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sinful-mind-joyful-thoughts · 5 months ago

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ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴀ ғᴀʟsᴇ ᴀʟᴛᴇʀ

⤷ Credits: Pinterest

Summary : Your father is fed up with your shenanigans, so he arranges a marriage to Rome's famous general and gladiator, Marcus Acacius.

Warnings: DUB-CON (Forced/Arranged marriage) SMUT, LOSS OF VIRGINITY, unprotected pinv (wrap it before you tap it), Oral F and M, Implied age gap, Scars, Misogyny, Spitting, both give switch vibes,

A/n : I put a dub-con warning just because it is a forced/arranged marriage also ty and enjoy @multiversed-daydreamer for listening to me yap about this all day luv ya 💕

The table was set, lit, and ready for a feast. Grapes, wine, cheese, and meats lined the table. Being the daughter of a powerful general had its perks, not that you liked the kind of life you had. You understood you were privileged, your place in society clear. You knew that if it weren't for your father's position, you would probably be a slave to the hierarchy. But it didn't mean you had to like your life.

You were 18 and shockingly unmarried—not that you cared. You had more fun sneaking away to the parties that would happen late at night. You were happy for the fact you weren't tied down yet. The thrill of escaping your father's watchful eye and diving into the forbidden world of Rome's underground festivities made your heart race.

You had a reputation, one that was far from ladylike. Wild child, they called you, and you wore it like a badge of honor. You knew what sex was, what things happened in the dark corners of those parties, but you were still a virgin. Your knowledge came from observation, whispers, and the daring escapades you had witnessed, but you hadn't crossed that final threshold. Not yet.

Your father, a stern and formidable general, was a man who worked with gladiators and other powerful figures in Rome. His influence was vast, and his expectations were high. He had grown increasingly frustrated with you lately, and you couldn't quite understand why. His annoyance with your antics was palpable, but there was something more, something beneath the surface that gnawed at him.

As you sat there, wine goblet in hand, you sipped slowly, savoring the taste. You knew he would tell you to only have a single glass, a rule you delighted in bending. The door to the grand hall burst open, and there he was, your father, his expression a storm of irritation and something deeper, something darker.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice echoing through the hall. "Drinking again?"

You looked up at him, feigning innocence. "Just a single glass, Father, as you always insist."

His eyes narrowed, and he crossed the room with swift, purposeful strides. "You think I don't know what you get up to, do you? Sneaking out, causing trouble. Do you have any idea how this reflects on me? On our family?"

You sighed, placing the goblet down. "I know, Father. But you can't keep me locked away forever. I'm not a child anymore."

He stood before you, the tension between you crackling like a live wire. "You're my daughter, and you will behave with the dignity and decorum befitting your station."

You met his gaze, unflinching. "And what if I don't want that life? What if I want to be free, to make my own choices?"

His frustration seemed to boil over, and for a moment, you thought he might explode. But then, he took a deep breath, his shoulders sagging slightly. "You don't understand the dangers out there. The people I deal with—the gladiators, the politicians—they're not like the ones at your little parties. They're dangerous."

You softened slightly, sensing the genuine worry behind his anger. "Then tell me, Father. Explain why you're so frustrated lately. What aren't you telling me?"

He hesitated, the walls he had built around himself momentarily crumbling. "It's complicated," he finally said, his voice quieter. "There are threats... to our family, to our position. I'm trying to protect you, even if it doesn't seem like it."

You reached out, touching his arm. "I want to understand. Help me see what you see."

He looked down at your hand, then back at your face, a mixture of anger and sorrow in his eyes. "Maybe it's time you did," he said, his voice resigned. "But you must promise me, you'll be careful. This world is not as kind as you think."

You nodded, determination filling your chest. "I promise, Father. I'll be careful. But I won't be caged."

Your father's expression hardened once more, and the momentary softness disappeared. He sat down at the table, grabbing a handful of grapes and popping one into his mouth. "Enough. This isn't up for discussion," he snapped. "You are to be married."

Your heart plummeted. "Married? To whom?"

His eyes were cold as steel. "To a man who can protect you, who can secure our family's future."

You jumped to your feet, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. "No! I don't want to be married off like some piece of property. I won't do it!"

He towered over you, his presence suffocating. "You have no choice. This is for your own good."

"Who is it then?" you demanded, your voice rising in defiance. "Is it Lucius? That lecherous old man who can't keep his hands to himself?"

Your father shook his head, his jaw clenched. "No, not Lucius."

"Is it Gaius, then?" you asked, pacing around the table, barely noticing your father grabbing a slice of cheese and eating it with deliberate calmness. "The pompous fool who thinks he's the smartest man in Rome but can't even string a coherent sentence together without tripping over his own ego?"

"Not Gaius."

"Then it must be Quintus! The brute who only knows how to solve problems with his fists, who would treat me like a possession rather than a person."

"No, it isn't Quintus either," your father snapped, his patience wearing thin. He took a deep drink from his own goblet, trying to steady himself.

"Who then? Who could possibly be suitable in your eyes?" you spat, your desperation clear.

Your father took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. "It's Marcus Acacius."

The name sent a jolt through you, and you took an involuntary step back. Marcus Acacius, a name whispered in both awe and fear throughout Rome. A man known for his prowess in the arena and his cunning outside it. A man with a reputation as cold and unyielding as stone.

"Marcus Acacius?" you echoed, disbelief coloring your tone. "You can't be serious. He's a gladiator, a killer."

"He's more than that," your father insisted. "He's powerful, respected, and capable of protecting you from the dangers you don't even know exist."

You shook your head, your mind reeling. "No, Father. You can't do this to me. I won't marry him."

"You will," he said firmly. "And you will do it for our family, for our future."

You felt the walls closing in, the life you had known slipping away. You slumped back into your chair, staring at the untouched food before you. "What if... what if I've already been with someone else?" you blurted out, hoping to find some way out of this nightmare.

Your father's eyes narrowed. He leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table. "Have you been taken by another lover?"

You hesitated, the lie heavy on your tongue, but the fear of his wrath kept you silent. "No," you finally admitted, defeated.

"Then it's settled," he said, the finality in his voice chilling. "You will marry Marcus Acacius, and you will do so with dignity."

Tears of frustration and anger welled in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. "I won't be happy, Father. Not with him, not with this life."

He reached out, a rare gesture of tenderness, and touched your cheek. "Happiness is a luxury we can't afford," he said softly. "But safety, security—that is something I can give you."

You pulled away, the weight of his decision crushing your spirit. "I don't want to be safe. I want to be free."

His hand fell to his side, and his eyes hardened once more. "Freedom is an illusion, my daughter. And you will learn that soon enough."

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing alone in the grand hall, the weight of your impending marriage pressing down on you like a vice.

Rage bubbled up inside you, a seething mass of frustration and helplessness. The weight of your father's words pressed down on you like a heavy shroud, suffocating your spirit. With a sudden, violent motion, you swept your arm across the dining table, sending grapes, cheese, and meats crashing to the floor. The wine goblet toppled, spilling dark red liquid like blood across the pristine tablecloth.

Breathing heavily, you glared at the mess you had created, but it did nothing to alleviate the fury burning within you. Without another word, you turned on your heel and stormed out of the grand hall, your footsteps echoing through the marble corridors.

You reached your room, slamming the door behind you. The silence was oppressive, the walls closing in as your mind raced. You had to get out. You couldn't marry Marcus Acacius. You couldn't be trapped in a life you didn't choose, a life that would suffocate the very essence of who you were.

You paced the room, the dim light from the oil lamps casting flickering shadows on the walls. Your eyes darted around, searching for a solution, a way out of this nightmare. Your thoughts turned to your mother, a fleeting glimmer of hope piercing through the darkness.

Your mother had been sent to the countryside years ago, a decision made by your father to keep her safe from the political intrigue and danger that plagued Rome. She lived a quiet, secluded life on the family estate, far from the city's chaos. You hadn't seen her in years, but you knew she would help you if you could reach her.

It had been a month of plotting and planning, each day dragging on as your impending fate loomed ever closer. Today was your wedding day, the day your life would be sealed into a destiny you hadn’t chosen. Final preparations had been completed yesterday, and now you were meant to step into the role of a dutiful daughter and bride. You had woken up earlier than your maids would have roused you, knowing your father would want you to rest more so you appeared extra fresh for Marcus. Instead, your nerves had kept you up all night, the shadows on the walls morphing into ominous shapes as you thought of your future.

The first light of dawn crept through the narrow window, and you knew you couldn’t waste any more time. Your small bag, packed with bread, a few pieces of jewelry to sell, and the spending money your father occasionally gave you, lay hidden under the covers of your bed. The plan was simple: catch the slightest bit of rest before your handmaid came in to wake you, then escape before anyone noticed.

The door creaked open, and Lucia, your handmaid, entered with her usual gentle and serene presence. She glided to the window, pulling back the heavy curtains. Sunlight flooded the room, casting a warm glow that felt almost mocking given your circumstances. You sat up in bed, the light highlighting the bags under your eyes from a sleepless night.

"Good morning, my lady," she said dreamily, her voice like a lullaby. "The sun is shining so beautifully today. It's a perfect day for a wedding." She moved to your side, her hands deftly beginning to arrange your hair with practiced ease. You watched her reflection in the mirror, feeling a pang of guilt for the deception you were about to execute.

"Your dress is so beautiful, my lady. It's like a dream come true. You'll look like a goddess, a vision of perfection," Lucia continued, her words meant to comfort but only adding to your anxiety. The dress she spoke of hung in the corner, a symbol of the life you were being forced into.

You let her continue, her words a soothing balm against your churning thoughts. As she began to apply a light makeup, using berries to tint your lips and cheeks, you couldn't help but feel a sense of finality creeping in. "You'll be the envy of every woman in Rome," she continued, her voice full of admiration. "Marcus Acacius is a powerful man. You'll be safe with him."

Safe. The word echoed in your mind, tinged with bitterness. Safety was a cage, and you longed for freedom. Suddenly, you sat up, startling Lucia. "I need your dress," you blurted out, your voice urgent.

She looked at you, shocked and confused. "My dress, my lady? Why would you want my dress?" she asked, her hands frozen in mid-motion.

You gave her a reassuring smile, reaching under your bed to pull out a dress you had kept for a long time. It was a simple yet elegant gown, one she had always admired. "I have something for you," you said, handing her the dress. "I've seen how much you like it. Today, I want you to wear it and have fun. I just... I want to feel normal before the wedding."

Her eyes widened, and a smile of pure joy spread across her face. "Thank you, my lady. Thank you so much!" She looked at the dress, then back at you. "But what about you? Where will you be?"

You hesitated for a moment, crafting a believable lie. "I'll be eating breakfast with the soldiers. I need a moment to myself before the chaos begins."

She nodded, believing your words, and quickly changed into the dress you had given her. You watched as her usual plain attire was replaced by the elegant gown, the transformation bringing a genuine smile to your face despite the turmoil in your heart. "You look beautiful," you said, forcing a smile. "Now go, enjoy yourself."

Lucia beamed, her happiness palpable. "Thank you, my lady. I'll remember this day forever." She gave a small curtsy and hurried out, eager to enjoy the brief taste of luxury you had gifted her.

As soon as the door closed behind her, you sprang into action. Your heart pounded as you grabbed your small bag from under the covers and moved swiftly towards the door. The corridors of the castle were quiet, the early hour ensuring most were still in their beds. You moved with purpose, your sandals barely making a sound on the stone floors.

Every step you took was filled with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. You had never been so bold, and the risk was immense. If you were caught, the consequences would be severe, but you couldn't live a life that wasn't yours. The thought of being trapped in a loveless marriage with Marcus Acacius spurred you on.

You reached the courtyard, the cool morning air filling your lungs as you dashed towards the farthest end where the horse stables were located. The sound of hooves and the scent of hay greeted you as you approached, your eyes scanning for a suitable mount. Freedom was within reach, and your heart soared with the possibility.

But then, a familiar, stern voice cut through the morning air. "Where do you think you're going?"

You sprinted, your sandals slapping against the cobblestones as the guards closed in. Heart pounding, you reached the barn, your fingers fumbling with the latch. The sound of pursuing footsteps fueled your frantic efforts, and finally, the door swung open. You dashed inside, the scent of hay and horses enveloping you. There was no time to lose.

Without wasting a moment, you chose the newest and fastest horse, a powerful chestnut stallion that had always intimidated you with its raw strength. It was your only chance. Your hands shook as you grabbed its mane, your heart hammering in your chest. The stallion snorted, sensing your urgency. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself.

"Hyah!" you urged, kicking your heels against its sides. The stallion reared, its powerful muscles tensing beneath you, then surged forward, galloping towards the gates. The wind whipped through your hair, the thundering of hooves drowning out the shouts behind you.

The gate loomed ahead, freedom tantalizingly close. You leaned forward, urging the horse faster. As you rode, you navigated the narrow alleys and sharp turns of the castle grounds, the stallion's speed making every twist and turn feel like a life-or-death gamble. The guards were not far behind, their yells growing louder, but you kept pushing, your eyes fixed on the gate.

You had run from the guards before, slipping through their grasp with quick wits and nimble feet, but this was different. The stakes were higher, the danger more palpable. The horse beneath you was your only hope, its powerful strides eating up the distance between you and the gate. But it was also a wild, untamed force, difficult to control.

As you neared the gate, you saw it beginning to close. Panic surged through you. With a desperate cry, you urged the stallion faster. The ground seemed to blur beneath you, the world a whirl of motion and sound. The horse’s breath came in powerful snorts, its muscles straining with effort.

Just as you thought you might make it, the stallion stumbled on a loose cobblestone. You were flung from its back, the world spinning around you as you hit the ground hard. Pain shot through your body, your vision swimming with stars.

When you opened your eyes, the sky above was a brilliant blue, and the scent of earth and grass filled your nostrils. You groaned, trying to sit up, but a gentle hand on your shoulder stopped you.

"Easy there," a deep, soothing voice said. You turned your head and found yourself staring into the concerned eyes of a stranger, his face handsome and strong, framed by dark curls. He knelt beside you, his touch gentle but firm.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his brow furrowed with worry.

You blinked, trying to focus through the haze of pain and confusion. "Who... who are you?"

A small, enigmatic smile played on his lips. "My name is Marcus Acacius. And you must be my bride."

The revelation hit you like a bolt of lightning. This was the man you were meant to marry, the man you were running from. But as you looked into his eyes, you saw not the tyrant you had imagined, but a man filled with genuine concern and curiosity.

"You shouldn't be out here alone," Marcus continued his voice a mix of authority and kindness. "It's dangerous. Let me help you."

The irony of the situation was almost too much to bear. You had been fleeing from your fate, only to run straight into its arms. As Marcus helped you to your feet, his hands strong and reassuring, you couldn't help but wonder if perhaps your destiny was more complex than you had believed.

Marcus's strong arms guided you inside, each step a reluctant surrender to the fate you had been trying to escape. The castle's grand corridors, usually bustling with servants and courtiers, were eerily quiet in the early morning light. You were disoriented, the pain from your fall mingling with the turmoil of your thoughts.

As you entered your bedchamber, a familiar and unwelcome face greeted you. Aurelia, one of your father's maids and his well-known mistress, stood there with a smug expression. Her presence was a bitter reminder of your father's indiscretions and the fractured state of your family.

"Well, well," Aurelia purred, her voice dripping with condescension. "What a surprise to see you here, my lady. Running away on your wedding day? How very unbecoming of you."

You shot her a withering glare, your temper flaring. "Spare me your lectures, Aurelia. I'm not in the mood for your sanctimonious drivel."

Aurelia's smile widened, enjoying your discomfort. "You should be grateful for the match your father has arranged. Marcus Acacius is a powerful man. You could do far worse."

You clenched your fists, your anger barely contained. "Is that what you tell yourself to justify spreading your legs for my father? That you're doing it for power and security?"

Her eyes flashed with anger, but she maintained her composure. "Watch your tongue, girl. You may not like me, but I'm here to make sure you fulfill your duty. Now sit down and let me get you ready."

Reluctantly, you sat down, feeling trapped and helpless. As Aurelia worked on your hair and makeup, her touch was firm and unyielding. Her presence was suffocating, her every word a reminder of the life you were being forced into.

"You think you can escape your destiny?" Aurelia continued, her tone dripping with disdain. "You're just a foolish girl. This marriage is your only chance at a future."

You bit back a retort, knowing it would only fuel her smug superiority. Instead, you focused on the mirror in front of you, watching as she applied the final touches to your appearance. The reflection staring back at you was almost unrecognizable—a vision of beauty and elegance, but one that felt like a mask hiding your true self.

Once Aurelia finished, she stepped back, admiring her handiwork. "There," she said, a note of satisfaction in her voice. "You look perfect. Ready to be a proper bride."

You stood, your heart heavy with dread. The grand hall awaited, filled with guests and the weight of expectation. As you made your way towards it, you felt the walls closing in, your fate sealed with every step.

The hall was decorated with lavish flowers and banners, the scent of incense filling the air. Guests whispered and watched as you entered, their eyes following your every move. At the far end, Marcus Acacius stood, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

The ceremony began with the priest’s voice, resonant and solemn, echoing through the hall. The guests fell into an expectant silence, the only sounds being the faint rustling of their silk garments and the distant clinking of goblets. The hall, lavishly adorned with ivy and flowers, seemed to shimmer with an almost otherworldly glow, casting shadows that danced like phantoms along the walls.

You stood at the altar, your heart pounding against your ribs like a trapped bird. The priest’s words, though intended to be a comfort, were like a dark incantation, each syllable wrapping around you tighter, dragging you deeper into the abyss of your fate. Your eyes flickered over to Marcus, standing with his back straight, his gaze unwavering. He looked every bit the powerful man he was rumored to be—tall, imposing, with a presence that commanded the room.

You recalled the whispers you had heard over the past months—the stories of Marcus Acacius. The tales were rife with speculation and fear, his name often mentioned in hushed tones. They spoke of a man whose ambition knew no bounds, whose cruelty was whispered about in every corner of Rome. Some said his eyes held a darkness that could see through to the soul, while others claimed he had a penchant for the macabre, often indulging in extravagant displays of power.

As the priest began the traditional vows, his voice a monotone murmur, you tried to focus, but the words blurred into a cacophony. "Do you, Marcus Acacius, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, until death do you part?"

Marcus’s voice was steady, unwavering. "I do," he said, his tone deep and commanding, sending shivers down your spine.

When it was your turn, the words caught in your throat, your voice barely a whisper. "I... I do," you managed, the words tasting bitter on your tongue, the weight of your submission crushing your spirit.

The priest nodded, a satisfied smile curling his lips. "Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife."

As the priest declared you bound by law and faith, the room erupted into applause, the sound a thunderclap that seemed to echo off the very stones of the castle. Marcus took your hand, his grip firm and unyielding, leading you down the aisle. The guests showered you with petals, their faces a blur of congratulations and forced smiles. You felt like a puppet, each step you took dictated by an invisible string.

The reception hall was a whirlwind of opulence, the air thick with the scent of spiced wine and roasting meats. Long tables groaned under the weight of sumptuous feasts, while musicians played melodies that mingled with the laughter and chatter of the guests. The hall’s high ceilings seemed to stretch into eternity, adorned with golden chandeliers that sparkled like stars.

You clung to the edge of the hall, the laughter and music a distant hum, your mind wandering back to the dark tales you had heard of Marcus. The rumors were impossible to ignore: they spoke of his ruthless ambition, his cold demeanor, and his unsettling fascination with power. Some said his parties were a mask for darker pursuits, where the line between pleasure and pain blurred into obscurity.

As Marcus moved through the crowd, his demeanor was that of a king—gracious yet commanding, his laughter rich and resonant. He was surrounded by his closest allies, men whose eyes gleamed with greed and ambition. They raised their goblets in his honor, their voices melding into a chorus of congratulatory toasts.

You stood near a heavy oak door, the cool stone beneath your fingers a reminder of the stark reality you now faced. The night was growing darker, the moonlight streaming through the tall windows casting an eerie glow on the festivities.

Suddenly, a hand gripped your arm, pulling you away from the door. It was one of the guards, his expression grave. "My lady, you mustn't go near that door. Your father has given strict orders. Any guard who aids your escape will be put to death."

You stared at him, a chill running down your spine. "What do you mean? You can’t be serious. There’s no way out of here. You’re all trapped too."

The guard’s eyes flickered with a mix of pity and resolve. "It’s true, my lady. Your father’s command is ironclad. He has spies everywhere. If you try to leave, he will know. And the consequences for anyone who helps you are severe."

A knot of fear and frustration tightened in your chest. "What do you expect me to do? Just stand here and pretend everything’s fine?"

He hesitated, his grip on your arm softening. "No, my lady. But perhaps you could find a way to make the best of this night. Try to speak to him, learn his intentions. There may be more to him than the rumors say."

Taking a deep breath, you nodded, your mind spinning with the guard’s words. With a determined stride, you made your way through the crowd towards Marcus, who was leaning casually against a pillar, a goblet of wine in his hand. His eyes were slightly glazed from the alcohol, but his gaze sharpened as he saw you approaching.

"Marcus," you began, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you. "I wanted to thank you for your help earlier today. I... I appreciate it."

He raised an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You mean when you tried to flee?" His tone was teasing, but there was an edge to it. "You have spirit, I'll give you that."

You forced a smile, trying to gauge his true nature. "I only wished for a moment of freedom. But I suppose that is behind us now."

Marcus took a sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving yours. "Freedom is a fleeting thing, my dear. But power... power is eternal. And together, we shall wield it."

Your stomach churned at his words, the rumors about him echoing in your mind. "Is that all you care about? Power?" you asked, unable to keep the bitterness from your voice.

His smile faded, replaced by a more serious expression. "You misunderstand me. Power is not an end, but a means. It ensures safety, prosperity, and control over one's destiny. Is that so terrible?"

You struggled to see past the image you had built of him. "I’ve heard things about you, Marcus. Dark things."

He chuckled softly, a sound that sent chills down your spine. "People fear what they do not understand. Let them talk. What matters is that I have the means to protect those I care about."

His words, though seemingly sincere, did little to quell your doubts. You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, your father’s voice boomed across the hall.

"Honored guests!" he called out, drawing everyone’s attention. "The hour grows late, and it is time for my daughter and her new husband to retire to their bedchamber."

A murmur of approval and knowing smiles rippled through the crowd. Your heart raced, a mixture of dread and resignation filling you. Marcus extended his hand to you, his grip firm and possessive as he led you through the throng of guests towards the grand staircase.

As you ascended the stairs, the weight of your future bore down on you. You glanced back once, seeing the guests' faces fade into the distance, their laughter and conversations becoming a dull roar. When you reached the door of the bedchamber, Marcus paused, turning to face you.

"This is just the beginning," he said, his voice low and intense. "We have much to learn about each other."

You swallowed hard, forcing a nod. "Yes, we do."

He opened the door, and you stepped inside, the room lit by the soft glow of candlelight. The bed, draped in rich fabrics, seemed to loom ominously in the center. Marcus closed the door behind you, the click of the latch sounding like a final seal on your fate.

As he moved closer, you felt a mix of fear and curiosity. This was the man you were now bound to, and despite the darkness that surrounded him, there was a part of you that longed to understand him, to find the truth beneath the rumors.

"Let's start anew," he said, his hand gently brushing your cheek. "Whatever you have heard, whatever you fear, put it aside. We are bound by more than words and vows. Let’s see where this path takes us."

You recoiled from his touch, your anger bubbling to the surface. "I'd rather fuck a pig than you," you spat, your voice dripping with venom. The shock on his face quickly morphed into a cold, calculating expression.

"You need to learn your place," Marcus hissed, his grip tightening on your arm. "You should consider yourself lucky to have me, especially with your reputation."

You glared at him, your temper flaring. "Lucky? Is that what you think this is? A blessing? I know what people say about you, Marcus. They call you ruthless, a monster. I'd rather die than be your plaything."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "You speak so boldly for someone in such a precarious position. But let me make something clear: you are mine now. And I will do whatever it takes to keep you in line."

Your heart pounded in your chest, a mixture of fear and defiance. "You can't control me. I'll never submit to you."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "Is that so? Tell me, my bride, are you truly a virgin, or have your wild antics already sullied you?"

The question caught you off guard, your cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and anger. "How dare you—"

"Answer me," he demanded, his eyes boring into yours. "Are you a virgin?"

You clenched your fists, refusing to be cowed. "Yes, I am," you snapped, your voice trembling with rage. "Not that it's any of your business."

He seemed taken aback for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he studied your face. "So, you are pure, despite everything. Interesting."

"You think you can just claim me like some prize?" you retorted, your voice rising. "I won't be your obedient little wife. I won't be another notch on your belt."

Marcus's expression hardened, his grip on your arm like iron. "You will be my wife, and you will learn to respect me. You don't know the first thing about power or survival. But you will."

"You don't scare me," you lied, your voice faltering slightly.

"Don't I?" he whispered, his lips dangerously close to yours. "You should be scared. But perhaps you're just too stubborn to realize it."

"Stubborn?" you scoffed. "Is that what you call it when someone refuses to bow to a tyrant?"

His eyes flashed with anger, and for a moment, you thought he might strike you. But instead, he did something even more unexpected. He leaned in and kissed you, his lips crashing against yours with a fierce, passionate intensity.

You froze, your mind racing as his kiss deepened. There was a raw, undeniable heat between you, a clash of wills and desires. Your initial shock gave way to a whirlwind of emotions—anger, fear, curiosity, and something else you couldn't quite name.

As his hands moved to your waist, pulling you closer, you found yourself responding, your body betraying your mind. The kiss was a battle, each of you struggling for dominance, neither willing to yield.

When he finally pulled away, you were breathless, your heart racing. His eyes were dark and intense, a storm of emotions swirling within them. You stared back at him, defiance and confusion mingling in your gaze, unsure of what to say or do next.

"I'm sorry," Marcus said, his voice unexpectedly soft. "I shouldn't have forced myself on you like that."

His words, so out of character, only fueled your anger further. "Sorry?" you scoffed, pushing him back slightly. "You think a simple apology will make up for everything? For the way you've treated me, for the way you think you can just claim me?"

His jaw clenched, but he didn't back down. "I know I can't make up for it. But perhaps... perhaps we can find a way to understand each other."

