#if you happen to this mayhaps...send it to me?

[pebbles-scatter]

thinking of a post i saw today abt old stuff from early pnf fandom

[secretsandwriting]

heyyyy ryyyyy <333

since ur requests are open i thought id go ahead and ask if you're mayhaps open to anything for batmom? i don't have a completely solid idea but maybe smn like batmom has been getting threats or maybe hate or smn from somebody and everyone's reactions and how they get hella protective?

obv no pressure and you definitely do not have to write this

hope you have a great day bb

Heyyyyy, so this grew hands and wrote itself, I hope you enjoy it. It did end up with a lot of backstory.

Earned Position

5.3k words

You knew this would happen. Once your relationship with Bruce got out there would be an influx of love and hate. You also knew that everyone else knew that as well. It was common knowledge than anyone around a celebrity of sorts would experience that. 

Of course you did the normal things, turned off most notifications and only looked through areas online you knew would mostly be safe. You blocked tags and and only followed people you knew or ones who didn’t post about drama. 

When you did stumble onto hate, you moved on. If someone kept sending you nasty messages you blocked them, when they made other accounts to keep sending the same things, you changed your settings so only those you followed could message you. 

It wasn’t something you wanted to deal with but it was something you could handle. Something you started mentally preparing yourself for when Bruce’s attention on you lasted more than 4 dates, even more so when you caught yourself daydreaming about him.

You were not going to let random bitter people on the internet destroy your happiness like they did their own. Your family however, wanted to destroy what was left of your haters' happiness. Something you were trying to curb, but trying to tell a family of vigilantes who considered you the best mom in existence not to destroy your haters was like talking to a brick wall. Over the years, you had gotten used to it. It barely even registered anymore. But there had been a recent influx of the hate and while it didn’t bother you, it bothered the rest of your family. None of them could stand people talking bad about their mom.

While you hadn’t been there while the older ones were young, the second you had introduced yourself to them, you had taken a very important role in their lives. None of them realizing it at first. All of them had gotten used to the random women Bruce brought home that it took a little while for them to realize how important you were. 

Dick wasn’t sure at first. Thinking you were just another girlfriend that wouldn’t last long. So he didn’t really interact with you much. Ignoring your existence when it wasn’t too rude, or at least obviously rude. Until one night when he was staying at the manor and had a nightmare about his parents death. 

Bruce had an open bed policy. As long as there was still room for him, his bed was open. A policy he had started when Dick had gotten old enough he was worried he wouldn’t be allowed to go when he had a nightmare. Bruce had always reminded all his kids, that nightmares don’t go away just because you’re older and that needing comfort wasn’t something they would outgrow. 

The thing was, you were there. Girlfriends didn’t mind when children did it but they never liked it when his adult kids did it. The shaking in his hands and the way he saw them fall in the darkness of every blink told him the only way he was getting any sleep was with someone. 

Hopefully he could just slip into Bruce’s side and leave before you woke up. That was the plan until he found Damian on Bruce’s side and you had been pulled closer to Bruce taking up what was left. You moved a little and Dick took that as his sign to deal with it himself until he heard you whisper his name. He hummed so you knew it was him and not some random stranger standing over Bruce’s side of the bed. 

“Nightmare?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on.” You lifted the blanket next to you, “Bruce told me you guys come here when you have nightmares. There's plenty of room over here for you.” Dick hesitated for a second before giving in. He needed sleep anyway. You weren’t when you said there was plenty of room, Dick had most of your half of the bed. Once he had settled on his side, facing away from you, he felt you pull the blanket over his shoulders. 

“Night Dick, sleep well.” For some reason, that was what did it. Once the tears started they didn’t stop. Silent sobs made him shudder and he felt one of your hands gently rubbing his back. “Oh Dick.” There was no pity in your tone and he found himself rolling over and curling into you. Your chin resting on his head while you rubbed his back. 

The next day, he followed you around like a puppy. Your side of the bed became his favorite when he had nightmares and it wasn’t long before he turned to you for general comfort over anything.

Jason met you at his grave. Neither of you exchanged words, but he caught something in your gaze he didn’t quite understand. He also wasn’t sure why you were at his grave either, he didn’t know you when he was younger. 

When he saw the Gotham News post about Bruce and Your 2nd anniversary, it brought more questions than answers. Why were you at his grave alone? Let alone longer than a few seconds. It was an odd way to gain more of Bruce’s affections. 

Every Tuesday you would be there, leaving flowers and talking softly to the stone. Every time you left, you would smile and nod, the look in your eyes he couldn’t figure out was still there. Every time he would strain to heat what you were saying and only be able yo a few words here and there. 

6 months into it, the routine changed. You brought a blanket and Basket with your usual flowers. You did what you normally did with the flowers but instead of talking to the stone you waved him over. When he didn’t move, you stopped what you were doing and looked at him. 

“Jason Todd, I have been keeping your secret for 6 months. Helping me spread this blanket and having lunch won’t change it.” He stared at you while you waited expectantly. Eventually when he could get himself to move, he came over and helped. He sat down where you motioned for him too, all while trying to figure out how you knew.

“Bruce mentioned this used to be your favorite when you were younger so I asked Alfred to teach me how to make it. I hope it's up to your standards.” He looked at the plate of food you handed him. It was almost overflowing with food, all of which reminded him of the good times back at the manor before he died. “Alfred also sent your favorite cookies when he heard I would be eating at your grave.” The bag of cookies was placed next to the basket, within easy reach.

“Why?” Was all Jason managed to choke out around the lump in his throat.

“I decided early on in life, no matter who I was with, I would love their family as my own. My grandfather hated my grandmothers side and it caused a lot of pain in all the generations. I decided I would never do that to another family.” Jason found himself back in control enough to start eating. 

“So when I started dating Bruce and he told me about you, I decided to treat you like you were my own. Even though I had never met you and you were dead. Most of what that meant was keeping your grave clean and always making sure there were fresh flowers. While I did that, I would tell you everything that was going on.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“Your eyes, they may be a different color but they looked too similar. So I did a little digging and found pictures of your biological pictures to place the face shape it matched. I think however you look more like Bruce then either of them.”

“Are you going to tell them?”

“As much as I would love to. It’s your choice. You’ve been keeping this to yourself for a reason. If I can help you get to a place to tell them, I would love to. But I won’t say a word until you're ready. However, I would like to keep having lunch with you.” 

A year later, Jason reintroduced himself to the rest of the family a lot calmer than originally planned and was glued to your side anytime he felt overwhelmed that night. Every Tuesday after that, lunch was scheduled.

Tim was nervous when it came to you. He was still living in the manor so he saw you more than the older two. You always seemed nice and respected his privacy but Bruce was always with you so you obviously would. 

It was when he wasn’t around that worried Tim. Bruce attracted golddiggers and they were always mean when Bruce wasn’t there. When you were given a copy of the key, Time braced himself. 

Of course he knew that if he told Bruce anything that happened like that, Bruce would break it off. He had always told them that they came first. But he also knew that Bruce liked you a lot. All the other ones Bruce liked a lot that turned out to be horrible, he broked it off. Tim had seen how it had made him upset and he really hated doing that to him. Maybe he could deal with it for once. 

So when Bruce left for a business trip, Tim was Expecting the worst. What he didn’t expect was for you to knock on his door and ask if you could join him. When he agreed and stepped back so you could come in. He expected you to go to his bed or his desk chair not, the oversized bean bag on the floor.

“I have a question for you but you can’t tell Bruce yet.” Here it comes. “What would a funny way to tell him I know he’s Batman?” Tim wasn’t expecting that one. “I was thinking a lot of batpuns but his paranoia is too bad for that.”

“How did you figure it out?” You walked him through your process and didn’t say anything as he wrote parts of it down. Once you finished explaining the process for Bruce, you explained any way it was modified in figuring out their identities.

“Who do you think I am?”

“Red Robin.” Tim found himself getting excited. 

“You know those notes you leave him in his office?” You nodded. “You should leave those in the Batcave.” You considered it but your thinking was interrupted but Tim shouting. 

“No! One night when we’re all in the cave, you could bring some snacks!” 

“You just want snacks when he’s lecturing you don’t you?”

“Maybe..”

“Alright, but you have to tell the others so they can tell me what snack they want.”

So Tim slowly and carefully went through all his siblings, letting them know you figured it out, Bruce didn’t know, and what the plan is. Every time he relayed a snack to you he’d watch how carefully you’d write it out to make sure you had it correct or look up recipes if you couldn’t find it in stores. 

Two weeks later, Tim was the one who sent the signal in the middle of a lecture everyone was receiving and he got a front row seat to see Bruce’s face when you walked in and handed out snacks before giving him a kiss and telling him to be nice and leaving. 

Any other worries were left in the dust when you helped him win the nerf war for the best seat in the home theater. He thoroughly enjoyed his spot next to you while Bruce swore revenge from the other side of the room.

Damian treated you politely but that was it. His mother was still alive and he didn’t want another one, one was more than enough. Not only that, but you were weird. 

One time when you were over, you found one of his report cards. Immediately you were praising him. He didn’t understand why, he had basically failed one of his classes with an A-. You should be disappointed like his mother would be, not hanging it up on the fridge and telling people not to touch it. Definitely not taking him out for ice cream and calling him so smart. He definitely shouldn’t be feeling any pride when he walked past it, but he still was. 

When he was practicing his violin and Messed up, you were supposed to tell him to stop failing, that he should be better. Not smiling at him and telling him he’s making good progress. You should be telling him that he should have memorized that piece in a day. He shouldn’t be feeling any pride when he finally does memorize it, it took him 4 days to learn it.

When he was struggling to learn a language, you were supposed to tell him to work harder. He could do better, after all, he already knew so many. Instead you just smiled and recommended a break to refresh his mind. 

When he snapped at you in Arabic, he expected you to be upset since you didn’t know what he said and it was obviously not something nice. Instead you set the rule that if he was going to use Arabic to speak to you when upset, that he had to teach it to you and if what he said wasn’t something you had learned yet, he had to tell you in english. When he told you what it meant, you didn’t even get upset. He definitely shouldn’t be as excited as he was when you actually started learning. 

So many more little things piled up, leaving Damian confused. The differences between how you and his mother treated him was so big he didn’t know how to process it, he liked you and all the little things made him happy in a way he hadn’t really felt. But he still loved his mom, When he had enough of it, he asked you to stop. He still wanted to love his mom. Once again, you did something you weren’t supposed to.

“Oh Damian, I’m not trying to replace your mom nor am I trying to make you feel like you can’t love her or she doesn’t love you. Your mom and I show our love in different ways and its ok for you to love or like both of us. You mother loves you and she will always be allowed in your life if thats what you want.” You weren’t supposed to do that, but Damian was really glad you did.

Barbara wasn’t sure how you would react to her. She wasn’t just Bruce’s kid. She had a loving family she went back to every night. Most people weren’t really a fan of that, one of Bruce’s past girlfriends had some strong and hurtful things to say about it. 

When you took her for a day out, she found herself warming up to you but still waiting for the other shoe to drop. One of the new places you had planned to go, didn’t have wheelchair access. Like all the other girlfriends who had done this, she expected you to be annoyed that your plans had to change or you would just leave her outside while you shopped. 

You didn’t seem to notice her hesitation, just looking at what was next on your list and starting the trip there. When Barbara stared a little longer at a new movie that was in theaters, tickets and snacks were bought and you listed to all the lore she told you about before it started.

While it had been a nice day, Barbara wasn’t convinced. One day was easy to fake. Sure she had lots of fun, but Barbara was used to fakes when it came to Bruce’s girlfriends. Of course she wasn’t complaining about you being nice, she just wasn’t sure how long it would last. 

“Did you hear about that boutique?” She looked up from her food to look at her dad. “That new one that you tried to go to with Bruce’s girlfriend? Well there was a report that it didn’t meet the Americans with Disabilities act and the boutique is in trouble. People are speculating they’ll have to close down.”

Later that night, Barbara looked into it. They were in trouble, pretty big trouble from the looks of it. Towards the end of the article she found the name of the person who reported it, she wasn’t sure who she was expecting. Not you for sure but the Name Y/n L/n took her by surprise and filled her chest with feelings she couldn’t describe. 

The boutique ended up closing but a new one opened. Once it was open, you were the first to ask her to go. That weird feeling came back when she wheeled herself up the ramp and through the door you held open for her. Later that night, in the privacy of her room. She decided she liked you. 

Steph seemed like she liked you, she acted like she liked you, she didn’t really like you. Sure you were nice, Bruce loved you, the others were warming up to you, but she wasn’t sure how to feel about you. So she stuck with not actually liking you but pretending to. 

So when she was around you, it was all smiles and jokes. She wasn’t a big fan of it all but she did it because she knew you were important to Bruce and that was enough of a reason for her. She knew Bruce and the others could see through the act but as long as you couldn’t, that was enough. 

When Bruce announced he had to leave for a business trip right before she could hand him the parents visit for one of her AP classes, something the new teacher liked doing. She tucked the paper away. When Tim gave her a questioning look, she shook her head and later swore him to silence. 

Every time she heard someone mention their parents were going, she felt a pang of jealousy in her chest. Every time Tim mentioned bringing it up to you, she swore him into silence again. It wouldn’t be the first time no one showed up for her. She was however thankful you wouldn’t be at the manor as much so she didn’t have to pretend to like you.

When the day arrived, Steph was not having a good day. School dragged on slowly. Slower than normal. When school finally ended, she had to sit in the classroom and watch everyone else that was in her class leave and the parents of her classmates show up while no one was there or coming for her.

Someone sat in the seat next to her, she expected another family member of one of her classmates. Definitely not you. She couldn’t return your smile, too unsure of how you found out, the fact you actually showed up, and how she felt about you being there. You leaned a little closer so that the others in the room wouldn’t easily overhear. 

“I know I’m not your parent and someone you just pretend to like so if you want me to leave I will. But I figured someone was better then no one. Oh, and Tim wanted me to tell you he didn’t spill. Your teacher called the manor because no one had RSVPed for you and I answered it.”

That night, as Steph showed off all her hard work to you, the charade fell. She actually enjoyed her time with you and the boost of pride as you oohed and ahhed over all her projects and listened to her explain all the little details. That night, Steph realized, she didn’t need to keep pretending. She liked you, until she found out you didn’t like her favorite show but a nerf war solved that. 

Cass could tell you were different then the other girlfriends, your body language as you interacted with all of them showed it. However that didn’t mean she knew how to interact with you.

She had learned that she was fairly hard for new people to interact with. She also knew she had trouble interacting with people she wasn’t fighting. So it wasn’t a surprise when it started rocky. 

What was a surprise, was when you found out she was still having trouble reading and writing, you stepped in to help. Well, that wasn’t the surprising part, a lot of girlfriends did that. The surprising part was the amount of patience you had when it was only the two of you. 

When one method didn’t help, you tried another. Never once did you snap at her or call her a name. Everytime you got frustrated you would stop and look at her, say something along the lines of “If I had as much trouble with this as you do, I wouldn’t want to keep trying. You're doing absolutely amazing! I’ll keep looking for other ideas, but for now, lets take a break and get a treat.” 

Cass wasn’t sure why that always made her feel better, but it did. Every treat you brought was something you made just for the tutoring sessions and it always reminded her of what Alfred had told her once. “Something made with love for you will always taste better.”

And when a method that made it a little easier to learn was found, Cass found herself smiling along with your cheers. Bad days where she couldn’t seem to make any progress were always met with the same excitement, cheers, patience, and treats that all the others were. 

Cass still wasn’t sure of what to think of you exactly, but she knew she liked you and that you cared about her.

So when Tim saw the new rise in hate, a sibling meeting was called. They all went through each site, blood boiling as they saw what people were saying about their new parent. Plans were made, declarations of war were ready, and anger fueled all of them. Bruce could tell something was going on, but he wasn’t sure what it was and as long as it didn’t get out of had, he wasn’t sure if he had the energy to deal with it. 

War was declared in an interview by Steph. The lady was asking questions when the topic switched to Bruce, then you. The reporter was clearly trying to subtly find some dirt on you and Steph was not going to stand for it.

“Oh yeah! Y/n! She’s the best!” She put on her best press face. Trying to hide her anger over the hidden intent. She didn’t have to lie or act when talking about you but the change in the lady’s face going to disappointment when she didn’t get anything she wanted was making her look very punchable. 

“She’s always showing up for us and making sure we’re doing ok. If Y/n and Bruce were to break up, I think most of us would go with Y/n.” The way the lady kept trying to get anything really got on her nerves and Steph decided she needed to get out of there before she started using the lady’s face for target practice. You wouldn’t like that.

Cass was the first one to resort to violence. They had asked a thinly veiled question, basically asking if you were a golddigger. So she punched him in the nose and leaned down to flip the camera off. She hated interviews already but that made it so much worse. She hoped you wouldn’t be too upset with her punching the guy though.

Jason, surprisingly enough. Did not get violent… physically. He did however curse one out and threaten him when the reporter implied you were forcing them to say nice things. When the reporter kept pressing Jason broke his mic and told him if he ever heard him talking bad about you again, a broken mic would be the last of his worries. Jason knew you would be disappointed but he had held back, he didn’t shoot the guy like he wanted.

Tim threw his coffee at one reporter because he heard them say you were nothing but a regular person who didn’t deserve any attention. He then took over her segment, threatening the company to air it or he would make sure they went bankrupt. Once he finished his threats, anything he said was praising you name. Telling everyone how amazing you were and how much they all loved you.

Barbara made it a point to bring up everything you did for the community when they tried to throw some shade at you in an interview. She had documents to prove it and hacked their systems to add them into the interview so they couldn’t claim it was fake. She also made sure to run over his foot when she left. 

Dick punched a reporter when they tried to ask him what you were really like behind closed doors. He told them the truth, that you were just as good, kind, patient, and loving behind closed doors as you were out in public. He didn’t throw a punch until the reporter disregarded that as asked again because she couldn’t be that good. Dick knew a lecture would be coming once you saw, but he would rather sit through a lecture then let anyone tarnish your name.

Damian spent 10 minutes cursing and threatening a reporter in Arabic when they asked him if you had ever hurt him. When he was done, he told them in english, that if he ever got asked that question again, he would impale them. He knew you were going to make him sit down and translate everything and the general response you would give but he didn’t care, no one speaks bad about either of his mothers.

Bruce figured out what was going on after Steph’s interview. He saw the ones where they assaulted or threatened the reporters and made sure his lawyers were on standby to keep the kids out of trouble. After all, he had seen more than they had. 

He had watched as you tried to connect with Dick early on, how you worked hard to try and get somewhere. He had woken up before you when Dick had come in that night and heard how you handled it. He had woken up the next morning to find you holding Dick close, like you were trying to protect him from the nightmares. He had seen how you never turned Dick down when he wanted comfort, no matter how serious or silly the matter, and he had heard your excitement when you told him Dick liked you.

Bruce had seen the way you never missed a visit to Jason’s grave, on a visit of his own, he saw how much care you showed the stone marking it as his lost son. While he hadn’t been sure why it was alway the same time on Tuesday, he didn;t mention it. He felt the way you would sob in his arms after each visit, a year after the tradition started, you always said you had promised not to tell and he watched as you kept that promise even if it tore you to pieces. Once the shock and tears wore off for a little bit, he could see the trust that Jason had in you.

He heard the way you questioned if you should have a key to the manor, you didn’t want to make Tim uncomfortable in his own home, or how you questioned if you should visit while he was gone. Not wanting to stress Tim out when there was no reason too. He saw the way you and Tim grinned at each other when you brought snacks down for all the kids he was currently lecturing. He head the excitement in your voice as you told him about the tour Tim had given you of the Batcave and the shared laughter as you and Tim worked together to win the nerf war.

Bruce saw how you worked to give Damian the affection he didn’t think he needed. He felt you crying in his arms upset over the fact Damian thought you would be angry because he made a mistake or struggled in a class. He heard you practicing your Arabic as you got ready for bed and he watched as you stress paced over whether or not you said the right thing to him about his mother. 

He saw how angry you had been when you came back from your day out with Barbara. He had heard your call with your lawyer as you tried to figure out what to do. He saw you going through the laws and making a list to make sure your lawyer didn’t miss any. He heard about the movie you didn’t particularly care about and the lore you remembered in case of another because you wanted Barbara to have someone she could tell all of her favorite things too. 

Bruce saw the pictures you had taken from the school night. He heard all the details from you as you praised Steph’s work. He saw the way Steph stopped acting around you and the silly arguments the two of you would get into for fun. He heard the way you would listen to her as she verbally worked out her problems. He saw the way Steph looked for you in a crowd, the way she knew you were there but not where you stood exactly, the thought of you not being there never crossed her. 

He saw the way you stayed up late, researching different ways to teach reading and writing. He heard the patience and kindness and you worked with Cass. He saw the way you always made a treat just for Cass to have after each lesson because you wanted to reward her hard work. He heard the way you cried for Cass when she had a bad day and got frustrated with herself because you knew she was smart and you wanted her to see it too. He heard your celebrations when Cass made any progress, no matter the size. 

Bruce heard, saw, and felt the way you worked hard to have a relationship with his kids. How you had mourned for their losses, celebrated their wins, and felt their pain. He saw the way his kids blossomed under your care, growing to be better and more confident in themselves. The way you cared for them as if they were your own flesh and blood. So when he was asked about his kids behavior, he said as much. 

“Y/n has worked hard to be accepted by them. She’s given so much of her time, effort, patience, and love and never wanted anything in return. She always shows up for them, no matter what the occasion is, big or small, it doesn’t matter. If they want her there, she’ll be there. Everytime they need or want her, she’s there. She never judges them and treats them as if they were her own blood. Of course their upset and lashing out, people are insulting the woman who has cared for them more then most of their biological mothers.”

Later, a clip of you scolding Bruce and all the kids went viral. While you were scolding them over their behavior and making the kids who had reacted with violence or threats write apology letters because asking mean questions does not make it right to respond badly especially when its someone just trying to start drama. Everyone one noticed that there was no actual bite to your tone and no anger when they all refused to stop acting like that. In fact, there was a small soft smile on your face as you shook your head at your family.

[urdreamydoodles]

For DC, would you mayhaps write about picking them up when they aren't expecting, or just didn't think you could, almighty writer?

DC COMICS CHARACTERS x FEM!READER

You pick them up as if they weighed absolutely nothing

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Kal-El (Clark Kent), Barry Allen, Diana of Themyscira, Arthur Curry, Hal Jordan, Oliver Queen, John Constantine, Roy Harper, Koriand'r (Starfire), Kara Zor-El (Supergirl), Slade Wilson, Kent Nelson (Dr. Fate), Rachel Roth, Zatanna Zatara, Dinah Lance, Wally West, Victor Stone (Cyborg), Garfield Logan (Beast Boy) & Lobo

Reply to anon: If I understood your request correctly (I really hope so), I love you for this request, it was so fun to write this headcanon.

Bruce Wayne (Batman)

- It is a rare thing to catch Bruce Wayne off guard, a feat most would deem impossible. He is a man of precision, calculation, and control, his every move rehearsed in the dark solitude of his mind long before it is executed. And yet, when you lift him into your arms with the ease of a shadow passing over the city, all his legendary foresight shatters in an instant. His breath stutters—just once, imperceptible to anyone but you—and his gloved hands instinctively grasp your shoulders, as if to confirm the absurd reality of what is happening. The weight of Gotham’s protector, cradled so effortlessly against you, is a secret victory that sends a slow smile curling at the edges of your lips.

- "Tch," he exhales, the sound more air than voice, his dark eyes narrowing in something between astonishment and begrudging amusement. "You’ve been holding out on me." His pride does not allow him to admit the full extent of his surprise, but the way his fingers tighten ever so slightly against your arms betrays him. Bruce Wayne is not a man who enjoys being caught unaware, and yet—there is something in the way you handle him, something in the unwavering steadiness of your grip, that quiets the usual tension that knots his body like a bowstring drawn too tight.

- He does not struggle. He does not order you to put him down. No, he merely tilts his head, calculating, the sharp angles of his face betraying the ghost of a smirk. "I assume you have a reason for this," he murmurs, his voice a low rasp against your ear. "Or do you just enjoy surprising me?" It is a challenge, an invitation, and perhaps, in some small way, a confession. For all his formidable strength, for all the ways he has trained himself to never relinquish control—there is a part of him that does not mind being held by you.

