#gracious moonlight

[evergreenperi]

🌙 Under the light of the full moon may your sins be cleansed 🌙

🌙 Trust in the all seeing, all knowing eye 👁

[susie-dreemurr]

Sister Elixer fanart, because the world needs more DeathVote SMP content!

[wri0thesley]

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 Some parents had withdrawn their offspring from the game of courtship when it had become clear that though Wriothesley now had the title of ‘Duke’, he was still at heart a former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?”

[huggingtentacles]

FUCK OOOFFFF NO WAY MIYAZAKI JUST LOOKED UP MUSICIANS FOR "COOL EUROPEAN SOUNDING NAMES" OP HOW DID I NOT NOTICE THIS BEFORE

FromSoftware stop naming characters after pianists/composers challenge ajshs

[aeralux]

"My Queen" - Rhaenyra Targaryen

Summary: House Tully has pledged allegiance to The Blacks in support of Queen Rhaenyra. You, Lord Tully's daughter, happen to be the one to deliver an urgent message from your father regarding the upcoming war. The Queen is very appreciative of your support and she intends to show it.

Warnings: SMUT; reader is a Tully but no descriptive language is used (f! reader); power kink; queen kink; LESBIAN SEX; fingering, oral; praise kink (sweet girl is used quite a bit); talks about war (nothing graphic or sad happens)

Word count: 6.2k

-- aera xx

The grand observatory at Dragonstone was a sanctuary of wonder, its high, vaulted ceilings adorned with intricate carvings of stars, constellations, and Targaryen lore. Massive telescopes lined the walls, alongside shelves filled with celestial charts, journals, and sketches. The soft twilight glow poured through the large windows, casting a radiant light that flickered across polished wooden floors and illuminated the drifting motes of dust in the air. The scent of aged paper and polished brass filled the room, a comforting aroma for those passionate about the mysteries of the universe.

Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen stood by a large circular table in the centre of the observatory, an elaborate scroll detailing the movements of the stars unfurled before her. Clad in a flowing gown of deep red and black, the colours of House Targaryen, it was embroidered with delicate designs that twinkled like the night sky. Her silver hair, a distinctive mark of her bloodline, cascaded elegantly over her shoulders, accentuated by a shimmering tiara that reflected the dim light.

Rhaenyra's violet eyes scanned the ancient scroll eagerly, absorbing the knowledge within. The footsteps resonated through the observatory, drawing her attention as the heavy wooden doors creaked open.

A guard entered, accompanied by you. The guard cleared his throat and announced, "Your Grace, you have a visitor." Rhaenyra carefully rolled up the scroll and turned to the guard, offering a gracious smile and a nod.

"Thank you. You may leave us," she replied, her voice gentle yet commanding, resonating with the authority of a queen. The guard bowed and exited, leaving you in the celestial chamber. Rhaenyra regarded you for a moment, her expression warm and curious. "What brings you to my observatory? Would you care for a cup of wine?" she inquired, her smile inviting while her keen gaze revealed her sharp intellect and royal demeanour. A sense of warmth enveloped her, almost maternal, as Rhaenyra glanced down fleetingly to admire the intricate details of the table’s carvings.

"My Queen," you proclaimed devotedly, lowering yourself in a respectful bow before her, fully aware of the majestic aura that surrounded the beautiful Targaryen woman. Her silver hair shimmered like moonlight, and her piercing violet eyes seemed to hold the weight of the realm within them. 

"I have travelled from Riverrun with pressing news. A raven has been sent, bearing tidings from my family. They have informed me that House Tully is prepared to lend their support. They will muster an impressive force of 15,000 men and ensure that our cavalry is well-supplied with provisions for the challenging days ahead. While it is true that we may lack substantial military strength in comparison to other houses, our lands are remarkably fertile and bountiful, capable of sustaining our efforts."

You straightened, standing with poise, allowing the gravity of your words to settle in the air.

Rhaenyra listened intently as you delivered the news, her violet eyes focused and attentive. The Queen nodded slowly, processing the information with her characteristic sharp intellect. "15,000 men and cavalry supplies, that's a substantial contribution," she mused, her voice soft yet carrying an underlying tone of authority. "House Tully's support will be invaluable in the trials ahead."

She rose from her seat, the rich fabric of her gown swishing as she moved. Rhaenyra approached you, her steps measured and graceful, the click of her heels against the stone floor echoing in the spacious library. As she drew near, Rhaenyra reached out, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. Her touch was warm, conveying a sense of gratitude and comradery.

"Your family's loyalty and dedication to the cause are truly appreciated," Rhaenyra said, her violet eyes meeting yours."In these tumultuous times, every ally counts, and House Tully stands strong among them."

Rhaenyra's gaze shifted to the window, where the sun's rays danced upon the distant waters of Blackwater Bay. A pensive expression crossed her face, a flicker of concern in her eyes. "The road ahead will be fraught with challenges," she admitted, her voice tinged with a rare vulnerability. "But with the support of houses like yours, we shall weather the storm."

Turning back to you, Rhaenyra offered a reassuring smile, her demeanour regal yet approachable. "I am grateful for your presence here. Your words have brought me comfort and renewed determination." She gestured towards a plush velvet armchair nearby, inviting you to sit. "Please, join me. I would hear more of your thoughts and any other news from the Riverlands."

As you took a seat, Rhaenyra poured two goblets of rich, red wine from a decanter on the table. She handed one to her guest, raising her own in a toast. "To the strength of our alliance and the triumph of justice."

You couldn't help the crimson blush that warmed your cheeks as you sat beside her, the epitome of grace and authority. Her presence was commanding and enchanting, filling the air with an intoxicating blend of confidence and charm. With an air of elegance, she extended the goblet of wine towards you, and as you accepted it, your fingers brushed against hers—an electric spark igniting between you, sending a shiver down your spine at the touch of her velvety skin.

It felt almost foolish to be so affected by something seemingly insignificant, yet the moment held a weight that surpassed mere physical contact. You stole a glance at her, the delicate way she held herself, and the glint of mischief in her eyes, making your heart race.

"Thank you, my Queen," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper as if speaking louder would break the spell that enveloped you. You lifted the goblet to your lips, allowing the deep, luscious nectar to roll over your tongue. With your eyes closed in reverie, you savoured the rich taste of the wine, feeling its warmth spreading through you, reminiscent of the warmth emanating from her very presence. It was a moment suspended in time, a blend of indulgence, admiration, and undeniable attraction that left you yearning for more.

Rhaenyra observed the faint blush that coloured your cheeks, a small, knowing smile playing at the corners of her lips. She could sense the effect her presence had on the young woman, and while a part of her revelled in the power she held, another part felt a twinge of sympathy. The burdens of leadership are not for the faint of heart, she mused silently, her violet eyes studying you with a mix of curiosity and understanding.

As their hands brushed during the exchange of the goblet, Rhaenyra felt the brief contact send a subtle jolt through her body. She quickly composed herself, maintaining her regal bearing, but the fleeting sensation lingered in her mind. Focus, Rhaenyra, she chided herself, pushing the thought aside to concentrate on the matter at hand.