You were silent for a moment, then your eyes narrowed. "Understand each other?" you echoed, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "Is that what this is about? Understanding?"

A dark, reckless impulse surged within you. You grabbed him by the front of his tunic, pulling him closer. "You think you can control me?" you whispered, your breath hot against his ear. "You think you can just take what you want?"

Before he could respond, you pressed your lips to his again, this time with even more intensity. The kiss was fierce, a clash of wills and desires. You could feel the tension between you, the thin line between hate and something far more dangerous.

Marcus responded in kind, his hands gripping your waist with bruising force. The room seemed to spin as you lost yourself in the raw heat of the moment, your anger and frustration boiling over into something wild and unrestrained.

You broke the kiss, your breathing ragged. "You want me?" you demanded, your voice a low, challenging whisper. "Then take me."

His eyes blazed with desire and a hint of confusion. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Shut up," you snapped, pulling him closer. "No more talking. Just... take me."

With a growl, Marcus responded, his hands tearing at your clothes with a desperate urgency. You mirrored his actions, your fingers fumbling with the fastenings of his tunic. The fabric fell away, and you pressed your bodies together, the heat of his skin igniting a fire within you.

"You're infuriating," he muttered, his lips trailing down your neck.

"And you," you retorted, your hands exploring the hard planes of his chest, "are a tyrant."

He paused for a moment, his breath hot against your skin. "Then why are you doing this?"

"Because," you said, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and desire, "I hate you. And I need to feel something other than this... this helplessness."

He captured your lips again, his kiss searing and demanding. "I hate you too," he whispered against your mouth, his hands roaming your body. "But I can't resist you."

The world outside ceased to exist as you gave in to the storm between you. Clothes fell away, and you were left exposed, vulnerable yet defiant. You pushed him onto the bed, straddling him, your eyes locked in a battle of wills.

"You think you can control me?" you challenged, your voice breathless.

"I don't need to control you," Marcus replied, his hands gripping your hips. "I just need you."

Marcus brought his thumb to circle your clit, his rough touch sending jolts of pleasure through your body. You moaned slightly, your head falling back in bliss. His voice teased you, dripping with arrogance. "What, haven’t you touched yourself before?"

You gasped, grinding down against the hard length of his cock straddled between your legs. His smirk faltered at your audacity. "Of course I have," you retorted, your voice edged with defiance, a spark of rebellion lighting your eyes.

Marcus gripped your hips, lifting you off him with ease before moving to sit back against the headboard, his arms casually behind his head in a display of smug dominance. "You want the virgin to do all the work?" you taunted, your eyes narrowing in displeasure as you crawled closer.

His smirk returned, darker this time. "The virgin, huh? That's what I get to call you now?" He paused, watching you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. "You're the one who's on me like a dog in heat."

You looked at him with a dark expression, sitting back on your thighs, your chest heaving with frustration and desire. With one hand, you began to caress his upper thigh, mimicking the movements you'd seen from the sex workers in your father's employ. Though inexperienced, you weren't ignorant; you'd read secret novels and asked questions of your father's mistresses. But nothing had prepared you for the raw reality of this moment.

"You know what to do?" he questioned a challenge in his eyes, his voice a low growl.

You didn't answer with words. Instead, you leaned forward, your tongue darting out to lick from the base of his cock to the tip, tasting the salty pre-cum on your tongue. The taste was oddly addictive. You wrapped your hand around his thick length, marveling at how it almost didn't fit in your grip. Steadying him, you licked the tip, eliciting a deep groan from him.

"Don't be shy," he patted your head condescendingly, his fingers tangling in your hair. Despite your nerves, you collected spit in your mouth and let it fall onto the tip of his cock, watching as he rubbed it around with a satisfied smirk.

You took the tip into your mouth, savoring the taste of his pre-cum, and groaned at the flavor. He moaned deeply as you sucked gently, guiding your head with his hand. You gagged slightly as you tried to take more of him in, your hand still gripping the base, your eyes watering with the effort.

"Spit on it," he commanded. You did as he asked, letting more saliva dribble onto his length. He patted your head again, a gesture both condescending and encouraging, and you resumed sucking, taking him deeper into your mouth. You gagged again, but he didn't let go, enjoying the sight of you struggling to accommodate his size.

"Come on," he urged, pulling you up to straddle his hips once more. You thought he was finally ready to take your virginity, the moment you'd both been building towards, but he surprised you. Gripping your hips with firm hands, he moved you so his face was between your thighs.

"What are you—" you began, but he cut you off, his lips attacking your clit with a fervor that stole your breath. He completed the arc with his tongue, taking your bud between his lips and sucking hard. You almost screamed, the pleasure overwhelming you. "Oh God," you moaned, your hands flying to his hair to steady yourself.

He paused for a moment, his dark eyes meeting yours with a predatory glint. "Marcus, baby… Marcus," you whimpered, your voice trembling with need and desperation.

He resumed his assault, his tongue and lips working in tandem to drive you wild. You began to grind against his mouth, the sensation too much to bear, yet not nearly enough. The tension built rapidly, your orgasm approaching with a force that took you by surprise.

"Marcus!" you cried out, your fingers gripping his hair tightly as your body tensed and then shattered into a million pieces. He held your hips firmly to his face, lapping up every drop of your release as you rode out your orgasm on his tongue.

You fell back onto the bed, spent and trembling, and he crawled over you, his face slick with your essence. "Well, well," he said, a wicked grin spreading across his features as he rubbed his cock against your still-sensitive pussy. "Are you all fucked out already?"

You managed a weak glare, but it melted into a moan as he pushed into you. The stretch was intense, making you claw at his shoulders for support. He kissed your neck, his lips and teeth leaving a trail of fire as he pulled out slowly before thrusting back in deeply. You moaned at the sensation, your body arching to meet his every movement.

"You hear that?" His gruff voice asked, pulling you back to the present as his cock dragged from your cunt, pushing back in slowly. The squelch of him pushing deep inside you was loud, the sound of your arousal undeniable. You threw your head back, moaning his name.

"Yeah, you do," he muttered, his breath hot against your neck. His teeth grazed your delicate skin, sending shivers down your spine. "Hear how wet you are?"

You opened your eyes slowly, your vision filled with the sight of him. His beautiful, sweat-covered face was close to yours, every scar and wrinkle telling a story, the grey in his beard adding to his rugged appeal. His eyes burned with an intensity that made your heart race.

A moan escaped your lips as his thrusts grew more desperate, more hungry. He caught your wrists together in one of his big hands, pressing them down into the mattress with a grip that left no room for escape. Your thighs were splayed wide, almost uncomfortably so, pressed down by the width of his hips. His cock was splitting you open, and you were so impossibly wet that you could hear it every time he pushed back into you, a lewd squelching sound that only seemed to spur him on.

He grinned wildly, his teeth flashing in the dim light. "You like that, don’t you?" he taunted, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "Only I can make you this wet, make you submit so completely."

You could only moan in response, your body arching beneath him, every nerve ending on fire. "Marcus," you whimpered, the intense pleasure making you delirious. Your mind was a haze of sensation, every thrust sending you spiraling further into a world where only he existed.

His grin softened slightly, a hint of something almost tender in his eyes as he looked down at you. "That's right," he murmured, his voice a low growl. His thrusts were deep and relentless, each one driving home his dominance. "You're mine now."

You wanted to hate him, to deny the truth of his words, but with your body quivering beneath his, you knew he was right. You were his. Every thrust, every touch, every whispered word claimed you, bound you to him in ways you had never imagined.

His pace quickened, his hips snapping against yours with a ferocity that left you breathless. The room was filled with the sounds of your combined moans, the slap of skin against skin, and the wet, obscene noises of your coupling. His free hand roamed over your body, caressing and squeezing, leaving trails of fire in its wake.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he muttered, his lips brushing against your ear. "I can't get enough of you."

Your response was a garbled moan, your head thrown back in ecstasy. His words, his touch, everything about him overwhelmed you. You felt yourself teetering on the edge, the coil of pleasure tightening in your belly, ready to snap.

He seemed to sense your impending release, his movements becoming even more deliberate, his thrusts hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over again. "Come for me," he demanded, his voice rough with his own need. "Let go. I want to feel you."

The command sent you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you with the force of a tidal wave, your body convulsing beneath him. You cried out his name, the sound echoing in the room, a testament to your surrender.

His weight pressed you into the mattress, his skin hot and slick against yours. You felt every throb of his heartbeat, every shudder of his breath. It was an intimacy you had never experienced before, raw and all-consuming.

As the waves of your shared climax ebbed, you lay there, wrapped in the warmth of his body. For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. It was just the two of you, tangled together in the aftermath of passion.

As he lifted his head, his eyes met yours, filled with a complex mix of emotions. The intensity of his gaze made your heart flutter, but the softness in his expression was unexpected, almost tender.

"Well," he murmured, his voice low and taunting, "I guess the rumors were wrong. You're not a virgin after all." He paused, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Well, not anymore."

You felt a flush of anger rise within you. "And what if I wasn't? What difference would it make to you?"

He smirked, the familiar arrogance returning. "Just proves you're not as innocent as you pretend to be."

You pushed against his chest, forcing him to roll onto his side. "You're insufferable," you snapped, your breath still coming in short gasps. "You think you know everything, but you don't."

He chuckled, a sound that sent shivers down your spine. "Maybe not everything. But I know enough."

You glared at him, the heat between you not entirely dissipated. "You don't know anything about me."

His hand moved to your cheek, thumb brushing over your flushed skin. "I know you're stronger than you think. And I know you feel something for me, whether you want to admit it or not."

You scoffed, turning your head away. "You're delusional."

"Am I?" He leaned in, his lips ghosting over your ear. "Or are you just afraid to admit it?"

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, a shiver running down your spine. "Get over yourself," you muttered, trying to sound indifferent.

He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that made your insides twist. "I could say the same to you."

You pushed at him again, trying to create distance, but he caught your wrists, holding them against the mattress. "Let go," you demanded, struggling against his grip.

"Not until you admit it," he said, his voice soft but firm.

"Admit what?" you hissed, your anger flaring again.

"That you feel something for me," he said, his eyes boring into yours.

You glared at him, refusing to give in. "You're impossible."

He sighed, releasing your wrists and rolling onto his back. "Maybe I am. But so are you."

You lay there in silence for a moment, the tension between you thick and palpable. Despite everything, you couldn't deny the magnetic pull you felt towards him, the strange mix of hatred and desire that left you breathless and confused.

Finally, exhaustion began to creep in, your body heavy with the aftermath of your intense encounter. "This doesn't change anything," you said, your voice softer now, almost resigned.

"Maybe not," he agreed, his tone equally soft. "But it's a start."

You turned your head to look at him, finding his eyes already on you. "What do you want from me, Marcus?" you asked, the question hanging heavily in the air.

He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. "I don't know," he admitted, his voice a whisper. "But I want to find out."

You closed your eyes, a sigh escaping your lips. "I'm too tired to argue with you."

He chuckled softly, the sound surprisingly comforting. "Then don't. Just sleep."

You turned onto your side, your back to him, trying to create some semblance of space. The room was silent, the only sound the soft rustle of sheets and the faint crackle of the dying fire in the hearth. You closed your eyes, willing sleep to come, but your mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.

Despite your best efforts to maintain distance, you couldn't ignore the warmth radiating from Marcus's body, the solid presence of him beside you. There was a strange sense of comfort in his nearness, an unexpected feeling of safety that contrasted sharply with the chaos of your emotions.

As you lay there, the exhaustion from the night's events slowly began to overtake you. Your muscles relaxed, and your breathing grew steady and slow. You felt the mattress shift slightly as Marcus moved closer, his arm draping over your waist in a possessive yet gentle gesture.

For a moment, you considered shrugging him off, but the weariness was too much. Instead, you let yourself sink into the feeling of his arm around you, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against your back. It was oddly soothing, a stark reminder that despite the tumultuous start to your union, there was a potential for something more, something deeper.

"Goodnight," Marcus murmured softly, his breath warm against your ear.

You hesitated before responding, the word barely a whisper. "Goodnight."

PART 2

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sunnami · 5 months ago

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❝watch me, don't touch me, love me, don't hurt me.❞

[title is from ive's accendio. gif not mine.] summary. you are the fop of the wizarding society, known for your shallowness and careless display of wealth, but as hogwarts faces another threat, the marauders and lily, find themselves drawn to you and the secrets hidden under your facade. (harry just wants to know what is going on.)

pairing/s. marauders x reader. (james potter/lily evans/remus lupin/sirius black/reader.)

wc. 24.1k.

tags. enemies to lovers, angst, hurt but the comfort is later, fluff(ish), i try slow burn for the first time (it hurts.), this is highly self-indulgent idgaf, set during goblet of fire but i decide what goes, voldemort isn't the only character who can revive from the dead, BITCH. OH, LMAO I FORGOT, THIS IS FOR THE DILF AND MILF LOVERS SDKJFHSF they're married, but remus and sirius keep their name for legal and plot reasons. adult marauders and adult reader! and i was careful this time to not use any specific pronouns or gendered terms so everyone can enjoy the pain!! every1 is hurting 2nite. proofread kind of, so we die like. . . harry potter?

cws. here we go... canon-typical violence, vivid description of injuries, pain, and blood, emotional abuse, trauma, self-destructive tendencies, minor character death (non-canon), pureblood society practices, voldemort is his own warning, brief mention of war, brief scene with abducted children, panic attacks, depictions of mental illness, suic!dal thoughts, bellatrix lestrange is also her own warning, morally-grey reader.

a/n: this is inspired by my most favorite finnick odair fic EVER! obviously, i won't ever reach that level of greatness, but i've had this idea in my head ever since i read that story. sometimes, i just want to cry at night to feel something, LMFAO. halfway through writing this story, i got insecure, so thank you to this eye-opening comment on reddit that i found that will forever change how i look at reader inserts: “for me, a reader should be faceless, but not soulless.”

to my dearest friends and readers, i hope you enjoy this world that i've written for you ueueue. (the next and final part is fluffier, i promise.) will upload to ao3 soon!

act i. dear god, please save the little man.

“RITA, DARLING, do get your wretched little quill for this one. I heard from a wee birdie that Vittoria Zabini was spotted in Rome, and not just wearing last season’s designer collection, but on her honeymoon, of all things! Can you believe it, dearest? If I remember correctly, this must be husband number five now.”

Like a wingless canary in a gilded cage, you are forced once again to sing for red-lipped witches and their grating laughter, and for wizards with their fat bellies, graying hair, and leering eyes. How kind of Narcissa Malfoy to host these decrepit creatures in her manor garden—and thrust the role of main attraction onto you. There you are, lonesome badger, dressed in the finest tulle for everyone to ogle at. A ballerina in a music box, turning, and turning, and turning.

(When will your cursed lullaby finally end?)

Isadora Bulstrode cackles. “Gold-digging wench must be at it again.”

As predicted, Rita Skeeter greedily whips out her Quick-Quotes Quill. The bloodthirsty journalist preys hungrily at your every word—and you’re more than willing to satiate the irritable, little pest. “Riveting.” She pushes her glasses upwards with a quirk of her lips. “We may have tomorrow’s front page in our hands.”

Lavinia Nott brings the teacup to her mouth, her gaze slicing towards you. “Do tell us more. Where ever do you get your information from?”

You hide a coy smile behind the fine porcelain. “Why, Lavinia dearest, if I reveal my secret now, I might have to kill you!” The drove of ladies giggle amongst themselves as Lavinia sips her tea impassively. You play these people like a fiddle, and they’re none the wiser. But even vile women have to play their parts in the cruel world forged by mad men. Yours happens to be the most ill-fated of them all.

“A shame you decided not to pursue the same path as your mother, but that is alright—not every one is fit to work.” The Selwyn matron raises her brow, offering you a tight-lipped smirk.

“Oh, Elinor, my love, I’m surprised you’d even suggest such a horrible thing!” Your grin grows wicked and wider. You know perfectly what the wizarding society thinks of you: the orphaned heir, the shallow socialite who only cares for gallivanting about in pureblooded extravaganzas. A status you’ve so carefully fashioned; utterly beloved and adored by these people, flowers falling at your feet with so much as a whisper from your lips.

Your gaze drifts to a familiar crowd of people to the side. It’s the pack of lions and The-Boy-Who-Lived. There they are, the marauding bunch and their displays of loyalty and whatnot; hideously coordinated outfits, but capturing the world’s attention constantly and effortlessly.

How repulsive.

In spite of that, you are intrigued. They are the section that plays out of tune in the orchestra you have been conducting for years.

And so you bid your goodbyes to the witches; they fawn and beg for you to stay for an hour more. You pout your lips and say with faux sympathy, hand flying to your chest. “Oh, don’t worry, my dears! I’ll be back soon enough after greeting some of the other guests. You lovely ladies might tire of me if I stay for too long.”

Melina Traverse brushes you off. “We could never! You know you’re like family to us, pet!”

With a delighted gasp, you say, “Don’t tell Narcissa, but you’ve always been my favorite Slytherin.” The venom flows endlessly from your lips. You owe your life to only a handful of people. Narcissa Malfoy, who raised you when your mother no longer could, is one of them. Finally, you’re able to sneak away from their freshly manicured talons as they tittle-tattle amongst themselves.

Once your back is turned to the rest of them, you roll your eyes until your head begins hurting.

What a bunch of insufferable fools.

Still, the show curtains are wide open and the sun is yet to set. You have another audience that is awaiting your next number.

“Oh, my, my, my! Is it truly the Chosen One in our midst?” You approach the horrid family of Gryffindors—nearly doubling over in laughter at the speed with which their faces fall at the sight of you. How refreshing, you think to yourself. It’s been so long since you’ve seen people who wore their hearts on their sleeves. “Cissa and I didn’t think you’d even respond to our invitation—but this is just brilliant! Lily, darling! How long has it been? That dress looks utterly divine! Is that Charmeuse silk? The purple simply brings out the color in your eyes! And your skin, my love! Just glowing! Tell me—have you been trying those snail facials? I hear they’re all the rage nowadays.”

Sirius grimaces, cheeks turning ashen. “Bloody hell, I’m going to need a drink for this. A strong one, too.”

“You’re at a garden party, Sirius darling,” you remind in jest, flamboyantly motioning to the grazing table. “The elves are serving Darjeeling, jasmine, chamomile, berry blends, spiced orange, silver needle, and my personal favorite, chocolate mint!” There are strings of lights wrapped around the tree branches; floating lanterns and the hydrangeas creeping on the stone walls. You put a hand over your heart, smiling knavishly. “From the Malfoy family, to yours, we sincerely hope you enjoy your brunch.”

Lily deeply inhales as she intertwines her fingers with James’s, a polite smile on her face—an odd pang in your heart at the show of solidarity. (She questions how sincere can a Malfoy really be.) “Y-Yes, well, it’s so good to see you, too. We’re grateful for the invitation, especially since it’s for a rather honorable cause.”

Ah, pure-hearted creatures really do get on your nerves. Lion hearts; words dripping in honey, limitless bravado. You’ve changed your mind, you’re sick of it all. A flash of vindictive glee crosses your face as you abruptly grab her hand, wrenching it away from her husband’s. “We just knew you’d see it that way! You probably see yourself in those Muggle children, eh?”

Lily recoils, as if struck by hot iron, shoulders tensing; slowly, she peels away her hand from yours, long lashes blinking away her shock. “You and Narcissa must be raising a lot of money, then.” She eyes the marble fountain adorned in white roses, the harmonizing gnomes nearby, self-playing harps, and the scrutinizing stares from afar. “I never knew you cared so much about Muggle children.”

“Well, I suppose it must be done for all the pudgy-cheeked brats in the world,” You callously wave away her words with a sigh. Unbeknownst to most, all the charity proceeds come from your own Gringotts account. That is the one real thing left in your miserable life. “As staff at Hogwarts, the children must come first, wouldn’t you agree, Lily flower?”

“Quite,” replies Lily, lips firmly pursed.

James enters the fray, hand snaking around Lily’s waist; jaw taut, seeming to regret ever entering the snake den. “Have you met our son, Harry, already?” He turns to the fourteen-year-old at his left side, gently patting Harry’s back with a crooked smile. “Haz, this is an old classmate of ours.” James gestures to you, and you offer the Potter spawn an amused smile as he blinks owlishly at you. The poor thing has gone frigid from the wintry cold, despite the summer sun overhead and blooming coneflowers; and you wonder if he must have run into Draco and Lucius before coming to the garden.

So this is the child the Dark Lord failed to kill, you muse. You only wish that you could have seen that monster fall to the ground lifelessly, defeated by an infant and his courageous parents. How fitting for men like Lucius Malfoy to follow in his footsteps; the blind leading the blind. Your grin stretches from ear to ear as you take his hand in yours. Clearly, he’s never held a girl’s hand before, as he limply shakes your hand, awkwardly spluttering his greetings. “What an honor it is to finally meet the savior of the wizarding world.”

“Why, you look just like James when he was younger, always strutting around the corridors.” Your eyes drift to the lightning scar on his forehead, a testament to his and Lily’s survival against the killing curse. “And such clear-cut emerald eyes; truly your mother’s son. Tell me, Harry dearest, you must be quite the heartbreaker at Hogwarts.”

His doe-eyes harden, and your brow quirks in curiosity. (So the littlest lion can growl, after all.) “Oh. . . not really.” His hand hangs back at his side, fists coiling. The robins chirp merrily as they fly by, his parents carefully watching the scene unfold; water endlessly splashing in the fountain. Harry’s voice deepens as he continues, “I couldn’t be. My friends and I barely have time for anything else. There always seems to be something going on at the castle, apparently.”

“How interesting—Elsie!” You bark at the quivering house elf as Harry stumbles on his words. “Get Mister Potter and his company a plate of macarons—serve them our finest tea, as well.”

Harry winces as the elf apparates at once. “There’s r-really no need for—”

Your gaze, sharp as a knife, slices to him, as the corners of your painted lips bend contemptuously. “Have you heard the news, dearheart?”

Harry looks to his father before shrugging. “I don’t think so.”

“If Mister Lupin here has so graciously informed you,” you begin tantalizingly, eyes cutting to the rugged werewolf at Lily’s side; his back stiffening at the mention of his name, “Otherwise, keep this between you and me, Harry darling. Hogwarts will be hosting a rather important event this year—and I do love a good party—so you must have noticed the rise in appearances from the Ministry.” You gesture to the top Aurors at the DMLE towering over Harry, Sirius and James. “More than that,” you continue with a sly cant to your voice. “There will be a few new additions to Hogwarts’ staff. Among them, of course—is yours truly!”

“And to do what, exactly?” Sirius blurts out incredulously.

“Be a teacher, of course!” you feign ignorance, bashfully furrowing your brows. “Why else?”

“Brilliant!” Sirius chuckles scornfully. “So, the children will be learning about French designers and frilly dresses then, I presume?

“Is that truly all you think of me?” you ask, gasping melodramatically as you circle the rim of your empty teacup.

“You want to know what I think? Or what everyone thought behind your back at Hogwarts?” Sirius scoffs with a cock of his head. “You’ve always been the belle of the ball, no bloody doubt about that. But I’ve always wondered if there was anything more to your head than just air.”

He runs a hand through his dark curls, lips twisting into a sneer. “But I reckon nothing has changed since then. You’re just the same insufferable, vapid wench as you’ve always been.”

“Sirius. . .” Remus quietly calls. “That’s enough.”

Your expression falters—but your mask cannot afford even a moment of rest. A jarring note in the lullaby plays as the ceramic ballerina stops turning. You let the minutes pass by fleetingly; it seems the self-playing chordophones have changed their tune, as well. You watch as the canary diamonds in your bracelet glint against the sunlight. (You are growing tired of the blinding show lights, unrelenting crowd, and never-ending play. Where is the reprieve, you wonder, for the tormented primadonna and her aching soul?)

The strings are now dipped in blood as your tears polish the stage. Your joints have twisted, bent, and danced. You wonder, how long must it be until you are rid of the starring role?

You muster a coy smile, fluttering your lashes at the heir of the most noble and ancient House. “Such crude language, Mister Black,” you say, albeit your voice has gone mellow; nails drumming against the table surface as the guests mingle with one another. The unbearably dull conversations buzz in your ear. You notice Draco and Astoria Greengrass heading for the glasshouse. You consider stealing her lace parasol and whacking Sirius with it, and the thought fills you with immense joy.

Unfortunately, they are your guests, and you are nothing if not the most polite host. “Perhaps, I am not the only one who hasn’t grown out of their immature habits,” you say, eyeing his shoulder-length hair, spiky ear piercings, and leather jacket. That damned leather jacket of his. It irks you that he and his kind can show insolence freely without bearing any repercussions. (But you’d die before you ever feel envy for a man like Sirius Black.) The sun fades behind the clouds, and your mask slips perfectly into place once more.

“What is it that happened again? Between you and Severus Snape in sixth-year?” You tap your chin pensively, taking cruel satisfaction in the stutter in Sirius’s breath and Remus’s parted lips, ever stupefied. You gaze fiendishly at Remus. “Oh, silly me, I’ve gone off topic. Well, anyhow, I just wanted to say, I believe the students are in rather good hands this year. I just hope Dumbledore doesn’t accidentally let an infected beast roam the halls of Hogwarts.”

Your eyes flash impishly. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mister Lupin?”

Lily curls her lip viciously. “Just what exactly—?”

“Elsie has returned, master.” The house elf bows her head just as the antique bistro table is circled with macarons, cucumber sandwiches, miniature cocktail buns, and slices of pound cake. Lily retracts her hand, grinding her jaw as she swallows the words in her throat.

“You may go, Elsie, thank you.” With a guileful smirk, you levitate the teapot towards James and Harry, dutifully filling their cups; steam soon arising from the Chinese porcelain. You nod at the group. “It’s jasmine pearl,” you explain haughtily. “Carefully handcrafted tea from harvested leaves and flowers. Such exquisiteness that you won’t be able to find anywhere else.”

“Do enjoy your tea; Cissa and I made sure to spare no expense for our guests.” The teapot carefully lands back on the table. The sinfonietta ends, and so does your time with this particular audience. What misfortune, that you won’t receive your flowers for today’s performance. You pivot on your heels, flinging them a lukewarm goodbye. “Do excuse me, for I must tend to the new arrivals. I believe I see Missus Parkinson over there by the koi pond. Cissa might have my head if I neglect my responsibilities.”

