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mo0nfairy · 2 months ago

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ᥫ᭡ . # ۫ , ⸺ BLOMSTERTID, PART TWO !

summary :: Centuries-old mage, Y/N L/N, possesses magical abilities unheard of. A few citizens monopolize the remnants of magic they find, of which they now title “Hextech”. Hearsay of this power bleeds through all of Runeterra, until Piltover and Zaun find themselves in an anarchic war to obtain said power. Before Y/N can even blink, however, the humans neglect their plans when they realize they’d rather have Y/N instead.

chapters :: the masterlist.

word count :: 10.9k

content warnings :: NO SPOILERS! yandere!viktor, obsessive!viktor, g/n reader, violence/gore, s3lf-harm, (very light) s3xual implications, needles, vomit, & terminal illness.

viktor's yandere traits are . . .

worshiper, heroic, & obsessive

⋆ ｡ ˚ ⋆ ⸺ When the moon rises and the vibrant world eases, Viktor always finds himself dreaming of the same thing.

He imagines himself consuming the correct remedies and garnering the ability to walk, to run, to stand tall on his two feet. He is merely a child, but he is well aware of his weaker form. In the fragrance of these illusions, he can become capable and mighty; he can be the fearless warrior who protects his loved ones from lurking danger.

To heal and obtain strength — that is the haunting desire which paints his dreams.

The young boy now greets the sun in all of its blistering heat. The cloudless sky casts a shimmering glint upon the rusted scrap metal and bent screws of his handmade boat. Viktor’s frail hands place the creation upon the surface of a river stream. In the light of his childlike wonder, he imagines himself the captain, guiding his loyal crew across a grand sea overwhelmed with thunder and lightning. His dreams remain stagnant in his brain, though, where they have remained his entire life.

The jagged gears and sprockets hasten down the current before Viktor can bring himself to his wobbly knees. The boat has now accelerated to speeds little he cannot keep up with. When his crooked cane escapes from his grasp, he falls down with it. His nose aches from the harsh plummet against the ground and specks of tears begin to build in his bambi-brown eyes. He winces from the few painful jolts in his weak legs before he is finally able to stand once more.

When he searches, Viktor cannot find his beloved boat anywhere in sight. His eyes follow the stream ahead, which descends into an abysmal cave. He measures the weight of his options, but ultimately decides that his boat is too precious to abandon.

With a gulp, he carefully treads forward into the cave. Here, there is no light to guide him, only sound. And every drop of water and subtle echo of breath has his tiny heart hammering. He imagines some great, big, green-hued monster to crawl from the darkness and chow down on his thin bones. Viktor imagines the utmost worse to occur, but does not relent with his original intentions. He has to be brave, he asserts to himself.

When he rounds a corner, he spots a strange patch of light in the distance. Within this light, he recognizes the familiar cog of his boat peeking from behind a rock. He is moments away from cheering and celebrating the return of his greatest invention, until he notices the journey he will have to endure to retrieve the boat.

Viktor will have to squeeze himself through a narrow crack, threatening to release the avalanche of boulders from above. Still, he concludes his boat to be more important than his safety. He wastes no time in rushing forward to enact on such.

There is a struggle as he sinks down to lay on his stomach, but he captures success when he finds his small frame to fit perfectly through the tight gap. Chunks of rock protrude rudely into his emaciated form as he crawls, but he continues onwards. Viktor reaches his hand out, grasping air momentarily, before he finally lodges the wheel of his boat between his two fingers. With a soft “yes!”, he yanks the boat back into his possession.

Before he can leave, however, he finds something striking in his periphery. In its journey, his boat landed in a space overwhelmed with glistening crystals.

Viktor eagerly slithers himself into the expanse. Bringing himself to his feet, he proceeds to marvel at the sight before him.

The one fraction of the area that fascinates him the most is the great boulder directly in the center. It twitches and heaves with faded life, while radiating an aura of blue and purple luster. The opalescence is muted from its old age, but the sparkles still captivate him beyond belief. It does not take much to impress a boy raised in the lanes, after all. It is beautiful, Viktor thinks to himself.

And in the height of his desire for answers, he slowly places a hand upon the surface.

His vision abruptly goes dark and flashes of images then skim through his head.

Viktor sees a person, almost. They have jagged skin and colorful flesh, with swirling hues of blue and purple levitating from their open palm. The scars treading along their skin spell out some form of incantation. The letters are ineligible, but Viktor still attempts to grasp the meaning within the short spurts of clarity casted across his brain. Incomprehensible whispers in this language permeate from every corner of the cave, as though the bats have been assigned the task of delivering a message.

Viktor cannot grasp any of the statements spoken, but one word is emphasized with acute clarity.

Y/N.

There is a vision of a grand tree, bristling with life and color, before that image is replaced by his normal sight of the cave. The floors and walls surrounding him all rumble and vibrate, threatening to crumble. A few loose stones descend from the ceiling and nick his ragged clothing.

Viktor does not waste a second more before he is scrambling toward his point of entry. Squished through the skinny gap, around the several corners, and out the sunlit entrance — he has successfully escaped the crumbling cave with his boat held tightly in his grasp.

A thundering pain then sinks into his leg. The force brings him to the ground with a violent wince. When he looks to the source, he finds that his leg is in its normal condition. What he doesn’t find, however, is his cane. Somehow, he had endured the entire escape without the support of his cane, which has now been swallowed by the tumbling rubble of the avalanche.

Viktor tries to catch his breath and find a feasible explanation. Was it adrenaline that got him to safety, or possibly… Magic?

The topic of this “earthquake” spread throughout the Under-City, before ascending into the glamorous land of Piltover. Without wasting a beat, Piltover swiftly claimed rights to the cave and utilized the expanse for resources, all of which Viktor watched from the high surface of a neighboring water tower.

Seeing the men work themselves to the bone, shipping off samples of what was his discovery, Viktor makes a promise to himself.

He will fight tooth-and-nail to cross the bridge of Piltover. Then, he will reclaim possession of those crystals and protect them as his.

He will succeed, he solemnly swears to himself.

In the span of the years that followed, this mysterious creature, Y/N, has ushered Viktor to chase after his brightest dreams: to heal and obtain strength. They have been his light as he guides himself to this goal; his lantern through a violent blizzard.

The journey to success began when Viktor first dipped a toe into adulthood.

The remaining years of his adolescence were spent in a ridiculous back-and-forth cycle with several prestigious schools in Piltover. Viktor was an exemplary student, that has been made abundantly clear. However, the elites in the academies were wary of his background as an Under-City citizen.

Time after time, he persevered past every expectation of him and flourished with flying colors. Viktor was prepared to stand outside their offices, down on his knees with fresh coffees in hand for their approval.

It wasn’t until a few days after his eighteenth birthday were his efforts finally taken into account. It was through the eyes of Heimerdinger that Viktor finally received recognition, who offered the young scholar the role of his assistant.

Viktor accepted the offer with embarrassing speed.

The role of an assistant is not his dream, though. It is merely one stepping stone toward the finish line of his goals. These are facts he has to relentlessly remind himself of. Upon scrutinizing the failed efforts of a Talis scientist, however, he realizes how difficult this task is. Possibly bridging on the edge of impossible, if he is honest with himself.

After an abrupt explosion, Viktor was sent to study the materials used in Jayce’s experiments and verify their safety. He ventured into his isolated office and began his scrutinization of the notes and toolsets scattered around. A steel metal box, adorned with intricacies of blue and gold, calls out to his curiosity. Flicking the metal tab open, Viktor lifts the heavy lid and finds the very last thing he expected to see.

Held in copper claws are fragments of the crystals he discovered as a boy. All glistening and pulsating in those tones of blue and purple.

“Y/N…” The word crawls out strangled from his throat. Accompanied with his stuttering gasps, he has been rendered to a man absolutely breathless.

His hands tremble like a thundering earthquake as they take one of the crystals into his gentle grasp. And just like that, all the resentment and festering anger he harbored for Piltover had vanished. As though merely touching these shards provided him with the impossible tranquility found in forgiveness.

All he needed now was to return to you, then anything other than serene bliss can melt away.

Viktor offered (with a stifling fervency) to join Jayce in his efforts to learn more of this magic. From here, “Hextech” was born.

Many, many years have now passed since their partnership. In these years, only puny progress has been made in Viktor’s chase for his dreams. With what success they’ve grasped, they’ve managed to capture the attention of scientists and investors across the world.

Jayce, the born-and-raised Piltie he is, has claimed all credit for the perseverance of Hextech with loud, prideful words and his chest puffed out like a bird. He revels in the bouquets of applause and praise he is drowned in.

Viktor, on the other hand (and despite being the sole reason behind Hextech’s success), cannot find it within himself to care for Jayce’s entitlement. All he has ever cared for is you and the dreams you keep safely nestled in your palms. Everything else is immaterial.

2021 has now reached its lively Summer. Unfortunately, the goals Viktor set out for himself that year are miles away from fruition. His primary focus has been the runes he saw adorning your form and what definitions remain in every scratch. Translating the characters will lead to your location, he is positive of such.

With that being said, all these wasted days have been spent finding himself in the same dead ends he’s visited countless times. He can feel his worn body eroding with every passing second, with the glimmer of his dream now beginning to flicker with old, neglected light.

Home again, Viktor partakes in his evening routine before bed, a routine he has followed for years. The thick paper in his at-home office is used to its utmost value, where the ink of his pen bleeds his heart out onto the draped scroll.

If it weren’t for his broad vocabulary and expensive handwriting, you would think these scrolls were the works of a teenage girl gushing about her crush. In reality, it is Viktor releasing the pent-up emotions he’s forced into captivity during the hours at work. Here, within the safety of his home, all of these feelings can be exposed in all of its ugly brilliance. His sentences may be frivolous, but they are overwhelmed with an ardent need.

Without realizing, he sometimes finds himself unconsciously sketching your face from his memories as a boy. That breathtaking, tragically enchanting face has haunted him beyond belief. And that is especially the case now, as he signs off yet another letter to you with his signature “Yours Forever and Always, Viktor”. He takes one last longing glance to your features he sketched over the romantic words.

Propping himself onto his cane, he curls the scroll into itself. He then treads to his bedroom and rests the scroll on the flower bed just outside the window. Joining this letter is another gift he addressed to you.

Viktor takes hold of his handmade boat he carried with him into adulthood. It is now miserable and rusted, but remains one of the most sacred items he owns. He nestles it safely beneath the thick hedges of the flowers, ensuring no gusts of wind or fluttering birds can disrupt its placement.

These actions are taken with one intention in mind: garnering your attention.

Surely, from wherever you may be, you will catch sight of the boat and be reminded of the connection you formed with him long ago. He is sure of this, despite waking every morning to the same, untouched flower bed. Still, this neglect is not anywhere near enough to hinder his efforts.

Slowly, he situates himself into his bed and faces his body toward the window. Sleep is something that rarely ever finds him, but in the midst of these rarities, he sleeps like a restless child on Christmas Eve. One day, Viktor will wake to your heavenly silhouette peering at him through the window. He falls asleep with this prayer ghosting his lips.

Another day of fruitless work is what he is met with the following morning. No soft, jagged hands stroking his hair or crooked smile to rival the early-day sun.

These failures, mended with the countless rough patches Hextech has faced in recent months, have taken a perceptible toll on Viktor. Again and again, he rearranges the runes of the Hexcore and provides it with a multitude of subjects to learn from. Still, he does not earn even a glimmer of a possible translation. All this effort forged into finding your whereabouts has resulted in defeat, yet again.

The hours of the day drag on in agonizing lethargy. The walls of the headquarters could almost resemble the metal bars of a prison. Here, however, the office space provided by Heimerdinger’s connections and Talis House money was far more luxurious than a dank cell.

A window with intricacies molded into the surface provides a blinding light from their high-view point in the city. The gold spheres painting the marble floors and bright walls could almost resemble eyes scrutinizing his every move. The space is vacant, except for the wide desk built into the wall with notes and gadgetry scattered about the surfaces.

The room is dull in comparison to others in the building, yes, but neither he nor Jayce had time to concern themselves with appearance. Maybe… Maybe you’ll help with decorations when the time comes. Maybe you’ll adorn these boring walls with those opalescent crystals and shimmering jewels of yours. You can provide this room with life, just the same as you did for him.

So engrossed in the bewitching pondering of you, Viktor fails to notice another person in the room. Sky, he thinks he can recall her name as. She rambles nervously about nonsense he cannot be bothered to discern. It is only when she treads a little too close to the Hexcore is he finally brought out of his inner turmoil. Her elbow unintentionally nudges a nearby house plant toward the Hexcore.

A scolding bridges on Viktor’s tongue, but is replaced by a suffocating silence when the Hexcore clings to the plant.

A bolt of purple springs from the runes and clasps to the plant like a hand, twitching as it absorbs the energy from the leaves. When the potted plant wilts, the Hexcore bursts with new energy and flourishes with greenery that reaches the ceiling. It radiates in the colors of blue and purple he knows all too well.

From the illumination is a character of one of the runes. Viktor watches in enraptured amazement as said rune unfolds and spells out something tangible.

“SAN T RY”, the letters speak.

Santry? Maybe it is an incantation or a phrase native to the language you speak, he is not sure. Nonetheless, the heavy ache in his chest eases and welcomes the light of excitement.

His brain dares to assume you would then somehow blossom with the flowery, there to breathe life into the dream he’s spent years striving after. Much to his horror, however, all the thriving organic matter soon withers away. As the decaying fragments descend, Viktor rushes over, discarding his cane. He clings to the dead remnants piling on the floor as though it were you who died in his hands.

As quickly as it had begun, it has now ended. And through the shocked silence, he is sure he can hear the tortured remains of his heart die alongside this damn house plant.

Still, the tortured soul does not impede his intentions of translating the runes of the Hexcore. If anything, his motivation has endured an incredible increase.

His crafted boat and another written scroll have found their home on his flower bed, once again, but Viktor is far from his bedroom. He remains in his at-home office, grinding the hours of the past week into understanding the meaning behind this groundbreaking discovery.

Why was there such a dramatic reaction to biological matter? Does this serve as a step forward in the direction of his dreams or does this eradicate all his original effort? Will he have to scour through every note he has written in the past decade to find something that explains this revelation?

And could it… Is it really you?

The runes scribbled on his notepad may as well have been chicken scratch. Despite his unwavering intelligence, he still cannot piece together the meaning of the characters the Hexcore had given him. At this point, translating a mere syllable would be enough for Viktor to shout “eureka!” from the highest building in Piltover.

“Viktor.”

Time stands still.

The voice that permeates through the office is almost strangled, as though his brain can’t quite grasp what the voice actually sounds like. Still, it is an elegant conundrum of the most ethereal music he has ever heard. And he knows, he just knows where this beautiful melody has perfused from.

Oh, Y/N.

My angel. My dearest.

His brain begs for him to turn around and bless his vision with what he knows will be the most perfect sight he’ll ever witness. His body, however, has been reduced to that of a frozen statue, completely stiff and still.

“Look at me.”

The demand falling from your tongue erases all of that.

His body seems to move on its own, beginning to slowly, breathlessly, turn around. He knows it will be too much for his weak body to endure, yet still, he cannot stop himself. It is as though you’ve plunged a hand into his nerves and began conducting his movements like a puppeteer.

Viktor finds you standing across the room and a sob is yanked from his chest. Your figure has personified in a mess of blinding brightness and confusing colors — a watercolor portrait detailing every speck of the word perfection. It strains his eyes to look at you. Yet still, he cannot bear to look away. Not now, not ever.

What is clear in his vision, though, is what you present in your hands. You hold the rusted boat he crafted as a child, with your fingers exploring the gears and cogs plastered against the scrap metal. As you fidget, you tread closer to where he sits. And with tears seeping down his face, Viktor watches your every move in absolute devastation.

“I’ve been searching for this for quite a while.” You hold the boat in an admirable presentation. “For you, as well.”

His heart exhales, almost. As though something had been digging their tight nails into the gooey tissue and finally, finally eased their grasp.

When you bend down beside him, glorious face just inches away from his, Viktor can truly feel his freed heart melting down to puddled nonsense. Your hand then finds his cheek and you cup his boney face in your palm. Your touch feels like fuzzy static from the devices he tinkers with. Electrifying, and most imperatively, warm.

“My beautiful masterpiece.” Your voice still remains a mellifluous scratch and punctures his soul with every timbre and tone.

He can’t help but feel small beneath your gaze. Like a nasty insect. Weak, immaterial, and easy. Skittering across your flesh and ensnaring his prickly limbs around this grand sugar cube he’s stumbled upon. He is something so trifling in comparison to you. Potent, imperative, and intricate. Exuding saccharin with every step you take and indifferent to this foul pest lapping up any sliver he can get.

“How could you let this drag on so long, Viktor?” You question. “You were cut from the cloth of my flesh. Soaked in the rivers of my blood. There is no you if not me. You and I are one.”

Viktor has been rendered to a man overcome with twitter-patted hysteria. He is shocked he is even still able to breathe, no less, maintain consciousness in a moment of such frenzied elation. No words escape him in response; all he can do is stare and revel at the sight he’s been slaving his entire life just to find a glance of.

Another euphoria-induced beat passes before you do the unthinkable. With a few measured glances to his mouth, Viktor watches in astonished rapture as your eyes flutter close and your mouth subtly parts. Then, you lean into him.

Just before your lips touch, impaling him with the inevitable exaltation he’ll surely die from, he blinks and finds himself face-down at his desk.

Reality may as well have slapped him across the face.

A light, delirious gasp leaps from him as consciousness settles in. Viktor finds his lips puckered against his knuckles, where drool seeps from the corner of his mouth and onto the notes beneath his head. He buries his face into his hands with a jagged, frustrated groan.

Dreaming of kissing the partner of his dreams, is he a teenager again? Then again, you’ve always had your clever ways of making him feel as such. This romantic disposition of his did not flourish until the later years of his adolescence, of which he assumed were the normal changes every young man faces. Then, as a mature adult, he can continue his efforts of translating the runes with complete clarity.

Bridging on almost two decades later, these feelings have yet to cease. Viktor is still horrifically and irrevocably in love. Not even the promise of heaven could help fizzle out these emotions. What is heaven compared to you, anyway?

He peeks his gaze through the creases of his fingers and finds he had fallen asleep on his planner. In the ink (now diluted and splotched from drool), he finds the date of the fundraiser he had promised Jayce to attend. With a glance at the clock, he realizes he has several minutes to prepare himself until the event begins. Another groan rumbles from his throat.

All Viktor wants is to return to the dreamscape of your enchanting words and magic-spun lips. Is that too much to ask for?

Dusk has now begun to fade down the horizon, illuminating the artwork of Mel Medarda in a scintillating glow. The art is irrelevant to all, however, as scientists and engineers across the globe have traveled here to sell their million-dollar ideas to Piltover’s greatest investors.

Viktor now stands behind Jayce as they saunter through the gallery, stifling a grunt with every dry conversation he’s unnecessarily dragged into. The scientist they’ve found themself shackled in a conversation with trails on about his success in other nations. He is quite famous for his fruitful discoveries and resolute intelligence, but Viktor could not care less about what this stranger has to offer them.

Standing here, idle chatter and rich laughter perfusing from every corner, all Viktor can find himself thinking of is you. He juggles with the reality of the previous events, trying to differentiate whether it was another sugar-spun dream or a message sent straight from your pen. He’s never had a dream so explicitly vivid before, after all. Could it have been a sign? Was this your reciprocation? Do you truly possess the same feelings for him as he does for you?

“That sounds incredible. Doesn’t it, Viktor?”

A nudge from Jayce and Viktor is barely yanked back to reality.

“Ehh, yes. Yes, it does…”

Without another click, Viktor then returns to his favorite place: the thought of you.

That dream was the encapsulation of his greatest desires falling into his palms. The only proof he has that it was an actual dream and not reality were the current speeds of his fluffed-out heart. To witness you through his naked eye, to feel the genuine touch of your hand, to mold his needful lips against yours — it would kill him instantly. The fact that he is still alive now is all the evidence Viktor needs to realize that, unfortunately, it was just another dream in a sea of thousands.

This does not halt his brain from soaking in the contents of his dream, however. All he could think about in the midst of this stupid cocktail party was your face, your body, your voice. God, could there be anything so indubitably perfect in this world?

And your kiss, oh, the things Viktor would do to receive such vehement affection. Your presence is enough to kill him, yes, but your kiss would revive him, just to kill him all over again.

A delicious juxtaposition between life and death — that is what you are made of. This lethal, intoxicating essence swims through your veins and weeps from your soul; it is a weapon any sane man would be ecstatic to succumb to. Viktor surely would, he has no hesitation with his judgment. He merely thinks of your face and is moments away from collapsing to his knees.

A server treads by with a platter hoisted over their shoulder. On the surface are several gold-painted champagne glasses. Viktor has no second to think before the server is shoving one of the glasses into his hands, no regard for his resistance.

He makes the motion to grasp the server's attention and return the glass, but something about it stops him. Twirling the glass in circles and watching the liquid swirl with the motions, he finds himself entranced. Viktor has never been one to drink alcohol, as it does more harm than good for his feeble body. With this glass now in his hand, he can’t prevent himself from contemplating the flavor. And perhaps the flavor could even be similar to you, maybe.

Would your kiss be as smooth as the thick liquid? Would it sting like the bubbling effervescence of the champagne? Just like the bolts of fervent electricity he garnered from the Hexcore? Would it be rich? Sour? Sweet? Maybe a mouthwatering collision no one has ever tasted before?

Viktor’s mouth waters as these thoughts invade his brain. If he were correct, he’d bottle the essence and get himself drunk on the taste for eternity. Even if it was poison, he would welcome the paradisiacal venom with a sun-bright smile.

Just before his lips meet the edge of the champagne glass to truly test what his angel may taste like, something captures his attention.

The words “Hextech” and “sell” should never exist within the same sentence, yet Viktor hears them crystal-clear from the mouth of this scientist. All bubbly, blissful nonsense frolicking through his mind is brought to an abrupt cut.

Viktor has caught the man halfway through a proposition regarding the sake of Hextech.

“Just between us scientists, you can tell me the truth. You’re surely getting nowhere with your experiments in that cramped office, no?”

Viktor tries to intrude and bring an end to the idea before it is even spoken aloud, but he is rudely interrupted.

“Imagine how much prosperity and success you can bring to the Hextech name with me there! All the profit you’d earn with my skills and experience.”

His nails dig violently into his palm as he drags on with his proposition. Like hell will he let some greedy capitalists put his hands on what sliver he has of you. It hurt to simply let Jayce touch the Hextech materials, despite the fact they were originally in his possession in the first place. To send it overseas to god-knows-where would wound him in ways he would never heal from.

A brutal rejection bridges on Viktor’s tongue. Maybe even a foul remark to add insult to injury. When he glances at Jayce, however, he finds the man's expression to be scrunched into puzzlement. Almost as though he were considering this scientist's offer.

A sharp shatter then pulsates through the room.

Viktor looks to his hand and finds he had shattered his glass in the height of his fury, cold champagne seeping down his folded sleeves.

A few partygoers fall silent and look at the sudden intrusion of volume, but soon return to their chit-chat when nothing feasible comes from the noise. Jayce, on the other hand, wastes no time in trying to inspect the glass shards punctured into Viktor’s pale palms. He yanks himself away before he can place a finger on him, however.

“No!” Viktor asserts.

He is not embarrassed of his outburst, either, despite how composed he presents himself to be. Not when you are on the line. How could he ever remain calm with this prospect knocking on his door?

A sharp glare to Jayce and the man begins fumbling through an explanation.

“I-I never said we would take the offer, just that-”

“Just what, Jayce?”

Viktor’s voice increases in volume. Eyes follow, but he does not care.

“It-It’s just… I’m worried, Viktor. You are clearly not in good shape and I don’t think the future of-”

Viktor swings his frail arm behind him before surging it toward Jayce’s face.

The punch does not land, as Jayce dodges it with ease, ultimately resulting in Viktor to trip over his leg. He lands on the marble floors with a violent thud, piercing pain spreading through his sensitive body upon impact.

All eyes are locked on the two now, hushed whispers drifting through the silent room. As fast as it had begun, it was now over.

Jayce attempts to assist his partner, but Viktor bluntly slaps his helping hand away and brings himself to his feet. If he has proved anything over the past decade, it is not Jayce he needs. It is you and only you. When he is met with the possibility of losing you, he cannot restrain the rampant, infuriated emotions coursing through his bloodstream.

Viktor then limps out of the building with rage still perfusing from him like a thick perfume. Jayce acquiesces, but does not attempt to follow his lab partner. The Talis name cannot be tarnished, after all.

