed that he was just a boy adjusting to the harsh reality of parenthood.

"Sorry for waking you," you whispered, raking your fingers through his disheveled hair. It was still a little damp from his nightly shower.

"Did I sleep through her cries?" Harry murmured hoarsely, his eyelids drooping until they shut again.

"No. I just got up to check on her."

He hugged your leg like it was a pillow. "Why? What happened?"

You could've lied. Or you could've given him what he always asked of you: the whole and honest truth. The latter was the wisest choice, considering he could read you like a family recipe.

"I had to make sure she was breathing," you admitted.

Harry was eerily quiet. You thought he might have fallen back asleep, but suddenly, the room was illuminated in a yellow glow from the bedside lamp being switched on. It strained your vision for a few seconds, and after blearily blinking through it, you looked at Harry to find him sitting up with the silk sheets bunched around his waist. He yawned loudly, then scooted over to draw you into his body. A trace of citrus aftershave still lingered on his skin.

"Can't sleep?" he asked, his lips moving against your temple.

Your cheek melted on his warm, bare shoulder. "Ever since we brought her home, my anxiety has been eating me alive at night. I'm constantly worried about her, even when she's not crying."

Harry planted chaste kisses on your face. Through slow, sleepy affection, he said, "She's okay. Nothing bad is going to happen."

"You don't know that."

"I know she's safe and sound, all snug in the bassinet six feet away from us." When you didn't respond, he added, "If you want, we can move it next to your side of the bed."

You clutched his hand, loving the smoothness of his palm and how large it was compared to yours. "Can we? Please? I want her close just in case."

Nodding, Harry brought your joined hands up to his mouth and kissed your knuckles. "Let's do it tomorrow so we don't wake her, yeah? We all need sleep right now."

"Okay. Can you scratch my back? And talk to me."

"Of course, sweetheart. Turn around."

You did, and it didn't take long for him to lift your shirt so his delicate fingers could stroke along the expanse of your back. Goosebumps spread everywhere as you sank deeper into the mattress. The way his touch could envelop you in a blanket of comfort was miraculous.

"Your postpartum checkup is in a couple of weeks," Harry mentioned, his mellow voice quickly putting a sleep spell on you. "We'll talk to the doctor about everything that's been going on, okay?" He shifted on the bed. "Listen, I get scared too. All I want is to protect her. When she cries, I feel helpless. But we're learning, aren't we? We'll be professionals by the time we're four kids in."

You couldn't squash the craziness of his last statement because distant dream waves finally carried you away and let you drift in calm waters for the first time in a long time.

——

A serenade of songbirds awoke you the following morning. Then, there was a slight breeze coming from somewhere. You soon realized there was no familiar dip in the mattress next to you, no blazing hot skin glued to you, and no soft puffs of air against your neck. You firmly decided that you loathed the feeling of a cold and empty bed in the morning.

Stretching until your joints cracked, you squinted from the blinding sunlight gloriously casting over the side of the bed you lay on. The clock displayed 9:04, which was the latest time you had slept in since your third trimester of pregnancy. On top of the clock was a piece of paper you didn't recall seeing yesterday—the type of paper you and Harry wrote grocery items on. The familiar handwriting of your husband, which was a tad illegible but endearing nonetheless, had you reaching out and plucking the note from its place.

Happy Mother's Day.

Meet me on the beach when you wake up. Baby has already been changed, fed, and everything in between. Sunday breakfast on the shore, made by yours truly, awaits you.

I love you so much. Thank you for completing me.

~ Harry

It entirely slipped your mind that it was Mother's Day—your first one. You'd been too caught up in a whirlwind of emotions, trying to capture a peaceful moment. Needless to say, you didn't even know what day of the week it was sometimes. Apparently, today was worth celebrating.

After freshening up and tying a robe around yourself, you trod down the staircase. The late spring weather engulfed your senses as the kitchen came into view. The shutters were swung open, letting in gleaming sunshine and a gentle wind that felt like a welcoming embrace. It lifted your spirits instantly and caused you to temporarily forget about last night's troubles.

You ventured to the beach area, the sand under your uncovered feet enlivening your drained state. Once the ocean became visible, you quickly stumbled upon an unexpected surprise. Harry, the human epitome of sunshine, stood there holding a tray with a vase of blooming flowers, a cup of steaming tea, and breakfast foods such as peeled clementine, poached eggs, and a golden-brown waffle drizzled with maple syrup. He was in his pinstriped pajamas, with sunglasses covering his eyes. Behind him, your daughter lay in a portable baby dome that shielded her from the sunny sky. She was sleeping on her back, her limbs bent adorably. You didn't recall hearing her cry after you finally managed to doze off last night.

Barefoot, with a radiant smile dimpling his sun-kissed face, Harry met you halfway, setting the tray down on a nearby blanket spread out. His arms opened in invitation. You would have jumped in them if you had the energy, merely because his spontaneous thoughtfulness made you want to tackle him and never let him go—lovingly, of course.

"Make way for the goddess," he said, taking his sunglasses off and eyeing you up and down.

Makeup-less, half asleep, and moving at the sluggish speed of a sloth, you felt—and probably looked—far from a goddess. But when your husband looked at you like he wanted to eat you for breakfast instead, the tiniest flicker of confidence sparked inside of you.

"Good morning," you greeted, smiling softly.

Harry's hands instinctively splayed on your waist, his fingers digging into the cotton fabric of your robe. He was sporting a dopey expression, and you wondered if he got as little sleep as you did.

Enduring delirious mornings with him had slowly become your favorite domestic kryptonite. When he'd crack ridiculous jokes amidst a quick, lazy round of sex before the baby interrupted, or when he would shuffle around the kitchen making an insufficient meal while accidentally putting the milk jug in the pantry out of pure exhaustion.

"Let me guess," he said with an exhale, "you forgot it was Mother's Day?"

You squeezed him tight and breathed in the faint smell of lavender fabric softener on his pajamas. "Can you blame me? I'm practically a zombie most days." You kissed him slowly, tasting the sweet and sticky syrup residue on his lips. "Mm, but thank you for everything. You take such good care of me."

"Someone's got to do it," he told you, earnestness lacing his words.

"I'm trying; I really am. Motherhood is... very grueling."

"I know, darling. Whatever you need, let me know, and I'll help as best I can."

You touched his cheeks, absorbing the sun's heat that graced them. "I want to take care of you too. I notice how tired you are."

He fell into deep thought, and after staring at you for a moment with his eyes dancing over your entire face, he said, "Let's bring back date nights. When was the last time we went out, just the two of us? We can get someone to babysit, then go out on the town like we used to."

"Can part of our date night involve taking a nap?" you asked, propping your chin on his chest.

Harry glanced down at you, his green irises clear and happy. "Absolutely."

"Sounds like a plan." You laughed at its absurdity. How did we go from 'I can't wait to marry you' to 'I can't wait to nap with you'? What has parenting done to us?"

He tilted his head with a lopsided grin. "It's made me fall in love with you all over again."

"Even when there's spit-up on my clothes?"

"Uh-huh," he said, locking you in his hold. "And when you're burping a cranky baby while eating your first meal of the day well past noon. And when you're breastfeeding while sending work emails, your hair unbrushed, and my shirt hanging off your body. There's nothing sexier."

Truthfully, he wasn't joking around. And you knew that one day, you'd find simplistic beauty in those things as well.

"I'm a real sight for sore eyes."

Harry kissed your forehead, swaying you to the sound of the waves meeting the shore and then receding. "You have no idea."

——

#harry styles blurb #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #harry styles fluff #harry styles au #harry styles fanfic #dadrry #dad!harry #dilfrry #harry styles #adore-laur #mother’s day

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anemonelovesfiction · 5 months ago

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14~ Makeup Sex

Aged Up! Ao’nung x Sully! Omatikaya Reader

Warnings ⚠️: Ao’nung being a jerk but asking reader for forgiveness, Fingering, eating out, Pathetic grinding in sand

Not Proofread

MDNI 🔞

Something else here

Word count: 1.6k

“Why should I forgive you?” I asked him with my arms crossed along my chest, my own anger had been radiating off of my body as he had the audacity to pull me away from my family for a stupid half assed apology, at this point I didn’t Even want to be near him as I was tempted to smack the ever-living-shit out of him, but it had been my own fault for wanting to be the nicer person to be willing to hear him out, although at this moment I wish I hadn’t been gracious enough to have done that.

“Because what I said was a mistake, I was wrong for saying everything I said and I regret it, I’m hoping you can forgive me.” He spoke in a gentler tone than the one he was usually using around myself and my family, making my heart ache slightly as I could sense his genuine self beginning to show, but the fury I’d been feeling was winning as I looked up at him, my voice strong before stating the following.

“Why, so you can say that a four-fingered freak accepted your fake apology and how naive I was for doing so?” I asked as I threw the insult I’d heard him say back at him, letting him know I wasn’t going to let it slide that easily, what he said had really hurt my feelings, and I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of it anymore.

“I should not have said those words to describe you.” He stated quickly.

“You shouldn’t have used those words at all!” I stated angrily as I uncrossed my arms as I let them hang toward my sides, my heart burning at this moment as I thought about slapping him, but refusing from causing anymore problems between ourselves and the reef clan.

“It is why I am apologizing to you as well.” He stated rather sternly and it piques my interest as my ears perk up at his choice of words, my eyes going over toward his, as a means to find if this were part of some ruse.

“As well?” I asked in a softer voice as he nods.

“I have apologized to Kiri, Neteyam, and Lo’ak but needed to work up the courage to speak with you.” He stated in an even toned voice and for a second I could sense how genuine he was being, but another part of me didn’t want to believe he could be so sincere, I squint my eyes as I stare at him, eyeing him up and down before settling to look past him.

I click my tongue at my own frustration, and partial disbelief at his apology, but there were moments that we would spend when he would use this tone of voice with me whenever nobody was around. We had been together for a little while and he’d never given me a reason to dislike him, until his comments were shared about how mine, my brother, and my sister had four fingers when no other Na’Vi did.

“Show me.” I stated rather boldly as I finally bring myself to look into his eyes again. I could see the confusion swimming in his aquamarine’s as he looks back at me, even in the moonlight he looked as handsome as ever, and I hated that I still felt this way toward him even after he hurt me.

“Show you-“ He trails off at the end, unsure of what to say or how to respond to what I had proposed, his confusion evident in his tone as well.

“Show me how sorry you are.” I stated as I recrossed my arms, quirking up a hairy brow as I stared up at him. It was at this moment that I realized a shiny coating on his bruise, likely a salve his sister or his mother had placed on his bruise in an attempt to help it heal quicker. I ought to thank Lo’ak again for having mine and Kiri’s with how quick he was to defend us.

“Come with me.” He stated rather quickly as he extends his hand for me to take, I look down at his hand and back at him, ready to take a quick jab at him for wanting to hold a freak’s hand but I bit my tongue as I extended my own hand toward his. He grasps my hand gently and turns quickly.

_________

I planted another kiss onto her neck as I made my way down toward the skin of her shoulder, playfully nipping, hearing the sweetest of melodies being released from between her lips, I continued making my way down her shoulder and onto her collarbones.

“You’re such a tease,” She rebuts, I lifted my head off her collar bones to give her a smile, hoisting my body up in a quick action to plant a kiss on her cheek, kissing down on her chest once more, between the valley of her breasts and onto her stomach, beginning to admire the beautiful tanhì glowing in the night.

I kiss two of them and hear her gasp as goosebumps fill her stomach, I couldn’t deny myself any longer and settled myself between her legs, my body had been between them, gently prying them open, my hands had carefully placed themselves onto the plush skin of her thighs, pushing them further apart as the most arousing smell flurries up my nose and I could feel myself beginning to drool.

However ramped up I had been to eat her out I had to remember I was doing this for her, not for myself, I leaned down and take a big whiff of her cunt, my eyes rolling to the back of my head as I commit the scent to memory, bringing my tongue from the confines of my mouth and licking a fat stripe onto the lips of her cunt, hearing her gasp quickly.

I’d taken notice of the fingers on her hand sinking deeper into the sand of the beach we were currently on, how dumb I must have been to have made fun of her for something she couldn’t control, something so alien yet part of who she was.

I take a second to lick a second stripe onto her cunt, assuring I added more pressure onto her closed flower and tasting the slightest bit of nectar reaching my tongue, not knowing she would have tasted this sweet, digging my tongue back down into her and greedily pushing deeper to taste her once more, groaning incessantly I hot the treasure trove and dip my tongue into her slit past her hole.

“Ao’nung!” She stated in a shocked voice as one of her thighs smushes onto my face in an attempt to close her legs on me, I groan in frustration as I pull her thighs far apart and spread her eagle, wanting to reprimand her from attempting to cut me off my supply but refusing to waste anymore time not tasting her.

I could only hold eye contact with her as my tongue delves deep into her, my tastebuds erupting in her flavor, seeing her bite her lip as a moan manages to slip past either way, feeling myself growing hard at her reaction, keeping my hands onto her thighs I take my tongue and swipe it up her slit, capturing her clit and giving it a flick of my tongue, feeling as her hips jerk away from my tongue only to be pushed back harder seconds later.

I slap her thigh gently in an attempt to let her know I didn’t want her to close her legs on me again.

“Okay,” She pants out in understanding and once I let go of her thigh I fear she’ll close her legs but am not greeted with her thigh smushing the side of my face and grow happy, rewarding her with two of my fingers inserting her cunt, ears flicking as she moans once they are placed in her.

I scissor my fingers to stretch her open and prepare her for my length and set a slow pace with them, her hips move on their own accord as she attempts to take in more of them at a faster pace and I hold back a chuckle at how greedy and impatient she is growing.

“Please go faster-“ She murmurs as I look up toward her, capturing her stare, watching as her own hands -seemingly in her control- reach up toward her own nipples, running her thumbs across the already hardened buds.

I set a faster pace with my fingers and hear another squeal emitted from her as I put myself to work, knowing this is exactly what she had wanted, feeling myself grind onto the sand beneath me in an attempt to feel some sort of relief from my hardened cock and not feeling anything but frustration.

“I’m coming,” She stated, my eyes travel up toward hers in time to see her eyes roll behind her head, her hands squeezing onto her breasts and her hips bucking as her walls spasm over my fingers, I kept my mouth on her and my fingers moving as I coaxed her orgasm out.

Her walls were slow to stop their rhythmic squeeze on my fingers, my licks ceasing as I finally take my mouth off of her and sigh, allowing myself to a big breath after a while of not breathing, waiting for her eyes to open, and once they do she’s staring at me.

“Do you forgive me now?” I asked as a blush spreads through my cheeks as my next question rises to my head.

“Yes, I forgive you,” she pants out as her body goes slack against the sand, her chest heaving as she attempt to catch her breath.

“Enough to suck me off?”

#HeatwaveInPandora2024 #avatar #avatar smut #avatar the way of water smut #afab reader #avatar the way of water #aonung x reader #aonung #aonung x reader smut

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harunayuuka2060 · 1 year ago

Text

Malleus:

I tossed a stone, oh what a sight,

Hoping you'd wake in the pale moonlight.

But you slumbered on, quite deep in dreams,

So I aimed anew, or so it seems.

A rock I flung, with a hopeful heart,

A louder crash, a shattered part.

Yet still you snoozed, in your dreamy keep,

Unfazed by the noise, sound asleep.

MC:

Oh dear, oh goodness gracious me,

What in the world just came to be?

I slumbered deep, with twigs and sea horses in my dreams,

When suddenly struck, it's not as it seems.

A boulder, massive, came crashing down,

Turning my world completely around.

I awoke in the hospital, head injury in tow,

From whimsical dreams to a painful blow.

Lilia: *laughing hysterically*

Sebek: *sniffles* Verily, a splendid verse thou didst compose, my liege!

Silver: Did... Did that happen in reality?