You turn your head, tossing a wink at Lily. “Today, after all, is for the children.”

Alas, it is not Persephone Parkinson you head towards.

You briefly exchange tepid pleasantries with Lavinia Greengrass before walking past the koi pond to the edges of the garden, far beyond prying eyes and ears. There, like a brooding Dementor drifting through a frozen lake, waits your true target. Sadly, it is only a dour-faced professor, a long time confrère of yours, to be precise. There are only a handful of people to whom you are indebted. Severus Tobias Snape is one of those few.

With a flick of your wand, you covertly cast the silencing charm upon the elusive spot Severus had chosen. There is no need for these edacious vultures to prey on your conversation. They are better off with their tête-à-têtes and syrupy pikelets. You drown out the chamber orchestra’s symphony, the clinking of champagne glasses, the rustling leaves and ringing wind chimes. “Severus darling,” you say liltingly, feet shuffling to his side as you playfully ghost your palm against his nape. He barely spares you a glance as a breeze courses through the rippling lake water. “You’re missing out on the festivities, you know.”

“Have you finally finished tormenting Narcissa’s visitors?” he drawls, at long last acknowledging your presence and sharply raising a brow at your saccharine-sweet smile.

“Why, I’d never dare to do such a thing,” you reply with a theatrical sway of your head. “I simply conversed with the ladies and had a delightful run-in with your old flame, Lily. Do you remember her, my sweet? Ghastly red hair, pale skin, and, oh, those green eyes. It must be infuriating to look like that,” you rattle away to the only entity willing to listen to you in his company: the wind.

“Spare me,” he drones, lips curved impatiently.

You moue. “Ever the bore, you are, Severus. Shall I fetch you a platter of brandy snaps?”

“Shall I sit around while I wait?” Snape’s lips contort into a sour grimace, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “The Dark Lord himself might even find time to rise from his grave.”

“Severus dear, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to tell me something.” You eye him slyly, mouth tipping into a smirk as a dragonfly hovers by the waterline, avidly stalked by the dwarf frog on a lily pad. “So,” you pry, “did you have something important to tell me? I promised Mister Goyle I’d have a drink with him.”

The frog splashes into the lake, and the dragonfly flutters away without a care. Severus clandestinely slips a piece of paper into your palm as he swivels around, dark cloak billowing. “Ensure that nothing traces back to you,” he snarls. “Clearly I do know better, Severus.” You toy with the paper between your fingers, a sense of exhilaration running up your spine. “Not to worry,” you say with a clipped smile, a serpentine glare in your eyes, “I always do as I am told.”

(Severus, not for the first time in his life, wonders if the Sorting Hat made a mistake when it sorted you into Hufflepuff.)

act ii. tonight, let’s start the masquerade.

THE NIGHT GROWS weary, and so do the alleys of Knockturn; neglected as your hooded figure navigates through the brick road, only the caged owls and flickering stars to notice your presence. You fainly traipse amongst the shadows, a moment of surrender from the spotlight and malignant eyes; a brief interlude in the performance. Past the hanging doll heads in the windows of Borgin & Burkes, you find a lonely shop. Inside the locket of your ring, lies a slip of paper that had been given to you earlier this afternoon. Well, Severus, you think to yourself, idly twisting the ring on your finger, let’s see where you sent me to this time.

And so, the stage actor calls for a costume change. “Alohomora.”

With one last glance at the dimly-lit passage, you enter the boutique. The brass shop bell accompanies your entrance, but no owner appears to greet you—and if there was, well, you have quite a unique way of saying hello. Your fingers feather across the dusty bookshelves, eyes raking through the broken staircase, the faint scent of ginger, rosemary, and mugwort pervades the room; a shattered crystal ball sits in the center of the shop desk, ripped paintings on the wall. A grimace pulls at your lips as you come across a familiar ivory mask. A Death Eater mask—it’s warm to touch; recently worn, perchance. You bury the strong urge to set it on fire.

There’s a shift in the air, a creak in the floorboards—in an instant, you whip your wand out from its leather holster.

“Reveal yourself,” you whisper curtly.

To the naked eye, there is only one intruder in the dingy parlor. To you, however, there is an obscure silhouette of a stranger covered by a glimmering veil. You hold onto your wand resolutely. If it was an enemy, you’d be blown into the walls by now. “This isn’t an ensemble stage, you know,” you chuff impatiently, “I’m not fond of sharing the spotlight with lineless extras.”

The disillusionment charm slowly unveils, and you wait unblinking, until you see a familiar face standing before you. Mid-length curly hair that falls over gray, dagger-like eyes, the irksome scent of tobacco, and a frightening similarity to his elder brother.

There are exactly five people you’d risk your life for, and right now, you’re digging the tip of your wand into their neck.

“Mister Regulus Black,” you greet with a playful edge to your voice, eyes narrowing. “Severus didn’t mention we’d be running into each other tonight.”

“That’s because I didn’t tell Sev I’d be here,” says Regulus, dimples poking out as he swats your wand away from his throat. “I might go mad if I have to stay inside for another bloody week, there’s only so many times I can re-read Good Omens—and by the way, did anyone ever tell you how dramatic you are? Lineless extras, really?”

You hide a fond smile with a roll of your eyes, whirling around to browse the glass cabinets and leather journals on the table, returning to the task at hand. “And so you thought going outside and risking someone seeing you in the open was a good idea? Reggie darling, I often think about the possibility of Walburga dropping you on the head as an infant.”

Regulus shoves his hands inside his trouser pockets as he hovers over your shoulders like a lost, overgrown duckling. “Wasn’t it Cissa’s soirée today? Did you jinx the statues like I told you to?”

“Who do you think I am?” you say haughtily, pausing in your search to half-heartedly glare at him. And after a moment’s pause, you jerk your shoulder and coyly respond with a side-smirk, “Of course I did. The young Mister Flint nearly screamed his head off.” You hum reminiscently, “truthfully, it’s been quite a while since I heard Draco laugh like that these days. For breakfast, I hear about the Granger girl, and then for lunch, I hear about the Weasley children, and for dinner, it’s an hour-long spiel on the famed Harry Potter.”

Regulus chortles in amusement as he hops onto the shop counter, kicking back his chunky boots. “And, then? Did you see my brother?”

“Oh, darling, I did more than that,” you mutter offhandedly, leafing through the paraphernalias and foul-smelling potion flasks.

“How was he? Is he doing well? Merlin, I think it’s been so long since I saw his face.” There’s a lapse of silence between you and Regulus. A lizard scurries across the room, chasing after a line of ants. The younger wizard taints the quietude with a long, frustrated sigh. “Sorry, I just. . .” He slumps his shoulders in resignation. “I wouldn’t have to ask so many questions if. . . if I could just. . .”

“I don’t understand why I have to hide from my own family.” With a jagged whisper, he says, “I feel like I’m losing my mind. Like I can’t believe that I’m really here, I don’t even know if I exist sometimes.”

You grimace as you turn to look at him, hand flinching as if wanting to reach out to him. Instead, you avert your gaze and continue scouring the room. “It’s for—”

“My own good, I know,” Regulus blows a strand of hair away from his forehead. He jumps off the counter with a hardened stare. You glance at his back as he bends to pick at the marks on the floor. At times like this, you remember how small and young Regulus had been when you found him moribund from lake inferis. What a cruel price to pay in exchange for his survival, you think.

For Regulus Black has to remain dead to the wizarding world, stuck in an interminable masquerade, waiting until the hour is up for his performance.

All the world’s a stage, and for the best of the actors and actresses, it seems the production never ends.

“How long do you think it’s going to stay like this? For you, me, Sev? For Cissa?” As he stands on his toes to inspect the top of a dusty cupboard, Regulus veers his head to peek at your expression, frowning when he finds none. (You’ve no answers for him, after all; the entirety of your life was spent wondering that exact same question. All you know is that the show must go on until the audience tires of the starving artist.) “Never mind, let’s just focus on finding whatever you were trying to find here.” He walks past his reflection in the vintage carved mirror. “What are we looking for, anyway?”

You wish to offer solace to a cherished friend, but duties are meant to be fulfilled. For now, to do what is right must come first. Your fingers slither up the side of a bookcase, a wooden ladder resting against the shelves. The mahogany is freshly varnished, the stench of glue is prominent, and deep scratches indent the floor. It’s an empty treasure cove, barely anything displayed on the racks. You grit your teeth as you realize it’s been well-maintained compared to the obsolete state of the room. “Here,” you rasp, abruptly snapping your head to look back at him.

He furrows his brow. “What?”

You beckon him to the corner of the room from where you stand, wooden planks creaking as you push at the bookcase. “Help me with this, Regulus. There could be something behind it.” You clench your jaw as you lean your weight onto the cabinet frame.

“Why don’t we just, I don’t know,” Regulus cocks his head as he waves his wand in the air. “Use magic?” he offers discreetly, as though divulging a century-old secret. “I suggest Bombarda for maximum efficiency.”

You stare at him vacantly. “Regulus dearheart, I hold a stupendous amount of tolerance for you, but there is absolutely no way we are drawing attention to ourselves via explosion spells in the dead of the night.”

He grins boyishly before ushering you away. “Alright, alright, I was only taking the mickey out of you.” Soon after, Regulus deftly mutters a levitation charm, his wand steadfast as the bookcase slowly detaches from the floor. You take a couple of steps backward, lips pursed as you observe Regulus concentrate on his work.

You note to yourself to have a conversation about Regulus’s restlessness with Severus. It could pose a liability and pull the curtains on the entire pasquinade. “Careful,” you keep a tight watch on Regulus’s pinched brows, his hovering wand, and the steadily moving bookshelf.

“Like taking jelly slugs from a first-year,” he says flippantly, beaming at you as his dark curls sweep over his eyes.

You give him an exasperated scowl before side-stepping his quip as you descry a faint outline of a door in the plastered wall. You feel a rumble in the ground, muffled noises behind the shrouded entrance. “Ready your wand, Regulus,” you say grimly, hand reaching for the doorknob, looking back in time to catch his smirk fade into a distant expression, “I believe what awaits won’t be as simple as that.”

A grave tenor disquiets the room, your free hand already grasping for your wand. Regulus stands at your side, nodding as you take a sharp breath. He offers his back to you, in spite of the looming danger. (A sadistic part of you finds comfort in his presence tonight, but neither of you can truly share the burdens of your harrowing façades. Tomorrow, you play the lone star once more; and he, the dead brother and son. But today, you must simply share the stage.)

You twist the knob until a click pierces the heavy silence.

You wait with a bated breath, expecting creatures and spells to come hurling in your direction. The room ahead is enshrouded with darkness. You share a terse nod with Regulus as a ball of light appears at the tip of your wands. Regulus moves to take a step forward, but you block him with your arm. “I’ll go first,” you say breathily, curtly glancing at the Death Eater Mask. “It could be cursed the moment we step inside.” Regulus presses his lips into a white line, clearly unhappy with your decision, but relents nonetheless.

Rough, travertine flooring begins where the woodwork ends; a gust of wind howls into the dark chamber. Wordlessly, you call for your patronus to investigate inside; thin, silvery wisps floating in the air, its light hauntingly beautiful against the unilluminated dungeon. You hear heavy chains dragging across the ground and the harmony of timid footfalls. A drop of water falls onto the cracked stone. Regulus grinds down on his jaw as he readies his wand.

After an eternity of waiting, you snap your wand to set the torches alight.

A pronounced chill runs up your spine; a stutter in your breath. You nearly stagger at the sight unveiled before you. If you had been a weaker wizard, you’d have dropped your wand already. “This. . .” you say hoarsely, eyes wide, blood simmering in your veins.

Children.

Little ones as young as ten-years-old, barely coming up to your stomach, staring up at you with bloodshot eyes. Their skinny arms are covered in grime and wear pathetic rags for clothes. Moss grows in every corner of the room. Emaciated mattresses on metal beds. “Bloody hell,” Regulus growls, chest heaving. “What the fuck?”

“It’s a prison,” you whisper, horrified. There must be more than twelve children standing before you. Bile rises to your throat. You worry about your wand breaking in half, but the overwhelming sense of dread traps you in position.

“Are. . . are you with the bad men?” A brave, young girl with owlish eyes protectively steps forward in front of her companions. “No,” you answer gently, bending down on one knee to meet her eyes. You were neither good, or bad, but there is no magic on earth that would make you harm these children.

Regulus calls your name. “They’re Muggles,” he hisses angrily. “I don’t sense any magic from any of them.” He exhales in frustration. “What the hell are they doing with Muggle children?”

You grind down on your teeth, nearly dizzy with anger. You forgo a response to Regulus in favor of clasping your cloak around the trembling child. Soon after, you blanket the room in a warming charm. “Tend to their wounds,” you say sharply. “I’ll see what I can do about the chains.” And you will do something about those shackles, if it’s the last thing you do. “We’re going to get you out of here, I promise,” you tell the girl, stolid as you pat her head.

Except, the brass bell rings once more and everyone stiffens in alert. The children begin whimpering amongst themselves. Slow, deliberate footsteps reverberate from the shop into the icy-cold room. The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

“Move out of the way!” you yell, veins straining against your neck, just as you’re blown into the stone walls.

Regulus screams out your name, but you barely hear anything over the ringing in your ears; through blurring vision, you see the children and Regulus unharmed. Relief floods through you as you sluggishly rise from the floor. There’s a large crater in the wall from the impact; luckily, the tethers to the chains were demolished, as well. “Get them to the safehouse,” you order, blood trickling from your lips. You hardly feel your arms and legs; there’s an ache in the back of your head, your spine feels as though it’s been snapped in half. You’re definitely going to feel this tomorrow. Regulus hesitates to leave, hands laid on the shoulders of the children as he glowers at the newcomer. “Now!” you bellow gutturally.

A muscle ticks in Regulus’s jaw, but as he finally apparates with as many children as he can, you finally stop holding your breath. “It’s okay,” you reassure the wee boys clinging onto each other for comfort, limping to their side. “I’m rather strong, you know. Stronger than any of the bad men.”

In every duel, you allow yourself to be hit only once—driven by your inhuman desire to feel something other than the emptiness of your unbroken charade.

(And for years, you have waited for anyone to say these two specific words: Avada Kedavra.)

“Go,” you instruct gently, brushing away the tendrils of hair from the little boy’s forehead. “Hide and wait until my companion comes for you.”

“And as for the ill-mannered invader,” you crane your head towards the entrance of the chamber, eyes raking over the tall figure’s bloodthirsty stance and flittering cloak. There’s a lack of silver mask, but you know well the stench of foreboding decay and malignity. At the speed of light, you aim your wand, “Confringo!”

You watch with a spiteful grin as the stranger is blasted across the room. The walls and ceilings threaten to crumble, and you can only hope that Severus won’t be too cross with you in the morning. You point your wand at the uninvited guest’s heart. Nothing will trace back to you, that much you are certain of.

After all, no one would suspect a vapid, insufferable boulevardier to be the greatest spy of the wizarding world.

A firebird caws in the distance.

And, scene.

act iii. where’s your soul? where’s your dream? do you think you’re alive?

“APPEARANCES ARE OF utmost importance.” You stand in the front of the Great Hall, sun rays streaming through the large, stained windows, wooden tables pushed to the walls; accoutered in a black velvet capelet with gold trimmings and vintage dragonhide boots. The sleeves of your blouse are lined with handwoven, gothic lace; trousers made of the finest yellow satin. It is a testament to your House—the cete of badgers. (You seize everyone’s attention—whether the two Aurors in the corner like it or not.)

After a descanting introduction, you are given center stage before the students of Gryffindor and Slytherin. With a swing in your step and a wrest in your voice, you continue, “That is why the Headmaster, Dumbledore himself, invited me to personally facilitate this year’s Tri-Wizard Tournament. As hosts of the event, excellence is expected of us. Professor McGonagall has graciously allowed me to take charge of your lessons, particularly in the art of dancing.” Your eyes gleam as you offer the young fourth-years a graceful reverence. “And our first lesson begins straight away.”

The crowd of students transfigure into a sea of curious eyes and flabbergasted whispers. You derisively watch the chaos unfold with an amused grin. Yet, you’re not the least bit worried. You’ve charmed even a flock of Dementors before, the creatures having been drawn to your voice, ostentatious stature, and the dark depths of your soul; like a bee to a field of flowers. A class full of awkward teenagers should be more than easy for you.

“Now, now, children,” you clap your hands as you make your way to the heart of the room, leaving a trail of softening murmurs. “The Yule Ball is a revered tradition, an exhibit of togetherness that has lasted for hundreds years.” You lift your nose up in the air as the girls look at one another, barely able to hide their giddy smiles and discreet glances across the hall. “As such, it is my venerable duty to oversee your etiquette in and out of the ballroom.”

(Sirius rolls his eyes from where he sits besides James.)

“Mister Filch, if you please.” With a flutter of your lashes and a poised smile, you beckon for the school caretaker who flounders to the gramophone. You wink at the young miss Pansy Parkinson who stares up at you in awe. Soon thereafter, you hear the soft melody of Léo Delibes’s Valse. Coppélia, you simper to yourself—a story close to your heart. (You’ve always found a winsome irony in a marionette like you dancing to the enamel-eyed girl’s song.)

“A dance, while enjoyable by one’s lonesome, is best savored with a partner,” you begin vivaciously, eyeing the gentlemen in particular. “Your date for the night must be aware that you’ve chosen them out of your own volition and undue necessity.” Your stare drifts to the coterie of young Gryffindors, tittering mischievously. “Shall we have a demonstration from the House of courage and splendor?”

“No one?” You raise a brow curiously when you’re met with silence and averted gazes. You then utter the scariest phrase a professor could say to their students: “I’ll choose the lucky student myself.”

You survey the pack of lion cubs, drifting through the tuffs of flashing red hair; gangly boys raucously kicking and pushing at each other to volunteer for your teach-in on ballroom dancing. You flash the students a vexatious grin. “Mister Harry Potter?” you call out to the ashen-faced boy with your hand outstretched. “Why don’t we let the Chosen One set an example to his peers?”

Hollers and cheers break out across the hall; not withholding the mirthful giggles of the doves on the other side of the room, wonderstruck by his green eyes and lightning scar. You motion for Harry to join you on the pseudo dance floor. The Weasley twins take delight in clapping and wisecracking into his ears until Harry reluctantly rises to his feet, a blooming shade of red on his neck and cheeks.

“As you approach your partner with the grace of a majestic stag,” you acclaim to the class whilst Harry approaches you with a wry grin and hands shoved inside his robe pockets, “And not a newborn foal.” You place your hand in his, “You may now invite your lady to dance.”

“Or your beau,” you add spiritedly, eyes gleaming as Harry chokes on his saliva.

You pat his back as the music comes to a sweet-sounding crescendo. “Dancing is about connection,” you turn to the students with a stern gaze. “If your posture crumbles, there goes your confidence, as well. At all times, you must maintain eye contact,” you say sharply as you tilt Harry’s chin and correct the arch of his arms. “Remember, it’s not ballroom if there’s no trust. Lean onto one another, and then. . .” You lay your palm onto his shoulder. “The feet should follow the music.”

Unfortunately, Harry runs on two left feet and both persistently evade the music. On the umpteenth time he stumbles on your shoes, he’s appraised by snickers and low whistles from either side of the hall. The Weasley twins in particular seem thrilled by Harry’s flailing arms and bewildered expression. Along with the two Aurors who’ve skipped their aurorly duties to patrol the castle in favor of heckling their ward. “You’re doing it wrong, James!” shouts Sirius through cupped hands, shoulders shaking in laughter.

“Why don’t you try it, Padfoot?” Harry retorts back to him; thick hair flopping over his eyes as he grates his teeth. You’re given no warning as Harry extracts himself from your grip and stalks over to where Sirius and James sit comfortably.

You blink, dumbfounded. “Harry dearest, I don’t believe that is necessary—!”

“Go on then,” says Harry, jerking his head. “Show us all how to do it.”

To the side, Ron guffaws into his fist, brought nearly to tears. (Earlier he was apprehensive about the class. “We’ve got a whole new professor just for twirling around and all that girlish stuff?” he had asked in disbelief before entering the Great Hall.

“Shut your mouth, Weasley,” growls Draco Malfoy as he shoves past Harry and Hermione to head inside the hall.)

Sirius grins roguishly, having the gall to bat his eyes in confusion. “Who? Me?” He chuckles before forcibly slapping James’s back with the flat of his palm. “No, no. The honor should go to the debonair of his time.” Trenchant eyes flicker with mischief. “Have at it, James. How will the children ever learn without a proper demonstration?”

“Go on, Sir Prongs!” exclaims one of the red-headed twins. “Show us how it’s done!”

Alarmingly, the bespectacled man resigns to his fate, a deafening ovation as he shrugs his robes off, generously revealing his broad shoulders in a tight, black turtleneck; a leather wand holster across his chest; long legs framed by pleated trousers. You bite down on your tongue as James draws closer to you, a hint of a smirk on his lips. With an unerring arch of his back, he holds out his hand for you to take, “May I have this dance?”

Your breath stutters—if only for a moment. One cannot deny that James Potter is deviously more appealing to the eye than the dance partners you’ve had during Narcissa’s galas. Perfectly-carved cheekbones and golden hoops dangling from his ears; bright, hazel eyes girdled by rectangular glasses. “Well,” you say, pursing your lips as you slip your palm into his. “If you must.”

In contrast to his son, James needs little-to-no guidance from you. You’d have assumed that much, considering that both James and Sirius grew up in pure-blood customs. The warmth of his hand on your back is scalding. He spins you along to the song’s aria; the two of you gliding effortlessly through the soapstone floors. Any more closer to him and you’d be able to hear his heartbeat. “There will be lifts, turns, and dips during a waltz,” you inform the class as you demonstrate a twirl vine. “You will rise and you will fall together with your partner. Understand?”

James chuckles at the wistful sighs and horrified groans that erupt through the Great Hall. “You’re good with the children, you know,” he remarks cheekily as he gently lowers you to the ground, hand steadfast on your waist. You hear his unsaid words clearly: Sirius thought you’d be downright rubbish at it.

“Well, Mister Potter,” you say breathlessly, clasping your arms around his neck once more. “To some of the students here, frilly dresses and French designers are their entire world.” Your chin all but perched atop James’s shoulders; the scent of his famed Sleekeazy potion and vetiver—dew on fresh grass on a warm sunny day—fills your senses. You cast a sniffy glare in Sirius’s way, to which he responds with a raised brow.

“Bit shallow, isn’t it?” he murmurs, chest rumbling and his breath hot on your ear.

You scoff. “One could argue the same for a young Seeker who’s been given their first ever broom.”

James Potter has the nerve to smile at you. And as you move to extricate yourself from his hold, James mindlessly lets his hand fall from your waist to your hip—incidentally, where you’ve been nursing a heavy fracture. Sore bruises from chasing vampires the night prior as you were out hunting allies of the Dark Lord from the first wizarding war. Although you had drowned yourself in pain relief elixirs, it seems you’re more sensitive and hurt than you thought.

Even statues of white gold chip and fade over time—you’re reminded of this fact quite painfully. You roughly push James away from you, hissing in pain as you cradle the left side of your hip. Memories of crimson-stained teeth and rotten, pale skin flash before your eyes. You remember the stench of blood, and the feel of their nails slashing into your thighs. But most of all, you remember their ear-piercing shrieks just before you drive the stake into their chests, one by one, until you have left a graveyard of vampires in the outskirts of an abandoned mansion.

James furrows his brow immediately as you cave in on yourself. (Even Sirius surges to his feet.) “What’s wrong?”

Occlude! Occlude—you must occlude immediately!

With a sharp inhale, you close off your emotions for anyone else to see. “It is nothing of your concern, Mister Potter,” you respond blankly, as though your soul is locked far away. “I do believe we’re done here.” You step further away from him. Your attention shifts to the students as you fold your hands behind your back, lips curling into a virulent smile. The weight of your mask is comforting; you’ve forgotten how to breathe without it. “Now, let’s have the students pair up and practice what they’ve learned so far. I’ll have no patience for dilly-dallying and nescience on my watch. You’ll dance until I tell you to stop. You’ll practice until the soles of your feet are sore and raw.”

That, after all, is how you learned.

The class goes by accordingly; you maintain a distance from Sirius and James, turning a blind eye to their burdensome sympathy. (Gryffindors and their bleeding hearts—it always unnerves you how easily the avowed Marauders get deep under your skin.) You nip at the students’ heels, righting their poor footwork; looping the music until you are certain they’d hear it in their nightmares. To your surprise, the round-cheeked Neville Longbottom takes all your instructions in stride. From the moment that you allow Filch to lift the tonearm, the students practically fall to the floor, heaving; some forsaking their long robes and tying their hair in flimsy ponytails.

As the students retreat from the Great Hall, you slink away into the crowd of Slytherins, desperate to avoid a particular duo of Aurors—no doubt ready to probe you with questions. A numbing panic claws at your chest; black spots swallowing your vision. Emotions—how putrid. The students’ discordant chatter overwhelms your hearing, more than the ringing in your ears. The unyielding, outré stone walls feel like they’re closing in on you. Still, you keep your head above the water, enduring every staggered breath. You must.

What’s wrong?

The question echoes in your head.

Ha!

You scream inwardly, if they only knew!

While you had been expecting either James or Sirius to ambush you, you do not expect to see Draco Malfoy shouting your name as you flee down an empty corridor.

The miniature Lucius Malfoy stands before you, grimacing as he clenches his fists tightly. “Are. . .” Draco’s expression contorts morosely. “Are you alright? Theo and I were worried that the blood traitor upset you.” he spits his concern as if it were acid. Little snakes and their keen eyes.

“Mind your language, Draco,” you reply cuttingly, eyes flashing as you lift your chin. And for his question, one that you’ve been asked numerous times over the years, you have only ever had one answer. Despite the scars on your back, the tremors in your hands, the aching of your heart, and the endless bruises on your limbs, you tell him: “And do not ask what is not needed to be.”

“You’re hurt, aren’t you?” he presses further, mouth pinched. “Don’t treat me like a dim-witted child because I’m not!”