"The wine is from the vineyards of Highgarden," Rhaenyra remarked, taking a sip from her goblet. The rich, robust flavour danced on her tongue, a pleasant contrast to the weighty matters they discussed. "Lord Tyrell was kind enough to share it as a gesture of goodwill." She paused, a flicker of irony crossing her features. "Though I suspect it was more a ploy to curry favour than a genuine act of friendship."

As she took a sip from her goblet, Rhaenyra's violet eyes never left your face, studying the younger woman with a mixture of curiosity and intrigue. "You seem... flustered," she observed, her voice a low, melodious purr. "Is something troubling you?"

Rhaenyra leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting on the table, her chin propped on her interlaced fingers. The gesture was casual, almost intimate, a stark contrast to her usual regal demeanour. Her silver hair fell in soft waves around her face, catching the light and shimmering like starlight.

Caught off guard by her question, your lips parted in surprise. "No, my Queen, just the war... it seems to be taking its toll on me as well," you muttered, trying to convince yourself as much as her. It would be utterly improper to admit that her touch had sent a chill running along your back, leaving you flustered.

You took another sip of wine, hoping to compose yourself. The rich, velvety liquid slid down your throat, but it did little to calm the sudden racing of your heart. You met Rhaenyra's piercing violet gaze, her eyes seeming to see right through you, to the core of your being. A faint blush still lingered on your cheeks, betraying your inner flusteredness.

You cleared your throat, determined to regain your composure. "My family's support is unwavering, my Queen. We stand with you, now and always," you declared, your voice steady despite the confusion within. You would not let your foolish infatuation cloud your judgment or dishonour your house. You were a Tully, and you would remain strong, even in the presence of such an attractive and assertive woman.

Rhaenyra's violet eyes narrowed slightly, her gaze intense and searching as she studied your face. She could sense the younger woman's discomfort, the soft blush that coloured her cheeks, the way her fingers trembled ever so slightly around the stem of the goblet. It was a reaction Rhaenyra knew all too well, a mix of nerves and attraction, a dance of desire and propriety.

She leaned back in her chair, her posture relaxed yet queenly, a small, enigmatic smile playing at the corners of her lips."The war weighs heavily on us all," she said, her voice soft, almost a whisper, as if sharing a secret. "But we must not let it consume us, lest we lose sight of what we fight for."

Rhaenyra's gaze drifted to the window, where the sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. The light danced across her face, highlighting the strong lines of her jaw, and the delicate curve of her cheekbones. She turned back to you, her eyes gleaming with a newfound intensity.

"Tell me," she began, her voice low and husky, "what is it that you truly desire? Beyond the battlefield, beyond the politics and the power plays, what sets your heart ablaze?" Rhaenyra's question hung in the air, a challenge and an invitation all at once, her violet eyes locked with yours, a silent understanding passing between them.

You offered a soft smile, your gaze dropping to your lap for a moment as you sought to compose your swirling emotions. The air around you felt heavy with unspoken words, and finally, you broke the silence. "Love," you began, your voice barely above a whisper, "isn't that what most people are truly searching for? A tender heart to hold in their arms and someone to care for deeply."

As you spoke, a wistful melancholy settled over you, like a raindrop trailing down a windowpane. The thought of an impending war loomed like a dark cloud, threatening to overshadow the dreams of connection and intimacy that manylong for. It seemed cruel, how the spectre of conflict kept souls apart, hindering the chance to find a kindred spirit in the chaos.

"But I understand," you continued, a gentle resolve in your voice, "that this must wait for now." You shifted your gaze back to the Queen, and in that moment, time seemed to pause. Her piercing eyes captivated you, drawing you in with an intensity that took your breath away. You felt as if you were lost in a vast ocean, with her gaze as the only guiding star.

Amid the uncertainty, the warmth of her presence ignited a flicker of hope within you—an unspoken promise that despite the world's turmoil, love still existed, waiting patiently beneath the surface. The corners of your lips curled into a smile, and in that fleeting moment, it felt as though the two of you were the only ones in existence, united by the fragile thread of yearning that bound your hearts together.

Rhaenyra felt a surge of emotion at your words, a mix of empathy and a deep, aching understanding. She leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table, her chin propped on her interlaced fingers. Her violet eyes softened, a vulnerability creeping into their depths.

"Love," she echoed, her voice a mere whisper, "is indeed a force that transcends all others. It is the flame that guides us through the darkest of nights, the anchor that keeps us tethered to hope in the face of unconquerable odds."

Rhaenyra's gaze drifted to the window, where the last rays of sunlight painted the sky in a kaleidoscope of colours. A wistful sigh escaped her lips, a longing for a life unburdened by the weight of the crown, a life where she could simply be Rhaenyra, not the heir to the Iron Throne.

She turned back to you, her eyes locking with yours. At that moment, a silent understanding passed between them, a recognition of the unspoken desire that simmered beneath the surface. Rhaenyra's heart raced, a flutter of anticipation and trepidation.

"Perhaps," she began, her voice low and husky, "amid this chaos, we can find comfort in each other's company. A brief pause from the duties we bear."

Rhaenyra reached out, her hand hovering inches from yours, a silent invitation. Her violet eyes shimmered with a mix of longing and uncertainty, a question hanging in the air between them. "What say you? What do you say we embrace this moment and see where it takes us?"

The observatory seemed to fade away, the telescopes and maps forgotten, the weight of the world temporarily lifted. In that instant, it was just Rhaenyra and you, two souls lured together by a force greater than themselves, a bond thattranscended the boundaries of refinement and duty.

You couldn’t help but gasp quietly upon hearing her words, the air around you thick with unspoken emotions. The verynotion that Rhaenyra might harbour the same hunger for you that has ignited a fire within your heart is nothing short of intoxicating. 

As you lean closer, the warmth radiating from her draws you in, and your faces hover mere inches apart, the world around you fading into a dim haze. Her presence is both overwhelming and alluring as if a delicate crown of stars rests upon her head.

With your heart pounding in your chest, you muster the courage to break the silence that envelops you. “May I kiss you, my Queen?” you ask, your voice a whisper tinged with reverence. Your eyes flit between her mesmerizing gaze and the temptation of her soft lips, each second stretching as you await her response. The moment feels charged with lust.

Rhaenyra's breath hitched in her throat, her eyes widening at Selira your bold question. The air between them crackled with an electric tension, a palpable energy that seemed to pulse and throb with each passing second.

For a fleeting moment, Rhaenyra hesitated, the weight of her obligations and commitments threatening to crush the fragile ember of passion that had ignited within her. But as she gazed into your eyes, she saw a reflection of her longing, a mirror of the ache that had taken root in her heart.

"Yes," she breathed, her voice a husky whisper, barely audible above the pounding of her own heart. "Kiss me."

Rhaenyra leaned in, closing the scant distance between them. Her lips met yours in a searing kiss, a burst of passion and need that threatened to consume them both. She tasted red wine and desire on your tongue, a heady combination that set Rhaenyra's senses ablaze.