He apologizes to the scientist with shame plastered across his expression. With a paranoid glance over his shoulder, he speaks in hushed tones and proposes the topics they spoke of beforehand.

Meanwhile, Viktor hastens to the sanctity of his home. It is the only safety he has been nestled with in the trajectory of his life. It is all done by your hand, as his home is where you are. Yes, with a slyly-sewn excuse, he was granted permission to keep the Hexcore in his possession, of which he wasted no time in snagging away. Now, he will protect and nurture this fragment he has of you by whatever means necessary.

Viktor soon trudges past the threshold adjacent to his living room, the mahogany doors creaking as he does so. Sauntering through, he is then met with an instantaneous peace.

His library is the place he possesses the utmost pride for, since all books present have been written by his hand. Here, every etch of ink correlates to you.

You are not something he can contain within the whorls of his mind, no. You must be expressed in any form of physicality Viktor can garner. Writing assists him in translating the runes, but it also serves as another desperate attempt to assure himself you are real and not just some psychic phenomenon he experienced as a child. You are real, you must be. You do not have a choice.

Many of the books detail your physicality, as much as his fuzzy, muddled brain can decipher. Other books are unorganized gibberish regarding your whereabouts. The runes, the crystals, the Hextech — all this science is just stepping stones leading him closer to you.

The other pieces, the more hidden ones, are for more frivolous exertions. Nights when these fantasies cloud his mind, he jots them down in messy splotches of ink and marvels at the ideas he bleeds onto paper. Said ideas are too intimate for him to revisit without flushing like a young boy stepping into the world of puppy-love. Nonetheless, they assuage him on the lonelier nights cramped in his office.

All of these books overwhelm the several isles of shelves within the grand library. Through the warm wood and soft lamplights, Viktor rushes past and does not bother to drag his thin fingers across the leather spines, as he usually does in admiration of his work. Instead, he rushes to the set of double-doors opposite to the other doorway.

Through this entrance is his at-home office; the room in which most of his time is spent. The area is nothing short of dull, but serves its purpose — that being supporting Viktor’s hard work and delusional fits.

That is certainly the case now, as the man chucks his cane to the ground and collapses onto a neighboring sofa. The materials are bristly and jut into his skin uncomfortably, but he cannot find it within himself to care. Not when his precious Hextech is at risk of being sold off like livestock. Not when you are moments away from being shoved onto a ship and sent overseas.

“Ridiculous. Selling you? How dare he even consider it!”

Viktor’s gaze finds the rolling chalkboard situated just beside his desk. On the green surface is a sketch of your face, drawn perfectly centered in the mess of numerous equations and jotted formulas.

“There is not enough money in the world- in the galaxy for me to even consider disposing of you!”

He stands to feet, wobbling slightly, before he limps over the chalkboard. He rests a gentle palm upon the surface where your cheek would be.

“No… Never you…”

Viktor had not realized how shockingly realistic the drawing of you was until this moment. All the hours spent sketching your face have resulted in him becoming quite savvy in his artistic abilities, as it shows, to a degree where he finds himself captivated with the sight. As though you were standing right before him, just as you were in his dreams.

“Never you…” His thumb caresses the jut of your traced cheekbone. “Perfect, magnificent you…”

With a light thud, his weary head lands against the board, where your foreheads align. From here, the neglected taste of champagne then returns to his memory. Truly, how would you taste? What emotions would he be flooded with if his dreams weren’t so rudely halted?

Viktor is now breathing heavily before the chalkboard, practically panting against the rugged surface. The idea of kissing you is not foreign by any means, but as he is still fresh out of the arms of his fuzzy dreams, his body cannot restrain itself from reacting dramatically to the concept.

He then presses a languid kiss to your chalk-drawn mouth. Sure, the surface may not have the softness and jagged texture he is certain you possess, but the concept alone is enough to get his heart burning.

Viktor’s mind becomes overwhelmed with the thought of you, like some hungry parasite latched into the fleshy grooves of his brain. How you’d taste, like lapping up the juice seeping from the forbidden fruit. How you’d feel, like the warm blanket of heaven’s clouds embracing him. Viktor is overwhelmed with the contemplation of everything; all the madness and repose that would follow with your lips on his.

The kiss hastens, until he begins utilizing his tongue in the state of vehemence. Thick chalk pervades through his mouth, but he is too far muddled by the fantasies bleeding through his head to pay any mind. He is messy and inexperienced with his mouth, yes, but the feverish need seared into his affections eradicates any nervous ticks or fearful hesitation.

Viktor’s efforts are abruptly cut short when he is overwhelmed by a coughing fit. He failed to anticipate how his fragile body would react to the thick chalk. It is an inevitability he should have realized sooner, had he not been so blissfully blinded by the imaginary, dusty lips of his lover.

What was expected as a few coughs to rid his throat of the dust resulted in him choking on rugged gags. His body slams against the surface of his desk as a desperate means for support.

Blots of hot blood and chunks of chalk amalgamate and splatter out from his retches. Far too light headed to notice, a few drops of this excess land on the Hexcore. Immediately, it begins pulsating with new life. From this vibration, a heavenly aura of violet and blue perfuses and sways in languid circles. A new set of runes he has never seen before join the cloud of color, which spell out incomprehensible letters as they glisten and churn.

This sudden change soon grasps Viktor’s attention, who is now met with a new sense of clarity upon discerning the sight. When the revelation simmers, he may as well have died right at his desk.

“Oh, dearest…” A wide, almost manic smile stretches on his thin face. “Is it me you need?”

The emotions swarming through his body have rendered him weak, but he has never known strength like he does in this moment. Viktor should have known from the beginning: you have always been calling out to him. It was never the measly plants that triggered a reaction, it was him! It was always him!

And so fervently will he give himself over to you. Whatever it is you desire, Viktor will personally deliver on a golden platter. He will be your warrior and your servant; he will set the world ablaze to ensure your happiness.

“Y/N… I promise…”

Viktor collapses before he can bring this new revelation to fruition.

The sounds of a robotic beeping is what greets Viktor next. The steady rhythm guides him as consciousness pervades his body. Through his blurry vision, he finds white walls, white floors, and himself in a white bed beneath white sheets. Everything is stale in its dull, depressing appearance.

Turning his heavy head, he finds a figure seated beside him with their head buried in their hands. A glimmer of hope sparkles through him.

“Y/N?”

Jayce raises his head with sharp speed and Viktor is met with acute disappointment. He fails to notice the trepidation and pity in his partner's eyes.

“Viktor… The doctors, they, uh, they said…”

He sinks further into the mattress. His goals, his dreams, everything he has ever wanted — none of it will be his.

Even beneath the weight of shocked grief, all that permeates through his weary head is you.

The runes inked on your flesh, how he’ll never caress them. The crooked frame of your smile, how he’ll never earn it. The contours of your jagged hands, how he’ll never hold them. The symphony of your musical voice, how he’ll never hear it. Viktor will never be able to have the one thing that matters most to him and this fact punctures him worse than any weapon forged by man.

“I-I know- I know you don’t want to hear this right now, but…”

Viktor’s waiting gaze deepens. “But…?”

Jayce’s eyes dart around the room, searching for something other than Viktor’s eyes to look at. With a deep breath, he breaks the silence.

“Hextech is going nowhere, Vik. We just keep finding ourselves at dead ends and clearly, it's taking a toll on-!”

“Wait, what are you suggesting?”

“What I’m saying is…”

Jayce stammers before finding the words to speak.

“Some scientists arrived overseas and I gave them a tour of our office. I think we should-”

“You what!?”

“I-I just showed them around and they provided some guidance. All I’m saying is that I think it’d be best for us to-”

“Absolutely not! I will not give up Hextech!”

The beeping of his heart monitor accelerates.

“You’re not listening, Vik. There is no you, anymore.”

Beep, beep, beep.

“What is that supposed to mean!?”

Beep, beep, beep.

“With how much… time you have left, I-I made the decision to give your role to one of the scientists.”

Beep, beep, beep, beep.

“I’m sorry it had to be like this.”

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.

“No, no, Jayce. Please- Please don’t do this.”

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.

“I’m sorry, but I promise this is for your own good.”

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.

“I will do- I’ll do anything, Jayce, don’t- don’t do this to me!”

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.

“There’s nothing I can do, Vik. It’s out of my hands.”

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beepbeepbeep.

“We’ll be collecting the Hexcore from-”

BeepbeepbeepBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP-

“I WON’T LET YOU HAVE THEM!”

Viktor falls to the tiled floor, his shout spurting out like a glass shatter. Sharp and ragged, it is a tone he cannot recognize; the picture frame displaying the heart-shattering devastation of his unmet dreams.

The tubes strapped to his narrow limbs snap and spring into the air. Tears seep down the jagged juts of his cheekbones. Viktor’s slender, ghastly fingers grip the edge of the bed frame and he drags his limp body forward. Crusted fingernails dig into the ankles of Jayce, who abruptly stands from his seat and cowers away from the crazed man.

“They’re mine!”

The door bursts open and a gaggle of nurses and doctors follow the intrusion. They swarm into the scene like a school of fish darting away from the jaws of a great-white. Before Viktor can merely blink, they ensnare their hands around his thin body and restrain him to the cold ground. Despite his resistance, the needles of their syringes glint in the glow of the lamp.

Jayce mumbles another apology under his breath before he scurries away from the mess he has made.

The night passes quietly. So quietly, in fact, the staff that had stuffed Viktor with needles before had forgotten of his existence altogether. The door to his room has remained closed since their departure, and obliviously, they remain unaware of what remains beyond that threshold.

Just after the clock strikes three, the door peers open. A tiny squeak perfuses through the lengthy halls of the hospital, but the quiet night does not react to this intrusion. A head of brown hair peeks out from the opening. Assuring the coast is clear, Viktor takes a careful step out. He takes another, then once more, before he finds himself in a hurried limp out of the premises.

The streets are cold and unforgiving. Every street lamp and drunk pedestrian has his heart hammering. The sight of a horribly-emaciated man in a hospital gown will surely raise a few eyebrows, but nonetheless, he perseveres. As he stated before, nothing else matters when it is you on the line.

Viktor soon reaches the doors of his home. He wrestles with the key momentarily before the lock clicks and he’s barreling through the entrance. It is a weakened effort, but he rushes through his home and arrives at his office. When he finds his beloved equipment safe and sound, he releases a pent-up sigh of relief. His lanky hand rests upon the arm of the neighboring couch, as his body is just mere inches away from sinking into unconsciousness.

Viktor’s gaze, swaying with dizziness, then finds the rendition of your face he sketched on the chalkboard (which has since been smudged by the works of his mouth, but not that he’ll ever admit that to anyone). In a dazed attempt at finding your chalk-ridden lips again, Viktor begins to limp over to the chalkboard. In his efforts, his weak body fails him and his hands reach for his desk to maintain his balance. Here, he is greeted by the sight of the Hexcore, still glistening and pulsating with its hues of blue and violet. Still beautiful as ever, he thinks to himself.

He sits himself in the adjacent chair and continues to marvel at the runes illuminating the dim room. Viktor’s brain, always hungry, then treads toward the runes etched into your flesh, spelling out the same vocabulary scribbled across his desk.

As a child, he always wanted to be you. His mother often found him etching these runes with markers across his arms and legs, scolding him as she scrubs the doodles. As an adult, however, he found he’d rather be with you. Now, those inked stains have since washed away and he can’t help but ponder over their permanence.

An idea then flickers in his brain.

Viktor grasps the letter opener left languidly on the surface of his desk. With a few rushed breaths of fear, restless assurances begin permeating his brain. He no longer has a choice anymore. A second more of waiting and you’ll be ripped from his weak hands like candy from a baby. Spending his entire adolescent years without you was torturous enough. To do so for the rest of his lifetime will kill him before this illness does.

He faces this revelation head-on and begins reminiscing about the day he spoke to you. The day you truly spoke to him, no dreams or fantasies in sight. When you grasped one of the plants on his desk and gifted them life, before scribbling out a message just for him.

“SAN T RY”, you spelled out in magic runes.

Forever the mad scientist he is, Viktor has dissected every scratch and itch of this rune, trying so desperately to decode your letter. Now, things are different. There is no ‘tomorrow’ to start anew, there are no more second chances. All he has left is tonight. And he will stop at nothing to understand the words you whispered to him.

The tip of the letter opener punctures into his thigh with a wet squelch. A muffled groan of pained agony fights against his clenched teeth as he finishes carving the first character. Then, Viktor moves onto the next. Moist blood seeps down his thighs and spills onto the marble floors as he continues, spreading like the excess of a thick soup.

Sweat cascades across his body. His legs begin to quiver. The blistering ache almost becomes a second home. Still, Viktor refuses to relent and soon, he sits in a pool of his warm, oozing blood and gapes at his work of art. Sloppily engraved into his pale-white flesh are deep-red incisions spelling out your last distinguishable message.

A sense of pride fills his chest at the prospect of displaying his level of reverent devotion to you. At the prospect of earning his place at your side, to a degree where the pain seems like an afterthought. Huffs of lightheaded, delirious laughter fill the empty silence. Unbeknownst to him, a lazy finger makes contact with the Hexcore.

The Hexcore then begins to tremble, palpitating like the speeds of Viktor’s heavy heart. A light then floods from the runes and drowns the room in its blinding effort. Through the flashes of white, Viktor is overwhelmed with visions of an uncharted territory. Tall trees align the edges of a pathway, where whispers of incomprehensible incantations dance with the cold winds.

“SAN T RY”, the phrase that has haunted him for weeks, finally receives its final pieces.

A few bolts of prismatic lightning from the Hexcore and the word “SANCTUARY” glistens in a blinding presentation on his thigh.

And without another second wasted, that is exactly where he rushes to.

On the outskirts of the Under-City, Viktor stands at a clearing in a deep, overgrown forest. The trees that swayed in his vision from before are identical to those here, aligning the path he has been treading on. Blood continues to hasten down his thighs and into the dirt beneath his bare feet. Despite the searing pain, he continues forward. With the inevitability of losing you just upon the horizon, no pain in the world could falter his efforts now. The fear is more formidable than any torture he could endure.

As he continues limping forward, the ground suddenly begins to rumble violently. The force of it sends him to his knees, his frail hands digging into the soil for stability. A whirlwind then sprouts from the ground, forming a thick cloud of dirt and wind around him. Viktor cowers into himself in a desperate attempt at protection.

This tornado accelerates and spreads, engulfing him in its entire wrath. Roots then pierce out the soil and stretch into two tree trunks, chunks of dirt spattering upon the aggressive intrusion. The roots soar into the air and intertwine with one another, intricate grooves of warm brown slithering up their jagged bark. They soon meet and their limbs intertwine like two loving hands, forming an oval shape.

Just before he is sure the force of this whirlwind will take his body with it, the wind reaches its breaking point and bursts into the air. The storm has now been reduced to a gentle fog resting against the forest floor. The ground stops rumbling, the whirlwind eases, and Viktor can finally see the night sky in sheer clarity.

Trailing his vision forward, his attempts at standing are halted when he finds the newly-grown trees. The space within the oval has been filled by a sort of gray haze, almost like a portal. It is reminiscent of a surface of water, Viktor notes. Glistening like a midsummer lake beneath sunlight, with hues of violet and blue swirling around the edges. There are icicles descending from the leaves of the two trees like a weeping willow, as well, which sparkle in swaying hues of the same tones.

Scrutinizing further, Viktor is almost certain he can discern what lies beyond this newfound portal, but the mist is too distorted for him to reach a conclusion. When the image of you flickers through his mind, he garners strength he did not know he possesses. He then barrels past the threshold in animalistic speed. His vision is overwhelmed with a blinding white as he lands with a violent thump, before it eases back to its normal precision.

The clean pavement is harsh against his skin as he stands to his feet. Illuminated by heavy moonlight, Viktor finds himself on a quiet street. There are a myriad of shops and centers aligning the pathway as he saunters through. A library, a performance hall, an alchemist’s laboratory, a farmers market — an entire civilization has been cultivated right beneath the nose of the Under-City.

He limps over to several of the locations, pounding his fists on the door, calling out his lover's name, but none of his efforts are brought to fruition. Soon, he abandons his intention of entering the locked premises and continues onwards.

When he reaches the end of the street, Viktor discovers a tree that could touch the moon with its tall height. The trunk is almost as thick as a building with several holes punctured into the wood. From these holes, a blue and violet hued sap bleeds out and cascades into a fountain centered in front of the tree. Blossoming leaves adorned in these same colors stretch down from its branches and nearly graze the ground.

Through the leaves, golden lights flicker with warmth. Here, the broad branches of the colossal tree support the weight of several homes, all connected to one another with wooden bridges. One of the larger branches hidden beneath the canopy of leaves serves as a form of bridge. Surrounding this tree are towering mountains, which this bark-woven bridge leads to.

Viktor thought crossing the bridge to Piltover would reach the height of his amazement, but Topside riches have never left him this breathless. Then again, he has yet to find something that engrosses him with wonder the way you do.

When the tip of his foot collides with the edge of the fountain, he realizes he has been mindlessly wandering forward, too enthralled with the sights he has discovered to care for clarity. He attempts to scrutinize further, before his body is overcome with a sudden rush of lethargy. He collapses against the edge of the fountain and clings to the corners for stability. Blood seeps from his nose and oozes onto the pristine stone.

Before Viktor can scold himself for this disgusting weakness of his, two pairs of arms ensnare around his waist and hoist him to his feet. A sparkle of hope tells him it is you, but with flesh too smooth and bones too prominent, his delusions are brought to a halt before they could even run free. The appearance of these two remains a mysterious blur as they guide Viktor forward.

In his sluggish state, he watches his feet travel up the staircase wrapped around the trunk, limping past the lively houses, and across the bridge connecting the tree with the mountains. And passing this bridge was not reminiscent of his previous journey into Piltover, no. Had it not been these strangers keeping him upright, he’d have collapsed to his knees upon the newfound sight before him.

Nothing short of a palace has been built into the mountainside. Those familiar tones of blue and violet paint the expanse, accentuated with a rich gold. Stained glass windows reflect in the moonlight and irradiate the land in its colorful glow. Ensnaring the walls is a beautiful ivy, where Dusk-Petals and Moonflowers adorn the growing vines and blanket the intricate, elegant architecture.

A grand waterfall descends from the mountains above the palace and into the several rivers spreading throughout the land, meeting the fountain below in its journey, as well. The palace is almost a moat, but the sea of trees disturb any attempt of obtaining the title. The trees resemble the several he has already seen with drooping leaves and twinkling icicles, painting the land in heavenly hues of that familiar azure and violet.

It is far more extravagant and palatial than anything he has ever seen in Piltover. It is more grand than anything he has ever seen in his entire life, for the matter. He couldn’t conjure a better estate for you than this, as you deserve to rest in the pinnacle of luxury and opulence. And this palace is not lacking in those areas in the smallest slight.

Dragging forward (as Viktor has completely abandoned using his feet anymore), they pass through the stone-carved doors and enter the palace. Once through the entrance, Viktor begins to study the interior. And the interior is an almost perfect reflection of the exterior.

Blue and violet permeate the expanse through surrounding furniture and decor, most of which support the weight of art sculptures and trinkets Viktor fails to discern in his lethargic state. They go hand-in-hand with the spreading greenery, which you have evidently and happily allowed to perfuse throughout the entire place.

These details spread through the several twists and turns these helpful strangers drag Viktor through. They finally reach a halt in one of the numerous rooms.. Softly, they loosen their grasp and guide him to the ground. They promptly take their leave without a single word spoken.

A greenhouse is where he has found himself, he assumes. The walls and ceilings all consist of windows, with intricate white frames woven across all surfaces. The edges of the stone pathways beneath his feeble body are adorned with hedges and flowers, all varying in different colors. They compliment the wisteria drooping from several miniature trees, their thin branches adorned with several ornaments that exude a golden light.

Languidly bringing himself to his feet, once again, he finds one of the larger wisteria trees hovering over a pond. It resides in the corner with a small arrangement of rocks surrounding the edges, supporting the stream of a small waterfall leading into the pond. Here, birds surround the stream and bathe their feathers.

The embodiment of tranquility, that is how Viktor would describe this. He almost considers the possibility he had died in that hospital bed and this was the heaven waiting for him. All that is missing in his nirvana is you- oh, God, it’s you.

Simply shifting his gaze to the left, he finds a slab of stone residing in the middle of all this greenery. Upon the surface are several clay pots and cloth-woven bags overflowing with fertilizer. And tending to these products is no other than you.

A strange, overwhelmingly perfect light radiates from your body. Beneath this light, he finds you are draped in a cloak of varying adornments, all shimmering in opalescent hues. There are jewels and crystals sewn into your torso, pearls and wind chimes dangling off shoulders. There are feathers draped down your arms, with seashells aligning your ankles. Harp strings are woven around your every limb and tied into pretty knots. Your body is a centuries-old story told through the embellishments aligning your flesh.

And Viktor, oh Viktor.

No words could encapsulate the ethereal, deific, uncanny, godlike emotions this moment has overwhelmed him with.

There is no room to merely think with these feelings suffocating his brain. It is as though the melody of your love has swelled in their highest magnificence, the Dusk-Petals and Moonflowers blossoming into its most surreal beauty. It is the perfect moment.

Everything he has ever wished for conjured up into a single creature; the light at the end of the tunnel every sorry soul dreams of reaching — he almost doesn’t even believe it to be true. As though the creeping hands of his desires have ensnared their hands around his throat, allowing him one last morsel of illusory bliss before his life fades.

When you then turn over your shoulder, blessing him with the sight of your beautiful, tragically beautiful face, there is no denying the authenticity. This moment leaves a harsh toll on his physical state, as well.

Viktor’s eyes begin to roll back into his skull, but he strives against the force to continue indulging his vision in this glorious sight. Nausea pulsates in his stomach like a wrangling insect, but a few hard swallows keep the sickness at a weak bay. His knees tremble, threatening to buckle once again, but he maintains his posture with acute effort.

It is a battle against him and his body, of which inevitably, leads to failure. Throat pulsing with gagged coughs, Viktor then leaps to the ground and finds a nearby, empty plant pot. He empties his guts into the container. The excess looks like coffee grounds; all blood-stained and chunky. Guilt and shame are expected, but they have no room to thrive. Not when you are here.

He is, in fact, met with the very opposite when he watches from his periphery as you tread closer and bend down to his level. Weakness overwhelms him as he begins to digest more of your physicality. His body sways again from the weight of it all, beginning another descent back to the ground. You halt the motion by catching his cheek in your palm. The effort is enough to set his skin aflame, with a simultaneous bitter chill tickling down his spine.

His body is overwhelmed with these suffocating emotions, but is also blissfully light and peaceful. Horrifying euphoria stirred with devastating tranquility — a delicious juxtaposition.

And the way Viktor looks at you could rival the most devoted of religious followers finding the face of heaven. Eyelids lazy and drooping, framing the glassy tears building in his honey-brown eyes. His gaze is buried into you, more attentive than he has ever been with his brows furrowed into a weak, stuttering curl. Mouth hung agape in fervent shock, drool pools on his tongue and his bottom lip trembles like a child who skinned their knee.

He doesn’t even think before he’s leaning in to kiss you.

“This was not an easy effort, I can imagine.”

His intentions are bluntly interrupted, yes, but he could not have imagined a better way to be halted. A deific incantation, a call straight from heaven, a harmony the world's best musicians have devoted their whole lives trying to emulate — that is how Viktor would best describe the tones that drift from your lips. In fact, your voice catches him off guard to such an aggressive degree, he forgets he had even tried to foolishly kiss you in the first place.

“If I may ask, how did you find us?”

A flurry of words drift through Viktor’s head, toppling out of his mouth through stuttering gasps and pathetic attempts at the human language. It all becomes a mess of English and his mother tongue the further Viktor trails on of how he found the sanctuary, his first encounter with you as a child, and all the turmoil he gleefully endured just for this moment. Sprinkled in with gallons upon gallons of praise, of course.

There is some clarity, however. Fragments, albeit, but he does manage to establish coherency. One statement strikes abundantly clear.

“My Y/N, there is not a line in the world that I would not cross for you.”

And of course, inevitably…

“I love you.”

Those three words, heavier than the world he’s been blessed to stand on with you, continuously tumble out of his mouth. Viktor repeats the same sentiment again and again and again, each time possessing the same heart-shattering devastation.

You do not react, however. Despite his wishes for you to be overcome with euphoria upon receiving his confession of devotion, all you do is stare. You do not return his affection, either, but he is too muddled to notice this.

“You work beside Jayce Talis, correct?”

Viktor’s eye twitches. A flicker of betrayal catches flame, but the ignition is weak.