A hand lays on his shoulder, and to your chagrin, Severus makes his appearance, lips downturned and his gaze filled with subdued apathy. Your day is about to get worse. “Perhaps, it is best if you leave this discussion to the adults, Draco.” Snape drones, leaving no room for debate. He tightens his grip on the younger wizard. “I will not be inconvenienced to explain to Minerva as to why you were dawdling in the corridors.”

In true Malfoy fashion, Draco sneers in disdain. He rips himself out of Snape’s grasp with a scoff. As he storms past you, you sigh and pat his side.

When Draco disappears into the corner, you release a deep breath as you prepare for the onslaught to come. “Just get it over with, Severus,” you pinch the bridge of your nose, the pounding in your head growing more unbearable by the second.

You see his nostrils flare as Severus turns to glare at you. “I wonder,” he says through gritted teeth. “If you are actually capable of following direct orders—of using that near-empty brain of yours!” His upper lip curls back into a snarl, as he scours the empty hallway for any prowling ears. “Your stunt made it to the Daily Prophet. You were asked to proceed tactfully, were you not?”

You lean against the wall, rubbing at the temples of your head. “And I’ve done my part. Every last one of them—dead by my hands. A problem you failed to deal with for the last two months. That I settled last night. Remind me why you’re still chittering into my ear, Severus darling?”

“Do not play coy with me,” he replies brusquely. “I’ve heard the students tattling about it as though it were the most interesting event in their pathetic, insolent lives. The Embris Mansion burnt down to the ground. There are talks of a vigilante, a good-for-nothing do-gooder. You got sloppy!”

“And if I did—so what?” You retaliate, chest heaving as you step into his face. Truthfully, this isn’t the first time you’ve had this conversation with him. Over the years you have left some sort of mark on your work. Not a phoenix, but a firecrest. Wings outstretched in flames. All eyes are on the ungovernable hero, the Firebird—and never on you, the foppy socialite. “Would it be so perverse to want even a slither of recognition, Severus?”

“Do not forget your duty,” he taunts venomously, the cords in his neck going rigid. “To the greater good you so earnestly fight for. Your duty to your mother.”

“Do not talk about her!” you all but shout, magic sizzling in the air around you.

“Then see to it that there are no more mistakes going forward!” Severus juts his chin, baring his teeth in contempt.

After a few long moments, he continues with a resigned exhale, dragging his palm down his face—as though you are the perplexing one. “This. . . Moody has developed a habit of emptying my cupboards.”

“And why, pray tell,” you retort gruffly, “should I care for this oh-so special cupboard of yours?”

“It contains ingredients for Polyjuice potions!” he proclaims angrily. “Get to the bottom of this. I’ll not have a blithering fool like Pettigrew get to the students again. Do what you must, I have no interest in understanding the workings of your mind—as long as you do not draw unnecessary attention to yourself.”

The sound of footfalls break you apart as Severus nimbly lifts the Notice-Me-Not charm he had cast earlier. Within seconds, you find Remus Lupin rounding the corner. He’s dressed in his usual baggy, gray jumper; jaw clean-shaved, and pinkish scars against his skin. A well-loved quilted coat over his shoulders—handmade by Lily, you presume. You notice the mismatched otter socks peeking from his loafers. Remus saunters down the hallway with tired eyes and a feeble smile as he stops right in front of you and Severus. He has a rather tall frame, slender even, despite his hunched shoulders.

“Snape,” Remus nods to him, gaze flickering back and forth as he attempts to discern what had transpired—well, you’re certainly in no rush to tattle and cry into his arms.

“Professor,” he says to you, an ever curious smile on his face. “You’re looking quite peaky. Is something the matter?”

“I am most certainly sound and fine, Mister Lupin,” you respond, irritated, as you wobble on your feet. You are at your wit’s end—how bothersome of it all. “Should you not be on your way to your next class, Professor?” you bite tiredly.

Remus shrugs, hazel-eyes crinkling in amusement. “Mad-Eye is taking over my next class. I thought it would be good for the students to learn from a veteran Auror. I’m sure he has much more experience to offer than me.”

You scowl, his humility smothering you painfully. “Well, I’ve no interest in dragging my feet around. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a prior engagement with my cat and I’m afraid I’ve left her alone for too long.”

And as fate would have it, when you make haste for your quarters, you falter in your steps; lurching as your vision goes blurry. Your breath snags in your throat as Remus catches you by the waist. “Perhaps, we should get you to Lily,” offers Remus as he sets you upright, brows pinched worriedly, ignoring Snape’s eye roll in the background.

“I said I was fine!” You blurt out, cradling the front of your head as you sway backwards; now seeing two Lupins and two Snapes. “Merlin, are all Gryffindors this bloody meddlesome? Must I repeat myself? I am fine—!”

Turns out, you are not fine.

The last thing you see before losing consciousness is a pair of brown eyes with flecks of gold, more beautiful than any full moon you’ve ever seen.

—

You wake up to a dry, sore throat; the bitter scent of infirmary disinfectant—a Muggle’s touch, no doubt—and concoctions of various healing potions. Your head is still pounding, but somewhat bearable. The room is small, privy to only teachers, you conclude—although, it is the very first time you have ended up in the infirmary. Remus Lupin would feel your wrath, you’d make sure of it. Your back stings as though it were doused in Dittany recently. As you nearly break the flower vase in an attempt to reach for the empty glass, the door creaks open—and in comes Lily Potter with her husbands.

“Am I in hell?” you eye them bitterly.

“No,” says the youngest matron, dressed in her own version of the nurse’s uniform. Red vest over her white blouse, and a long, plaid skirt with pockets. Soft red hair tied back with a pink ribbon. Albeit, her expression is anything but sweet and delicate. “But you’re in my office, which means you are now under my care—therefore I’d like you to explain why you have vampire toxins in your blood.”

“And I would like to return to my quarters now, please,” you respond haughtily, referring to the private bedroom professors were offered in the castle. “I’ve nothing to explain to someone who administers the diagnostic charm on my person without explicit permission to do so!” you exclaim, releasing a shuddery breath as your head throbs agonizingly.

“You will listen to me—seven hours ago you were this close to paralysis!” Lily shouts right back, eyes glaring defiantly—she may have adhered to you in Malfoy’s territory, but no power holds more authority than an acclaimed healer over a patient. “If you had been a Muggle, you’d be dead ten times over.”

“Well, now that we’ve established that I’m alive and well, I suppose we have no more pleasantries to exchange, Lily darling.” You tear the flimsy blanket from your legs, grimacing at the bandages covering your skin.

“Not before you tell us where those bruises came from,” Sirius demands, voice low and knife-like eyes on you.

“Must have been the Nargles,” you reply sarcastically. No one would care for a bonny doll ripping apart at the seams and gathering dust on a child’s shelf. “They’re quite frisky this time of the year, didn’t you know? My good friend Xenophilius wrote about those creatures a long time ago. Good read, I’d say.”

“Are you capable of taking anything seriously?” cuts Sirius with a snarl, tendrils of hair curling around his face; hints of tattoos peeking out from his leather jacket. Vermillion satin shirt clashing against his pale skin. The lingering smell of lit cigars only reminds you of Regulus, and so you tear your gaze away from Sirius.

“Sirius, let’s not scare her off now, love,” Remus admonishes, softly resting his palm at the back of Sirius’s neck, before he stares at you with honey-dripping eyes. You have a desperate need to run away. They’re an uncharted danger that you aren’t familiar with navigating—and you figure young Harry wouldn’t appreciate you treating his parents like a rabid vampire. “We just want to know what happened, you looked worse for wear when we brought you to Lily and Madam Pomfrey,” Remus placates, treating you like a crow with its wing snapped in half.

You sneer. “If I am not dead, then these wounds hardly matter to me.”

Lily gasps, a sound so soft only the wind could have possibly heard it. “How could you say that?” she asks, hand flying to her lips. “Of course it matters, you had lost so much blood while we tried to get the toxins flushed from your system.” She stares at the puncture mark on your arm, before peering over at Sirius. “We nearly couldn’t find a match to your blood type. Sirius. . . Well, he’s a universal donor and he didn’t even hesitate in giving you his—”

“Giving me what?” you echo lowly. “What did Sirius give me, Lily?”

“Blood,” Lily says firmly. “He gave you his blood so you could live.”

“How dare you?” you seethe, chest rapidly rising; digging your nails firmly into your palms as you stare furiously at Lily. “You had no right!” You scream until your throat is sore; your magic overflowing until it shatters the nearby vase of butterfly weeds.

Rage tunnels your vision; heart hammering against your ribcage as you move to carelessly rip at the bandages over your wounds. “You had no right! You had no fucking right! I would have never done the same for you! Get out! Get out!”

“Get out!” You hurl the glass at the wall across from you, narrowly avoiding Sirius’s head; anguish tears itself from your voice and you barely notice James flinch from the intensely flickering lights.

“You think I’d be grateful?” you scoff, a burning heat spreading across your chest. “You think I’d be indebted to any of you after this? Is that what you wanted? What a fucking joke!” You laugh irately as you gasp for air. “I’d rather die!”

When you run out of items to throw at them—pillows, shards of glass, and crumpled flower stems—you sit on the bed, shoulders violently shaking as you cough yourself sick.

“I. . .” Lily begins, swallowing the lump wedged in her throat. “I understand. . . But I am the castle’s nurse, as long as you are under Hogwarts’ protection, I am keeping you alive no matter what.”

“I don’t bloody care,” you snide.

Her eyes flash to James. “We’ll leave you to rest, then.”

You stay silent, vacantly staring at the reddened welts on your hands. It’s not until you feel James’s arms around you and his chin hovering above your head that you realize you’ve stopped shivering. “I’m sorry,” is all that James whispers into your ear as he lays you to sleep with an inaudible charm. The chill of his magic is the last thing you feel before your eyes flutter to a close.

—

You wake up in the infirmary once more. This time, you lay stiff on the mattress, absentmindedly gazing at the plain ceiling; your chest falling and rising ever-so slowly. The stink of a Calming Draught is painstakingly familiar. A low humming sound tells you that you aren’t alone—but you barely flinch from their presence, too tired to do anything but close your eyes. “Some boys kiss me, some boys hug me. . . . something. . . they’re okay,” murmurs one Sirius Black, tapping on his thigh as he rests his back on the rustic chair.

If Sirius wants an encore, he’d have to drag the fight out of you. You’re utterly drained from your emotional palaver earlier. “Didn’t know you were into Muggle songs, Black,” you chortle bemusedly.

Sirius halts in his singing as a forceful silence falls over the room—you distinctly hear the moment Sirius’s hand drops to his thigh, most likely taken aback by the sound of your hoarse voice. You feel the weight of his eyes on your bandaged arms and legs. A few seconds pass before he responds, his words but a faint breath. “After today, I believe that there is much to be uncovered for the both of us.”

You don’t bother replying—you’d have Obliviated them instantly if it wasn’t illegal to use on Aurors.

“We know it was you,” says Sirius out of the blue—your blood turns icy-cold on command, wondering if he’s figured out about the wizard behind the Firebird. “On the first day of term, someone had left a basket of freshly-brewed Wolfsbane potions enough to last him for the entire year,” he explains further, leaning his elbows on his knees as he stares at you unwaveringly. “I almost didn’t believe it, but a Marauder has his ways.”

(His son with an invisibility cloak and a handy, enchanted parchment.)

“Thank you,” he says, guttural with emotions. “It means more to Remus than you think.”

“Your gratitude is misplaced, unfortunately,” you rasp, coiling your fists tightly, stubbornly intent on avoiding his eyes—not wanting to get caught in the storm within. You exhale with a ragged sigh. Severus was right, you had been sloppy. And this is what carelessness leads to. “Don’t delude yourself, Mister Black, I couldn’t care less what happens to you or your family.”

Sirius chuckles, like he’d expected such a response from you. “Well, do what you’d like with my gratitude, I don’t care, just know that you have it,” he says, rising from his seat. “It’s past midnight, by the way. Lily’s left you some dinner in case you woke up hungry.”

Your eyes drift to the nightstand. There’s a steaming bowl of spinach rice with mushrooms, and a plate of honey cinnamon bars. But your gaze lingers on the bouquet of snapdragons and orchids placed in a ceramic vase.

“She believes home-cooked meals help the patients heal faster,” Sirius tells you, carefully observing your reaction—but there’s none to be found. He purses his lips into a thin, white line.

As he makes his way to leave, Sirius pauses, hand resting on the doorframe. “You know,” he begins quietly. “The thing about magic—it can fool the best of us into thinking we’re indestructible. But, you’re not as inhumane as you’d like us to think.” Sirius veers his head to look back at you. “Take that mask of yours off sometimes, yeah? You’d see the rest of the world clearly if you did.”

That is all you hear from him before the door clicks shut, and you’re left alone with your thoughts.

How arrogant.

How very Gryffindor of him.

You push the flower vase closer to the edge of the bedside table, indignantly eyeing the watercolor art. The room reeks of Lily’s kindness. Lions and their constant need to see the goodness in everyone. Take off your mask? You’d give your entire Gringotts account to wear the kind of rose-colored lenses they have—they’re more pestilent than you realized. No matter, it’s high-time you reintroduced yourself to the Marauders, anyway.

If you take off your mask, they would find nothing but a barren soul.

—

It seems your newfound parasites have forgotten who you truly are—but you have no qualms in reminding them why exactly you’re called the pureblood society’s darling.

For the week or so, the Daily Prophet features you out in luxurious restaurants, a new partner each night hanging off your arm. International Quidditch players, foreign models, esteemed opera singers, and even Muggle celebrities. Men and women are captured in moving photographs, avidly fawning over you.

You’ve missed three classes in favor of shopping in France; Flooing back to Hogwarts, stinking of bordeaux and rosa centifolia. Painite gems nestled around your neck, glittery sapphires lining your wrists. On more than one occasion, you’ve seen McGonagall lift her chin in distaste at your behavior.

“Well, that’s certainly a speedy recovery,” says Lily one afternoon as the owls take the Great Hall by storm. Rita Skeeter’s new article about you is plastered on the front page, apparently you’ve gotten into a catfight with an Italian seamstress. She risks a glimpse of you from the other side of the long table, laughing away with Professor Sinistra. The sound is scraping against her ears, yet Lily can’t help but feel disappointed.

Your desk is littered with mails from admirers, invitations to galas and fundraisers. The students can’t help but notice this fact as they’re brought to the dance floor each morning. (Each day, you rewind Coppélia’s song—her wishes, and her pain—but you plan to ignore the ballad until blood trickles from your ears.)

“Mumma’s just about ready to send her a Howler,” you hear Ginevra Weasley saying in passing after class. The young red-haired girl nearly bumps into Hermione’s shoulder as Ginny dips her head low, prattling excitedly, “Called the Professor a tart, even.”

Hermione stops walking, scrunching her nose. “Really?”

“Yes, yes,” Ginny nods. “But enough about all that—have you seen the news this morning?”

Hermione looks up, lips wrinkled in thought. “The one about the Professor being seen in Muggle London? I thought that was rather stale for a headline.”

“Not that one,” Ginny says exasperatedly, rolling her eyes. “The article about the Firebird. Remember what happened during the World Cup? When You-Know-Who’s followers came and raided the entire campsite?”

“That would be pretty hard to forget, Gin,” Hermione replies softly.

“Well, the Firebird’s gone and hunted a few of them,” Ginny tells her, eyes brimming with awe. “Found their hideout and left them half-dead for the Ministry to find. No Malfoy, though, which is a bloody shame.”

At your desk, you sip your jasmine pearl tea with a knowing smirk.

On the first of October, your previous Head of House invites you to the greenhouse for an overdue get-together. Naturally, you greet Pomona Sprout with gift baskets overflowing with glacé treats, packets of tea, scented candles, and dried berries. She huffs in fond exasperation before instructing you to grab a pair of cotton earmuffs and gardening gloves. And, well, you don’t mind playing the part of a slap happy third-year under her gentle care. It’s a role you enjoy more so than others.

“You’ve been worrying me these days, dear,” Professor Sprout tells you earnestly as she wrestles with the Flitterblooms. Hoo-hoo chicks flutter around in their cage while the uprooted baby Mandragoras screech nearby. You feel the weight of her gaze, much like a knitted blanket draped over your shoulders on a cold, autumn noon. “The other staff have been expressing their. . . concern, as well.”

You busy yourself with planting the Wiggentree in its pot, allowing only a moment to raise your walls of Occlumency. You know that she couldn’t possibly be a threat, but you would not allow someone else to expose you bare for others to see. (You loathe the thought of Sirius’s blood flowing through your veins.)

You know that concern is shallow at best, forged from fear of the students being influenced by your frivolous escapades.

At your silence, Sprout continues on, “We always tell the children that their Houses will be like their second family during their time at Hogwarts.” You hear her draw in a long breath, gingerly placing the flitter tentacles on the ground. “I hope you understand that the same is true for the professors. We take care of each other, substitute teacher or not.” Pomona’s hand is leaden on your shoulder. “After all, you were our student before anything else. The Sorting Hat gave you to me, and what a darling blessing you have been, even until today. When I look at you now, I see the same young first-year student who was afraid of everything and afraid to come out of their shell—but do not forget, I will always be on my children’s side no matter what.”

How poignant that the first person who truly welcomed you to Hogwarts, is one of the only people who can see through you despite your protective barriers.

And so, the puppet show begins—like a lifeless ragdoll, you peel the deer-leather gloves off your hands, blinking away any hints of emotion. You stand tall before Pomona, dusting flecks of soil off your dovetail skirt. “No one has been on my side. Not then, not now,” you say as you snobbishly arrange the brim of your sunhat. “But do not be mistaken, Pomona. I have been fine on my own and a change still remains to be seen.”

In another life, you would have happily embraced her comfort and affection—but the fate of a lonely starlet is cruel. You’ve made your bed of thorns and wilted roses, and there you shall lay when there is no one left but yourself.

“Today was lovely, Pomona, thank you.” It is one truth you’ve permitted yourself to offer—a shred of humanity in exchange for her kindness. The dirt beneath your nail beds is real; so is the ache in your back and the sweat dripping from the side of your head to your chin. But you cannot feel any more than that—you forbid yourself. The Mandrakes fall silent, and you bid your goodbyes to the professor.

The sunlight on your skin is real as you step outside, and so is the sound of clamoring students heading for the greenhouse. Sixth-year students from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw hurry down the hill. Their unrestrained laughter and carefree smiles are real. And so is the unwashed blood on your hands; the killing curses that have fallen so easily from your lips, and the ghosts that haunt you as the moon arises. Perhaps, you could withstand it all if it means the children would live through a real future without the sins of people like you.

(But why is it that every time you distance yourself. . . there always seems to be someone calling out to you?)

Cedric Diggory, your godson, yells for you with a grin that stretches from ear-to-ear. You watch as his yellow scarf swings with each hasty step he takes. Cedric crosses the gap between you in under a minute, strands of wavy, brown hair sweeping over his glimmering eyes. It’s an unsolved mystery as to how you and him were sorted in the same House.

“Your shirt is wrinkled, Cedric,” you tut, straightening his tie. “Do you go riding Hippogriffs in your spare time?”

Cedric chuckles wholeheartedly. “Father told me to tell you that you’ve been invited this weekend for a dinner at Hogsmeade,” he says, cocking his head as a cheeky simper erupts across his face. “That is, if you aren’t busy.”

You raise a brow—sly little badger, he was. Harrumphing uppishly, you swivel to turn your back to him and say, “Tell your father that I’m choosing the venue, lest he chooses some primitive pub in the village.” You draw out the distance between you and Cedric, tossing your parting words into the chilly breeze, “Tell him I’m paying for everything, too.”

His hearty laughter cuts through the hillside as you make your way back to the castle. Thinking you have the last word, you don’t expect him to yell once more:

“I’m going to enter the tournament this year!”

You’re certainly taken by surprise, but you don’t slow your pace. An imperious smirk tugs at your lips—well, at least you know where you’re placing your bets.

A day before the esteemed guests are set to arrive, you run into Sirius and James—much to your annoyance. It’s just your luck that the evening prior you were hunting down a known member of Greyback’s pack. You played a little cat-and-wolf deep in the depths of a forest, hungrily isolating him from the rest of its family. Though this lycan was unturned, you walk away with claw marks on your back. Still, you hope that Greyback licks his wounds and feels the burden of this particular loss. However, you feel that dealing with James and Sirius will be much more difficult than bringing a werewolf to its knees.

After all, this is the first time you come face-to-face with them, nearly a month after your incident in the infirmary.

“Auror Black, Auror Potter,” you say liltingly, the rhinestone tassel clinking in your hair as you swirl to face them with a devious leer. “What can I do for you today?”

Sirius scoffs in disbelief. “So it’s like that, then? Like nothing ever happened?”

“Partying around, missing your bloody classes, parading all over the castle like you’re better than everyone else. We thought you changed. You know, I actually thought there could be something real to you under all that,” he punctuates his words with a harsh laugh, sneering at your blinding jewelry. “Guess we were the fools, eh?”

James stares at Sirius, a grim expression flashing across his face, before he shakes his head. “It just doesn’t make sense. What we saw at the infirmary—that’s not something anyone forgets.” He gazes at you with grief in his eyes. “It’s like you’re two different people.”

“It’s disappointing, really,” Sirius bites, his lips curling into a snarl.

They’ve made it all too easy for you.

“What are you so frustrated for, darlings?” you say in faux sympathy, stalking towards them as you tap at your chin; a sickly-sweet pout on your lips. “What were you hoping for? For all of us to become friends? We’re not children anymore, my loves!” you exclaim histrionically. “Did you actually fall for my little trick at the infirmary? The care parcel I left your husband? Didn’t you know my mother drafted the anti-werewolf bill?”

Sirius staggers.

“The real me?” you giggle incredulously. “What you see is what you get, dearest—don’t go searching for what doesn’t exist. It’s not my fault you fall so easily for a pretty face.” You tilt your head, fluttering your eyes as you drag your nail up James’s chin. “Not every damsel is in distress, you know.”

Your eyes slice towards Sirius with a coy smile. “Maybe if you had followed your head more often than your naive, little lion hearts—you wouldn’t have driven Regulus to his death.”

James recoils away from your touch just as Sirius flinches, eyes flashing with anger—Sirius digs his nails into his palms, chest heaving as he stares at you in disgust. You expect another stab in the chest from him, and so you lift your head up high, daring him to say another word. (You hope they stopped trying after this—that they would leave you alone to rot in your stage of lies and dutiful sacrifice.) But you don’t plan for James to step forward, shielding Sirius away from your gaze.

“You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen,” says James, words dripping in sincere revulsion. “Can’t believe I thought anything less than that.”

You smile widely, despite the tightening sensation in your chest. “Are we done here now, gentlemen?”

They would learn—this is who you are beneath your masks and pretenses.

The thirtieth of October brings about a cold you’ve never felt before. As you await the arrival of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students, the outside corridors are teeming with students, eyes hungry with anticipation. You lean against the wall, exhausted physically and mentally, hugging your worn-out shawl closer to your shoulders.

The skies are exceptionally gray today—you’ve had to drag yourself out of bed earlier this morning, limbs heavy as lead. The teacup in your grasp is scalding to the touch—you find that nothing hurts more than the ache in your heart. The children are particularly rowdy at the moment—each time you close your eyes, you see the hatred in James and Sirius’s eyes.

Has loneliness ever felt so suffocating before?

When winged horses make their way from the heavens, the clamoring grows louder—yet all you hear are their words.

‘You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen.’

‘I actually thought there could be something real to you under all that.’

You would not weep—not for yourself, and not certainly for them.

Sometimes, you wondered if you were hurting too much to even be considered alive. Did your marked flesh even count as skin anymore? Worthy to be cherished with gentle touches and tender lips? How much more did you have to do until the guillotine finally fell?

When does duty end? And when does life begin?

Madame Maxine and her drove of Veelas descend from their carriage; awestruck gasps and intrigued murmurs echoing along the corridor. When the Beauxbatons Headmaster comes to stand before you, you instinctively sink into the role of a diplomatic host—that is, after all, why Dumbledore hired you. With a nod of your head and a pleasing smile, you greet the first of your guests to arrive.

“What a relief that you made it safely to Hogwarts, Madame Maxime,” you tell her in a saccharine-sweet tone. “If you please, Mister Filch here will guide you to the dormitories where you’ll be staying while Hagrid will take care of your horses.”

You want to go to sleep already.

Finally, as a large ship emerges from the Great Lake—a sense of relief floods through you. Only one more person to greet and you’ll finally be able to return to your quarters, welcoming feast be damned—you’ve done your part for today. Igor Karkaroff and his students make their presence known; imposing statures and foreboding glares. The castle nearly crumbles from Viktor Krum’s entrance, Hogwarts’ Quidditch players eager to catch a glimpse of the prodigal Seeker—well, you could care less about such a barbaric sport.

Karkaroff presents you a slimy leer as he presses a kiss to the back of your palm—the dig of his long nails into your skin is a pleasant feeling, to your surprise. “Dumbledore did not inform me we would be greeted by such beauty. We would have arrived earlier, otherwise.”

You miss your cat.

(Sirius’s eyes roll all the way to the back of his head when you giggle and melt in Karkaroff’s wretched compliments.)

You want to die.

—

Chaos erupts the next day. The Goblet of Fire has chosen a fourth champion—Harry Potter himself. No one is more enraged than his mother, Lily. The Aurors on duty, James and Sirius, struggle to contain the students’ horror and verbal lashings. Some have taken to accusing James himself of putting Harry’s name in the goblet in the name of family prestige—predictably, it’s Draco and Pansy who lead that revolt. But you don’t expect for Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan to be swayed by the baseless gossip. So there’s a crack in the pride’s loyalty to one another, you surmise to yourself.

Like a Niffler drawn to shiny objects, you follow the Headmasters and professors into a room, away from all the ruckus.

“Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?” the wise Professor Dumbledore asks calmly.

The atmosphere is beyond wintry—you note the biting criticisms in their eyes, particular between Fleur and Madame Maxime. Lily hides Harry from their scrutiny, proud and unyielding despite being shorter than the Beauxbaton champion. Across the room, you find Severus and Remus engaged in a muted, albeit wound up argument.