Her hands came up to tangle in your hair, the soft strands slipping through her fingers like silk. She deepened the kiss, her tongue tracing the seam of your lips, seeking entrance, craving more.

The world fell away, everything fading into oblivion, the weight of the crown and the burden of the throne momentarily forgotten. At that moment, Rhaenyra was simply a woman, lost in the passion, consumed by a desire she had long denied herself.

Her body pressed against yours, the heat of their shared need burning through the fabric of their clothes. She could feel the rapid beat of your heart, the quickening of your breath, the tremble of your limbs. It was intoxicating, the knowledge that she could elicit such a response, that she could make you burn with the same fire that consumed her.

Rhaenyra's hands roamed over your body, mapping the curves and planes of your form, committing every inch to memory. She wanted to devour you, to consume you.

You moaned into the kiss, Rhaenyra's intoxicating taste sending waves of desire coursing through your veins. Your fingers tangled in her silvery hair, anchoring yourself as the intense sensations threatened to overwhelm you. 

Pleasure pooled between your thighs, your core aching and pulsing with need. You wanted more, no, you needed more of her touch, her kiss, her everything. The ache inside you grew, a desperate hunger that demanded to be sated.

Rhaenyra groaned into the kiss, her body responding to your touch like a bowstring pulled taut. She could feel the heat pooling between her thighs, a throbbing ache that demanded attention. Her hands roamed over your body, slipping beneath the fabric of your dress, seeking the warmth of your skin.

"Gods" she panted, her voice ragged with desire. "I need you. I want you. Don't make me wait any longer."

Rhaenyra's hands found the laces of your bodice, tugging at them impatiently. She needed to feel your skin, to taste you, to consume you. With a swift motion, she tore the laces free, exposing your breasts to her hungry gaze.

She leaned in, capturing one pert nipple between her lips, sucking and nipping at the sensitive flesh. Her hand cupped your other breast, kneading and massaging the soft mound. She could feel your heart racing, the frantic beat matching her own.

Rhaenyra's other hand slid down your body, over the curve of your hip, the soft plane of your stomach, until it reached the hem of your skirts. She pushed the fabric aside, her fingers delving beneath to find the slick heat of your core.

She groaned at the feel of you, hot and wet and ready for her touch. Rhaenyra circled your clit with her thumb, revelling in the way your body jerked and twitched at the contact. She slipped two fingers inside you, thrusting deep, relishing the way your walls clenched around her digits.

"That's it," Rhaenyra purred, her voice low and husky with desire. "Let yourself feel. Let me make you come undone."

She pumped her fingers in and out, curling them to hit that special spot deep within. Her thumb continued its maddening circle on your swollen clit, the dual stimulation driving you wild with need.

Rhaenyra could feel her arousal building, a pulsing ache between her legs, her core throbbing with want. She ground her hips against the plush divan, seeking friction for her aching wet cunt.

"Oh, my sweet girl," Rhaenyra cooed, her voice a sultry purr as she worked her fingers deeper, harder, faster. "You beg so prettily for me. I can't deny you what you crave."

She twisted her wrist, curling her fingers just so, seeking that sweet spot within your quivering walls. Your pleas for release only spurred Rhaenyra on.

"Cum for me," Rhaenyra commanded, her eyes blazing with intensity. "Let go. Cum all over your Queen's fingers."

And so you did. With a final thrust of her fingers, your body trembling from the intensity of your climax.

Rhaenyra held her close, her arousal building to a fever pitch as she felt your walls clench around her fingers, the wetness of your release coating Rhaenyra's hand.

"That's it, fuck, that's a good girl," Rhaenyra praised you as you rode out your orgasm on her fingers. The tears streaming down your face seemed to turn her on even more.

As your orgasm subsided, Rhaenyra slowly withdrew her fingers, bringing them to her lips and licking them clean. The taste of your sticky essence on her tongue was intoxicating, a heady mix of salt and sweetness that made Rhaenyra's head swim with desire.

"Delicious," Rhaenyra purred, her voice low and seductive. "I could feast on you for hours and never grow tired."

You gasped as you saw Rhaenyra lick her fingers clean of your release. Your pussy still gushing onto the divan, possibly ruining the fabric, but neither of you cared.

You felt a surge of desire to return the pleasure Rhaenyra had just given you. Rising to your feet, you let your dress slip from your body to the floor, baring your naked form to her hungry gaze. A thrill ran through you at the vulnerability of standing exposed before her.

"I want to make my Queen feel good," you purred your words affectionately as you lowered yourself onto your knees in front of her. Gently, you spread her legs, lifting her skirts to reveal her glistening sex.

Your breath caught at the sight of her wet, red folds. You licked your lips, eager to taste her essence.

Rhaenyra's breath hitched as she watched you kneel before her, the younger woman's nude form a vision of beauty in the candlelight. She felt a rush of desire, a need so intense it threatened to consume her whole.

As you spread her legs, pushing Rhaenyra's skirts up to her waist, exposing her dripping sex, Rhaenyra gasped, her head falling back against the cushions. She could feel the heat of your gaze on her most intimate place, the intensity of it making her core clench with anticipation.

Rhaenyra tangled her fingers in your hair, guiding your face closer to her aching cunt. She could feel the heat of your breath on her sensitive skin, the anticipation nearly driving her mad.

"Don't tease," Rhaenyra commanded, her grip on your hair tightening. "I need your tongue, now."

You revelled in her dominant tone, making wetness pool between your thighs once again.

As your tongue finally made contact with her throbbing clit, Rhaneyra cried out in pleasure, her hips bucking up to meet your mouth. The sensation was electric, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through her body, making her toes curl and her fingers dig into the velvet of the couch and your hair.

"Fuck, yes, just like that. Make me feel good. Make your Queen cum." She leaned back against the pillows, her violet eyes never leaving your face. She could see the hunger in those eyes, the desire to please, to worship, to consume.

Your tongue delved deeper, lapping at Rhaenyra's clit, sucking the sensitive bud between her lips. Rhaenyra's grip on your hair tightened, her nails digging into your scalp, holding you in place as she rode your face, grinding her cunny against your eager mouth.

As you pressed your face between Rhaenyra's thighs, you couldn't help but moan against her sopping cunt. The scent of her arousal was intoxicating, and you couldn't get enough of her sweet, tangy juices as they coated my tongue.

You delved deep with your tongue, fucking her tight hole, revelling in the way she writhed and moaned above me. Her taste was exquisite and addictive, and you found yourself craving more, needing to please her, to make her come undone.

Unable to resist, you suddenly plunged two fingers into her spasming pussy, pumping them in and out at a brutal pace. You sucked her clit into your mouth, flicking the sensitive bundle of nerves with your tongue, driving her wild with pleasure.

"Fuck, yes," Rhaenyra moaned, her head thrown back in ecstasy. "Eat me, fuck, eat your Queen's cunny. Make me cum!"

You whined against her sopping heat as you eagerly ate her out, sending vibrations to her already sensitive clit.

