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sister-lucifer · 14 days ago

Text

Love After Life

Claude Theroux (Ghost OC) x Male Reader

Genre: Smut

Summary: When the ghostly groom mistakes you for his lost bride on a dark Halloween night, you can’t stop yourself from giving into him.

Content/Warnings: AMAB Reader, unprotected anal sex, cumming inside, Reader crossdressing as a bride for Halloween, a little dubcon but not really only at first, mentions of death + fire, pet names (my love, my darling, various French pet names, etc), Claude refers to Reader with feminine terms because he has weird ghost brain stuff going on and doesn’t realize he’s not his wife, pregnancy/breeding, does this count as force fem?

A/N: Happy (slightly late) Halloween, everyone! ʚ♡ɞ

THIS IS NOT FULLY PROOFREAD! PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU SEE ANY TYPOS!

Believing in ghost stories is a feat that has always hovered just outside your field of reality, what you know to be true. Sure, you can suspend your disbelief to humor a friend now and again, but nothing beyond that. Of course, curiosity has a nasty habit of overpowering basic logic; when your phone pinged with a video from a friend about the supposedly haunted manor on White Oak Hill, you couldn’t resist giving it a watch.

You rolled your eyes at the cheesy music that immediately started up upon hitting play, snuggling into bed with your free hand in a bag of snacks. You didn’t expect much at all, really. From the look of the video, it seemed like just another ploy for views from a subpar channel profiting off of kids who are still scared of monsters under the bed. You were far too intelligent for that.

“The haunted house on White Oak Hill has been circulating once again, now that Halloween is coming around,” the narrator spoke, putting on an obviously forced voice while stock b-roll of a graveyard panned across the screen, “but what really happened to make it so haunted? Stay tuned to find out, but first, we want to tell you about our new merch drop—“

You groaned aloud, immediately skipping ahead. You could not be less interested in whatever they were peddling.

“…and it was then, in July of 1945, that tragedy struck.”

Ah. That’s more like it.

“Newlywed French aristocrats, Suzanne and Claude Theroux, had just arrived at White Oak Manor, where they intended to spend their honeymoon…”

Ugh, how cliché. You skipped forward a few more seconds, running out of patience fast.

“…The couple moved downstairs, still dressed in their reception clothes, and completely oblivious to the fire blooming up in the master bedroom. Somehow, a recently lit candelabra had knocked over, causing the charred wick to burn one of the curtains, and the flames were growing rapidly. In their panic, Suzanne managed to escape, but Claude was not so lucky…”

The music faded out, as did the visuals. As much as you’d hate to admit it, they had reeled you in. You didn’t even realize how close you’d gotten to the screen throughout that monologue, at least not until—

“…but first, a word from our sponsors.”

Oh, fuck this!

The shrill text tone jolts you out of an embarrassingly deep sleep. You wipe the drool from your chin as you scramble to sit up, phone sliding off of your chest. Looks like you fell asleep watching that video. So much for scary—you slept like a baby.

You pick up your phone and look at the notification. You can’t help but roll your eyes as you type out your reply.

Unfortunately, you actually had to consider that.

You’re not exactly strapped for cash or struggling to scrape by, but it sure as hell would make you a lot more secure and comfortable to know you at least have that extra hundred put away in case of an emergency.

…Ugh.

“Oh my god,” you mutter, stumbling through the doorway of the old house, “this is stupid. This is so stupid…”

Somehow, you’ve gotten this far without putting all of this to a stop. Maybe it was the hundred dollars floating just out of reach like a carrot on a stick, maybe it was morbid curiosity, or maybe it was just plain idiocy, but you really let this happen. Wow.

Each step makes the wooden floors creak underfoot, the boards hissing in protest to your weight. You struggle to keep your balance in the tacky heels you were forced into, which are as uncomfortable as they are humiliating. To add insult to…well, another insult, you aren’t even wearing regular clothes under the dress as promised; they made it nearly impossible to get the damn thing on, and it was just too uncomfortable. You were allowed to keep your briefs, at least. Not that that makes you feel any better. Your dignity is strained, to put it lightly.

You scratch at your arm rather aggressively, the itchy fabric of the tulle sleeves irritating the skin there. The entire dress is painfully cheap, and promises an unforgiving rash tomorrow morning. You instinctively reach to where your pocket would normally be to grab your phone, only to be utterly disappointed as the words of your friend echo in your head:

“No modern technology! If he sees you tapping at your weird light box, he’ll freak out! All you have to do is go in, sweep the house, and report back to me.”

Of course, your immediate response was to question why the ghost hunter wasn’t going in; surely the ‘expert’ isn’t scared?

The only answer you got was a rather unceremonious shove towards the house.

You’re in this alone. Great.

You just hope the house doesn’t decide to collapse in on itself tonight. You don’t believe in ghosts, but the decrepit 20th century architecture and the harsh wind whistling through the broken windows are very real. It seems like the entire manor is trying to chase you out, like it’s angry that you’re here, loudly creaking and moaning with every shift or shake to talk you out of taking another step. No wonder this place has sparked so many ghost stories, it’s scary as shit!

You stop in the middle of the foyer, taking a moment to drink in the scenery.

The effects of the fire are obvious, even after all the years of atrophy; the core of the charred blackness lies upstairs, but its countless arms sprawl outwards, clawing at the walls in a desperate attempt to get free. From what you can see, it did not succeed, as the front most part of the house seems to be relatively untouched.

Most of the house was gutted in an estate sale—what could be salvaged, anyways— but a couple of throne chairs and a matching ottoman still remain, now thoroughly gnawed through by all manner of creepy-crawlies. The entire downstairs is covered in a sticky blanket of spiderwebs, as if you needed more evidence of an infestation. Most of the curtains have been left untouched, except by time, though they do little to keep the house warm without any in tact windows. All of glass has been nearly completely shattered by either nature or vandals. You noticed a few graffiti tags and discarded beer cans outside, but the inside looks like it hasn’t had many people in it since the fire. The legends must keep them out.

You look around as you try to discern where to go next. Directly in front of you is a large staircase leading to the upper level of the house, and behind it are a few doors that probably lead to a kitchen, a guest room and the like. On either side are long hallways that curl around, preventing you from seeing where they lead. The living area on your left, with the only remaining pieces of furniture, is enclosed on either side by grand bookcases that once held countless manuscripts and novels. The floor is still discolored from where the rug once laid. The grand chandelier of Damocles above your head sways a bit in the wind, and that makes you swallow nervously; you make the smart decision to move a few steps to the side just in case the diamond daggers come down.

The question is: where do you start?

You could quite easily get turned around in here, especially in the endless hallways of the ground floor. You were given a brief glance at the floor plans, and there was no basement, only the two levels above and below the stairs. The best place to start would be upstairs, you decide— that way you can work your way back to the front door.

Upon closer inspection, though, you realize that physically going up the stairs might be easier said than done, especially in these tacky pumps. Your eyes follow the steps from the bottom up, and each stair is only more burnt and broken than the last. You’ll have to navigate this with utmost caution.

Your first step is shaky, but the wood doesn’t feel too unsteady. You’re careful not to stumble or let the heels of your shoes slip off the back of the stairs as you ascend, holding tightly to the rail. You only lift your hand at about halfway up, when you feel the gradually blackening wood starting to flake off and stick to your palm. The higher you climb, the darker it gets, all of the color of the upstairs completely consumed and overtaken by the fire. It’s like walking into Hell, the last vestiges of light fleeing from the sight as you finally reach the last step.

You linger there for a moment, mouth hanging open just slightly as the reality of the tragedy sets in. Sure, you’d seen pictures, unable to push down the curiosity in the time before your little adventure, but this was…haunting.

Someone actually died here. Holy shit. You’re staring into someone’s grave.

You shudder as another breeze passes through, feeling much colder than before. You can only stare into the pitch black hallway for a moment before an irritated creak from the stairs urges you to quickly move off of them.

Black dust swarms around your ankles as you step onto the upper floor. It seems even more untouched than the lower part of the house. The wind doesn’t come through as loudly here, and suddenly you realize how deathly quiet it got as you came up the stairs. You listen for a moment to see if you can pick up any sound from the outside, but there’s nothing. Not a sound, not a rustle, not a honk from the highway. You don’t even think the rats come up here. Spooky.

You look to your left, down the hallway. Darkness. Complete darkness. The frail gleam of the moon is practically swallowed by the suffocating black.

You look to your right, and see the same thing. You catch a brief glimpse of the dim light reflecting on something.

You look back to the—

Wait.

You double take. The fuck was that?

You turn back to the right, now much more on guard. You squint into the shadows, sure that you saw something against the wall that barely hovered where you could see it.

Nothing moves.

Nothing is there.

You sigh, rolling your eyes at your own stupidity. You’re letting those dumb stories get to you. You just need to get out of here before you catch a disease or fall through the floor and break an ankle.

You decide to keep true, headed straight for the center hall and the master bedroom where it all began. You walk slowly, keeping an arm in front of you to feel for spiderwebs in the windowless hallway, but you encounter none. Come to think of it, you hadn’t seen any signs of pests since the stairs. Nothing worth eating up here, you guess.

You can barely see the slight glint of the bedroom doorknob. It shifts and wavers just a bit as you bob with each step, eventually coming close enough to reach out and grab it. You prepare for the spikes of cold metal against your skin, but the sensation you feel is much different.