#twisted wonderland #twst mc #twst malleus #twst lilia #twst sebek #twst silver

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the-queen-of-hell-666 · 24 days ago

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Again

Kinktober 2024 - Day 15

Pairing: Part-Kraken!Steve Rogers x Princess!Fem!Reader

Kink: Tentacles

Word Count: 1300+

Summary: You weren't supposed to go to the black lake, but you went anyway and ran into a monster.

Warnings: DUB-CON, explicit language, explicit sexual content (monster-fucking, vaginal penetration, double vaginal penetration, clit suction, slight bondage, possessive!Steve, dubious-con), innocent!reader, porn without much plot

a/n: This was my first time writing monster-fucking but I hope I did okay, cause I've read a few but it was rough to write. I know this is a gif of Ari but I thought that he would look like this in this fic. I hope you all enjoy!

Banners by @vase-of-lilies

Since you were a little girl, your parents told you to stay away from the black lake inside of the dark forest. It inhabited a dangerous creature, the villain from every fairytale your mother would tell you. As you grew older, the less you believed in the monster in the lake. You just believed that it was a story parents told their children to keep control over them. When you turned 20 years of age, your parents were constantly trying to find you a husband that could become your king by marriage. You were sick of it, you wanted a say in your own life, you hated your parents controlling you.

So one night, you decided to sneak out, to see what monsters really lurked in the black lake. You were dressed in a black gown and a black cloak as you walked through the forest quietly. You made it to the black lake and the moon shone down on the calm waters and shone on the underbrush and the water lilies floating on the water. It was beautiful. The calmness of it all made you want to bask in the moonlight, to thank the goddess for the beauty of nature. You took your cape off and laid it on a large flat rock by the shore and you laid down on the soft silk and let your skin bask in the moonlight.

You closed your eyes as you listened to the crickets, the gentle splashes of the water lapping at the shoreline, but you were startled by the sound of something in the water. You jolted up, your eyes scanning the dark as a man surfaced from the dark lake. Well, he was a man from the waist up, he had large tentacles coming from his lower half. He looked like a greek god in the moonlight as it shone on his smooth chest and the moonlight highlighted his dark blue tentacles as he waded in the water. His hair was golden and his eyes were a light shade of blue, he was muscular and beautiful.

You gasped as his eyes landed on you as you laid on the rock, and you were quick to hop off of the rock and grab your cloak, “I-I’m sorry, s-sir.” You stuttered as you wrapped your cloak around you but when you went to walk away, you felt a tentacle wrap around your waist and gently pulled you towards the shore.

“Where you going, doll? I’m not going to hurt you.” The man gave you a dark grin as he took in your innocent eyes.

“I-I didn’t know a-anyone was here.” You stuttered as he pulled you against his chest with his strong arms, his wet chest soaking into your bodice.

“Well, I live here, Princess. You came onto my property.” He smirked as a smaller tentacle undid your cloak and tossed it away. “What’s your name, darlin’?” He asked as his strong hands rubbed up and down your waist, teasing the strings of your dress. You told him your name in a stutter and he tested it on his tongue in his low bartone making your thighs clench gently. “I’m Steve.” He said as his deft fingers undid your dress in record time.

“W-what are you doing?” You asked quickly as you tried to pull away but his tentacles kept you pressed against him.

“Making you more comfortable. I’m being a gracious host.” He smirked as he pushed your dress off of your shoulders and let it drop to the ground and you shivered as your bare body was exposed to the cool air. His blue eyes trailed down your exposed body making you blush under his gaze. “It’s been such a long time since I've had a pretty girl in my arms.” He hummed as his tentacles traced up your thighs and hips, teasing your skin by sucking light marks into your sensitive skin.

You whimpered as his lips overtook yours in a hungry kiss and his strong arms tucked your hair behind your ears as his kiss grew deeper. Your arms wrapped around his neck and kissed him back with just as much vigor. You know that you shouldn’t be kissing him but you wanted to rebel, you wanted to show your parents that you weren’t a little girl anymore, so you put your body in the hands of the scary lake monster. His hands moved down to cup your mouth in between your thighs and teased his middle finger through your wet folds, making you gasp against his lips. You felt his smirk as he kissed down your jaw and to the skin of your neck. He led you to the smooth stone by the shore and laid you back on it and he slithered on top of you. His tentacles spread your legs so his torso could fit in between your legs and his hands caressed up your waist and he groped your breasts, as one tentacle slid up your inner thigh.

You gasped as you felt the suction cups tease your outer folds, and you looked up at Steve with wide eyes, “S-Steve?” You whined as two of his tentacles spread your folds and another one came up and teased over your hole and up to your clit.

“Shh, doll. Just relax. I’m gonna make you feel so good.” He purred in your ear as his lips moved down to your chest and he sucked and nipped on your peaked nipples. His tentacle slid the tip of it into your weeping cunt making your back arch due to the thickness of the one tentacle. It slid further into your channel and the suction cups sucked and stroked your sensitive walls, making you moan and throw your head back.

His arms wrapped around your waist and kept you pressed against him as the tentacle started thrusting in and out of your cunt as another tentacle sucked on your clit, making your thighs shake. You moaned louder as your nails dug into his broad shoulders as pleasure coursed through your body. “S-Steve, it’s too m-much. I can’t t-take it.” You cried as the tentacle inside of you sped up and the sound of your sopping cunt echoed through the forest.

He chuckled darkly and nipped at your skin, “You can take it, dollface. I know you can. I know your pussy wants me, she’s so wet and tight. She keeps sucking me back in.” He grunted in your ear as his tentacle sped up inside of your cunt. He bit down on your breast, leaving a dark bruise in the shape of his teeth, making you cry out his name. “I know you’re close, princess. I can feel you clenching and twitching around me.” He smirked as he continued to bite and bruise your soft skin.

You moaned loudly as a second tentacle slid in beside the first one and they both started pounding in and out of your cunt faster. Your back arched into his mouth and grinded down on his tentacles. Your hands gripped his shoulders tight and your nails dug into him hard. Your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks as his tentacle sucked harder on your clit. You screamed his name as you squirted on his tentacles and you held onto him like a lifeline. You slumped against the rock as you came down from your orgasm and he kissed up your chest and to your lips. He kissed you passionately and you melted into his embrace before you felt him pull away.

You whined and reached for him but all you heard was the splashing of water as he slinked back into the lake. Your chest still rising and falling rapidly as you took in what happened and how you wanted it to happen again and again.

#fanfic #fanfiction #fandom #kinktober #marvel #marvel fandom #marvel fic #marvel fanfiction #steve rogers smut #steve rogers fic #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers imagine

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cursedcupcakemaster · 1 month ago

Note

Can I request Cupcakes with Spider Cider (x reader) , I'm genuinely confused how to request ngl

It's quite alright and you're more than welcome to have cupcakes with spider cider

Since this event isn't available on the English server I'm going off what I have here as for how you request, if youre requesting with drinks on the menu you ask for a glass/cup depending on if it's tea,coffee or soda or in skullys case cider and if it's additional with something like fluff or yandere you can ask for it say it was an order of cupcakes with a glass of spider cider

I'll fix that eventually

If this order is for an oc you can say their name, give some details about them and i will work with it

Anyways enjoy 🧁

Order; Fluffy cupcakes with a glass of spider cider

Notes; I do not own twisted wonderland, Skully or the reader,Skully and Twst belong to Disney as well as the brilliant mind of Yana Toboso, reader belongs to themselves this is just my interpretation of how this would go with the character, it's implied here that Skully came to visit and that you've met before, reader isn't neccesarily Yuu but if you want to imagine they are you're welcome to, y/n, reader is you

Warnings;fluff, not much else

🎃 Halloween carnival: Skully. J x reader🎃

It was finally time for your favorite time of year

As always Crowley requested your help, and this time it was setting up the Halloween carnival, he put you in charge of decorating which thankfully you could do since you happened to love designing things

There was a lot to do but little did you know you'd get a little help in the form of a handsome boy who was just crazy about the holiday

Skully found you carving pumpkins and was rather impressed with your handiwork

You were happy to see him again after last years event

Grinning he asked if all of the pumpkins were yours and you replied yes before telling him what you were doing this for

This made his eyes light up asking if he could help you in your endeavor so you agreed

After carving many pumpkins you had enough Jack O Lanterns

Next was the tents, it wasn't hard when you had friends in your corner to help with their magic granted you had to stop a certain duo(cough Ace and Deuce cough) that shares a brain cell from destroying each other

Once all that was set it was time for costumes, Vil had been giving you lessons in sewing and it was the perfect time to put those skills to use

Skully too was having fun stitching together your guises

When it was done and you dressed in the costume, you saw Skully had a massive blush upon his face clearing his throat Skully offered his arm which you linked with your own

Crowley thanked you for your hard work but of course bragged of how he is so gracious to allow his student to practice their skills making everyone roll their eyes

While everyone enjoyed the carnival Skully led you to one of the areas where guests could dance and danced with you in a slow waltz

"There's something I'd like to ask you y/n" he spoke

"What is it?" You asked

"I'd like you to...be my partner, if that's what you want to"

You felt your face heat up but brought yourself to tell him "I'd love to"

With that he pressed his lips to your own in a kiss while the moonlight illuminated the two of you

#disney twisted wonderland #disney #twisted wonderland #halloween event #skully j. graves #Skully x reader #Nightmare before christmas #I hope this wasn't too bad

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thesimcalledclem · 1 month ago

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FIRE AND BLOOD (CHAPTER TWO)

Warnings: Eventual Smut. Targcest. S!sterw!fe. Dubious consent (You know all the drills atp if you've gotten this far into the tag.) OC FIC, if that isn't what you are into, then kindly don't read.

I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION TO UPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO ANY OTHER SITES.

────── ☾ ──────

The days following my confrontation with Mother blurred into a numbing routine of endless preparations. Seamstresses descended upon my chambers, their arms laden with bolts of fabric and intricate embroidery. They measured and pinned, their fingers deftly transforming me into a porcelain doll adorned in silks and jewels.

Lessons with Septa Nysterica intensified, her lectures on courtly etiquette and wifely duties droning on like a persistent hum. I sat through them with a vacant expression, my mind elsewhere. I had no interest in learning how to manage a household or appease a husband. All I craved was the freedom to fly, to feel the wind in my hair and the sun on my face.

The news of Rhaenyra's impending arrival only added to the chaos. The castle buzzed with activity, servants scurrying to and fro, preparing for the arrival of the heir and her family. There were whispers of alliances and betrayals, of hidden agendas and simmering resentments.

I took no joy in any of it. I sat through the lavish dinners, pushing food around my plate, my stomach churning with anxiety. I forced myself to engage in polite conversation, my smiles masking the bitterness that gnawed at my soul.

Each night, I lay awake in my bed, staring up at the canopy overhead. I thought of Solayre, her scales gleaming in the moonlight, her roar echoing through the skies. I longed to be with him, to feel the rush of flight, to escape the suffocating confines of the Red Keep.

Weeks turned into a month, and still, the preparations continued. The announcement of my betrothal to Aegon was met with a mix of shock and intrigue. The court buzzed with gossip, the whispers growing louder with each passing day.

The celebratory feast was a lavish affair, the Great Hall overflowing with guests. I sat beside Aegon on the dais, our thrones elevated above the crowd. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats and sweet pastries, but the smell of food only made me nauseous.

I had barely eaten in weeks, my appetite waning with each passing day. The thought of being forced into a loveless marriage with Aegon had robbed me of my joy, my will to live.

Aegon leaned towards me, his voice a low murmur in my ear. "Mother is considering force-feeding you," he said, his breath reeking of wine. "I suggest you stuff some bread down before she intervenes."

I angled my body away from him, his drunken scent repulsive. "I am not hungry," I said, my voice barely audible.

I forced a smile as another lord approached the dais, bearing a lavish gift for our betrothal. I accepted it with a gracious nod, my heart heavy with despair.

"Doesn't matter," Aegon said, pushing a plate of food towards me. "Eat."

I looked up at him, my eyes locking with his. "I am not hungry," I repeated, my voice firmer this time.

He raised an eyebrow, a mocking glint in his eyes. He lifted his goblet to his lips, taking a long swig of wine. "So, you've chosen starvation as your weapon of defiance," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "That's a ghastly way to go. I'd rather be burnt alive."

I seethed, his words cutting deeper than he could possibly know. He had guessed my thoughts, my darkest fears.

"You have to eat," he continued, his tone softening slightly. "She will force you, and that will not be pretty for you. Because she will make me do it."

He shrugged, as if the thought of force-feeding me was a mere inconvenience. I glared at him, my anger rising. I wanted to scream, to throw the plate of food in his face, to unleash the fury that raged within me.

But I held my tongue, my jaw clenched tight. I knew I couldn't win this battle. Mother would get her way, one way or another.

I picked up a piece of bread, my hand trembling slightly. I brought it to my lips, the dry texture scratching my throat as I forced it down.

Aegon watched me with a satisfied smirk. "That’s a girl," he said, patting my hand.

I recoiled from his touch, my stomach churning. I would eat, but I would never give them the satisfaction of seeing me break. I would endure this ordeal, this sham of a marriage, for as long as I had to, and the worst part was, I knew that no matter how hard I fought, I couldn't change my fate. I was bound to Aegon, bound by blood and a twisted sense of duty.

The feast continued, a blur of faces and voices. I smiled and nodded, pretending to be happy, pretending to be in love. But inside, I was dying, my spirit slowly withering away.

Aegon, to his credit, didn't gloat or revel in my misery. Instead, he subtly pushed food my way, urging me with silent gestures and the occasional pointed look. He otherwise ignored me, his attention focused on the endless stream of well-wishers and sycophants who flocked to our table, eager to offer their congratulations and bask in the reflected glory of our impending union.

I ate, not out of hunger, but out of a desperate desire to avoid another confrontation with Mother. I forced down bites of roasted meats and sweetmeats, the flavors blending together in a sickeningly sweet concoction. I sipped wine, the alcohol doing little to numb the pain in my heart.

I could feel Aegon's eyes on me, watching my every move. I knew he was assessing my compliance, gauging my willingness to play along with this charade. I wanted to defy him, to throw the food in his face and scream my denial. But I knew it would only lead to more punishment, more humiliation.

So, I ate, my stomach churning with each bite. I smiled and nodded, my lips forming empty platitudes. I played the role of the happy bride-to-be, even as my soul withered inside.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Mother descended upon us like a bird of prey. Her long hair, adorned with pearls and amethysts, brushed against my shoulder as she leaned in close to Aegon.

"Has she—" she began, her voice low and urgent.

But Aegon cut her off, his voice weary but firm. "Yes, Mother," he said, his eyes meeting mine for a brief moment. "She ate."

He drained his goblet, the wine sloshing over the rim. Mother nodded curtly, her eyes narrowing as she surveyed me. I could feel her gaze piercing through me, searching for any sign of weakness, any hint of rebellion.

I met her stare with a blank expression, my face a mask of indifference. I had learned long ago that the best way to survive Mother's scrutiny was to reveal nothing, to give her no ammunition to use against me.

She turned away, satisfied for the moment, and rejoined Otto at the head of the table. Aegon leaned back in his chair, his shoulders slumping.

"You're welcome," he muttered under his breath, his eyes fixed on the goblet in his hand.

I didn't respond, my gaze drifting towards the open window. The moon hung high in the sky, its silvery light casting long shadows across the courtyard. I longed to be outside, to feel the cool night air against my skin, to escape the stifling atmosphere of the feast.

But I was trapped, a prisoner of my own circumstances. I was a Targaryen princess, bound by duty and tradition. I had no choice but to play the role that had been assigned to me, to marry the man I despised, to become the queen I never wanted to be.

The feast dragged on, an endless parade of courses and toasts. I smiled and nodded, feigning interest in the inane chatter of the courtiers. I sipped my wine, the taste bitter on my tongue.

As the night wore on, the revelers grew more boisterous, their laughter echoing through the hall. Aegon, fueled by alcohol and a perverse sense of amusement, became increasingly animated, his jokes growing bawdier, his laughter louder.

I watched him with a mixture of disgust and pity. He was a lost soul, drowning his sorrows in wine and women. He was a puppet, dancing to Mother's tune, his every move dictated by her ambition.