- Later, when the moment has passed and Gotham calls him away once more, he does not mention it. But you notice the way his gaze lingers on you, the way his fingers brush against your wrist just a little longer than necessary. And when, the next time, you reach for him with that same effortless power, you swear you see the corner of his lips quirk upward—just for a second—before he allows himself to fall into your embrace.

Kal-El (Clark Kent, Superman)

- The sky belongs to him, the very air bending to his will, the world itself no heavier than a breath upon his palm. And yet, when you lift him into your arms, when you cradle the Man of Steel as if he were something as light and effortless as a whisper, it is his turn to be left breathless. His blue eyes widen—just slightly, just enough for you to catch the flicker of disbelief that dances through them like a shooting star. "Whoa," he exhales, the sheer sincerity in his voice making you laugh. "Did you—did you just—?"

- He does not finish his sentence, because the answer is obvious. He is here, weightless in your grasp, and despite all reason, he cannot quite seem to wrap his mind around it. He has lifted mountains, shifted tectonic plates, carried entire cities upon his back—but this, this is something entirely different. He peers down at you with a mixture of awe and delight, a boyish grin breaking across his features, and suddenly, he is not Superman, not the Last Son of Krypton, but simply Clark—a farm boy who has just been shown a new miracle in a world that he thought he had seen from every angle.

- "Well," he laughs, resting his hands lightly on your shoulders, his touch warm, steady. "I guess turnabout is fair play." He is not used to being the one lifted, the one held, and there is something undeniably endearing about the way he lets himself be carried, as if surrendering to the simple joy of the moment. His grin softens into something fonder, something gentler, and his voice dips to a lower timbre, laced with that impossible tenderness that only he can wield so effortlessly. "You are full of surprises, aren’t you?"

- Later, as you stand together beneath the open sky, he will wrap his arms around you and lift you high into the air, spinning you in a slow, weightless circle, as if to remind you that the universe still bows to his strength. But the truth, the quiet, unspoken truth, is that he will remember this moment—not for the sheer impossibility of it, not for the surprise of being lifted, but for the way you looked at him as you did it. As if he was something precious. As if he was something worth carrying.

Barry Allen (The Flash)

- One second, he is standing before you, mid-sentence, hands moving animatedly as he rambles about some impossible feat of science, some breakthrough that only his mind could possibly keep up with. And the next—he is airborne. Suspended. A blur of red and gold frozen in time as you hoist him effortlessly into your arms, his entire train of thought derailing so spectacularly that for the first time in what is possibly ever, Barry Allen is at a complete and utter loss for words.

- His blue eyes blink, wide with sheer, unfiltered astonishment. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, as if struggling to find a logical explanation for what just happened. "What—how did you—" He pauses, glances down at himself, then back at you. "Okay. Alright. This is fine. This is normal. Totally normal. This is a thing that happens." His words come faster now, a breathless tumble of disbelief and delight, and despite the initial shock, there is no fear—only pure, infectious amusement.

- And then he laughs. Oh, he laughs—bright and bubbling over, like the crackle of lightning against an open sky, his body practically vibrating with sheer giddiness. "I mean, I know I’ve swept you off your feet before, but this—this is a whole new level." His arms loop around your neck, dramatic and theatrical, his head tilting back as he lets himself be cradled as if he were some fairytale damsel. "Be honest, you’ve been planning this for a while, haven’t you?"

- He will tease you about this for weeks, recounting the moment with exaggerated flair to anyone who will listen. But there will also be the quiet moments—when he leans against you just a little more than usual, when his hands linger at your waist as if remembering the steady strength of your arms. And maybe, just maybe, the next time you catch him at full speed, he will let you lift him once more—just to feel, for a fleeting moment, what it’s like to be caught by you.

Diana of Themyscira (Wonder Woman)

- The daughter of gods, sculpted from sacred clay, raised among warriors whose strength is the stuff of legend. To surprise Diana is no easy task, for she has spent centuries honing herself into something divine, something unyielding. And yet—when you lift her into your arms, when you cradle her as if she were no heavier than a whispered prayer, the Goddess of Truth is rendered momentarily speechless.

- Her lips part, her brows lifting ever so slightly, and though she does not gasp, does not falter, there is an undeniable flicker of astonishment in her gaze. "You are stronger than you appear," she muses, her voice warm, touched with something akin to admiration. A warrior recognizes another, and in this moment, she sees you in a new light—not merely as her love, but as something formidable, something unexpected.

- And then, she smiles. Not a small smile, not a coy smirk, but something radiant—something that reaches her eyes, that sets her entire face alight with unmistakable joy. "Impressive," she hums, resting a steady hand against your shoulder. "Though, I must admit, I rather enjoy this perspective." There is a teasing lilt to her voice, a challenge dancing at the edges of her words. It is rare for anyone to hold her in such a way, but she finds, quite unexpectedly, that she does not mind it at all.

- Later, she will return the favor with ease, sweeping you into her arms without effort, carrying you across battlefields, across cities, across oceans. But in that moment, in the quiet space between surprise and laughter, she allows herself to rest in your hold, to relish the warmth of your embrace, to be held—not as a warrior, not as a princess, but simply as a woman who loves, and is loved in return.

Arthur Curry (Aquaman)

- Arthur Curry is not a man accustomed to feeling small. He is a king, a warrior, a force of nature bound in muscle and salt, the weight of oceans resting upon his shoulders. He has wrestled sea monsters the size of mountains, stood unyielding against the fury of the abyss, and emerged from every battle with the untamed, feral grin of a man who belongs to the storm. But when you lift him—when your arms curl around him with a strength that defies reason, hoisting him off solid ground as if he were nothing but driftwood—his entire world tilts. His golden eyes widen, stunned, his calloused hands gripping instinctively at your shoulders as if the sea itself has betrayed him.

- "What the—?" His voice is a startled rumble, a sharp bark of laughter cutting through the shock. His thick brows furrow, then lift, his expression wavering somewhere between indignation and absolute, boyish delight. He has never been handled like this, not even by the tides he calls home, and it is as absurd as it is exhilarating. "Alright, alright, I get it," he grumbles, though his smirk betrays him. "You’ve been hiding those muscles from me, huh?" There is no protest, no attempt to reclaim his dominance—only the rough, teasing warmth of a man who knows when to yield to the unexpected.

- He tests you, just a little, shifting his weight in your arms as if daring you to drop him. But you don’t. Not even close. And something in his grin turns sharper, more wicked, because he loves this—loves being surprised, loves the way you refuse to let him be the only powerful one in the room. "Damn," he chuckles, low and approving, his gaze sweeping over you with something hungry, something possessive. "That’s actually kinda hot."

- When you finally put him down, he doesn’t step back. No, he lingers—crowds close, his massive frame still buzzing with the thrill of it. And then, without warning, his arms are around you, hoisting you off your feet with ease, spinning you in a full, dizzying circle before crushing you against his chest. "Had to return the favor," he murmurs against your ear, voice thick with laughter. "But next time, sweetheart? Give a king some warning before you knock him off his throne."

Hal Jordan (Green Lantern)

- Hal Jordan is weightless before you can even blink. A man accustomed to soaring, to the rush of flight beneath his ribs, he has never once imagined himself being lifted—not without the emerald glow of his will forging the sky beneath his feet. But now, here, in your arms, held effortlessly with no ring, no power beyond the sheer impossible strength of you—Hal is, for the first time in his life, truly speechless.

- "You—hold on, what?" His voice cracks, laughter bubbling out of him in a disbelieving rush. His hands press against your shoulders, his pulse hammering with something electric, something wild. "Oh, no way. No freaking way." His mouth splits into a grin, bright and reckless, his green eyes alight with sheer, giddy amusement. "Are you messing with me? Is this some kind of—?" But no, there’s no trickery, no constructs at play, just you, standing solid beneath him while the world spins wildly out of sync with everything he thought he knew.

- And he loves it. Oh, he loves it. Because Hal Jordan lives for the unexpected, for the thrill of new frontiers, for the rush of facing the impossible head-on. And you—lifting him like he’s nothing, standing there with that knowing smirk—you are a whole new adventure, and he is utterly, shamelessly hooked. "This is amazing," he declares, wrapping his arms around your neck, leaning in close, grinning like a devil who has just been handed the keys to heaven. "You do realize I’m never gonna let you live this down, right?"

- He doesn’t stop talking about it. Ever. The next time the League gathers, he flings an arm around your shoulder and grins at the others. "You guys won’t believe this," he announces, smug and gleeful. "This one? Picked me up like I was a damn sack of potatoes. I mean, look at me! Look at this!" And when the teasing inevitably turns back on him, when Barry is cackling and Diana is arching a knowing brow, Hal just shrugs, utterly unapologetic. "Hey," he says, looping his arms around you once more, flashing you that impossibly charming, infuriatingly smug grin. "What can I say? I’m into it."

Oliver Queen (Green Arrow)

- Oliver Queen has spent his life dancing on the edge of danger, slipping through shadows and fire with the unshakable confidence of a man who always lands on his feet. But this—this was not in his playbook. One moment, he’s standing there, all easy smirks and smooth arrogance, and the next? His feet leave the ground, his entire world tilting as you lift him with effortless strength, cradling him as if he were something delicate. And for the first time in years, Oliver Queen has no immediate comeback.

- "…You’ve got to be kidding me." His voice is flat, stunned, as his hands instinctively grip your shoulders. His green eyes blink once, twice, his mouth parting in absolute disbelief. "Did that just—did you just—?" And then it happens—the breathless chuckle, the slow realization, the sudden shift from shock to pure, unfiltered amusement. A wide, toothy grin breaks across his face, bright as wildfire, and before you know it, he’s laughing, full-bodied and unrestrained. "Oh, I love this," he gasps between chuckles, eyes gleaming. "I love this. Are you seeing this? Someone take a picture—no, wait, don’t, I have a reputation to uphold."

- He throws himself into the bit immediately, draping an arm over his forehead as if he’s some swooning noble. "My hero," he sighs dramatically, peeking at you from beneath his lashes. "How will I ever repay you for saving me from the perils of standing?" His grin is wicked, challenging, but there’s something beneath it—something warm, something fond, something that lingers even as his laughter fades into something quieter, something real.

- Later, when he’s sprawled beside you, still smirking, he nudges your side with his elbow. "You know," he muses, tapping his chin, "I think I might need saving again sometime soon." And then, without warning, he flings himself at you, arms wrapping around your neck with all the grace of a man who knows damn well you’ll catch him. "Quick, sweetheart," he grins, pressing a kiss to your cheek. "Before gravity kicks back in."

John Constantine

- John Constantine has seen many things in his life—things that would shatter the minds of lesser men, things that slither and whisper in the dark, things that crawl beneath the skin of the world and rot it from the inside out. But this? This is something else entirely. One second, he’s standing there, cigarette between his lips, coat draped lazily over his shoulders, and the next? He’s airborne. Lifted. Weightless. And utterly, utterly done with this reality.

- "Bloody hell," he curses, his usual rasp of sarcasm momentarily failing him. His cigarette nearly tumbles from his lips as he grips at your arms, wide-eyed, indignant. "You having a laugh, love?" But you don’t waver, don’t so much as break a sweat, and that realization sends something flickering through his gaze—something wary, something intrigued, something dangerously close to impressed.

- "Well, that’s just embarrassing," he mutters, exhaling smoke through his nose, tilting his head as he eyes you with newfound consideration. "And here I thought I was the one with all the tricks up me sleeve." He shifts in your arms, testing the hold, then smirks, lazy and sharp. "Alright then. Carry on, darling. Just make sure you don’t drop me—I’d hate to spill me pint."

- Later, when he’s sitting with you, fingers tapping against his glass, he glances your way with something softer hidden beneath the bite of his words. "Next time," he murmurs, swirling his drink, "maybe give a bloke a warning before you decide to turn his world upside down, yeah?" But there’s no real protest, no real annoyance. Just the lingering, undeniable truth—he liked it. He liked you. And that, perhaps, is the most dangerous magic of all.

Roy Harper (Arsenal)

- Roy Harper has been thrown, knocked down, and sent flying more times than he can count. But this? This is different. One second, he’s standing there—grinning, cocky, weight shifted lazily onto one hip—and the next, his feet leave the ground. For the first time in a long time, Roy Harper is caught instead of doing the catching. His mouth opens, a sharp inhale of surprise, his arms flailing for balance, but there’s nothing for him to do except accept it. And he absolutely, completely does not know how to handle that.

- "H-hold up—wait—what the hell?" The words tumble from his lips in a startled bark of laughter, his hands instinctively clutching at your shoulders. His blue eyes are wide, scanning your face for some kind of explanation. "You just—how did you—?" His brain stutters over itself, trying to make sense of it. It’s not that he thinks you’re weak—hell no—but he knows how heavy he is, how solidly he’s built, and the fact that you lifted him like he was nothing? That’s something else entirely.

- Then, of course, the reality of it sinks in, and Roy Harper, being Roy Harper, does what he does best—he leans into it. "Damn, babe," he whistles, his signature smirk creeping across his face. "If I’d known you were this strong, I’d have made you carry me around ages ago." He shifts slightly in your arms, testing your grip, then settles in with an exaggerated sigh, draping an arm over his forehead like a damsel in distress. "Guess I don’t need to hit the gym anymore—got myself a personal lifter right here."

- And when you finally put him down? He doesn’t walk away. No, he sticks close, bumping his hip against yours, looking up at you with a mix of mischief and something warmer. "You’re full of surprises," he murmurs, his voice dropping just slightly, almost thoughtful. And then, with a wicked grin, he adds, "So... how do you feel about carrying me to bed, sweetheart?"

Koriand’r (Starfire)

- Koriand’r is no stranger to flight, to weightlessness, to the effortless way she moves through the sky with the sun’s fire at her back. But being lifted by you—by your hands, your strength, your unwavering confidence—is something she has never felt before. And it stuns her. Not out of fear, nor shock, nor disbelief—no, it is something softer, something warmer, something that spreads through her chest like the first rays of dawn.

- "Oh!" The delighted gasp slips from her lips as her arms instinctively wrap around your neck, golden eyes blinking in wide-eyed surprise. For a moment, she simply looks at you, studying your face, as if committing this feeling to memory. And then, as quickly as the surprise came, it melts into sheer, unrestrained joy. "Oh, my love!" she exclaims, her voice a bright melody of laughter, her fingers tangling in your hair as she tilts her head. "This is wonderful!"

- She does not hesitate to make herself comfortable, resting easily in your hold, her warmth seeping into your skin like sunlight. "You are so strong!" she praises, her voice dripping with admiration, her eyes glowing with pure, genuine awe. "Why did you not tell me before? We could have done this so many times!" There is no embarrassment, no hesitation—only the full, boundless embrace of a woman who loves fiercely, who takes nothing for granted, who cherishes this moment for all it is.

- And later, when you place her back down, she does not simply walk away. No, she hovers, her hands still cradling your face, her lips pressing a kiss—soft, lingering, grateful—against your cheek. "I must carry you next," she declares, her voice rich with excitement. "It is only fair!" And then, before you can protest, she sweeps you into her arms, laughing as she soars into the sky, twirling you through the air in a radiant, dizzying dance of love.

Kara Zor-El (Supergirl)

- Kara Zor-El is used to being the strongest person in the room. She has spent her life holding back, careful with every touch, every movement, every breath, always hyper-aware of her own power. But you—lifting her so effortlessly, holding her as if her strength does not matter—it knocks the breath from her lungs in a way no villain, no kryptonite, ever has.

- "Wha—wait, what?" Her voice is higher than usual, startled, her hands gripping your shoulders instinctively as her legs dangle in the air. Her wide, blue eyes blink rapidly, scanning your face for some sort of answer. "You—you picked me up?" She sounds offended for a split second before the reality of it truly hits her, before the corners of her lips twitch and something suspiciously close to a giggle bubbles in her throat. "You picked me up."

- And then she’s laughing—full-bodied, bright, joyful—because it’s so ridiculous, so absurd, and so absolutely wonderful. "Oh my god," she wheezes, her head dropping against your shoulder as she shakes with laughter. "I love this." She leans back, resting easily in your arms, grinning up at you with an expression so full of delight it’s almost blinding. "How are you this strong? Have you been holding out on me? Are you secretly Kryptonian? Oh my god, are we long-lost cousins? Should I call Clark?"

- When you finally put her down, she immediately tests you again—jumping at you with zero warning, wrapping her arms around your neck, trusting you to catch her. And when you do? She beams. "Again," she demands, eyes bright with exhilaration. "Again!" And suddenly, she’s obsessed. She will never let this go. You have doomed yourself to a lifetime of Supergirl dramatically flinging herself into your arms at the most inconvenient moments.

Slade Wilson (Deathstroke)

- Slade Wilson does not like surprises. He is a man who calculates every outcome, who moves with precision, who keeps his world meticulously controlled. He does not get caught off guard. But this—the sudden shift in gravity, the impossible strength behind your touch, the way his feet leave the ground—this is a surprise so profound that, for one fleeting second, the legendary Deathstroke is stunned.

- His single eye narrows sharply, his body tensing instinctively, a thousand battle instincts screaming at him to react. But there is no attack, no enemy—only you, holding him like he is something fragile, something weightless, something you can control without effort. And that—that—is what truly catches him off guard. "Well," he rumbles, his voice dangerously low, "this is new."

- He does not panic. He does not flail or struggle. No, Slade Wilson merely analyzes, his sharp mind whirring as he studies your face, his expression unreadable. And then, slowly—so slowly it’s almost imperceptible—the corners of his lips twitch into something that is almost amusement. "You’ve been keeping secrets," he murmurs, the faintest ghost of a smirk curving his lips. "That’s dangerous."

- When you finally set him down, he does not step away. No, he lingers, his presence a solid, immovable force as he tilts his head, watching you with something unreadable in his gaze. And then, just as you think the moment has passed, he reaches out—gripping your wrist with a strength that rivals your own. "My turn," he states simply, before sweeping you up effortlessly, his smirk widening as he watches your expression shift. "Now, let’s see how you handle surprises."

Kent Nelson (Doctor Fate)

- Kent Nelson is a man who has lived through centuries of battles, his mind tethered to the ancient wisdom of Nabu, weighed down by the knowledge of the cosmos. He is not easily shaken. He has fought demons, walked through dimensions where the laws of gravity bend and break, and seen the rise and fall of civilizations. And yet, for all his experience, for all his wisdom, nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the moment when you pick him up like he is no heavier than a feather caught in the wind.

- His body stills immediately, the flowing gold of his cloak pooling in your arms, his gauntleted hands frozen mid-motion as if his mind is struggling to catch up with his reality. He has faced eldritch horrors that defy comprehension, but this—this is something else entirely. "...Interesting." The word is measured, calm, but you can hear the faint edge of bewilderment in his voice. Beneath the helmet of Fate, his expression remains unreadable, but you can feel the way he is processing. Analyzing. Calculating how this is even possible.

- "There are few beings in existence who could accomplish this," he finally murmurs, and the weight of his words is almost laughable. But there is something else beneath them—something softer. Awe. Intrigue. A deep and abiding reverence for the unknown, for the mysteries of the universe that even he has yet to unravel. And right now? You are one of those mysteries. A puzzle he had not anticipated, but one he finds himself eager to solve. His fingers trail along your shoulder, light as a whisper, as if trying to feel the power beneath your skin.

- And then, in a rare moment of levity, the corners of his lips curve into something that is not quite a smile but something like it. "I wonder," he muses, "if Nabu knew about this." There is an unmistakable note of amusement in his voice, and you can tell—tell—that he is already planning the next time he can test your strength again. Doctor Fate may be bound to destiny, but Kent Nelson? Kent Nelson has just discovered something infinitely more interesting than fate itself: you.

Rachel Roth (Raven)

- Raven is used to control, to restraint. She has spent her life mastering herself, holding back, ensuring that nothing—not a single tremor of emotion—escapes without her permission. But control means nothing when you sweep her off her feet without warning. One moment, she is standing in the comfort of your presence, and the next, the world tilts—her balance stolen, gravity defied—and she finds herself cradled in your arms.

- "What—" The word is cut off, her breath catching in her throat, violet eyes wide and blinking as if she has glitched. It is not fear—Raven does not fear you—but it is shock, raw and unfiltered, slipping past the walls she has so carefully constructed. No one lifts her. No one dares. She is Raven, daughter of Trigon, wielder of darkness, but you—you lift her as though she is made of something far lighter, far softer. "...How?" The question is quiet, but laced with something dangerously close to wonder.

- And then, after a long, weighted pause, her lips part again. "Put me down." The words are flat, carefully neutral, but the telltale blush dusting her pale cheeks betrays her. You hold her a moment longer—just long enough to see the way her fingers twitch as if fighting the urge to grab onto you—and then, finally, you comply. The moment her feet touch the ground, she crosses her arms, tilting her chin slightly as if regaining her composure. But the faintest flicker of amusement sparks in her eyes. "You could have warned me."

- But later—later—when she thinks you aren’t looking, you catch her staring at you. Calculating. Considering. And the next time she finds herself in your arms? There is no sharp inhale, no startled demand to be put down. There is only the way her hands rest lightly on your shoulders, the way she allows herself to lean into your warmth. And if, just once, you hear the quietest whisper of "Again." as she buries her face in your neck, well... you say nothing.

Zatanna Zatara

- Zatanna is a performer. She has dazzled crowds, charmed audiences, and bent the very fabric of reality to her will with a flourish of her hands. She is a woman who makes the impossible look effortless. But what she does not expect—what she cannot predict—is you pulling a trick of your own. One moment, she is speaking, hands gesturing mid-sentence, and the next, she is in the air, her words dissolving into a startled gasp as she finds herself in your arms.

- "Well, hello there!" she exclaims, blinking in surprise before laughter spills from her lips, bright and genuine. "Was that part of the show? Because if so, I think I missed my cue." Her dark lashes flutter as she tilts her head, studying you with a slow, appreciative smirk. "And here I thought I was the one full of surprises." The twinkle in her eyes is unmistakable, a magician recognizing another masterful trick.

- "You have to tell me how you did that," she continues, wrapping her arms around your neck in a movement so seamless, so graceful, that it’s as if she was always meant to be there. "Strength spell? Secret training? Or—" she leans in, voice dropping to a playful whisper, "are you actually just a natural-born showstopper?" There is no flustered stammering, no embarrassment—only delight, only curiosity, only the unmistakable thrill of discovering something new.

- When you finally place her back down, she takes a step back, then claps her hands together. "Again." The demand is immediate, playful. "I need to know if it was a fluke! We must test this thoroughly." And just like that, you have created a monster. Zatanna will not let this go. From this day forward, any time she catches you off guard, she will jump at you just to see if you’ll catch her. And when you inevitably do? She’ll flash you that signature grin and purr, "Abracadabra, darling."

Dinah Lance (Black Canary)

- Dinah is a woman who stands her ground. She is not used to being swept off her feet—not figuratively, and certainly not literally. So when you do it, when you lift her with effortless ease, her first instinct is not to gasp, nor to flail. No, her first instinct is to fight. Her muscles tense instinctively, her fists clenching as if ready to counter, before her brain catches up and realizes—oh. Oh.

- "No way," she breathes, blinking as her lips part in pure, undiluted shock. "No. Freaking. Way." She actually leans back in your hold, looking at you with something between disbelief and sheer respect. "You’re kidding." Her voice wavers with something suspiciously close to laughter. "You did not just pick me up." But you did, and it is glorious.

- And then—because she is Dinah Lance—she grins. "Damn," she exhales, whistling low. "Okay, okay, I see you." And just like that, her shock melts into admiration, her blue eyes practically glowing with mischief. "Guess I better step up my training, huh? Can’t have my own girlfriend outmuscling me." She claps your shoulder when you set her down, shaking her head with a smirk. "That was impressive."

- But from that day forward? Dinah challenges you. Random push-up contests, lifting competitions, anything to test just how strong you really are. And if you ever lift her again? She just throws her head back and laughs, wrapping her arms around your neck and whispering, "Alright, babe—you win this round."