Rhaenyra cried out in ecstasy as your fingers plunged into her dripping cunny, fucking her with a relentless, brutal pace. Her back arched off the divan, her hips bucking wildly as she rode the wave of pleasure that crashed over her.

Your tongue lashed at her clit, the dual stimulation of fingers and mouth driving Rhaenyra to the brink of madness. Her thighs clamped around your head, holding you in place as she ground her cunny against her face, seeking more, always more.

Rhaenyra could feel her orgasm building, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in her belly, her muscles tensing in anticipation of release. She pushed her hips harder against your hand, fucking herself on your fingers, the wet squelch of her arousal filling the room.

"Don't stop," Rhaenyra commanded, her voice a low, guttural moan. "Make me come, fuck, make your Queen come!"

With a final, brutal thrust of your fingers, Rhaenyra shattered. Her orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave, her vision whiting out as pleasure consumed her. She screamed a primal, animalistic sound that echoed off the stone walls of the observatory.

Rhaenyra's body convulsed, her cunny clamping down on your fingers, milking them for all they were worth. Her juices gushed out, coating your hand, chin, and breasts. It was messy, filthy, and perfect.

As the aftershocks of her orgasm faded, Rhaenyra collapsed back against the divan, her chest heaving, her skin slick with sweat and her essence. She looked down at you, her eyes hazy with satisfaction, a lazy, satisfied smile playing on her lips.

"You've pleased your Queen well," Rhaenyra purred.

Rhaenyra gazed down at you, her violet eyes dark with lust and a hint of something more primal. The young woman'ssubmissive posture, and the pleading look in your eyes, ignited a hunger in Rhaenyra that she had long suppressed.

She reached down, her fingers tangling in your hair, yanking your head back to expose the elegant column of your throat. Rhaenyra's other hand trailed down your body, her touch feather-light, teasing.

"You want more?" Rhaenyra purred, her voice a husky whisper. "You want your Queen to use you, to take you, to make you hers?"

You nodded, a whimper escaping your lips. "Yes, my Queen," you breathed, your eyes never leaving Rhaenyra's. "I'myours, to do with as you please."

Rhaenyra smiled a predator's grin that sent a shiver down your spine. "Good girl," she murmured, her hand cupping your breast, squeezing the soft flesh. "You're going to be a good little toy for your Queen, aren't you?"

Rhaenyra stood, towering over you, her presence dominating the space between them. She reached for the belt of her gown, slowly, teasingly, letting the anticipation build.

"On your hands and knees," Rhaenyra commanded, her voice tolerating no argument. "Ass up, head down. Present yourself to your Queen like the good little slut you are."

You hastened to obey, your heart racing with a mix of fear and excitement. You positioned yourself on the floor, ass raised, face pressed into the carpet. You could feel Rhaenyra's eyes on her, could hear the rustle of fabric as your Queen disrobed.

"Spread your legs," Rhaenyra ordered, her voice low and demanding. "Show me that pretty little cunt. Let me see what belongs to me."

You complied, spreading your legs wide, exposing your dripping sex to the cool air and her ravenous gaze. You waited, each second passing by felt like an hour without her touch on your skin. Patience was never your virtue.

Rhaenyra drank in the sight before her, the glistening folds of your pussy, the delicate lighter shade of your inner walls, the swollen nub of your clit. She could smell your arousal, a heady, intoxicating scent that made her mouth water with desire.

She knelt behind you, her knees pressing against your thighs, forcing your legs further apart. Rhaenyra's hand came down on your ass with a sharp smack, the sound echoing in the room.

"Patience, my sweet," Rhaenyra purred, her fingers tracing the reddening skin of your cheek. "Your Queen will give you what you need, but first, you must learn to wait, to crave, to beg for my touch."

Rhaenyra's hand moved lower, her fingers teasing along the crease of your ass, dipping between your thighs, but never quite touching you where you needed it most. You whimpered, your hips bucking back, seeking more.

"Shh, be still," Rhaenyra chided, her voice a low, soothing murmur. "Good girls are rewarded, but naughty girls..." 

Her hand came down again, a stinging slap to your ass that made you cry out. Rhaenyra soothed the sting with gentle strokes, her fingers dancing over the heated skin.

"Naughty girls are punished," Rhaenyra finished, her voice dropping to a whisper. "But you have been a good girl, haven'tyou, my sweet?"

You nodded, your face pressed into the carpet, her ass raised high, an offering to her Queen. "Yes, my Queen," she breathed, her voice muffled. "I've been so good for you. Please touch me, my Queen."

Rhaenyra chuckled, the sound dark and rich with promise. "So greedy," she murmured, her fingers dipping between your legs, teasing the slick folds of your cunt. "But I suppose I can indulge you, just this once."

With that, Rhaenyra pushed two fingers inside you, your tight heat clenching around her digits. She pumped them slowly, torturously, revelling in the way your hips bucked, seeking more.

"That's it," Rhaenyra growled, her thumb finding your clit with ease, rubbing tight circles around the sensitive nub. "Take what your Queen gives you. Be a good little girl for me."

You could only moan in response, the pleasure of Rhaenyra's touch short-circuiting your brain.

Rhaenyra withdrew her fingers from your dripping cunny, leaving you empty and aching for more. She circled in front ofyou, her violet eyes dark with lust and power.

"Lay on your back," Rhaenyra commanded, her voice low and authoritative. "I want to see your face when I fuck you. I want to watch you come undone for your Queen."

You hastened to obey, laying back on the plush carpet, your legs falling open in wanton invitation. Rhaenyra loomed over you, her tall, regal form casting a shadow across your body.

She knelt between your thighs, her hands trailing up your calves, your thighs, until she reached your weeping cunt. Rhaenyra's fingers delved inside you once more, pumping in and out, curling to hit that special spot deep within.

"Look at me," Rhaenyra demanded, her other hand gripping your chin, forcing your gaze to meet hers. "Watch your Queen as she makes you come. Watch me as I claim you." With that she pulled her fingers out of your sopping heat, lapping up the slick from your cunt.

"Put your leg up," Rhaenyra ordered. She lifted your left leg, straddling your right thigh as her dripping cunt hovered above yours.

Your breath caught in your throat, a mix of lust and hunger swirling within you as you watched her. The soft glow of the candlelight danced across her features, illuminating the way her eyes sparkled with carnal desire. Every second felt like an eternity as you awaited her next move, your heart racing.

Rhaenyra's eyes locked onto yours, her gaze intense and hungry. She held your leg up, her cunt poised just above yours, the heat of her radiating against your skin.

"You want this, don't you?" Rhaenyra purred. "You want your Queen to ride you, to grind against you until we both come undone."

She shifted forward, the slick folds of her pussy brushing against yours. The contact sent a jolt of pleasure through your body, your hips bucking up to meet her.

"Beg for it," Rhaenyra commanded, her voice a low, seductive growl. "Beg your Queen to fuck you with her cunt. Beg me to make you mine like a good girl"

You couldn't help it, the words tumbled from your lips in a desperate, needy plea. "Please, my Queen," you whimpered, your eyes never leaving Rhaenyra's face. "Please fuck me with your cunt. Make me yours, claim me. I need it, I need you."