I wanted to shake him, to scream at him to wake up, to see the truth of his situation. But I knew it was futile. He was too far gone, too consumed by his own demons.

As the feast finally drew to a close, I excused myself, pleading exhaustion. I retreated to my chambers, my heart heavy with despair. I shed my elaborate gown, the heavy silk a suffocating reminder of my gilded cage.

I crawled into bed, my body aching with fatigue. But sleep eluded me. My mind raced, replaying the events of the day, the weeks, the months leading up to this moment.

I had been betrayed by my own mother, forced into a union with a man I loathed. I had been stripped of my identity, my dreams, my future.

The day of Rhaenyra's arrival dawned bright and clear, the sky a brilliant expanse of blue. A sense of anticipation hung in the air, a palpable tension that permeated the castle walls. Servants scurried about, their faces etched with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.

I had risen early, determined to steal a few precious moments of freedom before the day's events unfolded. I had made my way to the dragon pit, my heart pounding with anticipation. Solayre greeted me with a rumbling purr, his golden eyes gleaming with affection.

We took to the skies, soaring above the city, the wind whipping through my hair. The world below seemed to shrink, its problems and anxieties fading away. For a moment, I was free, unburdened by the weight of my impending marriage and the political turmoil that swirled around me.

But as we circled back towards the dragon pit, a dark speck on the horizon caught my eye. It grew larger with each passing moment, resolving into the unmistakable silhouette of a ship. Then another, and another.

Rhaenyra had arrived.

My heart sank as I guided Solayre back to the pit. I knew I had to hurry back to the castle, to shed my riding clothes and the lingering scent of dragon. I couldn't let Mother catch me in such a state, not on this of all days.

I dismounted Solayre, my legs trembling with a mixture of exertion and anxiety. I gave her a quick pat on the snout, promising to return soon, then hurried towards the castle.

As I rounded a corner, I nearly collided with Aegon. He stood in my path, his arms crossed, his expression a mask of annoyance.

I groaned inwardly, my frustration bubbling to the surface. "Aegon, let me pass," I said, my voice tight with impatience.

He raised an eyebrow, his eyes raking over my disheveled appearance. "Mother has been searching for you," he said, his voice dripping with disapproval. "I knew you'd be here."

I sighed, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. "Headed to a pleasure house?" I retorted; my voice laced with sarcasm. "Don't let me stop you."

He ignored my jibe, his gaze hardening. "Our half-sister is en route," he said, his voice clipped. "We've had a raven. I've been sent to fetch you."

"I can make my way back alone, thank you," I snapped, trying to sidestep him.

"Ah, I'm sure you can," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "But I don't want to hear Mother's complaints, so you'll come with me."

I glared at him, my anger rising. I hated being treated like a child, especially by Aegon. But I knew he was right. Mother would be furious if she found out I had been riding Solayre, especially on the day of Rhaenyra's arrival.

I reluctantly fell into step beside him, my gaze fixed on the ground. We walked in silence for a while, the tension between us palpable.

"You know," Aegon said, breaking the silence, "you're not making this any easier on yourself."

I groaned inwardly, but glanced over at him as we walked in step. "And how would you have me make this easier?" I retorted, my voice laced with bitterness.

He let out a sigh, as if dealing with my defiance was an endless chore. "Stop being so obstinate," he said, his tone laced with annoyance. "Stop fighting us all at every turn."

"How are you so resigned to this?" I questioned, my voice lowering to a hushed tone as we turned a corner. "I know you don't want to marry me or become king. I know it's all mother and her plotting."

We traversed the east wing of the castle, the echoing footsteps and the flickering torchlight amplifying the tension between us. Aegon laughed, a bitter sound that held no humor.

His eyes slid over to me, a mixture of pity and amusement in their depths. "I am more accustomed to not getting what I want than you are, sister," he said, his voice low and raspy. "I have known this would be the outcome as soon as Heleana was married off. If it wasn't going to be her, then it would be you."

I stopped walking abruptly, a scoff escaping my lips. He slowly turned to face me, his expression unreadable.

"She will be displeased—" he started, his voice drained and weary.

"What of your wants?" I cut him off, my voice rising in frustration. "Beyond whoring and getting drunk, don't you have any?"

He stared at me for a moment, a flicker of something unidentifiable in his eyes. Then, with a sigh, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me along the corridor. "I do not want another dramatic lecture from her," he said, his voice tight. "Let's go."

I reluctantly allowed him to lead me, my mind racing. I couldn't fathom how he could be so accepting of this fate, so willing to sacrifice his own desires for Mother's ambition. Did he truly have no dreams of his own?

As we continued down the corridor, I stole glances at Aegon, trying to decipher the emotions hidden behind his carefully constructed facade. He was a master of disguise, his true feelings buried beneath layers of arrogance and indifference.

But I knew him better than anyone. I had seen the glimpses of vulnerability, the flashes of anger and resentment that he so carefully concealed. He was not as apathetic as he pretended to be.

We reached the Red Keep's grand entrance hall, where a flurry of activity greeted us. Servants rushed past, carrying trays laden with food and drink. The air buzzed with anticipation, the whispers and murmurs growing louder with each passing moment.

"She's here," Aegon said, a hint of grim satisfaction in his voice.

I nodded, my heart pounding with a mixture of dread and curiosity. I hadn't seen Rhaenyra in years. I wondered how she had changed, how the years of exile had hardened her.

We made our way to the throne room, where the court had gathered to welcome the returning princess. As we entered, all eyes turned to us, the whispers and murmurs reaching a crescendo.

I could feel the weight of their stares, their judgments. I straightened my back, lifting my chin in defiance. I would not let them see my fear, my uncertainty.

The two of us walked side by side toward the Throne where our mother Alicent and Heleana, Aemond and Otto all stood, waiting for Rhaenyra to enter the throne room.

Alicent's sharp eyes passed over me, noticing my tousled hair and no doubt able to smell the sulfur on me. She opened her mouth to scold me, but Aegon spoke first.

"She was only visiting Solayre," he said, his voice drawn and precise. My head swiveled to him, but I schooled my expression into one of indifference. He caught my gaze, a silent message passing between us. "She did not take flight," he added, a subtle emphasis on the last word.

Alicent's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. She knew better than to challenge Aegon in public, especially not with Rhaenyra's arrival imminent. The tension in the room thickened, a palpable energy that crackled in the air.

I could feel Rhaenyra's presence before I saw her. It was like a shift in the atmosphere, a sudden chill that swept through the throne room. All eyes turned towards the entrance, where the doors swung open to reveal the returning princess.

She stood tall and proud, her silver-gold hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of moonlight. Her eyes, the same violet hue as my other siblings, were filled with a fire that had only intensified over the years. She was flanked by her three sons, each one a mirror image of their father, Harwin Strong, though none of us would ever admit that out loud. Those boys were bastards.

A hush fell over the court as Rhaenyra and her sons made their way towards the throne. The air crackled with unspoken tension, the weight of history hanging heavy in the room.

I watched Rhaenyra with a mixture of awe and apprehension. She was everything I wasn't: confident, assertive, unafraid to challenge the status quo. I couldn't help but wonder what she thought of me, of my impending marriage to Aegon.

As she approached the dais, her eyes met mine. For a fleeting moment, I saw a flicker of recognition, a spark of kinship. But it was quickly replaced by a mask of cool indifference.

She curtsied before Mother, an act of pure political respect, devoid of the warmth and camaraderie they had once shared. It was a stark reminder of the chasm that had grown between them, a chasm filled with bitterness and betrayal.

"You are welcome here, stepdaughter," Mother said, her voice smooth as silk, yet laced with an undercurrent of malice. She used the term "stepdaughter" deliberately, a calculated jab meant to undermine Rhaenyra's legitimacy and remind her of her precarious position.

Rhaenyra took it in stride, her expression remaining impassive. She showed no sign of annoyance, no flash of anger in her violet eyes. She was made of ice, it seemed, her emotions carefully concealed beneath a glacial facade.

She tilted her head slightly as she rose to her feet, her gaze sweeping over the assembled courtiers. Then, she spoke, her voice clear and resonant, echoing through the silent hall.

"Skorkydoso iksos issa kepa?" she asked, her words spoken in High Valyrian, the ancient language of her ancestors. “How does my father fare?”

It was a language she knew Mother did not understand, a subtle power play meant to assert her superiority and remind everyone of her rightful claim to the Iron Throne.

The room fell into an awkward silence, the courtiers exchanging uneasy glances. Mother's face tightened, her jaw clenching in frustration. She had been outmaneuvered, her authority challenged in her own court.

After a few moments of tense silence, I spoke, my voice strong and unwavering. "Īlva kepa iksos se ēdrugī, ziry iksos ēdrure," I answered Rhaenyra in fluent High Valyrian. “Our father is tired and rarely wakes.”

Aegon's hand shot out, his fingers digging into my wrist in a painful warning. I ignored him, my gaze locked with Rhaenyra's. A flicker of surprise crossed her face, followed by a hint of approval.

"Ziry vestragon issa mandia iksos sȳrī versed isse īlva ānogar," Rhaenyra said, her voice melodic and resonant. "Your command of our mother tongue is impressive, sister."

A small smile tugged at my lips. "Nyke excel isse issa studies, aōha dārōñe," I replied, my voice clear and confident. "I excel in my studies, thank you, Princess."

I tried to ignore the daggers my mother glared at me, as well as Aegon's painful hold on my arm. I could already feel bruises forming, but I refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

Rhaenyra's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Nyke kostagon ūndegon bona," she said with a light laugh, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “I can see that.”

Then, she turned her attention to my mother, who had schooled her expression expertly before Rhaenyra could see the flash of anger that had crossed her face.

"I would like to see my father," Rhaenyra said, her eyes fixed on Mother. "My sister tells me he rarely wakes."

Alicent nodded, her face a mask of grief and regret. "The king rests," she said mournfully, her voice thick with feigned sorrow. "His illness causes him great pain."

I heard Aegon scoff under his breath, a sound of cynical amusement. He knew as well as I did that Mother's concern for Father's well-being was a carefully crafted facade, a performance designed to elicit sympathy and deflect attention from her own machinations.

Rhaenyra's gaze remained steady, her eyes piercing through Mother's charade. "I understand," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "But I would still like to pay my respects."

Mother hesitated for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. "Very well," she said. "I will have someone escort you to his chambers."

A flicker of a grim smile crossed Rhaenyra's face, revealing a hint of teeth. "I can make the journey myself. This is my home."

The unspoken challenge hung in the air, the first volley in a power play that had been years in the making. Rhaenyra gathered her skirts and turned, motioning for her boys to follow her. They all did, but the eldest, Jacaerys, met my eyes for a moment before turning to follow his mother. The look was calculating and discerning, a silent claim staked. I felt Aegon stiffen beside me, his grip on my arm tightening. He had noticed it as well.

Rhaenyra's departure signaled our own dismissal. Aegon, his grip on my arm now a vice-like hold, dragged me from the throne room. The courtiers parted before us, their whispers trailing in our wake.

Once we were in the relative privacy of the hall, Aegon and our grandfather exchanged a knowing glance. Before I could pull away and make my escape, Aegon pulled me into a darkened alcove, the heavy tapestry curtain muffling the sounds of the bustling castle.

"What was that stunt you pulled?" he hissed, his fingers digging into my arm again. I winced in pain and wrenched my arm free, his touch leaving a burning sensation on my skin. He towered over me, his imposing figure casting a shadow over my own.

"Stunt?" I retorted, my voice laced with indignation. "She spoke a language our mother cannot understand. If anything, I helped her."

He shook his head, nostrils flared, his face contorted in disdain. "You made her look like a pretender," he hissed, pulling the tapestry curtain further down to shield us from the prying eyes of servants and nobles passing in the hall. "And what was that look from the bastard?"

"You mean your nephew?" I admonished, my voice sharp.

He scoffed, his hand shooting out to grab my face, his thumb pressing painfully against my cheekbone. His actions were a wretched mirror of our mother's, a chilling reminder of the cruelty that ran in our blood.

"You had better wake up and realize there are sides to be chosen," he whispered, his voice low and menacing. "And yours is tied to mine, little sister."

"Let go of me," I demanded, my voice shaking with a mixture of fear and anger.

He tilted his head, his lilac eyes boring into mine. I saw the malice and disdain there, a reflection of the darkness that lurked within him. He held me there for a moment, his grip tightening, a silent demonstration of the power he held over me.

"I will do with you what I want," he whispered, his voice a chilling caress against my skin.

Then, as quickly as he had seized me, he released me, his hand dropping away from my face. He turned and strode out of the alcove, the tapestry swinging closed behind him, leaving me alone in the shadows.

I leaned against the cool stone wall, my chest heaving with unshed tears. The encounter had left me shaken, a stark reminder of my vulnerability in this world of power and ambition. I was a pawn, a prize to be bartered and traded, my own desires and dreams irrelevant.

I touched my cheek, the skin still stinging from Aegon's grip. I had always known he was capable of cruelty, but this was a new level of malice, a darkness that I had never seen before.

I closed my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. I had to compose myself, to present a strong facade to the world. I couldn't let them see my weakness, my fear.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the challenges ahead. I would not be broken. I would not be cowed. I would find a way to survive this, to carve out a life for myself, even in the shadow of Aegon's looming presence.

The soft chatter of children playing and the rhythmic click of needles filled the air in Heleana's solar, creating a soothing counterpoint to the turmoil that raged within me. My elder sister and I sat side-by-side, embroidering tunics – one for Aegon, the other for Aemond. It was Heleana's idea, a gesture of sisterly solidarity in the face of my impending, unwanted marriage. We were stitching miniature versions of their dragons, Sunfyre and Vhagar, onto the sleeves, each stitch a testament to the complex tapestry of our family ties.

Heleana, as usual, was silent company. It was a quality I cherished in her, a quiet understanding that transcended words. We could exist in comfortable silence, the unspoken bond between us a balm for my troubled heart.

But after a few long moments, she broke the tranquility. "It is not so bad being married," she said, her eyes lifting to meet mine over the fabric she held close to her face.

I let out a deep sigh, the knot of tension in my chest tightening. "You got the easier of the three," I replied with a grimace, pulling the needle and thread through the thick fabric of Aegon's sleeve. "Aemond and you have been a calm match. I'd have preferred Daeron at this point."

A soft smile touched Heleana's lips. "He will most likely ignore you," she said, her voice gentle. "Be thankful he is preoccupied with whores and wine."

I swallowed down the bile that rose in my throat at the thought of the man I was soon to marry. He was a fool, a drunken, lecherous fool. "Is it wrong of me to have wanted more?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "Happiness? Peace? Freedom?"

Heleana set the stitching down on her lap, her gaze filled with a sadness that mirrored my own. "We are women, Clem," she said, her voice heavy with resignation. "We do not get to choose, dear sister."

Her words echoed the sentiment Mother had expressed just days before. It was a bitter truth, a stark reminder of the limitations placed upon us by birth and tradition. We were pawns in a game played by men, our destinies dictated by the whims of kings and the machinations of power-hungry advisors.

A wave of despair washed over me, threatening to drown me in its depths. I felt trapped, suffocated by the expectations and obligations that surrounded me. I longed for the freedom I had once felt on the back of Solayre, soaring through the skies, unburdened by the weight of the world.

Just as the darkness threatened to consume me, a small, chubby hand reached out and wrapped around my neck. I looked down to see Maelor, Heleana's youngest son, gazing up at me with wide, innocent eyes. The same eyes they all shared, that strange violet hue that I had longed for my whole life.

"Play with me!" he exclaimed; his voice filled with childish delight. I couldn't help but smile, the warmth of his embrace melting away some of the ice that had encased my heart. I scooped him up onto my lap, his giggles filling the room with a much-needed lightness.

"Of course, my darling," I said, nuzzling his soft cheek. "What shall we play?"

He pointed to a pile of wooden blocks on the floor. "Build a castle!" he declared, his eyes shining with excitement.