Wally West (The Flash)

- Wally West is used to moving faster than the eye can see, faster than thought, faster than the speed of sound. He is kinetic energy made flesh, a man who cannot be caught, cannot be contained. He is motion incarnate. So when you lift him off his feet—effortlessly—the sheer absurdity of it freezes him in place. His body, which has always been a blur of momentum, stops. And for the first time in his life, Wally West is utterly, completely still.

- "Whoa—whoa, whoa, whoa!" His voice cracks mid-exclamation, his arms flailing comically before his brain catches up. "What just happened? Did I trip? Did I pass out? Did I break the time stream again?" His hands immediately pat down his own chest, as if confirming that he is still in his body, that this is, in fact, reality. But the reality is this: you are holding him, carrying him without effort, and that? That should be impossible.

- His blue eyes widen, blinking rapidly as he stares at you in stunned disbelief. "You picked me up?" The words are barely above a whisper, his voice laced with an almost childlike awe. "You—just—picked me up?" And then, all at once, his expression shifts. His lips curl into a slow, mischievous grin, and a spark of amusement ignites in his gaze. "Oh, I see how it is," he drawls, looping his arms around your neck as if settling in. "You like sweeping me off my feet, huh?"

- From that moment forward, he turns it into a game. He will actively try to surprise you, using his speed to dodge your attempts—only to deliberately slow down at the last second so you can catch him anyway. And when you do? He laughs, bright and carefree, resting his forehead against yours with a smirk. "You got me again," he murmurs, voice warm with adoration. "Guess I’m falling for you all over again."

Victor Stone (Cyborg)

- Victor Stone is not easy to move, let alone lift. He is composed of reinforced titanium alloys, advanced cybernetics, a living fusion of man and machine. He knows exactly how much he weighs. He knows the sheer impossibility of what you are attempting. So when you do—when you lift him without struggle, without hesitation—his internal scanners glitch.

- "No way," he mutters, his voice layered with static interference as if his systems are struggling to process. His red cybernetic eye flickers slightly, running rapid recalibrations, recalculating physics itself. "Hold up—nah, this ain’t right." His brow furrows, fingers flexing as he subtly shifts his weight in your arms, testing your grip. But you do not falter. You hold him—steady, sure, unyielding. And for the first time in years, Victor Stone feels weightless.

- "I don’t know whether to be impressed or offended," he finally says, his tone a perfect balance of deadpan and deep amusement. "Like, damn, babe—this whole time, I thought I was the strong one." But beneath the teasing, there is something softer. Curiosity. Admiration. And something he does not voice, but you know he feels—trust. He has spent years reinforcing himself, ensuring that no one could ever carry him again, that he would never be helpless. And yet, in your arms, he does not feel lesser. He feels safe.

- When you finally set him down, he exhales a low whistle, shaking his head with a grin. "Alright, alright—you got me," he admits, rolling his shoulders. "But next time? You gotta let me return the favor." And sure enough, he does. He waits for the perfect moment—when you least expect it—before scooping you up effortlessly, his deep laughter echoing as he grins down at you. "Yeah, see? Feels kinda nice, don’t it?"

Garfield Logan (Beast Boy)

- The moment you lift Garfield Logan, his brain short-circuits. His limbs flail wildly, his mouth opens in a silent gasp, and his entire body goes stiff as if he has just been yeeted into an alternate dimension. His emerald green eyes go comically wide, and his next breath comes out in a strangled, "WH—?!"

- "Did you just—?" His voice cracks mid-sentence. "Did you just pick me up?!" His hands instinctively grasp at your shoulders, but his fingers don’t clutch—they cling, as if his entire existence depends on holding on for dear life. "Dude. Babe. Love of my life. My entire world. Are you—are you even real? Because this? This should be illegal."

- And then, the realization fully hits him. The shock melts into something else. Something dangerous. His lips twitch, his expression morphing into pure gremlin energy. "Ohhh, this changes everything," he cackles, his voice practically vibrating with mischief. "You know what this means, right?" He leans in, his green skin practically glowing with delight. "You are now legally responsible for carrying me everywhere."

- And true to his word, he commits. The moment you set him down, he refuses to accept it. He will dramatically throw himself into your arms at every opportunity. Walking? Nope. Lifting weights? Absolutely not. Why would he ever do that when he has you? "Babe, please," he whines, arms outstretched, giving you the biggest, saddest puppy eyes imaginable. "I was made for this life. I belong in your arms. Carry me. Carry me like one of your French girls."

Lobo

- Lobo is not used to being moved—by anyone. He is a Czarnian, a being of unmatched strength and durability, a walking tank with enough raw power to go toe-to-toe with Superman. He has never been overpowered, never been handled. So when you do it—when you lift him with ease—his entire soul leaves his body.

- "What the frag?!" The expletive leaves him in a near roar, his crimson eyes blazing with shock. His first instinct is to fight, muscles tensing, but then he realizes—you’re not even struggling. You are holding him like he weighs nothing. The Main Man. The Last Czarnian. In your arms. And it is so baffling, so completely ridiculous, that he just... stares.

- And then—then—he starts laughing. Howling. "Oh, this is priceless," he chokes out between laughs, his voice booming. "You just—pfft—you just picked up Lobo like he’s a damn kitten?!" His laughter is raucous, unrestrained, but there is no resentment. No wounded pride. If anything, he looks at you with a newfound respect. "Alright, babe, I see how it is. You got guts."

- But Lobo is not one to be one-upped. "Next time, though?" He leans in close, his grin sharp and challenging. "I ain’t goin’ down without a fight. You wanna sweep me off my feet? You better earn it." And true to his word, he tests you after that—deliberately throwing his weight at you, seeing if you can keep up. And when you do? When you always catch him, every single time? He lets out a deep, satisfied chuckle, wraps a massive arm around your waist, and murmurs, "Damn. I really hit the jackpot, didn’t I?”

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Is there a better place for a king to make an heir than on the iron throne? Aegon would be so into that 🥵🥵

I haven't posted a Aegon request in a moment! There is not enough of him on here

Warnings: 18+, smut, throne sex, p + v, dirty talk, unprotected sex

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

You were sitting at your desk, responding to a message received by raven from your father when there was a knock on the door. Setting down your quill, you stood and went to the door, finding Criston Cole on the other side. 

‘’Your Grace. The King is requesting your presence in the great hall,’’ Ser Criston informed you, his new Hand of the King pin proudly displayed on the left side of his breastplate.

‘’Thank you, Ser Criston.’’ You gave him a nod of acknowledgment. 

The guards guarding the doors bowed their heads to their Queen and opened the door for you. Inside, the room was lit with a number of torches and seemed larger than usual. Mayhaps the absence of court attendees gave this illusion. Straight ahead of the doors, at the very end of the room, was the ugly heap of swords where sat the man you loved. Although, sitting wouldn’t be the word you would employ to describe the way Aegon was sitting. He was practically sprawled in the throne, his back slouched against one side, with one leg draped lazily over the armrest and the other hanging down. The Conqueror’s crown sat atop his white head, and you were surprised it had not fallen. 

You walked down the length of the hall, your footsteps echoed off the stone walls.

You paused a few steps from the throne. ‘’You’re going to cut yourself sitting like that, my darling,’’ you warned, mindful of the sharp swords used to make this throne. 

It was known to all of Westeros that whoever rested upon it must be careful not to make any sudden motions or else risked injury or even death. That very cut on King Viserys had been the trigger and downfall into his sickness. You didn’t want that to happen to your King husband.

Aegon shrugged, nonchalant as always. ‘’The throne doesn’t fear me.’’ His eyes glinted with a mix of mischief and defiance as you approached. 

‘’Just be careful,’’ you said softly. ‘’The Seven Kingdoms cannot lose their King so soon. I cannot lose you so soon.’’ 

‘’I am not as fragile as my father. I sit very comfortably here.’’ Aegon reached a hand out to you. ‘’Come.’’ 

You climbed the few stairs and he shifted, moving his feet to the ground to sit properly before pulling you down with him and sitting you down on his lap. Aegon’s hands found home on your thighs, covered by your dress, and began to run teasing circles over with his thumb. 

A few days ago, the Great Hall was filled with people as you were crowned King and Queen, but now you were all alone. 

‘’I’ve missed you at the small council meeting,’’ he said, his tone suddenly tender. ‘’Listening to everyone moaning about money, criminality in the city, and alliances for hours makes me want to take myself out. I would rather spend my morning riding Sunfyre or stay in bed with you. Speaking of bed.’’ Aegon brought his lips close to your ear and half whispered. ‘’Do you remember what I said on my coronation day?’’ 

He brushed your hair to one side so that it exposed your neck, and placed a number of kisses there, causing you to smile at his sweet touch. 

You leaned against him, feeling the warmth of his body through his clothes. ‘’That Rhaenyra would get burned to a crisp before sitting on your throne?’’ 

‘’Yes,’’ Aegon agreed with a soft chuckle, pressing a kiss over your shoulder. ‘’But that was not what I was meaning.’’ 

You took a moment to think, trying to remember every conversation you had on the day of his coronation. He had shared his fears as a new King as you were helping him get ready and the pressure his grandsire, Otto Hightower, was putting over him. Removing him as Hand of the King was one of the best decisions Aegon made.  

And then it hit you. A desire he had voiced to you in the secrecy of your bedchamber with nothing but his crown on his head. 

You glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. ‘’Now?’’ 

Aegon grinned, and you felt yourself getting aroused at the thought of having him in the throne room — on the Iron Throne. It was probably blasphemy to the crown, but Aegon was the one wearing the crown. If he wants to have sex on the Iron Throne, he will. 

‘’There is no better place to create an heir than the throne he will one day sit on, is there?’’ he asked, one hand going up your torso to palm your still clothed breasts. ‘’I've been thinking about this since the Conqueror’s crown was put on my head.’’ 

‘’Your wish is my desire, my King,’’ you said, shifting so you were straddling him. Your new position was causing the skirt of your dress to bunch, but you ignored it. It was a matter of seconds before Aegon would push it up and get his hands between your legs. 

His eyes sparkled with lust at your words. This was exactly why Aegon picked you for wife and not the sweet daughter of a Lord his mother wanted him to. You were just as twisted as him in your fantasies. He loved how willing and eager you were to please him, to do crazy things with him, it fueled his desire even more. 

You crashed your soft lips against Aegon’s, his hands on your body tightening as he felt desire spread through his blood. It always surprised you how quickly he could get hard. He plunged his tongue into your mouth and fiddled with the laces of your dress, blindly figuring out how to loosen them and free your breasts. Taking all of your clothes off would be too time consuming, but he couldn’t have sex without having his hands on your breasts. That was simply not a possibility. 

Aegon broke the kiss briefly to speak. ‘’I need to touch you,’’ he groaned, pulling harder at the laces of your dress. 

You reached behind your back to help him out, and pulled the bodice of your dress down your body, revealing your naked breasts to him. Aegon's eyes devoured you, his gaze flickering over every inch of your skin. His thumb brushed over one of your pebbled peaks before pinching it, making you hiss. 

Aegon's eyes flicked up to meet yours as you scolded him, but his smirk only grew wider. He did it again, harder this time, before he wrapped his lips around your nipple, tending to your sensitive bud. A soft moan slipped from your lips as your fingers threaded through Aegon's hair, tugging lightly as he sucked and nibbled on your nipple. Each touch sent jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He growled softly as he felt your body respond to him. His free hand squeezed your other breast, kneading it roughly as his tongue flicked over your hardened peak.

You arched your back, pressing yourself closer to him. ‘’Aegon,’’ you breathed, your voice a mix of need and impatience. 

His hand left your breast, trailing down your body, over the curve of your waist and hip, and finally slipping under the skirt of your dress. His fingers found your wet cunt, and he groaned against your skin. 

‘’Always ready for me,’’ he murmured, his voice thick with desire. His fingers teased your folds, dipping inside just enough to make you gasp, but not enough to satisfy your growing need. ‘’Always so responsive.’’ 

You bucked your hips against his hand, wordlessly begging for more. It’s not been a full day since you last had sex, but your body was craving Aegon. 

Beneath you, you could feel him through his breeches, his cock hard and begging to be let out of its confine. You reached between your bodies, working on undoing the ties of his breeches, the sound of fabric shifting barely heard over the rapid beat of your heart. His cock sprung out, long and thick for you and you wasted no time directing it between your legs, needing him. 

You wrapped your hand around him, guiding his weeping tip towards your entrance. He lifted your skirts and grabbed your hips, lifting you slightly to help position himself. When his cock brushed against your entrance, and you both moaned at the contact. You sank down on him with one smooth motion, his cock stretching you and filling you up completely. The sensation was delightful. 

A sigh of pleasure left your pink lips as you lifted yourself nearly off of his cock before slamming down again. Aegon’s grip on your hips tightened, pressing you flush against his so your soft breasts were squished against his chest. He attached his mouth under your jaw, kissing and nibbling as you bounced on him.

Your movements were fervent, each rise and fall on Aegon's cock sending waves of pleasure through you both. 

‘’You like that, uh? Fucking yourself on your King’s cock,’’ he asked.

You grabbed Aegon’s shoulders for support, going faster. ‘’Yes,’’ you breathed, your breasts bouncing from your movement. 

The room was filled with the sounds of your moans and the slap of skin against skin, and echoing outside the halls. Being quiet was not something you had mastered yet. 

Feeling your legs starting to hurt from the pressing into the steel of the throne, Aegon reached under your dress to grab at your ass, fingers digging into your flesh, guiding you as he pounded into you. He reached deeper than you did by yourself, making you throw your head back with a cry. 

‘’Ah, yes! Oh Gods—’’ Your voice bounced off the walls, causing a flush tint to appear on the faces of the guards standing outside, hearing the echoes of your moans and groans. 

Your cunt tightened around him, Aegon’s name leaving your lips over and over again as his cock slammed into you. Your thighs trembled as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through your body. 

‘’I'm so close,’’ you informed your lover, feeling the coil of pleasure tightening in your core. 

‘’Then come for me.’’ 

His mouth crashed on yours as his fingers found your clit, rubbing it in tight, fast circles, pushing you closer to the edge. You moaned, your walls tightening around his cock, heightening the sensation as he continued to pound into you. The combination of your moans and the feel of your body milking him drove Aegon over the edge. With a deep groan, he released inside you, his warm seed filling you completely as your walls clenched around him, drawing out both of your climaxes.

Aegon’s head dropped on your collarbones as his body stilled, his crown falling from his head and clattering on the floor beside the throne. He laughed against your skin.

‘’You think this was enough to secure an heir, or do we need to schedule another round?’’ you asked, running a hand through his hair.

—

House of the dragon taglist: @khaleesihavilliard @domoron @ididliquorice @lover-of-helios @lover-of-helios @shine101 @tanyaherondale @mikariell95 @serrendiipty @lantsovheiress @gilliananderfuckme @shine101 @tetgod @clayzayden@memeorydotcom @tnu-ree @futuregws @blackravena @winxschester @mysteriouslydelightfulchaos @xxlaynaxx @secretsthathauntus @pilarxxxaguayo @emmavan39 @stargaryenx @erylilly @bbblackmamba @rainedrop97 @dreamer087 @gothicgay14 @ashlatano7567 @superkittywonderland @justaproudslytherpuff @evesolstice @buckysmainhxe @padfootsvixen @scarletmeii @evesolstice @dkathl @kaywsworld @tetgod @padfootsvixen @domoron   @weird-addiction @angeliod @xjennyx2 @adaydreamaway08  @mymultiveres  @secretsthathauntus  @puffycreamcakes @thirsty4nonlivingmen @naty-1001 @katiepie67 @moshpot24x @hc-geralt-23 @lovelynerdytraveler @saturn-sas  @zgzgh @sssjuico10 @tabloidteen @timetoten @deekaag @wondxrgurl @aerangi @strmborns @astridyoo15 @daemonslittlebitch @queenbeestuffs @severewobblerlightdragon @agentstarkid @msliz @vane1999-blog @fairyfolkloresposts @todaywasafairytale07 @otomaniac @zgzgzh @thebeardedmoon @golden-library @kikyrizuki @hnslchw @camy85 @winxschester @armstrongscommentsection @withfireandbl00d @randomstory56 @JudgmentDays-Girl @darylandbethfanforever9 @darylandbethfanforever9 @aegonswife @dakotapaigelove @jays-bullshit

All and more taglist:  @kenqki  @hawkegfs  @gillybear17   @black-rose-29 @fudge13 @cece05 @laylasbunbunny @gemofthenight @beautyb1ade   @mellabella101 @vxnity713  @bisexualgirlsblog @queenofslytherin889 @thatbxtchesblog @softb-tterfly @ethanlandrycanbreakmyheart  @xyzstar  @graceberman3   @mikeyspinkcup @jackierose902109 @daisydark @laurasdrey @mischieftom @fanatic4niall @peterholland04 @idkwhattonamethisblogs  @lexasaurs634  @notasadgirlipromise @zoeynicolas @thejuleshypothesis @multi-fandom-bi-bitch @lexasaurs634  @notasadgirlipromise @thejuleshypothesis  @katherinejess  @rafesgirlstuff   @lafleshlumpeater @iamluminosity  @Anouknani-2305 @books0fever @papichulo120627 @qardasngan @ghostlyvoidydragon @M0rgans1nterlud3 @dahlia-blossom21

[ur-fav-slushy]

more !bfhamzah headcannons

gn reader <3

-first and foremost: hamzah loves eye contact

hamzah is most definitely into looking you deep in your eyes all throughout a conversation together. he just loves to look at his wonderful beautiful significant other and if you happen to get visibly nervous because of how intense hes looking at you well.... whos fault is that?

he has been staring at you the whole time you have been ranting about your hassles at work. from unwavering eye contact to him suddenly moving his focus down to your lips. you stutter. "what happened, baby?" "nothing shut up and look over there-" you push his head away from you. "-oh my god why are you so obsessed with me." you scoff at him while he just nods along smirking, "whatever you say, baby."

-his lap is PRIME real estate

like i had said previously he isn't huge on pda but when yall are left unsupervised he is essentially a moth drawn to his flame(thats you pookie) if you guys are at home, the office, friends place etc. he will start to not-so-subtly pull you closer and closer to him anyway possible just to feel your weight against him. his goal is to get you on his lap but if yall are in a more public setting he settles for holding on to your hand or waist/thighs, mayhaps a gentle calf/ankle caress(please tell me u get the vision like my mouth is watering just thinking about it.)

“do you hate me?” “never.” you respond to his stupid question he already knows the answer to without even looking up from the lengthy tea-filled text you’re trying to send your friend. he huffs and rubs his hands against his thighs while side-eyeing your beautiful face. “martin wont even be back for like 15 more minutes” he says out in the open hoping you catch on. you know he wants you to sit on him in any capacity and you just keep texting away, waiting for him to be a big boy and use his words. “what are you gonna do until then?” you tease and he huffs again. "c'mon just sit with me." you turn and give him a pointed look. "please." he whines while gripping the edge of your top and without missing another beat you are right where you're meant to be on your throne. his lap.

-holding hands is a MUST

holding hands is so instinctual to him like it's second to breathing. anytime yall are in public he will have your hand in his or in his pOCKET(OMG DO U GET THE MF VISION) he is defo the type to not drop your hand but to rest it against something until he can hold your hand again and usually his go to placement is. his. pocket. he'll be paying for the something and before he grabs his wallet he guides your hand to his hoodie pocket and u just hang your pinkie there waiting for him to finish before he picks your hand back up like its nothing(it’s everything like i almost slushed all over my keyboard omg)

it's date night and you're waiting in line together for popcorn before the minecraft movie talking about the significance of chicken jockey when the cashier yells out "next!" hamzah grabs hold of your hand before walking forward to order. while you relay your order to the cashier hamzah gently moves your interlocked hands to his front pants pocket, you hang you fingers there awaiting his hands faithful return while he grabs his wallet from his back pocket and pays when the cashier says the total. he ofc carries everything to your seats while you just follow him along holding on to his pocket. when finally seated whats the first thing he does? grab a handful of his popcorn. then your hand.

ty for reading. i love writing these <3

nsfw headcannons coming soon 🤪

request something <3

xoxo, ur fav slushy 😚

[mechncheese]

hiiii im back with more of the tc model!!! at 3am this is normal

he's technically been done for days ive just been nitpicking away at little things a bit (i may still do so, it never ends)

he's around 22k tris :) i wanted to keep him around 20k mainly because i had this persistent thought during modeling of how epic some kind of tc-centric survival-story game would be. not gonna happen but it's cool to think about

if you perhaps want the .blend file to mess around with posing him yourself i could send it through dms maybe?? only if that would be alright

either way here are some more images of him :)

here he is kneeling down to deliver pets to something out of the frame. look at that joyous expression he deserves some happiness i think

i dont know what possessed me to make this

who's this strange injured fella wandering the wastes of a hostile cybertron with dramatic magenta backlighting...??

OH MY GOD WHAAAT !!! THUNDERCRACKER IS ALIVE !!! HE LIVES !!! THIS IS GENUINELY ONE OF THE MOST COOLEST THINGS EVER AAHH HE'S SO BEAUTIFUL AND PERFECT WHAATTT !!! THE GIF MADE ME LAUGH HARD, SPARKLE ON ! IT'S FRIDAY !

I would love to get my hands on the blender files and play around with him omg ! Feel free to DM me with them ! I would mayhaps like to try my hand at animating him at some point BAHAHA IM NOT OVER HOW AWESOME THIS IS AHA HIS CLOAKED VERSION IM SO OBSESSED WITH HIS EVERYTHING !! THANK YOU SO MUCH THIS IS SO DAMN COOL

[nebulaafterdark]

Sooner Or Late (Part 2)

Summary: Y/N flees to the north before the start of the war. When it is over, Aegon will stop at nothing to get her back.

18+ ONLY targcest, implied dubcon, mental illness & violence

Part 1

Y/N wakes without Aegon’s warmth, something she has grown accustomed to in these past years. She craves his touch, like air to breathe. Pacing through their chambers, until voices can be heard just beyond the door.

“I love her, mother.” Aegon says, in a hushed tone.

“This is perverse, Aegon.” Alicent hisses, “she scarcely recalls her own name. Or what befell her mother, let alone her husband-”

“I am her husband!” Aegon shouts, “I am.”

“Because you slaughtered the first.”

“She needs me,” Aegon whispers.

“That is not her.” Alicent insists. “She wants nothing but what you impose upon her to want.”

“If you speak such slanders again, I will have your tongue removed.”

The cruel nature of his tone sends a chill down Y/N’s spine. Unlocking something within her she’s long since forgotten. The first…her first husband. She collapses to the floor, digging the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. Conjuring the memory of him.

Jonathan.

The man who loved her, truly. The man she now betrays, growing Aegon’s children in her womb. And her mother…her mother hasn’t come to see her because-

The door swings open and Aegon storms in, finding his wife curled around herself on the floor. “Oh, my dearest love.” He coos, sinking down to join her. “Come here, darling.” He pulls her into his lap. “Are you alright?”

“I could not find you.” She tells him, clutching his tunic in her fist. “I was frightened.” Y/N is making a show of it, surely. She does not need Aegon. She can’t.

“There, there, my love.” Aegon tuts, “I am so terribly sorry.”

“I fear something has happened to me.”

“How do you mean?”

“I have been here too long and I’ve changed.”

“That is what you were meant to do.” Aegon assures her. “This is where you’re meant to be, that’s all. Nothing to fear.”

Y/N forces herself to nod. Knowing now more than ever she must leave, before it’s too late.

————————————————————————

Her son, Jon, is the only one made privy to her plans. The younger children she will leave to Aegon. Despite it all, she’s come to care for him but she cannot stay.

“There is a ship leaving port tonight.” Y/N says, holding her son’s hand as she breaks the news. “I should like for us to be on it.”

“And father?” Jonathan asks.

Gods no…they have been here too long. “Just us. This will be our secret.”

He nods, though he doesn’t understand.

“Go now, enjoy your toys. I must ready for the journey.”

————————————————————————

It is nearly time, Y/N makes for her son’s rooms, with nothing more than the clothes on her back. She knows the guard’s schedule well…and Aegon’s. There will be plenty of time to board the ship.”

“And where do you think you’re going?” Aegon.

Her blood runs cold, turning to him with a forced smile, “to find you, my love.”

“Mmm,” he hums closing the distance between them. “Were you now?”