The doorknob is warm.

Not unbearably hot, no, but warm. Warmer than it has any right to be, enough to make you pull your hand back for a moment.

You swallow hard.

It must be because the wind doesn’t come through here, you rationalize; this hall has no windows, there’s rooms on both sides—it’s not as drafty as the rest of the house. That must be it.

You grasp the knob again, turning it slowly…so as to not break it, of course.

The door creaks open loud enough to make you wince, like you’re worried someone will hear and come bustling in to scold you for being up past your bedtime. The room looks rather well preserved, and it doesn’t start to sink in how odd that is until you’ve already stepped inside, and then the door shuts behind you on its own. That startles you enough to crash your train of thought.

You quickly spin around to look at the door, staring for a few moments to see if it’ll move. It stays still, the ornate wooden carvings looking back at you like sharp eyes, waiting to see if you, too, will make a move.

The room is, for lack of a better term, dead. Any sound that tries to make its way in dies outside the walls, and even the particles floating in the air seem frozen, cursed to forever hover in the beams of moonlight. A ghostly glow is cast over everything, an ethereal blanket that makes the air feel heavy. You take a step further into the room, and it feels like walking on the ocean floor. You’re numb, yet you can feel your skin clinging to your bones.

You really shouldn’t be here.

Then, a flickering light in the corner of your eye catches your attention. It startles you, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, enough to make you jump as you turn to it. The glimmering brilliance blinds you for a moment, and you don’t realize what you’re looking at until your eyes focus again.

On the bedside table, its illuminating aura casting quivering shadows on the walls, is a sterling silver candelabra holding tightly to three lit candlesticks. The engraved vines snake their way up its arms and around its base, almost as if trying to hold it still. It looks like a priceless antique, but it shines like it’s brand new. A moment ago the room was completely dark, and now it’s aglow with the white-blue candlelight. The flames swirl in your pupils, hypnotizing you with their unnatural hue as they dance like skilled ballerinas, flicking up into a perfect arabesque before relaxing into a soft adagio, beckoning you closer without you even realizing.

You don’t see how close you’ve gotten until you’re nearly upon it. Your fingers twitch, nearly aching to reach out and hover over the fire. Without a conscious decision, your hand starts to lift, like moving through water. It floats just above the candles, and you feel no heat, nor do you see any smoke. It’s like a projection onto the air itself.

You barely stop yourself from dipping a finger into the flames. You know logically that you’ll be burned—or at least, you should be—but the fire calls to you nonetheless. For just a moment, everything is different; you aren’t yourself. There’s a dark cloud forming in your mind, and then suddenly it dissipates at the startling sound of a voice behind you.

You whip your head around so fast your neck nearly snaps. You squint into the darkness, still as a statue, expecting to see your friend standing there or perhaps even a fellow explorer whose curiosity got the better of them. You’re not even sure what the voice said, but it was certainly human…or, at least, something that’s quite good at sounding human.

You see no one.

You’re just as alone as you were.

You turn to face the room fully, but you move too fast. Your hand bumps the bedside table, knocking the candelabra off of it. You panic as you scramble to catch the candleholder, not even thinking about the possibility of burning your hands. You manage to reach out at the last second and get your palm beneath it, and you expect to feel the weight of the cool silver against your skin, but you never do.

You watch with your own eyes as the candelabra phases right through your flesh.

You think for a split second that perhaps you just missed, but there’s no clatter against the wood floor either. The candelabra disappears with as much ceremony as it first materialized, leaving only a few sapphire embers that jump from the wicks before fading away as well. The moon’s beams on your back is the only surviving light.

You can feel the freezing of your blood as it crystallizes into solid ice, the unbearable sensation blooming in your stomach before snaking its way down your limbs. You want to scream, but you can only muster a gasp as you stumble backwards in shock. You trip over your own feet, falling back onto the bed.

Your vision starts to fill with black spots as your mind struggles to wrap around what it just witnessed. You keep seeing that split second in time when you watched it go through you, that single moment where it was halfway through your solid form before it was gone. Unsure what else to do, you squeeze your eyes shut, trying desperately to calm yourself.

You lay there for a few moments, unable to make yourself get up or move at all. All at once your mind is racing, yet you’re unable to think at all. You try to force yourself to calm down, to will your heart to quiet, but you can’t push the thought of the candelabra out of your mind.

You’re not sure why, but you cover your face. Your entire body tenses for a brief moment before you finally break your barrier of panic. Slowly, but surely, you relax again. Your chest is still heaving, but you can finally form a semi-coherent thought.

…What the hell just happened?

You don’t have an answer for that. At least, not right now.

That’s okay, you sure yourself. You’re fine. You need to just get out of here. You can lie and say you saw a shadowy figure or something.

You pull your hands away from your face, blinking a few times as your eyes focus and adjust to the bright light.

Hold on.

The what?

No, you’re really seeing that…?!

Just above you is a hovering form, glowing in the darkness of the bedroom. For a second it only looks like a luminous cloud, but then the finer features become clear, coming into form like a time lapse of a painting.

You notice the eyes first. They’re a brilliant blue, even more so than the rest of the body, like heavy gems being cradled by translucent clouds. You notice the hair next, long, silky and wavy, looking like it may have once been blond despite the blue tint, and floating as though in zero gravity. The nose is slender and straight, and the lips are devoid of warmth and slightly parted as if pleasantly surprised. The rest of the body is wrapped in a dark suit, accented with a light blue tie and a matching lily boutonnière with drooping petals.

You put it together in an instant; the attire, the house, the fire…

…The groom.

Your throat goes dry as sandpaper.

He’s smiling down at you a terrifying amount of genuine affection. He tilts his head just slightly, observing you as your mouth gapes and eyes widen in shock. You struggle for words, but only manage to choke out one thing:

“Claude...?!”

His grin only widens when he hears his name from your lips.

“Ohh, my love,” he sighs, his thickly accented voice echoing in the back of your head as if speaking directly into your mind, “I was wondering where you went…”

He reaches out to stroke your cheek, and it feels like cold fog on your skin. He’s trembling as much as you are.

“You’ve returned, you’ve returned…” he mumbles like a chant. He leans in with both hands on the sides of your face, gently bumping his forehead against yours. The contact makes your entire body shiver, and you have to stop your teeth from chattering. You know you should say something, stop him, move away…but what can be done?

You’re frozen.

His hands on your face are starting to make your skin tingle, like pins and needles in your cheek. The sensation lingers when he finally pulls away, and you can’t stop yourself from rubbing the feeling away on your shoulder.

There’s a beat of silence between you for a moment. He looks down at you, gentle smile never wavering despite the terror that’s surely on your face. He doesn’t seem to realize at all that you’re not happy to see him. Something in his eyes makes you feel like he’s looking through you, or perhaps not truly seeing you at all.

You bristle when he moves lower, hollow hands grasping at your ankles before sliding upward, lifting the cheap layered skirt of the bride costume. The cold feeling creeping up your leg makes you yelp, and you instinctively kick at him. Your tacky heel slips off and falls to the floor with your foot still floating inside his abdomen. Oh god, it feels like stepping in refrigerated jello.

Claude pauses. For a moment you’re worried you’ve angered him, that now you’ve invoked

the wrath of a restless spirit, but then he laughs. He laughs as though you’d simply told him something funny, and then his hands continue working their way up your legs.

“Always so spirited,” Claude chuckles, hands now firmly on your thighs, “I always did love that about you, ma femme…”

He leans over you, and you want to sink into the mattress as far as possible. Your legs tremble uselessly as they dangle over the edge of the bed, unable to make you run.

“W-Wait, hold on—“ you stammer, but you choke on your words when he dips down to kiss your neck. Each little press of his lips is like a shock to your system. Normally, you wouldn’t be so sensitive, but the feeling is so foreign and overwhelming you can’t help but arch your back. His hands slide up and down your waist, skirt now bunched around your hips, and you can barely feel the cold through the costume.

He either doesn’t hear you or doesn’t acknowledge your words. He keeps working his way down your neck, hands moving around to your back and fumbling with the zipper down the bodice of your dress. You don’t realize what’s happening before suddenly the costume is being pulled off your shoulders.

“Wait, wait—!” you say again, with a bit more volume this time. This makes him stop, pulling away and looking at you with confusion, and maybe even a bit of hurt.

“Darling, what’s the matter?” he asks, stroking your hair, “Are you nervous? Don’t be…”

“N-No, you don’t understand…!” you insist, but the longer you look in his eyes, the less you want to fight him.

“Can’t you tell? I-I’m not…you know…”

You trail off, gesturing vaguely to yourself. Surely he can tell you’re not his Suzanne…?

His eyebrows furrow. He’s clearly not understanding what you’re getting at, but then his eyes light up with a realization.

“…Oh…I see…” he mumbles, looking away from you in thought. You finally relax, breathing a sigh of relief. Looks like you managed to get through to—

“Oh, darling, I don’t care if you’re not a virgin!”

…What?

You open your mouth to correct him, but no sound comes out. He kisses you, you think, but it’s so fast you only feel the slight coolness on your lips.

“It doesn’t matter to me,” he continues, “you’re still my beautiful wife. No more delay, let me show you how much I love you.”