I set him down and we began to construct a magnificent fortress, our laughter echoing through the solar. For a brief moment, I forgot my troubles, lost in the simple joy of playing with my nephew.

As the afternoon wore on, we continued to embroider, our conversation drifting from idle chatter to more serious topics. We spoke of our hopes and fears, our dreams and disappointments. We shared stories of our childhood, of the days before the weight of the crown had settled upon our shoulders.

For the first time in a long time, I felt truly seen, truly understood. Heleana listened without judgment, her empathy a balm for my wounded spirit. She didn't offer solutions or platitudes, but simply held space for my pain.

As the sun began to shift to early afternoon, casting long shadows across the solar, Maelor grew tired and curled up on my lap, his tiny hand clutching my finger. I stroked his soft hair, a sense of peace settling over me.

The serenity of the afternoon was shattered by the sudden flurry of activity as Heleana's ladies maids entered the solar, my own trailing behind them, their arms laden with gowns that Mother had undoubtedly chosen for us. The sight of the elaborate dresses was a stark reminder of the impending call to the throne room, a summons that filled me with a sense of dread.

"Why must we go to this hearing?" I complained, my voice echoing in the now quiet room as Maelor and Jaehaerys were whisked away by their wet nurses. My question was directed at Heleana, but it was Roslin, my own lady-in-waiting, who answered.

"You are in the line of succession, Princess," she said, her voice gentle but firm. She began to untie the laces of my gown, her fingers deft and practiced.

I sighed, the weight of my unwanted position pressing down on me. "But why now?" I pressed, my frustration mounting. "Rhaenyra has just arrived. Surely, this can wait."

"This entire hearing is for Rhaenyra's son, Princess," Roslin said softly as she peeled the previous dress off of me and opted instead for one of deep green velvet. I was tiring of these green gowns I had been forced to wear my whole life. Heleana ignored the talk between Roslin and I as they dressed her in a soft gown of gold silk that flattered her beautiful silver hair.

I inhaled sharply as I was laced into the too-tight, too-stifling gown, but I didn't let the matter drop. "What about the boy?" I demanded, even though he wasn't a boy any longer, only a few years younger than I was.

"They call into account the Prince's claim for his inheritance," Roslin mumbled while she adjusted the tightness of the corset before she turned to braiding the crown of my hair. “For Driftmark, Princess.”

"Those bloody liars," I exclaimed loudly and angrily at being deceived about the true purpose of Rhaenyra's sudden appearance back at the Red Keep. "I swear no one tells me anything."

This caught Heleana's attention. She tutted and walked over to me, taking over for Roslin and beginning to finish braiding the crown of my hair, leaving the rest loose.

"Such foul language, sister," she admonished with a small smile. I rolled my eyes at her, the gesture a familiar dance between us.

"It's frustrating," I retorted, my voice tight. "I'm treated like a child, kept in the dark about matters that directly affect me."

Heleana's smile faded, replaced by a look of understanding. "I know," she said softly. "But it is the way of things here. We are women in a man's world. We must learn to navigate the shadows, to glean information where we can."

Her words were a bitter echo of my own thoughts. I had always chafed against the constraints placed upon me, the expectations that I should be docile and obedient. But I was a Targaryen, with fire in my blood and a dragon's spirit in my heart. I yearned for more than a life of embroidery and courtly gossip.

I sighed, resigning myself to my fate. "I suppose you're right," I said, my voice heavy with resignation. "But it doesn't make it any easier."

Heleana finished braiding my hair, her touch gentle and soothing. "No," she agreed, her voice barely a whisper. "It doesn't."

We stood there for a moment, two sisters bound by blood and a shared sense of frustration. We were both trapped in a gilded cage, our wings clipped, our voices silenced.

"Will you go find Mother and ask her where Dyana has gotten off to? She was supposed to get the children ready for bed before the hearing." Heleana's request broke the momentary peace in the solar, and I nodded, turning to Roslin.

"Where is my mother?" I asked, knowing she had spoken to her before bringing us these horrendous dresses. She sighed, gathering up Heleana's and my discarded gowns. "She is in your brother's chambers."

"Aemond?" I asked hopefully, but she shook her head.

"Aegon's then?" I clarified, and she nodded. I rolled my eyes and left out of the door, traversing the east wing to where my brother's chambers were. A wave of frustration washed over me. I didn't want to deal with either of them, but duty called for me as it always did. I quickened my pace, my footsteps echoing through the silent corridors.

Reaching Aegon's chambers, I opened the door without knocking, my irritation overriding any sense of propriety. I strode past his large solar and into his bedchamber, only to freeze at the sight that greeted me.

Aegon stood by his bed, his usually impeccable appearance disheveled. He was clad only in a sheet, held loosely around his waist, his bare chest exposed. His eyes, usually cold and calculating, were red-rimmed and filled with a raw vulnerability I had never seen before. It was clear he had been crying.

Our eyes met, and I was momentarily paralyzed by the intensity of his gaze. It was a look I had never seen from him before, a mixture of pain, longing, and something else I couldn't quite decipher.

Mother, who had been standing a few steps away from Aegon, turned at the sound of my entrance. Her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in disapproval.

I stumbled over my words, my voice barely a whisper. "Heleana sent me to find Dyana," I managed to say, finally tearing my gaze away from Aegon. "She was supposed to dress the boys before the hearing." I saw Aegon wince slightly as I spoke the servant girl's name. A chill ran down my spine. What had I interrupted?

Mother remained uncharacteristically silent, her eyes darting between Aegon and me. Then, in a move that shocked me to my core, she stepped towards me and pulled me into her arms, embracing me tightly.

I froze, my body rigid with surprise. Her touch felt foreign, almost repulsive. My arms remained stiff at my sides, my eyes wide with confusion. I glanced at Aegon, seeking an explanation, but he only looked away, his jaw clenched.

Mother's embrace lingered, her grip tightening as if she were trying to hold on to something slipping away. A wave of nausea washed over me. I had never seen Mother like this before. She was always so composed, so in control. To see her unraveling like this, her carefully constructed facade crumbling, was both unsettling and deeply disturbing.

Finally, she released me, her eyes red and swollen. "Go," she said, her voice hoarse. “And tell Heleana that we will be there shortly."

I nodded, my mind reeling. I fled the room, my footsteps echoing in the silent corridor. I didn't look back, afraid of what I might see.

The questions swirled in my mind, unanswered and unsettling. I felt like I was caught in a web of secrets and lies, a tangled mess of emotions and hidden agendas.

The throne room, once a place of joyous celebrations and grand pronouncements, now bore a heavy, somber atmosphere. The air crackled with unspoken tension, each breath a whispered echo of the court's collective anxiety. I stood between Heleana and Aegon, a prisoner flanked by reluctant guards. He had avoided me since our earlier encounter, his usual arrogance replaced by a haunted look that clung to the corners of his eyes. I couldn't shake the image of his raw vulnerability, the tears he had tried so desperately to conceal.

Otto Hightower, our grandfather, the Hand of the King, stood before the assembled nobles, his voice commanding attention. "Though it is the great hope of this court that Lord Corlys Velaryon survive his wounds," he began, his tone grave, "we gather here with the grim task of dealing with the succession of Driftmark." He settled onto the Iron Throne, a stark reminder of the power he wielded in my father's absence. His cloak, a rich tapestry of woven deep almost black green, pooled around him, its weight a symbol of the burden he carried.

"As Hand, I speak with the King's voice on this and all other matters," he continued, his words echoing through the chamber. "The Crown will now hear the petitions." A pause, heavy with anticipation. "Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon."

Otto's voice, though aged, carried the authority of a man accustomed to command. The room held its breath, the silence broken only by the soft rustle of silk and the clinking of armor. My mother, Alicent, stood beside Heleana, her face a stoic mask, her posture rigid. The weight of the moment pressed down on us all, a suffocating blanket of unease.

I longed to escape, to flee from the suffocating formality and the undercurrents of political intrigue. But I was trapped, a gilded bird in a cage of my own making. I could only watch as the drama unfolded, a spectator in a play where my own fate hung in the balance.

Ser Vaemond stepped forward, his bearing proud and defiant. His aging silver hair was pulled back from his face, revealing the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the deep lines etched by years of duty and hardship. His dark skin and piercing dark eyes spoke of his Velaryon blood, a lineage as ancient and proud as our own. He was every bit the lord he claimed to be, his presence demanding respect.

"My queen," he began, his voice resonant and clear, "My lord Hand. The history of our noble houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms to the days of Old Valyria. For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies, House Velaryon has ruled the seas."

His words painted a picture of intertwined destinies, a reminder of the ancient bond between our two houses. It was a powerful opening, an appeal to tradition and blood ties that resonated with the gathered nobles.

"When the Doom fell on Valyria," he continued, his voice tinged with a hint of sorrow, "our houses became the last of their kind. Our forebearers came to this new land, knowing that were they to fail, it would mean the end to their bloodlines and their name."

His words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the fragility of power, the ever-present threat of oblivion. The room seemed to darken, the shadows lengthening as the weight of history pressed down upon us.

"I have spent my entire life on Driftmark defending my brother's seat," Vaemond declared, his voice rising with passion. "I am Lord Corlys's closest kin, his own blood. The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembled courtiers, daring them to challenge his claim. A murmur rippled through the crowd, a mix of agreement and unease.

Beside me, Aegon shifted restlessly, a sound of boredom escaping his lips. I turned to him, my eyes narrowing. His jaw was clenched, his hands trembling slightly. They had kept him sober for this event, and it was clear he was struggling to maintain his composure.

Our eyes met, and for a fleeting moment, I saw a reflection of my own misery in his gaze. We were both trapped, both pawns in a game we didn't want to play.

But as quickly as the connection had formed, it was broken. Aegon turned away, his attention drifting back to the proceedings. I was left alone with my thoughts, the weight of the moment pressing down on me with renewed force.

A wave of anticipation swept through the throne room as Rhaenyra's voice rang out, cutting through the tense silence like a Valyrian steel blade. "As it does in my sons," she declared, her tone regal and unwavering, "the offspring of Laenor Velaryon."

Her words hung in the air, a challenge to Ser Vaemond's claim, a bold assertion of her own sons' legitimacy. The court held its breath, sensing the shift in power dynamics, the clash of wills between two formidable figures.

"If you cared so much about your house's blood, Ser Vaemond," Rhaenyra continued, her voice laced with a subtle accusation, "you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir." Her gaze remained fixed on him, her eyes burning with a righteous fire. "No, you only speak for yourself and for your own ambition."

A slight huff escaped Mother's lips, a barely audible expression of her disapproval. I kept my eyes downcast, the tension in the room palpable, my own pulse echoing the quickened heartbeat of the realm.

"You will have a chance to make your own petition, Princess Rhaenyra," Mother interjected, her voice sharp and controlled. "Do Ser Vaemond the courtesy of allowing his to be heard." She stood tall; her arms crossed protectively over her chest.

Vaemond turned to face Rhaenyra, his posture radiating smug arrogance. "What do you know of Velaryon blood, Princess?" he sneered, his voice dripping with condescension. "I could cut my veins and show it to you, and you still wouldn't recognize it."

His words hung heavy in the air; a venomous barb aimed at Rhaenyra's heart. The room seemed to shrink, the suffocating silence amplifying the animosity between them.

"This is about the future and survival of my house, not yours," Vaemond continued, his voice rising with each word. "My queen, my lord Hand. This is a matter of blood, not ambition." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembled nobles, his eyes burning with a fierce determination.

"I place the continuation and survival of my house and my line above all," he declared, his voice echoing through the chamber. "I humbly put myself before you as my brother's successor... the Lord of Driftmark and Lord of the Tides."

A tense silence followed his proclamation. The weight of his words, the gravity of his request, hung heavy in the air. The fate of Driftmark, a crucial stronghold for the realm, rested on the decision that would be made today.

Otto nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "Thank you, Ser Vaemond," he said, his voice measured. "Your petition has been heard."

All eyes turned to Rhaenyra, the room buzzing with anticipation. The game was afoot, the lines drawn. The future of House Velaryon, and perhaps even the realm itself, hung in the balance.

My grandfather spoke once again from his stolen throne, his voice echoing in the tense silence. It was in those rare moments, where the fate of our house hung in the balance, that I longed for my father's presence. I wished he could be here, strong and resolute, to stop this farce, to quell the rising tide of ambition and greed. I yearned for him to sweep me away from this world of politics and scheming, to allow me to live my life beyond the shadow of the Iron Throne. But it was a futile wish, a fleeting dream. My father was a ghost, a mere whisper of his former self, his life ebbing away with each passing day.

"Thank you, Ser Vaemond," Otto declared, his voice cutting through the silence. "Princess Rhaenyra, you may now speak for your son, Lucerys Velaryon."

Rhaenyra stepped forward, her expression a mask of controlled anger. Vaemond's audacious claim to her son's inheritance had clearly struck a nerve.

"If I am to grace this farce with some answer," she began, her voice dripping with disdain, "I will start by reminding the court that nearly twenty years ago, in this very..."

Her words were abruptly cut off by the creak of the massive double doors swinging open. A shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom of the throne room, illuminating the figures that stood in the doorway. A collective gasp swept through the court, a ripple of shock and disbelief.

At the head of the procession stood the Kingsguard, their armor gleaming in the light. But it was the figure behind them that captured everyone's attention. My father, King Viserys, once a towering presence, now a frail and broken man, shuffled into the room.

"King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm," the herald announced, his voice echoing through the hushed chamber.

My father hobbled forward, his back stooped, his steps unsteady. His once-handsome face was ravaged by illness, his skin stretched taut over his bones. A mask covered half of his face, concealing the ravages of his disease. He leaned heavily on a cane, each step a testament to his diminished strength.

I could feel the shock emanating from my siblings beside me. Mother's mouth hung slightly open, her carefully constructed composure momentarily shattered. But it was Rhaenyra's face that held my attention. Her eyes, usually so cold and calculating, were now filled with a raw, unadulterated love. He had come for her, for his beloved daughter, the one he had always favored.

A pang of bitterness pierced my heart. He had never looked at me with such tenderness, such warmth. I was just another daughter, a spare, an afterthought.

Otto slowly rose from the throne, his face a mask of shock and disbelief. I tried but couldn't ignore the small grunts of pain that escaped my father's lips as he made his way towards the throne. Each step seemed to take an agonizing effort; his body wracked with pain.

The room was silent, the only sound the soft shuffle of his feet and the ragged rhythm of his breathing. The weight of the moment pressed down on us, a suffocating reminder of the fragility of life, the inevitability of death.

His gaze swept past us, his children, a fleeting glance that held no recognition, no warmth. It was a dismissal, a silent confirmation of our insignificance in this moment. My eyes flicked to Mother, expecting to see her usual stoic mask, but instead, I was met with a look of profound empathy. Her face, usually so composed, was etched with lines of pain and sorrow. Tears welled up in her dark hazel eyes, a testament to the depth of her commitment for the man who was slowly fading before us.

I wanted to dismiss it as a farce, a performance for the benefit of the court. But I couldn't ignore the raw emotion in her eyes, the genuine anguish that twisted her features. For the first time, I saw Mother not as a calculating strategist, but as a woman grappling with the impending loss of her husband and the only power or control, she had ever had for herself.

But any flicker of sympathy I felt for her was quickly extinguished by the sight of the love and adoration that shone in his eyes as he gazed upon our half-sister. It was a look I had never received, a look that spoke of a deep and abiding bond. The realization that I was, and always had been, a spare, a mere footnote in my father's life, pierced my heart with a jealous bitterness.

I schooled my expression, forcing my features into a mask of neutrality. I would not let anyone see my inner turmoil, the maelstrom of emotions that threatened to consume me.

With a final, agonizing effort, my father reached the foot of the dais. His back was hunched, his limbs trembling with the strain. I could see the dread in his eyes, the knowledge that this climb, this simple act of ascending the steps to his own throne, might be beyond his weakened body.

He paused, his gaze fixed on the ground, as if gathering his strength. "I shall sit the throne today," he declared, his voice a raspy whisper that echoed through the silent hall.