“The babe is restless,” Y/N takes his hand, resting it on her belly.

Aegon smiles, feeling the child stir beneath his palm, “missing their father, I’d wager.”

“Mayhaps.”

He leans in closer, until his lips brush her ear. “Imagine how terribly they’d miss me, had you gotten away with it.”

No, she shrinks away from him.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Aegon drapes both arms around her waist, holding her close, their child pressed between them. “It’s over. These fantasies you have of leaving me.” He spits the penultimate word like venom.

Y/N whimpers.

“It was our boy who warned me of your plotting. I have never been more proud. He will be rewarded handsomely.” Aegon muses, “I hope this helps you to understand, you can never leave.”

“What more do you want of me?” Y/N sobs, shifting between feet, in the small space between them.

“Everything.” Aegon takes her face between his hands.

“You have taken everything!”

“Your life should be miserable. One tragedy after another, until you learn that only my hand can spare you. But I do not wish to torture you to death.” He scoffs. “I want a life with you, why won’t you give me that?”

“You filled my head with lies. You seek to carve out all that I am, to make way for who you want me to be. Docile and subservient. If you truly love me, how could you?”

“That is the only way you’ll stay with me.” Aegon strokes his thumb over her tear stained cheek. “It is such a shame that I’ll have to break you all over again.”

Y/N shoves at him. “To the seven hells with you.”

His mouth traps hers, in a searing kiss. “There she is.” His tongue traces the seam of her lips, only to be met by her teeth. “My fiery girl.” He chuckles, “it is a pleasure to see you again.”

Aegon taglist:

@oh-you-mean-me @niyahnotnia

[sir-tuitsum]

Heir. [Al Haitham X Reader]

Warnings: slavery, pregnancy, birthing is implied, somewhat loss of bodily autonomy?, unedited.

Notes: I'm sorry if I mischaracterized him in anyway. This was also unedited, if it sounds disjointed and sounds like word vomit, I'm also sorry for that.

***************************************

You had been with Alina since birth, the daughter of a slave who had served Alina’s mother. It was simply how things were, how they had always been. You were bound by blood, by law, and by custom to serve Alina as her personal maidservant. The years blurred by, one after the other, until it felt like there was no distinction between them. Alina, bright eyed and full of laughter, and You, quiet and watchful, their lives intertwined in a twisted fashion.

The royal estate was a sprawling grandeur built on generations of unyielding wealth. Alina had been raised here, swaddled in luxury from the moment she took her first breath. It was a life that glittered on the surface, but beneath that gleaming light, there was a steady, unspoken shadow and it was one that kept You in constant service.

And then Alina would reach the marriageable age, your service would not end. Unlike transported goods, noble brides had the chance of choosing certain parts of the dowry, like handmaidens or a few pieces of jewelry from their home to take with them to their new household. Unsurprisingly, your work will be continuing in a foreign land. To serve your mistress until death is an honor anyhow.

The wedding was a spectacle of formality, a show for guests, and Alina stood in the center of it, hands trembling in the silk of her gown, but her gaze always drawn to Haitham. The man she was to marry stood tall, his face unreadable, his eyes were distant. Alina spoke little to him during the ceremony, and Haitham barely seemed to notice her at all. It was clear to her that he was a man bound by duty, just as she was. His gaze flitted between the guests, his attention scattered, until the moment finally arrived for them to retire to their shared chambers.

That night, as both women stood in front of the vanity, the new bride spoke of her newly wed, “He looked not at me but at that book, in the middle of celebrations.” She said in her brittle tone, “he does not want me.”

“Mayhaps, he felt the shy of chastity?” You responded.

“He has claimed he mourns the death of his dear mother, I see this as no proper attitude of the head of a family like this.” Alina sneered, “pushing back proper duties like this for personal feelings is something you do not see in men. Aye, this marriage is already off to a bad start. I should write to my father already that he has married me to a dwindling woman and not a man of status.” She followed up after.

You remained silent, you did not have a right to voice so many opinions in one night.

.

.

.

Unfortunately the mourning period is over, so his next excuse was workload. Sometimes he will say he is tired, other times he must spend half the night inside his study then he will sleep there. The point is, the newlyweds did not speak, face to face.

There are natural acts of communication that have always happened between man and wife, as in the woman asking the husband for his opinion before proceeding or the act of reporting to him her latest household activities. Silly trivialities Alina did not feel like doing, for she would not beg for the words of a man married to ink and paper instead of her own self. It is only sensible she sends a lowly slave to report to him.

The banquet was to be a grand affair, a celebration of her union with Haitham as the wife of the new household head but Alina had sent You with a specific task to make sure the details were in Haitham’s hands, swiftly and precisely. To let him know and have his permission to carry it through, as if she hadn't started planning the event and was almost finished, of course. Haitham sat at a large, polished desk, hunched over a large book, his sharp features concentrated in the glow of a candle. He didn’t look up when you entered. Your eyes flickered over him for just a moment, noting the hard lines of his jaw, as though whatever lay before him had far more weight than anything you might carry.

“Lord Haitham.” You announced quietly, your face slightly lowered in respect.

Haitham’s eyes lifted up from the book, they had the sharpness of that bird, you cannot remember the name of the vulture as of now. It was a look you didn't feel used to, it was hard but it did not remind you to not look into the eyes of what's above you. It seemed to study your worth instead of judging it.

“What is it?” A tone steady with no warmth. It was like a liberating feeling to hear the mouth of a silent man like him. For the first time.

“My lady requests your thoughts on her banquet, my lord.”

His eyes shifted to the scroll in your hands and he studied it too, then looked back at you again, “She wants to create a spectacle I'm guessing?”

“My lady said it is necessary for families to see the strength of the alliance and to introduce herself into this society’s heart.”

“It is a spectacle, then.”

You didn't know what that word meant, to be honest. You only stood there waiting for his next order on the project.

He sighed, leaning back into his chair. He seemed to gather on his own that this meant he might have to grace the banquet with his presence to strengthen her idea, though it worked with his wife on her own. You guessed he did not have cared for it, his reaction gave you the intel of his thoughts on the matter.

“I see,” He began, “leave the scroll there.” He gestured to the open spots on his desk.

You made your way to his desk, stopping in front of it with careful steps taken. You laid the scroll at the front of his table, seeking an object to lay on it so passing winds of the open window would not cause it to blow away from his reach. In your reach for his comfort, you ruined your own. Your hand had managed to knock over his freshly grinded ink, spilling the contents onto the large book of contents you did not even understand. Picking it up in haste would never be enough, after doing this you dropped in front of him with a lowered head and clasped hands.

You remembered now when you dropped a head cloth for Alina in the mud at a younger age and they made sure you bled enough to replicate the mess you made with mud on your mistress’ shirt.

What you looked for did not come.

“I'm going to need you to grind more ink.” His voice sounded uncomfortable, “you cannot grind my ink if you cannot reach the desk.”

You did not get a lash or warning so you looked up at him, slowly at that. Your mistress’ husband’s eyes were narrowed but there was an error in his face, it didn't have the same indifferent studying features you saw when you first entered. It felt a bit odd in a man like himself. It reminded you of Alina when a suitor would approach her but not suit her fancy so she gave them a weird look and it made the situation uncomfortable all the time.

Uncomfortable you were, the silent response wasn't what you were used to so you gazed up at him in silence. His face became more strange, “Were you born slow minded?” He sneered at her, “I need that ink for work, you are delaying me.”

Neither of you spoke as you stood at a side table, for the safety of his other documents, close by his side, grinding the new ink you sought.

.

.

.

You did not mean to linger. In truth, you were meant to return back to your mistress’ quarters and sleep by her bedside now that the work is finished and she had been tucked in for bed by yourself. It is just that, on your way back from going to get snacks for the lady, in the case of her waking up at late hours, you had stopped to admire the clear, crisp air you felt on your face while passing an open door. You assumed a maid must've been finishing up some laundry or some other chore to be out this late. You wouldn't blame them, the calm of this time compared to the hustle of servant work in the daytime must have been something.

You stood on the veranda, your fingers brushing over the smooth, chilled small walls that separates you from the dirt of the other side as you gazed up at the sky. The stars were scattered, faint behind thin clouds, and for a brief moment, you let herself forget where you were, who you were. Your mind seemed to separate itself from your body and you wondered if other people could fall asleep when conscious.

The crisp night air filled your lungs as you stood beneath the sky, lingering in the fleeting moment of peace. It was rare to find time unclaimed by duty, where you could simply exist without the weight of expectation pressing upon you. The stars above, distant and unconcerned, shimmered with an indifference that you envied.

But peace was a fragile thing.

“Lingering outside at such an hour?”

The voice, steady yet sharp, cut through the silence like a blade. You stiffened before turning your head slightly, eyes catching the silhouette of Haitham standing a few paces away. Even in the dim light, his presence was unmistakable, rigid yet unreadable. You lowered your head quickly, fingers curling against the chilled stone of the railing.

“My lord,” you murmured, lowering into a quick bow. “I did not mean to idle. I was merely returning to my lady’s chambers.”

There was a pause, as if he were assessing whether your answer was sufficient. Then, in a tone lacking both warmth and irritation, he said, “By standing out here?”

You swallowed, choosing your words carefully. “It is a quiet night, my lord. The air is clear.”

Another pause. Then, to your quiet surprise, he stepped closer, gaze shifting from you to the sky above. His arms remained folded behind his back, his posture composed but strangely at ease. He stood beside you in silence, and for the first time since your arrival, you were not entirely certain what he was thinking.

“You find comfort in such things?” he asked at last, his tone carrying something lighter, something more contemplative than before.

You hesitated before answering. “It is not my place to seek comfort, my lord.”

“Then, you were seeking it?”

“... the air felt comforting and I forgot my duty.”

His gaze flickered toward you then, though you did not meet it. He did not speak immediately, and you wondered if you had overstepped, if you had spoken too freely. But when he did reply, it was not in reprimand.

“That is a way to look at it.”

You glanced at him now, just briefly. His expression was still unreadable, but something about the way he regarded the stars—as if weighing their worth against his own burdens—made your stomach twist in an unfamiliar way. He was a man whose thoughts you could never presume to know, but in this moment, he seemed less distant, less untouchable.

“You should return,” he said finally, his voice resuming its usual steadiness. “It would not do for Alina to wake and find you absent.”

You bowed again, murmuring an obedient, “Yes, my lord.” But as you stepped away, retreating back into the quiet halls of the estate, you felt his gaze linger on your back.

And for reasons you could not name, that thought unsettled you more than anything else.

.

.

.

You were the vessel of words between Haitham and Alina, and though he never spoke more than necessary, the weight of his scrutiny had lessened. He had grown used to your presence, and you had grown used to his silences. What once felt like an obligation now became routine—expected, unspoken.

The grand banquet hall gleamed under the light of hundreds of flickering candles, their glow reflecting off the polished gold filigree of the vaulted ceiling. Perfume clung to the air, a mix of roses, jasmine, and the faintest trace of incense. Laughter bubbled through the room in elegant waves, conversations flowing like fine wine poured into goblets that never seemed to empty.

Alina sat among the noblewomen, her gown shimmering with intricate embroidery, her fingers elegantly curled around the stem of her cup. She was poised, polite, as she always was, but you could see the slight tension in her brow. Across from her, a group of newly wedded young women spoke animatedly, their hands resting gently upon their stomachs as they shared knowing smiles. Their voices carried just enough to be overheard, but not so much as to be considered impolite.

"Oh, the first months were difficult," one of them, Lady Inesse, sighed with a theatrical tilt of her head. "But we are stronger for it. Lord Adrien has been so attentive. He hardly lets me lift a finger."

"Yes, my husband is the same," another woman chimed in, resting a delicate hand on her belly. "The moment he found out, he insisted I rest more. He says a strong heir must be nurtured from the very beginning."

Alina smiled, lips pressed together in a thin, unreadable line. "How fortunate," she murmured, tilting her goblet slightly so the wine swirled within. "Not all marriages bear fruit so soon."

The women's smiles remained, but there was an unmistakable air of self-satisfaction in the glances they exchanged. "Indeed," one of them said, her voice sweet as honey, "but I suppose when a man is devoted to his wife, things progress naturally."

Alina did not respond, merely taking a slow sip of her wine. You knew that look, her patience was thinning.

"My lady," you murmured quietly at her side, a message relayed from her husband, who sat further down the hall amongst the other noblemen. "Lord Haitham wishes to know if you are comfortable."

Her fingers tapped lightly against the table before she nodded. "Tell him I am enjoying the conversation immensely," she said, her tone smooth, betraying nothing.

You turned, walking the measured steps toward where Haitham sat among his peers. He looked up as you approached, his expression as unreadable as ever, though his gaze flicked briefly over your face, as if measuring the weight of what you carried.

"She says she is enjoying the conversation immensely, my lord."

A muscle in his jaw twitched. "A lie, then," he muttered, before shifting his attention back to his plate. "Tell her to be gracious."

You nodded and made your way back, relaying his words softly into Alina’s ear. She exhaled sharply, the only sign of her annoyance, before plastering on a pleasant smile. "Of course."

As the night stretched on, the subtle exchanges continued. Alina, the picture of noble grace, smiled through the arrogance of the other wives, while Haitham remained at a distance, speaking only through you.

A servant approached you quietly, murmuring Haitham’s request for his wife’s presence. Alina’s lips pursed, but she did not refuse. Instead, she took a deliberate sip of her wine before gesturing for you to handle the matter first, as always. With a nod, you stepped away from the table, making your way toward Haitham’s usual spot at the far end of the hall.

You found him standing slightly apart from the main festivities, engaged in conversation with a few older noblemen. He caught sight of you before you even spoke, dismissing the men with a short nod before turning his attention to you.

“She wishes to remain,” you informed him.

He exhaled slowly, as if he had expected as much. “Of course she does.”

You hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “There are women speaking of their early pregnancies.”

His gaze sharpened slightly at that, though his face betrayed nothing else. “And?”

You chose your words carefully. “They are… boastful.”

A dry smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “I imagine my wife is displeased.”

You nodded once.

He took a sip of his wine, his eyes flicking toward the banquet table where Alina remained. “I see,” he mused, though there was no urgency in his tone. Then, shifting his gaze back to you, he asked, “And you? Are you displeased as your mistress is?”

The question was unexpected. You blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before lowering your gaze once more. “It is not my place to be.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then, with a soft scoff, he shook his head. “Always so careful.”

You said nothing. After all, it was not your place to respond to such things.

He turned away first, moving to return to his wife’s side, and you followed, as you always did.

It was an odd thing, you thought, being caught between them, between a woman scorned by her husband's indifference and a man too removed from the expectations set upon him. And yet, you had grown so accustomed to it that you no longer questioned it.

You were their voice when they had none for each other.

.

And you would be more.

Alina’s marriage, a strategic alliance, had borne no fruit. No physical connection between her and Haitham, nor the child that society expected to see from the union of their houses. In her heart, she knew this was more than a personal desire. A child wasn’t merely a sign of intimacy; it was a symbol of power, security, and legitimacy.

It was not uncommon in the aristocratic circles for heirs to be born outside the confines of their marriage bed. History, as it had always been, had seen many such acts carried out in silence, and in some cases, even with the consent of the husband. The purpose was simple: the creation of a legitimate heir without the social complications of a wife’s infidelity or public scandal. Alina, sharp-minded and always calculating, knew the importance of this. Her father, a man of vast influence, had married her off to Haitham to secure their family’s political future, and there would be no room for failure. A child, especially a male heir, would solidify her place and make her indispensable to her husband’s claim.

But where Haitham was distant and emotionally detached, Alina found an inconvenient truth: he had yet to sleep with her, and thus, no child had come of it. The initial excuses; mourning, workload, personal affairs, had grown thinner with each passing week, yet his indifference remained. If she were to have an heir, it seemed clear that she would not be the one to provide him with it.

Alina’s solution was neither swift nor easy, but it was the only option left that she could control. She had, after all, a willing participant in her service: you. Her maidservant, loyal and quiet, had always been there, a constant presence in the background of her life. Alina knew you were devoted to her, perhaps even more than your duty required, and in a strange way, she had come to trust you in the most unusual ways.

One evening, when the estate was quiet, and the scent of incense drifted lazily through the air, Alina summoned you to her chambers. Her voice was soft but firm, and she dismissed the others with a swift motion of her hand before pulling you aside. She regarded you with a calculated look that betrayed little of the storm within her.

“You understand, don’t you?” she asked, her eyes hard and unwavering. “The importance of an heir. Of securing our place, our future. It is what we need to maintain our power and solidify this alliance. The alliance is everything, and the heir must come. Without it, we are nothing.”

You lowered your gaze, unsure of what she meant but not daring to ask. Alina continued, her words sharp, like a blade, but her tone controlled.

“I have made many considerations, and the most sensible, the most logical path forward is for you to carry Haitham’s child.”

Her words hung in the air, and for a long moment, silence followed. You had been trained to remain calm, to serve without question, but this request was one that felt different. Your breath caught in your throat, though you said nothing. This was a decision of magnitude, one that carried the weight of not only your life but the future of the entire household.

“You are… willing to bear his child, to ensure the survival of this house, to make certain we are not forgotten? I trust you, more than any other.”

Alina’s voice softened, but there was an undercurrent of command in her tone. This was not a mere request; it was a calculated demand, and in some twisted way, it was the only way forward if she was to have the power she desired.

The weight of her words settled upon you, and for the first time, you found yourself at a loss for how to respond. To carry a child that would never be yours, to act as a vessel for the ambitions of a woman who had shown little kindness to you in recent months, was not a simple task. And yet, you knew the reality of your situation. You were bound by duty, by a system that left you with few options.

You had been taught to serve, and this was a service unlike any other. Alina was offering you a choice, but in truth, there was no choice. You could not refuse without risking everything you had built up to this point.

With a slow breath, you lowered your head, your voice barely a whisper as you responded, “Yes, my lady. I will do what is necessary.”

Was it necessary anyway? You asked this to yourself loudly in your head.

Alina nodded, as if she had expected this answer, though a flicker of something unspoken passed through her eyes. She had known you would comply, as you always did. The plan was set in motion, and despite the unease that curled in your stomach, you understood what must be done.

“You are my personal maidservant. You belong to me. Therefore, your child by my husband is as good as mine.”

And she had planned it all well. The next few days were perfectly arranged. Her tear jogging and the summon of the doctor, at the feet of Haitham’s beloved old grandmother who treated Alina like her own, she whimpered of her body’s inabilities despite efforts of Haitham and herself. The sweet woman could only feel pity for another woman and for her only grandchild, what would be the future of this household, if only.

It did not take a fortune to convince this sweet old lady, not with Alina’s planning and waterworks. Haitham, ever indifferent, supposedly remained unaware of the intricacies unfolding around him.

The night of conception came like a quiet storm. Alina had ensured that Haitham would be present in the chamber, though there was no discussion between them about the task at hand. It was simply a matter of circumstance, a duty that needed to be fulfilled. You would be the one to bear the heir, to ensure the continuity of the house’s bloodline, and Alina’s power.

As if, this was Al Haitham. In some ways, you had gotten to know him over the course of months. A man of his caliber would only come to distrust and distance himself from such a wife, perhaps away from you as well knowing your part in it if he were to ever find out they had planned for you to do this with him without his knowledge.

The room felt unnaturally still, as though the air itself had frozen in time. The soft flicker of candlelight cast shadows that danced across the walls, shifting with every slight movement. The faint scent of incense filled the room, mingling with the heaviness of the moment. Your heart raced in your chest, the rhythmic thudding a sharp contrast to the oppressive silence that hung between you both.

You had expected this to be different. Perhaps not in the way you had imagined– no, that would have been far too simple. But the tension, the weight of what was happening now, felt too real, too immediate. There was a strange pulse to the air, a magnetic tension that made your skin crawl with a mix of fear, something else. Something you couldn’t name.

Your eyes were on him, Haitham, who lay there, a stark contrast to his usual reserved, controlled demeanor. This wasn’t the same man you had observed from the corners of the room, the distant ruler whose every move was calculated, every glance deliberate. No, this man was almost too present. His actions were methodical, but there was no hesitation in them. He was going through the motions, but his eyes held a depth that left you uneasy, as if he could see you for who you truly were in this vulnerable moment.

You had always known your place, always understood the dynamics of your position. You were a servant, an unseen presence, a quiet fixture in the grand scheme of things. But now, here, in this moment, with him on top of you, there was no illusion of distance. The line between mistress and servant, between ruler and subject, blurred in a way you had never anticipated.

The room was silent, save for the faint sounds of your breath, as the plan played out as it had been orchestrated.

The sensation of his body against yours was jarring, foreign. The coldness in his touch unsettled you, but there was something more, a sense of inevitability. You had been chosen for this. But why? The confusion gnawed at you. You had never been part of any plan like this before, not one so personal, so… intimate. Why had he agreed to this? Why had he, of all people, allowed himself to fall into the role you had orchestrated? It was out of character. Here he was, doing exactly what was needed, exactly what Alina wanted, without question or protest.

If you listened to your foolish thoughts anymore, it would tell you his movements felt almost passionate. It was too out of character so you blamed the wine for ruining your common sense.

.

.

The moment the physicians confirmed it, you could feel the weight of the change settling in your chest, the flutter of the tiny life inside you somehow more real than anything you had ever known.

You walked with your head held high, side by side with your mistress, despite the deep, twisting confusion that churned in your stomach. Why had Haitham agreed? Why had he allowed this to happen? The question still echoed in your mind, unanswered and impossible to forget. Yet, as the days stretched into weeks, your questions became more focused on the now: the child growing inside you.

The weight of your pregnancy seemed to follow and burden you everywhere. When you were in the gardens, the sunlight no longer seemed as warm. The birds no longer sang as sweetly. The air itself felt like it was watching you, waiting for something. You could no longer escape the fact that this child, the product of a choice made for your mistress’ own interests, was the key to your future, your place within the palace, and possibly even your survival.

It was impossible to ignore now. The signs were clear, undeniable. Your abdomen had begun to round ever so slightly, a gentle curve that only seemed to grow with time. The subtle shifts in your body, a slight swell here, the soft tenderness of your skin were constant reminders of the child you carried, the child that had begun this entire chain of events.

The pregnancy, the child, had become a symbol, a weapon, and a future all in one. And for all that it was supposed to bring, it had already begun to take so much from you. It was not just your body that had changed, but your entire existence.

You were no longer just a maid. You were the vessel of an heir. You were a cornerstone of a household's future. And as the days passed, the walls of the manor seemed to close in tighter, each step you took echoing with the gravity of the choice you had never made, but had been forced to accept.

That old woman was happy too but you did not care.

Alina was happy too, the sense of completeness you felt when her wants were fulfilled weren't there. You can't describe your feelings right now and you didn't want to.

But Haitham..

The pregnancy, your growing belly, the fact that he had been part of the very act that had led to this point—none of it was discussed. His presence in your life hadn’t changed much on the surface. He still avoided your gaze in private, keeping a calm and collected demeanor, his mask of stoicism firmly in place. But there was something there. Something that lingered in his eyes when they flickered toward your belly, a subtle moment of discomfort, of something unreadable.

At first, Haitham kept his distance. His attention was always elsewhere, his mind consumed with matters of state, but there was an unspoken understanding that now you were irrevocably linked. He had made his choice, whether out of obligation, duty, or some other reasoning you could not grasp, and now you carried the consequence of that choice.

His visits to your chambers were scarce, but when they came, they were filled with a politeness you were not used to. You wouldn't call it cold, though. The tension that hung between you was palpable. He would glance at your growing belly, his face unreadable, and then turn away. You could feel the subtle discomfort in the air whenever he stood near you, as though he too was struggling to comprehend what was unfolding.

You caught it sometimes, fleeting glances when he thought you weren’t paying attention. In the quiet moments when you passed him in the hallways or when you stood in his presence during the day’s events, you could feel him watching, but never looking too long. As if he feared that if he stared for even a moment, the reality of the situation would be too much for him to bear.

It was as though the whole thing was a shadow between you, this pregnancy, this child, looming over every interaction.