Before you can blink the costume has been pulled off of you. You’re left in only your boxers and one shoe, head spinning as you struggle to make any sense of the situation.

How does he not see? You think, you don’t look anything like Suzanne, gender disparity aside…!

No, wait…what was it they said in that old ghost movie?

“Ghosts see what they want to see.”

The sudden understanding barely breaks through as Claude dives into your neck again, the other side this time, mumbling and sighing against your skin in slurred French.

There’s no reasoning with him, you realize, he wants you to be his wife. He needs you to be her. He’s been waiting here so long for her to return, he doesn’t even know he’s dead.

Oh, god…

His hands run up and down your bare chest, and the freezing touch makes your nipples harden. They trail lower, like cold water running down your body, pausing at the waistband of your boxers. He floats downward to nuzzle into your thigh, and the sight of him looking up at you with those big, blue eyes makes your stomach flip.

“Oh, mon amour, won’t you let me…?” he asks, tugging at your boxers, “I simply can’t rest until I’ve had you…”

Can’t rest, he says…

Is that what he’s been waiting for all these years?

They say ghosts only stick around if they have unfinished business, right? Is this…is this what he needs?

You suck in a deep breath, unable to look away from his eyes.

Well…if it might work, it’s worth a shot, right? You’re doing this for him, after all.

At least that’s what you’ll tell yourself tomorrow morning.

Fuck it.

“Yes.”

The way his expression quite literally lights up makes your face go hot.

He wastes no time, pulling off your boxers with utmost enthusiasm. The fall to the floor, immediately forgotten once he’s dropped them. You resist the urge to suck in a harsh breath as your half hard cock is exposed to the air. You’re already bracing yourself for the inevitable feeling of his cold touch.

For the first time, you really see him pause. He’s staring down at your length, gears turning in his head but not working quite right, like he’s on the verge of snapping out of a trance. You gulp. If he’s found you out, you might be screwed.

The silence stretches on for an almost awkward amount of time.

Then, without warning, the love returns to his eyes, and a split second later his tongue comes out to lick a long stripe up your shaft. You nearly scream, barely managing to cover your mouth in time. Fuck, that’s cold!

It’s clear that he’s not all that knowledgeable about what to do with a dick, but he’s giving it a hell of a try. He makes sure his tongue doesn’t neglect a single spot on your length, and he doesn’t miss the little squeal he gets when he flicks gently at the tip. He tries to take it in his mouth, but forcing your cock down his throat is clearly uncomfortable for him, even if he can’t choke on it. Nonetheless, he tries, rubbing at whatever he can’t fit in his mouth with his hand. He’s not afraid of moaning, either, and the vibrations it sends through you can never be replicated by any toy.

You do your best to lay back and enjoy it despite the bizarre situation. You manage to clear your mind for only a moment before you feel two of his fingers brushing against your hole. You gasp, tensing on instinct. You can feel him smirk around your cock before he pulls off of it for a moment.

“Ahh, there it is…” he says lowly before promptly busying his mouth once more.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip as two of his fingers slip in, the cold instantly penetrating your core. This seems to be a skill he’s much more adept at; he’s far less hesitant, and far more graceful. He stretches you in just the right ways, exploring your waiting hole with a confidence that easily surpasses any of your past partners. His fingers slip in and move around so easily, without any struggle or pain. You’re almost upset you’ll never feel this again.

Try as you might to be quiet, you can’t bite back the moan that crawls out of your throat when the pads of his fingers press against your prostate. He chuckles as best he can with your dick down his throat. He presses again, gentler this time, clearly enjoying the drawn out while it gets from you.

It’s getting harder and harder to keep quiet as he hits all the right spots over and over again. He’s evidently a quick learner, too, as he’s already picked up on the best ways to use his tongue around your length. You can feel yourself twitching in his mouth.

He slips in a third finger, and as it pushes in you nearly see stars. Tingly static crawls up your body like dye soaking into fabric, invading the deepest crevices of your nervous system. God, that’s good.

You’re not sure how long it’s been when he finally pulls away, leaving you suddenly empty and far too warm for comfort. You’re too dizzy to question what’s going on when he flips you onto your stomach, but you don’t have to ask questions. You shudder as he leans over you, his chest against your back, engulfing your body with an icy sensation.

“Oh, ma belle femme, how lucky I am to have you,” he whispers in your ear, voice choked and shaky, “I can feel you trembling underneath me. Just sit still, my darling…”

You can hear him rustling with his clothes behind you, but don’t bother to look back. Your cock is practically begging for more of his touch.

After a moment he leans over you again, this time laying his hands over yours. He feels nearly weightless, like a cloud resting on top of you.

“Je peux enfin t’emmener…”

You don’t have a second to process his words before suddenly he’s pushing into you. You don’t bother trying to hide your voice, and neither does he, droning on and whispering sweet nothings you can barely understand as your mind is completely melted by the feeling of the penetration.

You nearly collapse against the mattress, but he manages to catch your hips just in time. You claw at the sheets as he fills you to the base, and the blankets do little to muffle your cries. For a brief moment you wonder if anyone outside could hear you, but that worry is quickly pushed aside when you feel him pulling back. You dig your nails into your palm so hard you’re sure it’ll leave marks as you prepare for what’s about to come.

The first thrust feels like it might break your mind. The head of his pale cock butts hard against your prostate, making you shriek like you never thought you could. You nearly tear a hole in the bedsheets with your desperate attempt

to find some sort of relief, and yet you don’t want any at all. Your body might be shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, but against all logic, your mind is screaming more, more, more!

“C-Claude—!” you yelp as he slams into you once more.

“Suzanne!” he echoes in turn, ecstasy dripping from his voice, “Suzanne, my love, how I’ve waited for this…!”

He returns to kissing your neck, though much messier than before. He just needs to taste you, sucking and nipping and licking any spare bit of skin he can get to. If he feels so cold, you must feel so warm.

He’s trying to be gentle, to go easy on you, but he’s struggling. You can feel him forcing himself to go slower. You need to encourage him.

“Oh, Claude,” you moan, putting on the girliest voice you can muster, “faster! Faster, my love, please, give me more!”

He’s more than happy to comply, and after a brief adjustment of his hold on you his pace increases tenfold. He’s grunting and huffing like an animal—and you’re underneath him, moaning and whimpering like a girl.

“Suzanne, my darling, we’re going to do it,” he says suddenly, and you have no idea what he means. He pulls you in closer, pressing you against his chest more firmly.

“We’re going to do it,” he repeats, “we’re going to have our family…I want to— no, I need to give you my child.”

The sound that comes out of you is humiliating.

You’ve never wanted anything more than for him to cum inside of you in this moment.

“Yes,” you reply without thinking, “yes, yes!”

He only thrusts into you faster, fueled completely by your mutual desire. Both of his hands are on your hips now, holding tightly and pulling you back against him as he pushes in. The bed is rocking so hard it feels like it might collapse underneath you. Even if it did, neither of you would even consider stopping, not for a second.

He’s starting to lose his rhythm, you realize. He’s just as sensitive as you are. He wants this just as much, if not more. You can’t even string together a coherent sentence to beg for it, all you can do is let the string of pleasured noises fall from your lips, only occasionally managing to say his name. He chants back ‘Suzanne’ like it’s the only word he knows; it’s the only one that matters to him, at least.

You jump when he wraps a hand around your cock, pumping it quickly with little to no consistent pattern. He’s practically milking it, rubbing fast and hard and doing everything in his power to push you to your peak.

“Cum for me, my love,” he huffs, “let me feel you cum around my cock…won’t you give me the privilege?”

“Of course, my darling,” you reply. How could you say no?

Your orgasm starts to build faster than you’re ready for. You can barely choke out an understandable warning before your cock twitches and spills its load, spurting into his hand and certainly dirtying the bedding underneath you. He buries his face in your neck as your hole squeezes him deliciously, making him cry out at the feeling.

“Yes, my love— Oh god, yes!” he almost sobs. He’s completely lost his rhythm now, just rutting into you like a feral dog in heat as he chases his own high.

He gives one last cry of his bride’s name before suddenly he stills, and his cock spills into you. You’re not sure what it feels like—you don’t think any human experience could ever compare—but it’s certainly not unpleasant. It’s not the warm, sticky feeling dripping down your thighs, at least.

You nearly black out for a moment, your head spinning like a top with no relief in sight. Darkness is quickly clouding your vision as you come down from your intense high, and you barely register the gentle kiss Claude presses to your cheek before the cold feeling against your back is gone. You close your eyes then, unable to keep them open any longer.

You’re not sure how long it’s been when you awake again. Logically, it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, but you feel like you’ve been asleep for years. You slowly move to sit up, and instantly you’re made painfully aware of the soreness in your legs and lower back. You groan, forcing yourself to move to sit on the edge of the bed.

You’re still very naked, that’s for sure. You look down between your legs, and grimace at the sight of the luminescent ectoplasm glowing in the dim light as it drips from your thighs and ass.

The thing that really stands out, though, is the state of the room. Whatever you saw before must’ve been some sort of ghostly illusion; now you’re surrounded by nothing but charred black, sticking to your legs and palms and floating about in the air in flaky little bits.

Yuck.

You sigh as you will yourself to get up, not enjoying the feeling of your one bare foot on the dusty wood floor. You can barely walk far enough to retrieve the costume dress, let alone bend down and pick it up, but by some divine intelligence you manage.