Otto, realizing the futility of protest, nodded in deference. "Your Grace," he said, his voice heavy with resignation. He stepped down from the throne, his cloak swirling around him like a shroud. He crossed the dais to Mother's side, his presence a silent offer of support.

My father turned his gaze towards the steps, his face a mask of grim determination. He took a hesitant step, his body swaying precariously. A collective gasp rose from the court, a shared intake of breath as we all witnessed his struggle.

Ser Erryk Cargyll, a member of the Kingsguard, stepped forward, his hand outstretched to assist the king. But Viserys waved him away, his voice a stubborn rasp. "I will be fine," he insisted, his pride refusing to yield to his weakened state. "I will be fine."

He took another step, his body straining with the effort. He glanced down, his eyes focusing on his feet, on the treacherous climb ahead. And then, with a sickening lurch, the crown tumbled from his head, rolling across the marble floor with a hollow clatter.

I closed my eyes, a wave of anguish washing over me. The sight of my father, once so powerful and majestic, reduced to this pathetic state, was almost too much to bear.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Daemon Targaryen, my uncle, step forward from his place among the courtiers. He moved with a grace that belied his reputation as a rogue prince, his silver-gold hair gleaming in the sunlight that streamed through the high windows.

He knelt beside the fallen crown, his long fingers closing around it with a hesitant touch. He lifted it, his gaze fixed on his brother, a complex mix of emotions swirling in his violet eyes.

"I said I am fine," Viserys rasped, his voice weak but defiant.

He looked up, his eyes widening in surprise as he saw Daemon standing before him, the crown held aloft. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, the two brothers locked in a silent exchange that spoke volumes.

Finally, Daemon spoke, his voice soft but firm. "Come on," he said, extending his hand.

Viserys hesitated, his pride warring with his exhaustion. But then, with a sigh of surrender, he reached out and took Daemon's hand.

I watched with a throat thick with emotion as Daemon helped his brother up the steps, his every movement a testament to their shared history, their complex bond of love and rivalry.

When they reached the throne, Daemon gently placed the crown back on Viserys's head. Then, with a final, meaningful look, he stepped back and returned to his place beside Rhaenyra.

The weight of the moment pressed down on me, a crushing burden of sorrow and regret. I had wasted so much time resenting my father, envying Rhaenyra's place in his heart.

"I must... admit... my confusion," my father's voice, though raspy and weak, echoed with a surprising strength, cutting through the tense atmosphere. "I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession." He paused, his breath hitching in his chest, but his eyes remained resolute.

"The only one present... who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys's wishes is the Princess Rhaenys."

All eyes turned to Princess Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was. Despite the passage of time, she retained an aura of regal beauty. Her silver-streaked hair was pulled back in an elegant chignon, her once vibrant violet eyes now tinged with a hint of melancholy. The lines on her face spoke of a life lived amidst hardship and loss, yet her posture remained proud, her spirit unbroken.

She stepped forward, her gaze unwavering. "Indeed, Your Grace," she affirmed, her voice carrying the weight of her lineage. "It was ever my husband's will that Driftmark pass through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son... Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed. Nor did my support of him."

A wave of murmurs rippled through the court, a mixture of surprise and anticipation. Rhaenys had spoken, and her words carried immense weight.

"As a matter of fact," she continued, a sly smile gracing her lips, "the Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons Jace and Luke to Lord Corlys's granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena. A proposal to which I heartily agree."

Her declaration was met with a hushed silence. The implications of this union were clear: a further consolidation of power within Rhaenyra's line, a strengthening of her claim to the Iron Throne.

A soft noise from my left drew my attention. Aegon, his lips curled into a smug smile, was barely containing his laughter. I was taken aback by his sudden change in demeanor. He had been so sullen and withdrawn just moments before. Now, his eyes sparkled with a cruel amusement, as if he relished the chaos that was unfolding.

My attention snapped back to my father as he spoke once more. "Well... the matter is settled. Again," he wheezed, his voice strained but resolute. "I hereby reaffirm Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides."

The room erupted in whispers, a cacophony of reactions. Some nodded in approval, others shifted uneasily in their seats. But it was Vaemond's reaction that cut through the noise like a thunderclap.

"You break law... and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir," he spat, his voice venomous. "Yet you dare tell me... who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon. No. I will not allow it."

The temperature in the room plummeted. Vaemond's defiance hung in the air, a challenge to the King's authority, a spark that threatened to ignite a conflagration.

"Allow it?" my father wheezed, his anger fueling a surge of strength. "Do not forget yourself, Vaemond."

Vaemond trembled with barely contained rage. "That is no true Velaryon," he snarled, his eyes burning with hatred, "and certainly no nephew of mine."

The words, spoken with such venom, pierced the heart of the matter. The age-old accusation, the whispered rumors that had plagued Rhaenyra's sons for years, were now laid bare before the court. They were bastards, born of adultery, their claim to the Velaryon name a lie.

The tension in the room was suffocating, a palpable darkness that seemed to seep into every corner. I felt Aegon stiffen beside me, his hand clenching into a fist. The fragile peace that had held the court together was crumbling, and the consequences were impossible to foresee.

Rhaenyra's protective instincts flared, her maternal fury a tangible force as she shielded Lucerys from the storm brewing before them. The boy, sensing the danger, retreated behind his mother, his young eyes wide with fear.

"Go to your chambers, you have said enough." My sister tried to reaffirm her standing, to recover some form of control.

"Lucerys is my true-born grandson." He took a steadying breath. "And you... are no more than the second son of Driftmark."

Viserys's voice, though weakened by illness, still commanded authority. His words, a mix of exhaustion and unwavering determination, sliced through the chaos, reminding everyone present of the true lineage at stake. The room hung on his every breath, the weight of his declaration settling heavily upon Vaemond's shoulders.

"You... may run your house as you see fit... but you will not decide the future of mine. My house survived the Doom and a thousand tribulations besides. And gods be damned... I will not see it ended on the account of this..."

At Vaemond’s words all went still, I could see then anger the venom behind this man. It made me want to cower.

Daemon, ever the lurking shadow, watched the proceedings with a cold, calculating gaze. His silence was more menacing than any outburst, his predatory stillness a stark contrast to the turmoil unfolding around him. His dark violet eyes flicked from Vaemond to Rhaenyra's children, the threat hanging in the air. “Say it.”

Vaemond, cornered and desperate, made a fateful decision. His gaze darted between Daemon and Rhaenyra, his defiance battling with a flicker of fear. In a final act of desperation, he unleashed his venomous words, spitting them at Rhaenyra with a hatred that chilled the room.

"Her children are BASTARDS!" He screamed the word so close to Rhaenyra, and so full of hatred. The were hushed whispers and I heard Aemond let out a whoosh of air behind me. "And she... is... a whοre." Vaemond finished.

The silence that followed was deafening, shattered only by the gasps of shock and disgust. Aemond's sharp intake of breath echoed through the stillness, a testament to the audacity of Vaemond's accusation. Helaena, beside me, shifted uncomfortably, her sensitivity attuned to the discordant energy that now permeated the room.

I couldn't tear my eyes away from the scene unfolding before me. Viserys rose to his feet, his fury evident, but my attention was drawn to Daemon. He moved with a chilling grace, closing the distance between himself and Vaemond with a predator's stealth.

"I will have your tongue for that." I heard my father command, his voice strained from the effort it took to stay standing. Viserys's command to remove Vaemond's tongue was lost in the horrifying spectacle that followed. Daemon's sword flashed, a swift and brutal arc that separated the top half of Vaemond’s head from his jaw. The sickening thud of his body hitting the floor, the spray of blood that painted the room in crimson, it all seemed to happen in slow motion.

I let out a choked cry of horror, burying my face in Aegon's shoulder. The world around me dissolved into a blur of screams to disarm Daemon and chaos, but I clung to my brother, seeking refuge from the gruesome reality. To my surprise, he didn't push me away. Instead, his hand found my forearm, his grip firm and reassuring.

Daemon's voice, laced with a chilling satisfaction, sliced through the lingering shock. "He can keep his tongue," he declared, a cruel smirk playing on his lips as he leaned casually on the blood-soaked blade. The gruesome evidence of his deed dripped onto the pristine marble floor, a stark reminder of the violence that had just unfolded.

My grandfather's voice, though weakened, boomed with a righteous anger. "Disarm him!" he commanded, his words echoing through the stunned silence. Yet, even in his fury, there was an undercurrent of despair, a weariness that seemed to seep from his very core.

I remained huddled against Aegon, my face buried in the crook of his shoulder. I inhaled deeply, trying to steady my racing heart. The metallic scent of blood mingled with the familiar scent of my brother, a strange and unsettling combination. I felt his hand gently squeeze my arm, a silent reassurance amidst the chaos.

Daemon's response was swift and dismissive. "No need," he said, sheathing his sword with a practiced ease. The sound of metal sliding against leather was oddly final, punctuating the end of the gruesome spectacle.

Aegon's touch drew me from my refuge. His hand tapped my arm, not gentle any longer but firm and demanding of my attention. I reluctantly lifted my head, my gaze following his towards our father. Viserys, his face pale and drawn, swayed on his feet. A soft groan escaped his lips as he collapsed back onto the Iron Throne, his frail body succumbing to the weight of the crown and the burden of his grief.

"Call the maesters!" my mother's voice rang out, sharp and urgent. She rushed to his side, her skirts swirling around her ankles. I watched as she knelt beside him, her cool composure momentarily shattered. Her words, laced with desperation, pleaded with him to stay. It was a raw and intimate display of vulnerability, a glimpse into the depths of their complex relationship.

My grip on Aegon's arm loosened as I witnessed the scene unfold. My father, once a towering figure, now seemed small and fragile, leaning heavily on my mother for support. It was a poignant tableau, a stark reminder of the relentless passage of time and the inevitability of mortality.

Sir Erryk stepped forward, his strong arms offering a steady support as my father was helped from the throne. The descent was slow and labored, each step a testament to his failing strength. A wave of sadness washed over me, a profound sense of loss that seemed to echo the waning light in my father's eyes.

The aftermath was a blur. My mother, her composure regained, swept Helaena and me from the blood-soaked throne room. The air crackled with unspoken horrors, and my grandfather's hand trembled on my shoulder as he ushered us towards the Sept.

Inside the hallowed chamber, bathed in the cool light filtering through stained glass, we were expected to pray away the visions of Vaemond's brutal demise. To beseech the Mother for peace. But I had no faith in these painted deities, these silent idols who had witnessed countless atrocities and offered nothing but hollow comfort.

"We are above these mortal gods," I muttered under my breath to Helaena, my voice laced with bitterness. Her eyes snapped open, her fervent prayer interrupted. A flicker of unease crossed her features.

"Not in here," she pleaded, her voice a hushed whisper. "Do not do this in here."

I sighed, rolling my eyes in defiance, but lowered my head in a pretense of reverence. The Seven had never answered my prayers. I'd spent a lifetime kneeling before their altars, pleading for respite from the pain, the loneliness, the gnawing sense of wrongness that haunted my every waking moment. Yet, nothing had changed.

Helaena's voice broke the silence, her tone shifting to that ethereal cadence she adopted when the Sight took hold. It sent a shiver down my spine. I'd learned to heed her prophecies, their accuracy unnerving.

"This is only the start," she murmured, her eyes clouded and distant. "It will begin with a dance. It will end with one as well."

Her gaze met mine, her pupils dilated, her expression vacant. A chill swept over me. I reached out, touching her cheek, my voice thick with concern. "Sister, should I get the maester?"

She blinked, startled, and recoiled from my touch. Her aversion to physical contact was a constant source of sadness, a reminder of her isolation.

"Whatever for?" she asked, her voice flat, the Sight's grip receding.

I hesitated, searching her face for any lingering trace of the prophecy. But Helaena had already withdrawn, her gaze fixed on the altar, her lips moving in silent prayer. I lowered my hand, a knot of dread tightening in my chest. The dance had begun, and I feared the steps we were all destined to take.

As if the forced prayer hadn't been enough of an ordeal, my ailing father, miraculously resurrected to a state of command, decreed a family dinner. And so, Helaena and I were once again subjected to the rituals of courtly presentation. We were adorned in matching gowns of shimmering gold silk, the fabric clinging to our forms with an almost indecent intimacy. Our hair, styled identically, was braided simply across our crowns, the rest cascading down our backs in a show of contrived sisterly unity.

The gathering took place in the smaller, more intimate dining hall, a relic of a bygone era when we all resided under one roof. The air crackled with unspoken tension, a palpable reminder of the recent violence and simmering resentments. Helaena and I sat side-by-side, my hands clasped tightly in my lap, my fingers picked at my nail beds until blood welled beneath the skin.

My sister and grandfather exchanged pleasantries, their smiles strained, their laughter hollow. At the opposite end of the table, Aegon and Aemond engaged in a stilted conversation, their words carefully chosen, their eyes darting nervously towards the other occupants of the room.

Rhaenyra and her sons sat with their intended brides, a tableau of forced alliances and uneasy truces. Baela and Rhaena, perched beside Luke and Jace respectively, seemed remarkably at ease, their interactions with their betrothed filled with genuine warmth and laughter. I envied their effortless camaraderie, their apparent comfort in the roles they were expected to play.

My own betrothed, meanwhile, materialized behind me, pulling out my chair with a flourish. He swatted my hand away from my bleeding cuticles, his reprimand silent but unmistakable.

I opened my mouth to protest, but the doors swung open, silencing the room. We all rose as my father, a frail specter of his former self, was carried in on his chair. His eyes, sunken and weary, scanned the assembled faces, a flicker of something akin to hope crossing his features. The tension in the room intensified, each of us bracing for the storm we knew was coming.

As we settled into our assigned places, a palpable tension hung in the air like a suffocating shroud. I bit the inside of my cheek, the discomfort manifesting physically as a nervous tic. My father, a fragile figure propped between my mother and Rhaenyra, surveyed the room with weary eyes. Rhaenyra had subtly shifted closer to Daemon, creating a space for our father, a tableau of forced unity that did little to ease the underlying discord. My gaze flickered between them, a cynical observer of this carefully choreographed facade.

"How good it is... to see all of you tonight..." My father's voice, raspy and strained, echoed through the silence. He paused, gathering his strength, before finishing, "Together." His eyes met my mother's briefly, then shifted to Rhaenyra and Daemon.

I lowered my gaze, my fingers resuming their relentless assault on the tender flesh around my cuticles. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, until my mother's voice broke through, gentle but insistent. "Prayer before we begin?"

My father nodded, a pained sigh escaping his lips. "Yes."

I kept my head bowed, but my eyes remained open, fixated on the tiny beads of blood that bloomed beneath my nails. My mother's voice filled the room, her words a hollow recitation of empty platitudes.

"May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love. May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the Gods give him rest."

Her voice faded, but I remained unmoved, my heart hardened against the hypocrisy of it all. I longed to escape, to flee from this suffocating display of forced harmony.

My father's voice, heavy with the unspoken weight of his illness, cut through my thoughts. "This is an occasion for celebration, it seems. My grandsons, Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins Baela and Rhaena, further strengthening the bond between our houses."

He paused, his breath hitching in his chest. "A toast to the Princes and their betrothed."

"Hear, hear!" Daemon's voice boomed, a jarring counterpoint to the somber atmosphere. We all raised our glasses, the clinking crystal a discordant symphony.

My mother's voice, cool and composed, pierced the momentary cheer. "A toast as well to our own Prince and Princess who will be married before the season has ended."

My gaze snapped up to meet my father's. A flicker of recognition passed between us, and he nodded, a ghost of a smile gracing his lips. "To our own Prince as well."

But I was not acknowledged, my existence overlooked once again. An afterthought, as always. A wave of bitterness washed over me, threatening to drown me in its icy depths. I wanted to scream, to shatter the illusion of unity, to demand the recognition that had always been denied. But I remained silent, my anger simmering beneath the surface, a volatile force waiting to be unleashed.