Everyone looks to the morose Bartemius Crouch Sr., awaiting his decision with a bated breath. You sympathize with the man—for a fleeting moment—for if looks could kill, Sirius’s tempestuous glare would have dragged him six feet under.

“We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament.”

Your blood runs cold.

Ludo Bagman appears to be pleased with his colleague’s decision—you see no reason why he shouldn’t be, he’s only ever put his odds in the thrill of the game. “Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front!”

Dimwitted fool.

You scoff. “In a room full of Headmasters and Ministry leaders, surely one of you can find a way to unbind young Potter’s name from the tournament.”

“Err. . .” Ludo’s gaze flickers from Dumbledore to Crouch Sr. Madame Maxime and Karkaroff nod emphatically in agreement, forcing him into a corner with a ragged chuckle. “There’s nothing to be done, the Goblet of Fire has gone out.”

“Do you or do you not have a wand, Mister Bagman?” you reply, piqued; crossing your arms over your chest. “If the rules were written by a wizard, surely it can be unwritten by a wizard. Teaching an Unforgivable to a first-year would be more difficult than that.” “It is not as simple as that, Professor!” Bagman cries. “But you are welcome to try a hand at it.”

“So we just let a child run to his death, then?” you seethe, nostrils flaring. “I never knew the Ministry was teeming with incompetent men. Shall I steal your job from under your nose, Ludo dear?”

(Harry’s brows pinch in confusion. He does not expect for you to care so much.)

“He’s got to compete. They’ve all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?” says Alastor Moody as he limps across the room, flask in his hand. You fall silent, an unnerving chill slithering down your spine. Something about this man did not sit right with you. You pull the sleeves of your blouse further down your arms.

“Maybe someone’s hoping Potter is going to die for it,” Moody growls in response to Fleur. “Over my dead body!” James snarls, veins rigid against the column of his throat, eyes simmering in anger.

“Yes, yes, Potter, we all know you’d die for your son,” Moody remarks offhandedly, taking a large gulp of the liquor in his flask.

“It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it,” Dumbledore counters in an attempt to placate the tense atmosphere. Lily’s sharp sob engulfs the outraged clamors of the two other Headmasters. “Both Cedric and Harry have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do. . . .”

The glass sculpture of a long-haired mermaid shatters into fragmented pieces as you bump into the table; just about ready to flee before you do anything rash like point your wand at Crouch Sr. himself. Before you exit the room, you catch sight of Cedric’s eyes—worry and uncertainty pooling within his gaze. You slam the door hard enough until the wood splinters.

Harry Potter is imprisoned by his fate as the Chosen One—and it seems time has imprisoned everyone at Hogwarts, yourself included.

The first task for the tournament arrives defiantly, without care for Harry and his loved ones. You have only been to the Quidditch field twice—today happens to be the second time. Everyone is bundled in their wooliest sweaters and warmest jackets; although, Hermione did have her portable bluebell flames. You stare at it with envy.

“Oi! Professor, over here!” One freckled Weasley twin—Fred, you guess—beckons for you to sit by their swarm of red and gold. He pushes Ron away to make room for you beside Minerva.

“Thank you, Mister Weasley,” you say quietly, sniffles falling from your frost-bitten nose.

It’s quite odd—you’d have expected to be sitting with Professor Sprout and Amos, amongst your sett of badgers. But it’s not half-bad. You don’t erupt in flames when Minerva holds onto you, shrieking, as Fleur narrowly avoids her dragon, awoken from its trance. You don’t particularly mind either, when the Weasley twins bump their chests and holler into Ginerva’s ear when it’s time for Viktor Krum to face the Chinese Fireball.

“We got a traitor here!” George snickers when you flinch and yelp for Cedric as he fights shy of the Short Snout’s fire, and cheering breathlessly when he eventually captures the golden egg. You glare at George mirthfully, wondering where your fight and heat has gone.

“Please excuse me for a moment,” you say, rising to your feet as the judges mull over their scores for Cedric. “Minerva,” you nod to her, and she offers you a hint of a wrinkly smile. (McGonagall thinks that if anyone can talk back in the face of a Ministry chairman in defense of her students, then perhaps she’s misjudged a professor or two.)

Your cheeks grow numb from the cold as you cross the swarm of Beauxbatons students, past the flock of Ravenclaws. Harry’s match is underscored by the deafening cheers; the stands rumbling from the yells for his name. You’re nearing the territory of yellow banners and black insignias, trumpets blowing into your ears, when the clamor and hurrahs turn into terrified gasps; students rushing back from the edge. You don’t understand the fuss until you look back at the arena.

Harry’s dragon has broken free from its chains.

You join Professor Sprout and Severus in herding the students away from danger—spotting James and Sirius across the arena, hastily reinforcing the protective barriers around the stands, uttermost precision in their wandwork. While Harry dances a life-threatening waltz, you hurriedly clear out the space closest to the banisters. Your breath hitches as the Hungarian Horntail wreaks havoc below, inducing quakes and showers of fire.

But more frightening than any dragon, you hear the bloodcurdling scream of a student.

“Daphne!”

The Greengrass heiress, Astoria, cries vehemently as Draco holds her back from rushing to the front of the stands.

You scour the area frantically—there, only a few feet away from you, lies a fear-stricken Daphne Greengrass, staring right into the eyes of the Horntail. Its teeth bare, growls like thunderstorms, and the rising scent of embers and ashes.

“Daphne, get away from there!”

You hardly hesitate—you run to her, desperation pushing at your legs, terror holding your heart captive. As the dragon screeches in preparation to breathe fire, the nearest Aurors miles away—each gasp for air is torn from your throat. In a blink of an eye, you grab Daphne into your arms and shield her from the Horntail. The crowd bellows in fright—you close your eyes, preparing for even the most excruciating of pain.

But there is nothing.

Just you, Daphne, the Hungarian—and Remus who’s pointed his wand at the onslaught of flames, redirecting it up into the sky as Harry grabs the Horntail’s attention, now zipping freely on his broom.

Remus looks back at the both of you in relief, drawing his wand back in his pocket. “Are you alright?” he asks you first, a weary tenderness in his eyes.

You tear your gaze away from him, checking on Daphne instead; cupping her pale cheeks and wiping the tears from her eyes. “Are you alright, Daphne? What do you feel? Come, darling, let’s get you to Madam Pomfrey—can you stand? Here, put your arm around my shoulder.”

“T–Thank you, Professor,” stammers Daphne as Astoria rushes to her, the pair of sisters blubbering and crying. The blonde-haired girl nods to you and Remus, “Both of you. I–I don’t know how I’ll repay such kindness.”

“Don’t worry, Daphne,” says Remus, smiling as he offers her a lemon-flavored treat.

He steps back to make way for Lily to fuss over Daphne, his eyes straying to you, oozing with sincerity as he rubs his handkerchief to your cheek. He grins at you and your heart skips a beat. “My kindness is freely given.”

Has kindness ever felt so real before?

act iv. you wouldn’t last an hour in the asylum where they raised me.

“THE CHILDREN ARE terrified, Missus Fawley. Just last week, we had another incident. All the windows in the kitchen—shattered! The little ones couldn’t sleep for days.”

You hear the orphanage matron’s voice behind the bedroom door. You’re allowed but a moment of playing with your ragged, plush animals, before the matron comes barging inside. (How rude, you think to yourself. Hasn’t she ever heard of knocking before?) Although, unlike all the other times, she has a lady right on her tail. This woman is much taller than Sister Thompson, certainly more beautiful-looking, too. Not that you have anything against Sister Thompson’s wrinkly face and foul smile.

No, this woman walks with her head held up high, dressed in a burgundy leather coat that clearly costs more than the thin rag you call a shirt. This must be Mrs. Fawley, then. Her black heels click against the rusty, wooden floor; you watch impassively as she bends down to your eye level. She takes you by surprise when she grabs ahold of your chin, slowly turning your head from side to side.

“So this is the child,” Mrs. Fawley muses, red lips quirked. Haunting blue eyes stare back at you; hair dark as ebony falling to her waist. “You may leave, Sister Thompson. I would like to get to know my future ward.”

The matron widens her eyes. “Missus Fawley, I strongly advise against—!”

“You misunderstand me, Sister Thompson,” says Fawley, a sharp edge to her voice. “That was not a request.”

A strange sense of victory fills you when Sister Thompson bows her head in response, tossing you just one sour glare before exiting the room. The rickety door clicks shut and Mrs. Fawley returns her attention to you with a low hum, eyes raking over your form once more. You wonder what she’s thinking about; wondering if it’s the vast difference between her neatly-pressed clothing and your rumpled dress shirt. Many have visited the orphanage before, but none have spared you a second glance, not with Sister Thompson scaring them all away. (You suppose there is no appeal in adopting a child with temperamental issues who can make other girls’ noses bleed.)

“Show me,” Fawley commands, breaking the quietude; her voice stern, yet hypnotic. Much like the first notes of a pied piper’s song. For a few moments, you don’t understand what she’s asking for, until realization dawns upon you. You drop the plush toy’s limbs—seconds later, the teddy bear waves its hand as though it’s gained a soul. If this had been a wooden doll with a long nose, it would be saying: ‘I’m a real boy!’

Fawley chuckles, leaning back with a pleased look. Your head falls to the side in confusion—when you had shown this little trick to Daisy Anne and Annaliese, they’d begun to throw stones at you, screaming and saying that you were a witch. You don’t try to play with the other children anymore after that. Rather than being afraid, Missus Fawley seems to be happy with you. “My name is Agatha Fawley, special adviser to the Wizengamot, daughter of the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” she tells you, and you don’t have a lick of comprehension. “What do you know about witches and wizards, darling?” “I don’t know, maybe. . .” You scrunch your nose, making the stuffed elephant twirl the bear with just a glance—Fawley tilts your chin upwards, demanding your utmost attention. “That they aren’t real? Or if they are, they should be burnt at the stake?”

Agatha Fawley hisses, a low sound that sends shivers down your spine. You wonder if you’ve angered her. The toys fall back to the floor lifelessly. “Damned Muggles—! Is that what they teach these days?” She shakes her head. “No, never mind. What matters is what happens from now on.” “Are you going to adopt me?” you dare to ask, gaze falling to the floor, heart hammering against its confinements.

“I will,” she affirms and your eyes grow wide, breath stuttering in your throat. “But if we are to become family—there is one thing you must do for me.”

“Anything!” You all but scream in her ear, a plea for her to take you away from the orphanage; far, far away from hurtful words and a room that echoes your loneliness back to you.

“Never lower your eyes.” She smiles, teeth bared into a snarl, reminiscent of a prowling fox. “You are magic, my darling. And I will be your mother. No one on this earth can make you kneel in surrender.”

You believe her.

You believe her with all your heart.

But, you would learn that even monsters can call themselves ‘mother’ and embrace you with open arms.

The Fawley Manor is large—larger than the orphanage, and that was a place you couldn’t fully explore due to its largeness. There must be a thousand rooms, as far as the eyes can see. It’s like a princess castle coming to life—akin to the ones you’ve read about in storybooks. Missus Fawley’s home nearly touches the sky. There are tall trees, wide grassfields, and glimmering lakes. You gasp and cover your eyes with your hands as the chauffeur drives past the marble sculpture of naked ladies. (“Think of them as Goddesses bare to the mortal eye, dearest,” says Fawley when you yelp and sink into the leather seats.) Then, the family butler, maids, and chef come to greet you, all smiling at the new addition to the manor.

You meet Elsie, the house elf—your first real encounter with magic. Well, besides Missus Fawley turning paper into crystalline butterflies in the car. Elsie is a tiny, wrinkly creature who wears five different-colored knitted hats atop her head. She can’t seem to stop shuddering while speaking, too, as if drenched in cold, invisible water. But you look into her big eyes and you decide to be her friend forever.

“Get settled into your room, and then we’ll have you acquainted with the rest of the staff,” Fawley says after she ushers you into a room—a bedroom just for you, where you won’t have to listen to anyone else’s snoring or fight to the death for a blanket on a cold winter storm. The bed is bouncy and soft, not unlike the cardboard they’d given you at the orphanage. Your shelves are stocked with toys and books.

Then, you remember that in exchange for all this, you must do your best in school. That is one thing you aren’t looking forward to.

But, how bad could a school be if it’s filled with magic?

You happily imagine smelly trolls, dashing unicorns, talking ghosts, and floating crayons.

For your first week in the manor, you enjoy glazed desserts, fluffy pillows, and silken clothing—and on your second week, you are reminded of your duty to the family you’ve been brought into. Something bigger than studying in a faraway magic castle. Missus Fawley introduces you to her long line of ancestors. You stumble on your footing as the portraits shuffle around and gaze upon you with curiosity, some with a more heated glare than others. They call you a funny term as you walk past. Mudblood. But, Fawley tells you not to worry. You are now her child before anything else.

The family crest is chiseled with gold; you squint your eyes to make sense of the inscription: Virtus in Arduis.

“Virtue in hardships,” Agatha explains in her dulcet tone. As you featherly trace the emblem with your fingers, Fawley leans down to your height, clearing her throat; her expression impossible for you to read. “I brought you to this family because I saw potential in you. I sensed great magic from your person. But we all have our duties. Magic gives, and magic will take.”

“The wizarding world is in grave danger,” she tells you firmly, gripping the curve of your jaw with an intensity that frightens you. “Will you help me fight for the greater good?”

You blink.

You just got here and now you have to fight for a world that you never even knew that existed?

“Greater good?” you echo in disbelief. “F-Fight? Fight who? I’ve never even fought in my life! Making Daisy Anne’s nose bleed w-was just an accident!”

“I will be with you every step of the way,” she vows fiercely, the tips of her nails digging into your cheeks. “Tell me, do you understand? You will do what is right without any recognition at all. Think of it as a performance, my love. And I’m preparing you for your role in this world starting now.”

The ingénue in this act you have to play involves studying endlessly, practicing your wand work until Fawley is satisfied, and familiarizing yourself with every shelf in the library from dawn until dusk. You don’t understand why you must memorize every charm and every incantation—but Missus Fawley reminds you that you are bound to her and your responsibilities. You don’t want to go back to the orphanage, cold and alone—so, you acquaint yourself with parchments and quills, swallowing the discomfort when the nib harshly rubs your skin raw.

On your tenth birthday, Missus Fawley gifts you with a closet overflowing with chiffon, taffeta, and organza. Lace parasols, pretty shoes, and wide-brimmed sun hats. The chef surprises you with a three-layered cake, the constellation icing charmed to flicker like real stars in the night. It’s the best birthday you’ve ever had. For the first time, you feel like your life is actually celebrated.

The next day, your adoptive mother says with utmost exigency, “This time next year, you shall be off to Hogwarts, but that means your debut in society is drawing near. The wizarding world will officially acknowledge you as my child.”

“When that happens, vultures will flock to you as though you were a corpse.” Her eyes flash dangerously. “And you will become one, unless you learn how to fend for yourself. The most ruthless of us all can be adorned in pearls and dressed in ball gowns. Appearance is everything in this world—do not let them see that you are afraid.”

And so, you don’t tell her that she’s petrified you to the bone.

“As the sole heir to my fortune and properties, you must understand how to navigate, not only the wizarding world, but this treacherous domain, as well.” Missus Fawley straightens your back, harshly tapping you once more to spread your legs at a more acceptable distance. “To be envied by all—the perfect host must always be ready to receive their guests with attention and politeness.”

When you wince, or move to massage your sore muscles, she barks at you, “You must always be composed, even in near-death. If you crumble—if you let even a single person know what you’re truly feeling, all this will be for naught.”

The burden of her words is heavier than the textbooks she shoves in your hold.

“Control them before they can control you,” Fawley explains as the seamstress measures your waist and arms. “Exert your influence in a conversation. Not only in words, but your stature. Present yourself accordingly. Jewelry and clothing can be your armor when you cannot draw your wand.”

You grumble under your breath when the seamstress accidentally pokes you with a needle for the nth time.

“Smile when flattered, giggle when offered a dance, and curtsy when greeted.” Fawley glares daggers at you when you hiss in pain. “But most of all, do not let any of those cretins know that you are fully aware of the power you wield over them. Anyone can be a puppeteer if they want to be. You’ll just be the greatest of them all.”

(But even a master of puppets has someone pulling their strings from behind the curtains.)

Elsie stays up with you each night, carefully pouring ice-cold water over your head, and playing with the floating bubbles to distract you from the ache in your legs and arms. “Elsie will give Master her hat!” the young elf says one evening, pulling the topmost beanie from her head and laying it on yours. She tells you a bedtime story before tucking you beneath the covers of your queen-sized bed. You fall asleep to the sound of grasshoppers chirping and portraits murmuring to one another.

Then, you get your first taste of a pureblood skirmish. Missus Fawley had taken you to Diagon Alley, months away from the first of September—a letter in your hand with all the materials a first-year would need for their classes. Safe to say, you’re more than excited. (“Oh, mother, look!” you exclaim, pointing to the various shops—and also remembering the rule of calling Agatha mother out in public. “A sweet shop! Fortescue’s ice cream parlor! Mother, can we go there? Please, please, please!”) Fawley smiles at your wide-eyed wonder, your hand in hers—today is a special one, she decides. You’re allowed a bit of fun. Especially since you’ve shown unfathomable progress in your studies.

You get your very first wand at Ollivanders—and now this world of grumpy goblins and jumping chocolate frogs becomes even more real. You hardly let go of your wand, a tingle of exhilaration running through you each time you brush your fingers against the finely-carved wood. Even Missus Fawley is pleased with the wand that chooses you. Later, you’ll be given three hours to practice your charms again, but you find that you don’t mind—not when you’ve learned that you can now read books under the covers when Elsie turns the lights off.

As you exit the shop, breathless and flushed with a hunger to explore more of this world you’ve been given access to, you and Fawley run into one of her friends. This must be one of the scary people she’s warned you about. Sharp cheekbones, unfriendly gray eyes, and a stern demeanor. You immediately suck in a breath and school your face just as Agatha has taught you.

“Walburga!” Fawley greets with a lovely smile, but you notice that it doesn’t reach her eyes, not like when she smiles at you for growing another inch taller. She brings her hand onto your shoulder. “What a pleasant surprise, my dear.” She peers at the two young boys hiding behind her, much like you were doing now. “Oh, my! Is it that time already? I’d forgotten young Sirius was set to go to Hogwarts this year. You must be overjoyed.”

Walburga is a tall lady, taller than Agatha, even. She hums, lips quirked, chin held up high. “Fawley,” Walburga responds, rather displeased. “Talking my ear off, as usual.” Her trenchant eyes land on you and her smile curves into a sneer. “And who might this little one be?”

You risk a glance at Missus Fawley before offering the other woman a sweet, half-curtsy. “Madam Black, how do you do?” you smile at her, gaily revealing your name and the gap in your front teeth—the two boys snicker and your eyes instantly narrow into a glare.

Walburga stares you down harshly. “How adorable.” Her eyes slice to the two boys behind her. “Sirius, Regulus, introduce yourselves.”

Missus Fawley laughs, a grating sound—much like warning bells—as her eyes flash dangerously at her, hand tightening on your collarbone. “What a relief to know that Sirius will at least have one friend already before they arrive at the castle.”

“But—oh, dear, look at the time.” Agatha quickly casts the Tempus charm before looking at you aghast, eyes wide as saucers, mouth parted dramatically. “I promised the Daily Prophet a photoshoot today! It is my thirty-first birthday soon, after all. I’d give you tips on how to capture this look, but, Walburga, it seems you’re embodying the housewife fashion perfectly.”

“Ta-ta!” She plants two, airy kisses on Walburga’s cheeks before waving the three goodbye.

“That,” Fawley whispers into your ear as she snuggles the side of your face. “—is exactly how to do it.”

You collapse in your bed that night, wondering just what you’ve gotten yourself into and what kind of world you’re about to live in.

How confusing.

All this time, you thought that Missus Fawley had been preparing you for an intense entrance exam. Why else would she make you study twenty-five hours a day and eight days a week? But as it turns out, all you had to do was sit on a chair and have Professor McGonagall put a talking hat on your head.

“Hufflepuff!” the Sorting Hat proclaims, and the table of yellow and black welcomes you with open arms. You sit next to a boy named Amos Diggory. Later in the night, you’ll share a dormitory with a kind girl named Amelia Bones.

(Hogwarts is the best!)

The holidays arrive in the blink of an eye and you find yourself standing at the steps of the manor once more. Agatha Fawley waits for you by the door, engulfing you instantly in a hug that shields you from the falling snowflakes and biting winds. Hot cocoa with marshmallows and gingerbread cookies await you in the grand dining room; you even get a crotchety greeting from Isolde Fawley the Third’s portrait. Elsie crumples to the floor and sobs at your arrival.

“So you were sorted there,” Fawley mutters to herself, a worried expression contorting her face. The fireplace crackles as a winter storm rages outside the manor. You lay on her lap as she absentmindedly pats your head. Stories of your first few months at Hogwarts fall from your lips without pause. “This would go smoother if you had been sorted in Slytherin, however; but no matter—it’s not what I expected, but we can make do. The Diggorys and Bones’ are purebloods, so maybe not all hope is lost. But you need to get more acquainted with the Greengrasses and the Malfoys, Druella Black’s daughters as well.”

You hide your frown against her legs. You really liked Amos and Susan, Bellatrix was just downright mean to everyone, even calling this one girl, Lily, a Mudblood, too. But if mother wanted you to try, you might, but only once. If Bellatrix didn’t want to be your friend, then there’s no helping that unhinged witch. (At least the Prewett twins’ pranks were funny. Bellatrix once snuck inside the Ravenclaw tower to leave a dead pig’s head in the girls’ dormitory just because.)

On the twenty-fifth of December, Agatha Fawley throws a gala just for you—masqued as a fundraiser for Muggle children in need. (None of the families cared about them, you would realize later on.) The ground nearly rumbles from the number of guests she’s invited. From your bedroom window, you spot a few familiar faces. Sirius Black, who stands out from the crowd like a pale bean sprout; his cousin, Bellatrix, who’s already taken to yelling at the staff; Lucius Malfoy, the Flints, and the Parkinsons. Your head goes dizzy.

As long as you don’t trip during your entrance, everything should be fine, right? Right?

(You one-hundred percent trip in front of everyone as you descend the stairs. The sound of James Potter and Sirius Black’s laughter haunts you.)

But other than that, the Yule event goes by smoothly. You don’t fall flat on your face when greeting Cygnus Black and Druella Black née Rosier, and mother is thoroughly satisfied when you smile in the face of Walburga Black and Abraxas Malfoy. You stay in the corner after welcoming your guests, sitting in your chair like an abstract painting forbidden to touch; whilst the Prewett twins and James teased Elsie until she cried from anxiety. Sirius also goes out of his way to congratulate you for growing all your teeth in.

You don’t understand why Mother is so scared of these people.

But you’ll understand virtue in hardships soon enough when you receive your first tutoring in ballroom dancing. Instead of sapphire earrings or a trip to France, Missus Fawley has a different gift in mind for your fifteenth birthday. She surprises you with a tutor—you’re bewildered at first, arguing that you’ve consistently been at the top of your class. (“Madam Hawthorne is not here for your academics, my darling,” Fawley explains with her red-lips stretched in a foreboding smile. “Dance is a beneficial skill for any host to have. You’ll practice until your footwork is perfect. You will dance until I say you can stop. And when your feet are aching and bleeding, you will keep dancing.”)

Each night for your summer holiday, you go to bed, sobbing into your pillows, body trembling from Madam Hawthorne’s cane.

Everything changes on the eve of your sixteenth birthday.

Like all the years before, Missus Fawley invites the entirety of the pureblood society to the manor.

You stay with Narcissa and Andromeda, gently placating their concerns when they ask about your unnatural quietness—truthfully, you could no longer breathe in the flounced dress you’ve been forced to wear; the sides of your feet raw from constantly practicing with Madam Hawthorne, head aching from the lights and obnoxious perfumes; stomach gurgling. Bags under your eyes from revising endlessly for your N.E.W.T.S.

Eyes drooping and neck craning from exhaustion, you don’t at all expect for James Potter to emerge from the crowd; wavy, brown hair sweeping over his glasses, wine-colored suit melting into his dark skin. He holds out his hand to you with a boyish grin. “May I have this dance?”

You blink, frozen solid for a few moments until Narcissa softly nudges your side. “Y-Yes, if you must,” you splutter, placing your palm in his.

He leads you to the dance floor as the orchestra plays a song perfect for a waltz along a flower field; your eyes glued to his back. The chandelier hangs overhead as James settles your arms around his neck in one swift motion. You almost step on his feet, spluttering your gratitude when he steadies you by the waist, the heat of his hands permeating your layers of clothing.

“Isn’t it odd that the birthday celebrant wasn’t dancing all this time?” he says, pulling you in for a twirl.

“I assume the others were all too afraid to deal with my mother,” you reply timidly. “She’s quite overprotective, you see.”

“Who? That tall lady over there by Missus Black who’s currently glaring at me?” James chuckles into your ear as you step closer to hear his heartbeat. “She couldn’t possibly terrify me.”

“Lily says thank you, by the way.”

“Oh? For what?”

“Letting her copy off your Defense Against the Dark Arts essay—she’s downright shite at the subject. Don’t tell her I said that, though.”

You laugh along with him, and you find that you could rest in his arms forever.

But, as your dance with him comes to an end, so does your wistful reverie.

When most of the guests have left the scene, and when the lights have dimmed, Mother presents to you her real gift—your debut in the wizarding society. She leads you to a room, one where you’ve never ventured before. It’s deep past the cellars, where cobwebs and dust bunnies grow. (Before you enter, Narcissa grips your hand firmly, a look of dread and urgency in her eyes. “Be brave,” is all that she says, encasing you in her arms.)

In this dark room, you see Abraxas and his wife, Walburga, Cygnus, the Notts, the Goyles, and more people you recognize, all dressed in their finest black cloaks—as though it were a funeral instead of a birthday. In the center of it all, is your mother, Agatha, with a man kneeling in front of her.

“What is this?” you ask in alarm, frantically searching for answers. The man struggles against his rope, binds, screams and pleas muffled by the cloth shoved in his mouth. The sight of his bruises makes you all but retch. “Mother, what is going on?”