After redressing to the best of your ability, you limp back downstairs—talk about a walk of shame. Although, despite your embarrassment, you do note that the house feels…emptier. Lighter. It’s nice.

You don’t have an excuse for why you’re so disheveled, or why you’re walking so weirdly, or why you’re so sweaty. You don’t care. You’re going to walk out that door, get your last half of the payment, and go home and get a good night’s sleep knowing that, in some impossibly strange way, you did a good thing.

The one thing you will never admit, though, is that you were very wrong:

Ghosts are real.

And you have the wet dream to prove it.

If you liked this fic, please reblog! it’s free, takes two seconds, and really helps me out.

Feedback is encouraged and appreciated.

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bxriles · 5 months ago

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What if the Court of Nightmares rebelled against Rhysand?

Chapter 1 of my fic about the rebellion in the Court of Nightmares has been posted to my ao3 here!

If you're interested, please check it out and leave a comment!

Long before Amarantha came to Prythian, an eldest daughter from the Court of Nightmares entered into a marriage with Rhysand, the future High Lord of Night. It was a political arrangement and not a particularly happy union, but it was necessary to prevent unrest in the Hewn City. Unfortunately, centuries pass and Amarantha's reign leaves scars all across the land. Prythian's stability is questioned. The Bride of Spring is stolen. And the Lady of Night mysteriously ends up dead after discovering that Rhysand has found his mate.

When news of her death arrives, the Hewn City is pushed to its breaking point. A rebellion sparks and the flames are fanned by centuries of abuse and mistreatment. Rhysand may not believe there are any dreamers left in the Court of Nightmares, but he's wrong--and those dreamers vow to be his downfall.

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ragingbookdragon · 10 days ago

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It’s a mini ficlet but I wrote it for @wombywoo because Quinn and Vincent are so lovely 🥰

***

It’s the smile that gets him. Not the flirtatious one Vincent gives to attractive people who pass by him when they’re out on the town (on the rare occasions that he can get Quinn to go out in the nightlife). It’s that damned smile where Vincent’s eyes crinkle around un-aged skin, corners of his mouth pulled up in that cheesy grin, revealing pearly whites and a pair of twin spears.

The smile he gives him when they’re alone in bed and Quinn just said “I love you,” like a grumpy child, curled up in bedsheets, his face peeking out of the hole he made around his swaddled head.

It’s the smile Vincent gives when Quinn stands awkwardly in the kitchen, wearing a “Kiss the chef” apron, with a poorly iced red velvet cake sitting on the island; the scent of burnt cake batter wafts through the air from the oven but Vincent is so proud that Quinn managed to not burn the house down.

It’s the smile Vincent flashes when he walks in at a quarter to three and sees Fig curled up right in Quinn’s face, both of them snoring (and possibly drooling) into the pillow, sheets and blankets pulled up over Quinn’s shoulders as his pale fingers twitch in Fig’s side seeking unconscious comfort.

It’s much different from the teary eyed smile Vincent gives Quinn when the man simply says he has nothing to give but whatever he’s still worth after years of being battered and broken, Vincent can have; that band in Vincent’s pocket practically burns into his thigh when he presses his forehead against Quinn’s and shuts his eyes, enjoying the touch between them.

It’s the smile that gets Quinn. Makes the butterflies in his stomach soar like doves in the bright blue sky. Makes him remember that he has a life to live despite all his traumas and fears. That someone actually loves him enough to put up with all his bullshit and still manage to care.

It’s the smile that reminds Quinn his heart is still beating. A little broken, a little bruised, a lot of heartache—but still beating.

#quinn x vincent #quinn lacey #vincent craft #quinncent #wombywoo #oc fic

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porcelaindollkisses · 11 months ago

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◍ 𝅼 𖧧 ۫ 🌸 ˑ !! ۪ ⌒ OC FIC !

𝓼𝓾𝓬𝓱 𝓪 𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓽𝓽𝔂 𝓫𝓪𝓫𝔂 – cw: ftm male reader / smut / praise / reader wearing lingerie (hardly mentioned)/ oc and reader are dating (lower case is intentional) aftercare is short in the fic but provided (english is not my first language)

︶꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶꒷꒦꒷꒦︶

you and your boyfriend, caleb, have been dating for around a year and a half, you both go to college but he works at a coffee shop that's farther from your shared apartment, because your anniversary is in a few days, you, decided to give him a surprise

your two year anniversary has arrived, and for his surprise...you bought a white lingerie set, you felt so confident when you bought it but now..you just felt embarrassed, you checked the time and you had twenty minutes before your boyfriend got home so you got to work, you slid on the lingerie after a good shower, you applied some lip balm and you sat on the bed waiting for caleb

after waiting for what felt like hours ! your boyfriend finally came home, you heard him placed down his bag and his footsteps got louder and louder, you looked at the door when it was swung open "hey babe? you in here-..." you both looked at eachother for about ten seconds before his cheeks flushed...

"so..you got this lingerie for our anniversary..?" you shyly nod "yea..m'sorry you must feel so-" when you looked down you saw his boner.. "I can help with that.." you said while looking up at him

your hands held onto his back tightly as he inserted two fingers into your tight hole, he went at a slow and soft pace, he whispered sweet words into your ear, how you're doing so good for him, how you're his beloved, after a few minutes of prep and reassurance, he positioned his cock to your entrance, he held your leg and that was on his shoulder while your body was on its side( the lying lift postion ), he pushed in slowly "c-caleb.." you whimpered "sh..sh..sh..it's ok my love, you're doing great f'me.." after he was full inserted he had a slow and soft pace, you squirmed and moaned from pleasure, he kisses your thigh softly "you're so cute..ngh~.." he said in a lovingly tone, "so pretty.." he said as he played with your lace white panties, as his pace quickened, you felt yourself getting closer and closer..so caleb reached down and rubbed your clit, and you started gripping the sheets tightly while you felt your orgasm building up, "caleb !~" you moaned helplessly . he started rubbing faster until you came all over his hand, his orgasm following shortly after.

after you both showered, you cuddled up to him while watching a movie together..

(finished this at 2:50 am i think)

#x bottom male reader #oc #oc fic #my fic #bottom male reader #sub male reader #male reader #lovers #boyfriend #lingire #fanfic #smut #gay #mlm #ftm reader #male y/n #loveydoveystrawberry

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thesimcalledclem · 2 months ago

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FIRE AND BLOOD (CHAPTER TWO)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rhaenyra had arrived.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arbor red.

Wine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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friccafracc · 7 months ago

Note

DROP THE FIC OR IM COMING FOR YOUR KNEECAPS

ALRIGHT OK BUT I NEED IT TO BE KNOWN THAT I HAVENT WRITTEN ANYTHING SERIOUSLY SINCE HIGHSCHOOL OK

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“Something is after me. I know it is, I’ve seen it. It looks like a man, but I know that it’s not. It…. It’s face is like a mockery of something human- like- like if you asked someone who has never seen a human to draw or model a person’s face, their smile. No… I don’t think any human would be able to get it that wrong.”

“And I’m not crazy, alright? God, y’all probably get that a lot here, don’t you? You people specialize in crazy. Not that I’m anyone to judge anymore, given the shit I went through before coming out here. I didn’t even know a place like this existed outside the Usher Foundation. I just…there’s some weird, crazy shit out there I guess, and when I heard about y’all, I figured I should probably pay a visit. At least let someone know before I die.”

“I know I’m gonna die.”

“I suppose I should start from the beginning. My name is Joshua Nelson, I’m originally from the States–Memphis Tennessee. Now, if there’s one thing you should know about Memphis, it’s that nobody in their right mind should EVER move there on their own accord, ‘cause you’ll either get mugged or stalked or both. I was born and raised there, so I never really got the choice during the formative years of my life. I’ve learned to live with it, though.”

“I worked retail in a gas station before…well, everything. It was a shithole. The kind of building where, no matter how hard you scrubbed and no matter how much bleach you used, the stains and smell of smoke would never leave. Instead just…mingled with the citrus of the chemicals. It paid the bills, though, and I was never witness to a robbery, so I couldn’t complain too much. The customers were docile and if I noticed anyone shoplifting, I kept it to myself. I wasn’t getting paid enough to give a damn.”

“We had regulars that would come in on a schedule and regulars that wouldn’t. People who were just passing through the city or visiting family or friends. You get all types in that kinda place, and if you’re placid enough to any asshole who’s having a bad day, everyone gets along just fine. There were a couple of regulars who were friendly enough, though, that I remember their names. Miss Kelly was an older woman, short and heavyset–she was one of the friendlier ones. We’ve got a lot of talkers in the south and boy did she make sure I knew every exact reason for what her kids were getting up to, or what was going on in a reality show she was hooked on at the time.”

“George Michael, a thin man in his 40s, maybe, always came in whenever he needed a new pack of cigarettes, I think he was a chain-smoker, cause he was in there a lot.”

“And then…then there was Hunter. Now Hunter was a younger man, maybe college age. A little older than that? Poor bastard was hooked on something, that much anyone could tell. He was gaunt, a little twitchy, you know, telltale signs of drug abuse. I could never tell what specifically he was on, but then again, it was never my business to know. I treated him the same as every other customer, we all knew he wasn’t gonna cause any harm, he usually came in for food, chips and hotdogs and stuff and he never caused a fuss.”