The memory lingered in your mind, playing in your thoughts when silence enveloped your chambers. How he had agreed, how he had acted without hesitation, despite everything you had tried to seduce him. You knew he was a man of logic, of control, of reason. Why would he break his own rules for you? He hadn’t even been drunk; he hadn’t been swayed by emotions or intoxication. And somehow, you were now pregnant with his child.

You tried to focus on the child. There was little room in your mind for anything else. The weight of the future now rested on this unborn life. And yet as your pregnancy progressed, you found it harder and harder to look at him without feeling a mix of frustration and confusion. You had thought he would keep his distance, remain cold, as he always did, but there was something different now. He no longer avoided you with the same clear indifference he once did. His gaze lingered for just a moment too long when he saw you. He would pretend to be lost in his thoughts but would always glance back at you, his expression unreadable, as though unsure how to handle you now.

.

.

.

The birth came quickly, much faster than you anticipated. The days leading up to it had been filled with a quiet dread, an anxiety that hung over you like a thick fog. Despite everything that had led to this moment, you could not shake the feeling of unease. The manor had become a blur of whispers and well-meaning visits, but in those final days, all that mattered was the quiet urgency of labor.

Haitham was nowhere to be found during the most excruciating hours. You hadn’t expected his presence; after all, you weren’t sure if he would even acknowledge the child once it was born but his absence felt heavier than it should have. The room was filled with the sounds of your breathing, the anxious murmurs of the attendants, the rustling of linens. The only thing that mattered in that moment was the child, the child you had carried in silence, the child that would change the course of everything.

When the time came, it was not like you had imagined. There were no comforting words, no hand to hold. They assured you had the best midwives, but there was something detached about it all. It was business, almost. Everything felt calculated, as though the child’s arrival was as much a political event as a personal one.

You could feel the child moving, every contraction a reminder that your body was no longer your own. The pain was intense, but you pushed through it, through the moments of sharp discomfort, through the quiet exhaustion that gnawed at you.

And then, finally, there was silence. For a brief moment, all of the noise, the world, the palace, the turmoil, fell away. The child, your child, had arrived. It cried out, its tiny voice piercing the quiet, demanding attention.

The attendants moved quickly, wrapping the child in soft blankets and handing it to you, but you barely noticed. Your eyes were still unfocused, the lingering pain of childbirth pulling you under. You only registered the weight of the child in your arms, the warmth of its small body, and for the first time, you felt a flicker of something other than confusion. Was it a relief? Or just a momentary lapse in the fog that had clouded your mind since the conception?

You looked down at the child, a tiny life so fragile and innocent. Its features were too young to distinguish fully, but you could already feel the pull of something strong inside of you. This child, though born of necessity, now seemed to be more than just a pawn. It was real. It was here.

As the attendants filed out of the room, you were left alone with the child, the soft sound of its breathing filling the space between you and the empty room. A strange emptiness settled over you as you sat there, unsure of what to feel. There was no joy, at least, not the way you imagined it should be. There was no overwhelming love that flooded your chest, no tearful happiness. Instead, you felt… trapped. The responsibility of it all was suddenly clearer than it had ever been.

If Alina was in the manor today, she would've grabbed this bundle and paraded it around as her proud work. For once, you felt yourself wishing she was here to do that. She only knew to take all from you but responsibility.

Then, unexpectedly, the door to your chambers opened.

Haitham stood in the doorway, his figure outlined by the soft glow of candlelight. His gaze landed immediately on the child, his face unreadable. The silence between the two of you stretched for what felt like an eternity. You watched him, unable to look away, waiting for some sort of acknowledgment.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. His eyes flicked to you, then back to the child. Then, almost imperceptibly, he took a step forward, the sound of his boots muted on the stone floor.

He didn’t speak at first, and you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything either. His gaze was fixed on the child, his eyes narrow but not unkind. You could almost see the weight of the moment pressing down on him, the realization of everything that had transpired in this room.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low, almost as if testing the words before he allowed them to escape.

“It’s… done,” he said, the words simple, but heavy.

You nodded slowly, uncertain of how to respond. “Yes.”

Haitham stepped closer, his eyes never leaving the child. He paused for a long moment, and for the first time since the pregnancy began, you wondered if he was truly seeing the reality of it all. Was he finally understanding the gravity of what had been set in motion? Or was this just another task to him—something he had no choice but to accept?

He reached out, just slightly, as though unsure how to touch the fragile, new life. His fingers hovered near the child’s blanket, but he did not touch it.

For a moment, the room seemed impossibly still, the tension thick. And then, without warning, Haitham’s voice broke through the silence again, softer this time, as if speaking to himself.

“It’s… ours,” he murmured, the words barely a whisper, but they landed heavy in the space between you both.

You looked at him, studying his face, trying to make sense of what had just passed between you. He didn’t meet your gaze, his eyes lingering instead on the child, his hand now gently brushing against the soft fabric of the blanket.

There was something deeper in his tone—something more than just himself, something raw and unspoken.

For a moment, you thought you saw something, something fleeting in his eyes. A flicker of doubt? Regret? Was it something else? You weren't used to different emotions from him so it was impossible to tell. But in that brief moment, you wondered if the child, the very thing that had bound you together in a web of politics, might also be the thing that changed everything between you.

But for now, there was only silence. Only the child in your arms, and the strange tension that hung between you and Haitham.

**************************************

Notes: this is a second apology if this sounded like word vomit.

AO3 link

[echantedtoon]

A thought, since in the novels Haganezuka master keeps trying to play matchmaker and hook him up, what if one day, the match set for him is actually a good match? Like a woman who not only respects him but also highly values his skills as a swordsmith? What would he do, mayhaps some headcanons?

Ive been waiting for something like this!!! @iron-embers

-Right off the bat Haganezuka is NOT an easy man to get along with for a lot of reasons. His pride, temper, attitude, tendency for violence, and a few other things. The only ones whom really seem to get along with him or he likes back is Tanjiro, the master whom raised him, and Kanamori. So he HATES it whenever his father figure tries to play matchmaker for him.

-Sometimes he's rude to the woman that's sent to him on purpose because he's just so annoyed with this. Other times they leave on their own because of his attitude or occasionally he'll chase them out if he feels they offend his work. Sometimes he regrets it when in hindsight some might've just not understand him or misunderstood but he feels it's better that they left in the long run. However this ALWAYS peeves off the Master who scolds him every time.

-Believe it or not it's probably Kanamori who saves both their sanities by giving Master some relationship advice being one of the only swordsmiths cannonically married. "Instead of constantly sending ladies to Mr. Haganezuka, why don't you take time out to really think about who'd be a good match for him?" Thank Buddha someone has a good head on his shoulders there.

-Well he does, and around a few months time he showed up again on his doorstep with another young lady. "YOOHOO!! HATORU, CONE HERE!! I HAVE A LADY HERE TO MEET YOU AND SHE'S SO LOVELY MIGHT I ADD!" Cue the loud groan he gives off because master is playing matchmaker again. "NO!! I have no time for useless courting rituals!" "You come out here and see her this instant!!" "NO! My blades need sharpening!!" "Well if you won't come out then I'm sending her in!" Cue another long groan as he just faceplants his workbench. "Not again.."

-He's waiting for another typical reaction. Girl flirts with him irritatingly. Insults him. Etc. But he's surprised when he hears the sounds of..Wind chimes? He's surprised when a very pretty lady shows up master behind her and one of those pretty glass windchimes like the ones he keeps on his hat in her hands. "Look, Hatoru! Isn't she so pretty!?" His master is frantically waving his hands at her. "Ooh! And what's this? She brought you a gift!!"

-He's surprised by the gift as it's something he genuinely likes but he assumes his master gave it to her to give to him. Wouldn't be the first time. He's suspicious as he takes the gift from her. "...Thank you for the gift, but you shouldn't have brought anything. We don't know each other." "I understand, but after I heard you enjoy wind chimes I thought you'd might like one of my family's." "Eh?"

-Turns out she had also come from a family of craftsmen. Jewelers. Tailors. Carpenters. And yes even a few glassblowers whom happened to make some of his favorite wind chimes. A whole bunch of people creating different things. And just so happens his master found out they had a single lady with no suitors. "Now you kids behave.~" he's literally elbowing Hatoru and winking at him from under his mask. "I'll just leave you alone to get to know one another.~"

-He's speechless sitting there with nothing to say, but she breaks the silence first. "That blade you're working on. Is it steel?" "NO! Are you blind?! It's clearly Nichirin!" She lightly frowns. "Now that's no reason to yell at me. I only inquired about it's materials. It looks relatively finished. How long has it taken you to make it?" He's surprised by the brush off but just frowns at her. "Five weeks! Now I'm very busy. Just save us both the trouble and leave!" "You are being very rude to a guest." "My master invited you not myself. My work wouldn't interest you anyways." "I wouldn't say that. Considering you're folding the metal to make it stronger."

-This man is staring as she not only explains his own process back to him, but suggests a few tweaks to make it sharper. Turns out she's related to a few metal workers too. He's surprised by her knowledge, but that opens up the topic of how he makes other blades or his interest in how some of other swordsmen make strange custom swords (such as Mitsuri's ribbon sword or Gyomei's mace/chain/axe combo). Or her family's products he uses such as tools, crafting tables, and of course his beloved wind chimes.

-He doesn't even realize he's actually enjoying the talks they're having until his Master shows up as she mentions it's time for her to go. "Well what do you think?" Haganezuka is just glaring at him after she leaves. "She's stubborn and not my type!" "But she didn't run away or look angry.~ I think this is progress.~" "STOP TRYING TO PLAY MATCHMAKER FOR ME, OLD MAN!!"

-Well he doesn't- "Hatoru, I brought her to see you again!!" Every week at least once his master brings her to visit him and each time he's annoyed but ends up just talking about his swords or other projects. Listener x yapper dynamic with him, he doesn't have a lot of people who he can just talk to about his projects. Unfortunately he doesn't realize he's starting to LIKE-like her at this stage. He's too busy showing her things. It's actually kinda cute.

-"This is the remnants of the sixth sword I made Tanjiro. Im reusing the metals by melting it down and adding more to strengthen it. And here! Im working on a new blade you can fit in your wallet! It's strong enough to still behead a demon!" "Why so small though?" "In case they need to go undercover of course! Look, look, look!! I'll show you how it works!"

-He still acts like her presence annoys him though. Until she starts to show up on her own without the master, he's shocked but assumes he still put her up to it. Never the less he's dragging her to the workshop to show her something new he made. "Hatoru, I didn't know you could make such beautiful combs."(I can't remember where but I read Haganezuka can make other things out of metal but prefers blades) It's a metal hair comb with a metal flower on it. Very realistic looking and beautiful. "If course I can! To know how to truly make a sword one must know how to utilize metal in all it's possibilities." "Well it's so beautiful. Would you like to come see how my family makes glass chimes?" "YES!!"

-He LOVES coming to watch others craft as well, and it's a good way to get him out of the house and around other people. He still hasn't come to terms with his feelings until he's working late one night and it sorta dawned on him in the middle of hitting a red hot sword with an iron hammer. "....Oh..Oh no!"

-He's suddenly VERY self conscious about the idea of courting her. He hadn't considered anything was courting up to now, and he knows he's not the best man. So he goes to the one person who he knows can help him with courting a woman- Kanamori ends up screaming finding Haganezuka climbing in through his back window. "MR. HAGANEZUKA!! WHAT-!?" "I DON'T KNOW HOW TO COURT WOMEN!!" Poor Kanamori nearly had a heart attack from Haganezuka asking for dating advice.

-Next time she comes to visit it's a HUGE spectacle. She arrives to find Hatoru shrieking at the top of his lungs cursing enough to make a sailor blush and chasing a screaming young man with knives in his hands. Right behind him is Kanamori who's trying to grab Haganezuka before he shishkabobs the teenager as the master just sighs.

-"Master, what's going on?" "That stupid child stole the courting gift Hatoru made you, a pretty ruby studded hair pin, and now he's at it again." "Should we stop them?" "He'll either run out of breath or the thief will. We'll step in then."

[starogeorgina]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐢𝐧

Warnings: Incest

Pairing: Cregan Stark × reader, Aemond Targaryen × reader

1.02

Lord Stark’s mouth hangs slightly open; your comment seems to have shaken him. A moment passes, and you hold each other's gaze and only break eye contact when a young man of the night's watch approaches.

“My lord, princess.”

You avert your gaze as the man says something to Lord Stark quietly. In the distance, you hear Vermithor roaring; most would call you crazy, but you felt as if he was trying to tell you something. Licking at your cold, dry lips, you press your gloved hands against your cheeks.

“Yes, my lord.” The man quickly starts towards the lift to take him back down to the ground, “princess.”

You look back over and meet the Lord's eye; the gray in his eyes reminds you of clouds darkening while a storm brews. A drastic change has happened; all the softness in his face has gone and is replaced by a hardened expression.

Many men of the night's watch continue to walk by, yet it felt as if only the two of you stood atop the wall. You swallow thickly. “What is wrong?”

“Prince Jacaerys is on route to Castle Black on Dragonback.”

The sight of Vermax approaching will be what irks your own dragon. “I suppose I should go and allow my nephew the courtesy of speaking with you alone. I fear my presence will only distract him.”

Stepping closer to you, Lord Stark says, “Did it ever occur to you, princess, that when you came in support of the king they call a usurper, I might have you hanged or taken as a prisoner?”

“Did you think I might use my dragon to burn the north when you told me House Stark would remain loyal to Rhaenyra?”

His lips curl into a smile. “Vayon, the man of the watch I just spoke with, I asked him to send word to Winterfell for quarters to be made available to you if you choose to stay.”

“Thank you, my lord; that is very gracious of you. I will stay the night.”

“Mayhaps you can tell me how a princess who’s lived all her life in the south knows about the threats beyond our walls.”

—

You were grateful for the extra layers of clothing provided by one of House Stark’s ladies-in-waiting. You knew the North would be cold, but you hadn’t anticipated the ice… the ice. The strong winds that blew in your face while on dragonback were nothing compared to the feeling of ice touching your bare skin.

The guest house in Winterfell was beautiful; the thick, soft furs that covered the bed and fireplace gave the bedchamber a unique warmth that you’d never felt before. On one side of the guest house was the courtyard, and on the opposite side was the godswood.

Stepping out of the guest house, you face the courtyard and smile, watching children chasing each other. It was nice seeing them so free and happy.

You notice one young boy sitting alone on the wooden steps, resting his chin in his hands. Noticing what he’s staring so intensely at, you go and join him. His eyes widen when you sit next to him, “p-princess.”

You smile at him. “Mind if I join you?”

He shakes his head. There was no doubt he was Lord Stark’s son, Rickon; the resemblance was uncanny. Vermithor, Silverwing, and Vermax were now flying together, but occasionally, when your nephew's dragon would speed by, Vermithor would let out a roar. Jacaerys dragon looks tiny in comparison, yet it shows no signs of fear.

The boy looks back up at the sky and asks, “Is he angry, your dragon?”

The question makes you chuckle. “No, Vermithor is almost a hundred years old and gets irritated easily.”

“Like old people with children?”

“Precisely. In the south, my dragon is known as the bronze fury, but I don’t see him as a fearsome beast.”

“Most people are afraid of my direwolf, Thorn. She’s not bad, just protective.”

“Did you choose the wolf yourself?”

“No, my father found the pup while hunting; she was trying to feed from her dead mother. My father warned me the pup may not survive long, but she did.”

“I’m glad,” you smile. “Why did you name the direwolf thorn?”

You immediately regret asking when Rickon looks saddened by the question. “My mother was from House Norrey, and their words are ‘Sharp as thorns’.”

“I think you chose the perfect name.” His answer causes the already faint pain inside your chest to worsen. Poor boy, he was honoring the mother he never got to know. Feeling your bum becoming numb from the cold, you say, “It was a pleasure meeting you, my lord; if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to the godswood.”

He suddenly perks up and says, “Princess, can I go with you to see the dragons?”

The look on his face reminds you of the one on Maitlands face whenever he gets excited. Your only doubt was if someone misunderstood and thought you were taking the boy over to them as a threat. “If Lord Stark agrees, I see no issue with it.”

—

The sound of snow being crushed under the weight of a footfall was something you’d heard many times in your dreams, but it never occurred to you that it was walking. Staring at the sap that resembles blood seeping from the weirwood tree, you clear your throat and say, “It’s beautiful here, isn’t it, nephew?”

Jacaerys says nothing.

“I can feel your anger from here.”

“I thought you were better than them,” he says. “But you’re not. You’re just as bad as Alicent, Otto, Aegon, and Aemond. Usurpers, all of you.”

“He doesn’t want it,” you turn to face a furious-looking Jacaerys. “Aegon has no taste for ruling or responsibility. He was content spending his days drinking, whoring, and dragon riding.”

“Then why does he call himself king and sit atop my mother's throne?”

The godswoods fall silent, birds can no longer be heard chirping, and all sounds of children laughing have stopped. How could you even begin to explain that Aegon had no choice? None of you did.

“Just because something is, does not mean it is right.”

He storms towards you, anger and grief threatening to spill from his eyes. “You could have refused, gone to Dragonstone, and bent the knee to the rightful heir.”

“And beg for mercy from your mother after my own has betrayed her? Do not take me for a fool, nephew.”

The sound of snow crackling in the distance alerts you to someone else approaching, but you don’t look back to see who it is. But you assume it's Lord Stark, which would explain the caution in his steps. Aegon once told you that a smart man observes dragons from a distance.

“The queen is merciful.”

“And Daemon?” You hold his stare. “Your stepfather has the same thirst for vengeance and blood as Aemond does. The moment your mother sits on the iron throne, all my family heads will be on spikes.”

“You have all committed treason.”

“I have no desire for war or to burn anyone, nor do Aegon, Helaena, or Daeron. Dragons are our house saviors; they should be cherished, not used as weapons.”

“And Aemond?”

You swallow thickly. “Each side has its own threat. There are only two ways this can end: Rhaenyra and Aegon reach an understanding before the first blood is spilled or we all die.”

He looks taken aback by your words.

“Surely, you must know that if our dragons go to war, then our house will tear itself apart.”

“If the hoary old bitch is the main threat—”

“Your dragon's teeth wouldn’t even prick a hole in Vhagar’s scales.”

“Not alone, but with multiple dragons, it would be possible.”

“I ride the second largest dragon in the world and would not dare go up against her or Aemond.” You scoff, “But ignore my words and take your sibling, mother, and stepfather and fly before her. Let your deaths be in vain; what difference will it make to me?”

“Do you expect me to do nothing but wait for one of your brothers to kill mine, or try to take my mother's head?” he snaps.

“The only dragon who could have gone against Vhagar and won was the black dread, and he is dead, as is his last rider.” The second the last word passes your lips, a pit forms in your stomach, and a sob escapes you. In the madness of everything, you hadn’t mourned your father's death. Pitying you, Jacaerys softens slightly and attempts to comfort you, but you back away from him. “I’m being ridiculous. Viserys doesn’t deserve my tears.”

He clears his throat. “What happens now?”

“Lord Stark is waiting on you; you should go.”

“Very well.”

“Jacaerys,” you squeeze your eyes shut, knowing very well what you were about to say would most likely suggest you will be rejected. “I know the word of a usurper means little and less to you, but if you’re willing, I’d like to try and find a way to help end this.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“If you believe anything, I say let it be my only goal to keep my boy safe.”

[hcsiqs]

hey!! i love your fics could you mayhaps a do paige or kate x dancer reader?

| she hold me down like gravity

• pairing: paige bueckers x dancer!reader

• summary: headcanons about paige with a dancer gf

• warnings: none!

kate martin with dancer!reader here!

helps you do your slick backs before basketball games or competitions

You were sat in front of the mirror on a chair that Paige had dragged in there for you to sit on, as she used a boar bristle brush against your hair so it could be in the perfect slick back.

“Can you hand me the hairspray?” she asked. You grabbed the bottle and handed it back to her before feeling the cold mist hit your hair. Paige then let it dry down for a little bit before using the brush to come through it and slick it back.

She then handed the metal can back to you before asking for the tub of gel. You switched the two products with each other, now placing the can back down on the counter as the blonde held the tub of gel in her hands.

Paige then moved so that her body was in front of you instead of behind so that she could gently gel down the front of your hair. She took two fingers into the gel before laying it against your hair. She focused the gel on your hairline to make sure no fly aways would happen. She then went back in with the brush to make sure all your hair was perfect slicked back.

“Thank you,” you smiled looking at her through the mirror.

“Course baby.”

if she knows that you’re gonna be at the studio for a while, paige is 1 million percent joining you

if you have a hiphop routine you just know she is sat and won’t be taking her eyes off you

was so sad when you went to UDA nationals because she couldn’t go with but was so happy that y’all made it

“I just miss you,” her voice rang through your phone as you walked around outside at ESPN sports complex. It was really late at night and you had just finished your hip hop routine.

“I miss you too P,” your red lips curved into a smile, even though she couldn’t see it. “I think we might make it to semis!” you beamed through the phone.

“You did. I know it,” she spoke confidently.

You laughed through the phone, “Mhm, sure you do.”

reposted the photos you took in front of the ESPN world wide of sports globe on her instagram story

travels to all your competitions and is waiting for you as soon as you get off the stage

makes kayla video all of your halftime performances

“You looked fire during halftime,” she commented as she held your small white poms in her hands as the two of walked to her car.

“How did you—did you seriously make Kayla video again?” you asked turning to look at the blonde beside you, her lips in a grin.

forces you do to do tiktok dances with her because “you’re a dancer” so you’ll be good at them

actually wouldn’t stop bothering you when you got cheoro and kept asking for you to send her videos

made you help her with her cartwheel

goes with you to the studio when she doesn’t have practice

going off of that, when she’s watching you practice your solos, she has her phone out like a proud mom and is video you every second

would drop everything to come watch you dance

“Whatcha doin?” she asked through the phone as she was walking to the cafeteria on campus with the team.

“About to go to dance practice in a little bit, how bout you?”

“Well I guess I now gotta go drive this really beautiful girl to dance practice,” she pretended to complain as she said bye to the girls and started walking to your dorm.

gives you flowers after EVERY performance that you had to start telling her to stop because they were taking over your dorm

and as a bonus here’s the wbb team with the uconn dancers (never seen someone so excited to hold poms)

allie’s corner

i hope this is ok! and again not a dancer! i’m a cheerleader so i kinda based it off that with like nattys and everything

[darlingofvalyria]

❝Ask me, my prince. What a storm is to a dragon.❞

[ Aemond can only breathe through your lungs, through your adoration and love. But when betrayal is nigh, what does it truly beget? ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 6,935 ] | Dark!Aemond Targaryen x Baratheon!Reader, minor, sort of (not really) Aemond Targaryen x Alys Rivers.

THIS IS A DARK FIC. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

contains— angsty, smut - DD:DNE: kidnapping, coercion, manipulation, possessive & obsessive behaviour, power imbalance, violence (not to reader) (a little bit to reader... i wrote this too close to book canon!aemond), murder, death, massacre, war - canon typical targcest, canon character deaths, canon divergence - dark!aemy - pregnancy, child, allusions to infidelity, mentions of bastard - i took liberties with canon (as i usually do) - #ripellyn you (sorta) will be missed shshs - the only specific reader descript. i did is the baratheon dark hair ok? ok - nsfw: male masturbation, dubcon/noncon, creampie - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.

a/n— there was this villain playlist on yt that was slowed and sexy, and my brain just. clicked. here it is if you wanna check. the real reason this is long is cos i can't help but add backstory ok? ok. lol. comment, reblog & like at will, mi luvs, mwa!

Storms have always been your favourite view in any window.

It is cliche to say, a proud daughter of the Stormlands, of course she enjoys the dark skies! But you do. There is nothing short of comforting in the rolling, fat clouds darkened in shadows. Occasionally, if the weather moved to your whim, lightning danced between plumes before you hear the boom and crack of it striking.

"It is a privilege to enjoy weathers such as these," your father once said, a hand on your darkened hair, a bluer tint to it, but Baratheon through and through. "It is our might that holds us at paramount, and thus, our privilege beckons warm fires and strong, stone fortresses to watch it all in comfort. To find enjoyment in the dark skies."

"Ours is the Fury," you replied immediately. Your father smiled.

"That, precisely. The paramount of our might and power is one we have taken and given with fury. Never forget."