“Then, I am sure you have heard the Council speak about the influx of ‘Shimmer’, as they have titled it.”

The jealousy (that failed to overpower the miserable rapture, albeit) is eased instantly. If it is not Jayce you are concerned with, then what is it about Shimmer that has engrossed his beloved so?

“As gutted as I am to admit my faults, I am partially responsible for this distribution.”

Through the distorted daze of Viktor’s jubilation, he clings to your every words. You? Y/N? A drug lord? This does not make any sense…

“I am not aware how, but someone has grasped possession of my Dusk-Petals. They are only bred at my hand, so I fail to understand where they have retrieved them, but nonetheless, they have obtained them. They have derived the possessive component of my Dusk-Petals and have utilized the essence as the major component in this “Shimmer”. All for the sake of power and profit.”

Not a word is uttered from Viktor as your explanation settles. His darling has been so overcome with guilt and he was so oblivious! He attempts to scavenge the power to adorn you in reassurances, but beneath the weight of your light, he might as well have been a lifeless corpse on the stone pavements of your greenhouse.

“If I had a…”

Your gaze returns to his, expectantly. He nods along dumbly to every word parting from your mouth.

“Messenger, of sort, I may garner the opportunity to halt the expansion of this poison.”

A gasp, equivalent to that of one witnessing a murder, flees from Viktor’s chest. Yes, yes, yes, a million times, yes!

“Oh, my Y/N, you do not have to ask! Of course I will help you!”

He attempts to scoot closer to you, practically throwing himself into your warm arms. You hinder this effort.

“You… Y/N, you could shatter this entire world to nothing but scattered shards and I would crawl over the sharp glass with utter elation! As long as I can deliver whatever demand you send directly into your palms, I will do it all with a smile-!”

He interrupts himself with a coughing fit, rendered breathless from his own blabbering. He scrambles to wipe his hand of the inevitable blood that has spattered from his throat. In this effort, however, he is startled to find no blood at all. Not even a mere drop.

His gaze returns to you in all your heavenly form. You return his gaze, almost knowingly. His body cannot resist just melting beneath your attention.

“I love you, sweet angel.” Viktor confesses for the umpteenth time. “I cannot feel anything but my love for you.”

Your expression remains blunt and calm, as it remains stagnantly. Nothing short of utterly bewitching.

“Very well.”

Like the triumph of a curtain call, Viktor’s dreams have come true: to heal and obtain strength. After an entire lifetime, he is finally strong. Here, beneath the light of you, everything sings.

Now, his dreams have shifted. Viktor will be your loyal warrior.

No matter what it takes.

⁺ 🎧 , 🪷 you are currently listening to . . . ⁺ 🪺 , 🎵 ꪆ

❝ I WILL LOVE YOU TILL I DIE AND

I WILL LOVE YOU ALL THE TIME . . . ❞

gif creds.

(you are free to imagine Y/N however you’d like to. nonetheless, this and this were my inspiration for what Y/N looks like, in case you were wondering. (nothing adhering to the gender or physicality, just their style and character!)).

tag list: @honey-beeuwu @mrprettycom @makangelo @thelonelyme @solavily @eldritch-bunny @decaffeinatedclodbagelweasel @orbitingmarswithp @frickidyfrog @phantomdomi @mermaidm0tel6 @numbu5 @applepinsss @anon34570 @biohazardousbunny @vogelaqwry @lorely788 @mellowangeltree @myathegoat @alix-37 @lavandercinnamon @vrnicky @mellowfishauthoreggs

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averagetransdaughter · 19 days ago

Text

Thunder crackles outside, the pitter-patter of rain rattling against the roof. On this night—as with every stormy night—a daughter has come to her mother for some measure of safety.

Or at least that's what she's trying to project.

"Mom," she says, "can I sleep with you tonight? The storm is scaring me."

Nothing is scaring this girl tonight. The only reason that her heart is thumping in her chest is because of the fact that her mom is half-asleep, near naked underneath the covers.

"Huh..?" Her mom yawns, "Sure sweetie, whatever you want."

Those three words always sent shivers down her spine.

Underneath the covers she goes, two warm bodies now simmering underneath a thick blanket. Her mom's ample cleavage is almost visible beyond her shoulders, close enough to grab—to grope. An ass that she only ever sees in glimpses on windy days is just underneath the blanket, cast in darkness.

It takes everything in her power to stop herself from panting each time a flash from outside gives her a glimpse into what was hidden. Each time she sees her mom's thick, wobbly ass illuminated by lightning.

Every time the light goes out, she swears that she'll take what she wants next time around.

#consang #momcest #momcon #yuricest

244 notes · View notes

lila-lou · 2 months ago

Text

✨Taking her in - Pt. 7✨

Summary: After Dean Winchester saves your life, he brings you into the safety of the bunker. As you grow older and stronger, Dean refuses to let you join the hunts, his overprotective behavior intensifying. But beneath his fierce protectiveness lies something darker—conflicted feelings he can’t face. As your 18th birthday approaches, Dean struggles to keep control, torn between his duty to protect you and emotions he’s buried for too long.

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: HUGE Age Gap, Immoral, Underage Reader, Language, angst, fluff

Word Count: 7413

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. 💜

Around 3 in the morning, you were abruptly awakened by a loud clap of thunder that rattled the windows and reverberated through the small motel room. Your heart jumped in your chest, the sudden noise yanking you out of the comforting embrace of sleep. The storm outside was fierce, the wind howling and the rain pelting against the glass like tiny hammers. Another flash of lightning illuminated the room for a split second, followed by another deafening boom that seemed to shake the walls.

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your breathing, but the fear that gripped you was almost paralyzing. Thunderstorms had always terrified you, something you’d never quite been able to shake. It was irrational, you knew that, but the fear was real and overwhelming.

You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, trying to bury yourself in its warmth, but the noise was too loud, the flashes of lightning too bright. Sleep seemed impossible, your mind racing with every crash of thunder. You lay there, your body tense, your heart pounding in your chest, desperately wishing the storm would pass quickly.

Dean was still beside you, his presence a small comfort even though he was fast asleep. You could hear his steady breathing, a calm rhythm that contrasted sharply with the chaos outside and the turmoil inside you. You wanted to wake him up, to ask for comfort, but you hesitated, not wanting to disturb him. You knew he’d probably brush off your fears as something silly, and the last thing you wanted was to feel even more vulnerable.

But as another flash of lightning lit up the room, followed by a particularly loud clap of thunder, you couldn’t help the small whimper that escaped your lips. The sound was so quiet, you weren’t sure if Dean had heard it, but to your surprise, he stirred beside you.

Dean’s eyes fluttered open, his senses quickly alert despite the grogginess of being woken up in the middle of the night. He immediately noticed the tension in your body, the way you were gripping the blanket like a lifeline. His brow furrowed in concern as he turned toward you, his voice low and rough from sleep.

“(Y/N)?”, he murmured, reaching out to gently touch your shoulder. “You okay?”.

Another rumble of thunder shook the room, and you flinched, your body involuntarily curling in on itself. You didn’t answer right away, but your reaction was enough to make Dean understand. He had seen this before—the way you tensed up during storms, the way your bravado disappeared when faced with something as simple as the weather. He knew you’d never been able to shake that fear.

Without thinking, Dean shifted closer to you, his protective instincts kicking in. “Hey, it’s alright”, he said softly, his voice steady and reassuring. “It’s just a storm. You’re safe here”.

His words were simple, but they carried a weight that made you feel a little less alone in your fear. You still didn’t say anything, but when Dean’s hand slid from your shoulder down to your arm, giving it a comforting squeeze, you felt a small measure of relief.

Dean hesitated for a moment, then pulled you closer, his arm wrapping around your shoulders in a protective gesture. He didn’t make a big deal out of it, didn’t try to talk you out of your fear. He just held you, offering his silent support in the way that only Dean could.

You felt yourself relax a little, leaning into him, letting his warmth and the steady beat of his heart calm your racing thoughts. The storm was still raging outside, but with Dean’s arms around you, it didn’t feel as terrifying. You knew he was right—you were safe here, with him.

“Try to get some sleep”, Dean murmured, his voice close to your ear. “I’ve got you”.

You nodded against his chest, closing your eyes and focusing on the sound of his breathing, the feel of his arms around you. The storm was still there, but it seemed a little more distant now, its fury muted by the comfort Dean provided. And slowly, despite the thunder and the lightning, you felt yourself beginning to drift off again, safe in the knowledge that Dean was there with you.

The next morning, you woke up to the soft, golden light filtering through the thin curtains of the motel room. It took you a moment to orient yourself, the memory of the stormy night coming back to you in fragments—the loud thunder, the flashes of lightning, and the way Dean had held you close.

As your senses sharpened, you became acutely aware of how tightly you were pressed against Dean’s body. His arm was still draped around you, holding you close to his chest, and you could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing against your back. But there was something else too, something that made your heart race and your stomach churn in the best possible way: the unmistakable press of his morning arousal against you.

Your breath caught in your throat as you realized just how intimately the two of you were tangled together. The thin fabric of your sleep shorts and his sweatpants did little to diminish the sensation, and the heat of his body against yours was making it difficult to think clearly. Your mind raced with a mix of excitement, nervousness, and something deeper—something you weren’t sure you were ready to name.

Dean was still asleep, his breathing deep and even, oblivious to the effect he was having on you. But you couldn’t ignore the way your body was reacting to his, the way your heart pounded in your chest, the way your skin tingled where it pressed against his. You felt a surge of desire, so sudden and intense that it took your breath away. The rational part of your mind told you to move, to put some distance between you before he woke up and realized what was happening, but your body seemed unwilling to comply.

You lay there for what felt like an eternity, your thoughts spinning, your senses overwhelmed by the closeness of him. It was a heady, intoxicating feeling, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he would wake up soon—if he would feel what you were feeling.

Finally, you decided to move, as carefully as you could, trying not to wake him. But as you began to shift, Dean stirred slightly, his arm tightening around you for a brief moment before he relaxed again. You froze, holding your breath, waiting to see if he would wake up. When he didn’t, you let out a slow, shaky exhale, your heart still racing.

But even as you lay there, still pressed against him, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed between you—that the line you’d both been so careful not to cross was becoming more and more blurred. The weight of his arm around you, the heat of his body, the way you fit together so perfectly—it was all too much, and yet not enough.

Again you shifted slightly, trying to create some distance without waking him, but as you did, Dean stirred once more. This time, his hand flexed against your waist, pulling you closer in a subconscious move, as if he didn’t want to let go. Your breath hitched, the sensation of his body pressed more firmly against yours making your pulse quicken. The morning sunlight cast a warm glow across the room, but all you could focus on was the heat radiating from where your bodies touched, the undeniable connection that had formed between you.

Dean mumbled something incoherent in his sleep, his voice low and gravelly, and the sound sent a shiver down your spine. You wondered what he was dreaming about, if he was even aware of how close you were, how intimately you were wrapped around each other. Part of you wanted to wake him, to see how he would react, to know if he felt the same way you did.

Just as your thoughts began to spiral, you felt him stir again. His hand, which had been resting gently on your waist, tightened for a brief moment before his breathing changed, signaling that he was waking up.

Your heart pounded in your chest, the rush of adrenaline making it difficult to stay still. You felt the warmth of his breath on the back of your neck, and for a split second, you considered pretending to be asleep to avoid whatever awkwardness might come next. But before you could make a decision, you felt him shift behind you.

Dean blinked a few times, his mind still foggy from sleep as he became aware of the warmth pressed against him. It took him a moment to register that it was you, and when he did, his body tensed slightly, the remnants of sleep quickly fading as the reality of the situation settled in.

His grip on your waist loosened, his hand hovering as if he wasn’t sure whether to pull away completely or let it stay there. He was acutely aware of how close you were, the way your body fit perfectly against his, and the soft scent of your hair filling his senses. It was both comforting and maddening, stirring emotions in him that he had tried so hard to keep at bay.

“(Y/N)?”, Dean’s voice was husky with sleep, and you could feel the vibrations of his words against your back.

You swallowed hard, your mind racing as you tried to figure out how to respond without making things even more awkward. “Yeah?”, you whispered, your voice coming out softer than you intended.

Dean hesitated, his breath warm against your neck as he searched for the right words. “We should… uh… probably get up”, he said finally, though there was a reluctance in his tone that matched the conflict he was feeling inside.

You nodded, though you made no immediate move to pull away. Part of you didn’t want this moment to end, didn’t want to lose the closeness that had somehow brought you both a sense of peace, even if it was just for a little while. But you knew he was right—staying like this would only make things more complicated.

After a few more seconds of hesitation, you gently moved to sit up, feeling the loss of his warmth the moment you did. Dean followed suit, pushing himself up to a sitting position, his back leaning against the headboard. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, trying to shake off the lingering fog of sleep and the emotions that had come with waking up so intimately entwined with you.

The silence between you was heavy, filled with everything that neither of you were saying. You both knew that something had shifted, that the line between friendship and something more had become even more blurred. But neither of you seemed ready to confront it, at least not yet.

Dean cleared his throat, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “Sleep okay?”, he asked, his voice still a little rough.

You gave him a small, hesitant smile. “Yeah… I did”, you replied, your heart still beating a little too fast. “You?”.

Dean nodded, though he didn’t quite meet your eyes. “Yeah. Better than I expected, actually”.

The two of you sat there for a moment longer, the tension gradually easing as the reality of the new day began to set in. Whatever had happened between you during the night was something you would have to figure out eventually, but for now, there was an unspoken agreement to take things one step at a time.

Dean moved to get up, but as soon as he did, he became acutely aware of the uncomfortable tightness in his pants—a reminder of the arousal that had lingered from waking up so close to you. Panic flashed through him as he quickly turned his back to you, hoping you hadn’t noticed, or worse, felt anything. He mumbled something about needing to use the bathroom, his voice tight, before he practically fled the room.

Inside the bathroom, Dean closed the door behind him and let out a strained groan, leaning heavily against the sink for a moment. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror, his face a mix of frustration and something deeper—something he wasn’t ready to confront. The last thing he needed was to deal with this on top of everything else.

He forced himself to focus, to push the thoughts of you out of his mind as he moved to stand over the toilet, trying to will his body to relax. It was easier said than done, especially with the vivid memory of how it felt to have you so close, your body fitting perfectly against his in a way that made him ache with a longing he’d been fighting to suppress.

As he stood there, waiting for his body to calm down enough to actually pee, his thoughts kept circling back to you. He couldn’t shake the image of you lying there in bed, the warmth of your body pressed against his, the way you fit so perfectly in his arms. It had been so natural, so easy, that it scared him.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, the tension in his body began to ease, and he was able to relieve himself. But the frustration, the confusion, and the lingering desire were still there, gnawing at him as he washed his hands and splashed some cold water on his face, hoping to clear his mind.

He leaned against the sink again, staring down into the basin as he tried to collect himself. This wasn’t supposed to happen—not with you. You were too important, too close, and he couldn’t afford to let his feelings complicate things any further.

But as much as he tried to push those thoughts away, they kept coming back, stronger and more insistent than before. He knew he had to get a grip, had to figure out a way to deal with this before it spiraled out of control.

Taking a deep breath, Dean straightened up and ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the lingering frustration. He couldn’t avoid you forever, and he knew he’d have to face you again in just a few moments. He needed to act normal, to pretend like everything was fine, even if it was far from it.

With one last look in the mirror, Dean turned and headed back out into the motel room, hoping that whatever tension had built up between you two would ease with time—and that you hadn’t noticed just how affected he really was.

Half an hour later, the two of you were back in the car, the Impala rumbling to life as Dean turned the key in the ignition. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a warm, golden glow over the landscape, but inside the car, the atmosphere was still heavy with the unspoken tension from that morning.

You sat quietly in the passenger seat, your hands fidgeting slightly in your lap as you stared out the window. The events of the night before were still fresh in your mind—the way Dean had held you, the comfort you’d found in his arms, and the way the morning had brought a confusing mix of emotions that you were still struggling to process. The silence between you was thick, and you felt the need to say something, anything, to break it.

After a few moments of gathering your thoughts, you bit your lip and turned to look at Dean, your voice quiet and a little hesitant. “Thank you… for last night”, you mumbled, the words feeling both necessary and awkward at the same time.

Dean glanced over at you briefly, his expression carefully controlled, though you could see the hint of something softer in his eyes. He nodded, his gaze returning to the road ahead as he tried to find the right words. “You don’t have to thank me”, he said, his voice a bit gruff, but with an underlying gentleness. “I’m just glad I could help”.

You offered him a small, tentative smile, though the nervousness in your stomach didn’t entirely go away. “It… it really meant a lot”, you added, your fingers twisting together in your lap. “I don’t think I would have made it through the storm without you.”

Dean’s grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly, and he took a deep breath, trying to keep his own emotions in check. The truth was, holding you last night had meant more to him than he was willing to admit, even to himself. It had felt natural, right, in a way that both comforted and terrified him.

“Anytime”, he replied, his voice softer now, more sincere. He risked another glance at you, his heart clenching at the sight of your uncertain expression. “I mean that, (Y/N). I’m always here for you”.

The sincerity in his words made your heart ache in the best possible way, but it also made the tension between you even more palpable. You nodded, not trusting yourself to say anything more without revealing just how much his presence meant to you, how deeply you were beginning to feel for him.

The car fell into a more comfortable silence after that, the tension easing slightly as the two of you settled into the familiar rhythm of the road. But even as you drove, the unspoken emotions hung between you like a fragile thread, a connection that neither of you were quite ready to sever, but both were too afraid to fully embrace.

After a few hours of driving in relative silence, the sun had climbed higher in the sky, and the miles seemed to stretch endlessly before you. Eventually, the inevitable need to relieve himself forced Dean to pull the Impala to the side of the road.

As the car rolled to a stop, Dean gave you a quick glance before he muttered, “I´ll be right back” and opened the door. You nodded, using the opportunity to stretch your legs after being cooped up in the car for so long. The highway was quiet, a small mound of earth just off the road providing a bit of privacy.

You got out of the car and stretched your arms over your head, the muscles in your back and legs appreciating the movement. The air was fresh, with a light breeze that made you close your eyes for a moment and just breathe in. It was a simple moment, but it felt good after the emotional tension of the morning.

Dean walked a little way from the car, his back to you as he found a spot near the mound. You could see his broad shoulders relax slightly as he unzipped his jeans and spread his legs, taking care of business with as much privacy as the side of a highway could offer.

You turned your attention to the sky, letting your thoughts drift as you tried to process everything that had happened between you and Dean. The night before, the way you’d woken up in his arms, the tension that had followed.

Dean finished up and zipped his jeans, turning back toward you with a small, almost embarrassed smile.

Dean caught the small chuckle you let out as he walked back to the car, and it brought a slight smile to his face. The tension from earlier in the morning had started to ebb away, replaced by a more relaxed, easygoing atmosphere between the two of you. It was a relief, and Dean was grateful for the small moments of normalcy you both could find amidst everything else.

You shook your head slightly, still smiling, as you both climbed back into the Impala. As you settled into your seat, you pulled out your phone, checking for messages. Almost immediately, you saw a new notification from Sam, and as you opened it, you found a picture of him, Jody, and the girls sitting by a lake, their feet in the water. The sun was shining brightly, casting a warm glow over the scene, and you could almost feel the coolness of the water just by looking at it.

You couldn’t help but groan softly, a mix of envy and amusement tugging at you. “Look at this”, you said, turning the phone toward Dean so he could see the picture.

Dean glanced over as he started the engine, his smile widening at the sight. “Well, doesn’t that look like a postcard”, he commented, his tone light. “Guess we’re missing out on all the fun”.

“Yeah”, you agreed, a hint of longing in your voice. “But hey, at least they’re saving us a spot, right?".

Dean chuckled as he pulled back onto the highway, his gaze focused on the road ahead. “Yeah, they better. After this drive, I’m diving headfirst into that lake”.

You both laughed, the image of Dean cannonballing into the water flashing through your mind and making you grin. The thought of finally reaching your destination, of relaxing by the lake with everyone, felt like the perfect way to unwind after the emotional rollercoaster of the past few days.

As the miles continued to roll by, the conversation between you and Dean flowed more easily. The tension from the morning was still there, but it was quieter now, buried beneath the familiar rhythm of your interactions.

A few hours later, the conversation between you and Dean had settled into a comfortable silence, and the miles on the highway seemed to blur together as your eyes grew heavy. Before you knew it, you were drifting off, the tension from earlier melting away as sleep overtook you.

Dean glanced over at you occasionally, a small smile playing on his lips as he noticed you dozing off. He was glad to see you finally relaxing, especially after the morning you’d both had. The road stretched out before him, and for a while, he let you sleep, content to let the quiet moments pass by.

Eventually, the Impala’s fuel gauge dipped low enough that Dean decided to make a quick stop at a gas station. He pulled off the highway and into the small station, careful not to wake you as he filled up the tank. Afterward, he headed inside the convenience store, picking up a few snacks and, on a whim, a box of fries from the small fast-food counter.

By the time he got back to the car, you were still fast asleep, your head resting against the window, your breathing slow and steady. Dean couldn’t help but chuckle softly to himself as he got back in, the box of fries in one hand.

Leaning over slightly, he wiggled the box of fries in front of your nose, hoping the smell would rouse you. “Hey, wake up, Sleeping Beauty”, he teased, his voice gentle.

The smell of the fries hit your senses first, and you stirred, blinking groggily as you realized what had woken you up. It took a moment for your eyes to focus, and when they did, you saw Dean grinning at you, the box of fries practically under your nose.

“Figured you might be hungry”, he said, his tone light. “Can’t have you starving on me”.

You couldn’t help but smile, the combination of his teasing and the smell of the fries quickly shaking off the remnants of sleep. “You know, this is probably the best way to wake up”, you mumbled, your voice still a little thick with sleep as you reached for a fry.

Dean’s grin widened as he watched you eat, clearly pleased with himself. He snacked on a few fries himself, doing his best to keep his thoughts focused on the road and not on the complicated feelings that had been simmering beneath the surface for days. For a while, it worked. The peaceful drive, the light conversation, and the occasional shared smile all helped to maintain the calm atmosphere.

But as you both settled back into the rhythm of the road, the miles ticking by, you suddenly remembered something that had been on your mind. “Hey, Dean”, you started, your tone casual but tinged with a bit of excitement. “My birthday’s in two days, you know? I was thinking… is there any bar near the lake where we could celebrate? Maybe have a drink, or… I don’t know, just do something fun?”.

Dean’s grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly, the ease he had managed to maintain slipping just a bit at the mention of your birthday. He hadn’t forgotten, of course. The date had been on his mind for weeks, a constant reminder that you were getting older, that you were no longer the little girl he’d once known. But hearing you talk about it so casually, asking about celebrating at a bar, made it hit home in a way he hadn’t expected.

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to keep his tone light. “Yeah, I remember”, he said, glancing over at you with a small smile. “I’m sure we can find a place. There’s gotta be a bar or two around there where we can celebrate properly”.

Dean's grip on the steering wheel tightened further as he thought about what your upcoming birthday really meant. For most of your life, he had been able to push down the complicated feelings he harbored for you, chalking them up to his protective nature, to the bond you shared after everything you had been through together. But as your 18th birthday approached, those feelings had started to shift, to transform into something he had desperately tried to ignore.

He knew that once you were officially an adult, the line that had kept him in check for so long would blur so much more, and that terrified him. The idea of taking you to a bar to celebrate, of watching you step into adulthood, only made it worse. How was he supposed to protect you when he was fighting a battle within himself, a battle against feelings that he had no right to feel?

Dean stole a glance at you, taking in the excitement in your eyes, the way you seemed so eager to embrace this new chapter of your life. It should have made him happy, should have made him proud to see you growing up, becoming your own person. But instead, it filled him with a sense of dread and self-loathing that he couldn’t shake.

He had always been good at compartmentalizing, at pushing down the things that scared him, that made him uncomfortable. But now, with your birthday looming on the horizon, those feelings were becoming impossible to ignore. It was as if they had been lying in wait, biding their time until you were old enough for him to acknowledge them, and now they were threatening to overwhelm him.

Dean hated himself for it. He hated that he was even thinking this way, that he couldn’t just be happy for you without letting his twisted emotions get in the way. You were still the same person you had always been, the same person he had watched grow up, had protected and cared for. But now, everything was different, and it was his fault.

He forced himself to keep his voice steady, to keep the conversation light. “Yeah, we’ll find a place”, he repeated, his words almost mechanical. “We’ll make sure it’s a birthday you won’t forget”.