“I think… I think Hunter is dead.”

“One day he came in, I think it was a Wednesday or something cause it was slow that afternoon, and he burst through the door. Well–maybe not burst, but he came in the building like he was racing to get indoors first before someone else. The guy was usually jittery and, I’ll admit, a little shifty usually, but this was full blown paranoia. It startled me at first, his intensity, and he made a b-line towards the back of the store and ducked behind one of the shelves. Maybe not duck completely like ducking for cover, but it was obvious he was hiding. It almost made me expect the police or some drug lord to come storming through the door, but nobody else came.”

“Hunter stayed pacing in the building for a good 20 or 30 minutes, periodically lifting his head to crane his neck and peer out the window or the glass of the door. I checked once or twice as well, but if someone was out there, I didn’t see them. Eventually the guy calmed down enough to buy something and when he approached the counter with his bag of Doritos he looked almost like he was going to be sick.”

“I asked him if everything was alright, but he just shook his head and left.”

“I didn’t see him again for another week or two after that. Obviously I assumed the worst. I theorized that someone was after him and when he didn’t show up when he usually did it was more than enough to confirm my suspicions. Be it cops or some random person on the street, I couldn’t decide which fate would be worse, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel for the guy at least a little bit.”

“Hunter was almost completely out of my mind when I saw him again. I was surprised. By all accounts, it didn’t look like anything had changed about him. Maybe aside from the fact that his posture was way better than it usually was when I saw him, but other than that, nothing was out of the ordinary.”

“Business went on as usual and when he came up to the till with a liter of coke, I offered him a ‘Welcome Back’ and rang him up.”

“When I turned back to him, he was smiling. For some reason it was like a pit opened in the bottom of my stomach. I couldn’t understand why, though. It looked like Hunter–patchy, unkempt stubble, greasy hair, thin face, sunken eyes. His appearance had never bothered me before, so I was struck with confusion that mixed in with the undefinable, sudden sense of dread.”

“‘Thank you,’ he said as I handed him his change. And he walked out the door. It sounded like Hunter, too.”

“Hunter returned the next day, and the next. Each time he was polite and quiet, and each time he smiled when I rang him up. I counted his teeth. They were straight and flat. When I counted mine in the mirror when I smiled, I saw 17 or 18. Hunter’s counted 24.”

“Maybe he has a dental problem that I didn’t notice until now, I told myself. Human bodies are weird. Sometimes you have more teeth than usual.”

“The fourth day he came in a row, I saw his eyes and his pupils were…swollen, is the only way I can describe them. I know what people’s eyes look like when they’re high. This was not that. It was like they almost swallowed up his irises completely, and they were dull. Dull in the sense that the fluorescents overhead did nothing to cast any reflections onto them. It made me want to writhe and squirm whenever he looked at me.”

“I called in sick the fifth day. I knew Hunter would be back in that gas station to see me. I knew it was to see me. And I knew that thing. That..whatever it was. It wasn’t Hunter.”

“I guess a part of me was always dreading that day. I had always heard stories about people being stalked from friends of friends. It was only a matter of time before it happened to me, right?”

“I saw Hunter at the grocery store the next day, posture straight and face split open into that smile with too many teeth. I didn’t have the mind to be polite. I turned completely around and walked the other way, trying to fool myself thinking that he hadn’t seen me. I kept a pocket knife on me after that encounter. I probably should have been before, but hindsight is always 20/20.”

“Each time I saw him after that, it was worse. On the street to my apartment, his eyes were too wide and his grinning mouth was slightly agape. A crude facsimile of delight as I rushed past him. I stopped going into work when I started to spot him everywhere I went. Every destination no matter how far or random, he was there, grinning at me. He knew where I lived, that I had no doubt. So I went to a friend’s one night hoping to throw him off. Maybe I could move out and lose him. Lord knows I didn’t have the money to break my lease early, but I was desperate.”

“My friend suggested I call the police, but for some reason I was convinced that wouldn’t help. Cops usually only made things worse in that town, and I had a sinking feeling going that route would only waste my time.”

“The final straw was the second night I was crashing on my friend’s couch. I was exhausted, the past few weeks spent sleepless and paranoid and I was ready to finally pass out when I heard a light, rhythmic tapping on the window behind my head.”

“It’s just the wind, I thought to myself. A tree branch or something scraping against the glass. The exhaustion was completely gone, my pounding heart and pumping adrenaline overpowering any lame excuse that I would be stupid enough to be reassured by.”

“I didn’t move from where I lay. Tap. Tap. Tap. Came through the window once again.”

“I don’t know why I laid there for so long, unmoving, convinced that if I didn’t turn around, whatever it was outside would lose interest and leave. I really, really wanted it to leave.”

“I lay still for what felt like hours, every muscle in my body wound up and tense and ready to leap into action at any given opportunity. I was praying the opportunity would never come.”

“I don’t know how long it was when the tapping ceased, but it was long before I finally managed to relax. It seemed like my strategy worked. What an idiotic thing to think. Like I was a child hiding from an imaginary monster in the dark. Like the logic of not giving a stalker any attention so it would go away was sound. No. I think it was that false hope that landed me in this situation.”

“Because when that tapping came again, I wasn’t prepared to turn around. But I did. I turned around and what I saw in the darkness through that glass was… I don’t know what it was. I know it had eyes and teeth. It was grinning, but its teeth stretched well beyond what would be the borders of its face. God, I couldn’t see its face. I knew it was Hunter, though. It had those same lightless eyes that stared back at me every time I closed my own. Dead and dark and dull and staring at me–eating at me, wide and gleeful and spilling into the shadow that I could only assume was a part of the creature, itself. Its form took up nearly the entirety of the window, blocking the outside world. It didn’t move.”

“I screamed. I screamed and closed the curtains and I hid. This woke my friend of course, and she came stumbling out of her room, looking bleary but alert. I tried to signal to her not to go to the window or do anything or to call the police. Thankfully she got the message and the cops were there within the hour.”

“They didn’t find anything. Or anyone, for that matter. I left out the…the monster bit, because I assumed it might land me somewhere I really didn’t want to go.”

“They were about as helpful as I thought they would be. Told me to call them again if I noticed any suspicious activity.”

“I booked my flight here that very night. I wasn’t going to stay in that goddamn city with whatever the HELL that thing was. I don’t want to end up like Hunter. I don’t want it to wear my skin.”

“It will, though. I know it will and it scares me more than anything in the world. And I know I can’t escape it, either.”

“It followed me here. I saw it. It was still grinning at me and it was still. Wearing. Hunter’s. Skin. The shadow that was cast over it made it so I could only see the whites of it’s eyes....its teeth.”

“I don’t want to die.”

#txt #oc fic #tma sona #tma oc #avatar of the stranger #ITS BEEN SO LONG SINCE IVE WRITTEN FIC...PLS BE NICEYS

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aller-geez · 6 months ago

Text

Flight 676 To Anchorage

Written & Illustrated By: allergeez ✨

Just shy of 6.5k words, and more snz than my typical fics cause this one is definitely self indulgent ~

After a month of working on this fic despite my crippling depression and self hatred, it’s gotta be one of my favorites I’ve written✨

Mentions public contagion, but honestly it’s just a bunch of Remi suffering 😏

And as always, Levi belongs to the lovely @thekinkyleopard 🌱

The airport was a bustling maze of noise and movement, with people rushing in every direction. Despite the chaotic atmosphere, Levi's face still held his trademark cheerful smile as he strolled hand in hand with his mate through the throngs of travelers. However, today there seemed to be a weariness in his step, slowing their progress through the sea of bodies. Remi's features were set in their usual scowl, his sharp green eyes scanning each passing person with suspicion, ready to push them aside if necessary. A messenger bag adorned one of the leopard's thin shoulders, containing their boarding passes, an extra jacket, and the book he was currently engrossed in for the flight. Remi's dingy backpack hung carelessly from his back, weighed down with their belongings for the trip ahead.

Almost silently, the wolf muffled a small, dry cough into his shoulder. “14B is our gate, yeah?” His deep voice pierced the silence between the two, and Levi’s bright eyes flew back to meet his mate’s.

He nodded, his smile faltering as he took in Remi's anxious demeanor. "Yeah, that's our gate." He squeezed his mate's hand reassuringly, silently hoping that the flight would be a smooth and uneventful one.

They weaved their way through the crowds until they reached their designated gate, finding two empty seats nearby. Levi gestured for Remi to take a seat before settling down next to him. The leopard let out a small sigh of relief as he sank into the cushioned seat, grateful for the brief moment of rest.

With a small yawn, the leopard fished through his bag to pull out their boarding passes, and handed one to his mate. Remi took the boarding pass from his mate's outstretched hand and glanced at it, then up at the departure screens above them, which flickered with information about their flight: "Flight 676 to Anchorage," he read out loud, tucking the pass into the inside pocket of his coat for safekeeping.

"Boarding starts in 20 minutes, love." The leopard gave Remi's hand a reassuring squeeze. Despite being awake almost all night packing both his own luggage AND Remi’s, then quadruple checking that they had everything possible together for their journey the following day, Levi was thankfully more cognizant than his mate and was able to keep up with more than one direction at a time.