"Even better than the Targaryens?" Your father's displeasure crumpled his face, and you were at an old enough age to understand his displeasure was not something you enjoy. But you had been learning all day, and the topic that day with your septa had been House Targaryen. You had learned the King's name, that he had a Queen that died, and that his heir is a girl.

His hold on your shoulders was heavy, but you do not flinch. Eyes bore into your own as if he was speaking the words into existence.

"We are the blood of the Kings too, my daughter. The White Hart proves our mark in the world, long before the dragonlords ever whispered in these lands. And what are dragons against the dance of storms?"

You had been little then, no more than six. The smallest of your sisters; Floris, though short in stature, looked elongated. A beauty. A fawn in the making. And your father is not the cleverest of men, but his words shelved itself in the corners of your brain. It eased and assuaged your fears like a quick spell.

Your spine straightens and your chin tilts upward. You are made of fury and storms, the blood of kings of old and solid, impenetrable fortresses.

You fury is your own, and 'neathe your fingers, under your very being, is a storm.

A good reminder, as when you had exchanged childhood for girlhood, a missive had been sent by the Queen Alicent Hightower, requesting for a daughter from Lord Baratheon's Four Storms, as companion for the Princess Helaena.

"Cassandra would do well."

"She hungers, husband. I am afraid of what might happen if we send her to the courts at her age. I do not yearn for a scandal."

"She would not shame her family so, do you reckon?"

"She is the eldest. You know how she is."

A sigh. "If she had a cock, she would be a good heir for my seat."

"Borros!"

"Apologies. Very well, mayhaps a good husband with no grit to him would do her well. She will lead the Stormlands by the hold of his— er, well, yes. Maris? She is clever."

"Far too clever. Even her tongue irks you, no. Definitely not. Her brain works too fast for her mouth. She will say the wrong thing and end us in war."

"You exaggerate, surely."

"I bore them, Borros, but they are your daughters. They live and breathe with your name and your House's banner under their own. What do you think? Bad enough they take so much of your heritage with them, and their looks, but they also plucked and chosen parts of you I'd rather not have for lady daughters."

Your father grumbles incoherently, you laugh under your breath.

"... Floris is too young. So..." The last one. You. You press your ear harder against the wood of your father's study, heart in your throat.

"She will be best," she says softly, insistently. She knows in her heart of hearts that though her husband is a hard, proud man, he has a softened heart for you. "Though she is clever, she minds herself well. Polite. Kind. She will do well with the Princess and her, er, eccentricities."

"Bloody weirdoes, the lot of them." A sigh. Another chastise from your mother, but she too, sounds exhausted. It has almost been a moon since the missive has been sent. Another one is bound to arrive, more order than request. It is all a political game. Princess Rhaenyra had no Baratheon ward under her court when she still resided in Kings Landing, for you and your sisters had been too young and your father had no sister. It is by chance that gives the Green Queen advantage to take a ward under your father's banner now, with a daughter she seeks to be Queen Consort.

"Send her then," your father announces. Though defeat clouds his voice, the Lord in him speaks each vowel clearly. "She will do best to represent the House out of them all. We might have a betrothal in our hands soon enough."

"She is pretty enough for a prince."

An angry snort. "She is more than pretty enough for a prince. Far better than the lot of them."

Softly, "That is because you like her best."

"Why would I not?" your father replies gruffly, making you smile. "A storm grinds and brews inside of her, wife. Even Maestre Loes, the old gnat that he is, sees my bloodline thick in her. Even if the King asks for her hand at this very moment, I would refuse. I would throw him off Storm's End with a smile on my face and a boot on his back."

You fight off a snort as your mother grumbles about treason and Maris.

"She is far better than the best of them." Another sigh. Heavier. "Why are we sending her?"

Your mother sighs. "Because as she is the best of them, she is the best of us. She will survive far better in that cesspit they call a keep than any of our daughters. Her storm can tame dragons."

You would argue that that too is treasonous given the context, but your father merely laughs. His laughter is a crackle and a boom.

"I would upheave our coffers to witness that."

Though you find her odd, you enjoy spending your time with the Princess Helaena. Mostly, she is quiet, in her own little world. Though it took time to get used to her many-legged friends, you soon realised the best times you spend with her are when shipments and gifts of pinned butterflies and books that have reached as far as Yi-Ti, to get to Kings Landing about bugs, and undeniable excitement unfurls in the Princess' face. More like a girl, a sweet one.

It makes her already cherub features appear more child-like, and she grasps your hand voluntarily as she points at each and every critter she recognises. It is so very rare to see true happiness in the princess' visage, and in her enjoyment, you see your sisters.

That is how you meet him, the Prince Aemond.

Princess Helaena had gone for tea with the Queen. It had not been planned. Though she often spent tea with family, either the Queen or the Lord Hand, or either of the Princes. Something had occurred, so now that Princess was having tea with her Queen Mother and her husband. If you had to guess, it was likely that Prince Aegon was being punished in some way.

Though there is no love lost between siblings, it makes you sniff at how blatant the prince's obscene indulgent for vices are. Princess Helaena didn't mind, rather, she didn't care unless they needed to spend time together, a clockwork patch of routine, and that was when you usually came in— you later realised, your primary job — soothing her nerves and distracting her thoughts before she had to enter her marriage chambers.

There is a resigned defeat in her, a woman's duty bearing down, looming like the Mother, and it makes you want to soothe her harder. Make her laugh.

With the change of plans, it was up to you to check for the new shipments of the Princess' things. A dictated note in your hand of the princess' handwriting, you were going through her boxes when a hand, gloved, rests on your shoulder.

"Do not move," a cool voice says behind you. Far too close for propriety.

You freeze. "Pardon?"

"I do not want to scare you, my lady, but there is a critter atop your head." The cool, calm voice waves off a steady rhythm to your heart, calming it further from the earlier panic of someone laying a hand on you (although this, is still not better. You are a lady and unmarried after all). "I will rid of it immedi—"

"No."

"... Pardon?"

"Where is it? Just atop my head?"

"... Yes?"

"It maybe poisonous, pease do not touch it." Before the owner of the hand and the calm voice could react, you pat your head until you touch a hairy, small thing with many legs. Relief spreads. "There you are."

"There you are?" The voice says, almost mocking, incredulously.

You huff, taking the spider in both of your hands, before you tilt your chin behind you, only seeing the gloved hand. "Please take your hand away from me."

The hand retreats. You turn.

Valyrian features are most uncommon than your own, and the jolt of recognising the pale, white hair is a strike to your being, a gasp falling from your lips. It is the one-eyed mask that tells you immediately who it is, but you string everything else you know of the prince.

Prince Aemond had been travelling to Oldtown, a visit requested by the Queen in the guise of seeing family, his brother. But there had been whispers of something more, as the chatter of the maids who cleaned up in the King's quarters talked about how ill he got day by day.

You had seen flashes of him before this, but fate had kept you two apart. You were not there when he visited the princess— on another errand or two, and he starkly ever looked at the ladies surrounding his sister with a vehement light as their voices, high pitched and dreary, tire him so on a good day, increasingly irritating on a bad one, and anyway, the silence that falls in a stone room just from his arrival is enough to irk him.

But here is he now, with one eyebrow rose, a good eye of icy blue iris, and the very visage of a warrior in black leathers, a braided hair pulled to one side, and pursed lips in both amusement and annoyance.

He hums. The sound kicks back your manners, blushing lightly at having gaped at him for far longer than pleasantry dictates, and you pull yourself into a bow.

"My apologies, my prince, I didn't know it was you. I was scared you were going to hurt the Princess' new friend."

"They are bugs," he says steadily. "Not her friends."

"Like so, but just because they have many a legs do not mean we cannot befriend them." A small smile plays on your lips before you place back the spider in the cage he got out of. It is something you had once said to the princess to make her laugh. You feel his stare burn at the side of your face. "Is there a matter, my prince?"

"You are the Lady Baratheon, are you not?"

"I am." A small, ironic smirk tugs at your lips. "Is it the hair?"

He makes a soft sound that exhales like a laugh out of closed lips. He's still quite close, you can feel his warmth and idly wonder if all Targaryens truly do have the blood of the dragons in them for you can feel the contours of him, burning at the edges of his being. Like a comforting little furnace.

"Hm. And the princess has taken quite the liking to you. You are all she talks about during sup."

You can't help it, you're smiling. So many rumours concerning the young prince, not all of them good, but there is a certain novelty in basking under the attention of a prince of the realm. A Valyrian beauty that brought an ethereal glow to him. As so intently stares, catching pieces and niches as if you are the most fascinating creature.

The attention makes you feel like a blushing lady.

"My apologies then, my prince."

He cocks his head, the braid dipping and you catch the movement in your peripheral. "Whatever for my lady?"

You turn to him, unable to curb the cheek to your smile. "For interrupting better conversations with the topic of my name plaguing your sups so."

His mouth twists into a smirk. In Aemond's mind, it is not oft that ladies, especially Helaena's ladies, would care to... flirt with him. Because this is you flirting, is it not? The coy gaze, the curl at the edge of your lips? Aemond has seen these faces in ladies and maids alike, but directed at others. At Aegon.

Directed at Aemond... bereave to keep their conversations to themselves, and though it is not always a fault of theirs for his stoicism is his most valued armour, one would resign oneself of an arranged marriage that will take long moons before his lady wife would see the truest him, that he would not be able to experience such... coy conversations with the opposite sex.

Yet here you are, a light dust of red in your cheeks, a quirk in your mouth, and the playful joust in your eyes, daring him into a swords' dance.

It is thrilling.

"Plaguing is too harsh of a word to say so about a lady of your stature, Lady Baratheon." He steps closer, aware of propriety standards of how close two unwedded people should be, but he feels intoxicated of the whiff of life exhuming from your visage. A light citrus, oranges? Lemons? Tart and sweet, with a powdery finish. It is so very ladylike.

Addicting.

The perfect smell for a lady wife, a musing thought.

"Is that so?"

"Intriguing, I would say, would be the better word."

You laugh, low and sweet. It sends a pleasant warm to his centre. "I'm afraid my memory is failing for I do not remember any wily adventure or conversation the princess and I had for a prince of the realm to say I intrigue him so."

"It is less... about wily adventures or interesting conversations that pique my interest, but the lady herself." His eye, though lone, the other remaining hidden behind an eyepatch with hints of scarred, twisted skin underneath, bore against yours as if he wished to gather all your strings and see what each would give him. What you would show him.

"I'm afraid to disappoint you, my prince, but I still fail to see how I can ever so pique your interest." You meet his gaze, smirking. "I am just me."

Before he can answer, step forward— whatever, he is staring at the curve of your lips so, at the enchanting shimmer of your eyes, and Aemond Targaryen felt breathless — your named is called, and the spell is broken. The prince steps back, taking more space between you that is more appropriate.

His hand flexes.

But that is not the last you see of the prince, nor the last time you are able to hold a conversation with him. It seems that since then, you find yourselves orbiting each other in the fringes before one steps forward and engages. There seems to be a band that tightens either of you so obsessed with seeing the other in the periphery, the topic whatever may came, even as inane as the weather.

It is a dance of swords, kissing blades of sharp quips and interesting parry. You are interesting. Beguiling. Devouring. Aemond searches for you in most places now, unable to stop himself from asking his dearest sister about you— even his mother and grandsire have taken notice, eyebrows rose between shared looks.

"House Baratheon is of a Great House," his mother hesitantly brought up, too focused on her soup for it to just be idle chatter above sup.

"It is." His forced passivity is not as apathetic as he can make it. For any mention of you and your origins thrums his heart in a dance.

"And the Lady Baratheon has many admirers, a kind and dutiful lady, and Helaena likes her so."

He turned to his mother then, humming. At the barest hint of a smile in her son's face, Alicent beamed.

But others from court also soon took notice, and when Aemond realises the wagging tongues had come to note your name— unkind whispers besmirching your person, he disappears from you altogether.

The differences become stark to him; realising what a foolish endeavour it is to want you. Though he is a prince, he is mutilated, a monster that will ruin you. You are too good for him, a warmth he had forgone in the face of misery, apathy, and hatred. The urge to conquer your every thought and sound, from your fingertips to the top of your hair... it is a gasping thought, one he shamefully sins at the blackest hours, tugging at his cock desperately to the thought of what you had looked like that day. The sound of your laughter, the pull of your lips when you smiled, the gasp you let out when you touched water that had been too cold— his mind bends and moves, and images of you, images that he will have to pray for the in morrow but cannot stop—

Moves him to completion, a strangle grunt of your name from his lips.

And yet, every night since, it happens again and again.

The more he pulled away from you, the more he wanted you. It is a debase urge, one more fit for his drunken cur of a brother than he, more creature than man.

But he cannot stop, so the torturous cycle continues.

Until you've had enough.

You know that during hours of inky night, the prince prefers the sanctum of the library. Not always, and lately, not often, but if there are a few things you learned in the hunting trips your father brought you that your mother never approved of, is that lying in wait, patient, deals a hand much better.

And on the fourth day of your waiting, your hair in a braid, a book on your lap, and a small candlelit close by as to not alert any spooked princes— the door opens at the Hour of Eel, the familiar and sorely missed footfalls of a quiet but sure-footed prince enters.

You admire him for a moment, hidden as you are, your stare drinks in the ever smooth of his twilight-spun hair, those pursed lips and straight lines. He's lithe but you know, having been offered his arm on every walk, he is made of hard muscle. Aemond always walks so smoothly, like a panther, or a gazelle, with the barest hint of austre he can never hide.

It's the prince in him, you giggle to yourself.

A sweet pang in your chest is the reminder of how much you missed his presence. And that ends tonight.

With his back turned, perusing a shelf, you shuffle and make yourself known with a soft, almost admonishing voice.

"Good eve, my prince."

He stiffens, hand poised against a spine of a tome. He barely turns, only his head to the floor, in the general direction of you. "My lady. I did not expect you to be here."

Frustrated, you sigh loudly. "Have I offended you so horribly? Dishonoured you in some way?"

"What?"

"Why can't you even look at me, Aemond?"

A sharp intake of breath. When he speaks again,his voice is changed. "You forget yourself, my lady."

There is an ache to your being, pursuing your lips. "You had given me permission with your given name, my prince, or have you forgotten?" Anger overcomes propriety. Fuck propriety. You charge toward him, heavy, angered steps until you're close enough. "Can't you at least look at me, look at me as you push me away as if I amnothing—"

He turns abruptly, one eye flashing as he grasps your elbows in a grip. His eyes zero in on your lips as a gasp falls, eyes widen— if you could see better, you'd notice the darkened gaze drinking you in. Your widened eyes, your open lips— and Sevens, only a robe hides your nightgown, the smooth expanse of your skin is more bare to him than ever before.

His beautiful, beloved stag.

"You have never been nothing to me, nēdenka riña brave girl," he hisses. "Konir sagon se drīve That is the reason."

"Prince A-Aemond?" you say. He is against the shadows of the moonlight, only his hands holding your own is illuminated.

A wrangled exhale falls from his lips. You follow the sound, worried.

"Are you? Injured? Are you okay?"

"I have not been okay for the moment I met you," he rasps, hands bruising in his hold.

"Well. Gods. I'm sorry. If it's such a offense—"

"It is an offence!" he growls, pulling you abruptly that you yelp, bathed in shadows and darkness together, your eyes adjust as you scramble to have thoughts apart from just being this close to him. Hearing a voice you had never heard of him before, untethered from his princely visage, from manners and proper, and it makes you burn.

The thoughts of wanting him close, of taking more of that space until you are chest to chest are blushing thoughts.

But there is honour still, for he holds you at least an arm's away.

"I have wanted you the moment I have laid eyes on you," he whispers, voice rough, exhausted. "And each day I spend with you, each hour— my honour stands in shambles, in ruins at my feet for I want you as a man wants a woman. Honourably and... and carnally."

You swallow, and he follows the movement like a predator tracking his prey. The blush in your cheeks, the way your lips press together as if you are just as starved of him as he to you— oh, you want him too, don't you?

One hand moves from your elbow to slowly reach up. Your arms, your collarbones, your neck. A thumb brushing your cheek and your eyes flutter.

Aemond wants to devour you.

"You plague me so, and I crave you."

"Then have me," you sigh.

His eye closes. "I cannot sully—"

You grasp his neck, bringing your mouth close to his. "You cannot sully what is freely given. If you crave me, I want you."

Honour unbound, a snap is tightened by the hunger that uncoils from a dragon that wants you. Aemond had grabbed the back of your head, tangled his fingers, and made a mess of your mouth.

Gasps and teeth, touching skin from where you can feel it— touching skin from where you unbuckle, tear through hem and push against cloth. When he slams you again the shelf, a moan so lewd falls from your lips that he groans, pulling your nightgown until he feels the heat from your very womanhood, and so, so wet, that when he flicks his thumb, curious and entranced, moving it around experimentally, you are a mess of sound and feeling, gasping his name, A-aemond, oh gods, please, and he is whispering, forgive me, f-forgive me, like love letters, like penitent, like a kiss from a traitor so wrong but so tasteful against your skin as he pulls himself from his confinements, holds you steady, and breaches your tight cunt.

Just before a scream tears through your throat, he devours your sound, holding you steady, until the pain bleeds pleasure and you are holding him like an anchor in dangerous seas. You cannot think or feel anyone else but him; what you are and who you are do not stand a chance as Aemond Targaryen swallows your senses.

It is harsh and fast, it is sweet and devouring, and more, more, more, you don't know what you're begging him, you feel like a devout and he feels like a god, grunting against your skin, biting through anything his teeth grazes. When he shifts you at an angle, finding a spot that feels like a lightning striking through your entire being, you are screaming, twitching, reaching a high so blinding it feels like white death.

"Is that it? That sweet spot?" he purrs, a breathless laugh, shocked and delighted drinking in your trembling and pleasure. "Your cunt is tight against my own, holding me like you never want to let go." You cry out when his cock hits that spot again. Your combined wetness makes an obscene squelch, just as pretty as the sound you utter. He smirks. "Can you hear that? Not even a whore can make a sound so sweet, hm?"

His teeth grazes your lips, sending shivers through your body as he licks the roof your mouth. "I want more of that sound. As your prince, you would grant me this, yes?"

But he isn't waiting for an answer, planting his feet and holding you steady, angling you back to that spot until he is snapping his hips, fucking into you as you can do nothing but beg and cry and tremble in the arms of a dragon taking what is his.

And you are.

You are his.

Maybe you had known it since then.

You definitely do when his seed floods your womb.

You want to say that that night was a fluke, a mistake that must be regretted. But once your gaze meets another, the fire burns, flickering and dancing, and it repeats. In quick fucks in dangerous spots, to slow, sweet love making in his room.

You are his, in mind, body and soul.

"Death is nothing but a friend," he murmurs against your neck, holding you close. Sweat cooling between your naked bodies. "It cannot stop me from finding you."

"I hope you say that to my father well," you tease.

" Marrying you is but the next step, my love. You are already mine as I am yours." He plays with your hair, brushing it past and kissing a bruise he made on your breast. "In face of every god and more, they will understand that we are but one soul."

You can plan the future in rose-coloured gaze for as much as you can, but the truth of marrying into a family with war brewing inside of it, held together by a dying king's hope and corpse fingertips— it is another matter entirely.

It all comes to a sharp clarity when Viserys I dies... and they keep his rotting corpse a secret.

And then they crown a whoremongering drunk.

"Aemond," you break into the silence, your entire being too cold for comfort. You had just come back from a privy council, a Green Council where the Queen had ordered you and your betrothed to reach Storm's End before the night fully breaks.

As if she knew where your loyalties are.

As if there is no question you will support the usurpation.

You turn to Aemond, busy with packing his things for they have bared the maids and people the of Keep. Because they are making Aegon as king and they know a revolt is underneath the floorboards.

"Aemond!"

"What? What has happened?" He looks confused, irritated. "We must make haste, my love, if we are to beat the storms at—"

"Princess Rhaenyra is Queen," you whisper but it could have been a scream. Saying it aloud gives you confidence, strengthening your resolved. You turn to him. "She is the King's heir, no one else. Aemond, this is an usurpation, unlawful in the eyes of—"

It takes little strides for him to reach you, for him to hold your neck in a tightened grip of warning.

"She," he spits, slow and careful as if you are a simpleton in need of teaching, "is a whore who is attempting to place her bastards on the Iron Throne. Rhaenys Targaryen held no chance of it, just as she. My brother is the firstborn son. He is king." His fingers dig into your skin. "You will do well as my wife to not speak of such blasphemy once more, do you understand?"

Your shock and fear melt from your visage, making way for compliance. You nod once. "Yes, my prince."

"Husband," he corrects, holding you much gentler but the weight of his hand is still there on your neck. A reminder. "Have you forgotten? We only come to Storm's End to officiate our union and your House's loyalty to the King. Once done, we will marry, yes?"

You nod, hands fisting. "Yes."

When he kisses you, harsh and needy, imprinting his will unto you— you close your eyes and plan how you make known to your Queen of their plots.

But Storm's End doesn't go as planned, does it?

Lucerys Velaryon, the Queen's son who had come as nothing more but an envoy for the rightful heir, and Aemond—what you thought to be your Aemond but a monstrous man who needed his revenge, who needed to draw blood for a grudge so deep, for an existence he finds so abysmal — had chased after him and came back to you bloodied, tearing up your dress, rutting in you in harsh, rough thrusts, as you listen to the storms from your window and think,

The Queen will never find his body. Her poor, sweet boy. Half in the belly of a beast, the rest spread and sunken into the water.

"I will not allow any marriage until the realm is at peace," your Lord Father rumbled with finality. He is not a smart man, truly, but he is a father. His gaze meets yours, full of meaning, of promises, before looking back at the seething prince. "You will have my bent knee for your king and for your war, but my daughter's hand shall be her own until the realm is at ease."

Your mother steps forward, her courtly smile on her face. "We want for her to have a grand wedding, my prince. She is the first of our charges to wed, and to a prince of the realm no less! By sure, at the time of war, we must err on the side of caution, as our coffers will no doubt focus on our troops. A future princess of the realm must be mindful, of course."

She bows in deference, your sisters following suit. Maris is the first to look up, defiance burning in her eyes.

You remember a conversation with him, feeling like a lifetime ago.

"Ask me, my prince," you teased. "What a storm is to a dragon. A creature is a creature. Even you must acquiesce to the way of nature for she has bowed to no one since her existence."

Aemond may be blood of the dragons, but he is surrounded by storms on all sides. The fiercest.

And your father will never marry you to a Kinslayer.

Yet you stay beside him, your duty now clearer than ever. Every new information you can grasp is sent back to the Queen and her council. In a courtier of the Greens and Traitors, you are the sole Black Stag. You use Aemond's adoration for you, his possessive obsession of what he thinks is love, as a protection and guise.

Any time he beds you, you sneak in moon tea. His bedding of you is just as much his hold on you and his defiance against your father's refusal. Once caught, you remind him he would not enjoy a bastard child. Especially at a time of war. Not after what they had done to his nephews.

"Do you want for me to suffer as your sister does?" The tears in your face then had not been a folly, for your heart broke for sweet Helaena and her sons. For Jaehaera. The world bleeds and bleeds, and all who die that reaches your ears are nothing more but innocents.

Aemond does not bed you after that, but he keeps you in his chambers, pulls you close as if he is trying to mould your skins as one. Times like this, your heart stutters. Your love to him and your morality as a person is at a test of swords.

You are in love with him,

He is a monster,

He has lost his nephews,

He has killed his own.

And it makes you wonder if you are a monster too, lying beside him as his bedmate, caring for him, wanting him still as his heart beats as your own, so connected to the umbilical of fate and chance while war rages, bodies falling all around you both, most from his own hand and word.

The war rages, and Harrenhal comes to view.

With it, a slaughter and a witch.

The worst of the massacre is the steely, lulling silence.

No one tells you that most of what an execution is that silence. That it amplifies each scream, each shout, each thick drop of a head as it falls on cobblestone. The sound is wet and a mouthful. Then it is nothing, consumed by that silence again.

You are locked in a room with a window that doesn't face the horror of what Aemond is doing. As if this is enough to shield you from what he is, what he truly is doing to win this war.

The worst part, committing genocide of an entire house is nothing more but a horrific grudge.