But even as he said it, the weight of what was unsaid hung between you, a silent reminder of the storm brewing inside him. Dean knew that he was walking a dangerous line, that he was playing with fire by letting these feelings fester. But he didn’t know how to stop it, how to go back to the way things were before everything had changed.

The rest of the drive passed in a blur, with Dean trying his best to keep the conversation focused on anything other than your birthday, anything other than the emotions that were threatening to spill over. He cracked a few jokes, talked about the music on the radio, anything to keep his mind off the one thing he couldn’t afford to think about.

But no matter how hard he tried, the thought of your birthday, of what it meant, lingered in the back of his mind, a constant reminder of the line he was dangerously close to crossing. And as much as he hated himself for it, he couldn’t help but wonder what would happen once that line was gone.

After what felt like an eternity on the road, the Impala finally pulled up to the lake house, its tires crunching softly on the gravel driveway. The clock on the dashboard read a little past 11 PM, and both you and Dean were exhausted from the long day of driving. The house was dark, save for the soft glow of a few outdoor lights, signaling that everyone else had already gone to bed.

You rubbed your eyes, feeling the weight of exhaustion pulling at you. The excitement you’d felt earlier in the day had long since faded, replaced by a bone-deep weariness that made it hard to keep your eyes open. You glanced over at Dean, who looked just as tired as you felt, his features drawn and weary from the hours behind the wheel.

“It took us way longer to get here than we thought”, you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep.

Dean nodded, his eyes still focused on the house. “Yeah, the drive was a beast”, he replied, his voice low and gravelly. He ran a hand over his face, trying to shake off the fatigue that had settled over him like a heavy blanket. “But we made it”.

You both sat there for a moment, neither of you moving to get out of the car. The quiet of the night was almost oppressive, broken only by the soft rustling of the leaves in the trees and the gentle lapping of the lake against the shore. The stillness of the house seemed to mirror the stillness between you and Dean, a calm after the storm of emotions that had raged through the day.

Finally, Dean let out a tired sigh and turned off the engine, the sudden silence inside the car making your ears ring. “Come on”, he said, his voice soft but firm. “Let’s get inside and get some sleep”.

You nodded, too tired to argue, and pushed open the car door. The cool night air hit you, waking you up just enough to gather your things from the backseat. Dean did the same, and together, you made your way up the front steps of the lake house, your footsteps muffled on the wooden planks.

The house was eerily quiet as you stepped inside, the only sound the soft creaking of the floorboards beneath your feet. The others were clearly already asleep, the living room empty, and the lights in the hallway dimmed to a soft glow. You were grateful for the quiet, for the chance to finally rest after the long day.

“Your room’s the first one on the left”, he said, gesturing down the hallway. “Mine’s across from it. Get some rest, alright?”.

You nodded, your body already craving the comfort of a bed. “You too, Dean”, you replied, offering him a small, tired smile.

You and Dean exchanged a final, weary look before you both headed to your respective rooms. The weight of the day pressed down on you like a heavy blanket, and all you could think about was getting out of your clothes and into bed as quickly as possible.

Once inside your room, you wasted no time. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, you began to strip off your clothes, letting them fall carelessly to the floor. Your limbs felt heavy, your movements slow as exhaustion pulled at you. Within seconds, you were down to just your underwear, the cool air of the room brushing against your skin as you crossed over to the bed.

The bed was soft, the sheets cool against your warm skin, and you let out a sigh of relief as you crawled under the covers. The day’s events swirled in your mind, but sleep was already tugging at the edges of your consciousness, and you knew it wouldn’t be long before you were out. You closed your eyes, allowing the comfort of the bed to lull you into a deep, much-needed sleep.

Across the hall, Dean was going through the same routine. As soon as he was in his room, he shut the door and leaned back against it for a moment, letting out a long breath. The drive had been grueling, both physically and emotionally, and all he wanted was to collapse into bed and forget about everything for a few hours.

He shed his clothes just as quickly as you had, not bothering with anything more than his boxers before he practically fell into bed. The mattress dipped under his weight as he sprawled out, his body finally relaxing after the tension of the day.

Dean stared up at the ceiling for a moment, his thoughts drifting to you in the room across the hall. He knew you were probably just as exhausted as he was, and he hoped you were able to get some rest. The day had been long, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that tomorrow would bring its own set of challenges.

With a final sigh, Dean rolled over, pulling the blankets up over his shoulder as he settled into the bed. Within moments, the exhaustion overtook him, and he was asleep, his breathing evening out as the night stretched on.

The next morning, the lake house was filled with the warm, inviting smells of breakfast. Bacon sizzled in a pan, eggs were being scrambled, and the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air. Sam, Jody, and the girls had been up for a while, chatting and laughing softly as they worked together to prepare a feast.

Jody was at the stove, expertly flipping pancakes while Sam poured orange juice into glasses and set the table. The girls, Claire and Alex, were busy slicing fruit and arranging it on a large platter. The atmosphere was light and relaxed, the morning sun streaming through the windows, casting a golden glow over everything.

They were careful not to make too much noise, knowing that you and Dean had arrived late and were likely still asleep. Jody glanced toward the hallway, a knowing smile on her face. "Think we should wake them up soon?", she asked Sam, her tone teasing. "Or let them sleep in a bit longer?".

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. "Let them sleep. They had a long drive, and I’m sure they need the rest. Besides, it's nice to have some peace and quiet before Dean comes in and eats half the breakfast".

Claire laughed at that, adding a few more slices of strawberries to the platter. "Yeah, I can’t wait to see him try to argue over the last piece of bacon".

Jody smiled, flipping another pancake. “Well, we’ll just have to make sure there’s enough to go around”.

As they continued to chat and prepare breakfast, the house remained peaceful, the sounds of nature outside blending with the comforting bustle of the kitchen. The birds chirped, and the lake’s gentle waves lapped against the shore, creating a serene backdrop for the morning.

Meanwhile, upstairs, you and Dean were still deep in sleep, both of you completely unaware of the lively preparations going on below. The exhaustion from the day before had taken its toll, and the quiet of the lake house offered the perfect conditions for deep, restorative rest.

Dean was sprawled out in his bed, the blankets tangled around his legs, his breathing deep and steady. In your room, you were curled up under the covers, the soft morning light filtering through the curtains and warming your skin.

The sun climbed higher, its rays gradually brightening the rooms where you and Dean slept.

Dean was the first to stir, his internal clock, honed by years of hunting and early mornings, pulling him from the depths of sleep. He blinked a few times, disoriented for a moment as he took in his surroundings, then remembered where he was. The exhaustion from the long drive still clung to him, but the smell of breakfast wafting up from downstairs was enough to get him moving.

He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The events of the previous day flickered through his mind—everything from the tension in the car to the stormy night. He shook his head slightly, trying to push the thoughts aside as he got up and grabbed a fresh shirt.

Meanwhile, in your room, you were still wrapped in the warmth of sleep, the comfort of the bed and the exhaustion from the long drive keeping you cocooned under the blankets. It wasn’t until you heard the faint sounds of laughter from downstairs that you began to stir, the scent of breakfast coaxing you slowly awake.

You opened your eyes, blinking against the morning light as you tried to remember where you were. The lake house. The memory brought a small smile to your lips, and you stretched out under the covers, enjoying the last few moments of rest before you forced yourself to get up.

Dean was already dressed and heading toward the hallway when you finally emerged from your room, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes. He paused when he saw you, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Morning", he greeted, his voice a little rough from sleep.

"Morning", you replied, your voice still soft and sleepy. You gave him a small smile in return, feeling the familiar comfort of his presence wash over you. Despite everything that had happened, despite the complicated feelings you were both grappling with, there was something grounding about seeing Dean first thing in the morning.

“Smells good downstairs”, Dean remarked, nodding toward the stairs. “You ready to face the chaos?”.

You chuckled, nodding as you tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah, I’m starving”.

With that, the two of you made your way downstairs, the sounds of the others growing louder as you approached the kitchen. The sight that greeted you was warm and welcoming—Sam was finishing up setting the table, while Jody was pouring coffee into mugs. Claire and Alex were arranging the last of the fruit platter, and the whole scene looked like something out of a family breakfast in a cozy cabin.

“Hey, look who finally decided to join us!”, Sam called out with a grin as he spotted the two of you. Jody turned around, her face lighting up with a smile.

“Morning, you two!”, she said cheerfully. “I hope you’re hungry”.

“Starving”, you admitted with a smile, your stomach growling in response to the delicious smells filling the room.

Dean nodded in agreement, his mood lifting at the sight of the spread laid out on the table. “Looks great”, he said, grabbing a mug of coffee and taking a sip before heading over to the table. He felt the warmth of the moment settle into his bones, pushing away the lingering tension of the past few days.

As you all gathered around the table, the chatter flowed easily, the warmth of the lake house and the comfort of being surrounded by friends and family easing the tension that had weighed on you and Dean. For a little while, everything felt normal, like the complexities of your relationship had been put on hold, allowing you to enjoy the simple pleasure of a shared meal.

But even as you laughed and talked with everyone, there was a part of you that couldn’t stop thinking about the way Dean had looked at you that morning, the way his presence had felt like an anchor in the swirling sea of emotions you were trying to navigate. The feelings were still there, just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to rise again.

As the breakfast continued, the conversation flowed naturally, touching on everything from recent hunts to the beauty of the lake.

At one point, Jody glanced over at you with a knowing smile. “So, I hear someone’s got a big day tomorrow”, she said, her tone playful but with a hint of excitement.

You looked up from your plate, realizing she was talking about your birthday. You couldn’t help but smile, a mix of anticipation and a bit of shyness creeping in. “Yeah, I guess I do”, you replied, trying to downplay it even though you felt a flutter of excitement in your chest.

Sam, who was sitting across from you, grinned as he leaned back in his chair. “Eighteen, huh? That’s a big one. We’ve gotta do something special”.

Dean, who had been sipping his coffee, kept his gaze on his mug, though you noticed the subtle way his shoulders tensed at the mention of your age. He was doing his best to keep his emotions in check.

Jody nodded enthusiastically, her smile widening. “Absolutely! We should celebrate. There’s that little bar down by the lake—nothing too crazy, but it’s nice. We could have some drinks, play some pool. It’d be a fun way to ring in your birthday”.

You smiled at the suggestion, liking the idea of a low-key celebration with the people you cared about. “That sounds great”, you agreed, the thought of spending your birthday in such a beautiful place with everyone lifting your spirits even more.

Claire, who had been listening in, chimed in with a grin. “And maybe we can get you to do some karaoke”, she teased, nudging you playfully.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Don’t count on it”, you said with mock seriousness, though the idea of a fun night with your friends was becoming more appealing by the minute.

As the conversation continued, you couldn’t help but steal a glance at Dean. He was listening quietly, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips as he watched the interaction unfold. You knew he was happy for you, but there was something else there too—something he was keeping to himself.

Eventually, Dean caught your eye, and for a moment, the rest of the room seemed to fade away. There was a depth to his gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the fact that tomorrow wasn’t just any birthday—it was a milestone, one that would change the dynamics between you both in ways you were only beginning to understand.

But before you could dwell on it too much, Jody’s voice brought you back to the present. “So, it’s settled then”, she said with a finality that made everyone chuckle. “Tomorrow night, we’re celebrating (Y/N)’s birthday at the lake bar. Drinks, pool, and maybe—just maybe—some karaoke”.

The room buzzed with excitement, the plans for your birthday celebration setting a cheerful tone for the day. You felt a warmth spread through you, a mixture of gratitude and anticipation, and you couldn’t help but look forward to what the night would bring.

Dean, meanwhile, was doing his best to keep his emotions in check, determined to make sure your birthday was special, even as he struggled with the thoughts that had been plaguing him ever since the tension between you both had started to build.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

Part 8

Taglist: @blackcherrywhiskey @baby19sthings @suckitands33 @spnfamily-j2 @lyarr24 @deans-baby-momma @reignsboy19 @kawaii-arfid-memes @mekkencspony @lovziy @artemys-ackles @fitxgrld @libby99hb @lovelyvirtualperson @a-lil-pr1ncess @nancymcl @the-last-ry @spndeanwinchesterlvr @hobby27 @themarebarroww @kr804573 @impala67rollingthroughtown @deans-queen @deadlymistletoe @selfdestructionandrhum @utyblyn @winchesterwild78 @jackles010378 @chirazsstuff @foxyjwls007 @smoothdogsgirl @woooonau @whimsyfinny @freyabear @laaadygisbooornex3 @quietgirll75 @perpetualabsurdity @ladykitana90 @fullbelieverheart @chainsawsangel @zaratahir @rebecca-hvnstn @maackiimoo @mayafatimakhan @ladysparkles78 @lachelledavies-winchester @kamisobsessed @kr804573 @c1gs-coffee @fyegyall

#jensen ackles #dean winchester fic #dean x y/n #dean x you #dean x reader #dean winchester #deanwinchtser #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #spn #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural #taking her in

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melljam · 2 months ago

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oh my god the unimpressed stare that shingen and gitae give when an opponent tries to attack them with something that fails miserably

shingen’s depressed little glance down at the blade that has just pathetically embedded itself into his skin as if that even does anything because his bones are genuinely impenetrable since he is quite literally built different

gitae’s mildly annoyed side eye at the officers for daring to believe that tasing him would work when they should have somehow known that he’s also just built different and would not even be stopped from committing axe murder if lightning struck him ten times over

ALSO these two are the type that gets excited over something/someone that can actually threaten their lives because of how used to being The Strongest™ they are

its such a shounen villain problem to have. sigh, another entirely boring and unfulfilling day of being the Strongest Guy Ever. when will someone who can actually contend with me come along to usurp my position as The Strongest™ :(

and shingen has experienced That with gap … now he longs for it again because he’s 1. depressed that he lost and 2. depressed that no one else can measure up to gap

their fight truly was the most important part of shingen’s life … unlike the birth of his many sons (or the very existence of one gun), which comparatively means Nothing to shingen

and gitae??? well, it could be argued that he might have just been annoyed at the officers for interrupting his fight, but that also means that he was enjoying his fight with jichang at least a little

but not in the same sense that shingen enjoyed his fight with gap. it was more like gitae was toying with jichang, and he found it amusing because of how easy it was

he’s so strong that he doesn’t even have to try with the strongest king. gitae can just mess with the poor guy until he decides to put him out of his weak misery when it stops being fun (which was when jichang rejected his offer to be his very own Smart Guy and it seemed to hurt gitae’s ego lol)

and after cop interruption, making jichang promise to let gitae be the one to kill him later on??? such a hilariously emasculating thing to do, like, we already know who’s winning our fight and it’s me so don’t even bother trying. just reserve yourself to die by my hand later, kthxbye <3

(jichang would not be able to uphold that promise, so i guess he was able to defy gitae in another way of his own …?)

or gitae’s teased fight with sinu. sinu went all out because he wasn’t taking any chances with another threat to big deal’s existence, and gitae got DISTRACTED in the middle of it. like, yeah your speed is cool and all but is that my dead father? oh, wait no! it’s my half-brother!

both jichang and sinu gave it their all to fight against someone who threatened themselves and their people, and gitae easily brushed them off but gave them an A for Effort !!!

shingen and gitae* must be somewhat bored with fighting when there are so few opponents that could actually compare to them in terms of strength. winning so easily almost makes it a menial chore for them. its the epitome of suffering from success lol

*it applies more to shingen than gitae though, gitae seems like he has the time of his life effortlessly messing around with weaker opponents, a predator playing with its prey

are they seeking something exciting, to flirt with the adrenaline rush of death because the safety of life has just gotten too dull for them?

to bring it back to the original point of the post: the ease of fighting must make the activity so underwhelming now. it becomes disappointing enough to produce such unconcerned expressions to injuries/attacks that would threaten an average person’s life

#☆#lookism #lookism spoilers #kinda long post #analysis #yes i am aware of how homoerotic this became #fellas is it gay to long for another man to beat you up so you can feel alive again #surely not …#fighting junkie characters addicted to the Thrill are so fun when theyre in a slump because theyre painfully bored and crave a good beating #although for shingen it seems more like a matter of pride #and as for gitae … he’s just Violent and sadistic i think #shingen yamazaki #gitae kim

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mingi-s-dimples · 1 month ago

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At his mercy - hj

KINKTOBER DAY 24, REQ. BY anon

~"hongjoong tortures y/n by strapping a vibrator onto her pussy and tying her limbs, causing y/n to squirm and stop for him to make it stop. hongjoong edges y/n by turning the vibrator off everytime she's abt to come."

pairing: dom!hongjoong x sub fem!reader

genre: 18+, bdsm au

summary: one broken rule of his would bring you on the edge of being desperate and begging.. for him

wc: 3.2k

warnings: bdsm au, dom/sub relationship, harsh dom!hj, whiny sub!reader, use of toys (vibrator), lots of edging, denied orgasms, crying (out of overstim), slight dacryphilia, use of restraints (he uses soft scarfs to tie her up, and the toy), kissing, neck holding, neck grabbing, slight choking, clit stim, some praising here and there, completely consensual, for sure forgot something, will edit later.

Author's Note: I love writing bdsm style fics sm... y all can see one of my personal kinks ups🧍‍♀️it s all good tho, I love conveying my thoughts whenever I write bdsm typa fics 🤭 I'm so so into the edging thing I'm going insane... anyways, anon, enjoy !!! 🤗💖

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and does not represent the reality of the member in any way.

The soft glow of twilight filtered through the curtains, casting shadows across the room that felt heavier than usual. You had been home for barely an hour, your shoulders aching from the weight of the day, when the realization hit you like a jolt of lightning: your phone was dead.

You froze mid-step, the memory of Hongjoong’s firm words echoing in your mind.

“Keep your phone on, *always.*”

It wasn’t a casual request. In your relationship—both romantic and deeply rooted in the careful dynamics of trust and power—it was one of the fundamental rules. His rules weren’t arbitrary; they were meticulously crafted with your safety and the trust you had placed in him at their core.

But today had been a whirlwind. You’d been caught up in errands, lost track of time, and when your phone had died, you’d brushed it off. *I’ll charge it when I get home,* you’d thought. It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time.

Now, as you stared at the lifeless device in your hand, your stomach sank. You knew Hongjoong would already be home, and you could practically feel the weight of his disapproval before even stepping into the bedroom.

A deep breath did little to steady your nerves as you opened the door. The sight of him, seated on the edge of the bed, confirmed your fears. He was dressed impeccably, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, a casual elegance that only heightened the intensity of his presence. His head lifted as the door clicked shut behind you, his dark eyes locking onto yours.

“You’re late,” he said evenly, his voice calm but sharp enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted, your hands tightening around your dead phone. “I—”

He raised a hand, cutting you off. “Spare me the excuses.”

He stood, his movements deliberate, and the sheer authority radiating from him made your pulse quicken. As your Dom, Hongjoong’s presence carried an unspoken weight—a mixture of love, control, and safety wrapped in his unwavering confidence. Tonight, though, you could feel the shift in the air, the tension crackling between you like an unstruck match.

“You were unreachable for hours,” he said, his tone quieter now, but no less commanding. He crossed the room with slow, measured steps, stopping just in front of you. “Do you know how dangerous that is?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” he agreed, tilting his head slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. “You weren’t. And because of that, you’ve broken one of my rules.”

The weight of his words settled heavily on your chest. Hongjoong wasn’t one to lose control or raise his voice; his power lay in his restraint, the deliberate way he handled every situation. You knew how much effort he put into crafting your dynamic, ensuring that every boundary, every rule, was there to protect and guide you.

“Tell me,” he continued, his voice deceptively soft, “what happens when you break the rules?”

You hesitated, heat rising to your cheeks. “There are consequences.”

“Good girl,” he said, nodding once. “Then you understand why we’re here.”

A thrill of nervous anticipation coursed through you, your body already responding to the subtle shift in his demeanor. This was no longer just about the broken rule or the dead phone. This was about his rule—rebuilding it, reaffirming it, and reminding you of the structure you had both agreed to.

“Strip,” he said, stepping back just enough to give you space.

You swallowed hard, your fingers trembling slightly as you reached for the hem of your shirt. There was no hesitation in his gaze, no flicker of doubt. His command wasn’t rooted in anger but in the unshakable confidence that this was what you both needed.

Piece by piece, you removed your clothing, the vulnerability of the act heightening your awareness of every movement, every breath. When you were finally bare before him, he gestured toward the bed.

“Sit.”

You obeyed, perching on the edge of the mattress, your heart racing as he reached into the bedside drawer. He pulled out the familiar length of silk—a scarf he often used during scenes—and the sight of it made your stomach flutter.

“Hands,” he instructed, his voice firm but not unkind.

You lifted your hands, palms up, and he moved closer, the scent of his cologne washing over you as he carefully bound your wrists. The fabric was cool against your skin, the knot secure but not too tight—a reminder of the balance he always maintained between control and care.

Once your wrists were bound, he stepped back, his eyes raking over you with an intensity that left you breathless.

“Do you know why this is happening?” he asked, his voice low and steady.

“Because I broke the rules,” you replied softly, your cheeks flushing under his gaze.

“More than that,” he said, leaning in slightly, his presence overwhelming in the best way. “Because you forgot what it means to me. To let me protect you.”

The words hit you like a bolt of lightning, your heart clenching at the weight of his words.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the sincerity in your voice evident.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against your jaw as he tilted your chin up to meet his gaze. “I know you are,” he said, his tone softening slightly. “But sorry isn’t enough. You need to feel this—so you don’t forget.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, anticipation thrumming through your veins as he stepped back. Slowly, he climbed onto the bed, his movements deliberate and precise. He positioned himself above you, his hands braced on either side of your head, and the sheer proximity of him made it hard to breathe.

“You trust me,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent heat coursing through your body.

“Yes,” you replied without hesitation.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

A small, satisfied smile tugged at his lips. “Good.”

He leaned down, his breath warm against your skin as he pressed a kiss to your temple—a gesture that was both comforting and charged with electricity. Then, without another word, he began his work.

His hands moved with practiced ease, tracing a slow, deliberate path over your body. Every touch was calculated, designed to heighten your awareness and leave you yearning for more.

Hongjoong’s eyes gleamed with something primal as he pulled back slightly, his fingers trailing down the curve of your waist, leaving a path of fire in their wake. Without breaking eye contact, he reached back into the drawer. The faint hum of anticipation in the room grew sharper as he retrieved a small, sleek vibrator.

The sight of it made your breath hitch. He held it up between you, tilting it slightly, the light catching its smooth surface. His thumb hovered over the button, and with a soft click, it came to life—a low, teasing buzz that made your body tighten in response.

“This,” he said, his voice dripping with authority, “is for me to control. Just like you.”

A shiver coursed through you as he climbed off the bed, placing the vibrator down for a moment. He grabbed another length of silk, this one thicker, from the drawer and leaned down to secure your ankles to the bedposts. His touch was firm but careful, ensuring the bonds were snug but not uncomfortable. The vulnerability of having your legs spread and tied left you quivering.

With your wrists already secured above you and your legs now restrained, Hongjoong stepped back to admire his work. His gaze traveled over your body, appreciation and dominance mingling in his eyes.

“Look at you,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Completely at my mercy.”

You couldn’t hold his gaze, your cheeks heating as you squirmed under his scrutiny. But the sound of the vibrator clicking to a higher setting snapped your attention back to him.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered, his tone sharp enough to cut through your haze.

“Yes, sir,” you stammered, your voice shaky.

He smirked, the corners of his mouth lifting in that way that always left you breathless. Slowly, he climbed back onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he positioned himself between your thighs.

“I’m going to teach you,” he said, running the vibrator along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, just shy of where you wanted it most. “Teach you to listen. To remember who you belong to.”

The vibrations against your skin were maddening, a tantalizing promise of what was to come. Your hips instinctively arched toward him, but he pressed a firm hand to your stomach, holding you in place.

“Uh-uh,” he said with a click of his tongue. “You’ll take what I give you. Nothing more.”

“Yes, sir,” you managed to whisper, your voice barely audible over the hum of the vibrator.

The heat in his gaze intensified as he trailed the toy higher, stopping just at the apex of your thighs. The anticipation was unbearable, your body trembling as he kept you on the edge, never quite giving you what you craved.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice soft but full of power. “Now let’s see how well you can obey.”

The sound of the vibrator’s low hum filled the room as Hongjoong continued his torment, letting it hover just close enough to make your body tighten, only to pull it away at the last second. His precision was maddening, each pass over your skin deliberate and cruel in its restraint. You could feel your orgasm building—heat pooling deep within you, your breaths turning ragged—but just as you neared that peak, he stopped.

A desperate whimper escaped your lips as your body ached for the release he denied you.