The wolf looked away, his emerald eyes darting around the busy waiting area with renewed vigilance. It was hard for him to hide the fact that he wasn't feeling well; he felt feverish and nauseous from the car ride over here, and he was just barely able to hide the rounding of his consonants that came from the ever growing congestion behind his eyes. The press of bodies against him didn't help either; behind the wet cement block within his sinuses he could smell sweat and perfume mixing into a cloying cocktail of odors that made it hard for him to breathe comfortably.

Remi sighed through gritted teeth as he leaned back into his stiff chair and closed his eyes for a moment. His ears subconsciously twitched at the low rumble of the crowd, filtering out snippets of conversation: someone arguing about lost luggage...a baby crying in the distance...the scent of overcooked pretzels wafting from a nearby snack bar...

When did airports get so loud? And crowded? The wolf’s head spun as he sat in the leathery airport seat, a stubborn tickle gnawing at him and trying to get him to blow his cover in front of his mate. He had managed to smother a few sneezes into the plush collar of his sweatshirt earlier that morning when Levi was out of earshot but blowing now would definitely raise even the most sleep deprived leopard’s suspicions.

Silently he scrunched his nose back and forth before attempting a soft sniffle, although he quickly had to abort at the sheer waterlogged sound he produced.

With a determined glare, the wolf sat up straight in his seat and managed to knuckle at his overly sensitive nose before clearing his throat.

“I gotta pee, I’ll be right back in two seconds.” He tossed offhandedly to the other who sat tentatively, his blue eyes still locked on the many screens above to ensure they were in fact at the right gate. His expression twisted in surprise, then flickered to more concern.

“A-Are you sure, Rem? Okay but please hurry back we can’t miss the flight!” Levi called back anxiously but by then Remi was already weaving through the sea of people, in a B- Line for the nearest restroom, his nostrils flaring helplessly as he held his breath. Thankfully, the bathroom was right around the corner from their gate and as always, the men’s room had no line, allowing him to quickly slip into an open stall and nearly slam the door behind him, snatching a fistful of the single ply toilet paper from the roll before crushing it to his face as he pitched forward forcefully.

“hdt’ishhhh! Hhh—! Hihh’ISSHh! ihH’ktdSHhh!!! iH’tSSH! H— hhHiHhh! hhEhh-! HhEHh’iiTShh’iiEW!” His large frame was wracked with a fit of violent sneezes, leaving the wad of toilet paper in his hands a sopping mess.

Remi's body tensed as he braced himself against the stall wall, the force of his sneezes surprising even him. He had managed to keep them at bay for most of the morning, but now they were coming in rapid succession, each one stronger than the last.

Tears streamed from his emerald eyes as he gave a cautious inhale, then a slow exhale, and he tossed the sodden ball of paper into the open toilet.

“Bless you!” Called a stranger’s voice from another stall.

“Nnnngh—“ Remi grumbled low in his chest in acknowledgment as he unrolled more of the toilet paper on the wall and blew his nose with a soupy gurgle. With a grimace of disgust, he managed to clean himself up and toss the wad into the toilet with the other.

“Fuck me, I always feel like shit every god damn time we have to do ANYTHING.” The raven haired male growled loudly again, this time more to himself, and forcefully kicked the plexiglass walls of the stall he stood in, the sharp bang echoing loudly throughout the bathroom. Suddenly, the entire bathroom fell silent.

Frustrated and feverish, Remi finally exited the stall to an empty bathroom and stopped at the sinks to give himself a once over. He couldn’t look too much like walking death if he wanted to pass off as healthy to his ever inquisitive mate.

The wolf’s slightly dimmed green eyes scanned his reflection in the mirror, taking note of the deep purple circles under his eyes and the very subtle bulges of redness across his cheeks from how swollen his sinuses had started to become, as well as the slightly pink hue his nose had taken on.

The wolf took a second to turn on the water at the sink and splash some cool water across his face, using the bottom side of his shirt to dry himself afterward, finally taking a determined breath. “Let’s get this show on the road I guess…” he breathed before turning on his heels and making his way slowly from the quiet bathroom back out to the overwhelming mass of people. He swiftly wove through the other travelers until making it back to their gate, and Levi’s worried expression melted into happiness as soon as Remi’s face came into his line of sight.

“Perfect, you’re back! I think they’re just about to—“

Cutting the feline off, a voice came over the intercom, announcing boarding for their flight and Levi couldn’t help but giggle. “Perfect timing~”

Remi adjusted his backpack on his back before stretching his arms above his head with a loud yawn while he subconsciously gave his nose a good rub, a feeble attempt at looking “relaxed”.

With a knowing chuckle and a shake of his head, Levi followed suit and they made their way towards the line forming at the gate.

As they boarded the plane and found their seats, Remi couldn't help but feel a sense of anxiety creeping up on him. He had never been a fan of flying and always felt restless on long flights. But somehow he just had a feeling that this one would be even worse than usual.

As they approached the seats labeled clearly on thier boarding pass, Remi gestured to the leopard to slide in first to the window seat. He hated being able to see outside anyway; plus, this way he could avoid anyone trying to be overly friendly with his mate. He didn’t want to have to cause a scene. Levi tossed the wolf a grateful, tired smile and slid in to the seat closest to the window, his messenger bag clutched tightly in his hand.

Remi took an extra second before taking his seat while Levi was distracted to scrub his red rimmed nostrils within an inch of their life, you know, for good measure.

He could feel that stubborn tickle start to dislodge itself from his sinus cavity and he only had a few more moments before he’d be forced to just grin and bear it while in flight.

Suddenly, a strange man brushed against one of Remi’s broad shoulders before a friendly voice brought Remi back to reality.

“Excuse me sir,” Dressed in a crisp, white button-up shirt and expensive-looking brown slacks, the voice had come from a man that exuded an air of importance that was simply lost on Remington. As he blinked his dulled green eyes, trying to shake off his daze, the man asked politely, "Sorry, sir, are you sitting here?" The contrast between their appearances was stark - the man's pristine attire against Remington's rumpled clothes and unkempt hair.

Hearing the conversation, Levi grabbed his mate’s wrist and gave him a gentle tug. “Yes I’m sorry, sir, He was just sitting down, weren’t you Acushla?”

Levi’s face displayed a sheepish smile towards the man before he glared at Remi who raised his hands in front of him in defense as he sat in the middle seat next to the leopard.

“Uh, yeah.” The wolf cleared his throat, and nodded towards the man as he took off his backpack and sat it on the floor in front of him.

“No problem at all.” The man graciously smiled and waited a moment before scooting into his own seat on the aisle.

Levi already began to pull out his extra blanket and pillow, slipping a pastel blue hoodie over his head while he got as comfortable as he could against the metal window. He had his book in his hand, but Remi could instantly tell that he wouldn’t be reading much, taking into account how exhausted he was.

Shortly, the wolf tried to stay incredibly still as the strange man got into his seat. He had been interrupted while he was trying to rid himself of the tickle that now licked up the tip of his nose before burning like wildfire up through his entire sinus cavity.

Remi could barely hold back a small whimper than was almost inaudible within the seat of voices around them, crushing his index knuckle to his septum in hopes to smother the sneezes instead, and he held his breath with his eyes squeezed shut……

One…..two……three….

Then, suddenly as if a dam had given way, the tickle bloomed within the tip of his nose and he was no match for its intensity. Remi sucked in a deep, involuntary gasp before pitching forward, his face deeply buried within the fabric of his sweater collar.

“Huh'GDTS'ue! Hnkt'KNXTuhh! Hh’NDKT’ih!” Three deep, nearly stifled sneezes were extremely muffled into his sweater, although the stranger who took his seat directly next to the raven haired man offered a wary smile. “Bless you!” He nodded his understanding towards Remi, who by now wanted to shrink into his stiff airplane seat, although the wolf ignored him as he glanced over at his mate who studied him with one eye open for a second, then both of them.

“Bless you, Acushla, are you okay?” The leopard asked with concern, although it was quite obvious the exhaustion from the morning was weighing on the feline as he stretched out a hand to gently rub the back of his fingers against his mate’s cheek. Remi couldn’t have been more red, both from embarrassment and the fever he was sure he was running.

Remington shook his head to dismiss the leopard’s worry and his touch, although he wanted nothing more than to melt into the felines gentle hands, he was determined not to slow down the plans this time. No matter how much his brain throbbed with every breath he took, or how much his head felt airy— yet packed tightly with wet cement at the same time.

“I’m fine, it’s just the temperature difference from these ACs or something.” Remington reassured his mate with a gentle smirk before he reached up towards the small spout in the ceiling that was blasting him with cold air and turned it off.

To an exhausted Levi, this sounded like a plausible explanation. Remi’s nose was sensitive; he was a wolf after all… and sometimes he would just get set off by things— it wasn’t like that was out of the ordinary…

The leopard yawned quietly with a nod, readjusting his pillow against the window and closing his eyes. “Okay my love.” The smaller male murmured as he relaxed into his seat.

The wolf’s anxious eyes darted around the cabin as Levi began to doze off, and he quietly sniffled into the hem of his coat. Remington couldn't help but study him with a mix of love but also an underlying anxiety —the way his eyelashes fluttered against his freckled cheeks were just too adorable.