Rhaenyra smiled a wicked, triumphant grin that made your heart race. "Good girl," she purred, her praise sending a shiver of delight down your spine. "You've earned a reward."

With that, Rhaenyra pressed down, her cunt engulfing yours in a slick, hot embrace. She began to move, grinding against you, her clit rubbing against yours, the friction delicious and overwhelming.

"Oh, fuck yes!" You screamed out in pleasure, your back arching from the carpet. Your walls clenched around nothing as you felt her clit repeatedly grinding against yours. Eyes screwed shut and brows furrowed, moans kept spilling from your parted lips.

Rhaenyra increased the pace, grinding harder, faster, her cunt sliding against yours in a lewd, wet sound that filled the room. Your thighs quivered, your muscles tensing as your orgasm built to a crescendo.

"Fuck, yes," Rhaenyra moaned, her hips rolling in a sensual rhythm. "You feel so good, so wet for me. I could fuck this sweet little cunt all day and never tire of it."

You could only moan in response, your hands fisting in the carpet beneath you, your body arching up to meet Rhaenyra'smovements. The pleasure was building, coiling tighter and tighter in your belly, threatening to snap at any second.

Rhaenyra's smirk widened, a predatory gleam in her violet eyes as she watched you writhe beneath her. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps, your body trembling with the force of your impending orgasm.

"That's it, my sweet," Rhaenyra purred, her voice low and husky. "Let go for me. Come for your Queen."

She increased the pace, grinding harder, faster, her cunt sliding against yours in a slick, obscene sound. Your thighs quivered, your muscles tensing as your orgasm built to a crescendo.

"Fuck, I'm gonna..." you panted, your words trailing off into a moan as the pressure inside you reached a breaking point.

With a final, brutal grind of Rhaenyra's hips, you shattered. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your vision whiting out as pleasure consumed you. You screamed a primal, animalistic sound that echoed off the stone walls of the observatory.

Rhaenyra rode out your orgasm, her pleasure building as she felt your cunt spasm around nothing. She ground against you, drawing out your pleasure, milking every last drop of ecstasy from your body.

As the aftershocks of your orgasm faded, Rhaenyra collapsed beside you, her chest heaving, her skin slick with sweat. She pulled you close, her arms encircling you, holding you tight against her body.

"My sweet, beautiful girl," Rhaenyra murmured, her lips brushing against your temple. "You please your Queen so well."

You nestled into her embrace, your heart still racing, your body humming with satisfaction. At that moment, you belonged to Rhaenyra, body and soul, a willing subject to her desires.

You nuzzled your face into the crook of her neck, seeking solace as you tried to catch your breath. Her scent enveloped you, a delightful blend of vanilla, lavender and lust dancing in the air around you, warm and inviting.

With a tender touch, you reached out to brush her silky white hair away from her face. The strands glimmered softly in the light, cascading like a waterfall over her shoulders. A few wisps clung to her forehead, dampened by a light sheen of sweat that glistened like tiny pearls, evidence of the warmth that lingered between you.

As your eyes met, a wordless understanding passed between the two of you, a shared moment that transcended the need for language. You smiled at her, the corners of your lips turning upwards, filled with unspoken affection and connection, knowing that in this quiet intimacy, everything that mattered was perfectly captured in that fleeting glance.

Rhaenyra leaned into your touch, her eyes fluttering closed as you brushed the sweat-dampened strands of her silver-gold hair from her forehead. She nuzzled into your palm, a soft purr rumbling in her chest.

In that quiet moment, the world faded away, leaving only the two of you, entwined in each other's arms, basking in the afterglow of your shared pleasure. Rhaenyra's heartbeat slowly returned to normal, her breathing evening out as she savoured the warmth of your body against hers.

"You're a treasure," Rhaenyra murmured, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare skin. "A gem among the dross of this world. I am lucky to have you by my side."

You tilted your head, meeting her gaze with a soft, loving smile. "I am the lucky one, my Queen," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "To serve you, to please you, to be yours... it is an honour beyond measure."

Rhaenyra's smile widened, a rare, genuine expression of happiness and contentment. She cupped your face in her hands, her thumbs stroking your cheeks.

"You are mine," she declared, her voice a low, possessive purr. "And I am yours."

You leaned in, capturing her lips in a slow, tender kiss. It was a promise, a seal on the unspoken vows exchanged between you. In that kiss, you pledged your loyalty, your devotion, your very soul to Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Dragon Queen.

[niki-phoria]

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

if you liked this fic, please consider leaving a like, comment, feedback, or rebloging !! and if you want to support me, check out my jjk masterlist <33

[merakiui]

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.

[dinsbeskar]

Homecoming (Sauron/F!Reader)

Sauron finds his wife in Eregion when Galadriel is forced to find aid for Halbrand's terrible near-fatal wound, a thousand years after she left him at his coronation

AO3 Link

Soundtrack: a thousand years by Christina Perri (shut up, I know it's obvious!!), If I Could Turn Back Time by Cher, It's All Coming Back To Me Now by my girl Céline Dion, Can't Fight The Moonlight by LeAnn Rimes

Warnings: 18+ only!! Smut!! Tooth rotting fluff!! (Remember to floss!!) Tiny bit of angst (the rest comes later, it's a slow burn!) P in V sex, handjob, Halbrand’s glorious chest hair (I'm amused when we tag for that so I'm joining in 😂), separation anxiety lmfao (no but fr), cuddling, spooning, emotional manipulation (what a mix), tiny bit of rough sex/teeth/biting, praise kink, teasing (the guy is a menace, sorry!), male masturbation, fingering, dom!Sauron (he's a service top, okay?), big dick Halbrand (it must be done, idek at this point)

A/N: hi guys!! So finally, after so many chapters, I have for you: Sauron and Reader's reunion. I wrote In The Dark first, and promised a follow-up, and then ended up writing a bunch of prequels first. But finally, here they are!!

Word Count: 4.9k!

Quick rundown of what to read before this one for context (or don't, I'm not the boss of you!!):

Haunted, where we split them up

In The Dark of The Night, the story that started it all, where Reader fantasises about Sauron and he manages to reach out for her

Evil Will Find Her, Sauron’s POV of the above.

Y'all this is the softest, most candyfloss like fluffy smut I've ever written, what is wrong with me??

When Galadriel is sent to Valinor, you mourn the loss of your friend, of course, but there is a traitorous part of you that is secretly glad that your husband's last hunter will no longer keep you up at night in fear for his demise yet again.

You have not felt him stir in such a long time, you were beginning to give up hope. But one night you swore you could feel him, the ghost of his touch, his comforting presence. And the next night, and the next, until you'd grown entirely accustomed to imagining him beside you, atop you, beneath you.

~

The quaking in the earth beneath Lindon was barely perceptible, but perceive it you did. It must have come from afar, but what could cause the very foundations of the earth to shake so? The rest of your kin brushed it off as some natural occurrence, but you were sure deep down that these stirrings in the earth and in your heart were one and the same.