“Ah, ah,” Hongjoong tutted, clearly relishing your reaction. His smirk was wicked as he trailed the toy lightly along your stomach, far from where you wanted it. “Did I give you permission for that?”

“N-no, sir,” you stammered, your voice shaky.

“Then why are you acting like you have control here?” he teased, his tone both sharp and teasing as he leaned down, his breath ghosting over your ear. “You don’t. Not tonight.”

Your body trembled as he brought the vibrator back to your clit, the sensations sharp and all-consuming. This time, he pressed it against it with just enough pressure to send your nerves spiraling toward that edge again. Your breaths quickened, your hips bucking against the restraints as pleasure surged through you.

But once again, just as you were about to topple over the edge, he pulled back, switching the vibrator off with a casual click.

“No!” The protest slipped out before you could stop it, your voice thick with desperation. Tears of frustration pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you pulled weakly against the silk holding you in place.

Hongjoong chuckled, low and rich, clearly enjoying your unraveling. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement as he brushed his fingers gently along your jawline, tipping your chin up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. “You’re really not in a position to argue, are you?”

You bit your lip, unsure how to respond, and his smirk deepened. “Since you seem to need a reminder of your place…”

He reached into the drawer again and pulled out a silk ribbon. Your heart raced as he carefully tied the vibrator against your inner thigh, angling it perfectly over your clit, where every nerve felt raw and exposed. He secured it with meticulous care, ensuring it stayed in place.

“There,” he said, flicking the toy back on to a steady, teasing hum. It wasn’t enough to overwhelm you, but the constant stimulation was maddening, leaving you squirming in your bonds.

You let out a soft cry of frustration, your body both desperate for relief and overwhelmed by the unrelenting sensation.

“Comfortable?” he asked, his tone mockingly sweet as he knelt on the bed, watching you with that same unshakable confidence.

“Please,” you whispered, tears now slipping down your cheeks as the frustration became unbearable.

“Please, what?” he prompted, his voice softer now, almost tender.

“Please, sir,” you choked out, your voice trembling.

He leaned down, brushing a thumb across your cheek to catch a tear. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured, his voice rich with satisfaction. “Desperate. Completely at my mercy.”

The hum of the vibrator against you was relentless, the teasing just enough to keep you teetering on the brink without ever letting you fall. Hongjoong’s eyes burned with intensity as he watched you writhe beneath him, the control firmly in his hands.

“Let’s see how long you can hold on,” he said, his voice a mixture of warning and promise, leaving no doubt that he was far from finished.

Hongjoong climbed over you, his presence overwhelming as he hovered above, his knees bracketing your hips. His face was close—so close that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. The intensity in his gaze was magnetic, holding you captive as he leaned in slowly. When his lips finally met yours, the kiss was firm yet teasing, a tantalizing mix of control and tenderness.

His fingers trailed down your sides, deliberate and unhurried, until they found your thighs. He pressed his palms into the soft flesh, his touch both grounding and electrifying. Without breaking the kiss, his hand drifted lower, brushing over the vibrator tied against you. He pressed it gently against you, just enough to amplify the sensation.

A soft, breathless moan escaped your lips, and Hongjoong broke the kiss just long enough to chuckle—a low, amused sound that sent shivers down your spine.

“You’re so responsive,” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Every little touch drives you wild, doesn’t it?”

You nodded weakly, your body trembling beneath him. His fingers resumed their journey, tracing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, leaving goosebumps in their wake. When he reached the vibrator again, he paused, applying just enough pressure to make you arch into him.

“Easy,” he murmured, his tone both commanding and soothing. His touch softened, his fingers now trailing upward with featherlight strokes that left you aching for more.

When his hand finally settled over your wet cunt, he didn’t rush. Instead, he teased, tracing slow, deliberate circles on your clit, each movement precise and controlled. You gasped at the sensation, your body straining against the bonds as he continued his careful exploration.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, his voice firm but intimate, as if sharing a secret meant only for you. His fingers continued their torment, each movement designed to draw you closer to the edge without letting you fall.

“Say it,” he commanded softly, his fingers pausing just enough to make you desperate for their return.

“I’m yours,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion.

A satisfied smile spread across his lips as he leaned down, pressing another kiss to your lips, softer this time, but no less consuming. His touch remained relentless, a masterful mix of restraint and precision, leaving you completely at his mercy in the best possible way.

Hongjoong’s fingers moved in circles, his touch relentless yet measured, keeping you balanced right on the edge of release. The vibrator’s steady hum against you combined with the pressure of his skilled fingers made your entire body tense, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable peak.

You felt it coming—the moment your body would give in, the flood of the orgasm you so desperately needed. But just as you reached the brink, Hongjoong’s hand stilled, and he pulled the vibrator away ever so slightly, leaving you hanging in exquisite frustration.

A cry of anguish escaped your lips, tears of desperation welling up and spilling over as your body trembled beneath him. Your head fell back against the pillow, your breaths coming in shaky gasps as you looked up at him, pleading silently with your tear-filled eyes.

Hongjoong’s expression softened, but his smirk remained. He leaned in, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, his thumb catching a stray tear on your cheek.

“Poor thing,” he murmured, his voice rich with mock sympathy. “You’re falling apart, aren’t you?”

You nodded, your voice breaking as you whispered, “Please.”

“Please, what?” he asked, his tone deceptively gentle as he tilted his head, his gaze boring into yours. “Say it. Use your words. Tell me exactly what you want.”

Your cheeks burned with humiliation, but the desperation in your chest outweighed any shyness. “Please, sir,” you whimpered, your voice barely above a whisper. “Please let me…”

Hongjoong chuckled, the sound dark and intoxicating. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, leaning closer so his lips brushed against your ear, his breath sending shivers down your spine. “You’re going to have to beg better than that.”

Tears slipped freely down your cheeks as you swallowed your pride, your voice trembling. “Please, sir, I need it. I can’t take it anymore. Please, let me come. I’ll do anything.”

His smirk faded slightly, replaced by something deeper, more genuine. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “You did so well for me.”

With a flick of his wrist, he brought the vibrator back against you, his fingers resuming their work, but this time his touch was more focused, more demanding. The build-up was immediate, the sensations overwhelming as he guided you closer and closer to your orgasm.

“Cum, darling… isn't that what you've been asking for?” he said softly, his tone commanding but tender.

The tension in your body snapped, and your irgasm hit you like a tidal force, your body shaking as you cried out in relief. Hongjoong didn’t stop, his fingers and the vibrator easing you through the intensity, grounding you as you came down from the high.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his free hand smoothing over your thigh in a comforting gesture. “Breathe, mhm… this is only the start..”

As your breaths began to steady, the room still thick with the remnants of your pleasure, Hongjoong shifted. The comforting caress on your thigh was replaced by a firm grip on your chin, gently tilting your face to meet his gaze. His dark, smoldering eyes held yours with an intensity that made your stomach flip.

“I hope you’re not under the impression that I’m satisfied yet,” he said, his voice low and velvety, carrying a teasing edge. He leaned closer, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his breath warm and deliberate. “We’re just getting started.”

Before you could respond, his hand slid to your neck, his fingers wrapping around it—not enough to hurt, just enough to command your attention, to make you feel utterly claimed. The weight of his touch sent a new wave of heat through your body, an unspoken promise hanging in the air between you.

“Next time,” he said, his voice a blend of a growl and a purr, “if you push me like that, you won’t get to cum so easily. Do you understand me?” He tilted his head slightly, studying your expression as if savoring the moment.

You swallowed hard, the mix of his authority and care electrifying. When you managed to nod, his thumb brushed softly against your jaw, a stark contrast to the intensity of his grip.

“Good,” he murmured, his lips curving into a satisfied smirk. He released your neck, his touch trailing down to your shoulder, and leaned back just enough to take in your flushed, breathless state.

“Now,” he continued, his tone playful yet resolute, “we’ve got a long way to go, darling. I’d suggest you keep up… for your sake.”

NETWORKS:

@blossomnet

@illusionnet

PERMANENT TAGLIST:

@mingleshine @musiclovingfairy @crazylittlebisexual @sanhwalvr @arki-sha @artistic-rendition @hongjoongtime117 @cypher-03 @peachy-bell26 @atiny1 @cursed-eastern ?, I can't find your acc 😞

#ateez fanfic #illusionnet #blossomnet #ateez x reader #mingi s dimples masterlist #ateez fic #ateez x y/n #fanfic #smut fic #ateez #ateez smut #smut #hongjoong x y/n #ateez hongjoong #hongjoong x reader #hongjoong #hongjoong dom

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queenshelby · 2 months ago

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Daughter Dearest (Part 13)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy (47) x Step! Daughter (21)

Warning: Infidelity, Smut, Dysfunctional Family

Please comment and engage!

“Well, we already did it and it's already complicated," you said, clutching the fabric of your jacket as if it could ground you.

Cillian ran a hand through his hair, a friction of tension spreading across his features as he weighed your words, indecision etched in the lines of his brow.

“Y/N, we just can’t let it happen again.” He took a half step back, body rigid like he was fighting against an invisible tide.

“But what if I want it? What if you want it too?” you asked, your heart racing at the direct challenge. "Do you want me?" you challanged and Cillian’s breath hitched, the question hanging between you like smoke in the air, thick and suffocating.

“What do you think?” His voice was low, almost a growl as he stepped closer, a primal energy crackling around you as the distance between you narrowed.

You took a breath, feeling a mix of bravado and vulnerability swirling in your chest. “I think you want me as much as I want you,” you admitted, locking your gaze onto his, a daring resolve hardening in your chest.

A flicker of something wild ignited in Cillian’s eyes as he stared at you, the tension crackling like static electricity in the air before he looked around, spotting the Hilton a few hundred metres down the street, a façade of safety and anonymity.

Cillian’s gaze darted to towards the luxurious hotel, barely illuminated by the street lamps as the distant hum of city life swirled around you.

You noticed him looking into that direction and felt your heart skip a beat. He turned his gaze back to you, a heated spark igniting in those depths you had come to admire.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, causing your heart racing at the intensity in his voice. The question hung in the air, charged with unspoken desires and the weight of potential consequences.

“More than I’ve ever been,” you replied a steady conviction filling your voice as the anticipation crackled like lightning between you both.

Cillian’s gaze held yours for a lingering moment, absorbing your words as if measuring the weight of your resolve against the depths of his own yearning.

With a deep breath, he nodded, a silent agreement passing between you, and together you turned toward the hotel, the evening air thick with anticipation.

The walk down the street felt surreal, palpable energy coursing between you as you approached the hotel’s entrance. The world around you blurred, the sound of bustling city life fading into the background, leaving just the two of you and that electric tension coursing through the air.

As you stepped into the warm, cozy lobby of the hotel, the soft glow of ambient lighting enveloped you both.

"I will check us in," Cillian said, pulling his wallet from his pocket as he approached the front desk, indicating for you to keep your distance. You knew that, for his career's sake, he couldn't be seen like this and you decided to seek out the lavatory while he handled the check-in process.

The tension in the air hung heavy around you as you walked away, your heart thrumming with both anticipation and a hint of nerves.

When you came back to the lobby, you saw Cillian waiting by the elevators, nervously fidgeting with the edges of a small piece of paper he had taken from the reception desk. His fingers toyed with the keycard as he caught your gaze, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features.

“Everything okay?” you asked, his voice steady but edged with tension.

“Yes ,” he replied, drawing in a steadying breath as the elevator doors slid open with a soft ding.

You stepped inside, the small space suddenly feeling very intimate, cocooning you both with a weight that pressed against your chests, causing your hearts to thrum in sync as the doors slid shut behind you.

Cillian pressed the button for the eleventh floor, his body angled slightly to you and the air between you thickened with unspoken anticipation.

“You sure about this?” he murmured again, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes darting to the glowing panel as the elevator asc ended with a soft hum. The seconds stretched taut between you, the familiar rhythm of your heart echoing like a drum in your chest.

“Yes," you reiterated, your voice steady, a resonant echo of the certainty that surged within you. His eyes flickered to yours, searching for any hint of hesitation as, finally, you arrived.

The elevator shuddered to a stop with a soft ding, the doors gliding open to reveal a dimly lit hallway lined with plush carpeting and muted artwork. You stepped out first, the anticipation coiling tighter in your chest as you felt Cillian's presence right behind you, his steady breaths a comforting reminder of what lay ahead. The hallway stretched out before you, each step feeling weighty with anticipation. Cillian walked beside you, the silence between you both vibrating with energy, each shared breath interwoven with unspoken thoughts.

He paused at the door to room 1112, digging into his pocket for the keycard, the faint click of the lock echoing in the quiet hallway. He turned to you, a momentary flicker of uncertainty painting his expression as the door swung open. The room was quiet, bathed in soft, warm hues, the muted lighting inviting yet charged with the electric tension that hummed between you both.

Cillian hesitated on the threshold , his hand lingering on the doorframe as he glanced over at you, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

The moment stretched out, thick with tension as Cillian seemed to measure the gravity of the space before you. You took a step forward, past him, and into the room, letting the warmth envelop you like a soft blanket, pushing through the initial hesitation. The room felt surreal, the air thick with anticipation.

Cillian entered behind you, closing the door softly, cutting off the outside world. The soft click of the door latch echoed in the hushed space, leaving an almost palpable silence hanging in the room.

You turned to face him and, as his gaze met yours, the tension ratcheted up, electric impulses flickering like firecrackers in the charged atmosphere around you.

"God, I want you so fucking badly," he muttered, his voice husky, greedy with desire.

Your breath caught in your throat as you felt a shiver zigzag down your spine, heat pooling low in your core. The admission gave you a vulnerability that ignited a fire within you, a fierceness born of passion and forbidden desire.

"Then have me," you whispered, a challenge hanging in the air and, by that point, Cillian did not have to be told twice.

Reaching for your face, his thumb traced the outline of your lips, temptation igniting a hunger blazing in the depths of his eyes as there was no turning back now.

With a growl that resonated deep in your chest, Cillian closed the gap between you, his lips brushing against yours in a searing blaze that set every nerve on fire. The kiss there deepened instantly, hands roaming freely, trailing over the curves of your body, lips parting in invitation as the fire spread through you both.

He was such a good kisser , but, this time, the fact didn’t surprise you.

His fingertips wandered up your body, gently cupping your neck, a silken ache trailing throughout your veins like wildfire.

The hunger was almost carnal – it seemed like he wanted you as if there was no tomorrow. As if he had been starving, and you were the first drop of water he had seen in days.

Cillian's touch grew insistent, trailing down your arms until he found the bottom of your shirt, slipping underneath the fabric and skating over your skin.

His fingertips brushed against the bare expanse of your stomach, sending ripples of heat storming through you, igniting a passion only fueled further by the illicit nature of the encounter.

Your t-shirt came off next, followed immediately by your bra, both discarded on the floor in a crumpled heap, as Cillian pushed you back against the wall, savoring the sight of you.

" You are so fucking beautiful, do you know that?"he murmured with lust deep in his voice, eyes alight with hunger as he trailed hot, wet kisses down your neck and shoulders.

"You did tell me before," you giggled as his fingers moved to your jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping them and sinking to the floor as you quickly stepped out of them.

He was moving fast and your breath hitched as he hooked his thumbs into your panties and pulled them down, helping you in stepping out of them.

You stood naked before him, your chest rising and falling in time with Cillian's deep, measured breaths.

His gaze dropped to your bare skin, taking in every curve, every angle - and admiration flashed in his eyes as he dropped to his knees before you.

He took one of your thighs with his hand, guiding you as he adjusted your body to his mouth as you leaned back against the wall. One hand trailed up the inside of your thigh, your body trembling with every touch, while your other rested on his shoulder.

Then, his tongue came into contact with you - and you let out a gasp.

"Oh my god ," you breathed, your hands knotting themselves in Cillian's hair as you pushed yourself closer to him as his tongue ran through your slit.

"Cillian, fuck, yes...right there," you moaned, savoring every second of the sensation as Cillian's tongue continued to swirl around your clit, his grip on your thigh tightening at your reaction.

The sound of his name, whispered through gritted teeth, seemed to spur him on, and the deliberate strokes of his tongue became more intense.

He slid a finger inside of you - a feeling so deliciously wicked that you couldn't believe you were allowing this to happen, right here in a hotel room with your stepfather, yet it was exactly what made this whole encounter feel even filthier.

"You taste so fucking perfect ," Cillian moaned, nuzzling his nose into your pelvis, causing you to submit to his decadent actions.

He buried his face in you, his tongue tracing every inch of your most sensitive places, bringing your body to a swift climax. Your thighs started to tremble, your respirations becoming shallow, and you couldn't help but let out a guttural moan.

"Oh fuck," your voice broke, becoming incoherent as he kept on working his tongue, sending waves of pleasure rocketing through every inch of your body.

Your instinctive response was to try and pull him closer against you, your hands clenching and unclenching as uncontrollable, involuntary muscle spasms rippled through your body.

"Cillian!" you cried out, your voice hollow despite your best efforts to smother it. "I-I'm going to -" You broke off, unable to form the words as Cillian worked his magic between your legs.

"Cum for me," he growled, pressing his tongue harder and faster on your clit as he thrust the finger deeper inside you.

The sensation was so intense that you couldn’t help but obey him. With a sharp cry, the climax ripped through your body—waves of pure pleasure that drowned out reality as you arched your back, each muscle taut as you held on to him.

Cillian didn’t falter in the slightest, giving you his full attention as you rode the pleasure, his hands solid against your trembling thighs. When you finally came down from the high, your legs gave out and you slid down along the wall to land in a sated heap on the plush carpet.

Cillian stayed where he was, continuing to exaggerate his responses for your benefit. One of his hands trailed possessively up your inner thigh, his fingers grazing the moisture that was still seeping from your pussy.

"That was quick," he chuckled as he swiftly pulled his t-shirt over his head, tossing it aside to join the rest of your clothes on the floor.

You were momentarily distracted by the gorgeous sight of him - his pale freckled skin and slender body. But it was the look in his eyes that drew you back, the sheer hunger and lust that was making your stomach flutter.

"It was quick, but this is because you are so good at that," you gasped as he unbuckled his belt, unhooked his jeans and shoved them down, removing them completely in just one smooth motion.

"I clearly am," he smirked, his eyes gleaming with amusement, looking down on the very wet patch you left on the floor, which was something that caused you to blush. "I mean, you positively drenched the floor," he said proudly, and you felt embarrassed, but there was also another emotion brewing inside of you—adrenaline, fueled by the scandalous nature of this rendezvous. It licked at the edges of desire, pushing the embarrassment aside, freeing you from the constraints of propriety.

"Sorry," you stammered, and just as the words left your lips, Cillian's mouth found yours once more, forcing you to close your eyes and surrender to the temptation. His hands roamed over your skin again, strong fingers trailing over your breasts, the familiar tactile memory of him provoking a response as powerful now as it had the night before in your stepfather's house.

"Don't apologise," he growled, nipping at your lower lip, the tender gesture sending shockwaves down your sensitive nerves. "I fucking love knowing that I can make you lose control."

"I need you to fuck me, Cillian," you whispered against his lips, urgency driving your words, hips rising off the carpet in silent invitation. "Please!"

A shudder went through Cillian at the sound of those bold words. For a moment, his eyes met yours, hooded with desire, and he nodded.

"Let's take this to the bed then. I am too old to do it on the floor," he mused as he pulled away, offering you his hand to pull you back to your feet.

You didn't need to be asked twice. Wrapping your fingers around his, you allowed him to help you up. Immediately, you tangled your hand with his, leading him towards the now inviting bed across the room. The anticipation was heavy in the air, and it was only growing thicker with each step you took towards the bed.

By this point, Cillian was only wearing his CK briefs, his hardness straining against the material, drawing your gaze immediately.

When you reached the bed, you reached for his boxer briefs, and Cillian didn't resist as you slipped them down over his slim hips.

The sight of him was breathtaking, his cock hard and ready, dripping with precum, and without much thought behind your actions, you got on your knees between his legs.

Cillian's eyes started to glaze over just by watching you inspect him – but it was when you wrapped your lips around his tip that he truly started losing control.

A strangled moan left his lips as you swirled your tongue around its head, teasing him with the lightest of touches before sliding his entire cock deep into your mouth.

You set the pace, teasing Cillian with your lips, watching with satisfaction as he threw his head back with a guttural sound, hips thrusting slightly to meet each of your downward glides. He swore under his breath as your hands started circling his balls, firm enough so that he would feel the sensation but not enough to bring him pain.

With every stroke, you felt him swell more and taste him more fully against your tongue as precum trickled out. You were still in charge, and it was intoxicating.

Your hands reached around to hold onto his firm, muscular ass, pulling him further into your mouth, making him moan loudly above you.

He tried to remain silent as not to arouse suspicion, but your ministrations made him increasingly unable to stop himself from moaning obscenities and whispering filthy words into the room.

You continued to swallow him down, half of him disappearing between your lips as you latched onto the base with a suction that kept him rooted until he begged for you to stop.

"I need to be inside you before I lose my fucking mind," Cillian grit, pulling away slowly, while his eyes remained fixed on your lips wrapped tightly around his shaft.

You pulled back slightly, releasing him with a slick, wet sound and stared up at him through your eyelashes, savoring the lingering taste of him on your tongue, feeling empowered by the sight he presented.

"Then make love to me," you purred without hesitation and Cillian didn't need to be told twice.

Wrapping his arm around you, he gently pulled you back onto the bed and followed you there, pressing the whole length of his body against yours. With a low growl, he captured your lips once more, his kiss fierce and dominant as he pinned you to the bed with his weight.

You parted your lips eagerly, inviting him deeper as your tongues danced together, each stroke sending shivers of anticipation coursing through your veins.

The taste of him was intoxicating, making you drunk with lust and longing, a primal need rising up inside you like a tidal wave.

Cillian shuddered against you, his hands roamed across your sensitive skin, leaving hot trails of desire in their wake. His fingers skimmed your breasts, teasing your nipples in the barest touch before sliding lower, tracing the curve of your hips before slipping between your legs.

Your breath caught as his fingers found your opening, slick and ready for him.

He slowly circled your clit with his thumb while slowly pushing a finger inside of you before pulling it again and aligning his cock's head with your entrance.

He rubbed himself against you, his gaze locked on yours, and you bit your lip in anticipation.

A sudden, sharp stab of guilt jabbed at you for betraying your family in such a way, but that brief flicker was quickly snuffed out by the all-consuming passion that radiated between you both.

He thrust inside you, filling you up to the hilt, both of you moaning in euphoria at the sensation.

Your body stretched around him, welcoming the intrusion, and as you wrapped your legs around his waist and arched your back, inviting him in deeper, you could see him lose all control.

Every thrust was deliberate, measured, each stroke like his masterpiece; he took his time, hitting every spot that made you moan louder. The headboard slammed against the wall with every powerful thrust, the sound echoing in your ears like the sweetest symphony.

Cillian reached down between you two, finding your clit, rubbing small circles that matched the rhythm of his thrusts.

The dual sensation sent your body into overdrive, your back arched off the bed as your fingers clawed at his back.

"Ah, fuck, Y/N," he moaned, desperation thick in his voice. "You feel so fucking good." His voice dripped with lust, sending another wave of shameless shivers down your body.

The filthier he talked, the more you could feel your orgasm building—slowly at first, a rolling wave barely discernible beneath the surface, then quickly cresting into a tsunami that threatened to drown you both.

"Cillian!" You screamed his name, the sound bouncing off the walls as his name became a litany, your voice weaving together with your gasps and moans as the pressure built inside. Your voice grew increasingly hoarse, cracking under the strain of your rapidly growing pleasure but as much as you wanted to be quiet, to not draw any undue attention to the room that held your secret, you couldn't help but give yourself over to the sounds of pure rapture that bubbled out of you of their own accord.

He plunged deeper inside of you, bottoming out with each powerful thrust.

Neither of you could believe how incredible it felt to be so connected.

“Oh my god, Cillian. Right there, don’t stop!” You screamed, your words punctuated by sharp intakes of breath.

You raked your nails down his back and he hissed in pleasure, the sensation of your touch only adding to the unbearably intense experience. The slick sound of skin against skin accompanied each thrust as you both

lost yourself completely, a shared knowing shimmering between you both. Your breaths were ragged, escaping in short pants as you sat up to meet each thrust..

“Harder,” you gasped, in a voice that barely recognized itself, demanding more from the man whose body now claimed all of your wants.

"Okay, then turn around," he panted, tearing his lips away from your skin from one too many kisses, craving to conquer another side of you.

You complied easily, gracefully flipping yourself over in one swift move, knees sinking into the soft mattress, butt raised in the perfect angle for him to claim you again. Your hands wrapped around the headboard, preparing yourself for what was about to ensue.