Even now, with the plane lights dim, and the constant low drone of the chatter throughout the cabin of the plane, Remi covertly knuckled at his nose, a bead of moisture gleaming in the scarce light, earning him a quick uneasy glance from the stranger next to him as he shuffled through his own carry-on bag.

Suddenly cutting through the white noise of the cabin, a gentle chime echoed through the plane’s intercom, followed by a gentle, velvety soft voice of what the wolf could assume was the pilot.

“Good morning ladies and gentlemen, this is your pilot speaking. Welcome to flight 676 to Anchorage, Alaska. Your flight today is looking to take around 9 and a half hours, and we’re not expected to have any delays or run into any turbulence.” The pilot explained slowly as the flight attendants began to walk up and down the aisles.

Without missing a beat, the emergency escape plan as well as the normal explanation and demonstration of the overhead oxygen masks in case of cabin depressurization was recited, followed by the bell of the Fasten Seatbelt sign becoming illuminated above everyone’s head.

Remi couldn’t help but look around anxiously, tossing a worried glance to his mate who was already sleeping peacefully while the hustle and bustle of the plane continued on around them, unaccustomed to handling the initial take off of the plane by himself. But with a determined grit of his teeth, he prepared himself none-the-less.

The plane rumbled and shook as it began its ascent, its powerful engines straining against gravity to haul the heavy metal bird into the sky. Brushing his long bangs from his forehead with a tense sigh, the raven haired man stared out of the small window from the corner of his eye, watching the world below turn into a colorful blur of tiny lights and shapes that were quickly turning into stars. His breath caught in his throat and he swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably in his seat while his long fingers twitched at his side. He wondered whether he should just ask for a drink to calm himself down, despite the fact that the plane had just left the ground moments earlier, but decided against it as the plane continued to climb into the sky.

The air at higher elevation was so dry and stale that it was scraping across his tongue like sandpaper, making him want to lick his lips over and over again, but he knew better than that. Better not to draw any more attention to himself than necessary… Although, he definitely felt his nostrils twitching; as if with a mind of their own. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stop the tickle that was beginning to dance deep around his sensitive sinuses. This only seemed to aggravate the blooming sensation, and he attempted to stifle it with a fist but failed miserably, sending a loud "heh’iTTSHH’iEW! ihh- ih’TTSSHH!" rippling through the otherwise quiet cabin.

Immediately, all eyes turned towards him - including those of the man sitting next to him who was now visibly uncomfortable with the unexpected noise and possibly contagious wolf. The stranger quickly moved away from him, trying to create as much distance as possible between them while pretending to be engrossed in his book.

The wolf held his breath while his fever flushed cheeks seemed to beam a darker shade of vermillion. Despite the entire cabin seemingly focused on him, Remi’s entire focus was on Levi, although to the downtrodden man’s good luck, the leopard didn’t even seem to stir in the slightest.

He desperately tried to hold back his breath, afraid of what would happen if he let it out. But as his lungs burned and his throat tightened, he knew he couldn't hold it any longer. He released a shaky exhale, only to be met with a harsh cough that rattled through his congested chest. He was torn between relief at being able to breathe and fear of the consequences of his actions.

He did his best to stifle the next few coughs into his sleeve, though they still echoed through the quiet cabin. He could feel the eyes of the other passengers on him, and his cheeks burned with embarrassment.

The man next to him, who had recoiled when the canine first started coughing, now leaned over with concern in his eyes. "Hey buddy, you doing alright?" he asked kindly. Remi nodded, bristling slightly at the question, not meeting the man's gaze.

"Sorry," He mumbled, his voice raspy and slightly deeper than usual. "M’ fine, just allergies," the wolf replied tersely, turning his attention back out the window.

The man didn't look convinced. "That cough doesn't sound too good. Here, take some of these," he said, offering Remi a packet of cough drops from his bag.

Remi hesitated before accepting them with a quiet "thank you." He hoped taking the cough drops would show the man he was okay and get him to stop pressing the issue. Fuck, he hated people. Especially people who stuck their nose in his business….

Unwrapping a cough drop and popping it in his mouth, the menthol provided instant but temporary relief to his irritated throat. He knew the cough suppressant would only mask his symptoms, not cure the cold that was quickly progressing, but maybe it would get him through the remaining hours of their flight.

Within seconds, however, the wolf could feel another round of wet, chesty coughs rising up from his lungs. He tried to suppress them but it was useless, as always. He doubled over as a string of harsh coughs wracked his body, spraying fine droplets of contagious germs into the recirculated air.

The man next to him who just seconds earlier seemed sympathetic to the raven haired man’s situation, now recoiled in disgust, grabbing a napkin to shield his face. Other passengers nearby shot Remi angry glares, and a flight attendant hurried over with concern and offered the wolf a plastic cup full of water, which he eventually accepted hesitantly. Tossing another anxious glance at his mate curled up against the window, his cheeks almost couldn’t get any more red. Thankfully, the leopard still slept like a rock.

“Sorry," Remi croaked miserably, his usual deep, almost booming voice barely a whisper. He wanted to disappear, honestly. But as his embarrassment grew, so did his increasing frustration, causing his left eye to twitch every time a new pair of eyes bore into him.

As the flight attendant finally made her way back to her seat, he tried to sink back as far as possible into his own chair. His throat burned fiercely and his chest felt heavy. The wolf's ears were starting to plug up and he could feel pressure building in his sinus cavities. His whole body ached with feverish chills. He just wanted to curl up somewhere dark and sleep for days.

“Uh,” Remi snorted back the congestion miserably, dragging one of his wrists under his streaming nose, a glimmering trail of moisture deposited on his clammy skin. “I deed to get through…” he stated to the man next to him simply, pressing a wrist to his septum as the ever-present irritation blooming in the recesses of his nose made itself known again.

The man groaned, irritated that he had to set down the SkyMall magazine he was leaving through, but still rose to his feet and slid out of way to stand in the aisle, obviously recoiling as the wolf slipped by him.

Remi made his way down the aisle towards the bathroom at the back of the plane, stifling a few raspy coughs into his sleeve as he went. He could feel thick congestion building in his sinuses, packing tightly behind his eyes and making his head pound. As he reached the bathroom, he let out an explosive fit of ticklish sneezes that he barely had time to aim at his elbow.

"hh’IISHH! —hd’ISCHhhh!! —hhh’dtTISHhh! —hdt’ISHHhh! Ugh..." Remi groaned, quickly letting himself into the bathroom and locking the door behind him. He leaned heavily on the sink, avoiding his reflection in the mirror as he fished in the inside pocket of his coat for a travel pack of tissues he had conveniently stashed there earlier that morning. He blew his nose forcefully several times, filling up each consecutive handful of tissues instantly. Crumpling them in his fist, he tossed them in the trash can with a miserable, unproductive sniffle.

Despite blowing his nose, Remi could still feel pressure building inside his sinuses. He snorted again thickly, tasting the unpleasant discharge in the back of his throat. His ears felt clogged and he worked his jaw, trying to get them to pop, but to his dismay, it was seemingly impossible.

After washing his hands, the wolf wet a paper towel and held it to his flushed face, hoping the coolness would provide some relief. But his head continued to pound and his nose tickled maddeningly.

“God, fuck ME.” the frustrated man growled, finally managing to make eye contact with himself in the mirror; but even he couldn’t help but grimace from the image he was faced with.

The usual blindingly bright gleam from his emerald eyes was considerably dimmer, and the purple bags under his eyes now looked like trenches that bordered his flushed, swollen cheeks, and bright red nose. His forehead was littered with beads of sweat, and his normally tanned skin had become uncharistically pale.

“Geezus fuck, Remington, you’re lookin’ mad rough, bud.” The wolf snarled under his breath to himself in disgust, shaking his head as he stood up straight.

He couldn’t believe how terrible he looked and felt. This cold or whatever it was, was really taking a toll on him.

But he had to keep pushing through. The two men FINALLY had the money together that they needed to buy some land; something him and Levi had been talking about since they first met. He couldn’t let something so stupid, like another illness, slow them down this time.

With a defeated sigh, Remi splashed water on his face and took a deep breath before unlocking the bathroom door and stepping out.

He nearly collided with the flight attendant who was just about to knock on the door. “M’bad.” he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes with one hand as he stumbled past her towards his seat. She gave him a concerned look but said nothing, moving on down the aisle to check on other passengers.

Noticing Remi standing in the aisle next to him, waiting to slip back into his own seat, the once concerned, kind business man rolled his eyes, once again closing his magazine before rising to his feet and making enough room for the raven haired man to shimmy by him.

The wolf let out a groan as soon as he sat down, trying not to think about how much longer this flight still had left. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, hoping for some relief from the pounding headache and congested sinuses. But no matter how much he tried to relax, the pressure in his nose and behind his eyes only seemed to intensify.

After only a few moments, the wolf groaned softly as he felt another fit of sneezes building in the back of his nose. Just as his jaw fell slack and his long eyelashes fanned his cheeks, the wolf cupped his hands over his face just in time as the forceful explosions burst out of him.

"iit’shHiEW! hh'IETSH’UE! heh’iTTSHH’iEW! ITSCCCHH’ah!! Hih—! Hd'TISHHHh!"