I took a long, deep swig of my goblet, letting the rich arbor red wine cascade down my throat, its fiery sweetness a momentary distraction from the simmering tension in the room. I felt the warmth spread through my veins, a welcome counterpoint to the icy dread that had settled in my gut.

"Well done, Jace," Aegon's voice, laced with a hint of mockery, broke through my reverie. "You'll finally get to lie with a woman." I sighed, slumping further into my chair, wondering how much longer we'd be subjected to this charade.

"Let us toast as well," I interjected, raising my glass towards Lucerys. "To Prince Lucerys, the future Lord of the Tides." The young boy's face lit up with a grateful smile, and I felt a genuine warmth towards him, a flicker of empathy amidst the suffocating atmosphere.

"You do know how the act is done, I assume?" Aegon's relentless teasing continued, his voice low and suggestive. "At least in principle? Where to put your cock and all that."

I cringed, regretting my momentary engagement with the conversation. I took another sip of wine, the thought of such intimacies sending a shiver down my spine. I turned to Helaena, hoping to find solace in her conversation with our grandfather.

But Aegon, Baela, and Jace were locked in a hushed, heated exchange, their whispers laced with barely concealed animosity. I tried to tune them out, focusing instead on the intricate patterns woven into the tablecloth.

Suddenly, a clatter of cutlery startled me. I looked up to see my father struggling to his feet, his face contorted in pain.

"It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table," he began, his voice raspy and weak. "The faces most dear to me in all the world... yet grown so distant from each other in the years past."

He paused, taking a labored breath, before continuing. "My own face... is no longer a handsome one," he chuckled, the sound hollow and tinged with sadness. "If indeed it ever was. But tonight... I wish you to see me as I am. Not just a king... but your father."

His gaze lingered on Rhaenyra, a complex mix of emotions swirling in his eyes. Then he turned to us, the 'cast offs', the 'spares', his expression softening with a melancholic tenderness. "Your brother," he said, nodding towards Daemon.

He looked at my mother, and I followed his gaze, my heart aching at the raw pain etched on her face. "Your husband," he continued.

Finally, his eyes rested on Jace and Luke, a flicker of pride shining through his weariness. "And your grandsire," he finished, his voice thick with emotion. "Who may not, it seems... walk for much longer among you."

He sighed, tossing his heavy golden mask onto the table with a resounding thud. "Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts. The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon is divided. Set aside your grievances," he pleaded, slamming his staff against the ground for emphasis. "If not for the sake of the crown... then for the sake of this old man who loves you all so dearly."

His voice trembled, and I felt a lump form in my throat. He struggled back into his chair, aided by my mother, who gently replaced his mask.

Rhaenyra rose, her cup raised in a gesture of reconciliation. Her voice, clear and steady, cut through the heavy silence. "I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the Queen. I love my father. But I admit that no one has stood... more loyally by his side than his good wife."

Her words hung in the air, a challenge and an olive branch. The room held its breath, waiting to see if this fragile peace would hold or shatter into a thousand pieces.

My mother's gaze locked with Rhaenyra's, a complex tapestry of emotions flitting across her face. Regret, love, and a lingering trace of resentment warred within her, each sentiment as palpable as the next. "She has tended to him with unfailing devotion, love, and honor," she admitted, her voice thick with conflicting emotions. "And for that, she has my gratitude and my apology."

I stared at my mother in disbelief, my head tilted in bewilderment. Her words, laced with a genuine remorse, resonated through the tense silence. It seemed that even she, the architect of so much discord, was capable of acknowledging the truth.

My mother visibly wrestled with her emotions, her face a canvas of inner turmoil. Finally, she rose, her gaze unwavering. "Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess," she said, her voice steady. "We are both mothers, and we love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow."

My jaw slackened. Was this a turning point, a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness?

"I raise my cup to you and to your house," my mother continued, her eyes meeting Rhaenyra's. A pregnant pause hung in the air before she delivered the final blow. "You will make a fine queen."

The tension in the room dissipated slightly, replaced by a cautious optimism. Even Rhaenyra, ever guarded, allowed a flicker of a smile to grace her lips. We all raised our goblets, the rich red wine flowing freely, its warmth a temporary balm for our weary souls.

Aegon, beside me, drained his glass and rose, weaving his way between Baela and Jace to reach for the carafe. I watched with disinterest as he refilled his goblet, exchanging words with Baela.

Suddenly, Jace slammed his fist on the table, the sharp sound jolting me from my reverie. Aegon returned to his seat, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. All eyes were on Jacerys, as he stood there with hardened eyes and a set jaw. Aemond rose from the table, his one eye set on Jace. I looked over at Aegon for an explanation and he shrugged unhelpfully. Jace stood there for a moment, his smile strained and forced, then he playfully punched Aegon's shoulder.

"To Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond," he announced, his discomfort evident. "We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your families' good health, dear uncles."

He raised his glass, his gaze fixed on Aegon. My brother, his plans seemingly thwarted, offered a stiff smile in return. "To you as well," he replied, his voice carefully neutral.

Aemond, clearly disappointed by the lack of confrontation, slumped back in his chair, a petulant scowl marring his features.

"Beware the beast beneath the boards," Helaena murmured beside me, her voice laced with a cryptic warning. I glanced at her, her eyes distant and unfocused. A shiver ran down my spine.

Then, to my horror, she stood, her goblet raised. "I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena," she announced, her voice echoing through the hall. "As well as my younger sister, Clemyncia. They'll all be married soon."

Her eyes flicked to mine, her words carrying a weight that seemed intended only for me. "It isn't so bad," she continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Mostly he'll ignore you. Except sometimes when he's drunk."

I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment as Aegon groaned, burying his face in his hands. The room erupted in laughter, the tension momentarily broken. Helaena, seemingly oblivious to the awkwardness she'd caused, swayed slightly, her eyes glazed with a drunken haze. I gently guided her back into her seat, avoiding Aegon's furious glare.

"Let us have some music," my father's voice, weak but insistent, cut through the merriment. A ballad filled the room, its melancholic melody a stark contrast to the forced gaiety of the evening. I closed my eyes, the music washing over me, a bittersweet reminder of the fragility of this newfound peace.

I twirled the empty goblet in my hands, my gaze drawn to the dried blood encrusted beneath my nails. The forced merriment around me felt like a cruel mockery, a suffocating performance I longed to escape. A surge of rebellion coursed through my veins, a primal urge to shatter the facade, to unleash the chaos that simmered beneath my carefully constructed composure.

A gentle tap on my shoulder startled me from my dark reverie. I turned to find Jacaerys standing beside me, his hand outstretched, a hopeful smile gracing his lips. I hesitated, my eyes flicking between his hand and his face, before reluctantly rising from my seat. Aegon's gaze burned into my back as I followed Jacaerys to the cleared space behind the table, a mixture of anger and possessiveness swirling in his eyes.

"Do you know a pavane?" Jacaerys's voice was hushed, barely audible above the din of the hall.

I shook my head, my lips forming a silent 'no'.

"Just follow my lead then," he whispered, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

And then we danced. We danced as we had as children, our movements carefree and uninhibited, our laughter echoing through the hall. For a stolen moment, I allowed myself to shed the weight of my royal burdens, to revel in the simple joy of the dance. I felt Aegon's eyes on us, his anger a palpable force, but I refused to let it dampen my spirits.

As the dance slowed, our hands intertwined, our bodies moving in graceful synchronicity. I caught Aegon's eye, his expression a mask of barely contained fury. I quickly averted my gaze, focusing on Jacaerys as he raised our joined hands above our heads, our bodies close, our breaths mingling.

The spell was broken as my father, his pain evident, was carried out of the hall by his guards. Jacaerys and I disentangled, our moment of carefree abandon abruptly ending. He lingered by my side, his gaze following my father's retreating figure with a mixture of concern and pity.

The aroma of roasted meat drew my attention back to the table. A servant, bearing a platter laden with a suckling pig, made his way around the room. To my horror, he placed it directly in front of Aemond. My mind flashed back to the cruel prank our nephews had played on him years ago, presenting him with a piglet instead of a dragon. A nervous laugh escaped my lips.

Lucerys, seated beside Aemond, noticed my reaction. A smirk played on his lips as Aemond, predictably enraged, slammed his fist on the table, silencing the musicians.

"A final tribute," he declared, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "To the health of my nephews."

He raised his glass, his eyes cold and calculating. "Jace... Luke... and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise, hm..." He paused, drawing out the suspense. "Strong."

"Aemond," my mother hissed, her disapproval evident. But he continued, his words a thinly veiled insult to the legitimacy of Rhaenyra's sons. I felt Jacaerys tense beside me, his anger palpable.

"Come, let us drain our cups to these three... strong boys."

Aegon, ever the instigator, raised his glass, his eyes locked with Jacaerys in a silent challenge.

"I dare you to say that again," Jacaerys growled, his voice low and menacing.

Aemond feigned innocence. "Why? 'Twas only a compliment."

He sauntered towards Jacaerys, his smirk widening. "Do you not think yourself strong?"

The room exploded into chaos. Jacaerys lunged at Aemond, his fist connecting with his jaw. Luke, quick to defend his brother, charged forward, but Aegon intercepted him, pinning him to the table with a vice-like grip.

"Jace! Luke!" Rhaenyra's voice cut through the pandemonium, her fury barely contained.

"That is enough!" my mother shrieked, her words a desperate plea for order. Helaena, sensing my distress, reached for my arm, her touch surprisingly comforting.

Aemond, unfazed by the punch, shoved Jacaerys to the floor. He landed near our feet, his eyes blazing with rage. Guards intervened, restraining him before he could retaliate. Luke, struggling in Aegon's grasp, hissed and spat, his young face contorted in a mask of fury.

My mother berated Aemond, but he merely shrugged, a smug smile playing on his lips. "I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, Mother," he retorted, his gaze returning to his nephews. "Though it seems my nephews aren't quite as proud of theirs."

The situation threatened to escalate further as Jacaerys broke free from the guards. But before he could reach Aemond, Daemon stepped between them, his hand raised in a gesture of restraint.

"Wait, wait!" he commanded, his voice firm.

"Go to your quarters," Rhaenyra ordered, her voice laced with authority. "All of you, now."

Daemon turned to Aemond, his eyes cold and menacing. Aemond, sensing the danger, reluctantly obeyed, his smirk fading as he retreated from the hall. My mother rushed to Rhaenyra's side, offering words of comfort.

Helaena, with a dismissive wave, sent me on my way, her attention clearly elsewhere. I turned, my path diverging from hers as she headed towards the chambers she shared with Aemond.

Alone, I trudged back to my own rooms, the weight of the evening pressing down on me like a physical burden. My fingers absently tugged at the braids that adorned my hair, a nervous tic born of frustration and anxiety. A sharp pain shot through my scalp as I pulled too hard, and I hissed in annoyance.

I pushed open the heavy doors to my chambers, my foot instinctively kicking them closed behind me. The familiar scent of beeswax and lavender, a comforting constant in my life, did little to soothe the turmoil within me. I closed my eyes, my fingers working to unravel the intricate braids.

But another scent, subtle yet unmistakable, cut through the calming aromas. It took a moment for my senses to identify it, and when they did, a chill ran down my spine.

Arbor red.

Wine.

My eyes snapped open, and there he was, sprawled across my bed, a goblet of the crimson liquid in his hand. Aegon's lips curled into a cruel smirk as he caught my gaze, his eyes glinting with a predatory amusement.

"Hello, sister," he purred, his voice a silken threat.

My hands stilled, the braid half-undone. "You can't be in here, Aegon," I said, my voice surprisingly steady despite the fear that clawed at my throat.

He tilted his head, a mocking laugh escaping his lips. "Can't I?"

He rose from the bed, his movements languid yet purposeful. I instinctively took a step back, but he continued his advance, closing the distance between us with an unsettling grace. He reached for my hair, his fingers gently taking over the task of unbraiding it. His breath tickled my neck, sending a shiver down my spine.

"We are to be married within the week," he murmured, his voice a seductive whisper. "It is not as if your virtue is in question."

His touch was surprisingly gentle, but it carried an undercurrent of danger, like a serpent coiling around its prey. I stood frozen, trapped between fear and a morbid curiosity.

"It is improper, brother," I said, my voice tight, wincing as he tugged a bit too forcefully at a stubborn knot in my hair. The pungent aroma of wine clung to him, a testament to his inebriated state. He chuckled, his breath hot against my neck as he finished unbraiding my hair, his fingertips trailing down the sensitive skin, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake. I stepped forward, putting some distance between us, and turned to face him.

"Not a soul will question what I do with you," he declared with a drunken wave of his hand, his arrogance as palpable as his intoxication. I crossed my arms defensively, my eyes widening in alarm. Why was he here? Did he intend to...? The thought sent a shiver of fear down my spine. He seemed to sense my apprehension, and his laughter boomed through the room, a harsh, discordant sound.

"Calm yourself, I'm not here to force you," he said, as if the whole situation were a hilarious jest. I shook my head, my anger rising.

"Then why are you here, brother?" I demanded, my voice laced with a newfound defiance. "Have the brothels barred your entry? Or has mother forbidden you?" The words tumbled out before I could stop them, fueled by a reckless impulse to provoke him, to shatter his smug facade.

But his reaction was swift and brutal. In an instant, he was upon me, his long fingers encircling my throat, his grip tightening with each passing second.

"Watch your tongue, girl," he growled, his voice low and menacing. His fingers flexed against the delicate skin of my neck, cutting off my air supply. I froze, my eyes wide with terror, my hands instinctively reaching for his wrists.

He tilted his head, his face inches from mine. "What did the bastard say to you?" he hissed, his breath reeking of wine. "What is he plotting?"

Confusion warred with fear. "Who?" I managed to rasp, my voice barely a whisper.

"The one you were dancing with like a lovesick fool," he snarled, his grip tightening further. "What does he want with you?"

I blinked, my mind racing. "Nothing," I stammered, struggling to breathe. "He asked me about dances, so I wouldn't be embarrassed. He spoke of nothing else, Aegon."

His eyes narrowed, a possessive fury burning within them. His fingers flexed again, a silent threat that sent a wave of panic through me. I felt lightheaded, my vision blurring at the edges.

And then his grip loosened, but the terror didn't abate. He drew my face impossibly close, our breaths mingling, the warmth of his skin a stark contrast to the icy dread that gripped my heart. I could see every detail of his face – the flecks of gold in his lilac eyes, mirroring the ones in my own, the individual lashes framing his gaze. His thumb rested on the pulse point at my throat, a subtle reminder of his power, of my vulnerability. I inhaled sharply, the air rushing into my lungs, and he smirked, a cruel, triumphant expression that twisted his handsome features.

"He cannot have you," he slurred, his words heavy with a possessive fury. I nodded frantically, desperate to appease him, to escape this terrifying intimacy.

"Aegon—" I began, but he cut me off, leaning even closer, his lips brushing against mine as he spoke.

"I despise you, you know that?" His voice was a venomous whisper, each word a poisoned dart. "I have always hated you."

I tried to pull away, but his grip on my throat, though no longer choking, held me captive. His proximity was suffocating, his presence a toxic cloud that threatened to consume me.

"You are venom, just like our mother," he hissed, his nose brushing against mine.

"Please, Aegon—" I pleaded, my voice a strangled whisper.

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, savoring my fear. "It is fitting that you are her mirror image," he murmured, his voice laced with a perverse satisfaction. "A pretty little viper."

His words stung, a cruel echo of the insults I'd endured my entire life. I was trapped, not just physically, but emotionally, ensnared in a web of familial dysfunction and resentment. The darkness that had always lurked beneath the surface of our gilded world threatened to engulf me, and I was powerless to resist.

"I am not our mother," I managed to choke out, my voice a desperate plea for recognition, for separation from the toxic legacy he sought to impose on me.

But my words only fueled his twisted amusement. He chuckled, a low, guttural sound that sent shivers down my spine. His eyes, devoid of their usual charm, held a glint of cruel satisfaction.