Strong blood spills, enough to make a lake.

By the time that night bleeds and a maid had entered with dinner to light a fire— your body is still so cold. No food has touched your stomach since the day before yet you retch.

Does loving a monster meant that you are just as monstrous?

Mayhaps it is still worth it, you muse in your silent madness, tears tracking your cheeks as the heaviness of your being stays. For who can say a monster can love you so monstrously? Who else can?

When Aemond comes back to you, freshly cleaned and a reminiscent of the prince that you loved, and he is making excuses of wanting you as you are, pawing at your clothes, you let him. You make love in the silence suffering from the massacre he had just finished. You hold him and kiss him in a desperation as you know this will be your ending.

That your Aemond is gone, or worse. He had never truly existed.

When you are both spent, satiated in a sweet glow, your head pleasantly quiet, he speaks about a plan.

A woman, a Strong witch, that promises him an assurance of winning with her sights and blasphemous magic. He had spared her among others, and that itself makes you look at him, truly look at him.

In exchange of what— for such things do not concede so easily as gratitude to mercy of one life, yes? Because desire devours itself. A snake eating itself.

"A child," he whispers against your battered head and bruised heart. "From my blood."

"A bastard," you murmur as he stiffens. "From a bastard Strong. Surely the irony is not lost on you? You have started this war by killing your bastard nephew, and you plan on ending it by fathering—"

"Do not question me," he says softly, grip tightening against your arms. Your eyes close, heavy with the weight of being a spy. Of loving him. "I will fuck a babe in her how many times it takes, and when the war is won, I will kill her and it. For your womb is the only place my lineage will live. I am doing this for the good of the realm. For us."

When he thinks you are asleep and leaves— you take your things and make haste to leave. Not once has your people left you in the arms of the kinslayer. Always one maid, always three guards from your father's army, loyal to only you.

You bundle up quick, and rush for the passage, you are blocked by a woman. Pale skin, dark hair, and eyes greener than wildfire. You know her before she speaks. You hold yourself to fight, and the witch of Harrenhal laughs.

"You have changed the tide of destiny, my lady." Her head tilts as if she can see past you and through you. "Once your choice has affirmed, your thread chosen, I cannot stand in the side of the One-Eyed Kinslayer without the Stranger coming for me. So instead, I will grant you one gift. One that will require no sacrifice."

"I do not want it."

"Ah, but it is a gift." She nods at your torso. "Your belly will soon take size, in it, his heir. You will not escape him as soon as he knows." Her head twists to the window. A raven flies. A storm grumbles. The sound comes first before the lightning strikes. A false storm. "Time is flowing, changing and twisting. He may have betrayed his kin, but he is still a prince. He will know soon."

Her green eyes glint as if she is seeing now and tomorrow. Now and a moon. Moon from a year. "You must run now. Hide and hide well."

You hold your stomach, bile rising in your throat. "Where? Where am I safe?"

A faint smile rises to her lips. "Your heir looks more like him than mine did. You will not escape him. But go north. As far North as you can. The fjords can hide him for a while. He will grow well there."

She moves away, letting you pass.

You never look back.

Dark locks. Baratheon hair.

A tuff of silver lock atop his head.

And the rest... his nose, his eyes. With your fingers, you pull his lids. Bloom in mullish blue with the faintest tint of iridescent violet. You know from your histories, that faint tint will overpower the blue.

Oh, he is utterly beautiful. Utterly yours. And utterly his father's son.

Rough breaths strangle out of your raw-bitten lips, brushing blood away from your babe's face, his head, his wet, silvery hair. Few they maybe, unmistakably Valyrian features they still are.

"Oh, he is beautiful," your mother murmurs, tears stain her cheeks. "Quiet as you were, as a babe. Looks just as much as you."

She is weighing his Valyrian features too. Your blood tried, but it seemed as if Aemond's grudge grasped your womb and affected your shared blood.

"We cannot stay," you say, still staring at him, admiring him. Your heart locking in place, steeling itself as you prepare to do your utmost to protect him. "We will have to travel posthaste."

Your mother swallows her grief. She had almost lost you. She will lose you again, now along with her only grandchild. "Where?"

"North. As far as North as we can."

Your mother nods. Ever a lady. "I will send a missive. The Lord Stark is loyal to the Queen and knows by how much you have sacrificed for this realm. He will protect you on his honour or he is no Stark."

You will need to hide. You will need to hide well.

You pull him close to your chest, hot tears freshly spilling from your eyes.

The witch had not lied, for your boy grew up amongst ice and warmth. He grows up with love from you, from the Lord Stark and his people, and love from his father in the way that he resembles him.

The slope of his nose, the sweet purse of his lips.

When your boy had gotten angry once, nothing but a quick burst, it shocks fear and tears from your eyes for you had seen the prince.Nothing more than a flash.

You pull him close and wound him to your heart as he cried, apologising for scaring you.

The North had granted you reprieve from the war as it came and went. Your betrayal to the Greens had mounted to the Black Queen's win. The betrayal of House Baratheon as House Stark and their bannermen joined the fray had squandered any rebellious thought on which sovereign will preside.

The last you heard of what became the Prince Regent was his surrender at the Battle Above God's Eye.

When you had cried that night, you did not know if it was from relief. Or fear.

But a black stag on white snow is easy to spot.

It takes years, yes, but the Stranger is but an old friend.

For when the day of your wedding to the Lord Stark arrives, a familiar screech of a dragon that your marrow will never forget— tolls the bell of death.

And when you looked up, snow swirling, holding onto your son that looked up in awe at the man who looked so much like him—

Aemond is smiling.

Sweet came the word— dracarys! — as Vhagar split her mouth opened and obeyed her rider.

What have I told you?

You are mine as I am yours.

In face of every god and more, they will understand that you and I are but one soul.

[m4tthewmurd0ck]

i love you, i’m sorry

── hockey player!rafe x fem!singer!reader

ONE | TWO | THREE

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ALSO! did want to clarify there is nothing romantic between reader and jj. i looove a good friendship where it’s purely a platonic love and they just joke around. and we all know jj would totally pretend to be in love just to piss off rafe hahdnxsjdj. AAAAAND if anyone was curious i am thinking of a specific chapter in this song. it’s “missing you” by lauren weintraub, will link it when i’m home)

january 2 ~

liked by rachelzegler and others…

yn.sings surprise! taking some much needed time off but in preparation for some big exciting things happening this year, wanted to give you a song! as promised there will be an album this year, i haven’t forgotten. this is something we couldn’t quite make fit on the album but i still love it dearly and wanted to share. thank you for supporting me 🎶🎤 as always, let me know what you think! “missing you” available anywhere you can listen to or buy music!

user1 uhh who is this about!!!

user2 already calling it, this will be in the top 5 of my spotify wrapped for this year. i’m obsessed

↳ yn.sings thank you so much!! that genuinely makes me so happy to hear

jjmaybank still so fucking proud of you! can’t wait for the world to hear everything else too 🎧

↳ yn.sings ugh my heart 😭♥️ love you so much j, thank you for always supporting me through everything.

↳ jjmaybank of course, love you always ♥️

↳ heywardpope umm the rule 🤨📸

↳ johnb yeah what he said. don’t be gross.

↳ jjmaybank hey losers she’s a rich kook now the rule no longer applies. give me a smooch yn.sings

↳ yn.sings sudndjsndfjnad hahahdhc i hate it here 😭😂

sarah.cam ohmyfuckinggoddddddd it’s so good! brb gotta go memorize all the lyrics hehe

↳ yn.sings stop im actually in love with you.

↳ sarah.cam are we… are we dating?

↳ yn.sings ☺️💍

↳ johnb 😳

user3 just checked reddit, no theories who this is about yet.

↳ user4 well we don’t even know any of her exes so it’s not like there’s a list to go off of

user5 so like… album before this summer?

↳ yn.sings MAYhaps 😁😘😛

↳ user5 oh my fucjsjrhfisenfj

johnb real talk even though you stole my girl, the song is incredible. proud of you and holy shit you’re so fucking talented. everyone needs to be listen right now!!! ♥️

↳ yn.sings thank you, best hype man. ♥️

itsmekelce dude you killed it again! 🎵🎤🎶

↳ yn.sings and to think years ago i was sending you songs on a cd to help me 😭😭

↳ itsmekelce how much do you think those would be worth on ebay now 🤔🤔🤔

↳ yn.sings hate u hahahdhdbd #blockdtttttt

tmz who is this song about?! yn.sings has kept all previous relationships private, but we’re on the case!

yn.sings, johnb, sarah.cam, itsmekelce, heywardpope, jjmaybank, kiecarrera have all blocked user tmz

this photo has 0 likes

notmyspam let’s ignore the song i just put out. it’s national text your ex day, chat should i do it!! 1 like and i will.

notmyspam has liked this photo

notmyspam say lesssss 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

notarealpope no.

lostmykies also no.

johnbisnotme please don’t!!!

idkausername baby nooooo

ynfanclub do it pussy

↳ notmyspam you got it boss 🫡

↳ johnbisnotme wtf

↳ lostmykies why did you ignore all of us except HIM

↳ ynfanclub im ignoring that HIM again.

↳ notmyspam hshehdsjfjxjf suddenly i can only read his comments 🙈

↳ notmyspam bunch of haters though i wasn’t actually gonna do it 😔

notkelce do it, bet you won’t

↳ notmyspam shfhdkdixjsrbf 👀👀👀👀

↳ alwaysontop hey notrafe did you see what day it is?

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@kissylec | @empath-bunny | @pillowprincess4him | @fieryghxul | @ursogorgeous13 | @maybankslover | @imtalkinnonsense | @jamesbeaufortismylife | @lili-swagalicious | @bookworm-ana

if you’d like to be added, just leave a comment :)

[miyaz6ki]

hello reshi good weather today innit

first of all iwant to say that i LOVE YOUR WORKS i gobbled them all up its not funny 😂😂😂😂😂hheneelelpp…… the brainrot is real and its eating AWAY!!!!!!!!!

seconf of all i keep going back to your kinich breeding kink fic. which made me wonder liek what do u think about dad kinich ,??:?\ mmmaybbeee…. mayhaps…

FEEL FREE TO IGNORE THIS no pressure ^_^

also can i be 🦢 anon i think ill probably return

hallo 🦢 nonnie!!!1!1!1 and ty, I'm happy lots of ppl read n enjoy my stuff, feel free to send more ideas >_0

he'd honestly frfr be a super good dad. like as someone who's learned that life is precious, and he's happy to have made some with you.

but if you take it in the single parent kinich aspect instead—he's just such a good dad, and often leaves hi child with mualani IF he still decides on doing saurian hunter stuff. but for sure I feel he'd leave the night warden war stuff behind

he honestly felt...somewhat scared. he fact he might have been about to lose his chance to hold his little girl again :(

oh but real talk he'd let his kid get their own saurian. I feel like he'd get them a saurian that is anything but whatever ajaw is.

he loves to throw them up in the air like genuinely he loves it so much.

same with swinging them, probably makes a playground set for them from scratch because his kid asked

he watches cartoons w your guys' children and acts like it doesn't really hurt him when something crazy happens to the mc

like ex. trolls when poppy lost her color. he was just as heartbroken as your daughter.

lowkey gains a dad bod if you think about it >_0

he always does the "ask your mom/other das" when it comes to serious stuff or things he doesn't wanna answer

example: kid asks about where babies come from..? go ask your mother sweetheart.

he brings the kid on his adventures sometimes—sometimes—only because it's his gift to them. but he knows if it were any other occasion then the kid's birthday you would kill him 💞

whenever you both do corny couple stuff the kid is always gonna go "ewwww!!" and run away while laughing.

"well would you rather me and your daddy fight all the time?" you joke as you finish braiding the little splitting image of you both's hair. "nooo! never! but you guys are cheesy!"

ajaw will be teaching the kid swear words and then blame it on kinich

like randomly while you and kinich are discussing things about I don't know getting a yumkasaurus for your little girl—you hear the same little one shout the word 'fuck.'

"where on earth did you hear that word from young lady!" "from daddy." "KINIIIICH!!"

and ajaw giggles behind the curtain watching everything unfold and he's rubbing his hands together like "muehehhehe... ur done kinich!!!..." even when u meant ur scolding light hearted after finding out about uncle ajaw. and will scold ajaw later.

thanks for coming to my ted talk

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

How about Aegon or Aemond corrupting jace's twin? Maybe Aegon does the corrupting and Aemond is into her?

The list of morally wrong things in this one is astronomical, but it’s House of the Dragon so it’s okay. Also, this is part 1 (let me know what should happen in the next part!). I wanted to wait until it was fully finished to post, but this is 6k already so I'm splitting it

Warnings: 18+, smut, uncle/niece incest, corruption, fingering, oral (m receiving), non-consensual touch (not by Aegon or Aemond), protective!Aegon,

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

It all began when a letter from your grandsire arrived at Dragonstone, inviting you to spend summer in King’s Landing. You hadn't seen your grandsire since his fiftieth namedays, which was about two years ago, so you were more than pleased to accept his invitation. The gardens were beautiful in the summer…and you hadn’t seen Haelena in a while. 

It was absolutely not in the hopes to see your uncles again.

‘’Are you out of your mind? You’re going straight to the dragons’ den! Have you forgotten how they treated us all these tears we lived there?’’ Jacaerys said, walking into your bedchamber like it was his own.

The news of your summer plans must have reached his ears after his lesson with the Maester. 

‘’They’re not horrible people, you just never got along with them,’’ you fired back at your twin brother as you continued packing your bags for tomorrow.  

Growing up, your brothers had a few differences with Aegon and Aemond — many stupid fights and a lot of bullying on both ends —, but you never had the same treatment. Mayhaps it was because you were spending more time with Haelena than the boys. Or mayhaps they just took their teasing too seriously. 

Jacaerys was not letting it go. ‘’They called you a bastard in your back, like they did Luke and I.’’ 

The first time you heard the word from Aegon’s mouth, it hurt you. Being a bastard was badly seen. Especially for the children of the heir of the Iron throne. His slur branded your mother as a whore. 

Having heard, Jacaerys had come forward, the two pushing and shoving until Ser Criston and Ser Harwin separated them. When informed that a fight had occured in the courtyard between Aegon and Jace, your mother was mad at Jacaerys but also flattered that he had defended her honor. 

‘’We both know the truth about our father, Jace,’’ you reminded him, refusing to be blind. 

Although you and your brothers were conceived from an infidelity, you didn’t feel shame in being your father’s child. You remembered Ser Harwin being around in King’s Landing and making your mother happy. He was a kind and honorable man. Leanor was rarely ever present. 

‘’If the court finds out about our father, I won’t be recognized as heir. They’ll never allow a bastard to sit on the Iron Throne.’’

‘’We’re Targaryens, and that’s all that matters, all you need to sit on the throne,’’ you insisted. ‘’Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish packing.’’

⁂

At your return from King’s Landing, you’ll be meeting suitors — which you dreaded. That meant that this summer was going to be the last summer before becoming a wife. The thought of getting married made your stomach churn. Marriage was not something that interested you — at all. Like your mother, you would much rather ride your dragon and travel than live in a Lord’s castle and start a family.

Your arrival was announced to the King, who summoned you in the throne room. 

He stood from the throne as you approached, a smile spreading across his face. ‘’Ah, there you are,’’ Viserys said warmly, stepping down to meet you. ‘’It's good to see you back in King's Landing.’’

You returned the smile. ‘’Thank you for the invitation, Your Grace,’’ you replied respectfully.  

‘’You’ve grown,’’ Viserys remarked, his gaze appraising you. ‘’And you inherited your grandmother's beauty.’’

Though you never had the chance to meet Queen Aemma, you knew it was a compliment. The King always spoke fondly of his late wife.

‘’I’ll be ten and eight soon,’’ you informed him. 

‘’Already?’’ The King raised an eyebrow and you nodded. ‘’Time flies, doesn’t it? We’ll have a tourney in your and Jacaerys’ honor. My first grand-children turning ten and eight, it deserves to be celebrated.’’

⁂

You changed out of your traveling dress, then went looking for your aunt and uncles. 

First, you spotted Aegon soaring overhead on Sunfyre, the golden dragon gleaming in the sunlight. He had gotten so large and beautiful. You’ll have to ask Aegon to ride together next time he goes. 

Next, you made your way to the training yard, where you knew Aemond often spent his time. As expected, you found him there, sparring with Ser Criston, his movements swift and precise. He was much better than your brothers at sparring, you mentally noted.

You called his name excitedly as you stepped down the stairs, which you realized was a mistake when he almost got taken down by Ser Criston. You apologized, but Aemond shook his head. 

‘’No harm done,’’ he assured you, putting away his sword and walking over to you. 

The last time you were in this training yard, you kicked Aemond’s ass. You were only kids, but it was still one of your greatest victories. Sword-fighting was in your blood. With a little bit of training, you would be as great as the boys in this yard.

‘’Can you still hold a sword, Princess?’’ 

⁂

You and Aemond cleaned up just in time for dinner, where you greeted the Queen and Helaena. They had the same hairstyle, which reminded of you and your mother, Rhaenyra. Children look up to their parents.

After dinner, you, Helaena, Aemond and Aegon retired to the latter’s chamber and spent the evening talking, laughing and eating small cakes and other sweet treats that you had requested from the kitchens.  

‘’These pastries are divine,’’ you said, loving the bitter raspberry mixed with the sweetness of the tart. ‘’We don’t have anything like this on Dragonstone.’’ You took another bite, humming at the taste.

Just as you finished your third tart, Aegon stood and excused himself. ‘’It's been wonderful having you here, dear niece, but duty calls.’’

You glanced out the window, noticing the silver glow of the moon and the twinkling stars against the dark sky. ‘’At late hour?’’ 

Aegon paused for a moment, a confident smirk spreading across his face. ‘’Some duties can only be fulfilled at night,’’ he declared cryptically, his gaze flickering mischievously towards Aemond, who could only shake his head in response.

‘’I wouldn't exactly call it duty,’’ Aemond remarked, trailing off as Aegon interjected with a mischievous grin.

‘’A treat, then,’’ the older prince continued, redirecting his attention to you with a knowing look. ‘’You enjoy pastries. I, however, have a preference for women.’’

Confusion clouded your expression. ‘’What do you mean?’’

‘’Sex,’’ Aegon declared boldly, his eyes gleaming with mischief. 

Your gaze fell to your feet, color rising in your cheeks. ‘’Oh.’’ 

Aegon's lips twitched with amusement at your reaction. ‘’Ever had sex, dear niece?’’ 

‘’Aegon,’’ Aemond interjected, his voice a warning.

You shook your head. 

It was a good thing that Helaena had fallen asleep or she would have covered her ears. Sex always made her uncomfortable. 

‘’Not even with yourself?’’ Aegon continued. 

Confusion struck your face. ‘’Eh, no.’’

‘’You’re missing out.’’ 

⁂

Every night, you watched from your window as Aegon sneaked out through the secret passageway of the Red Keep. You had discovered these passageways when you were playing hide and seek as kids. Aemond always complained that hiding there was cheating, but you and Aegon did it anyway.

You couldn't help but wonder what was so great about sex that made him go out every night.  

One night, you decided to follow him. The curiosity was too much to resist. 

You snuck early through the secret passageways and waited for any sign of Aegon's approach. The damp, narrow corridors brought back memories of your childhood games. 

Finally, you heard his familiar footsteps echoing down the passage. As he rounded the corner, you stepped out of the shadows. 

‘’What is my favorite niece doing here?’’ Aegon asked, raising an eyebrow. He had a dark cloak over his shoulders, covering any signs that could give his identity away in the city. 

You took a deep breath, your heart pounding in your chest. ‘’I want to come to the pleasure house with you.’’ 

Aegon stared at you for a moment, then laughed. 

‘’I'm serious, Aegon. I…I want to know about sex.’’ You tried to make your voice confident, knowing Aegon would send you to your chamber if he sensed a sliver of uncertainness. 

Taking your hand in his, Aegon led you through the maze of streets and alleys. It was bustling with people. Merchants and artisanal liquor sellers were pushing their beverages at you, almost forcing you to have a taste. Some people were drunk and stumbling about, while some were playing instruments with surprising skill, their melodies blending with the occasional fights breaking out nearby. You could hear obscene sounds from darkened alleys, adding to the chaotic symphony of the night. 

It was your first time coming to the city, and the overwhelming sights and sounds made you clung to Aegon, not wishing to get lost. 

He came to a stop when you reached a dark wooden door. Aegon pushed it open and pulled you inside. 

The stuffy air hit you immediately, making you wrinkle your nose. Aegon took off his hood, but didn’t let go of you. You were under his responsibility tonight. Around you, people lounged around in various states of undress, some lost in laughter, others in more intimate activities that brought a pink tint to your cheeks. 

Aegon made a stop to the bar, ordering two cups of wine. One for him, and one for you. 

‘’Drink,’’ he said. ‘’It’s nothing like what we have at the Keep, but it'll help you relax.’’ 

You took the glass and sipped tentatively, the sour taste of the wine making you grimace. He was right about this wine being disgusting. You had to force it down your throat. 

‘’What do you do when you come here?’’ you asked, looking around with a mix of curiosity and unease.

Aegon leaned against the bar as he downed the rest of his drink. ‘’I get my cock sucked. Or I fuck some whore. Depends how I’m feeling that night.’’ 

His bluntness caught you off guard, and you felt your cheeks flush. ‘’What of me? How do I…’’ You bit your lip, the words shy on your tongue. ‘’I don’t have a cock.’’ 

‘’You don’t need a cock for pleasure.’’ Aegon set his empty cup on the bar. ‘’Come with me.’’ 

You followed him through the mass of people, avoiding touching or being touched by anyone. Some of these people were very handsy and pushy, asking for things you didn’t quite understand. 

One the way, a woman approached Aegon, her dress barely clinging to her body. She smiled seductively at him, her eyes flicking to you briefly before returning to him. ‘’Care for some company tonight, my prince?’’ she purred, hoping to make some good money tonight. 

Aegon glanced at you, as if gauging your reaction, then back at the woman. ‘’Not tonight.’’

The whore looked at you behind Aegon, giving you a full stare down, and glared. Did she take you for another whore? In your silk dress and jewelry around your neck?

You followed your uncle to a room, gasping in shock when you saw a woman being penetrated by two men. One was standing at her head, her mouth wrapped around him. Spit was dribbling from her mouth, but she didn’t seem to care. And the other was thrusting into her from behind, loud moans leaving their mouths. To your right, a woman with saggy breasts was bouncing on a bearded man’s cock. She craned her head back to kiss her partner, sweat covering both their bodies. 

It was not at all what you had expected. No one seemed shy or embarrassed of exposing themself in front of so many people. In fact, they didn’t seem to care at all. They were just there to take what they needed. 

‘’Don’t listen to what your Septa told you. Sex is not just for baby-making, sex is for pleasure. For the woman as it is for the man,’’ Aegon purred into your ear as you watched the people around you. ‘’Men find pleasure from their cock.’’ He pointed to a man getting his male part sucked, his head thrown back and moaning. ‘’And women from their cunny.’’ He pointed to two women in a corner, one with her hand between her partner’s legs. She seemed to be feeling great pleasure, you noticed.  ‘’Although most people here indulge in penetrative sex, penetration is not necessary for pleasure. You can find that same pleasure — at least similar to — by yourself.’’

‘’I want to try,’’ you stated, wanting to feel the same pleasure as her. 

Aegon shook his head. ‘’We’re only here to watch. I’m not letting any of these men get their hands on you.’’

You frowned. ‘’How am I supposed to learn?’’ 

Aegon motioned for one of the unoccupied whores to come up to him. Her hair was brown and very long. He gave her body a few caresses, then pointed at you as he explained something to her. She nodded in understanding and took your hand, leading you to a corner where a ‘bed’ was not being used.

‘’Larissa is gonna teach you the ways to pleasure,’’ Aegon explained. 

⁂

On your return from the brothel, you said a giggly ‘good night’ to Aegon and disappeared inside your chamber, excited to undress and try what Larissa had taught you. You had studied her movements, which had triggered tingly feelings between your legs. 

You unlaced your dress and boots, then flopped down on your bed. You opened your legs, exposing your pussy, and took a short moment to look down at it. It was different from Larissa’s. Your hair density was different and you didn’t have the floppy skin she called ‘petals’, but you didn’t think too much of it. All bodies were different, she said. 