The poor wolf shuddered with each messy sneeze, helplessly spraying his hands with germ laden saliva. The loud sneezes echoed through the quiet cabin, causing several nearby passengers to turn and stare at the miserable canine. He sniffled thickly as he grabbed tissues from his pocket to blow his sore, irritated nose. At this point, he was actually surprised that all of his loud outbursts hadn’t woken his mate even once, although he couldn’t say he wasn’t thankful.

Remi blew his nose wetly, filling the tissue in an instant. He leaned back and sighed, tugging his hood up in an attempt to hide his face.

The man seated next to Remi shook his head in disapproval. He had been growing increasingly annoyed with the ailing canine's noisy sneezing and coughing throughout the short time that the plane had been in the air. As the raven haired male blew his poor, raw nose yet again and crossed his arms over the fold-out tray in front of him, burying his face in the fabric of his coat sleeves, the man finally had enough.

"Excuse me," he called out to a passing flight attendant. "Could I possibly switch seats? The person next to me seems quite ill." He grimaced in disgust as he gestured towards Remi’s crumpled form.

The flight attendant gave a sympathetic nod and began scanning the cabin for an open seat to relocate the disgruntled passenger. "I'll see what I can do, sir," she replied.

"Thank you," he said with relief in his voice, before glaring in Remi’s direction.

The flight attendant soon returned with a new seat assignment for the man, and he quickly gathered up his belongings and moved away from the ailing wolf. Remi didn't even seem to notice, as he was too preoccupied with his miserable state, although after a few moments when he finally lifted his head from his arms to desperately scrub at his streaming nose, he couldn’t help but feel relieved to have the space.

As the plane continued on its journey, Remi's condition only seemed to worsen. His sneezes became more frequent and forceful, and his coughs grew deeper and more persistent. He desperately tried to muffle them with tissues or by coughing into his elbow, but it was no use. The other passengers were starting to shoot him dirty looks, clearly annoyed by his constant noise.

But the wolf couldn't help it. He was feeling absolutely dreadful. His head was throbbing, his throat was raw and scratchy, and his whole body felt achy and exhausted. He tried to close his eyes and sleep off the illness for the rest of the flight, but every time he started to doze off, a desperate sneeze or cough would jolt him awake again.

Eventually against his better judgment, when the same flight attendant came around with her cart full of refreshments, he ordered a small mug of hot tea. If Levi had been awake to see the uncharacteristic events unfold, he would never let the stubborn wolf live it down.

The warmth seemed to provide some relief for a few moments before another fit of sneezes tore thorough his raw throat, hitting him hard.

"Hihh’ISSHh! ihH’ktdSHhh!!! iH’tSSH! " The wolf groaned pitifully through each loud sneeze as he blew through yet another tissue.

The passengers around him were growing increasingly agitated at this point, but Remi couldn't bring himself to care. He just wanted this flight to be over so he could go home and crawl into bed.

Remington sighed and slumped back in his seat, completely exhausted. He had used up the last of his tissues and was now resigned to just letting his nose run freely. The wolf glanced over at Levi, still sound asleep despite all of Remi's explosive sneezes.

A fit of harsh coughs suddenly seized Remi's chest. He tried to suppress them but it was no use, a harsh barking cough burst from his lips followed by another and another. He leaned forward, shoulders shaking, as he hacked painfully into his elbow. The wolf curled forward, one hand over his mouth while the other grasped the armrest tightly. The spasm left him gasping for breath, ribs aching. Remi groaned, wiping his watering eyes with the back of his hand before sighing and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the seat. The pounding in his head was relentless and he could feel another round of coughs building in his chest.

The man in the seat across the aisle shot him an irritated glare which the wolf didn't see. He was too focused on trying to catch his breath between coughs.

Finally, the fit eased up, though it left the poor man’s throat feeling like he'd swallowed broken glass. He slumped back in his seat completely spent, wanting nothing more than to be home; not running around the entire state of rural Alaska looking at land to purchase.

Just then, the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom announcing their initial descent. They'd be landing soon.

Remington scrubbed a hand over his face for the millionth time.

‘Almost there,’ he told himself, ‘just a little longer…...’

Beside him, Levi finally stirred, blinking sleepily as he woke, looking around the cabin as if he was trying to figure out where he was. The feline rubbed his tired, icy blue eyes, sitting up as a small yawn escaped his lips, stretching his thin arms over his head.

Taken off guard by the sudden movement from his mate, Remi held his breath, sitting completely still in his seat.

In hindsight, he should have had a better cover planned. The smaller male wasn’t a T-Rex; it’s not like the wolf’s immobilization and silence would make him disappear from Levi’s curious gaze.

"Morning, Acushla, you alright?" Levi asked with a soft tilt of his head, frowning with concern at the sight of his mate. Remington looked absolutely miserable; there was no hiding his exhaustion-laced features or the hue of his cheeks and nostrils.

Still, Remi tried to keep up his badly damaged facade.

The wolf nodded, trying to force one of his trademark smirks but wincing as a string of harsh coughs escaped him, sending another wave of pain through his aching body. He squinted his eyes shut as the sound echoed around the cabin, making the other passengers jump and scowl in his direction in annoyance for the millionth time that day. Quickly glancing around sheepishly, he felt his cheeks heat up with embarrassment at his lack of control.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he lied, coughing again, albeit quietly this time, into his fist. "Just allergies or something," he added weakly.

The wolf couldn't imagine how he was going to convince Levi of that when he looked - and sounded - so damn sick. But he had to try.

The feline made a skeptical face, rolling his eyes at his mate’s attempt at deception, but he knew better than to challenge the other’s explanation with so many people around. Offhandedly, the leopard took note of the empty aisle seat next to canine that once had a heavier set businessman sitting in it at the beginning of their flight.

While he didn’t verbally acknowledge it, Levi could easily assume the events that unfolded during his nap.

"We're almost there," Levi said gently, reaching over to ruffle Remi's hair that was clearly drenched in sweat with a reassuring smile spreading over his own tired features. "The hotel I got for us isn’t too far from the Anchorage Airport, anyway. We can spend a few days there before we meet with the realtor~"

The wolf seemed too tired to protest or even do much more than acknowledge Levi's touch, his head lolling against the headrest as the leopard’s fingers carded through the thick, raven colored strands.

As they touched down on the tarmac and the aircraft finally rumbled to a stop, they heard the hydraulic brakes hiss and saw the flashing lights reflecting off of their snow covered surroundings, blinking in sync with their tired hearts. With a deep inhale, Remi forced himself to stand up stiffly, grabbing their bags from the overhead bin while Levi stuffed their various belongings that were strewn about between the seats into his messenger bag. The feline meticulously combed through the space, determined to leave with everything they had brought with them, and once he was satisfied that everything was safely put away, the leopard stood up with a cheerful grin and squeezed past the wolf’s large frame to lead the two off of the plane.

Remi felt like he was wading through mud as he made his way down the aisle, trying to match Levi's quick, excited strides. He couldn't help but think the cool air outside would feel glorious against his flushed skin.

Passengers around them shifted and grunted irritably, avoiding eye contact with the visibly sick canine and the leopard who seemed to be inexplicably oblivious to their plight. Some even went as far as pulling their jackets closer around themselves, noses wrinkled in disgust at the readily apparent sickness that clung to Remington like a second skin.

The buzz of the engines faded into silence under the mix of voices of passengers throughout the cabin, bathing them in relative quiet for a moment before the hiss of the exit door opening filled their ears. Levi took lead, shoulders back and head held high, seemingly oblivious to the dirty looks he received for walking alongside his obviously contagious mate. The whiff of engine fumes mixed with with pine trees and sea salt assailed their senses as they pushed through the crowd, waiting for their chance to disembark.

As they approach the exit of the plane, the two men are gently stopped by the same tired looking flight attendant.

"Here, put this on," the attendant offered kindly, yet firmly as she held out a surgical mask to the wolf, who took it wordlessly, too exhausted to protest, and strapped it over his nose and mouth.

His mate’s silent compliance causes Levi to blink in surprise, although he still kept his thoughts to himself. There was always a time and a place with Remington.

“Thank you, Miss.” The leopard smiled gratefully towards her and she nods with a sympathetic expression before allowing the two to exit.

After what seemed like an eternity to Remi, they were finally able to make their way off of the plane, and they stepped down onto the gangway, the wolf’s heavy feet clanking softly against the metal grating. The sound was muffled by the thick rubber soles of his boots as he stumbled down the portable hallway behind Levi in sort of a fog, feeling every ache and pain in his bones from the long, miserable flight.

As they navigate through the bustling terminal and towards the baggage claim, without warning, Remi's steps start to slow down and he began to lag behind slightly.

Suddenly, a harsh “HI’DTSCHIEW! hh—hEhTXSSHhh’ih!” echoed through the massive airport from behind the feline, startling him.

Levi spun around to see his mate’s hand covering his face, and an unproductive, waterlogged sniffle made the leopard‘s eyebrows knit together immediately, his expression filled with worry.

The smaller man hesitated before placing a hand on Remi's forehead with a frown. “Bless you, my love…” Levi whispered gently, his eyebrows furrowing more intensely. After a moment, he tried again.

“You’re sure you’re feeling okay, Acushla? I heard you sneeze a few times on the plane, too…”

Remi feels like he’s burning up, his skin hot to the touch. Pulling down his mask to expose his face, the wolf gives his mate a weak smile, trying to reassure him.

“—I’b fide, just wadt to get goigg…”

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