So when the High King sent Elrond to Eregion, you figured your best bet was to go with him, travelling further east in search of answers. You knew what you hoped for, but would not dare speak it even in your mind, not wanting to dispel the wish before it had even taken flight.

Lord Celebrimbor was a most gracious host, giving you both rooms and leave to stay as long as you wished. It was so different to Lindon, you thought you might stay a while, and with the building of the new forge, a tiny part of you hoped your beloved would seek out a place where he could practise his craft, and what better place to do so.

The last person you expected to see was Galadriel, whom you thought had arrived safely in Valinor, racing through the city gates, another horse in tow carrying a nigh-unconscious man who nearly falls from his seat as they come to an abrupt halt.

"Enemy lance. Six days ago. We rode without rest. Can you help him?" Galadriel's voice carries to your Elvish ears as you run to meet them, a feeling in your gut that your healing was required.

"Come, he needs rest, take him to the infirmary, I will follow." You say to the guards propping him up.

He's filthy, as is Galadriel, and the first thing you'll need to do is strip him off and bathe him.

You thought he was unconscious, but he turns his head slightly to catch your eye, winks, then allows himself to be dragged away.

A sweat breaks across your body, accompanied by wild fluttering in the pit of your stomach.

Mairon.

Your husband. The husband you thought had abandoned you. The husband you thought was dead. That husband.

You can't fight the smile on your face, the utter joy that is about to overwhelm you; even after everything you'd said to each other the last time you spoke, you still missed him, yearned for him with a fiery passion that hadn't dampened in the eons you've been apart. The utter delight of finding the other half of your soul again obliterated your momentary shock at his arrival, and you hasten to be at his side.

"I'll go see to our guest," you excuse yourself, while squeezing Galadriel's hand. "It's good to see you, mellon nin [my friend]."

She watches after you with a strange expression, bemused that in your hurry, you thought to ask no questions as to how she was back on the shores of Middle Earth.

~

"Leave us. I can tend to him well enough without an audience." You nod to the guards standing over your husband; any excuse to be left alone with him.

Thankfully they don't need much persuasion and take their leave, the room filling with tension as soon as the door clicks shut behind them.

The thrill of his presence has not faded; in fact what they say about absence making the heart grow fonder might indeed be the case. However your joy is overcast by the malice you threw at each other a millennium ago.

You have no idea what to say, now that you're face to face with him. Your last words were cruel, and you remember them as if they were yesterday; if he has brooded upon your words, he might never forgive you. You pick at a stray thread on your sleeve, avoiding his gaze, which is suddenly very alert now that you're alone.

"No greeting for me, dear wife?" His voice is different, his cadence of speech is rougher but no less silver to the ear.

"I missed you."

"I know."

You step closer, bringing a washbasin and cloth, placing it beside him. You go to feel his forehead with the back of your hand to check for infection, but he snatches it from its path and holds you in place, studying your face intently. His green eyes pierce your soul, and instantly you feel more at peace than you have in a thousand years.

You reach out once more, trembling slightly with anticipation, tracing his face, learning every new contour in case he is ripped from you again.

He leans into your touch, letting you take your fill of him, before reaching up to grasp your face, pulling you in for a tender kiss that makes you see stars, his rough stubble a sharp contrast to the way his tongue softly delves into your mouth.

He breaks away first, his mortal form forcing him to take a breath, the wound in his torso paining him more than he'd like you to know.

"I thought you'd still be angry with me." You whisper against his cheek, heart racing.

He shakes his head slightly, a tender smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Never, not with you." His voice is so soft, you barely catch it, his words meant strictly for your ears only; in Eregion, surrounded by sensitive Elvish hearing, the walls really do have ears.

"I've had so much time to think about what happened, and I take it all back. Every word. I love you and I'm so sorry, I should have been there for you." You hold his gaze, searching his eyes for confirmation of his forgiveness, that he will not just say what he thinks you want to hear.

"No, that was the only thing that saved me, knowing you were safe, out of harm's way."

"Still, I should have-"

"Hush, my love, I'm here now and I won't be parted so easily from you again." He means it, you can hear the determination in his voice, but Morgoth's curse has plagued you both for centuries, even after he was banished to the Void, and joy makes way for the dread already beginning to build in the pit of your stomach.

Relief rolls through the two of you, and the very air is lighter as you take each other in after so long. You look entirely as he remembers, perhaps more radiant, more lovely, than his memory allowed him to recollect. Perhaps it is just that he can finally touch you.

He, on the other hand, looks entirely different. Not that you're complaining. This new form is just as pleasant as any other you've enjoyed; perhaps a little coarser, rough around the edges, more hair than you're used to... but it is no bad thing, and you find yourself just staring at him until you remember why he is here.

"Oh, would you like healing, perchance?" Your tone is playful but the tiny crease in your forehead tells him you're still worried for him.

He chuckles, wincing as he does so, pain smarting in his side.

"If you'd be so kind, fair maiden." And with that, he lays back to let you work.

You let him away with a fair amount, this being only one thing of many. You know he's perfectly capable of healing himself of such a wound, and he knows you know, but sometimes it is satisfying to care, and to be taken care of. He did always enjoy your attentions.

"I'm afraid I must get these rags off you, my lord. I cannot possibly see the wound through all these layers." You pull out a wickedly sharp pair of scissors, slicing through the fabric in one fluid motion, moving it to the side to examine him.

Your gaze is already locked onto the gaping hole in his side, but you allow yourself to run your fingers methodically up his torso, marvelling in the thick black hair that populates his chest. Certainly different from what you were used to, but not unappealing in the slightest.

His wicked grin reminds you of your work, and your blush grows with your smile, enjoying yourself far too much.

A little cleaning, some herbs and a healing song render him virtually healed, as well as a little of his own power to speed the process along, but you run your hands over him long after the wound is knitted together, enjoying the feeling of your husband beneath your fingers after so long.

"Did you know I was here?" You ask him softly, your head laying on his bare chest as you nestle into his side on the small cot, running your fingers through his hair.

"Of course. I could feel you, in fact, I was on my way here," he pauses, considering his next words; you wouldn't be too happy to hear he'd used the scenic route, instead of hastening to your side.

"But?" You can practically hear the cogs whirring in his mind, trying to come up with some elaborate fabrication.

"Fate pulled me to the sea. And then it brought me back to you." Perhaps he'd regale you with tales of Númenor another time; right now, he was simply content to listen to your heartbeat, fluttering in time to his once more.

"With Galadriel and an army? That must be quite a tale." You ponder aloud, leaving him space to elaborate if he wishes, but not wanting to press him too soon.

"It is." He kisses you again, this time deeper, rougher, tongue demanding entrance to your mouth as he curls his fingers in your hair.

He has to resurface first, letting your lips part reluctantly as his lungs demand air. It's quite charming, considering how he is so used to torturing you with your bodily needs, only letting you gasp for air when you're desperate, if he's feeling particularly cruel.

"Don't get used to it," he chuckles, overhearing your thoughts as always; you muse over how that used to irritate you, but now you're so ecstatic to have him under your fingertips again, you'd unlock every door of your mind for him.