Walburga is the first to step forward, her lips painted blood-red against her ashen skin, curving into an edacious smile. She cradles the back of your head to her chest. “My lovely dear, it has been the utmost privilege watching you grow. Your mother is certainly proud of you, we all are. Tonight, just as our sons and daughters before you, we offer you our blessing on this very special day.”

“You know of the Unforgivables, right, my child?” Her voice is a sweet, ruthless cadence in your ear; her touch, like worms crawling on your skin as she places your wand in your hand. You bite down on your tongue, swallowing each breath as the walls threaten to cave in on you. Your fingers forcibly shake in terror and you worry that you might snap your wand in half if you aren’t careful. “The Cruciatus, the Imperius, and—?”

“The killing curse,” you breathe out, ever-so stiff in her hold. You watch as Abraxas kicks the man to the ground; you dig your nails deep into your palm to keep from flinching.

“That’s right, little one,” says Walburga, tracing your jaw with a morbid sense of satisfaction. She holds your chin in place as Abraxas tears the cloth from the man’s mouth. It’s worse now. You hear his desperate begging and his guttural cries for help. “Muggles,” she spits the word out like venom. “Look at them. They’re filthy. Infecting our blood with theirs.”

“Kill him,” Walburga says, a delicate whisper, as though she had asked for a cup of tea. “Kill him and you’ll have proved your worth to us.”

“No! No, please!” The man struggles against Abraxas’s arms. “Please! I have a family! A c-child!”

You stagger backwards, nearly losing your grip on your wand. You look to your mother for help. “I—!”

“Kill him, pet!” Bellatrix cackles from across the room, teeth bared viciously, eagerly beckoning for you to come forward. “Make sure you mean it! Otherwise it won’t hurt!”

“You know the words,” says Walburga, lifting your pliable arm—a puppeteer controlling its ragdoll. “Say it.”

The man before you is real. He’s a real person with a real family anxiously waiting for him to come home. His children worried sick for their father. How can they just stand there and expect you to kill him? “Mother, please—I can’t. I w-wont.” Your breathing grows labored, hot tears pricking your eyes; the man screams and yells, and the sound echoes ceaselessly in your ears. “I don’t. . . I don’t understand.”

Agatha Fawley closes her eyes, and you understand perfectly.

Each sob wrecks your body and the tears endlessly flow from your ears, you hiccup and shiver; blood pooling from the bite in your tongue. “I can’t do this—please!”

“You will.”

You close your eyes just as a flash of unforgiving green shoots from your wand. “Avada Kedavra!”

The man falls limp to the floor, and so does your wand. Walburga coos and drowns you in a sea of shallow praises, the men offer their congratulations, but all you hear is the sound of a lifeless body dropping to the ground.

A man who you just killed by your wand, in your home.

That night, the four walls of your bedroom bear witness to your anguish—you cry until you throw up on the floor, body lurching and quivering on the freezing red oak.

“Do you get it now?” says Agatha as she enters your room, the faintest of sunlight streaming through the windows. She bends down and cups your face in her palms. “This is your world from now on.”

You rip her hands away from you, gritting your teeth. “I don’t want to live in your world—not anymore! I don’t care about all this! Magic, wealth, and all these things mean nothing if I have to kill innocent people! You’re a monster!”

“Good.” Fawley’s voice is cold as she stands up, lifting her chin as her eyes glaze impassively. “That means you’re ready for your next lesson.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said I was done!” you retort, sore from crying.

“Don’t you see?” says Fawley, pausing underneath the door frame, gaze ruthlessly slicing towards you. “We will destroy them from the inside out. Walburga, Abraxas, Tom Riddle. All of them, one by one. That is our true duty.”

As she turns to leave, she adds coldly, “Ready yourself. I’ll be teaching you Occlumency during your summer break.” Then she slams the door shut, leaving you all alone in your room.

When you return to school after the winter holidays, you’re forced to pretend that you hadn’t taken the life of an innocent Muggle.

‘Do not let them see you are afraid.’

“Unfortunately, flaming red hair and hand-me-down robes will not complement my dress—it’s crimson taffeta, you see, handcrafted only by the finest tailors in Italy,” you say dismissively to the ragtag of Gryffindors before you, Vittoria Zabini and Isadora Bulstrode giggling at your side. The Prewett boy visibly wilts and you almost give in—almost. But everyone must play their part in this world. You know that if you show a sliver of weakness, Vittoria and Isadora will be happy enough to report to their mothers—vying for the pedestal you’ve been put on by their parents.

For the final blow, you scrunch your nose in disgust, slamming your Divination textbook close. “Can you even afford anywhere in Hogsmeade for a date, Prewett?”

(Walburga would Avada you herself if she caught you in such a place with such a wizard. You’re more terrified of what she might ask you to do to Gideon—someone she deems as a blood traitor. You refuse to utter another Unforgivable. You just won’t.)

“Oh, you cruel wench!” Marlene McKinnon steps forward and before anyone could take another breath, she slaps you in the face. And, finally, you feel something other than the guilt of taking someone’s life.

Your cheek stings from the impact, your ears ringing with the sound of your friends asking if you’re alright and Dorcas Meadowes roaring about how you deserved it—well, you’re not about to disagree. You move your jaw about, cradling the side of your face as you sigh impassively—oh, it’s nothing compared to the etiquette lessons of Agatha Fawley. “My mother will certainly hear about this, McKinnon.”

“You and your mother can kiss my arse!” she shrieks, eyes ablaze.

“Gideon didn’t deserve that, and you know it,” Lily argues fervidly, eyes sickle-shaped as she looks back at the Prewett twin’s dejected expression. “How could you even say that?”

“How could I not, Lily darling?” you reply off-handedly with a roll of your eyes.

Lily flinches. In her gaze, all you see looking back at you is the Muggle father who had cried out relentlessly for one last glimpse of his children. She stares at the badger emblem on your cloak with disdain, and you with a great deal of pity. “You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen.”

She has the softest voice you’ve ever heard, but it hurts you all the same.

You’ve scrubbed your skin raw in the bath, hoping that you’d wash the feel of your sins off your hands—it’s all for naught. Agatha might be a monster in your eyes, but you’re the fool that played right into her act.

You get to your feet, meeting her eye-to-eye. In a low whisper, lips close to her ear, you say, “There are far worse creatures out there, Evans. You’re lucky you’ve been born only a Muggleborn.”

Fortunate that she won’t ever have to play the role that you’ve been forced to. You feel an overwhelming envy towards her—effortless beauty, pure and untainted hands, a kind heart that draws in every one and every person. Compared to her, you must be a dirtied, black swan in a lake that’s only meant for white swans like Lily Evans.

And she will have more charming princes and truehearted fairies on her side than you could ever hope to gain.

“Say another word and I will tear your hair from that pretty head of yours,” Marlene snarls, pushing Lily behind her.

Oh, how easy they make it for you.

You smile in delight. “So you think I’m pretty?”

Marlene lunges.

(You are so tired of it all.)

Every night of your summer holiday, you spend it writhing on the floor, Agatha’s lessons on Occlumency taking its toll. She grows harsher, stricter, and more apathetic than the sun beating down on the manor windows. (“Again!” Fawley demands as you collapse to the ground, drenched in sweat and your head numb from her probing. “Do you think the Dark Lord will be lenient with you? Get up! We’re going again! If you want this to end, you will endure this without error!”)

While your peers are out swimming in lakes and racing around in Quidditch brooms, you’re stuck within the confinements of your home. But you are not that naive, you’ve seen the headlines of the Daily Prophet. A coalition known as Death Eaters have begun making their mark on the wizarding society. There are rumors of a great, sinister power rising. People go missing everyday, and you worry that this might be the world that your mother has been preparing you for all this time.

But why you? Why must you carry this burden all alone? Who will pick up the pieces of your battered soul when the weight of your burden crushes you entirely?

There are times when you wish you never left the orphanage at all.

A week into your summer break, you find out that your mother is dying. Violent coughing, dizzy spells, jaundiced skin, her eyes bloodshot, and the healer frequenting her bedroom quarters. You’re not allowed inside, of course, but you can hear her feeble voice and the doctor’s stern orders.

You also learn that she’s absolutely insane—but that is a fact you’ve come to terms with years ago. One night, during dinner, you’d let it slip that you have your suspicions of a classmate being inflicted with a lycan’s curse. Agatha Fawley reacts just about as one would expect her to.

“A werewolf? In Hogwarts?” Fawley staggers to her office, the tower of neatly-piled documents and research reports from the Ministry now fluttering to the floor. “No, no, no. . .” she utters to herself, panic seeping within her skin. It’s the most frazzled you have ever seen the great Agatha Fawley. You stare at her unraveling from the threshold of the room, unsure of what to do. “Dumbledore has gone mad! That old loon! What was he thinking? Sheltering a beast within the castle!”

“Don’t worry, my dear,” says Agatha as she reaches for you, a ghastly smile on her face and a near-empty look in her eyes. Your brows pinch together in confusion—you hadn’t been worried about that student at all. “I’ll have that monster out of the castle in no time. The Ministry will have no choice but to listen to me.”

“That’s it,” she mutters, haphazardly grabbing for her feather quill and blank parchment. “Perhaps a law to forbid werewolves from ever integrating into society. School, house properties—can you imagine if they manage to infiltrate the Ministry? Everything I’ve worked so hard for!”

“Mother?” you call out hesitantly, crossing the distance, hand outstretched as Fawley slips on her footing, a muttered profanity under her breath. The woman before you is unrecognizable, a sallow casing of a moribund soul. “Mother, please, Remus is no threat to the castle,” you plead, ripping her hand away from the quill. “You can’t do this!”

“Do not tell me what I can or cannot do!” Agatha seethes through her teeth, chest heaving as she glowers at you. “Everything I have done, I have done for you! Yet, you still continue to fight me? I should have left you in that orphanage to rot while I had the chance!”

“Well then, why didn’t you?” you scream, pushing her away as the words force themselves out of your throat. “Maybe that Muggle father would have still been alive if you did! Maybe I wouldn’t have to suffer so much! To hell with you and your duty!”

Fawley laughs to herself, a weak and feeble sound. At first, you think it’s in response to you, but then you watch her drag her palm down her face, unblinking when her fingers appear to be drenched in blood. You take a step forward and there’s crimson trickling down her nose, a pallid contrast against her skin. “Ha,” she chuckles once more, keeling over to the ground as she stares up at the ceiling, blood on her flesh. “Merlin, what have I done? I–I’ve gone too far—even the Gods cannot save me.”

The despair in her voice is confounding. “Come here, my love,” she croaks from the floor, reaching out to you with bloodstained hands. Reluctantly, you sink to her side, gnawing on your lower lip as she cups your face in her palms—how many times have you been in this position before? “I’m sorry,” she sobs, shoulders trembling. “Oh, my darling, I am so sorry. I’m afraid I’ve doomed the both of us.” She traces the frame of your jaw and cheekbones. “My child, my beautiful child. What have I done? Will you forgive me?”

You realize that this must be the consequence of living in a constant lie. To be an imitation of a human person, with no room for grief, rage, fear, hope or even a semblance of love. You stay silent, drowning in the arms of your adoptive mother. “I am to die soon,” says Agatha with utmost finality, eyes boring into yours. “But you are better than me. Braver. Far stronger than I have ever been. I know this must be the heaviest burden a child can carry, but you must understand that the fate of this world is at stake. I am so sorry, my love, but I must leave this duty to you.”

She lets her head hang limply. “I-I am tired, as well. I’ve pushed away everyone and anyone for this. To do what is right, to endure what is hard—that is what I’ve lived by all these years.”

“And so must you.” Agatha has been mourning all this time, but not for her life.

You hate her.

You hate her with all your heart.

But even monsters need a heart to breathe.

A month passes by in a blur, and you are now set to meet the ill-famed Tom Riddle. You know that he was a student of Professor Dumbledore; that Narcissa is extremely terrified of him, and that Lucius Malfoy idolizes him to a fault. (“This is the moment I have been preparing you for all these years,” your mother tells you, shields of Occlumency glimmering in her deep blue eyes. “Do not let him in no matter what.”) Soon thereafter, Missus Fawley apparates the both of you to the Malfoy manor.

The dining room is bleak, befitting of a Malfoy; curtains drawn, fireplace idly crackling, and hushed murmurs upon your arrival. All eyes are on you, and you’re lucky to have dressed in your Sunday best. At the head of the table, you see Tom Riddle, with Abraxas and Cyprian Nott sitting on each side. You hear something large slithering across the polished floors—your breath hitches at the sight of a monstrous serpent curling around Tom Riddle’s chair. The glass chandelier chimes overhead and you wish it would fall from where he sits on his shrewd throne.

(You find Regulus Black sitting beside Narcissa, cheeks flushed, body quivering as his skin pales to a deathly color; holding onto his left arm for dear life. And, your heart just physically breaks. You don’t understand why this is the world you must live in.)

“Come here, my dear,” Tom Riddle hisses, urging you forward with a serpentine leer in his eyes. You feel like a circus lion forced to perform its tricks.

Tom Riddle is handsome—you notice begrudgingly. A menacing kind of beauty that entices the weak and preys on the vulnerable. (You would not be one of his victims, you vow, raising your own walls against him.) His gaze drills into your own—instantly, you feel his magic snaking around in your head, searching for hidden truths. The sensation is staggering, dizzying, and you’re nearly brought to your knees. You clench your jaw at his Legilimency—obstinate bastard.

“This one is lasting longer than your son, Abraxas.” Riddle chuckles, his finger tracing the curve of your jaw, as Abraxas forces a smile. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he leaves your mind. You release the breath you’ve been holding for the last thirty seconds. He finds none of your secrets, and you suppress a vindictive grin. Riddle glances at your mother. “How fascinating.”

You wonder if his intrigue will keep you alive for another day or bring you closer to your death.

“My Lord,” you greet windedly as you press a kiss to the cold signet of his ring. “What an honor to stand before you today. Although, I could have done with a more polite greeting from you.”

Bellatrix snarls at you in warning. “Do not speak to the Dark Lord that way, you insolent brat!”

“Enough, Bella,” Tom rasps, flicking her concern away, barely so much as sparing her a glance. “I’ve no need for a little girl to come to my defense.” She visibly wilts at his dismissive words and you almost feel pity for her—almost. Then, you remember this is the man who treats the Cruciatus curse like a treat to give away freely to children—now, you pity Bellatrix fully. The curly-haired girl twitches at the sight of him toying with his wand, Nagini’s forked tongue flicking in anticipation.

“Tell me, my dear,” says Riddle, trailing his gaze down to your arm. “Has your mother arranged a marriage for you yet? Much like our dear Cissa here.”

You grow frigid in his hold. “Not at all, my Lord. Mother thought it best if I focused on my studies before anything else.”

Tom hums in thought, eventually releasing you from his clutches. “I see. . . Then, have you considered other ways of pledging your allegiance to our cause?”

Instinctively, you hide your left arm from his sight. “My Lord,” you begin, wondering how much longer you can address him as such without throwing up in his lap. “The only reason there isn’t much backlash to your. . . merciful endeavors is because Mother and I have ensured that the Daily Prophet’s eyes are elsewhere. The Ministry is blindsided, and no one expects a mondaine darling to be under your influence,” you say, desperation pouring from each word.

You don’t want to carry his Mark. Not ever. You can endure it—you can endure it all so long as you aren’t eternally condemned to his name.

“Take that away, and you’ll face significant repercussions,” you threaten boldly. “I promise you that. They look away because of me.”

For every village and family terrorized, you had shifted the public’s attention to your facetious behavior. Throwing galas left and right, appearing out in public with various partners—you had done it all to bury the looming war. Rita Skeeter is at your beck and call. For every attack, your face is plastered on the front page. For every cry for help, the Ministry is busy dealing with trivial matters that your mother has proposed—such as anti-werewolf bills.

And Voldemort would never notice that you’ve been thieving covert information from right under his nose and delivering it anonymously to a rising organization known as the Order of the Phoenix.

(You’re also not pleased that they share similarities to your non de plume, the Firebird, but you suppose that is the least of your worries.)

If Molly Weasley comes across a sealed letter on the steps of Grimmauld Place, with complete details and addresses of Death Eater hiding places, it is no one’s business but the Order’s—and yours.

For every life taken, you remember that Muggle father in your mother’s cellar. It may not be today, it may not be tomorrow—but you’ll dismantle the pureblood society yourself. All of them, one by one.

Tom Riddle smiles, and you realize that no one threatens him and gets away with it unscathed.

A day before you’re set to return to Hogwarts for your seventh-year, the Malfoy Manor is pervaded by your gut-wrenching screams.

There you are, little Firebird with your wings clipped, writhing on the floor of Lucius Malfoy’s guest room—the Cruciatus curse surging through your veins like molten lava threatening to burn you from the inside out. You hear Narcissa and Missus Fawley’s voices blend into a cacophony of panic. They’re shouting for various things: warm towels, bandages, essence of Dittany, and water. Regulus’s hold on you is tight, near-suffocating, even.

But you don’t feel anything other than the mutilated flesh of your arm.

You scream, cry, and scream again—you feel his magic over and over again. Branding you. The ink blends into your skin—but it’s not your skin anymore. A part of you now will always belong to him.

Bile rises to your throat.

Tears fall from your eyes.

(How cold is the floor? You don’t even care anymore.)

And, the worst part is that no one can see it. Riddle charmed it perfectly to coalesce against your skin tone. But you see it. You see the skull and the stupid, wriggling snake. You see Tom Riddle’s monstrous glee as he drives his wand into your arm—Abraxas and Lucius holding you down as you thrash and flail. Your only reprieve was your mother was there, cradling your head to her chest, blocking out their malignant laughter. (You can’t believe you never noticed, but your mother had been branded, too.)

“I’ll. . . kill him,” you say to yourself, blood and saliva trickling from your lips. If it is the last thing you’ll ever do, you will have Voldemort’s head on a silver platter.

“Don’t be foolish,” Narcissa scolds, tipping your mouth upwards to swallow the drops of Dittany. “None of us have the power to do that. We just have to make do with the life that we’re given.”

“I promise. . . you,” you gurgle through the searing pain, gasping for air, clawing at her arms. “I’ll destroy them all.”

You pass out in her arms.

When you awake, you’re on a train to Hogwarts, left arm bandaged and hidden under the sleeve of your school robes.

You don’t bother attending your classes—seeing no more purpose in Transfiguration and Herbology when you’re just a pawn in someone’s, everyone’s plans, apparently. The professors express their concern when you no longer turn in your homework or assigned projects. Once again, you barely see the need to. Your meals during breakfast, lunch, and dinner go untouched. You stay away from Narcissa, Vittoria, Isadora, Lucius, and Regulus. Your only friends, Amos and Amelia, stay away from you, too, having seen news of your promiscuity in the Daily Prophet. You scoff internally—you’ve never even had your first kiss yet. But even that seems like a distant dream.

You are tired.

How much longer do you have to play this part? How much more of yourself do you have to give?

You’re only seventeen—how can you even hope to defeat Voldemort like this?

The castle walls have dulled, and you drift through the corridors like a wearisome ghost. The once colorful world that you have been brought into now pales in the face of curses, spilt blood, and the Mark on your arm. You wonder what would happen—if you just run away now.

Why should you be the one to bear the burdens of this duty thrust upon you? Why do people like James Potter and Sirius Black find loyalty and a real family within Hogwarts, and there is no one willing to fight for you?

Perhaps, you have no one else to blame but yourself.

Rita Skeeter publishes her article on the growing rift between you and Vittoria Zabini—claiming that you had stolen her beau from her.

You toss the newspaper into the fire.

Some nights, you don’t bother returning to the Hufflepuff dormitories anymore. You know what they think. You know what they say behind your back.

For the third time this week, you find yourself at the top of the Astronomy Tower, legs dangling from the edge of the window, eyes blankly staring at the horizon—if you run towards there, you wonder how long it will take before they find you. The cold nips at your cheeks, but you barely feel anything other than a gnawing emptiness.

Your gaze falls to the ground below, thirty, fifty meters from where you sit.

Maybe. . .

If you move a few inches forward. . .

If you just fly.

You’d be free.

“Oh, I didn’t know this window was occupied.” You loosely turn your head to find Remus Lupin standing before you with a crooked grin, hands shoved in his pockets as he awkwardly shuffles one foot over the other. He raises his arms up in surrender. “I guess I’ll. . . find somewhere else to brood.”

I don’t care.

Go away.

I want to die.

If I disappear, would you care? Would anyone?

You rest your head back on the windowsill, hugging your legs to your chest.

Starlings chirp and fly past you—how liberating it must be, to soar in the skies. But all you can do is watch enviously. Powerless, little songbird with no more lullabies to sing and no more wings to fly with.

You let your weight shift over the window.

Maybe if you fall, you could see what it’s like to fly.

“H-Hey! Don’t—!” Remus quickly snatches your hand and pulls you into his embrace—the both of you tumbling to the floor. You feel his chest heaving, arms trembling around you, and the sound of his rapid heartbeat. His eyes are wide as he looks over your face for any injuries. “Why would you do that? Are you mad?”

You sigh.

Maybe tomorrow, then.

“Oi!” Remus pokes your shoulder. “Don’t just ignore me! You scared the piss out of me, you know? Bloody hell.” His shoulders slump in relief, and he takes another peek at you—just to make sure you’re still in front of him. “A-Are you okay?” he asks softly, afraid to spook you further away. “Do you want to talk about it or anything?”

You shrug. “Nothing to talk about.”

His gaze flickers from you to the window ledge. “I think that’s a big something to talk about, honestly. B-But I get it. Really. No judgment.”

An unwilling chortle escapes past your lips. Remus Lupin and his marauding bunch of lions would never understand the burden you have to carry each day for the rest of your life.

Remus scratches the back of his head with a wolfish grin. “Hey. . . listen. We don’t know each other all that well—so this is going to sound terribly weird. But would you like a hug?”

He opens his arms wide enough for you to fit—and you stare at him in horror. “C’mon, then. It really seems like you need it. And honestly, I kind of need it, too, especially after a scare like that.”

You stay silent.

He shakes his hands, beckoning you forward, golden hair flopping over his eyes. “I don’t bite. Promise. One hug and we’ll go on pretending like we don’t know each other tomorrow. Marauder’s honor.”

“I haven’t done anything to deserve your kindness,” you say with a prominent sneer—certainly not kindness from him. It must be another prank of theirs. You wait for Peter Pettigrew and Sirius to jump out and spray you with garlic juice.

Remus smiles. “I think you’ll find that my kindness is freely given.”

You nibble on your bruised lip.

Could you really?

Maybe just this once.

You’re only human, magic as you are.

You take one step forward.

Then another.

Another.

Until you fall right into his arms, and you inhale the scent of honey, milk raspberry chocolate, and cedarwood. The warmth of his arms around you is real. His voice is real. He whispers cruel words into your ear, “You’re alright, love. Let it out. I’m here.” You burrow your head deep in the crook of his neck. The sound of his heartbeat is real. He tightens his hold around you, and the ground underneath feels real. For a few moments, you don’t feel like you’re floating away into oblivion.

Maybe you’d stay alive—for a few more days.

To do what is right.

To endure.

Perhaps, tomorrow will be easier—if such kindness is real, maybe you’re allowed to seek it for yourself every now and then.

But your nightmare doesn’t end when you’re awake—it takes you by the throat when you find yourself summoned to the Malfoy Manor on Hallow’s Eve.

You’re not the only one caught by surprise. One by one, Tom Riddle’s followers apparate into the dining room, stumbling inside with a bewildered expression. Their Dark Lord has called for them in the dead of night—it must be for something important. You stiffen, sinking into Lucius’s shadow. You search for your mother but she doesn’t appear to be anywhere in the room. Someone brushes their hands against yours—Narcissa. She stands by your side, face impassive, her pupils frantically trying to make sense of the situation.

Then, Tom Riddle finally apparates into the room, startling you for a fraction of a second. Not far behind is Abraxas, Cyprian, the Lestranges, Bellatrix, and finally—

Your mother.

Fawley looks worse for wear, her skin sinking into her bones, clothes tattered, and her face littered with bruises. Bellatrix drags her across the floor, hair wrapped around her hands.

You move to stop Bellatrix, anger blinding your vision—Narcissa tightens her grip on your wrist, subtly shaking her head. You rip your hand away from her.

“We have found a traitor in our midst!” Bellatrix cackles, throwing your mother to the ground—your fists clench, swallowing each lump in your throat with rage blinding your vision. “I caught the bitch helping the McKinnons escape!”

“No,” you whisper, dread knocking you backwards—it just isn’t possible. The two of you had always been careful. Bellatrix hits her again, and you have to restrain yourself from marching forward and cursing her from where she stands.

One moment of weakness, that is all Tom Riddle needs. He finds you in the crowd with ease. The crowd of Death Eaters part like the red sea, and you steel yourself with Occlumency before you are sharply pulled forward, the mark on your left arm blistering as though a hundred needles are driving into your skin repeatedly.

“If the mother is a blood traitor, the child is sure to follow!” Bellatrix hisses, spit flying into the floor, her eyes gleaming with maniacal glee.

Voldemort cruelly holds your jaw in his hand, nails digging into your flesh, threatening to break through your bones. “Is this true?” he asks, drawing blood from your skin. “Tell me!”

“No!” you cry out, kicking and punching to get away from his hold. “It’s not—let me go! That is my mother! You’re hurting her! She’s sick!”

“That,” Riddle’s eyes flash with hostility, breath hot on your skin, “is a betrayer to our cause.”

“She’s not!” you scream.

“How did she find out, then?” Voldemort flings you to the ground—immediately, you rush to your mother, gathering her in your arms. Tom Riddle cocks his head and you’re blasted into the walls—you feel his Legilimency trying to force its way in, exploiting your pain and shock. But you won’t let him in. He’ll have to pry your memories from your cold, dead body.

The pain is searing—you’re being torn apart from limb to limb. Your mark is burning, head throbbing from a concussion, and still fighting against Riddle’s magic. Through your blurry haze, you see Lucius holding Narcissa back from running to you. “We’re not traitors!” you cry out desperately, crawling pathetically to your mother’s listless body. “I swear!”

Voldemort sneers just before he points his wand at your mother. “Crucio!”

“No! No! Stop it! Please! Please, stop it!” you beg on the ground as your mother helplessly writhes on the floor, the Cruciatus curse reducing the once austere Agatha Fawley to a whimpering mess. “You’re killing her!”