A low growl escaped Cillian’s throat as he took in the new view of you, naked and vulnerable, on all fours .

His fingers gripped onto your hips, tugging you closer, and your breath hitched as you felt his hot, hard length brush against your eager opening.

"Fuck, Y/N, you’re so fucking wet," he grit out, driving his hips forward and burying himself deep inside your warm, welcoming depths.

You gasped, eyes screwing shut at the surge of pleasure as his cock filled you up in delicious ways. He started off thrusting slowly, every motion deliberate and measured.

You could feel him touching every inch of your insides, and the sensation was so fucking perfect that it almost hurt.

"Holy sh-shit!" You cried out, head spinning as your thoughts dissipated, obliterated by a newfound focus on his body's perfect rhythm.

Each slow thrust brought a fresh wave of pleasure vibrating through your every nerve. It was an intoxicating sensation, and one that you wanted more of - wanted to push yourself to chase that moment, wanted Cillian to do it too.

"Please," you whispered, the word cracking as you begged, your lips trembling. "Please, Cillian. Don't stop."

And he took your plea to heart, increasing his pace - the slow, steady rhythm now replaced with hard, quick thrusts that left you dizzy. Each forceful entry hit exactly where it should, sending blissful shockwaves rippling in their wake. You could feel him everywhere - inside you, around you, until you couldn't take it anymore.

You climaxed first, screaming his name as you contracted around him, pouring yourself over his hand, his fingers massaging your clit.

The roll of his hips showed you he was close behind, and with one final, violent push, he let loose, his hot seed filling you to the brim.

As he collapsed onto you, panting and spent, your bodies melded together in an increasingly frantic dance, a desperate attempt to keep the world from falling apart.

But eventually there was only silence, and the dim light streaming in from the window casting long shadows on the walls.

Cillian pulled out gently, leaving you feeling empty and wanting more.

"Damn Y/N, that felt amazing," Cillian murmured as he wrapped you in his arms from behind as you leaned back against him, leaving sticky trails of sweat and semen blending between your skin.

Your chest heaved as you tried to regain your breath, your mind reeling from the intensity of your actions.

"God, I needed this," you breathed, voice thick with emotion and satisfaction, as his arms tightened around your waist, pulling you closer.

Cillian's fingers snuck under your arms, cupping your breasts gently, and he pressed a kiss to your neck, the heat of it almost stinging your feverish skin.

"So did I," he confessed, his voice wavering with unspoken emotions that echoed your own. His lips found the sensitive area of your shoulder and he peppered soft, lingering kisses. "But we really can't stay here tonight," he went on , breaking the spell.

You didn't respond, keeping your eyes fixed on the window across the room, watching the hazy silhouette of the city sprawled out in front of you.

"I know," you whispered, still staring outside, your thoughts churning.

"Y/N," he began again, hesitantly.

With a sigh, you eventually pulled away from him and got out of bed, feeling exposed and vulnerable after being so intimate with this man, your very own stepfather.

"I know, I know," you repeated, wrapping one of the hotel's plush bathrobes around yourself and tying it tightly around your waist.

Cillian followed suit and grabbed his own robe, watching you silently.

"Look, I-" he started, but you cut him off.

"No, you look," you said firmly, turning to face him. "I am moving to New York in six weeks and that will be it, so let's just enjoy every moment together."

Your participation in this horizontal tango, this act of adult carnal passion, had been building for months now -- ever since you had first crossed paths with your stepfather again, Cillian, on that fateful night. The chemistry between the two of you was undeniable; you couldn't ignore it any longer and instead found yourself helplessly caught up in the allure of his seductive smile and piercing blue eyes.

"You seriously want to keep this up for six weeks?" Cillian asked, eyes narrowing with a mixture of skepticism laced with a hint of hope.

"Yes," you affirmed emphatically, trying to maintain a sense of resolve as you stepped towards him, closing the distance between them. "I don't think I'll be able to keep my hands off you while I am there, seeing you almost every day, but once there is some distance between us, maybe it will be easier to let this go."

Cillian stared at you for a second, conflict dancing in his eyes as he took in your words. "It seems sensible, considering the circumstances," he finally agreed. "But six weeks is a long time, Y/N and I," he began before running over his thoughts. "It's just," he stammered. "It's so fucking wrong, Y/N. I mean, you're my stepdaughter for fuck's sake. I-I don't think I can handle the guilt."

You didn't respond, his words striking a chord deep within you. You knew what he was saying was true, yet you couldn't help but desire him in all the ways you never thought possible.

"Then say no and stay away from me," you challenged, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside of you.

Cillian stepped forward, eyes darting from your face to your lips, the intensity of his gaze sending shivers down your spine.

"You know I can't," he whispered hoarsely, his hand sliding up your arm to brush your cheek with his calloused fingertips. "Fuck, you have no idea what you do to me."

His eyes burned with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat, and you couldn't help but lean into him, your lips meeting his in a soft, lingering kiss.

"I think I have some idea ," you replied, your words barely above a whisper, laced with a husky purr.

Cillian groaned at your words, his arms tightening around your waist as he deepened the kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth, claiming you violently. The passion between you was all-consuming, a tempest of fire and desire that threatened to consume you both.

You felt his cock growing hard again against your stomach, pressing against you as he ground his hips into yours, and you whimpered, a low, needy sound that echoed between you.

"One more time before you go, after which I will be making full use of the room, even on my own," you chuckled with a sly grin, reaching down to grab his growing length.

Cillian let out a choked gasp when you took him in your hand, fingers stroking up and down his shaft with a sensual slowness that left him squirming for more. God, you were going to drive him mad with lust before the night was through.

"Alright, but not before I get another taste of that sweet little pussy of yours," he groaned, gripping your hips and making you drop back on to the bed.

"But you just came inside me ," you protested, cheeks flushed.

"And your point is?" he answered, moving inbetween your legs, spreading them wider, as he bent down, and pressed an open mouthed kiss on the inside of your thigh...

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#cillian murphy x y/n #cillian murphy x you #cillian murphy imagine #cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy fanfiction #cillian murphy fanfic

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xxoxobree · 2 years ago

Text

Intoxicating Pt.1

Hobie x Black Fem Spider Person Reader

Summary: You often accompany Miguel to other worlds seeking out anomaly's. Earth 138 was different you met their Spider-Man who seemed to have an interesting effect on your body.

A/n: This is supposed to mimic Cindy Moon & Peters Relationship.

As you strode through the bustling halls of HQ, your feet carried you towards the obscure room where Miguel would often be found, his eyes fixated on the various screens as he worked tirelessly to ensure that the multiverse remained flawless.

Although you had attempted to lure him out of his lair on numerous occasions, he had always refused, stating that his duty was to remain vigilant and watchful within those walls. When he summoned you today, you knew that it could only mean one thing - yet another anomaly had emerged, and it was up to you and Miguel to identify and send it back to its rightful dimension.

With a sense of purpose and duty, you made your way towards the designated room, always ready to do your part as Spider-Man. Your braids, adorned with beads on the end, jangled and clinked with each step you took, providing a satisfying sound. In your hand, you held a warm cup of coffee, careful not to scald your tongue as you took measured sips.

Upon entering the room, you savoured one last gulp of your coffee before addressing Miguel. "Hey there, what's the latest update? What do we have on the docket for today Layla?" you asked, eager to get started on the next mission.

Layla's hologram appeared on your watch, displaying crucial information about a Venom anomaly on Earth 138, the first Symbiote anomaly.

"Earth 138, huh? Isn't that dimension plagued with symbiotes already? This sounds like a challenge but interesting,"you remarked.

Before you could say anything else, Miguel cut in abruptly. "Enough talk. We need to get to work."

You couldn't help but feel a bit taken aback by Miguel's aggressive tone. "Hey, rude much?" you retorted, feeling slightly irritated.

Miguel let out an exasperated sigh, clearly having had enough of your presence for the day. "Come on, Y/n, let's go before this thing splits and creates more havoc," he said, opening up a portal and striding through it.

Quickly adjusting your mask and thwiping a web, you followed him through the portal with a leap and a swing. As you landed on the edge of a towering skyscraper, Miguel greeted you with a hint of annoyance in his voice. "Finally, you decided to show up," he muttered.

Taking a moment to observe your surroundings, you marveled at the world's colors and picturesque scenes. It looked like everything was cut straight out of a magazine.

Your voice was low as you murmured, "This dimension is one of the most fascinating I've ever seen." But your attention was quickly diverted as your spider senses tingled, warning you of a danger lurking below. The Venom anomaly was poised to attack a group of innocent civilians.

"Miguel, look!" you shouted urgently, pointing downwards as you swung into action. With your leg stretched out, you landed a swift kick that sent the symbiote hurtling backwards.

"Run! Get out of here!" Miguel warned the civilians, his voice urgent as he watched them flee to safety.

The Venom anomaly let out a low growl, baring its sharp teeth at you and Miguel, a twisted smile on its face as if it were relishing the upcoming fight.

You exchanged a quick nod with Miguel, both of you charging towards the symbiote with determination and focus.

The symbiote's tendrils lunged towards you and Miguel, you both sprang into action, expertly dodging the slimy projectiles with grace and ease. With lightning-fast reflexes, you reached for a web bomb from your belt and hurled it at the symbiote, watching as it exploded and subdued the dangerous creature.

"Piece of cake," you said, grinning confidently as you swung over to the writhing symbiote, watching as it struggled to break free.

Miguel nodded in approval, fiddling with his watch as he complimented you. "Good job kid." You nodded satisfied with today only for your spider senses to tingle once again, warning you of imminent danger.

Sure enough, you watched in alarm as the symbiote ripped itself free from the webs, its menacing form looming over you once more. You knew that this fight was far from over.

The symbiote's tendrils struck you and Miguel with considerable force, sending you both flying backwards. You struggled to regain your footing, feeling shaken and disoriented from the blow.

"Can't these symbiotes ever give us an easy fight?" you muttered, trying to shake off the dizziness as you got back up.

Miguel quickly sprang into action, instructing you to stay out of the creature's reach and focus on webbing it up. You followed his lead, keeping a safe distance as the symbiote cackled maniacally in response.

Despite your best efforts, the symbiote continued to wreak havoc, easily breaking through your webs and throwing everything it could at you.

You and Miguel dodged and weaved, doing your best to avoid the dangerous attacks while trying to contain the creature.

"Miguel, my web fluid is running low. We need a new game plan," you said with concern in your voice.

Suddenly, a voice called out from behind you, accompanied by an electrifying guitar riff. It was another Spider-Man, the one from this dimension, and he certainly looked the part. You watched in awe as he swung past you, landing with ease and unleashing a powerful strum that made the symbiote scream in agony.

Turning to Miguel, you saw the shock etched on his face, mirroring your own astonishment.

The unfamiliar Spider-Man continued jamming on his guitar, the sound waves overwhelming the symbiote and practically rendering it immobile.

In no time, Miguel sprang into action and quickly captured the weakened creature.

You swung over to the duo, intrigued by your newfound ally.

This Spider-Man was unlike any you had encountered before. His outfit was unconventional, lacking the traditional suit. His mask bore spikes running down the middle mimicking a mohawk. What's more, he exuded a confidence that set him apart from the rest.

"I thought I had wiped out all those bloody things," the stranger spoke in a thick British accent.

"Thanks for saving us," you murmured sweetly, drawing the stranger's attention to you. As he locked eyes with you, both of your spider senses went into overdrive, followed by a captivating scent that made your body feel hot and your head spin.

You struggled to keep your breathing steady, your chest rising and falling as you fought the urge to pounce on the stranger. You couldn't help but panic, wondering why he had such a powerful effect on you.

"Hmm, it looks like we have a lot in common," he said with a light chuckle, drawing closer to you like a magnet.

You swallowed hard, the sound audible as you nervously stammered out, "Y-yeah. I'm Y/n," feeling your cheeks flush with embarrassment.

"Hobie Brown," he replied in a low, seductive tone, his hand wrapping around yours in a firm grip. Your breaths quickened even more, if that was possible, as a rush of heat flooded your core.

"Nice to meet you, Hobie," you said gently pulling your hand away from his.

"Hobie, huh?" Miguel interrupted as he made his way over to the two of you. "Maybe you'd make a good addition. Why don't you come with us?" he suggested, opening a portal.

Taking advantage of Miguel's distraction, you created some distance between yourself and Hobie. You could feel your self-control slipping, as you wondered if you had the same effect on him.

Hobie spun around to face you and the delicious scent that radiated from him enveloped you once more. You paused, struggling to maintain your composure, before letting out a heavy sigh.

"I don't follow orders, mate," he said. "Care to explain what he's chattin' bout, love?"

You took a deep breath and composed yourself before replying,

"He's inviting you to join the Society of all the Spidermen, Hobie. It's a group of individuals like you, gifted with unique abilities, who work together to defend and protect the multiverse."

As Hobie pondered the invitation, you struggled to maintain your composure and secretly hoped he would decline. Your feet seemed to have a mind of their own as they drew you closer to Hobie, desperate to inhale more of his intoxicating scent that made your head spin.

"We have to leave right now if you're coming," Miguel pressed, flinging a watch to Hobie before disappearing into the portal. Hobie nodded and trailed after Miguel, leaving you to groan and whimper in disappointment before reluctantly stepping into the portal behind them.

Hobie and Miguel were walking ahead of you, trailing behind them. You watched eagerly as Hobie finally removed his mask, revealing a head full of lively hair that sprang out in every direction.

Unfortunately, you couldn't get a clear view of his face from your position behind him, until he turned around and flashed a small smirk in your direction. Your eyes were immediately drawn to his full lips, complete with a lip ring, and then up to the tips of his eyebrows. As you continued to scan his face, you noticed a plethora of piercings, which only added to his stunning appearance. You were completely captivated by how gorgeous he was.

"Uh, Miguel, I'll catch up with you later," you said, your steps slowing down as you continued to stare at Hobie. You couldn't help but inhale deeply, savoring his delicious scent for as long as possible, even as he walked further away from you.

With a deep exhale, you opened a portal and stepped through, arriving in your apartment. You immediately removed your mask, feeling the cool air wash over your face. Despite being back in your own space, Hobie's scent and face were still flooding your mind, making it hard to focus on anything else. You flopped onto your bed and began the task of taking off your skin-tight suit. After peeling it off, you tried your best to get some sleep, but your mind was too preoccupied with thoughts of Hobie, and you failed miserably at your attempt to rest.

There was something about him that left you utterly desperate. It was a feeling of desperation for his touch, for his hands to explore every inch of your body, for the sensation of his warm skin pressed against yours. His scent alone was enough to drive you wild, a heady aroma that seemed to intoxicate you completely.

A/n: If you liked this comment let me know what should I do in part 2.

#hobie brown x y/n #hobie x reader #hobie brown x you #hobie brown atsv #hobie brown x reader #hobie spiderverse #hobie brown #hobie brown fic #hobie brown smut #spider punk #spider punk x you #spider punk x reader #spiderpunk x y/n #spiderpunk x reader #spiderpunk smut #miguel ohara #miguel o’hara

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novaursa · 2 months ago

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The Flames We Loved (to live forever)

This is one of my darker works. If it's not your cup of tea, skip it. This is the last part in this series. I may expand it more with time and add additional parts.

- Summary: Aerys foresaw your future in the flames, long before you were both set alight.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Paring: daughter!reader/father!Aerys II Targaryen

- Note: Keep in mind how some events differ from the books, and the whole timeline of the canon events is a mess.

- Previous part: to cry wolf

- Next part: prelude/ending

The anxiety in the throne room is thick enough to choke on, as Tywin Lannister stands before the Iron Throne, his expression controlled but his eyes smoldering with frustration. Aerys reclines on the jagged metal seat, his gaze fixed on his Hand with a glint of suspicion and anger. The small council remains silent, its members exchanging wary glances, caught between loyalty to the king and the undeniable logic of Lord Tywin’s words.

“My king,” Tywin begins, his voice steady, every syllable measured, though there is a hardened edge to it that even Aerys cannot ignore. “The reports from the Stormlands and the North are undeniable. Forces gather, led by those who would see the throne taken from you. The northern army moves south, and the Baratheons rally in open rebellion. Our enemies are closing in. We must act—swiftly and strategically.”

Aerys’s lips twist into a sneer, his gaze narrowing with an intensity that makes his courtiers shift uncomfortably. He has heard these words before, cautions, warnings, all ringing in his ears like the clamor of crows. “And what action do you propose, Tywin?” he demands, his voice laced with disdain, as though the mere idea of retreat or caution is a personal affront. “That I should cower? That I should fear these traitors who think they can stand against me?”

Tywin stands resolute, his gaze unflinching. “Your Grace, this is not a matter of cowardice but of prudence. Queen Rhaella, Princess Y/N, and the children should be taken to Dragonstone. It is the safest haven we have, fortified and removed from the reach of those who would seek to harm the blood of the dragon. Your daughter is with child again—”

Aerys’s face darkens instantly, a flash of rage snapping through his expression like lightning. “You would send her away from me yet again?” he hisses, his fingers gripping the armrests of the Iron Throne until his knuckles turn white. “For what? To abandon me under the guise of ‘safety’? Do you presume to know what is best for my family, Tywin?”

Tywin’s jaw clenches, though he remains composed. “Your Grace, there is wisdom in ensuring the survival of your bloodline, should the worst come to pass. If the princess and the children are taken to Dragonstone, they will be beyond reach—secure until your enemies are defeated. You can fight with the assurance that your family is safe.”

Aerys laughs, the sound high and mocking, a bitterness etched into every note. “Safety?” he sneers. “Safety is a lie meant for the weak, for those who cling to their lives with trembling hands. I am the blood of the dragon, and my children will not be sent away like cowards to hide from shadows. Y/N will remain here, by my side, where she belongs. This… ‘precaution’ you speak of is an insult.”

The other members of the council shift uncomfortably, their eyes darting between the king and his Hand. Tywin’s mask of composure does not falter, though there is a coldness in his gaze, a flicker of something that almost resembles contempt. “Your Grace, you know I would not counsel retreat without necessity,” he says, his voice hardening. “But as your Hand, it is my duty to ensure the preservation of House Targaryen. The realm’s loyalty is already strained; the loss of your heirs would only embolden your enemies.”

Aerys’s eyes blaze, his anger slowly awakening, each word that Tywin speaks grating against him, stoking the fire of his fury. “And I suppose you imagine yourself wise enough to dictate where my family belongs?” he snaps, leaning forward, his voice low and venomous. “Or is this merely another attempt to weaken me, to see my daughter and heirs taken from my side?”

“Your Grace,” Tywin begins, his tone even but strained, “I would never presume—”

“Silence!” Aerys’s voice cracks like a whip, filling the throne room with its echo. He rises from the Iron Throne, the madness gleaming in his eyes, his fingers trembling with rage. “You dare presume to tell me how to protect my family, to dictate their place in my kingdom? You, Tywin Lannister, who sits here with his own ambitions cloaked in honeyed words?”

Tywin’s face remains impassive, though a hint of anger flashes in his green eyes, barely concealed beneath the mask of decorum he wears so well. He bows his head, acknowledging the king’s fury, though his voice retains its firm resolve. “My loyalty has always been to the crown, Your Grace. To you, and to the safety of your bloodline.”

Aerys’s sneer deepens, and he gestures with a sweeping hand. “Loyalty? I see now the truth of your ‘loyalty,’ Tywin. Your true loyalty lies only in preserving your own influence, in keeping me under your thumb while feigning submission. But no longer.”

The silence that follows is oppressive, a tension that thickens the air as Aerys straightens, his gaze gleaming with morbid satisfaction. “Hear me now,” he declares, his voice echoing through the hall as he points a trembling finger at Tywin. “From this day forward, you are no longer my Hand. Your service to me is finished. Return to Casterly Rock, where you may brood over your own ambitions, far from the true seat of power.”

A murmur ripples through the court, the lords and ladies exchanging shocked glances, though none dare speak. Tywin’s face remains an unreadable mask, his eyes cold, but a flicker of something—perhaps satisfaction, perhaps resignation—flashes in his gaze as he inclines his head. “As you wish, Your Grace,” he says quietly, his voice unyielding, each word clipped and final.

Aerys’s eyes narrow, his mouth shifting with something between rage and triumph, though his attention turns away from Tywin and toward you, standing beside him, silent and stiff. “You see, my daughter,” he says, his voice softer, almost tender, as he reaches out to brush a strand of your hair from your face. “You do not need the Lannister’s meddling hand to protect you. I will keep you safe, as I have always done. Your place is here, beside me, not hidden away on some distant island.”

You nod, your heart pounding, though you sense the storm brewing in his words, a promise that binds you to his side, even as the world outside these walls grows more perilous. “I trust you, Father,” you say softly, casting a cautious glance at Tywin, whose eyes remain fixed on Aerys, the faintest hint of contempt flickering in his expression.

Tywin meets your gaze for a brief moment, an unspoken warning in his eyes, but he bows low, his voice controlled, distant. “Then I shall take my leave, Your Grace,” he says, his tone devoid of warmth. “May your strength carry the realm through the trials ahead.”

Aerys waves a dismissive hand, his focus already shifting as he returns to his throne, a dark satisfaction in his smile. Tywin turns and strides from the hall, his back straight, his footsteps measured, the very image of composure. But you sense the fury begging to stir, the power that has just slipped through his grasp, and the lingering question of what consequences this moment will bring.

As the throne room settles into silence, Aerys’s gaze softens as it turns to you, his anger receding, replaced by a rare, almost tender expression. “Now,” he murmurs, reaching for your hand, his touch surprisingly gentle as he guides you closer. “The realm may shake, but you… you will remain safe, as long as you are with me.”

The words feel like chains, binding you to his side even as the world beyond the Red Keep falls into chaos. And as you look into his eyes, you understand that there will be no escape, no sanctuary—not while he clings to you, his daughter, his anchor in a world consumed by fire and blood.

In Rhaella’s chambers, a quiet stillness fills the air, heavy and almost suffocating. You sit near the window, gazing out at the darkening sky beyond the Red Keep’s walls, the distant sounds of the city below a constant reminder of the world outside. Rhaella stands nearby, her expression filled with concern, though she keeps her hands busy, tidying the folds of her dress, smoothing the blankets—a nervous habit she has had since you were a child.

You glance at her, taking a deep breath as you struggle with the thoughts churning within you, thoughts you have kept buried, thoughts you are no longer certain you can bear alone. The weight of your father’s expectations, the twisted bond he holds you in, presses down on you, and the words spill from you before you can stop them.

“Mother,” you begin, voice soft and strained. “I don’t know what more I can do. Or… if I even want to soothe him anymore. Perhaps…” You hesitate, looking down at your hands, the words coming slowly, reluctantly. “Perhaps the city deserves to burn.”

Rhaella’s hands still, her fingers tightening around the edge of the blanket as she looks at you with a mixture of shock and sorrow. For a moment, she says nothing, simply staring, and you can see the conflict in her eyes, the pain of a mother who sees too much of her husband in her child. In that instant, it is as though she is looking at a stranger—a stranger who bears the shadow of Aerys’s fierce and destructive nature, a fire that cannot be controlled.

She steps toward you, her voice gentle, though there is an edge of urgency in her tone. “Y/N,” she murmurs, reaching out to take your hand, her fingers cool and comforting. “Listen to me, my dear. You cannot let his madness consume you. You are more than that… more than him. I have seen the strength in you, a strength he lacks.”

You turn away, a bitter smile flickering across your lips as you shake your head. “But Mother,” you say quietly, “what if that strength is the very same fire that he carries? The fire that destroys? I have tried, again and again, to calm him, to keep him from his worst impulses, but… I am beginning to wonder if it’s worth it. If any of it is worth it.”

Rhaella’s gaze softens, though there is a sorrow in her eyes, a sorrow she has carried for years, buried beneath her calm exterior. “There was a time,” she says softly, her voice trembling ever so slightly, “when he was not like this. When he was kind, even gentle. And I believe that part of him still lives, hidden, buried beneath the weight of his own fears and rage.”

You look at her, searching her face, trying to see the memory she clings to, but all you feel is a deep weariness, a feeling of being trapped in a cycle that cannot be broken. “Maybe it does,” you whisper, though your words are tinged with doubt. “But he is not that man anymore, Mother. He’s… he’s something else. And I don’t know if I can be the one to bring him back.”

Rhaella’s hand tightens around yours, her eyes filled with determination, a fire of her own that she rarely shows. “You must stay strong, Y/N,” she insists, her voice quiet but fierce. “You promised me, do you remember? You promised that you would endure, that you would not let his madness take you as it has taken him.”