"No," he agreed, his lips brushing against mine once more, a tantalizing torture. "You are so much sweeter." His voice dripped with a mocking sweetness that turned my stomach. "Which is almost worse."

I struggled against him, my desperation growing with each passing moment. "Aegon, please, let me go," I begged, my voice barely a whisper.

He held my gaze, his eyes boring into mine, a silent battle of wills playing out in the suffocating intimacy of our proximity. His lips remained pressed against mine, a mockery of affection, a cruel reminder of my powerlessness.

Then, with a sigh that seemed to release a lifetime of pent-up resentment, he pushed me away. My body stumbled backward, my hands grasping for purchase on the edge of my writing desk. I stood there, panting, my heart thundering in my chest.

"For now, sweet sister," he said, his voice a chilling caress. "For now."

With a final, cruel smirk, he turned and swept out of the room, leaving me alone in the aftermath of his disturbing intrusion. The half-empty goblet of wine, abandoned on my table, served as a bitter reminder of his presence, its lingering scent a mockery of the sanctuary I once found within my chambers.

I sank to the floor, my legs trembling beneath me. The darkness that had always danced at the edges of my life now threatened to consume me entirely. I was trapped, not just by Aegon's twisted desires, but by the suffocating expectations of my birthright, by the relentless machinations of a court steeped in blood and betrayal.

#aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen x oc #oc fic #hotd oc #house of the dragon #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen needs a hug #fire and blood*#aegon targaryen smut

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cu7ie · 1 year ago

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𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐝. | kaveh, al haitham

˚✦ ៸៸ ₊˚ cw: HARD NON-CON. fear, manhandling. no penetrative sex. oral (pussy-licking). hybrid!kaveh and al haitham. my first time writing for GI. yandere themes. trusting reader. reader has a vagina. reader is referred to as an 'it' (by Al Haitham) and 'they' (Kaveh). forgive me for ooc-ness. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

˚✦ ៸៸ ₊˚ an: @187-mg i told you about this and i was just like fuck it let me uhhh write it first! listen at first this was a fun horny moment then i got too analytical i need critique 💀 i kinda love it though

You happen upon these wolves, who don't seem interested in you at first pass. You're just a passerby looking to spend time with your grandma, a little ways off in the woods, nothing terribly interesting to the likes of them,

but then they start trailing slowly behind

asking more questions (Kaveh), demanding answers (Al Haitham).

They are talking among themselves in whispers you can t discern, too busy making sure the soup inside your basket doesn't spill and that mud doesn't clump up on your nice shoes !

It's getting dark quicker than you thought it would though.

And you don't think you're anywhere near your grandmother's house (Kaveh, so gracious to offer help with directions) and when you think to call their names, you turn around and

You see the moonlight reflected in their eyes. They look solid. Alhaitham has extended to his full height, and only in the absence of light does it feel ominous.

Kaveh's warm smile has faded away in the dark, but you can see the glint of Al Haitham's fangs and -

What's going on? The wind howls faintly and you clam up all the sudden, sweaty palms clasping tightly on your wicker basket as your boot squishes in mud.

"Ah… Well, thank- uh- thank you sirs. I think I can find my own way… now." And you immediately dart off into the woods. Your basket clinks a little noisily, and you're already impossible to miss because whatever's in there smells so good.

Not as good as you though, Al Haitham is sure to point out to Kaveh, so maybe that's why when you dart off, Al Haitham is already at your heels.

Kaveh was trying to tell him to be patient. Humans are afraid of things like thunder, sudden snapping twigs, so he can just imagine your reaction to hulking behemoths such as them, able to break you with the flick of a wrist-

"But that's what we're going to do. Break them. So I don't see why we should pretend we won't." Kaveh's ears flattened against his head and he didn't speak on it further, watching Alhaitham size you up in anticipation of your escape

and when you do, Alhaitham's just a blur on the edge of Kaveh's vision.

Kaveh is quicker to follow. You're yelling out his name in desperate fear, and he catches the tail end of Alhaitham flipping your skirt up and clawing your panties off, grazing your flesh and getting taken over by your delicious terror. The tip of his claw etches a reminder into your thigh, tears dripping down the side of your face.

Your basket is tossed on its side, contents carelessly spilled along the forest floor.

Your struggle renews somewhat as Kaveh comes close enough for you to see - he's behind Al haitham’s mass so for a second you don't - and you cry out for help again.

Kaveh has his own qualms about this - you're terrified and he's tired of feeling like a monster - but Al haitham operating on animal impulse makes him feel a distinct shame as well as a trickle of jealousy

Kaveh was willing to wait. He's known of you for longer, made it a habit to see you around the woods, tending to your garden, humming along with songbirds, your bubble of reality utterly endearing. He mentioned it once. Let it slip to Al Haitham. Telling him was a distinct inevitability. Also the biggest mistake of his life.

And he couldn’t have expected Al Haitham to take to you at all - what with his inclination to contentedness, Kaveh imagined you’d be a blip on his radar.

But he ends up just as taken by you. He starts asking for what Kaveh knows; and when that well of information goes dry, he makes plans to go straight to its source.

Not to say Kaveh didn't intend to - but there's the way humans do things and the way they do things. A right and wrong. Mating rituals dictate that upon breeding, a bond has been made. Bonds further strengthened by a mark.

Humans court, and give gifts, and have long talks, spend time together ...

Kaveh was willing to try. Al Haitham is too stubborn.

Al Haitham doesn’t understand pretending to be something he is not. Human tradition is just meandering fluff.

He'll breed you so good you'll never think about anything else. If Kaveh wants out, so be it.

But he can't leave you there, begging and pleading and crying for him as the head of Al Haitham’s cock prods at your folds. You're so small. Al Haitham might kill you if he's not careful - and then what? Kaveh steps forward again,

"Al Haitham. Don't be so rough, you're scaring them." Hunched over you like a vulture over carrion, Al Haitham eyes Kaveh, furiously ablaze and downright feral. "Don't tell me what to do. You’re anxious to act, and stall when opportunity reveals itself.

“If you don’t want any-” “No!”

Kaveh’s snarl doesn’t intimidate Al Haitham, but maybe the fangs poised at his neck make him hesitate. The gap between them is closed in but a moment, and Al Haitham jerks his head upwards to dislodge his friend’s grip in one firm shake. He is unsuccessful.

Kaveh’s intervention only seemed to exacerbate Al Haitham’s irritation, before his expression wanes into something more reasonable. Less blood lusty and more level headed, eyes darting off to something more pressing.

"Kaveh." Al Haitham huffs, relatively calmer as Kaveh withdraws from his neck.

"It’s getting away."

You might have twisted your ankle when Al Haitham tackled you to the floor but you're able to make some distance when they squabble, desperately clawing bald patches of grass and getting dirt under your nails.

they are much faster, and they can make up proper after they figure out what to do with you.

"They're so small..." Kaveh chimes, his pupils dilated as his expression seems to glow.

They talk about you as if you're not right in front of them, trembling and terrified.

"Is that a problem? I thought you liked it tight."

Kaveh shoots him an irritated glare. "Al Haitham. Please." You're crying again.

"You have a nice mouth." When he's not being utterly insufferable. "Maybe show them what that's like?"

Al Haitham snorts like Kaveh’s said something funny. "I'm serious! Let's just do it right this time, okay?"

He blinks once at Kaveh, looking down at where he has your legs spread, moves his clawed hands slowly. Al Haitham huffs harshly, looking down at you with those predator eyes, like you offended his senses.

"Ass up, pup." His tail thumps against the floor, betraying the anger writ over his face. "P-please no! I -"

Whenever you don't move as fast as he wants you to, Al Haitham moves for you. You learn that quick as he flips you over, your tear streaked face now looking at the other, 'kinder' wolf. Kaveh is the worst.

He's trying to make it easier for you, yes. He cradles your face in his clawed hands and coos at you about how beautiful he thinks you are, and how Al Haitham’s not that bad once you get to meet him,

he's paying careful attention to every dip and divot, the taste of your cunt and clit, slow sensuality degrading into frantic wet slurping.

Then he stops suddenly. You feel pin-pricks dig into the flesh of your ass as he spreads it with his thumbs, your dripping cunt throbbing in anticipation, your heart pounding out of your chest.

Kaveh rolls your soft face in his hands, can feel your skin burn hot with every moan or whine Al Haitham urges out of you. You seem embarrassed. He finds human shame so .. intriguing. He licks some of the tears off your cheek.

He mulls you over, the salt seeming sweet on his tongue.

"I think..." He makes a noise of surprise as you grab at his wrists tighter, pleading with your eyes for them to let you go.

"I think they're ready."

#al haitham #kaveh #al haitham x reader #kaveh x reader #yandere kaveh #yandere genshin impact #yandere al haitham #genshin impact smut #kaveh smut #al haitham smut #🌩️ L1GHTN1NG_STRIKE5.pdf

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lovelykhaleesiii · 1 year ago

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Pretty plz can we get dom!aegon wedding night breeding smut. They r definitely not attending breakfast (or lunch) the nxt day and no one can look them in the eye. Thx & love u

apologies for the wait nonnie, hope you enjoy this x

Union of the Dragon & the Wolf.

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

WORDS: 4,764.

WARNINGS: dom!Aegon, swearing, breeding kink to the maxxxx, mentions of dub-con.

A/N - please I keep getting carried away in the plot, and I rushed the ending a little with some time jumps, but I fully support and am in love with dom Aeg. he can dick me down anyday idc.

Historically and in the lifetimes that would follow, unions had been forged between a man and woman, since the dawn of time. For a plethora of reasons, destined or compelled, such unions were established regardless of circumstance or consequence... For the most part, such marriages had been strategically arranged accordingly, the greed or pride of families whom endlessly sought political, financial, or hierarchical means, with the intention to gain some precedence, was unfavourably common. However for some rather fortunate souls, although in rarity, love would quintessentially blossom.

And yet, the latter could not yet be said upon your circumstance..

"Brother- brother, please-"

Hastily sprinting towards him, your meek body blocking his taller, cloaked mass from exiting the familiar door to your private chambers, latching yourself firmly onto his arm. You refused to dismiss nor allow him leave so suddenly without even an attempt to refute. Taking a stand against the laws of men.

“Please, I beg before you brother, before the merciful eyes of the Old Gods, d-do not ask this of me. I have done and will do anything you ask of me, anything except this.”

A mere, defeated sigh escapes your elder brother's agape mouth, bested against your pleas. There was no point in quarrelling with you, you'd presumed as he remained still in a neutral, stoic state. You’d never witnessed your elder brother bested: whatever the words that had been so methodically exchanged in King’s Landing, you would remain oblivious to, and yet it was your life that was destined to change.

"I-I am truly sorry, my sweet sister... We ride at the crack of dawn in the morrow, get some rest."

"Cregan!" You helplessly call out, although your arms with a mind of their own loosen their grip, as the older brunette flees your side. A haste betrothal in the midst, your King husband-to be awaits for your gracious hand...

****

The journey was tiresome and gruelling, yet the moment you'd stepped foot in King's Landing, the arrangements had been swift and thoughtless.

And as infuriated as Cregan had become, huffing and puffing as he disembarked from his trusted stead to your side. Failing to be discrete with his annoyance of the King's absence, you whisper calmly as to yield his fury, in return he reassuringly holds your smaller hand in his, aiding you out of the carriage. Your Northern party had been welcomed and greeted by the Dowager Queen, herself, and his royal Grandsire, the Hand, and a few other golden cloaks of the Kingsguard. No King in sight before you, your deviant, wandering eyes, having mindlessly grown deaf to the conversation at hand, you kept yourself busy, gazing over the strange, concrete monuments that would eventually bound to become your new "home". As your curious eyes scanned the stony scenery, it was only when you backtracked, catching a faint glimpse of someone, intently peering down from an above watchtower window: some man you could only make out, with the peculiar, moonlight tinged hair. Uncertain if it was Aegon himself, there was no crown bestowed on the stranger's head, not that you could definitively decipher from such a great distance, and yet with great certainty you knew they belonged to someone with the blood of Old Valyria coursing through their veins...

Much to your favour once more, the unsettling tension that had been churning in the pit of your stomach throughout the wearisome ride, had finally resided. Allowing yourself to breathe whatever 'fresh' air the city had to offer: unlike the crisp, chill air you'd grown to admire of the North, this foreign place held a pungent, damp smell you could only fathom time would ease your distaste for it. This had been your first venture to King's Landing, only having heard of its reputation, your expectations were not grand however, and based on the reason for your visit, you felt an even deeper reluctance to be here. You did not wish to see him so soon, hopeful in buying any ounce of precious time to acclimate to the changes, at the very least...

****

Not a single person had asked for your input in the elaborate plans for your wedding, for all the details had been discussed and devised accordingly, before your anticipated arrival. Including your wedding gown: it was beautiful needless to say, immediately catching your eye as you'd been led to enter the compartment of your private, royal chamber. [Separate from Aegon for the night undoubtedly, as Alicent decreed in tradition of the Seven.] Adorned with brilliant, clear crystals from what you could only presume had been sourced from far away lands, the fine details of the profiles of a dragon sigil and that of your own house, entwined artistically together on the bust of the gown, embodying the royal union to follow. Despite the vanquished feeling that swallowed you whole since departing home, there was relief in not having to shed a single thought in such plans. You had much doubt that Aegon had taken part in such arrangements either, for his reputation much like his Kingdom, was notorious.

The young King although struck with sorrow of the great losses incurred during the war between himself and his past elder sister, Rhaenyra Targaryen, for the rightful claim to the throne, he had mounted victorious, nonetheless. And although the North had initially and solemnly declared to side with the elder Princess, it seemed whatever transgressions had been spoken and seemingly forgiven between Cregan and Aegon, you, the younger sister of a former traitor house, was chosen fit to be Queen, by the King himself. And although Cregan was adamant that you remain home governing and supporting those left behind in the North during the war, you'd heard from the honest mouths of returning Northmen soldiers of exploits of the battles. Earnestly you would listen to the drunk and somber whispers that the King was left charred and scarred, wounded from active battle, yet had miraculously survived to return to his throne. Some had exaggerated their words, exclaiming that the King was left brutally disfigured, that only the copious supply of whores he had sought and so generously paid, would bid him a night full of pleasure, since his sister-wife has passed.

Lonesomely left to ponder over endless, fretful thoughts, of how this union came to be and what would become of it, you felt that perhaps there were some potential grounds that Aegon and yourself were not so unalike. Both stricken with the concept of grief, perhaps something could be salvaged of this ransom union.

****

After a slight quarrel with your elder brother, begging to be excused from the dinner tonight, Dowager Queen Alicent, surprisingly had granted you leave. You did not refute her dismissal, nor did Cregan wish to contend with her. She knew the strains such arrangements could bear it seemed, although guaranteed you "commit to the bedding ceremony thoroughly."

"My eldest and only living son, he requires an heir. Jaehaera, although his blood, is much to timid and grief stricken, let alone, a girl... It would not be wise for her to be heir, Aegon knows this. Prove yourself to be a good wife, and bear him many children, preferably sons, if the Gods are good."

Her final, daunting words, leaving you no seconds to spare to muster a response: although regardless, no words came to your mind. Perhaps the weight of the crown, needed to be dispersed, and Aegon deemed you fit to sovereign with him. Nonetheless, the expectations from the Crown and his council of you were made clear. Children, heirs... That was all that was required of you in principal. That familiar, perturbed feeling began to toss and churn in your stomach once more, gaining little sleep before the monumental day.