"I'm just enjoying the difference in dynamic, my love, it's delightful being the torturer, not the tortured." You laugh, as a low growl emanates from his chest.

"Don't remind me," he rolls his eyes before pulling you closer, as if that were possible.

"I really did miss you, love, it's been a lifetime and ten since we could last do this." You lift up your entwined fingers to emphasise the point, which he answers with a kiss to each knuckle, as if in apology.

"I won't be parted from you again, you need not worry," he whispers in your ear, and you want to believe him, but fate has always had other plans for the two of you, and you have no reason to assume it might be different this time.

"Besides," he continues, stroking his fingers through the hollows of your knuckles, "it's not as if I was wholly absent, especially recently."

You crane your neck to meet his gaze, confused as to what he could possibly mean. You raise your eyebrows, encouraging him to elaborate.

"Admittedly it was difficult to manifest myself in two places while I gathered my strength, but surely you noticed me reaching out for you? Touching your mind?" He pauses for dramatic effect. "...and other things?"

"Now I really have no idea, my dear husband, you will need to explain." You laugh at his bemused expression, still none the wiser as to how he could have been with you while physically absent.

"I reached out for you, I could see you, feel you, and I swore you felt me too. Did you really not feel me?" He asks, slightly indignant, as if you could hardly have missed him.

Ah. Yes, now it clicks into place; you'd thought you'd sensed something, or perhaps someone, with you on those dark nights alone. You were right. He hadn't abandoned you after all.

"It was you," you breathe, marvelling anew, "I thought for a moment- you found me, even then, even when you were at your weakest, you found me."

He kisses your palm and holds it to his chest, reluctant to ever let you go again.

"Of course, love, I vowed I'd always find you," he murmurs in your ear, his physical being aching with the reunion of your two souls, electric tingles dancing across your flesh as you trace across his unfamiliar form.

You relish in his closeness, unwilling to be parted from him until-

"Oh no! What you must have witnessed-" You go to cover your face, cheeks flushing as you recall exactly what you were up to when you felt his presence.

He takes your hands and chuckles, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. How could you still be embarrassed in front of him, your lord husband, after all this time? His heart swells, taking you in as you squirm under his gaze.

"Darling, you are mine, I am yours, we are one soul, one flesh, are we not?" He squeezes your hands, gazing at you fondly; after a thousand years, your hearts still beat as one, and you meet his eyes with relief, cheeks still heated but no longer with embarrassment.

His fingers travel across your body with the practised touch of one who knows you better than you know yourself. Even after all this time, he knows exactly where to be gentle, where to be rough, where to knead your flesh or trace it softly. He knows your body better than his own.

"You're trembling, love," he whispers against your lips, cocking an eyebrow.

"Anticipation, darling, you did always know how to draw these things out." You smirk, already over the foreplay, wanting your husband to fill you in every way he can, mind, soul, and body, each way just as delicious as the last.

"How long it's been, not an ounce of patience left in you," he teases, provoking a groan as he licks a long stripe up your throat.

"I've done my waiting," you groan against him, "I think I deserve my reward."

His grin grows wicked, as he takes you in, laid bare under him.

"And I am that reward? Surely such a beautiful maiden would prefer-"

You press your lips to his, interrupting his teasing, refusing to let him play his games for now, needing him atop you, inside you.

You roll him over, thighs pinned around his hips, gazing down at him fondly, relishing the view that you've been denied for a millennium. He smirks at you, continuing to grope and knead your flesh, grabbing your ass and thighs to steady you, leaving deep finger marks that drive you wild as you rock against his crotch.

"My lord," you chuckle as you attempt to unsheathe him, his belt proving a challenge for your trembling fingers. "There are still too many layers between us."

He sits up, reaching for your lips with his fingertips, humming against your skin, his small laugh breaking the tingles down your spine with a shiver.

"Well, my lady, we can't have that..." he murmurs into your abdomen as he journeys down your body.

His lady. A phrase that never failed to delight you, to send tingles of arousal shooting through you. The connotation of your vow to each other. That you were his and he was yours.

At the moment, you have the upper hand, pinned atop him with your body weight as leverage, but you'd sacrifice it in an instant to have him claim you.

You lean back a little, keening under his touch, wanting your skin on his, your souls already singing in a harmony you could never forget, even after all this time.

Every breath you take is from his lungs, grasping at his thick brown curls, savouring every unfamiliar sensation.

Every movement you make sends shockwaves through him; the only pleasure he has known in this body was by his own hand, but his wife back in her rightful place was far sweeter.

He's fucking desperate for you, and you can sense it despite his immaculate self control. Your favourite thing in the world is seeing Sauron lose his mind for the love of you.

"I cannot possibly continue my work if the patient is clothed. I'm afraid I need to conduct a-" you pause, pretending to consider your choice of words- "thorough examination."

He fucking growls at you, deep and low in his chest, and you can't help but grin. You roll off him, only to release him enough to help you out and shimmy his trousers off. Instead he grabs your upper arm, flips you underneath him, smirking with heavily lidded eyes, his hair falling over his face.

"How did I know you would do that?" You laugh, wrapping your legs around him as he strips bare for you, finally.

"One thing I will not allow-" he kisses your neck softly before baring his teeth- "is being called predictable."

He scrapes his teeth against your throat before yanking your head back with your hair, the pain smarting through your scalp obliterated by the feeling of his other hand between your thighs.

"You're so fucking wet for me already," he gasps, rocking into your thigh, his cock weeping on your abdomen.

"I've waited this long, I won't wait any longer." You moan against him, taking his cock in hand, running your thumb over the head.

"No, darling, wait, no-" his strangled pleas fall on deaf ears as you stroke him once, twice, before you force him over the edge.

He worships and curses you in the same breath, wanting nothing more than to spill himself inside you. But you've foiled that plan, for now.

"Too soon-" he chokes out, his pent-up orgasm pouring out of him, surging through him, but doing nothing to quench the thirst he has for you.

You stroke him through his orgasm, kissing him softly, letting him moan into your mouth.

"It's okay, I wanted you to come, love," you whisper in his ear, tracing his chest, running your fingers through his thick black hair. "You needed it, you deserved it-"

He arches his back under your praise, kissing your neck, grasping at your bare back, raking your skin with his blunt fingernails.

After so long apart, with a new mortal form with which to grapple, you had a feeling he'd need release sooner rather than later, needy under your touch after centuries only dreaming of you. Now, with his first orgasm out of the way, you could tease him for longer and get what you'd been craving during your centuries apart.

You pluck at his pleasure like an exposed nerve, drawing every groan, whimper, gasp from his lungs, until he is hard and aching for you again.

He wants so badly to be inside you, to crawl into the space between your flesh and bones, your mind and your soul, to simply relish in the feeling of being home with you.

Thankfully you have the same aching need, pulling him closer with your legs, still wrapped around his waist.

This new body feels strange under your fingers, between your thighs, wrapped around you, coarse hair brushing your torso every time he rocks against you, never mind the hardening length that presses against your core.

"That feels... different." You gasp against him, feeling his smirk against your jaw.