You nod, the memory of that promise flooding back, the words you had spoken in a moment of strength, a strength that feels far away now. “I remember,” you say, though your voice is faint. “But it is harder than I thought it would be. Every day, I feel the walls closing in, feel myself slipping further into his world.”

Rhaella pulls you into a gentle embrace, her hand smoothing over your hair, her voice soft and soothing. “I know, my love,” she whispers. “But you are not alone. You have your brother, and you have me. We will bear this together, as we always have.”

You cling to her, drawing strength from her presence, feeling a flicker of resolve rekindling within you. The city may teeter on the edge of chaos, the realm may tremble with the threat of rebellion, but in this moment, here in your mother’s arms, you feel a sense of calm—a fragile peace that you know will not last, but one that you can carry with you as long as you are able.

“Stay strong, Y/N,” Rhaella whispers, her voice filled with both a mother’s love and a warning. “You are my hope, the hope for all of us. Do not let that fire consume you.”

Rhaegar stands before his father in a private audience chamber, his face calm, every word measured, though beneath the surface, an undercurrent of urgency pulses within him. Aerys watches him from his chair, his gaze sharp and calculating as he studies his son with a mixture of amusement and suspicion.

“Father,” Rhaegar begins, keeping his tone low, respectful, though there is a steel in his voice. “The situation in the realm grows more dangerous with each passing day. The rebellions stir like fire in the underbrush, and we must consider the safety of our family.”

Aerys raises an eyebrow, a smirk forming on his lips as he leans back, his gaze unwavering. “And what would you suggest, Rhaegar? That we hide like cowards? That we let the wolves and stags think they can frighten dragons into fleeing?”

Rhaegar’s jaw tightens slightly, but he maintains his composure. “No, Father,” he replies smoothly. “But even the strongest king protects his line. Viserys and Daenerys are young, vulnerable, as is Mother. They should be taken to Dragonstone, where they will be out of reach from any threats.”

Aerys’s smirk fades, his gaze narrowing. “You think to send my heirs away, Rhaegar?” he sneers, his voice tinged with suspicion. “To hide them on Dragonstone as if they were weaklings, too fragile to remain in my presence?” He leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Or is this Tywin Lannister’s influence? You speak his words now, don’t you?”

Rhaegar meets his father’s gaze steadily, though a flicker of irritation passes over his face at the mention of the former Hand. “No, Your Grace,” he says firmly. “I seek only to protect the bloodline of House Targaryen. Tywin’s counsel is not mine.”

Aerys’s expression twists, a sneer curving his lips. “Do not lie to me, Rhaegar. I see the Lannister’s shadow in this request,” he accuses, his voice filled with disdain. “He spoke of sending my blood away, of hiding in the shadows. Do you think I don’t see through this? Do you wish to repeat his cowardly plans?”

Rhaegar’s resolve hardens, though he keeps his voice steady, calm. “Father, the suggestion has no bearing on Lord Tywin. My concerns are for our family alone. I would not repeat his counsel if I did not think it necessary.”

Aerys taps his fingers against the chair, his gaze flickering as he considers Rhaegar’s words. “And what of your sister?” he asks, a cold smile curving his lips. “Would you send her away too, Rhaegar? Would you have her taken from me as well?”

Rhaegar hesitates, his heart sinking as he meets his father’s gaze. He knows the answer that Aerys wants, and he knows too well what it will mean. “No,” he replies, his voice quiet, steady. “Y/N should remain here, with you. Her place is by your side.”

Aerys’s eyes gleam with satisfaction, his smirk growing as he leans forward, pleased by his son’s acquiescence. “Indeed,” he murmurs, his tone soft, possessive. “She belongs here, Rhaegar. She is mine, and I will not be parted from her.”

Rhaegar swallows, the weight of the decision pressing down on him, though he knows it is what his sister would want. She would rather see her children safe, far from the chaos that engulfs the realm, even if it means sacrificing her own freedom. “Then let Viserys and Daenerys go with Mother to Dragonstone,” he says quietly. “They will be safer there. We owe her that much.”

Aerys regards him in silence for a moment, a flicker of something—perhaps approval, perhaps amusement—crossing his face. “Very well,” he concedes, though his tone holds a hint of warning. “They may go, but your sister will remain here. She will stand by me, where she belongs.”

Rhaegar nods, though his heart feels heavy, his voice softening. “Thank you, Father. For allowing Viserys and Daenerys this protection.”

Aerys waves a hand dismissively, as if the matter is already forgotten. “Go, then. Arrange it,” he says, his tone indifferent, though his gaze lingers on Rhaegar with a faint glint of satisfaction. “But remember, my son—no one, not even the gods themselves, will part me from your sister.”

Rhaegar inclines his head, his face expressionless, though inside, a storm of emotions roils. He knows what this decision will cost, the sacrifice it demands of his sister, and he silently vows to honor it, to ensure that this choice will not be in vain.

Taking a careful breath, he continues, his voice quiet but determined. “I would also ask that my wife, Princess Elia, and our children be sent to Sunspear. It is their home, and they will be safer in Dorne, among her kin.”

Aerys’s eyes narrow. “So, you would send all the women away, would you? First, my heirs, and now your own wife and children. You would leave me surrounded by empty halls. No, Rhaegar. Elia will remain here, and so will your children. If you are so desperate for their safety, then perhaps you should think more carefully about your allegiances.”

Rhaegar’s hands clench at his sides, though he forces himself to nod, his expression carefully composed. “As you command, Your Grace.”

Aerys watches him a moment longer, his gaze filled with that peculiar satisfaction, as if savoring his control over every word spoken, every action taken. “Do not presume to question me again on such matters, Rhaegar. I am not a weak minded fool, to be manipulated by whispers.”

Rhaegar gives a final nod, his face a mask, concealing the turmoil beneath. “I understand, Father. I will see to the arrangements.”

As he leaves the chamber, a bitter resolve settles within him, a reminder of the price his family will pay to survive the chaos that waits outside these walls.

Rhaegar stands in the dim, secluded corner of the Red Keep’s lower chambers, waiting as the echoes of footsteps fade into silence. The torches on the walls flicker and the damp, cool air clings to him, grounding him against the storm of thoughts raging within. At last, Varys appears, his footsteps soft, his hands folded neatly within his voluminous robes, his expression placid but his eyes sharp, observing every detail of Rhaegar’s face with his usual unsettling attention.

“Your Grace,” Varys begins, bowing his head in a respectful nod, his voice a soft whisper in the silence. “You summoned me.”

Rhaegar inclines his head, his gaze steady as he studies the man before him, the Master of Whisperers—the spider who knew every secret, every whisper, and every shadowed truth within the Seven Kingdoms. If anyone could ensure the safe departure of his mother and siblings to Dragonstone, it would be Varys.

“I did, Lord Varys,” Rhaegar replies, his voice calm yet laced with urgency. “I require your assistance to see that Queen Rhaella, my brother Viserys, and my sister Daenerys are safely transported to Dragonstone.”

Varys’s eyes flicker with a knowing glint, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he nods. “An excellent plan, Your Grace. The queen and your siblings would indeed be safer on Dragonstone, removed from the… delicate political climate here in King’s Landing.”

He pauses, his gaze sharpening as he considers Rhaegar carefully. “And what of the princess, your sister? Will she be joining them?”

Rhaegar’s face tightens, the faint hope that had flickered within him extinguished by the weight of his own words. He looks away, his voice heavy with resignation. “No. My father refuses to let her leave. He… he insists that she remain here, by his side. She is his anchor, the only thing keeping him from… well, from his worst impulses.”

Varys’s gaze darkens, a faint sigh slipping from his lips as he shakes his head slowly. “A pity,” he murmurs, his voice as soft as silk yet laced with sympathy. “The princess has been a steadying influence on His Grace, that much is certain. But at what cost to herself?”

Rhaegar’s expression becomes haunted, shadows gathering in his eyes as he turns to face Varys fully. “At too great a cost,” he admits, his voice barely more than a whisper. “She carries the burden of his madness as no one else can, and I fear… I fear it’s consuming her. But I know her. Even if he allowed it, I think she would refuse to leave. She would not abandon him, not when she believes that she alone stands between him and the city.”

Varys’s fingers brush thoughtfully along his sleeve, his expression pensive. “Ah, such loyalty,” he murmurs, though there is a flicker of something deeper in his gaze—an understanding that cuts to the core of the tragedy unfolding before them. “A loyalty that binds, even as it burns. She may be the only shield King’s Landing has from His Grace’s wrath.”

Rhaegar’s face tightens with sorrow, his fists clenching at his sides. “It should not be her burden,” he says, his voice low, fierce. “It is too much, even for her. She should be with them, with my mother, Viserys, and Daenerys. She should be free from this prison he keeps her in.”

Varys regards him quietly, his expression softening, though his eyes remain sharp. “Perhaps, Your Grace, there will come a time when the princess will find that freedom. But until then…” He hesitates, as if weighing his words carefully. “Until then, you must ensure the safety of the queen and the children. They, too, are vulnerable, and their survival may yet determine the future of this realm.”

Rhaegar nods, a bitter determination settling within him. “Yes. They must reach Dragonstone, no matter what. My mother, my brother, and my sister—they will be out of harm’s way.” His gaze hardens, and he fixes Varys with a fierce, unyielding look. “Will you see to it personally, Varys?”

Varys inclines his head, a faint smile curving his lips, though it lacks its usual humor. “I will arrange everything, Your Grace,” he replies smoothly. “They will depart quietly, without fanfare, and my eyes will be upon them every step of the journey.”

Rhaegar releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, a faint flicker of relief passing over his face. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with gratitude. “If you succeed, then at least… at least they will be safe.”

Varys’s expression softens, though his gaze remains unreadable, the shadow of secrets lurking behind his eyes. “You care deeply for your family, Your Grace. A rare quality, especially among those who wear crowns.”

Rhaegar’s face darkens, a sadness settling over him as he glances down, the weight of his decisions pressing upon him. “I would do anything for them,” he replies softly. “They are all I have. And my sister…” He trails off, the pain in his eyes evident, though he quickly masks it.

Varys’s gaze lingers on him, a hint of something almost compassionate in his expression as he gives a slow, understanding nod. “Then rest assured, Your Grace,” he says quietly. “I will see to it that the queen and your siblings reach Dragonstone in safety. And as for the princess…” He hesitates, a faint glimmer of resolve in his eyes. “Perhaps there is more than one way to protect her, even from here.”

Rhaegar’s gaze sharpens, and he studies Varys, searching his face, though he cannot quite decipher the meaning behind the man’s words. “If there is any way to shield her from this madness, from his wrath… then do it,” he says, his voice low, fierce.

Varys gives a small, respectful bow. “As you command, Your Grace. I will do what I can.”

With that, the Master of Whisperers turns, slipping back into the shadows, leaving Rhaegar alone with the silence, his heart heavy but a faint spark of hope kindling within him.

The pale morning light filters through the narrow windows of your chambers as Rhaegar stands before you, his expression somber. His armor gleams softly, polished and ready for war, the ruby dragon embossed on his chest plate catching the light, a symbol of the strength he must bear in the battles ahead. His face is steady, composed, but as he looks at you, his twin, his resolve falters just slightly, a flicker of sorrow passing over his face.

You feel the weight of it all pressing down on you—the absence of Rhaella, of Viserys and Daenerys, your children that you could never openly call your own. Every day, you felt the emptiness they left behind, the silence in the halls that used to be filled with their laughter, their small footsteps, their innocent questions. And now Rhaegar, too, is leaving, setting off to face Robert’s armies in a war that feels as inevitable as it does senseless. You struggle to hold yourself together, but the grief, the helplessness, is too heavy.

“Rhaegar…” Your voice trembles, your eyes filling with tears you can no longer hold back. “I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I can be strong enough without you, without them.”

Rhaegar’s face softens, his own pain mirrored in your eyes as he steps forward, wrapping his arms around you. You cling to him, feeling the warmth and steadiness of his embrace, a familiar comfort that feels all the more fragile now. His hand strokes your hair gently as he whispers, “You are strong, Y/N. You have always been stronger than you know. You must stay strong—for them, for Mother, and for the one you carry now.”

At his words, you feel a wave of both hope and despair wash over you. The life growing within you is a reminder of the legacy you bear, of the love you carry despite everything, but the thought of facing it alone, in the shadow of Aerys’s madness, feels unbearable.

Tears spill down your cheeks as you press your face against his shoulder, your voice choked. “I don’t know if I can endure this… If I can watch him descend further and further, if I can bear his wrath without you here.” You swallow, the weight of your words heavy between you, each one a plea, a confession you have kept locked inside.

Rhaegar pulls back slightly, his hands cupping your face, his gaze filled with a fierce, unbreakable resolve. “You must, Y/N,” he whispers, his thumbs brushing away your tears. “You are the only light left in this darkness. The only one who keeps him from bringing ruin upon us all. You are his anchor… and you are mine. Without you, this house would fall.”

The intensity of his words hits you, and for a moment, you see the weight he, too, bears—the weight of responsibility, of choices forced upon him, of a love that binds him as much as it empowers him. You nod, though the ache in your heart does not ease, feeling the fragile thread of determination stirring within you, the promise of resilience that only he can draw from you.

A movement at the door pulls you both from the moment, and the room shifts as Aerys enters, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the sight of you and Rhaegar, locked in an embrace. His expression darkens, a flicker of something dangerous glinting in his gaze as he strides forward, his steps measured, calculated.

“Enough,” Aerys says sharply, his voice cutting through the quiet and cold. He reaches for you, his hand closing around your arm as he pulls you to his side, his touch possessive, his gaze fixed on Rhaegar. “It is time for you to leave, Rhaegar. The kingdom awaits its prince on the battlefield.”

Rhaegar’s gaze hardens, though he keeps his voice calm, measured. “I was saying goodbye, Father.”

Aerys’s lips curl into a thin smile, though there is no warmth in it. “Goodbyes are for those who expect to return,” he says, his words laced with a subtle cruelty. “But you, my son, are a Targaryen, forged in fire. You will return victorious, or you will not return at all.”

You feel Aerys’s grip tighten, and the familiar chill of his presence pulls you back to the reality of your situation. Rhaegar’s face is a mask of control, but you see the sorrow in his eyes as he looks at you one last time, his expression filled with all the unspoken words that hang between you.

“Be strong,” he whispers, his gaze locked onto yours, a silent promise lingering in his eyes. “For them, and for us.”

You nod, barely able to keep your composure, your heart breaking with every step he takes toward the door. He pauses, looking back at you one last time, his gaze filled with a love that words could never capture, a bond that distance could never sever.

And then he is gone, the heavy doors closing behind him, leaving you in silence with Aerys, who pulls you closer, his hand firm as it rests against your shoulder. He leans down, his voice low, his words laced with satisfaction.

“Now, my dear,” he murmurs, his tone both gentle and menacing. “We are alone once more, as it should be. Your brother goes to fight my wars, and you will remain, as you always have.”

You close your eyes, the weight of his words settling over you, pressing down like chains. Rhaegar’s presence lingers in the room, a fading warmth that you cling to, even as you feel Aerys’s gaze upon you, claiming you as his, as if he can possess even your thoughts, even your pain.

Suddenly a crushing wave of grief overtakes you, and the tears you held back spill over, leaving you vulnerable and exposed before Aerys. You can no longer hide the tremble in your hands, the way your body aches with a mixture of sorrow and fear. The emptiness left by Rhaella, Viserys, Daenerys, and now Rhaegar’s departure—all of it weighs down on you, leaving you feeling hollow, fragile.

Aerys’s gaze sharpens, his lips twitching as he watches the tears fall, something unfamiliar flickering in his expression. He rarely sees you like this, and a strange, almost possessive tenderness comes over his face. Without a word, he draws you closer, his hand surprisingly gentle as it settles on your cheek, his fingers brushing away a stray tear.

“You are afraid,” he murmurs, the realization seeming to surprise him as he studies your face. “But you, my strong one… what could you possibly fear?”

You shudder, unable to stop the words from spilling out, your voice thick with a pain that can no longer be concealed. “I am afraid,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. “Afraid of what lies ahead. Of what will become of us, of this child…” Your hand moves instinctively to your abdomen, where the small swell of new life is just beginning to show.

Aerys’s gaze drops to your hand, and something shifts in his expression—a rare softness, an almost paternal pride mixed with a fierce, unyielding protectiveness. He places his hand over yours, pressing gently against the swell, his touch warm and grounding, a rare gesture of comfort from a man more known for cruelty than kindness.

“Nothing will harm you,” he promises, his voice soft yet edged with a conviction that sends a shiver down your spine. “Nothing will touch you, or the child you carry. I would see this city burned to ash before I let harm come to what is mine.”

He leans closer, his gaze intense, and his hand remains firmly on your abdomen, his fingers splayed protectively over the small curve. “I know this,” he continues, his voice lowering to a near whisper, his words almost reverent, as if he speaks of a prophecy only he understands. “I know it because I have seen it… I saw us together, burning bright in the great fire.”

A chill runs through you, his words hanging heavy in the air. The “great fire” he speaks of is something he has mentioned before, always with a fervor that borders on madness, a vision that seems to haunt him. You do not know whether he speaks of a literal fire or some deeper, darker omen, but his gaze is filled with a sinister certainty, a conviction that frightens you even as his hands remain gentle.

You look up at him, searching his face, the insanity in his eyes tempered by something raw, something that almost resembles love. “You… you saw us again?” you ask, your voice barely audible. “Together?”

Aerys nods, his fingers pressing ever so slightly against your abdomen, as if grounding himself in this moment, in the life growing within you. “Together,” he murmurs, his gaze distant, lost in whatever vision haunts him. “We stood in the heart of the flames, unbreakable. All around us, the world burned, yet we remained, untouched, eternal. I saw it, as clearly as I see you now.”

His words wrap around you like a shroud, and for a moment, you feel a strange mixture of comfort and dread. There is a part of you that wants to believe him, to let his certainty banish the fear that gnaws at you, but the darkness that lingers in his eyes, the way he speaks of flames and ruin—it is a comfort laced with danger.

“But what if…” you hesitate, your voice trembling. “What if there is no fire, no… destiny waiting for us? What if it’s only darkness?”

Aerys’s expression hardens, a flicker of impatience crossing his face, though his hand remains gentle against you. “There will be fire,” he insists, his voice fierce. “There will be fire, and we will rise above it, stronger than any who have come before. You carry the future within you, a future that will be forged in flames. Our blood is fire, and we are destined to endure.”

You close your eyes, allowing his words to wash over you, the strength of his conviction settling like a weight in your chest. Despite everything, despite the pain and the fear, his presence, his touch, brings a strange comfort, a feeling that perhaps, in his madness, he sees something that you cannot—a path through the chaos that surrounds you.

As you open your eyes, he leans down, pressing a surprisingly tender kiss to your forehead, his hand lingering on your abdomen as if to reassure both you and himself. “Rest now,” he murmurs, his voice softer, an unexpected gentleness lacing his tone. “Nothing will harm you, my sweet. I will not allow it.”

The day dawns heavy with a strange, oppressive silence, a quiet that feels unnatural, weighted. You wake with an overwhelming emptiness, a sadness that gnaws at you, sharp and deep, though you cannot say why. It feels as though something precious has been torn away, a part of you hollowed out, leaving nothing but ache in its place. You cling to the blankets, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your hand instinctively pressing over the small swell of your abdomen as if to shield the life within from the weight of the sorrow that presses down on you.

The hours pass slowly, each one thick with dread, and as the afternoon wanes, a soft knock sounds at the door, followed by Grand Maester Pycelle’s familiar, shuffling steps. He enters slowly, his face grave, and you feel your heart plummet, though no words have yet been spoken. Behind him, a raven perches silently on his arm, its black eyes gleaming, watching you with an unblinking stare that feels like a harbinger.

“Your Grace,” Pycelle begins, his voice low and somber, filled with a cautious gentleness that only deepens your fear. “I… bring word from the Trident. Prince Rhaegar…” He hesitates, his eyes meeting yours, and in that instant, you know. The pain, the emptiness—it all has a name.

“Rhaegar is dead,” you whisper, your voice cracking as the words leave your lips. The room sways, the world blurring around you, and before you can steady yourself, the weight of the grief crashes over you, pulling you down, down into a darkness you cannot escape.

“No,” you murmur, your voice thick with disbelief, your hands shaking as you clutch the edge of the bed. “No, he can’t… He promised…”

Pycelle steps forward, his hand hovering as if to comfort you, though he does not touch you, his gaze filled with pity. “Your Grace, please… for the sake of your child, you must rest. This shock… it is too great. You must not strain yourself.”

But you cannot hear him. The pain, the emptiness, is all-consuming, ripping through you as if it has a life of its own, a force that demands to be felt, to be voiced. Memories of Rhaegar flood your mind—the soft look in his eyes, his steady presence, his strength, and the way he had held you, comforting you, as if he could shield you from every sorrow.

“He’s gone,” you say, your voice a broken whisper, your hands pressing against your chest as though trying to hold yourself together. “Gone… as we were born. Like Summerhall.”

Pycelle exchanges a worried glance with one of the attendants, who quickly approaches, gently guiding you back onto the bed, though you barely feel their hands, your mind lost in the memories you shouldn't have, in the fire, in the ashes of that night so long ago.

“Summerhall,” you murmur, your eyes distant, seeing not the room before you but a memory etched into your soul. “The fire… we were born in fire. Rhaegar and I… we were born from tragedy, on the day it all turned to ash.”

Pycelle looks at you with concern, his voice soft, urging you to lie back, though you cannot stop the words from pouring out, your mind unraveling with grief and memory. “The walls crumbled… the heat, the smoke… Rhaegar was there with me. He’s always been there.” Tears stream down your face, each one a testament to the bond that has been ripped from you, a connection you can no longer touch, no longer feel.

The attendants ease you onto the bed, murmuring soft words meant to soothe, though they cannot reach you, your thoughts tangled in the past, in the vision of flames and loss that has defined so much of your life.

Aerys enters the room, his face darkening as he takes in the scene—the maester, the attendants, and you, lying in the bed, eyes hollow, lost in grief. His expression hardens, a glint of anger flashing in his eyes as he approaches, his voice sharp with irritation as he speaks.

“What is this?” he snaps, his gaze cutting toward Pycelle, his voice a mixture of frustration and contempt. “Even in death, Rhaegar seeks to take her from me? He poisons her mind with grief, seeks to drag her to the grave beside him.”

Pycelle bows his head, his tone careful, placating. “Your Grace, the shock has been great. The princess is deeply affected by this loss… for the sake of her health, and that of her unborn child, I have ordered her to remain bed-bound. Any further strain could be dangerous.”

Aerys’s eyes narrow, his hand clenching at his side as he approaches the bed, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of anger and possessive fury. “He will not have you, Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice low, venomous. “Rhaegar is dead, and you are here, with me. He has no power over you now.”

You look up at him, your eyes filled with tears, a hollow emptiness lingering in your gaze as you meet his. “He was my brother, my other half,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “A part of me is gone, Aerys… He was… he was all I had left.”

Aerys’s hand moves to your shoulder, his grip firm, almost too tight, as he leans close, his eyes fierce. “You have me,” he insists, his voice laced with anger and a twisted form of affection. “You belong to me, and I will not let you follow him into the shadows. You will remain, as you are meant to.”

He places his other hand over your abdomen, his fingers pressing gently against the slight swell there, his gaze dark and selfish. “You carry my blood, my future,” he murmurs, his voice softening, though there is an edge of madness in his eyes. “And I will not let even death take you from me. You will live… for our child.”

You close your eyes, the weight of his words pressing down on you as you feel the touch of grief, of fear, of a love that is as binding as it is toxic. There is no escape, no solace, only the echo of Rhaegar’s memory and the life growing within you—a life that binds you to Aerys’s side, even as the world you knew slips further and further away.

As he watches over you, his hand resting greedly on your abdomen, you feel the emptiness settle deeper, a hollow ache that even the promise of new life cannot ease. You are bound, a tethered flame caught between love and duty, between life and the fire that has claimed everything you once held dear. And in the shadows of that chamber, you realize that this is the prison you must endure, until the very end.

The darkened halls of the Red Keep are heavy with a stillness broken only by the occasional, faint whisper of footsteps echoing through the stone corridors. Outside the doors of your chamber, Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Jonothor Darry stand guard, both vigilant yet troubled. Aerys had given strict orders—no one was to disturb him and the princess tonight. The king’s word had been absolute, his tone carrying a menace that kept even his Kingsguard rooted in place, unwilling to test his patience.

Jaime shifts uncomfortably, his jaw clenched, the faintest tremor in his hands betraying the thoughts that rage in his mind. His face is pale, and he stares down the hall as though trying to escape the lingering memory of screams—the screams of Qarlton Chelsted, Aerys’s new Hand, who had been burned alive that very evening. The smell of burning flesh still clings to his memory, acrid and inescapable, and he cannot banish the echoes of that brutal spectacle from his mind.