****

The preparation, carriage ride and the haunting walk down the aisle leading into the decorative, grand Dragonpit, upon the watchful, eager eyes of the realm, was nothing but a blur. Your disconsolate eyes remained fixated, anxiously fleeting between the cheerful crowd and the guarded path before you, you did not sight your awaiting husband before you. Attentively watching you from the podium above, as he did the day you had arrived [or so you had convinced yourself it was him to be]. Your mind solely occupied with controlling your breath and its pace, soothing the pounding beat of your thudding heart, you swore would at any moment it would simply tear through your chest, ending it all right then and there. Although, the feelings had ceased to numbness, the moment you'd reached the stony steps to the stage. A black gloved hand stretched over towards you from above, signalling you to take, which you instinctively took, unaware of whose hand you held. Careful of each step, it was only when you'd come to a sudden halt beside the King himself, that you'd noticed Aegon moment Aegon unveiled your face to his. For a few moments his stunning, lilac eyes remained transfixed onto your own. Your breath hitched in your throat, as you took in his face: as you'd suspected the words of your fellow banner-men were greatly false. The King, although, his stern face partially scarred, burns somewhat healed, he remained handsome nonetheless, and looking upon you, you'd momentarily noticed his gaze soften before your eyes flashed to the ground before you. Feeling your cheeks grow scarlet, and a flustering heat trailing through you, you felt clueless as to why.

Sacred vows had been said and made, your hands binded by a precious cloth of the faith, signatures signed on lawful papers, and finally, custom rings exchanged sealed with a simple yet passionate kiss: Aegon did not protest against the proceedings of the ceremony, and nor did you find yourself tempted to run either.

Although, he recited deeply and firmly of said vows, no words had been exchanged between either of you, on the return carriage to the castle, nor during the feast. Sat meekly beside your newly appointed husband, you remained quiet as did Aegon, unless his fellow guests and subjects approach to wish the King and his new wife well wishes. Most of the time, Aegon occupied his mouth with swirls of wine and ale, and the platefuls served to him. With your elder brother by your opposing side, with whom you refused to engage in conversation with throughout the entirety of the day.

Look at the position he had forced you into, how hopeless you had become, and how they belittled you. Was Cregan so blind to the intentions of such a brutal institution, or was he simply being cowardice for his past grievances?

Regardless, the plans that had been lucratively discussed were now executed accordingly, and the thing you'd been dreading the most was finally upon you. Alicent had granted you approval to leave once more, planting a tender kiss on your forehead, bidding you farewell and "best wishes."

"Do us proud, and please... Make it easier for yourself and do as you are told, dearest. If anything I've learnt in my years or wished to have been told, is the only man you need to sate is that of your husband. No one else matters."

Chaperoned with a few, entrusted maids, and Cregan himself, you reluctantly turn to look back at Aegon, who still remained seated at the dining table. Much to your astonishment, however, you'd been met with his own stern pair of eyes, fixated on you solely once more, you could've sworn, you'd caught a haste glimpse of a slight smirk strewn across his face. That unsettling feeling grew more intense by the thought, had he found this amusing? Only the Gods, would know what ill thoughts and intentions he had with you for the night, yet you would soon find out.

****

Swiftly changed out of your wedding garments, and into a white silk bedding gown instead, you were left in an unfamiliar room, grander than the one you'd previously slept in. Aegon's you'd presumed.

A sudden, booming knock on the door had startled you with fright, although followed by the familiar tone of Cregan's voice, naturally you felt a warm reassurance wash over you, placing a robe over you in modesty, before opening the door to his friendly, lean face.

"My dearest sister, I did not wish to interrupt you-"

"Have you come to save me from this wretched night then?"

You firmly interrupt, although you teased, Cregan could not bear to look at you, defeatedly turning his guilty gaze towards his shuffling feet.

"I-I had yet to apologise, Y/N. F-for all of this. I truly am sorry, little sister but I-I had no choice. H-He would've sent us all to the Wall, or worse to death, and you-you would've been all alone-"

"Cregan, it is alright. I-I may struggle to understand it now, but I know you did what was best for us. You always do."

No other words had been exchanged, except for a nod and a final goodbye for the night. Like the Queen before you, Cregan planted a final, loving kiss to your forehead, before bidding you well. He knew what was to come, what was expected between a man and woman on the night of their union, and he refused to venture. Closing the door before him, you were left once more alone, the muffled music of the feast beyond the bedroom walls could be heard, and the congenial celebrations of the rest of the realm below the castle walls echoed across.

It seemed everyone was pleased with this union, expect yourself... And Aegon, perhaps. That you had yet to decipher. Enraptured in your deep thoughts, you had not realised Aegon's entrance into the room, before the sound of the wooden door closing once more, jolted you back to reality, snapping towards his direction. The room had been romantically set, candles spread and lit across the room, with an open fire stoking at the fire pit to provide some warmth in the chill night air. A slight, cool breeze blew from the window, blowing the satin, white fabric against the curves of your body.

"Lay on the bed."

The silence was tense, although cut with his command, Alicent's words echoed in your mind relentlessly, however your body moved and did as it was told. Aegon remained at some distance, heading to a table where a flagon [full of more arbour wine as you suspected] and cup was placed prior to his arrival and yours.

"So did my dearly beloved mother tell you what to expect? What is to be expected of you?"

"Y-Yes."

"Hmm, I am, however, curious as to hear your thoughts. Truthfully or else, what do you think of our arrangement?"

Caught by surprise to his direct enquiry, you felt perplexed as to whether he was seeking to relish in amusement of taunting your vulnerable position, or simply seeking some vain type of validation only a King could provoke.

"I-I confess I was taken aback by your choice in me, my King. For there are plenty of other maidens in the realm. However if this is the King's command, then House Stark remains loyal to the word of their sovereign."

"I said the truth, Y/N. Mayhaps, you should, however, lecture your older brother about loyalty to the rightful sovereign, next time one dares to usurp me."

A painful gulp tore through your throat, quivering to his words. You shouldn't have responded that way, Cregan would be livid if he had heard Aegon's stinging words.

"Forgive me, my King. I did not mean to antagonise you. I-I simply have just been struggling to come to terms with your choice in me a-as y-your-"

The final word was a tough one to say aloud, and yet the final ounce of courage you had left, you'd managed to blurt it out.

"... Wife."

"Hmm, wife."

He tauntingly mimics, granting himself a deep, low chuckle, as he carefully poured himself a cup of the liquor that filled the flagon, skulling it before forcefully placing it back down against the hard, wooden surface.

Despite his continuous drinking during the night, Aegon seemed sober and sharp-witted.

"Steadfast, my liege council kept pestering me to wed, for I apparently require more heirs. Your brother, although his past transgressions would prove him disloyal, I had heard that the wolf himself, of having a pup sister... The Baratheon girls, although plentiful are far too eager, and ugly. Those in the Vale, said to have amazing tits, often I find are far too disciplined and boring for my liking...But now the Northern girls, I've heard... Can be fierce and yet-"

Finally, turning to face you directly, you remained steadily quiet, your grip on the bedsheets tightened in anticipation, for his mouth remained agape almost as though a word lingered on his plump lips.

"Beautiful."

Again, a scarlet blush flustered across your softened face, and you felt yourself yearning for more, tender words from him.

"Alas, I took my chances."

Aegon heartedly exclaimed, before unbuttoning his garments, losing his gaze once more, you felt a desire for him to simply look at you. You felt somewhat ashamed of this sudden lust you'd begin to sense in these intimate moments, and could not bring yourself to discourage such emotions.

"Spread your legs."

As obedient as a septa in the making, you obeyed. The gown remained hovering in between your thighs, modestly covering your bare entrance. Aegon now completely shirtless, his pants unbuttoned yet remained on. He had this menacingly hungry look in his eye, an appetite that the feast it seemed, did not quash, as it lingered between your thighs. Licking his lips, he slowly crawled atop, one arm stretching beside your hip, whereas the other began to lift the garment above, exposing your naked cunt [the maids had not provided you to wear any undergarments beneath, as per the Dowager Queen's orders].

"Already wet for me, my wife. Deny it all you want, although it seems you are not entirely against this unity, after all."

Your breaths now shaky, as his fingers lightly traced over your folds. A natural tease he was, it seemed. Your eyes nervously flicking from his hand beneath to his hardened face, you could just make out the outlines of faded burn marks saturated across the left side of his face. You felt an ounce of pity favouring towards him, as you knew these were remnants of the war that would forever remain with him, a constant, agonising reminder of what he had endured.

He noticed you glaring, although did not question it as you fixed your gaze directly unto his eyes: now growing a sense of familiarity to those lilac orbs.

"A good wife you will be. Dutiful, you will do as I say, when I ask of you. I need not to remind you I am your husband, but foremost I am your King. Disobey me and I will see fit to punish you... Accordingly."

Just as you were about to address your Grace in humble agreement, Aegon impatiently shoved two thick, long digits roughly into your folds. Causing you to jolt upright, earning a loud, sensual moan to harshly escape your lips. Pumping his hand in slow, sloppy motions, before gaining some speed to his pace, your head remained lunged back, as your back arched, your pelvis slightly thrusting forward, yearning for more.

"Look at you, look at how you clench and ache at my fingers. Hells, I can feel you throbbing-"

He deeply chuckles in between, a growling sound: you could feel the burning gaze of his eyes prowling on you, as though you were the fresh prey captured by the eager predator. Dragons no doubt would feast on the likes of wolves. Mesmerised by the sight before him, seeing you helplessly squirm and breathless, vulnerable to his touch. You'd never been with a man like this before, hoping to save yourself for the one, and it seemed, like his historical ancestors, Aegon had conquered that too.

"The Gods have finally granted me favourable, securing me a wife I know will take me well. Will take my seed and give me as many heirs as necessary."

"A-Aeg. My-My King-"

His pudgy fingers stretching and encircling your folds, grazing over your clit, attempting to assert some pressure to your sides as if to 'open' you up. Feeling your wetness pool all across, lathering his fingers and clenched fist, you felt bashful, for he knew his way around a woman's body, your body, more than you did your own. Back in Winterfell, in the privacy of your confinements, you had occasionally exerted some pleasures unto yourself, although frightened or lazy to finish, you could not say. It was not at all the same to this precise moment, however.

"Fuck, when you call me that. I am certain you were destined for me, my sweet, sweet pup. I heard Stark women bear children well. To see you swell with my child in a few months time, Gods be good, I'll fuck another one in you as soon as you birth the first."

Although you rocked gently back and forth mindlessly, muffled moans escaping your tender lips, you were attentive to his words. There was truth to his words, however: Stark women were notorious amongst the realm to bear and carry children to full term, birthing healthy, thriving babes.

"Argh-I will waste no more needless time-"

Aegon hastily removing his soaked fingers away from your clenching walls, shoved his larger mass between your thighs, adjusting himself at your entrance, as he unbuckled his pants down. For the few spare seconds granted that you regained full consciousness, you managed to sneak a glimpse of his member, and you anticipated that it would hurt: as you'd been informed it always would the first time.

"Is the whore ready?"

He teasingly growled, his cock just etching and gliding over your moist entrance. You could feel his hardness, how rigid it felt against your soft, sensitive skin, as he toyed with your cunt. He felt big to say the least, feeling his pulsating veins across his cock, the tip beginning to push in.

"Be a good wife and scream for me. I want to see you beg for me, for my cock."

Without notice as before, Aegon hastily shoved his cock deep into your cunt, burying his hard mass into you, adjusting and asserting himself into a more comfortable position before he began to slowly pace his thrusts. Just as he earnestly wished, you painfully yelled out his name in the dead of the night, hopeful your cries remained mute to whomever stood guard outside [yet you doubt it would]. Aegon himself let out a breathless "fuck" and low groans, feeling your tight walls tensing against his cock, as he continued to stretch you out even more. He knew you a virgin, no doubt, for you began to bled onto the clean, white sheets below. The deed done and consummated, it was now only a matter of time that he would spill his seed inside.

"F-Fuck, Y/N. Gods you feel so tight for me. Suffocating my cock, you needy little thing. Are you that desperate for me to fuck a child into you, little one?"

Aegon now laid atop of you, breathless, huffing and puffing in between each sloppy attempt of a thrust, feeling his hot, alcohol scented breath on your dampened skin. His plump lips hovered above the crook of your neck, only to gently lap at your skin, suckling on the concoction of sweet, floral fragrances you'd dabbed yourself with and sweat your body naturally exude. His teeth often bit at the soft flesh, certain he'd left tender, red bite marks and bruises in the morrow to come.

"Your pretty little cunt was made just for me. You will definitely take my dragon seed well, no doubt. Fuck-"

His cock remained still deeply buried inside, you'd tried to spread your legs out even more, yet, the painful, striking feeling remained coursing through your body. Aegon's arms rested against each side of your body, lifting himself up, onto his knees, lifting you from the hips up with him as he rested you on his lap, he eagerly ripped the sheer, light fabric off you. Exposing your tender, bouncy breasts the cool night air striking your skin, caused your nipples to react viscerally perking them right.

"And these- These will swell greatly and pour tremendously with sweet, sweet milk, for the babe and perhaps some for me. Seven Hells, Stark, you were fit to be a mother of heirs."

"T-Tell me more, my King. Tell me how bad you want it. Ask and I shall give you a whole litter of pups and dragons."

His eager mouth now nibbled at the flesh of your tender, soft breast, the other free hand flicking at your sensitive nipple, causing you to arch your spine instinctively, pushing your chest further against his head. Endless moans escaped your sinful mouth, words and swears, pleaing for Aegon, begging for more.

"Careful wife, I'll take your word for it. I will fuck you from this night and all the nights to come, until I see your stomach grow lavishly with my child. Even then, I shall fuck you s'more."

Now handled and positioned atop of his lap, Aegon's sturdy, strong arms supporting your back, one firmly gripping the back of your neck, he began to pound you once more from beneath. Your body jolting and bobbing viciously up and down, as he finally spilled his thick, warm load inside of you, feeling the endless pour coating your walls all over. His pulsating bulge inside, you could feel growing tenser in the pit of your stomach, certain it could be seen and felt from the outside.

"Fuck Y/N-"

Earning a craven, mindless moan of his name, Aegon laid you back, promptly propping a large pillow beneath your bottom and hips, as he kept your legs elevated.

"This-This will help. Stay there-"

He breathlessly encouraged, as he stood himself off the bed, heading to the water basin, as he ringed a wet cloth, washing away the hard earned work of sweat.

Ringing it once more, he walked back over towards you, seating himself down by your side, as he gently tapped the dampened cloth, wiping away the sweat beads across your forehead. Lustfully watching over you, his eyes lingered towards your stomach, placing a gentle hand over the swell where his cock was buried itself, a faint half-hearted smiled glowed across his handsome, ruggard face.

"Our babe shall grow cosily inside, I am certain. I have made a right choice in making you my wife, sweet pup."

****

The following, bright mane, Aegon and yourself remained retired in bed. Not wishing to be disturbed after the endless amounts of fucking that followed the first. There was a dull ache between your thighs, although Aegon was intent on impregnanting you with his rightful child. Eventually, you were determined also.

Although, his Mother was eager to examine the sheets, you'd both had grown hungry and weak, eager for nourishment, intending to attend a luncheon together. She ceased the opportunity and welcomed herself in, once you'd both been bathed and dressed accordingly.

Much to her satisfaction, the entire bed was a wreck.

****

The Gods had been good, working again in Aegon's favour and true to his word, you began to swell immensely with child in the short coming months to follow. In the initial stages of the consummation you prayed to the Old and the New Gods, hopeful they'd bless you to be a fruitful wife, and not long after, you'd began to show the common signs of being with child. Even Aegon had taken to notice how swollen and sensitive your breasts had become to his touch, let alone your appetite was crazed.

He became even more possessive of you and his unborn child, yet you relished in his unrelenting attention.

****

A beautiful, baby boy was born in due time: kicking like a goat and much larger in size than most babes. He shared the uncanny dark, black hair that resembled most Starks, however, also earned his father's genes, having been blessed with his own set of brilliant Valyrian, violet eyes. Your son was deemed the perfect fit to be Aegon's future heir by the realm, and was loved dearly.

Aegon did not think such joy existed after the torment and gruelling war he had endured just a year ago, yet he thanked you day and night simply for your mere existence in his.

general taglist - @evenstaris @chompchompluke @fan-goddess @malfoytargaryen @ilikeitbetterangsty @bibli0thecary @m1ndbrand

Aegon taglist - @who-told-you-this-was-butter @bucknastysbabe

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