The cool air of the room made the throbbing between your legs worse. Was this how it was supposed to feel? 

Tentatively, you lowered one hand between your legs, right against your throbbing core, and breathlessly gasped when you made contact with your sensitive skin. You threw your head back against the wall and closed your eyes at the new found sensation. 

Wetness stuck to your fingers and you pressed harder against your core, causing your eyelashes to flutter. ‘’Ahh.’’ 

Your fingers traced the seam of your slit, spreading the wetness around. Each touch sent waves of sensation through you, making you want more. Taking it to the next level, you swiped between your folds, causing you to moan as soon as you met your sensitive flesh. 

You continued doing so, humming in delight and feeling yourself relax more into the sensations your fingers were bringing. Why had no one told you about this kind of pleasure before? It was much better than eating raspberry tarts. 

Another moan slipped past your lips, the tingly feeling between your legs intensifying. You pushed your hips down onto your hand and sighed softly, arching your back from the bed. But it wasn't enough. 

Something inside you was tingling. 

Finding no better ways to relieve these tingles, you slid your middle finger inside of yourself. Immediately, your walls closed around your finger, warm and wet. It felt strange — and sinful. You began moving it in and out, your mouth opening to form an ‘O’ shape. 

‘’Oh Gods…’’ 

You began pumping your finger in and out a bit faster, thinking it was what you needed, but it did not make the tingles go away. It did feel good, but after a moment, your hand was getting tired and the tingles were growing more intense. 

‘’What am I doing wrong?’’ you asked aloud, feeling frustrated. 

⁂

On the morrow, after your afternoon tea with Helaena, you knocked on Aegon’s door. He rarely left his chambers during the day — other than for dinner or to ride Sunfire —, so you knew he would be there. 

Taking a deep breath, you knocked on the heavy wooden door. The sound echoed in the quiet hallway. Moments later, the door creaked open, revealing Aegon in his usual princely attire. His silver hair was tousled, and his eyes had a tired look. 

‘’I need your help,’’ you said, not wasting time with formal greetings. ‘’Something seems wrong with my body, I’m afraid…’’ 

Aegon raised an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe. ‘’What do you mean?’’

You hesitated, second thinking if you should be going to him about your intimate problems. After all, Aegon had boy parts, how could he help you? ‘’What Larissa taught me last night, it is not working. I tried, but I cannot…make the tingles go away. My finger is not enough.’’ 

Aegon's expression shifted from curious to alarmed as he glanced on both sides of the halfway, making sure no one had heard you. If anyone knew of your little escapade into the city, Aegon would be in a lot of trouble. 

Then, he stepped aside, gesturing for you to enter quickly. The room was somber despite the large window dorning over the city, and the bed was unmade. You couldn’t say you were surprised by the latter. 

Aegon shut the door behind you, pulling you out of your observation, and turned to face you. ‘’You should be more careful of the matters you speak about outside closed doors. You would be surprised by the number of ill intentioned ears that are waiting for bad whispers in this castle.’’

You nodded, having not thought of that. On Dragonstone, there weren't as many maids or servants.  They mostly assisted your mother and the younger children, or busied themselves with cleaning tasks in the lower floors of the castle. 

‘’Take a seat,’’ Aegon invited, sitting down in a large velvet chair at the center of the room and gesturing towards a loveseat right across for you. ‘’And tell exactly what you mean by ‘not enough’.’’ 

You pursed your lips, trying to find the right words. ‘’I do not know how to put it into words… All I know is that when I inserted my finger inside myself, it felt good. But the tingles intensified and my finger wasn’t enough anymore. A-am I broken, Aegon?’’ 

He laughed quietly at the last remark. ‘’Broken? No. You’re not broken, my darling. You’re simply not doing it quite right. You see, in order to truly satisfy yourself when you’re all alone…a finger simply isn’t enough.’’ Aegon leaned in his seat, speaking closer to you. ‘’Would you like me to show you how to truly do it, properly?’’

You were most certain that you should not be doing this, but going back to the brothel was not a possibility at the moment. It was likely closed during the daytime and, although Helaena was a woman, you doubted she could be of help. 

Aegon stood and pulled you with him, guiding you to his bed. ‘’Lay down. Make yourself comfortable.’’

You scooted back until you hit the pillows, glaring at the sheet when your foot got stuck in it. If Aegon would make his bed in the mornings, it would not have happened. 

Once you were settled, he pulled your dress up, letting the layers bunch at your hips and pushed your legs apart. You were completely exposed to him, and rather than feeling uncomfortable under your uncle’s gaze, you spread yourself wider, desperate to feel good. 

‘’Gods,’’ Aegon growled under his breath. His hand gently rubbed your inner thigh, caressing your soft skin. ‘’You have one magnificent cunny, dear niece.’’ He moved his hand up the inside of your thigh, gently playing with your soft sparse hair there, almost teasingly. ‘’Makes me want to kiss it.’’ 

You whined, feeling a tinge of shyness at his compliment. ‘’Aegon…’’ 

‘’I mean it. I’ve seen a lot in my short life, but none ever compared.’’ He pressed his fingers firmly against you, making you mewl from the contact. 

It felt different from your own fingers. More pleasurable. 

Aegon kept up the circular motions, using a bit more pressure, as he watched your expression flicker with pleasure, your mouth open and eyebrows knitted as a moan slipped from your lips. He began swiping his thumb over your clit and it made you moan so loud anyone who was passing in the hallway must’ve heard. 

Your reaction made Aegon chuckle, amused. He brought a finger over your lips, shushing you. ‘’If you do this again, you’re gonna alert one of the maids. We don't want that, do we?’’ He stroked a piece of your hair, looking at you like you were the most beautiful woman he laid his eyes on.

You shook your head. ‘’I-I’ll be quiet,’’ you promised.

‘’Now, I’m going to put my fingers inside of you,’’ he explained as two fingers slipped down and entered you, sinking between your folds.

You gasped and pushed your hips against Aegon’s hand, realizing this was exactly what you needed. ‘’Ahh, this feels so good.’’

Aegon’s smirk widened, his eyes darkening with desire as he felt your hips move against him. ‘’See, nothing is broken. You just needed uncle Aegon’s help.’’ He increased the pace a bit, his fingers moving rapidly as your breath came in short gasps and moans as your mind got lost in the sensations. 

Your whole body was on fire, trembling by need as his thumb started rubbing your clit again. You felt the heat inside yourself intensify, you could feel the release you so desperately craved was building. 

You whined, grabbing the sheets next to you. ‘’A-Aegon, something feels strange. I think— I think I’m going to pee.’’ 

You squeezed your eyes shut and focused on not wetting the bed. How embarrassing would that be?  

‘’You’re not going to pee. Don’t worry.’’ Aegon continued his ministrations. ‘’This is good. This is exactly what you want.’’ 

‘’No. I’m going to pee, I’m going to—’’ You interrupted yourself as your back arched off the bed as your final release hit you, your hands fisting one of the pillows so hard you almost pierced a hole with your fingernails. 

Aegon’s free hand covered your mouth just in time, muffling your cries while you rode out your pleasure on his hand. 

⁂

You sat on your vanity chair while servants were cleaning up the aftermath of your bath. Your chamber smelled of lavender oil, which you poured into the water to help get a great night of sleep. The beds were luxurious in the Red Keep, but it lacked the comfort of home. 

‘’Will it be all, Princess?’’ your handmaid asked after brushing your freshly washed hair. 

You thanked her for her service. ‘’Yes. Thank you, Dyana.’’ 

‘’I will see you in the morning, Princess.’’ 

Dyana left your chambers, and you waited for the servants to do the same. You didn't want to press them, but you were impatient to watch them leave. 

Once everyone was out, you laid on your bed and pulled up your nightgown. 

At supper, you had sat across Aegon and your eyes had fallen on his hand holding his goblet of wine. Precisely his long, thick, and dexterous fingers. You knew it was sinful to have such thoughts during a family meal, but you had been unable to keep yourself from thinking about the intense pleasure Aegon's fingers brought you. You had to clamp your thighs under the table, feeling a needy ache in your cunny. 

Your fingertips skimmed over your folds, and you let out a small moan. You've been waiting all evening to do that. Your index finger slipped down to the pearl Aegon touched this afternoon and you made small, soft circles around it. A jolt of pleasure went up your spine. That felt so good. You continued rubbing soft circles, causing arousal to leak down your cunny. 

You ceased the attention to your clit and brought your middle finger down to your entrance, spreading your wetness before sinking your finger inside. A sweet moan echoed in the room, but you reminded yourself to be quiet. Always quiet. 

Closing your eyes, you imagined Aegon slipping his long, thick fingers deep inside you. Your walls clenched down on your finger, and then you slipped in a second. 

‘’Ah, Aegon.’’

Like the night prior, your fingers were too small to reach where you needed. Frowning in frustration, you searched around your chamber for something that resembled a finger. There was a forgotten spoon from when you had tea brought up — too small — and a wooden stick used to roll parchment paper — too big. Lastly, you saw your hairbrush on your vanity. Perfect. The handle of it was smooth, it shouldn’t hurt.

You wiped your fingers on the sheets and got up to grab it. You brought the hairbrush handle down to your cunny and paused. Although you were alone in your chamber, you couldn’t help but worry you would get in trouble if anyone found out about this. Shaking that thought, you cautiously pressed the handle to your hole, and steadily pushed it in. You felt your cunny squeezing and slighting bucking your hips at the brush. 

The sensation was foreign, but not unpleasant. As you pressed the handle deeper, you let out a soft gasp, quickly covering your mouth with your free hand to stifle any more sounds. You moved the brush handle gently at first, allowing your body to adjust to the unfamiliar intrusion.

Your other hand moved back to your clit, resuming the soft circles that had felt so good before. The combined sensations were intense, sending waves of pleasure through you. Your breath was short and your eyes fluttered closed as you imagined Aegon with you, his fingers instead of the brush.

The handle moved in and out, your movements growing more urgent as tears formed at the corner of your eyes, overwhelmed by pleasure. Your hips rocked against it, whining needily as you felt the pressure building, your muscles tightening as you edged closer to climax. Your walls clenched around the handle, and with one final push, the pleasure overwhelmed you. Your body shook with the force of your orgasm, your back arching off the bed. 

You stayed there for a moment, panting and trembling, the handle still inside you. That felt… You couldn’t find any words to describe it. 

Slowly, you pulled the hairbrush out, and placed it on the bed. Its handle was coated with your slick but you didn’t bother to clean it, pulling the covers over your body and drifting to sleep. 

⁂

‘’Good morrow, Uncle,’’ you greeted, crossing paths with Aemond in the halls of the Red Keep after breaking fast.

Aemond gave you a short nod.  ‘’Good morrow, Princess.’’

‘’Are you heading to the dragonpit?’’ you asked, noting the faint scent of smoke clinging to his black leather riding doublet. 

‘’No. Returning, actually.’’

A pout formed on your lips, disappointed. ‘’That's unfortunate. I was heading there and hoping we could go together. I would go with Aegon, but he is not a morning person, as you know.’’

‘’We could go in the morrow after breaking fast?’’ Aemond suggested, watching as a smile lit your face. 

⁂

Just as you were about to seek servants and ask them to prepare you a bath, Aegon knocked on your door and asked if you wanted to join him for another night in the city. He didn’t have any friends to accompany him, and Aemond was too much of a prude to go to brothels. Although you were younger, you didn’t have a stick up your ass. 

On the way, Aegon dropped a few gold coins and got you sweets from a street baker. He wiped the cherry glaze on your lips with his thumb, sucking it into his mouth. 

You sat at a table and indulged in wine amongst the men. Around you, women were dancing in their smallest clothes, entertaining the customers inside the brothel. Beside you, Aegon watched the curious fascination on your face while sipping his wine, pleased to see you were having fun. He made sure to drink enough to relax, but not too much he wouldn’t be able to keep an eye out.

When you finished your cup, Aegon rose to his feet and took you to the back of the brothel. Excitement was bubbling in your stomach, hearing the sounds of pleasure coming from men and women behind each of the curtains. 

As you entered one of the rooms, a woman came up to Aegon and begged to suck his cock for free, desperately wanting a taste of the prince. She was only wearing a piece of cloth tied into a skirt, her small breasts and pointy nipples bared to all. 

‘’Watch and learn, little one. Your future husband will enjoy this,’’ Aegon said with a wink. 

He shoved his breeches down, exposing his surprisingly large cock to everyone in the room. You stared at it with wide eyes. Were all the cocks big? You peaked around you, searching for comparisons, but nothing seemed to come close. 

When you drew your eyes back to your uncle, the woman was kneeling before Aegon, his cock already in her mouth. The action surprised you, but you took notes and watched as she bobbed her head down his shaft, sucking and slurping as spit dribbled from her mouth. Your eyes flickered to Aegon, who was groaning, taking pleasure from the woman’s mouth. 

‘’Agh, fuck,’’ he slurred, his head slightly back. ‘’That mouth is made to suck cocks!’’ 

On the ground, the woman looked satisfied to please him. She moaned as Aegon grabbed a fistful of her hair and forced himself deeper into her mouth, groaning obscenely until he released his semen down her throat. Some spilled from her lips, but Aegon didn’t wipe it off like he did with the cherry glaze. He pushed her off him and re-dressed himself. 

‘’Do all men enjoy this?’’ you asked. 

He chuckled softly before responding. His eyes met your wide, curious gaze. ‘’Oh yes, most men enjoy it very much. Now, would you like another cup of wine?’’ 

You smiled. ‘’Please.’’ 

You sat on a couch by yourself, waiting for Aegon’s return. Before you, a woman was getting her cunny pounded by a bearded man. She moaned loudly, grabbing at her nipples. The sight made you think of the hairbrush you had inserted in yourself last night. It had filled you up nicely, but you couldn’t help but wonder how delightful a cock must feel.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t notice the man who approached you until he grabbed your hand and placed it on his cock. You froze, a bewildered look on your face. He said something, but you couldn’t hear it, too focused on how clammy and hairy he felt. You tried to retract your hand, but he gripped it tightly, forcing you to rub him.

The Gods must have heard your prayers because Aegon returned with the wine and saw what was happening. His jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed in anger. He quickly stepped in, his presence commanding attention.

‘’Let go of her or I’ll cut your fucking cock,’’ he threatened through clenched teeth, his hand on the dagger tucked into his belt. His voice was low and deadly, leaving no doubt that he meant every word.

The man’s eyes widened in surprise when he heard Aegon, and his grip on your hand loosened enough for you to slip away. You wiped it on the skirt of your dress, trying to erase the feeling of the stranger’s cock. Washing them with soap and water would have been better, but there was no bassin to do so.

‘’I-I apologize, my prince. I did not know the whore was yours—’’ the man stuttered, making excuses, but  Aegon didn’t want to hear them. 

He grabbed his shoulder and pinned him against the wall, bringing the dagger to his throat.  The man's eyes widened further as the dagger's blade pressed against his skin, fear flashing on his face. ‘’She’s not a fucking whore,’’ Aegon’s voice was low and dangerous, his eyes burning with rage. 

The man swallowed hard. ‘’I-I apologize again, my prince. I meant no disrespect.’’

Aegon took a step closer, the dagger still at the man's throat. ‘’Don’t. Touch. Her. Again.’’ He looked down at his manly parts, then back at his face. ‘’Unless you want to lose your little cock.’’ 

 ⁂

The journey back to the Red Keep was silent. Aegon's grip on your hand was tight, his knuckles white from the tension. He was fuming, his eyes still narrowed in anger, his mind clearly still consumed by anger from the incident at the brothel. He kept you close, his gaze scanning the surroundings to ensure no one else tried to approach you. 

When you finally reached the safety of the castle, he stopped in his tracks and turned to you. Guilt was consuming him. What happened was his fault. If he hadn’t left your side, this man would not have forced your delicate hand on his filthy cock.

Aegon opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head. He walked past you, abandoning you in the secret passages. 

—

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[katuschka]

Nights In White Satin

Jake Kiszka x reader 1.740 words

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, intended for adult readers. Any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental. Also, if you're under 18, go find some other entertainment elsewhere.

Warnings (are spoilers): not much, just tooth rotting fluff, kisses, late night intimacy and non-explicit descriptions of sex, this short story is mostly about all the emotions associated with saying it for the first time.

Special thanks goes to @edgingthedarkness who inspired me and helped me to transform our usual meaningless rambling into this particular idea by mentioning the song.

Nights in white satin Never reaching the end Letters I've written Never meaning to send

A mild summer breeze blew into the room through the windows open wide as we lay breathless. 

The air had finally cooled after a hot day, so we had opened the windows to let the fragrant fresh air in before we fucked. 

I watched it play with the chiffon curtains now, making them dance and sway like fairies in the silver moonlight before I closed my eyes and let it blow over me as well. It played with me too, then, cooling my heated skin as my heart danced to the same eerie melody, while the universe sang along. 

I listened to his heavy breathing while his moans still echoed in my ears, lustful and coarse. But now my mind played tricks on me, replaying them in my memory as the most dulcet and comforting of sounds. 

And I wondered why. 

Jake’s fingers brushed tenderly over mine just like they often did when we collapsed next to each other, tired and spent. And I wondered why it felt so different now as his fingertips drew slow circles over my knuckles with strange and subtle diffidence that was brand new. 

I opened my eyes again to look at him, and the symphony of cosmic sounds grew louder. 

There was something different about the night. I couldn’t put my finger on it just yet, but it felt as if another source of light was coming from within the confines of my heaving ribcage, illuminating our sweaty bodies like a second silver orb. The source could not be seen, but it’s diffused light we bathed in was unmistakably there.  And I wondered how that happened…

“Are you watching me?” The real and raspy sound of his voice made the unearthly music in my head stop, but I didn’t mind. The feeling lingered. The corner of his lips twitched as he tried to suppress the involuntary smirk.

“Just smile. Don’t fight it.” If he wants to tease, I will tease back. And we both know that I always win. To prove me right, he chuckled softly, even though he stubbornly kept his eyes closed. “You_love_it,” I added playfully, rolling each syllable on my tongue like candy.

The smile vanished and he visibly tensed. Did I say something wrong, mayhap? It was just a fleeting moment, a barely noticeable frown that soon transformed into a pout, but it scared me anyway. 

This was a night of confusing emotions and phantoms lurking in the shadows. And I still wondered why. Something had changed in the air while we’d been riding our high. Maybe the wind had brought it in…

“I do,” he whispered, smiling softly again.  

Yeah, he did. He loved me watching him, observing him, studying him even. It was in fact one of the first things he had told me when we first met. I fancied him maybe a bit too much for my liking, as he just couldn’t wipe that smug grin off of his face. Well, at least not until I whispered my sweet retributions in his ear. He was mine ever since. ‘You’re fire I love to play with,’ he told me. 

And with the fire he played. And we danced in the flames during many sleepless nights. Slowly, I came to realize that Jake was the fuel, turning our shared moments ablaze. I had burned and I had crackled and sometimes he had reduced me to damp embers, softly glowing in the melancholy of grey mornings spent without him after his leaving.

Not tonight. 

That strange sense of melancholy washed over my entire being even with him still lying next to me, making me shiver despite this being a balmy summer night.

Propping myself on my elbow, I watched his relaxed face illuminated by a sliver of silver light, tiny droplets of sweat still covering his skin like morning dew. Our breathing had already calmed down, but the strong and heady smell of sex still lingered in the room despite the drought, keeping us both intoxicated. Months had passed since the first electric kiss, but the thrill never wore off. It was, in fact, much stronger now. Making me wonder… 

Jake opened his eyes and returned my gaze, making me acutely aware of the real silence surrounding us.  

I longed and dared to stroke his damp hair, pushing away the tiny strands stuck to his forehead, and his eyes fluttered closed again as he savored the moment with me. This was when he looked the most pretty, baby like yet manly all in one. I traced his features with the tip of my finger, committing them to my memory so that he could keep haunting me when I’m old and grey. 

And I wondered why it suddenly hurt to imagine being old and grey without him. 

I think that deep down I had known the reason for a while, but my conscious mind refused to accept it, convinced that nights like these were doomed to be experienced here and now. We had never talked about it, and it made me believe there was no other option. 

But then he smiled just a little with his eyes still closed, putting an end to my bittersweet musings by asking me teasingly if I wanted more. 

“And if I do?” I teased back, running my palm down his chest, making him chuckle softly once again.

“Gimme ten minutes, tops.” But I could sense sleep already claiming him, and felt him drifting away from our shared reality under my touch. It left me feeling strangely alone, and not even the traitorous, caressing breeze could change that. 

He still looked the same when I came back from the bathroom a few minutes later, sprawled on his back, looking content and peaceful with his lips slightly parted. I should have honored his need to rest, but the urgency fueled by uncertainty forced me to savor every minute and every inch anyway. And so I climbed back onto bed and enfolded his body in mine again, pressing tender kisses along his exposed throat. 

It didn’t take long for him to rouse and wriggle under my touch, those parted lips greeting me with a soft and melodious whimper. I let him know I noticed, exhaling hot air right next to his earlobe. Slowly. Teasingly. 

“You’re impossible,” he whispered sleepily, and that only encouraged me to continue. I grabbed his other cheek and pulled him even closer, peppering his jaw with even more fiery kisses. 

He was so tired still. Not even trying to stop me, he just mumbled that it was a lost cause. It took me only two more minutes to prove him wrong. Purring contentedly, I straddled him, reaching between us to help him find the way between my folds. He moaned breathily when the tip of his cock slipped into the warm and welcoming cushiony home. I watched with delight as his head tilted back when I let him all in. Surrendering completely, he just let me use him. 

And so I rode him slowly, taking my time. There was something strange about the night, something that already made me mourn its inevitable death. The moon moved in the sky, illuminating the wall before me and leaving Jake’s face in the shadows. 

With a new, strange sense of urgency, my hands clawed at his chest and I quickened my pace.

I kept my eyes on him the whole time; it seemed like a blasphemy not to watch how his back arched, with his eyes closed shut and his mouth wide open, his neck still sweaty and exposed. I leaned down to caress it with my own parted lips again. 

"Slow down honey," he mumbled, his fingertips running down my back until they rested on my hips. I straightened back up, fulfilling his wish, moving slowly. 

Maybe it was the wind that kept washing over us like sea waves. Or maybe it was the moon with its power to invade people’s dreams. Or maybe it was just me, my inner self tired of my self-denial. It made me realize why. It made me accept how I felt about him. And just how MUCH. 

Overwhelmed by it, I closed my eyes for a split second, and when I opened them again, they locked with his. Something in his expression changed, something that made my heart skip. I could swear I felt it somewhere deep within me before I heard him say it. It changed the night forever. He reached up to cup my cheek and  in between moans he whispered. 

"I really love you".

I think it surprised him more than me. And even though I stopped in my movements and my next exhale turned into a sob, it was his hands that started to tremble. I reached for him and pulled him up, wrapping my arms around him as he did the same, resting his head against my sternum. “You don’t have to say anything,” he mumbled. “But now that I did, I need you to know that I mean it.” 

His confession lay heavy on my chest. My pulse quickened again, but it had nothing to do with lust. My heart just overflowed. It made me think about what it really meant... for me, for him, for the future. 

“Jake…”

He leaned back a bit and looked up at me, propping himself on one arm with the other one still holding me tight. “I’ll understand if…”

“No! I love you too.” 

I moved again and locked my lips with his before he could say any more. Or me. The moment was meant to be felt. Like dancing in the wind. The intertwined limbs, the caresses, the kisses; all familiar by now, and yet brand new, because for the first time in months, we made love. We collapsed back in bed together, and I could no longer tell where I ended and he began. His touch, so much more tender in the early morning hours, finally turned my fears to pure exhilaration, and I lost the sense of time.

A sudden gust of wind blew the curtains our way, the smell of ozone in the air alerting us of a morning storm that was nearing. I inhaled deeply the freshness mixed with the scent of him; it filled me with a brand new sense of calm. Not even the rumbling sound of thunder in the distance could change that. 

Everything about this new day felt different.

Beauty I'd always missed With these eyes before Just what the truth is I can't say anymore 'Cause I love you Yes, I love you Oh, how I love you

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