He glances at Darry, his voice a low murmur, tinged with uncertainty. “Should we… should we really allow him in there with her? Grand Maester Pycelle was clear. She needs rest, not… whatever madness the king intends.”

Darry’s face is stern, his voice hard as he replies, keeping his tone clipped. “The king has given his orders, Ser Jaime. It is not our place to question him, not regarding the princess. She is his wife in all but name, and he decides what is best for her.”

Jaime grits his teeth, a flash of frustration in his eyes. “And what if his ‘care’ drives her to ruin, Darry? The man just burned his own Hand alive, for refusing to burn the city. What will it take before we act?”

Darry’s gaze sharpens, his voice dropping to a near whisper, his eyes darting down the hall to ensure they are alone. “Hold your tongue, Lannister. You’re new to this post; you don’t yet understand the cost of questioning the king’s orders. Men have lost their lives for less. Especially regarding her.”

Jaime bites back his retort, turning his gaze away, though the tension in his jaw does not ease. The door remains shut, and silence falls once more between the two knights, broken only by the faint murmur of voices and the cold stone beneath their feet.

Inside the bedchamber, the air is heavy and warm, dimly lit by the few candles scattered about the room. You lie in the bed, your mind hovering in a restless haze, caught between sleep and wakefulness. You sense a presence beside you, the familiar, chilling touch that brings you back to consciousness, pulling you from the shadows of grief and exhaustion.

You feel soft kisses trailing down your cheek, a sensation that both soothes and unsettles, and you open your eyes slowly, a familiar face coming into focus. “Aerys…” you murmur, his name leaving your lips in a barely audible whisper, a mixture of confusion and resignation coloring your tone.

Aerys’s face hovers over yours, his eyes gleaming with a manic satisfaction, his lips curving into a sardonic smile as he continues his kisses, his touch damanding as his hands begin to wander, his fingers tracing your skin with a needy hunger. “You could not join me tonight,” he murmurs, his voice tinged with mock regret, though his eyes betray the fire within him. “You missed it, my dear. Another traitor, another flame to cleanse this city of its filth.”

Your heart sinks, and though you try to keep your face composed, the weight of his words presses down on you, filling you with a sickening dread. “Qarlton Chelsted,” you whisper, the name slipping out, your voice trembling as you recall the man—a good and dutiful Hand, or so you’d thought, a man who had served loyally despite the king’s erratic decrees.

Aerys’s smile widens, his fingers drifting over your shoulder, down your arm, his touch lingering as he revels in your reaction. “Yes,” he says, his tone almost playful. “Chelsted thought himself too noble, too principled to carry out my wishes. When the time comes… he would not burn the city. He would not take this rebellion down in the fire it deserves.”

You shiver under his touch, your voice barely a whisper, each word drawn out with care. “So… so you burned him?”

Aerys’s expression sharpens, a glint of malice in his eyes as he nods, his hand moving to trace along your collarbone, each touch a perverse form of reassurance. “Yes. Burned him alive. He screamed, Y/N, how he screamed,” he breathes, his voice filled with dark pleasure. “But he understood in the end, I think. He saw the truth as the flames took him.”

You turn your head, unable to meet his gaze, feeling the bile rise in your throat, but his fingers grip your chin, forcing you to face him, his gaze unyielding. “Do not look away from me,” he says softly, though the command in his voice is unmistakable. “You are the only one who understands. The only one who could understand.”

You close your eyes, trying to shut out the world, his voice, the memory of those screams that seem to echo even here. “Aerys… I’m… I’m tired,” you whisper, a faint plea slipping into your words, though you know he will not heed it.

Aerys’s mouth curls into a mocking smile as he slides onto the bed beside you, unperturbed by your pleading. “Tired? Is the rest what you desire? When the blood of the dragon runs hot and fierce through us?” His words, a mockery, carry with them that familiar demand—a hunger only you seem to satisfy.

He leans forward, pressing his lips to yours, and this kiss is different—more forceful, more possessive. He tastes of salt and fire, and his hands are eager, moving over you with a familiarity that should have brought comfort, but instead brings dread. He slides a hand up your nightgown, the coarse skin grazing your thigh, and you feel yourself tense, trapped. The soft, involuntary whimper that escapes your lips only seems to embolden him.

“Oh, Y/N,” he scolds mockingly, his voice darkly playful. “Is this how my beautiful daughter behaves? So meek, so small. What has become of the proud girl who kept her father’s wrath at bay?”

You say nothing, knowing any response would be met with his further amusement. With a deliberate slowness, he undoes the lower part of your gown, his fingers brushing over your belly, where the life of another child stirs, the symbol of this forbidden love, the bond you can never name openly. You close your eyes, summoning the last of your strength, pushing thoughts of Rhaegar from your mind, of the tragedy, the ruin left in your family’s wake.

Aerys’s breath warms against your neck as he presses into you with a fervor that you’ve come to know all too well. His skin is rough beneath your fingers, bearing the fresh, bloody cuts from the Iron Throne. Your nails dig in, but he pays no mind, only quickening his movements. The room fills with the sounds of his heavy breathing, and the familiar mingling of pain and pleasure stirs within you, hollow and aching.

In the flickering light of the torches, Aerys’s fevered gaze bores into yours as he whispers against your ear, words that sting like embers, unholy in their nature. “Do you see, Y/N? You were meant for me alone. No one else could satisfy me, no one else could understand me as you do.” His pace grows erratic, more fervent, and you suppress the urge to cry out, keeping your composure even as the ache overwhelms you.

But Aerys isn’t satisfied with your restraint. His hands grip you tighter, his voice cajoling, insistent. “Let them hear you, Y/N,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. “Let them all know how much you need me, how I am the only one who can bring you to life.”

A trembling moan escapes you, almost involuntarily, but it isn’t enough for him. He craves more, always more, and his voice sharpens, a goading hiss. “Louder, my love. Show them how you belong to me, how you always have.”

You feel the weight of it all—the love you once held, the loyalty that bound you to your father and now entraps you in this ruinous devotion. History will never remember me as his daughter, you think bitterly. I will be nothing but his concubine, a consort whose only legacy is scandal and shame.

“Tell me you need me, Y/N,” he demands, pressing deeper, his eyes wild and alight with the mania that now defines him. “Tell me you crave only me.”

Your voice, barely a whisper, betrays the resignation in your heart. “Yes… only you, my king,” you murmur, hoping he cannot see the pain hidden within your words.

Aerys’s laughter fills the chamber, a sound as consuming as fire, and his movements grow frantic, fevered, until at last, he releases, his grip softening as he collapses beside you. You feel the familiar coldness settle in as his fervor fades, leaving only the emptiness that follows.

His voice, almost gentle now, pierces the silence. “I would burn the realm for you, Y/N. For you and our blood alone.”

You lie beside him, silent, as his words linger in the air, feeling the weight of that promise, that curse, and wondering what price the realm will ultimately pay for this devotion.

The warmth of the bath envelops you like a gentle embrace, and for the first time in days, you feel almost at ease. The faint ache in your body has dulled, softened by the steam and warmth, and your servants move around you quietly, each careful touch easing your discomfort. Slowly, you close your eyes, letting the stillness take over as your condition begins to improve, bringing with it a tentative relief.

Soft, scented water trickles down your shoulders, and your thoughts drift, barely anchored in the present, lost in fragments of memory. Rhaegar’s face appears and fades again, hauntingly familiar. You feel your hand drift over your collarbone, over the faint scar that rests there—the mark left behind from an injury years ago, a wolf’s bite you don't want to remember, but one that Aerys never allowed you to forget. As your fingers graze it, a sudden, cold shiver runs through you, and a discomfort stirs beneath your skin, prickling from your neck down to your chest.

Your eyes open.

The water, once clear and calming, is now red—deep, dark crimson, swirling in thick, viscous streams. The shock of it paralyzes you for a moment, the horror anchoring you in place as your eyes dart to the water around you, pooling beneath your body, seeping from somewhere unseen. A strangled gasp escapes you, your hand flying to your neck where the faint scar should be, only to feel warm, sticky blood pouring from it, running down your chest, staining the water further.

“No... no, it can’t be…” you murmur, your voice trembling as you clutch at your neck, your hand coming away red and slick with blood. Panic claws at your chest, making it hard to breathe as the realization sets in. “Help me!” you scream, desperation tearing through your voice, echoing against the walls. “Please, someone—help!”

The servants, alarmed by your cries, rush to your side. Their faces are painted with confusion and fear as they look at you, then at each other, their hands hovering over you, uncertain of what to do.

“Princess! What is it? What has happened?” one of them stammers, her voice barely steady, her eyes darting to the bathwater, which seems clear to her, untouched. “There… there is nothing here…”

You can hardly hear her words, the haze of fear thickening as you stare down at your own hands, stained with red. “No—look!” You thrust your hands out, shaking, imploring them to see what is so horribly clear to you. “I’m bleeding, don’t you see? It’s everywhere—there’s blood!”

Another servant, older and wiser perhaps, bends down and speaks to you soothingly, though her own hands tremble. “My princess, please… be calm. There is no blood, none that we can see. Perhaps… perhaps it is your mind, troubled after all you have endured.”

Her words barely register. You reach for her, your voice breaking as you struggle to explain, to make her understand the depth of this horror. “I… I felt it, the scar—it tore open. It’s real; I know it’s real.”

One of the younger servants gasps, looking at you with a mixture of pity and fear, and murmurs to the others, “She’s still unwell… perhaps this is some feverish vision.”

The murmurs grow, and you feel the tension rise in the room. They think I’m imagining this… they think I’m mad.

Another servant steps forward, her tone gentle, but insistent. “Princess, let us help you out of the bath. We’ll dress you, and see that you rest. This strain is not good for you… or for the child.”

A flicker of reality cuts through your panic, and you find yourself nodding, though your heart still pounds. The thought of your child brings a sense of urgency—a need for protection. You allow them to lift you from the water, though your hands shake as they steady you. The older servant wraps a towel around you, her fingers tender and quick, the motherly comfort in her touch helping to anchor you, even as your mind races, questioning what you saw, what you felt.

One of the younger servants, still pale, whispers to the others, “What if something happens to her, or the babe? You know what the king would do if—”

“Hush, child!” the older one snaps, her voice low and sharp as she eyes you with guarded worry. “Speak of such things, and you’ll bring his wrath upon us before it’s due. We are here to serve, and serve we shall.”

Another servant hurries to your side, her eyes wide and fearful. “Please, my princess,” she murmurs, taking your hand gently, guiding you from the chamber. “You must rest. Think of the little one inside you. The king will not forgive any harm befalling you… or his heir.”

The mere mention of Aerys’s wrath settles a silence over the servants. The tension is thick as they lead you to your chamber, where you are made to sit, their hands fussing over you, drying your hair, dressing you as though you are a porcelain doll too fragile to handle on your own. Yet you feel distant, removed from your own body, haunted by the vision that felt so real, so vivid.

As the servants finish, one of them casts you a wary glance, voice barely a whisper as she asks, “Are you… feeling well now, my princess?”

You hesitate, feeling the weight of their eyes on you, knowing the implications of your answer. “Yes,” you lie, swallowing the remaining traces of panic. “I’m… well enough.”

But as they leave, their backs turned, you press a hand to your neck, your fingers tracing over the scar. The blood is gone, as though it never was—but the fear remains.

...

The walls of the Red Keep shudder with the weight of approaching doom, the faint tremor in the stone echoing in your bones. You can hear the clamor of footsteps, the chaotic thundering of hooves and shouts from beyond the towering walls of the city, and you know this is the final stand. This is the end Aerys had always warned you about, the moment his madness had whispered in fragments, the visions he had spun of betrayal, of blood.

Rumor had reached you in broken whispers among the servants: Pycelle had convinced your father to open the gates, allowing Tywin Lannister and his army within. They were supposed to be allies, a beacon of hope in this siege, yet a sick feeling gnaws at your stomach, an intuition you cannot silence. Aerys should have known, should have sensed the treachery veiled beneath Tywin’s offer of aid, but his mind had been too clouded by rage, by the fires he stoked in his own imagination.

The sounds of chaos draw closer, tearing through the heart of the keep, and you realize you are alone. The servants who dressed you earlier have disappeared into the shadows, no doubt trying to find some small corner to hide from the violence sweeping through the halls. You try to gather your strength, wrapping your cloak around you tightly, though your hands tremble, and your heart races with a familiar, dreadful fear.

Before you can make it down the corridor, a rough hand grabs you, yanking you backward, and the world spins in a blur of motion. The cold edge of a blade presses against your throat, biting just enough to send a shiver of pain down your spine. You gasp, frozen by the dagger’s touch, your hands coming up in a desperate bid for freedom, but the hand that holds you is unyielding, cruel.

“Well, well,” a cold, mocking voice murmurs near your ear, the breath hot and damp against your skin. “The dragon princess herself, all alone in this den of madness. Seems the lions have come to claim their prize.”

You feel the blade press harder, forcing you to tilt your head, exposing your throat further. You try to swallow the rising panic, but it lodges in your throat, and your voice emerges barely above a whisper. “What… what are you doing?”

The man holding you chuckles, a dark, humorless sound that vibrates against your back. “A gift for the king, that’s all. Lord Tywin thought you’d be the perfect little… wound, a reminder of what happens to those who fancy themselves untouchable.”

With a sudden jerk, he begins dragging you down the corridor, his grip iron-strong, unyielding as he pulls you through the Red Keep. The familiar halls warp under the terror that pulses in your veins, each twist and turn leading you deeper into the heart of chaos. Your bare feet scrape against the cold, rough stone, and the shouts of men and the screams of those caught in the massacre ring out around you, a haunting melody of blood and betrayal.

The dagger never leaves your throat, pressing just enough to remind you of its deadly promise. The guard pulls you around a corner, where the grand double doors of the throne room loom ahead, towering and foreboding. The sight of them sends a renewed wave of fear crashing over you; you know Aerys is within, but the image of him, proud and unyielding on his throne, is sinister now, tainted by his own madness and paranoia. You can almost hear his voice, echoing in your mind, whispering of fires and betrayal, of punishment for disloyalty.

You struggle against the iron grip, desperation clawing at you. “Please,” you gasp, feeling the sharp edge nick your skin, a faint trickle of blood warming your neck. “You don’t have to do this… he’s my father.”

The man sneers, tightening his hold. “And yet here you are, brought before him like a lamb for slaughter. Dragons and their kin burn just as easily as any other. Perhaps your father will enjoy seeing you in this state—a broken little treasure he couldn’t protect.”

With that, he drags you closer to the throne room doors, each step heavy, each echo a death knell that reverberates in your heart. The great doors loom larger with every step, the distant flicker of torchlight casting monstrous shadows that dance upon the walls. Behind you, you can hear the laughter and jeers of the soldiers ransacking the Red Keep, their voices filled with bloodlust, their footsteps a dark rhythm that matches the rapid beating of your heart.

As you near the doors, you feel the faintest flicker of hope falter, knowing what awaits on the other side. Yet you find yourself whispering a silent prayer to the gods, clinging to the memory of those fleeting moments when Aerys was still a father, still someone you loved. And despite everything, you can’t help but hope that he will save you, his daughter—his blood.

The guard wrenches open one of the doors, pulling you roughly forward. The throne room stretches before you, vast and shadowed, the Iron Throne looming at its center like some grotesque, jagged specter, sharp and unforgiving.

And as you are forced through the threshold, past the flickering torches, you know there is no turning back.

...

The throne room stretches before you, vast and dim, shadows cast from the torches that flicker along the walls, only deepening the monstrous, jagged silhouette of the Iron Throne. You feel the dagger bite against your throat, a deadly reminder of how little choice you have. But in that moment, as you’re forced forward, you see him—Aerys, sitting atop his throne, a figure of fractured pride, paranoia, and wrath.

His wild gaze sharpens, locking onto you, and for a breathless moment, the madness is held at bay, replaced by something raw and vulnerable. His mouth parts, and he shifts as though drawn toward you, like a man reaching for something precious slipping away.

A guard in Lannister colors steps forward, and Aerys rises, his fingers curling tightly around the arms of the throne, his movements jerky, barely human. His ascent is unsteady, and one of the sharp blades protruding from the throne digs into his leg, tearing through his flesh, drawing fresh blood that stains his already-dark robes. He doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes fixed on you, and in his gaze, you see a mixture of desperation and terror—an emotion rarely seen in a man consumed by rage.

“Release her!” Aerys’s voice cracks, high and thin, yet filled with a frantic, desperate command. His hand trembles as he gestures toward you, like a father beckoning his frightened child. “She is mine. You will pay for this—Tywin’s golden lions will burn for this!”

But the guard’s grip remains firm, his lips morphing into a cold, mocking smile. You feel the sharp edge of the dagger press harder into your throat, the tension unbearable, as though you’re caught in a nightmare from which there is no waking. Your heart hammers against your ribcage, and in a voice barely a whisper, you murmur, “Aerys…” Your voice trembles, soft and fragile, a plea, a desperate reach for the man you once loved, a man who once cherished you above all else.

The guard moves without warning, his arm jerking with deadly precision as the dagger slices across your throat, the cut deep and vicious. Pain flares, sharp and searing, and the world spins as your blood spills forth, warm and relentless. You feel yourself falling, and the last thing you see is Aerys’s face, twisted in horror, as he lunges toward you with a scream that reverberates through the throne room.

“No! No, Y/N!” His cry is raw, torn from somewhere deep and ancient, a sound of pure, unfiltered agony as he catches you, his arms trembling as he pulls you close. His hands press against your throat, desperate to staunch the flow of blood, but you can feel it, thick and warm, slipping through his fingers, unstoppable.

“Stay with me,” he pleads, his voice breaking as he clings to you, his hand cupping your cheek, blood-streaked and trembling. “Please, Y/N, stay with me. You cannot leave me… I cannot… without you, there is nothing.”

Your vision begins to blur, shadows creeping in at the edges, and your mind, desperate for solace, conjures the faces of your children—Viserys, with his fierce eyes and tiny fists, Daenerys, a babe in Rhaella’s arms, safe, sheltered on Dragonstone. You think of Rhaegar, your beloved twin, now gone, his laughter, his warmth slipping further from your grasp. The child inside you who you'll never see. You try to speak, but blood chokes you, filling your mouth, suffocating any final words.

Yet you summon your strength, forcing the air past the blood pooling in your throat, and manage to choke out a single word: “Burn…”

Aerys’s eyes widen, a manic light igniting within them, a cruel spark that twists his grief into something monstrous. He clutches you tighter, his fingers digging into your shoulders as he looks up, the madness consuming him again, overtaking the momentary glimpse of humanity that had emerged. “Burn them all!” he screams, his voice echoing through the throne room as he looks to his pyromancer, who stands frozen, wide-eyed. “Do you hear me? Burn them all!”

He turns back to you, his hands still desperately trying to stem the blood, as if he could somehow save you, as if his touch alone could rewrite this cruel fate. Your eyes begin to glaze, unfocused, the life draining from you, and Aerys watches as the light fades, his own breath coming in short, ragged gasps. You feel his lips brush your forehead, his words soft, broken, nearly incoherent. “You were mine… you were always mine…”

A shift in the air catches his attention. Aerys turns, his gaze locking onto Jaime Lannister, standing before the Iron Throne, sword drawn, his face pale but resolute. There’s a brief flicker of understanding in Aerys’s eyes, and in that split second, realization dawns—a final betrayal, one last wound that will cut him deeper than any sword.

Jaime’s expression is unwavering as he steps forward, driving his sword into Aerys’s back, the blade slicing through cloth, flesh, and bone. Aerys’s body jerks, his grip on you tightening in a final, futile embrace.

As he collapses, his life ebbing away, he clings to you even in death, his blood mingling with yours as his final breaths escape him, still protective, still grasping as if his grip alone could hold you to him. And there, upon the cold stones of the throne room, amid the ruin of his madness, the last king of the Targaryen line dies, clutching his beloved daughter to him, refusing, even in death, to let her go.

...

The throne room stands cloaked in an eerie silence, broken only by the faint echoes of steps as Tywin Lannister and Robert Baratheon enter, their presence filling the vast, haunted space. Before them, seated upon the Iron Throne, is Ser Jaime Lannister, his posture still, his gaze distant, as if lost within the shadows of his own thoughts. Around him, blood has dried dark upon the cold stone floor, and at the base of the throne lies a grim tableau—Aerys Targaryen, the Mad King, cradling his daughter Y/N, both lifeless, entangled as they were in their final moments.

Robert’s face contorts in disgust at the sight. The smell of old blood and death fills his nostrils, the iron and salt clinging thickly to the air. He lets out a grunt of disapproval, his eyes narrowing as he glances between Aerys and Y/N’s entwined bodies. "This is sickening. He died clinging to her like some... abomination. We should dispose of them—burn them apart, dump the ashes to the winds."

Tywin’s gaze remains steady, and a flash of something unreadable crosses his expression as he regards the twisted remnants of the Targaryen dynasty lying at the feet of his son. “No,” he says quietly but firmly. “They will be burned together. The realm has seen enough bloodshed. We will end it with fire, as it began.”

Robert glares, his mouth opening to argue, but Tywin’s resolve is immovable, the steel in his eyes silencing the king-to-be. Robert lets out a huff, his lips curling as he averts his gaze, unable to look at the bodies any longer. Tywin gives a curt nod to Jaime, who rises from the Iron Throne, stepping down with the stiffness of a man who’s borne too much weight, his face a strained of contained emotion as he steps aside, following his father’s orders with silent obedience.

...

A week later, at the peak of King’s Landing, under the pallid sky, the pyre is built, stacked high with carefully arranged wood. Aerys and Y/N are placed in the very position they were found, with his arms wrapped around her in a twisted embrace, his lifeless hands clutching her, their heads resting close together. The gathered nobles watch in silence as Tywin Lannister gives the final nod, signaling for the torches to be lit.

The flames lick upward, curling around the wood, consuming it hungrily as they rise, and soon the fire reaches them, its tongues wrapping around the lifeless figures, devouring them whole. The heat grows intense, the orange and red hues dancing against the dusk, and the acrid smell of burning flesh fills the air, a somber reminder of the Targaryen line being erased.

Robert stands beside Tywin, his expression one of deep, simmering distaste. He breaks the silence, muttering under his breath, “A king and his daughter… burned together. Targaryens, all the same. Mad, every last one of them.”

Tywin, arms crossed, stares into the flames, his face stoic, unflinching. “It is done. We give them this final dignity—whatever they lacked in life, they will have in death.”

Robert’s jaw tightens, but he bites back his anger, watching as the fire roars, the flames reaching high into the sky. His voice takes on a lower tone, laced with resentment. “A waste of wood, if you ask me. The rest of them should’ve been given the same treatment.”

Tywin’s eyes remain fixed on the fire, ignoring Robert’s complaint. Robert turns to him, his voice now edged with irritation. “Did they manage to get rid of the rest of them? Is it finally done?”

Tywin glances at him briefly, his voice cold, businesslike. “The Mountain took care of Elia Martell and her children.” His words are curt, but the implication hangs heavy in the air—a brutal, merciless end to the remnants of Targaryen loyalty.

Robert’s lips twitch in a grim smile, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes as he considers the deed done in his name. He lets out a slow exhale, his satisfaction barely restrained. “And what of the dragonspawns?” He sneers. “The children Y/N bore for her father…?”

Tywin’s expression hardens. “A ship departed for the Free Cities before my men reached Dragonstone. Queen Rhaella was found dead in her chambers—servants say she collapsed when word of her daughter’s death reached her.”

Robert’s expression darkens, his eyes flashing with a mixture of fury and contempt. He stares into the flames, fists clenched, his voice low and laced with venom. “I’ll see the end of them. Every last dragon, down to the hatchlings. I’ll hunt them across the sea if I must, but none of them will live. They will all burn, just as he did.”

Tywin does not respond, his gaze unwavering as the pyre continues to blaze, the fire consuming all traces of Aerys and Y/N. Their forms dissolve into embers, ashes swept up by the heat and scattered by the wind, carried beyond the keep and out into the world—a fitting, final end to the dynasty that had once ruled with fire and blood.

As the flames rise higher, Robert remains beside Tywin, his gaze hard and unyielding, filled with a singular purpose—to wipe out every last trace of the Targaryen legacy, to ensure that dragons are remembered only in tales of madness and ruin. And all the while, Tywin stands silent, his face unreadable, watching the flames burn away the past, and perhaps, in his own way, the last remnants of something he, too, once feared.

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