Tom snarls, “Good.”

Bellatrix digs her claws into your neck, her laughter resounding throughout the manor—you swallow the sobs down your throat as she drives her wand into your flesh. “Your mummy over there is done for. But you—our precious jewel, you can still prove your loyalty to our Dark Lord.”

She puts your wand and closes your fist over the wood—your eyes grow wide as you thrash in her hold, screaming as she forces you to look at Fawley. “Kill her. And you may live.”

“Just say it,” Bellatrix whispers in your ear. “Two little words. You’ve already done this before, pet—the second time should be easy enough!”

“No!” you knock your head back into her nose, slipping away as her hold loosens and she screams profanities at you—but to your misfortune, Voldemort captures you, like a defenseless bunny running into a starving snake.

“Mum, wake up, please!”

You cry out helplessly, sobbing as Voldemort forces you to watch the life gradually fade away from her blue eyes. Her magic envelops you—and you remember warm holidays spent by the fire, Muggle storybooks before bed, surprising you with breakfast in bed for your birthdays. It’s a warm feeling, a stark contrast to Tom Riddle’s invasive magic. Her voice echoes in your head one last time.

“Thank you for showing me what love feels like, if not for a moment. I am sorry I could not show it as a proper mother would.”

“Kill her!” Voldemort rages into your ear.

You watch as Fawley’s eyes drift to a close, an act of resignation. “It’s okay, my darling,” she whispers tiredly. “I. . . can rest now.”

For the second time in your life, you point your wand at someone’s heart—this time, it’s your mother’s.

“What are you waiting for?” Bellatrix asks, twitching menacingly. “Kill her! Before I do it myself!”

There’s a faint smile on her face.

“I’m. . . sorry.”

Those are Agatha Fawley’s last words before you take away her life.

The incantation falls so delicately from your lips, an act of mercy for the woman you once called your mother and your greatest tormentor.

But your eyes are on one person and one person only.

Tom Riddle.

“Avada Kedavra!”

He will know your pain.

Not today, not tomorrow.

But you’ll destroy them all, one by one.

a/n: THERE IS KISSING IN THE NEXT SCENE I PROMISE.... AND TRUST MY LILY LOVERS WE WILL GET OUR REDEMPTION ARC SKDJHFGKJH and sirius lovers too,, but yall are well-fed every day so.. next part has the yule ball, likee,, there's no way THAT becomes angsty.. if you saw a plot-hole, no you didn't just CRY and enjoy sdhgsdf... come tell me what you thought!! (if you have any constructive criticisms, just come to my dms BUT PLS BE VERY GENTLE.... oh and don't hesitate to tell me if i accidentally wrote anything super specific like height, skin color, etc.!!) i promise to better in the final part!!!! (there's only two parts to this fic.) I LOVE YEW I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS STORY AAAAAAAAAAAA

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flowerandblood · 5 months ago

Text

Duty and desire (Oneshot)

[ canon • Aemond x niece • wife female ]

[ warnings: incest obviously, sex content, smut, angst, praise kink activated, lactation kink, fluff ]

[ description: An incident between her husband and their sons causes her uncle to completely break down. She decides to show him how deep her feelings are towards him and to comfort him. A heartbroken, vulnerable, infatuated Aemond in need of simple tenderness. ]

Author’s note: The events of this oneshot are part of the canon of The Fall from the Heavens series and feature the same characters. I couldn't sleep and that's how I mentally coped with what I saw in the second episode of the second season. You're welcome, lol. If you still didn't watch it, wait with reading it (if you don't like any kind of spoilers). It can be read as a standalone story.

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

My other works: Masterlist

_____

He had returned to their chamber earlier, tense and visibly frustrated despite the fact that he usually spent that part of the day sparring with their sons, training them in the wielding of the sword.

She smiled at him from above her book, watching as he involuntarily looked into the cradle where Visenya slept peacefully.

The birth of their first daughter was joyous news for the entire kingdom, including them.

"So early?" She asked, spreading out comfortably in her chair, curious about this change of plans. Her uncle only pursed his lips at her words, walking over to the table where she sat and reached for a cup, into which he poured himself a little wine.

He remained silent.

A bad sign.

"What's happened?" She asked immediately, seeing that hundreds of thoughts were currently running through his mind, which if they did not find an outlet would eventually explode in the form of his fury.

He took a few deep sips from his goblet without looking at her, setting it down with a loud clink of steel on the table.

"Viserys and Aegon have suggested that Ser Robert should be the one to train them today. They apparently want to become archers." He said with a sneer and anger that startled her. She swallowed hard, closing the book, understanding full well that his words were only the tip of what he was really thinking about.

"In your presence they always feel they have to prove themselves. They're afraid of being ridiculed in front of you. Maybe it's…"

"At their age I dreamt of my father doing for me what I do for them. This is our time together." He growled, looking out of the corner of his eye into the area where she sat, but not directly at her, immersed in his thoughts, memories and regrets.

"I know." She whispered and her words, something about the way she said them made his lip tremble, made him lower his head in shame and cover his face with his hand, drawing in air loudly.

"They are terrified at the sight of me. Both of them. They don't love me, they just fear me. Their own father." He mouthed, his quivering voice betraying that although he tried to control himself, something about the thought had broken him.

She stood up from her seat, shaking her head, coming up to him quickly, wanting to touch his arm with her hand, but he moved away and turned his head, not wanting her to see what was happening to him.

"If you could hear with what pride and admiration they speak of you when you are not there. They so desperately want to please you." She muttered in pain, feeling a squeeze in her heart at the thought that he might have believed he was a bad father, when they both knew how hard he tried.

"To please me? My sons, they live to please me? And if they don't then what will happen to them? Hm?" He asked and fell silent, looking at her at last, his eye red with grief and despair, his face simultaneously red and pale with emotion, his lips parted in a heavy breath.

He covered his eyes with his hand as he burst into silent sobs, as if he had not stifled the thought for a day or a month, but for years, ever since their first son had been born.

She looked at him in disbelief, stunned, at the same time hurt and saddened by his words, by the thought of how he judged and perceived himself.

"Looking into my eyes do you see anything other than love?" She asked, renewing her attempt, taking a step towards him, and this time he didn't pushed her away, looking at her uncertainly.

"– it's something else –" He whispered.

"– how can it be? – do you think I would love a man who is a bad father to my children? –" She asked further, and he swallowed hard, trying to calm his breathing, his cheeks red from tears.

"– stop it –" He said and turned away, wiping his face, walking to the other side of the room, embarrassed and ashamed of his weakness.

"– sit down on the bed, husband – I want to explain a few things to you –" She finally said.

He sighed heavily and did as she asked, making room beside himself, looking down at his hands, heartbroken. She, however, walked up to him and did not sit next to him, but on his lap, surprising him by taking his warm, red face in her hands, stroking his moist skin with her thumbs.

For a moment she simply looked at him, all helpless and vulnerable, feeling the heat in her chest.

"– you're defending our family – you're the rock that protects us – you have to show strength – be determined – and that's hard when you're king and father at the same time – the burden of the crown is great and you know it – you're trying to prepare them for it –" She whispered, with each successive word placing kisses on his red face: on his forehead, his temple, his eyebrows, his eyelid, his cheekbone, his lips, his jaw.

She felt his hands involuntarily rise to her waist, stroking her through the material of her gown.

"– so why don't they understand this? – why do they push me away? –" He muttered, focusing his gaze on her full, plump lips, his manhood hidden in his breeches pulsed softly in a natural reaction to her closeness.

"– because they are still children – children who need their father to love them no matter what – a father who will sometimes let them go their own way –" She said softly, in a gentle, light motion untying the black ribbon at the back of his head, making the front strands of his silver hair fall over his shoulders.

"– I just want to spend time with them like a father with his sons – I want them to need me –" He whispered, and she nodded, letting his broad hand move her hip closer, making her body press against his.

"– I know, my husband – my sweet, sweet husband –" She whispered and heard him draw in the air loudly, surprised, his erection pulsed hard between her thighs.

She licked her lips, wondering if he was aroused by what he was hearing.

"– my husband is so good to me –" She gasped softly, letting their lips join in hot, sticky, lazy kisses, making wonderful heat surge through her body. "– my sweet friend – my sweet boy –"

She shuddered as his fingers tightened on the material of her gown, his throat leaving a sound she had never heard before.

He moaned.

Not the way he usually did, low and deep, when it was on the verge of panting, but high, the way she did when he gave her sweet pleasure.

Their fingers tightened on their bodies, letting their mouths find each other in greedy, violent, deep kisses – his cock between her thighs swelled all over and pulsed, hot, betraying that he was now completely ready to possess her.

"– I love you – please –" He muttered, forcibly ripping her gown off her shoulders, exposing her naked breasts, all swollen with milk. Something like a sigh of delight and relief left his throat as he sank his face into her sternum, his thumbs stroking and teasing her nipples hard from the cold.

She moaned as she tilted her head back, untying the material of his breeches, feeling the wonderful, pleasurable wetness between her thighs, proving that she was ready to receive him deep inside her.

"– my sweet husband deserve to be soothed – doesn't he? – to feel his beloved wife – how warm she is – how wet she is –" She whispered, cupping his swollen, quivering erection in her palm, feeling how incredibly hard it was, its tip thick and smooth, dripping with his moisture.

"– yes –" He mumbled in shame, directing one of her breasts to his face, holding it in his hand, finding her nipple with his mouth, beginning to suck it loudly along with her milk as she guided the head of his cock against her pulsing slit.

"– ah – my husband is so hard for me – makes me feel so fucking good – so, so big –" She cooed, sinking slowly onto his manhood only to lift herself on it with a loud click of her wetness, opening her thirsty, fleshy cunt again and again on his long, throbbing erection.

"– f-fuck –" He exhaled, embarrassed, imposing a fast, aggressive pace on her at once, clearly aroused by what she was saying and how she was behaving, needing her affection, her acceptance, her closeness, everything he couldn't ask of anyone else outside the door of their chamber.

"– it's all yours, my dearest – I can ride you all night – you'll fill me with your seed as many times as I need, won't you? –" She gasped, and he groaned loudly into the skin of her breasts, clamping his hot hands on her hips, pounding into her like there was no tomorrow, panting and quivering along with her.

She wasn't sure she had ever experienced a similar orgasm, so overpowering, hot, soothing, delightful.

"– f-fuck – f-fuck, Aemond, yes –" She whimpered, throwing her head back as she felt his body convulse, his warm seed filling her womb wit his low moans of pleasure.

He released her nipple from his mouth, panting heavily, snuggling his cheek into her chest, letting her arms embrace him in a tight grip, her lips placing tender, hot kisses on his hair.

"– forgive me – I'm ashamed – I –"

"– you are my husband – let me give you relief when you need it –" She whispered, combing her fingers through his long hair.

"– but – it was –"

"– a husband can show tenderness and understanding to his wife, but a wife to her husband cannot? –" She asked in pain, and he swallowed hard, letting out a loud, shuddering breath.

"– it won't happen again –" He muttered, needing, apparently, for her to tell that lie so he could stop thinking about how weak he was, how he needed it, how pleasant it was.

That he would beg in his mind for more.

More of her tenderness.

More of her praise.

More of her love.

"– as you wish –"

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divinesolas · 8 months ago

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Sneaking around

r.q: Hii I was wondering if you could do a Jacerys x twin!reader. Where they have been betrothed since they were young, and as the grow up they start slightly falling for each other. And one night she sneaks into his room and they explore themselves 👀can it be smut aswell. 💕🙏

w.c: 3.2k

c.w: porn with plot, misunderstandings, oral (f), p in v, very inaccurate first time, loss of virginity, jacaerys is an idiot, not proofread, supportive daemon, happy ending, avoids use of y/n, talks of baela/jacaerys

part two

You and jacaerys were inseparable ever since you were born. You two did practically everything together. You ate together, you sat and watched him train while he would sit with you and watch you stich. It was hard to separate the two of you. Your mother even told you when you were very young you would cry if you even lost sight of him and they had to bring him to you to comfort you.

You had thought nothing of it, not until you had reached the age of three and ten when your mother announced you were to marry him. You could not even process this news as seemingly right after came the news of lady laena’s death and funeral then very soon after the marriage between your mother and daemon.

When you could finally have a moment to breathe back at dragonstone you tried to turn to jacaerys but he seems to be avoiding you at all costs. More interested in spending his day with baela and lucerys. You couldn't even get along with him let alone speak a word to him without him dodging you and mumbling something about being busy before walking away and most of the time he would be spotted talking with baela and it broke you.

You began spending more time with Rhaena and Joffrey instead. Joffrey was far too young to even understand why you were upset but rhaena did and did her best to try and cheer you up.

It was hard to move past it but It got easier as the years went on and he still refused to even glance at you.

“Do you think she will call off the betrothal if I ask her too?” you were now eight and one after your recent name day and dread filled you as you realized you were getting closer and closer to marrying jacaerys. You two still did not talk, you had given up trying to speak to him a long time ago.

Daemon who was casualing sitting next to you takes a sip out of his goblet, “why ever would you ask her to?”

You do not lift your head to look at him with his curious stare and continued to stare at the game board in front of you, picking up one of the pieces before answering,

“He does not like me, it would be better for both of us if he married someone else,” you place the piece down before answering him, “like baela.”

He laughs, he laughs so hard he has to clutch his stomach, “it is not funny.”

He wipes a tear from his face as he manages to calm down. “You're right it is hilarious.”

You scoff and cross your arms, “i knew i shouldn't have brought it up-”

“No no, please continue why do you think he likes baela?” He seemingly picks up a random piece from the board and moves it before leaning back on his chair and looking at you expectantly. “Why should I not? When we had been betrothed the first thing he did was decide he wanted nothing to do with me since. Even on our shared name day he says nothing to me except simply wishing me well. He spends every waking moment with her, and when he is not with her he is with my brothers and simply acts like i do not exist he does not even extend me a good morning or a good night for gods sake!” one of your hands slam down on the table in front of you, the board pieces moving but not falling over and you only grow more and more annoyed at the amused look on his face.

“You are in love with him.” “What does that have to do with anything?”

“You do not deny it.” you angrily move another piece of yours on the board and lean back on your chair as he does.

“It doesn't matter he does not like me. I shall bring it up to mother anyway since you are of no help.”

He chuckles to himself as a servant enters the room to inform him rhaenyra requests his presence. He shakes his head as he stands moving one of his pieces before turning back to you. “Give it time Issa dōna.”

It is the last thing he says before he is led out the room. You glance down at the board and throw your head back with a sigh.

He had won.

—

“She plans to ask your mother to cancel the betrothal.”

Jacaerys freezes his head whipping around to look at daemon who was standing closely behind him.

“Whatever do you mean?”

Daemon laughs, “you sister. She plans to have your betrothal called off.”

“Why?”

“Gods you really are foolish boy.”

Jacaerys always believed you to be his better half. While he was more temperamental and hot headed you always seemed to be so rational and so kind. When he heard of your betrothal the first thing he felt was excitement, but it soon turned into fear as he began to worry he would not be a well suited husband to you. He began to spend more time with baela and his mother who taught him how to be a kind and honorable young man and in turn he had begun to ignore you out of fear of ruining your relationship. He had never thought you would turn around and ask for the engagement to be dissolved.

“You should act quick, she seems rather determined to be rid of you.”

Daemon could barely finish his sentence as he watches jacaerys march out of the room and a smile falls on his face.

–

You almost jump out of your seat as the doors of the room you resided in busted open. You moved to a balcony and had been reading. You clutch your book to your chest as you lock eyes with a seemingly out of breath jacaerys who lets out a sigh of relief upon seeing you.

“Jacaerys?”

“Sister, good day.”

You have no clue what to say. This is the first to who knows how long he had come up and approached you himself. All you could do is nod your head as you went back to reading your book.

“Could I sit with you?”

You hum and he takes that as a que to take a seat right next to you. You attempt to focus on the words in the book in front of you but you feel his stare burning into the side of your face you can't help but to feel flustered and the words are nothing but a blur.

“Would you not rather be hanging out with others?”

After a few moments of silence you cut through it like a knife without looking up at him you continue to feel him stare at you.

“Who ever could you mean?”

You scoff, aggressively turning the page despite the fact you had not read a single word on the previous one.

“Oh I don't know, baela perhaps.”

“Baela? I believe she's busy today. But what does she have to do with-” “Oh so you are finally spending time with me because your precious baela is busy?”

“Where is this coming from?”

You stand and take the book under your arm as he stands up as well looking at you alarmed, “y/n..”

Gods, you missed him. You missed the way he said your name.

“I must go i have a meeting with mother i must attend to,”

He looks alarmed and grabs your arm before you can rush past him, “you must not speak with her.”

He grabs your other arm and pulls you close to him so you are forced to lock eyes with him as you feel your breath leave you. He has a desperate look about him, a wash of guilt and sadness over his eyes.

“I do not deserve it such as i do not deserve you but i must beg for your forgiveness for my transgressions. I have been a bad brother and in part a bad partner but I must beg you to give me another chance. I know I shall never deserve you and I should not have stayed away from you for so long but I was worried you would begin to resent me so I sought out to become a man you would grow to l- grow to enjoy spending your life with. I am sorry. I shall work everyday to earn back your favor and to earn back your trust but I must beg you to not dissolve what has been written in stone between us.”

A tear must have found its way out of your eye as he brings one of his hands to wipe it away, his eyes never straying from yours. “Jace..”

He smiles and leans his forehead against your and takes a deep breath. “I beg of you. Allow me to fall and grovel at your feet for your forgiveness.”

“You're not just going to ask me for it?”

“I do not deserve such an easy fate. You must do me the honor of earning it.”

You laugh and your smile grows as he also begins to smile.

–

A switch from never seeing jacaerys to practically seeing him all waking hours of your day was a dramatic change. When you awoke he would be waiting for you by the door to walk you to breakfast where he would sit next to you and he would request you come and watch him practice with lucerys and you would try and not laugh as he practically threw the younger boy around like a rag.

The more and more time you spent with jacaerys the more brave he would become. When the two of you would walk he would place his hand on your back and slide it down almost low enough to be scandalous oh he would pull you into a empty corridor of the keep before dinner and just run his hands up and down your sides as he nudges his head into your neck, seeming content with simply just touching you as such.

Despite the fact he seemed content, you grew more restless. You wanted him. No, you needed him at this point. Finally having him in your grasp after many years you could barely keep control of yourself when you were around him, wanting nothing more than to jump in his lap and let him have you.

One night you're restless in your bed, turning side to side unable to ignore the ache that resided between your legs and groan as you run your hands along your face.

You decided to fuck it and just go visit him. Throwing on a cloak and don't even bother to tie it, keeping a firm grip on his with one hand as you walk out of your room and as quietly as you can begin to make your way down the hall down the very familiar path to jacaerys room.

You begin to rethink your choice as you stare down his door, your bare feet cold on the harsh flooring of the keep. You could see light peeking out from under his door telling you he was still up despite the later hour and against your better judgment you raise your hand and lightly knock on his door.

You hear a chair scrap and feet paddling towards the door until the door opens and you're met with his shocked face.

“y/n? What are you doing here?” He quickly peeks his head out and looks around the hallway before grabbing your arm and pulling you into the room.

“I just wanted to see you.”

“In the middle of the night?!? Where you could have been seen, what would mother think?”

“I'm sorry..”

You hang your head and jacaerys sighs and rubs his hand over his face, “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get angry. I am just worried about your reputation.”

He walks over to you and places his hands on your shoulders and you look up at him. You finally notice something, he’s shirtless. You should have noticed that sooner, of course he would be shirtless. You know most men sleep shirtless. Why would he be any different?

He takes notice of your gaze and flushes, you take notice of the red beginning to shine on his ears and on his cheeks.

“I am so sorry allow me to go cover myself-”

You grab his cheeks and he freezes. In your rush for him not to leave your side you forget about your cloak and it falls to the ground.

You gasp and move closer to him as a chill washes over you.

“y/n…”

His hands grip your waist and pull you right up against him and he drops his head into your neck and leaves a kiss there.

“Tell me to stop at once.” he continues to kiss your neck over and over as he runs his hands up and down your sides and you shudder.

“I demand you ask me to stop.”

His lips trail their way up your jaw and his hands rest against your cheek, “why must i?” “For your honor you must push me away for I fear I desire you far too much, it is improper.”

“Jace.”

He groans and stops himself from kissing your lips, leaning his forehead against yours and breathing heavily.

“You must push me away.”

You decide to be bold and push your lips against his and he grips your face with his hands, kissing you frivolously.

Your hands find their way onto his chest and slide down under the band of his pants and he groans, his lips sliding off of yours, a trail of saliva falls between you as his head falls into your neck.

“Please, my love please.” he whines as his hips thrust against your hands. You had snuck away and read many a book about what a man and woman do in bed, especially after reconciling with jacaerys, and you wrap your hands around his dick and take your rub to rub around to the tip of it. He groans into your ear and suckles your neck. You use the seemingly constant flowing precum to pump up and down, taking pleasure in the way he whines and moans in your ear.

“You are too kind to me.” he slurs in your ear as you smile and work faster, “i only wish to please you, would you rather me get on my knees?”

You squeal as he rips your hands off him and lifts you up and carries you over the bed, “as thrilling as that view would be, I would much rather be pleasing you my love.”

He lays you down on the bed and gets on his knees pulling you closer to the edge, once he gets closer he lays his head against your thigh and admires you. “You did not come wearing anything under your gown?”

You cover your face with embarrassment, “do you think me desperate?”

He shakes his head as he moves closer, “no, i am much worse.”

He licks a long strip up your core and grips your hips down with his hands as he eats as if he had never eaten anything before.

Your hands grip his long curly hair and you can barely contain your moans as you try to push him even closer to you.

“How are you so good at this?”

He hums against you sending chills down your spine, “I imagined this more than I would like to admit.” His words are muffled as he continues to assault on your clit but you can understand him clearly and moan even louder. He does not care, if anything he seems to encourage you by not faltering even for a second, if you could have any coherent thoughts you would wonder how he could breathe.

Your grip grows tighter in his hair and your hips fight against his hands as you grow closer and you feel him smile against you. “Come for me, I wish to taste it.”

And you do and he takes his time licking up each and every single drop before kissing his way up and climbs on top of you and smiles at you. His hands fondle your breasts on top of your nightgown, “could you take it off me?”

Once the two of you are sat up he bunches up the bottom of your gown, “lift your hips for me.” he easily slides the gown up and off of you. His eyes glow as they rack over your body, “you are the most beautiful women in the whole world. I shall never deserve you.”

He kisses you before standing up and sliding his bottoms off, you do not get any time to admire his form before he is already climbing over you once more and kissing you again.

“Please jace do not tease me.”

“I should prep you more-”

“I dont care”

“It will hurt-”

“All I want is you, please.” He looks worried but gives in as you feel his dick slap against you and you moan as you grip his shoulders.

“Please tell me if it hurts too much.”

It does hurt. It hurts like hell. A part of you almost tells him to stop pushing into you but you power through until you feel him bottom out. You two sit there for a while, the only sounds being your gasping breaths and his strained groans as he seems to be holding himself back.

Once the pain seems to subside you test with a move of your hips causing him to moan out. “Do not do that.” “You can move.”

“Are you sure?”

“Please do.”

He is slow at first, so slow you can feel every vein up against your walls and you tighten around him and he hisses. As he continues to move your moans seemingly motivate him to begin to move faster and faster until he is rutting into you like he cannot control himself any longer.

You sloppily leave kisses on his neck as your hands grip his back, you are so overwhelmed, all the feelings you hold towards your twin rushing towards you at full force.

“I love you.”

He stops, out of breath he grips your face with his hands, “what?”

Tears flood your face as you stare at him, you thought he never looked so beautiful. “I love you.”

He leans down and kisses away your tears as he begins to move once again, “I love you so much so so so much my sweet.”

In your rush of emotions you came yet he continues to kiss all over your face and your neck until as he did earlier his head slumps into your neck. “Where do you want me to-”

“In me please I beg of you. I need to feel it.”

And so he does. The two of you stay like that for a while, completely out of breath and covered in sweat. One of his hands comes to your cheek once more and caresses it as he lays a gentle kiss on your lips.

“I love you so much.”

“And i love you.”

2K notes · View notes

br0kenangel · 3 months ago

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𝐀 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐋: 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘈𝘦𝘨𝘰𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘥𝘰.

The door opened without a knock, and in strode your eldest son, Aegon. His expression was one of barely contained fury, his mouth set in a hard line. He wore the black and red of his house, his silver hair shining in the light.

You didn’t rise or greet him formally. Instead, you took a slow sip of your wine, watching him like a cat watches a mouse caught in a trap.

“Mother,” he said, his voice sharp and clipped.

“Aegon,” you replied coolly, setting your goblet down with a faint clink. “Come, sit. You look as if you’ve been chewing on a sour lemon.”

Aegon’s nostrils flared slightly as he sat across from you. His jaw was tight, and his hands were clenched into fists.

“What did he do this time? Has your father’s wisdom left you choking on your own tongue?” you asked, arching an eyebrow.

“It’s not wisdom he’s choking on. He’s a fool if he thinks Rhaenyra’s claim will hold this kingdom together. He’s determined to throw it all to the wolves. And for what? His precious daughter?”

Aegon slammed his hand down on the arm of the chair, the wood creaking under the pressure. “He still insists on keeping Rhaenyra as his heir,” he spat, his voice brimming with frustration. “Despite all the signs—despite the whispers in the court, despite the tension between the lords—he clings to this foolish notion that she will unite the realm.”

You tilted your head, an amused smile tugging at your lips. “Ah, the great dreamer, your father. One might think he’s convinced himself he lives in one of his old songs about gallant knights and wise queens.”

“Dreams,” Aegon spat, his voice dripping with disdain as he stalked toward the window, glaring out at the city below. “Dreams won’t stop the realm from tearing itself apart. His stubbornness is going to ruin us all.”

You arched an eyebrow and tilted your head, a wry smile tugging at your lips. “Tell me, my dear, what’s worse: a king who refuses to see reason or a son who insists on treating every disagreement like a declaration of war?”

“I need to act, Mother,” Aegon growled. “The realm is on the verge of breaking apart, and he’s too blind to see it.”