"Different as in bad? Or good, my love?" He raises his eyebrows innocently, as if he is asking you about the weather.

"I could not possibly say," you laugh, "we shall have to try it out to see for certain."

"My sweet wife. Moments ago, you were embarrassed that I saw you relieve your yearning for me," he groans as he circles your clit with the head of his cock, "and now you speak of me as some kind of object for your pleasure."

His faux-sincerity in his scolding is so carefully balanced that for a second, you're unsure if he is actually offended. But you quickly realise he is teasing you when he spreads your cunt, ready for his new thick cock.

A whimper escapes your throat as he teases your folds with his fingers, gathering your wetness to ease his way inside you, stroking his cock, unhurried now that you've relieved him once. You regret that decision now that he draws out giving you your own release.

"Please, love," you stammer out between shaky breaths, rocking your hips against his hand.

"Please, what? Use your words, my darling, tell me what you need." The glint in his eye is dangerous, full of promises of rich reward, but only if you can play his game to the end.

"I need you," you murmur, eyeing him through heavy lids, desperate for any touch he will bestow upon you.

The expression on his face is positively profane, lips parted, a thin ring of green lining his blown pupils, sweaty brown hair falling in his eyes. He wets his lips as you watch his tongue enviously. Oh, to be those lips, his tool for such pleasure. And pain.

"Need me how, love? Be specific." His tone becomes harsher as he reaches for your chin, to impress upon you that you will not get what you crave unless you beg for it.

You keen and moan under him, but he is steadfast, stroking himself while he gazes down at you with such longing, such fondness that even in the throes of your desire, your heart sings for him in harmony with his.

"Love, please-" you whine, your vehement desire to be one with him again overtaking your senses completely; it has been a thousand years, too many lifetimes, and he teases you like this?

"Please, what? I need you to tell me what you long for." He enunciates every syllable, the cadence of his unfamiliar accent falling like sweet summer rain around you, his silver tongue plaguing you with its sweet promises, if only you can find your words.

"Need you, need to be close to you, need you inside me, need-"

He interrupts you with his fingers at your entrance, forcing a sharp gasp from your lungs at the sudden intrusion.

"Is that better, my sweet? Is that everything you crave?" You'd give anything to kiss away the self-satisfied smirk that graces his lips, but he holds you down with one hand splayed on your torso as he begins to spread you open to his velvet touch.

You shudder as he lightly strokes your folds, delving in with a finger to make you gasp, working his way to two, then three, whilst grasping the flesh under his other hand almost painfully, grounding himself in your body.

If he could just open you up and slither into the space between your ribs, nestled beside your heart, to do nothing but listen to it beat for eternity, he is sure he would be content.

You arch your back into his touch, trying to work yourself onto his fingers, but he pulls away too quickly for you to find any relief.

"Ah, my love, that would be too easy, would it not?" A smile tugs at his lips, but Sauron fixes his expression into one more akin to concern, perhaps even pity.

"Tell me, love, tell me what you crave." He is drunk on the power he has over you, intoxicated by the goddess writhing under his fingertips, so eagerly in his thrall.

After a thousand years parted from you, it is taking so very much self-control to keep from ravaging you, but he wants to savour every moment, wants to hear it from your lips, your sweet surrender to his control.

"Need you inside me, need you, my love, it's been so long, please take me, I'm yours." His eyes blaze as you struggle through every word, as your breath hitches and your legs shake, his fingers unrelenting in his slow torture of your cunt.

"You are mine - and I am yours." His vow is made through ragged breath as he leans down to claim your lips hungrily, your wetness allowing him to rut his cock between your thighs, so tightly pressed together, that he sees stars.

Sauron kisses at your neck, sucking and biting, sure to leave dark bruises that will not be easily covered tomorrow. Claiming what is his, and his alone.

He pulls your hips to his, forcing your thighs apart, laying his cock on your mound. He is bigger now than he was all those eons ago; he is frankly fascinated as to how you will take him, but he knows you'll take it all for him.

You squirm under him, pushing your hips to his, desperate for him to take you, patience wearing thin for his teasing now.

As if he senses you are at the end of your tether, he smirks, adjusting himself to set the head of his cock at your entrance.

"Please... Mairon, please, I need you." You know what you're doing when you use his true name, know that he won't be able to stop himself from ravishing you, breaking any semblance of self-control.

With a groan, he presses his body impossibly close to yours, sliding inside you, forcing all the air from your lungs as you feel his girth fill you so sweetly, so completely. He draws your legs up to press himself deeper inside you, his hips rocking against yours, rougher and more erratic than he has ever been but satisfying every desire in your core.

Running your fingers up his strong forearms, feeling the muscles tense and flex with each thrust, you grind back into him, whimpering and pleading for more. More what, exactly? You're not sure, but you know you need everything he is willing to give you.

And he wants to give you the world.

Centuries apart, thinking of little else but each other, it is hardly any surprise that you are both ravenous in body and soul, your love and lust building to a towering inferno to spite the gods who would see you parted.

When he feels you tighten around him, he pulls back from devouring your mouth to stare agape at your blissful expression as you ride your high, awestruck that he has you in his arms again. It is that awe that pushes him over the edge again, pulsing inside you, clutching at every inch of bare skin he can reach, your torso pressed against his as he holds you both upright, murmuring sweet nothings in your ear as you quake against him.

Breathing heavily, lying entwined in the tiny infirmary cot, the two of you fall into quiet, intimate bliss. Holding each other close, you let the world fall away until it is just the two of you, the calm in the other's storm.

"I told you. Predictable." You chuckle, your laugh reverberating through his chest, sending tingles down his spine.

"Perhaps predictability is not such a bad thing. When it comes to you, at least." He continues to stroke your hair, giving you a tiny squeeze as if to make sure you were no illusion.

One thing that is predictable, even certain, is that he will be parted from you soon enough. It always happens, even after Morgoth’s defeat, and the notion is enough to send a chill down your spine.

He senses your discomfort, knows what you're thinking immediately without needing to probe your mind for once.

"I am here, beloved, let us enjoy what we have now, and worry for tomorrow when fate reveals itself." He hides his trepidation better than you do, but he pulls you closer all the same.

You look up at him, fingers tracing his chest softly, reaching for his free hand. He grants it to you, would grant you anything in the cosmos if you only asked it of him.

His palm at your lips, you breathe him in before looking back up at him, his dark green eyes alight with the love of ages. The words you whisper next shatter his heart, the edges of your souls knitting together more completely with every yearning wish woven into your plea.

"I beg you, Mairon, for the love of all that is good and pure in this world, please stay with me."

The way his eyes crease and his face lights up with the widest smile, it wrenches your heart, a pain so sweet and pure you would carry it for a thousand years more to keep him at your side.

"For the love of you then."

[bluecollarmcandtf]

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.

[dreamscribee]

💎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.

[anemonelovesfiction]

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?”

[adore-laur]

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." 

——

[harunayuuka2060]

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?

[the-queen-of-hell-666]

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.

[cursedcupcakemaster]

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

[thesimcalledclem]

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.