You leaned forward slightly, resting your chin on your fingers. “And how do you propose to fix this? Drag him from his throne by the scruff of his neck? That would be quite a sight.”

He glared at you, though there was no real malice in his eyes. “This isn’t a jest.”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” you replied smoothly. “But sometimes, my son, the truth is so absurd that the only thing left to do is laugh.”

Aegon’s eyes snapped back to you, sharp as daggers. “I am declaring war,” he said, his tone dangerous. “War on stupidity. Father is leaving our family vulnerable. The lords see weakness, and weakness is blood in the water. They will turn on us the moment Rhaenyra takes the throne.”

You laughed softly, amused by his intensity. “Oh, Aegon. Always so dramatic.” You paused, giving him a pointed look. “You think the lords will rise for her? The only thing these men rise for is power. Offer them that, and they will forget who was promised what. It’s always the same song, my son. Play the right tune, and they will dance to your music.”

Aegon clenched his fists at his sides, the tension rolling off him in waves. “The music won’t matter if Father continues to shield her with his blind loyalty. He treats her like she’s untouchable, like the gods themselves have chosen her to rule.”

“Ah, yes, the gods,” you said dryly, waving a dismissive hand. “A convenient excuse for poor decision-making. If we all did what the gods wanted, we’d be living in rags and begging for scraps. No, Aegon, the gods don’t care for the affairs of men. This game, this fight for the throne—it belongs to us. It always has.”

Aegon paced in front of you, his mind racing. “And yet, here I am, watching as the realm slips through my fingers because my father insists on upholding his dying legacy. Rhaenyra is weakness. She’ll tear the kingdom apart the moment she’s crowned, and he refuses to see it.”

“Your father has always been a romantic at heart,” you said with a sigh. “He’s clinging to the idea that love and family will prevail over politics. A fool’s hope, if ever there was one.”

“Fool,” Aegon muttered under his breath, his frustration clear.

You regarded him with a look that was equal parts admiration and exasperation. “Just as I expected,” you muttered, more to yourself than him.

Aegon furrowed his brow. “What?”

You waved a hand dismissively. “Never mind. I'm just proud of my son. Ruthless, cold, but oh so clever.”

He blinked, unsure if you were complimenting him or insulting him.

You leaned back, your voice turning serious now. “Aegon, you have ambition, that much is clear. And yes, your father’s decision may well lead to war. But wars are not won by anger and frustration. They are won by strategy, by waiting for the right moment to strike.”

“I don’t have time to wait,” Aegon said through gritted teeth. “If we delay, we will lose support. The longer Rhaenyra remains the heir, the more dangerous she becomes.”

You smirked. “Dangerous? Rhaenyra? The woman has more soft edges than the pillows on my bed.”

“She’s dangerous because of the people around her,” Aegon snapped. “Daemon, Corlys, and all those who would see her on the throne. They will turn the realm against us.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Daemon is certainly a problem. And Corlys…well, his stupidity is only matched by his ego. But you are right. The lords will not stay loyal to Rhaenyra for long if they sense weakness.”

Aegon looked at you, his eyes sharp and determined. “Then we need to act.”

You held up a hand. “Calm yourself, boy. This isn’t a tavern brawl. You must act carefully, deliberately. There’s a difference between being strong and being reckless. Don’t be such a child about it.”

Aegon’s lips tightened into a thin line. “I’m not a child.”

You waved a hand dismissively. “Then stop acting like one, stamping your feet because your father won’t do as you wish. He won’t change his mind, Aegon. He’s too proud and too stubborn, just like you.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but you cut him off. “Listen, Aegon. I raised you to be a ruler, not a brute. You must understand the importance of timing. Your father will not change his mind easily, but he is not your true enemy. The lords, the people—they are the ones you must win over.”

“And what would you have me do, Mother?”

You gave him a small, almost conspiratorial smile. “You show them that you are the only one who can protect them. You play the part of the dutiful son, for now. Let your father continue with his dream. But when the time comes—and it will come—you make sure the realm sees you as the only viable option. The lords are like sheep. They will follow the strongest shepherd.”

Aegon’s eyes narrowed slightly, the wheels in his mind turning. “I can steady it,”

You smiled. “I know. And you will. But you have to be patient. Anger makes for terrible decisions.”

“I have no patience left for Father’s foolishness,” Aegon muttered.

“Then let him be foolish,” you replied coolly. “Let him play his hand. And when the time is right, we’ll play ours.”

“And what if the time never comes?” Aegon asked, his voice low, full of doubt.

You smiled, leaning back once more. “Oh, it will. It always does.”

Aegon stood there for a moment, visibly wrestling with himself, before he let out a long breath and sat down across from you. “You’ve always had more faith in my future than I have.”

“I trained you for this, didn’t I?” you said dryly. “I didn’t raise a fool. Nor did I raise a man who lets his temper dictate his choices. You should know that the moment you act out of rage, you’ve already lost.”

Aegon’s lips twitched, the tension in the room easing slightly. “So, I’m to be the calm one, while everyone else runs around like fools?”

“You are to be the calm storm,” you corrected. “Let them think you’re passive, let them underestimate you. The realm is full of fools, but we are not among them.”

Aegon finally allowed himself a small, grim smile. “You’re far more ruthless than anyone may think, Mother.”

You raised your goblet in a mock toast. “I take that as a compliment.”

He nodded, his resolve clearly strengthening. “I’ll bide my time, then. But when the time comes—”

“When the time comes,” you interrupted smoothly, “you’ll be ready. And the realm will kneel to you, as it should.”

Aegon stood, the weight of your words settling comfortably on his shoulders. “I’ll see to it.”

You watched him head toward the door, then called after him. “Aegon.”

He paused, glancing back at you.

“Don’t be afraid to smile,” you added with a wicked smirk. “It unsettles people when a king looks like he’s already won.”

Aegon chuckled, a rare sound, but one that left the room with more tension released than when he’d entered.

As he left, you leaned back in your chair, sipping your wine and staring out the window again. The game had been in motion for years, and your son had finally learned how to play it.

“Well,” you murmured to yourself, “this should be interesting.”

Part 1 ♡ Part 2 ♡ Part 3 ♡ Part 4 ♡ Part 5

@ 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚, 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.

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lionneee · 5 months ago

Text

Aemond has to leave for Rook’s Rest

English is not my first language, please be kind

Masterlist

Taglist

•Warnings: p in v, smut, kissing, taking of sexual themes, tits sucking, oral (f and m receiving), incest•

OC!Aemond x Sister!Reader

“Don’t part—“ She sobbed as she followed Aemond in his chambers as he moved to grab his jacket and sword. “Aemond—“

“There is a battle to fight. A war to win.” He cut her off, not even looking at her, his back facing her.

“Aemond—“ She put her hands on his back. “I’m scared. I’m so scared.” She leaned her forehead on his back, between his shoulder blades. He felt him tense under her touch.

“You do not believe in me, sister?” He said coldly, making her flinch and raise her head, looking at the back of his. “Do you not trust my capabilities? You think I won’t win?” He turned to look at her as she took a step back at his sudden harshness. “You think I’ll lose?” He hissed at her.

“Wha— No!” She sniffled. “Do I not have the right to be scared for my brother?” She asked, offended by his lack of trust in her.

“Do you know what will come with our victory in this war?” He stepped towards her, but she stepped back. “We’ll be free to belong to each other. You will be mine.” He growled as he grabbed her cheeks in his hands.

“And I wish for nothing more.” She mumbled in his grasp, wrapping her hands around his arm and wrist. “But war is dangerous. And you’re walking in it too confidently.” She hardened her gaze on him.

She was just scared.

Scared he’ll never return to her.

“What should I do then, mh? Tell me, my wise sister, what should I do?” His voice was cold and angry, but she knew him so well, she could hear the desperation underneath his facade.

He did hope for advice. He hoped for a miraculous plan to end this one and for all, end this like they wanted it to end.

She stared at him without answering.

She didn’t know.

“Mmh.” He let her face go, pushing her away as he turned, pouring himself some wine.

She looked to the side, then she walked beside him, looking down at the table as he put down the goblet, after having sipped a big amount of it. She grabbed the same goblet, sipping from it as she looked at him, his single eye fixated on her lips, then her face, studying her closely.

“I have Vaghar.” He stated. She hummed as she swallowed, looking at what was left of the wine.

“You and Cole have a good plan.” She wiped her tears from her cheeks. “It’ll work.” She said, more to herself than to him. He put his hand on her cheek, caressing the same spot where his thumb was digging when he gripped her earlier.

“It will. And I’ll be back.” He looked at her.

Ah put down the goblet, looking right back at him, her eyes never leaving his. She pulled off his eyepatch, annoyed that he forgot to take it off in her presence.

“It better will.” She said as she slipped her fingers in his vest, tugging him down to her level to crash his lips with hers.

He hummed in appreciation as he immediately slipped a finger in her hair, drawing her closer as his hand moved from her cheek to her waist, pulling her closer.

“Don’t rip apart this one.” She mumbled between kisses. “People started to ask questions.” She looked at him with a smirk, as he pressed her closer, his eye fixated on her lips, they way they moved, how plump they were, how soft. How he liked to kiss them.

He slipped his hands in her hair, tugging her harshly as he clenched his jaw.

“I’ll rip every goddamn gown you owe when you’ll be my queen. My wife.” He growled, deepening the kiss. “You look so much better naked.” He groaned as she sucked his lip. “I expect you to be waiting for me in my chambers when I return.” He started untying her gown on her back. “Naked, wet—“ He grinned as he loosened the gown to tug it off her shoulders. “Ready to take me.” He picked her up, leaving the gown pooling on the floor as he threw her on his bed. “Over and over— All night…” He kneeled at the end of the bed, taking her ankle and lifting it to kiss it, lowering his head slowly, leaving a trail of wet kisses on her calf, thigh, then her inner thigh.

“I want you to touch yourself only in my bed in my absence.” He bit her inner thigh, stealing a wail of pain from her. He started raising her underwear with her help, their movements quick and eager.

He quickly pushed his head between her legs, giving to her foot an open mouthed kiss, earning a moan from her sweet lips.

“I want you to think of me, I want you to wet my sheets with your juices, surrounded by my scent—“ He kissed her core again, widening her legs as he rose to look at her. Her expression is already a paint of lust.

“I’ll imagine your fingers—“ She moaned as he leaned down to kiss her breast, she put a hand on the back of his head as he leaned on her other elbow. “Your mouth, your cock—“ She moaned as she let her head fall back. He growled as he started rubbing his more than evident bulge on her thigh.

“My sweet sister— Always thinking of me—“ He reached down with one of his hands, quickly unfastened his pants and pulled them down just enough to let his hard cock jump out of them.

She looked down at him, moving her hand to pump him to full hardness as he groaned against her nipple, sucking harder.

“Gods, Aemond—“ She moaned, gripping his hair as she moved her gaze to his lips, devotedly wrapped around her nipple. He shifted his hip, curling his back enough to be able to align to her center, and pushed himself inside her with a swift confident thrust, raising his hand over her mouth to muffle her loud wail.

“Shh, shh, my beloved sister— So tight—“ He gasped as he moved slowly, enough to make her feel good along with the uncomfortable feeling of being stretched out.

“You’re so big— So— Good!” She gasped out as he started thrusting harder, still at his slow pace, His hips slapping against her, jolting her forward on the bed every single time.

He pulled away from her breast, leaning back to be able to look at her, her mouth open as her breasts moved up and down at his thrusting.

“Always so good to me—“ He groaned as he started speeding up the pace. his cock being deliciously squeezed by her wet walls.

“Always—“ She repeated, confirming her loyalty to him.

“Your big brother is a powerful man now, sister.” He smirked, looking at her arching her back at his particular calculated thrust.

“I’m so lucky to have such a big man by my side–” She whimpered as he moved his hand over her breast, taking it in his hand, squeezing it as if to test its softness.

“The rider of the largest dragon in the world–” She kept talking, moaning as he responded to her words with hard deep thrusts. “My smart, clever brother–”

“Scared of the consequences? Scared for me?” He punctuated his last word with a particularly hard thrust, making her whine again.

“Yes— Can’t have my big brother killed—“ She moaned as she pressed her hands on his chest, trailing them down, feeling his hard muscles flexing under her touch. “Who will take care of me then?” She caressed his arms, as he wrapped his hand around her throat, his other hand beside her head as he leaned down on his elbow.

“No one. You’ll never have no one else—“ He grunted as he sped up, clenching his hand around her neck, not enough to choke her, just enough to let her feel him. “No one will ever even be able to take care of you like I do, so why bother?” He growled in her ear, sending a wave of pleasure down her body. He looked down at his cock, entering her repeatedly with a wet sound, he gripped under her knee to bend her leg and spread her further, allowing him to slip deeper.

“Yes— Gods, Aemond you make me feel so good—“ She groaned as she gritted her teeth, trying to look down as well, but Aemond pushed her back with his hand on her neck, squeezing harder as a warning.

“Do you like how I take care of you, sister? Your big brother knows how to make you feel good, mh?” He growled as he pressed his forehead on the side of her face.

“Yes— Only you know how to make me feel good— Only you, Aemond—“ She put her hands on his cheeks, pulling him down to kiss her, her tongue hungrily entering his mouth, slipping against his in a ferocious dance, as his pace never relented. He let go of her leg, her hands immediately substituted his, as he squeezed her breast in his hand, trailing it down to her core soon after.

“You’ll come for me, on my cock.” He grunted. “Then you’ll swallow my seed.” He said before kissing her again, his fingers finding her clit, putting the right amount of pressure, moving them in circles as he swallowed her loud moans, as the room filled with loud noises of wet skin slapping.

“Mmmh— Fuck! Aemond—“ She threw her head back against his pillows, his scent enveloping her and making her head spin as her pleasure kept on building, her walls clenching on him like a vice as she felt herself coming closer to her orgasm.

“I need you— Come back to me—“ She moaned as pressed his fingers harder, moving them faster, feeling her orgasm close as her walls kept squeezing him more and more, repeatedly.

“Always, my love— You’re the only one I have to come back to—“ He moaned as he looked down at her, her body covered by a thin layer of sweat, her skin glistening under the light, her breast dancing in front of his eye. He held back his orgasm, trying to concentrate on bringing her over the edge.

“Come for me. I want to see you come undone.” He ordered her as he tightened his grip on her neck, the pressure making her head spin even more, losing contact with the world.

“Fuck— Yes! Aemond!” She moaned loudly as she came, her walls sucking his cock inside, making it hard for Aemond to hold back. He raised himself, gripping her hips to push her back to meet every of his rough thrusts, prolonging her orgasm until he saw her squirming under his eye. He pulled out of her, jerking humid furiously as he gripped her hair, she turned quickly on her stomach, despite her strong orgasm, she let him push his cock in her mouth, sucking him and swirling his tongue on his length, tasting the mix of her juices on his skin. She moved her hand to jerk what she couldn’t reach with her mouth, as he used the grip on her hair to move her fast, staring down at her.

“Swallow, you will swallow it all.” He growled as he pushed her head on his, making her gag and choke on his cock as the tip touched the back of her throat. She moved her hand on his thigh, gripping it and digging her nails in his skin as she heard his grunts, followed by a long groan, his semen spilling in her mouth as she swallowed it all. He panted as he let go of her hair, she pulled immediately back, breathing heavily as she licked him clean, devotedly. He looked down at her, caressing her hair, moving them to the side to be able to look at her, then he moved his thumb on her soft cheek, wiping away her tears that she spilled due to the struggle to take him all. He put his hand under her chin, lifting her up to meet his lips, kissing her tenderly as he pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her. They both laid back on the bed, looking at each other in silence, stroking their faces with tender caresses.

They didn’t need words, they just had to look at each other’s eyes.

She could see his face, she could see that he was worried too.

They had something to lose.

He moved closer, burying his face in her breast. She immediately wrapped her arms around his head and shoulders.

War was unpredictable. They were both well aware of that, no matter how perfect Aemond’s and Cole’s plan was, there was always a possibility.

“Ossēnagon zirȳ ry. Māzigon arlī naejot issa.” She looked down at him, caressing his hair

"Kill them all. Come back to me."

“Kesan biarvī manaeragon ñuha ērinnon iemnȳ ao, mandia.” He pressed a kiss between her breasts as if to seal his promise.

“I’ll celebrate my victory inside you, sister.”

They had each other to lose.

They were both aware of that, and that was the reason why they had something else written in their eyes.

Determination.

They’ll let no one separate them.

Not even the stranger itself.

Taglist: @ka1afbr @cynic-spirit @ladythornofrivia @zenka69 @queenofthekeep @adorewhatever @diannnnsss @kotadislikesthissite @iloveallmyboys @valyrianflower @dixie-elocin @gelacat0413 @quinquinquincy @mamawiggers1980

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vhagarys · 3 months ago

Text

Issa Ānogar {My Blood}

pt. 1

targaryen!siblings x reader, brother!aemond x reader, brother!aegon x reader, sister!helaena x reader

summary: drunken words are sober thoughts. you confess your desire for your siblings and come to find such affections are more than reciprocated.

warnings: canon-typical incest, brother x sister, slight voyeurism, eventual smut, groping, horny reader!, sexual harassment, possessive!targ!siblings

MDNI

The queen dowager requested her children along with some of the Hightower’s closest allies to join in a banquet to celebrate their victory over team black.

Rows and rows of the finest meats and cheese, as well as decadent cakes and pastries were prepared. Servants floated around the room with goblets of wine and small delicacies.

Much to their displeasure, Aegon, Aemond, and Helaena arrived and greeted their mother.

Their mother excused herself from the small group of riverlords and kissed each of her children.

“You all are dressed nicely, where may i ask is your sister?” Alicent questioned.

Immediately, they turned to scan the room in search of you, their little sister usually always punctual with such events.

“Perhaps she’s still in her chambers dressing? she did ride on dragonback this morning,” Helaena offered.

Aegon scoffed, “I believe sister had the right idea in not attending such a mundane affair. I’ve no desire to sip wine with these leeches of the crown”.

Alicent gave her son a disapproving look. “Your presence is required at this ‘mundane affair” my king. I’m sure helping yourself to the refreshments won’t prove too burdensome.” With that, she began to venture back into the crowd to greet their guests.

Meanwhile, you had just returned from a visit with some friends of yours.

What started off as a quaint lunch in the garden, soon turned south as the wine began to flow. It was as if your glass would magically refill itself as soon as you emptied it.

Now, you were positively intoxicated. You were escorted back to your chambers, although proved quite the challenge as you made a point to run and hide from the guards.

Everyone in this blessed castle have sticks up their arse, you rolled your eyes.

After arriving to your chambers, your servants immediately approached you. “Princess Y/N, you’re supposed to be at the banquet your mother is hosting,” one of them clicked their tongue disapprovingly.

You turned to her and pulled her into an embrace and pulled away to gaze upon her face.

“You have the most lovely eyes i’ve ever seen,” you lightly squeezed her cheek.

“W-why thank you my lady. now which dress do you wish to wear tonight?” She went to grab a modest green gown. dull, drab, with its neckline reaching up over your collarbones.

“The queen dowager requests you wear this tonight princess, I believe you’ll look positively beautiful.”

Scanning over the dress, you shook your head in disapproval, marching towards your dresser.

“That will just not do. i am a woman grown and should be dressed as such,” your hazy mind drifted, and an idea soon popped into your head.

You always envied the dresses made for your older sister Helaena, crafted to show off her womanly figure and all her newly presented curves.

Stumbling towards the door, you offered no more than a quick, “one moment!” and dashed down the hall to your sisters chambers.

Rummaging through her closet, your eyes met the perfect dress for tonights affairs.

A rich, emerald gown with a plunging neckline, adorned with a thin belt around the waist area made of small golden coins. There were specks of gold on the sleeves and the back of the dress dipped down to your hips.

Clutching the dress in hand, you all but threw the dress in the air toward your servants.

“This will suffice”, you were giddy with the notion you’d finally a how off your womanly figure.

It was tiresome upkeeping the virtuous position of the youngest targaryen daughter. You’d grown tired of people treating you as if you were a fragile doll on the verge of cracking.

As a women of ten and 9, you wished for people to look at you with the desire and lust they did for other ladies of court.

Before your servants had time to properly fix your hair, you ducked under their busying hands and and out the door.

The copious amount of wine buzzed through your veins. Any thoughts of prudishness or doubt drowned with each sip.

With a small nod, the guards at the door opened the doors to the banquet, you could barely hide the satisfied grin etched on your face.

As you made your way into the hall, voices seized and heads swiveled to gaze at the culprit to arrive at such tardy hour.

Your newfound confidence allowed you to meet their gazes and grin at their stunned faces as you walk threw the crowds of lords and ladies.

At the sound of the door opening, your siblings turned to see you waltzing in, a bit clumsily to say the least.

The three of them were fixated on their dear sister, noting the stark contrast in her usual attire. They scanned over your exposed breasts and back, the dress leaving little to their imagination as it clung to every crevice of your body.

Aemond tried his best to remain composed as he watched you make your way around to all the lords in attendance, fluttering your eyelashes and reaching out to greet them.

“Well well, our sister sure knows how to make an entrance.” Aegon admired the way your breasts practically spilled out of your dress. He felt his pants tighten and reached down to adjust himself.

“I believe our sister borrowed one of my gowns this evening,” Helaena chuckled. She couldn’t help but admire you, she always held such a fondness for you that was beyond sisterly affection.

It was quite common for the pair of you to change in front of each other, sometimes even bathe together. She knew her eyes always lingered a bit too long on your bare form.

Sometimes she would fantasize of her mouth between your legs, indulging in the taste of your juicy cunt like a man starved.

The siblings were broken out of their train of thought when your voice broke through the conversations being made.

You climbed up to the top of the steps at the royals table and cleared your throat.

“A toast!” you declared with a shit eating grin. You turned to look at your brother, the king adorning his valyrian steel crown.

You bowed, knowing you gave him the perfect view of your breasts and smirked, “to my brother, king Aegon, for his bravery on the battlefield and for leading us to victory!”

Aegon shamelessly bit his lip and matched your smirk, “Anything for family dōna haedar (sweet sister).

You then turned to Aemond, excited at the prospect of making your older brother blush.

“To my brother Aemond, who fearlessly rode his dragon vhagar and defeated our enemies in the sky!”

You took a sip of your wine as Aemond shifted in his seat and cleared his throat, nodding at you quickly before looking down at his plate.

You then turned and stalked toward your elder sister, confusion evident on her face as you stood in front of her.

You stared into her eyes, “ to my dear sister Helaena, for protecting me from harm whilst the battle raged on. For keeping me company during the day and in the nights when i couldn’t sleep,” Helaena sat impeccably still as you bent down and kissed her on the cheek. A pink hue immediately consuming her face as she stared back at you.

Your mother and Otto exchanged a glance, baffled by your odd behavior.

You nearly tripped as you climbed up to stand on the table and face the crowd. “Let us drain our cups to celebrate our newfound freedom. Kostagon īlva ērinnon maghagon zūgagon isse lī qilōni nykeōragon gōvilagon īlva,” a few drops spilled down you chin as you drained the last of your wine. (May our victory bring fear in those who stand against us).

The crowd applaused and lifted their cups to meet your toast, your mother urging the guards to remove you from such a compromising predicament.

Suddenly, a presence behind scooped you up under your knees, making you yelp in suprise.

“How much have you drunk sister?” Aemond murmured in your ear as he brought you back to the royal table.

Aegon couldn’t contain his laugh at his sisters outburst.

You wound your arms tightly around Aemond’s neck as he attempted to set you down.

Finally, you conceded and plopped into your chair next to your king brother.

“Little sister, you are too far gone,” Aegon tucked a piece of your silver hair behind your ear.

Reveling in the attention, you giggled, “ Whatever do you mean, dear brother. i am just delighted with our families victory!” You proceeded to gulp down the goblet of wine in front of you and pop a lemon cake into your mouth.

“Perhaps you should retire for the night sister, until you’re clear of mind,” Helaena suggested. her hand absentmindedly reached out for yours.

You looked at her for a moment, before a mischievous smile grew on your face.

“Mandia, do you like my gown?” you asked, hoping she knew where you procured it from. (older sister)

Helaena lightly chuckled, “MY gown looks even better on you, you look beautiful.”

You turned to your king brother, “What do you think, lekia? does it look nice on me?” (brother) you had taken the time while speaking to Helaena to slightly pull down the bodice of your dress, leaving your cleavage even more on display.

“Ravishing, I’d be wise to command all the lords here to steer clear of you. Wouldn’t want my dear sister caught up in these men’s affections-” he shamelessly stared down at your breasts and pursed his lips. “could we, hm?”

You could just make out the darkening in your brothers eyes, and when you turned to Aemond you could see him wearing a similar expression.

“Oh brother, you needn’t worry about other suitors”, your eyes twinkled as the wine coursed through your veins.

You slowly leaned over to whisper in his ear, “Because i only want the three of you,” you boldly kissed the outside the kings ear.

Helaena and Aemond were frozen at their sisters revelation. you pouted, “You do not want me? I thought we were meant to have each other, body and soul?”

The words tumbled out of you mouth without a second thought, “It’s family tradition to claim each other, is it not? I’ve preserved my maidenhood just for you issa ānogar” (my blood)

You leaned in once more to daringly grip Aemond’s cock through his riding leathers. “I can feel your desire for me lekia, do you deny it?,” you pouted.

aemond promptly gripped your arm and yanked your hand away.

“Sister, there are prying eyes everywhere,” he hissed as he look at you disapprovingly.

The taste of rejection settled on your tongue. You couldn’t see the turmoil coursing through your siblings, all three so close to admitting their shared desires for you.

You huffed and pushed out your chair. “I suppose, then, i shall have to find a suitable lord to satisfy my needs. I’m sure any man here will delight in claiming my innocence, filling me with their seed. perhaps lord strong-“

Aemond forced you back into your chair and loomed over you, gripping your face just hard enough to silence you.

“Nyke dōrī knew īlva mandia istan mirrī līve,” he chuckled cruelly. (I never knew our baby sister was such a little whore).

His eyes traveled down to your exposed breasts and softly hummed.

Your eyes widened at the filthy words.

Knowing no one else at the table could understand them, Aegon added, “Skorkydoso bē nyke obūljagon ao toliot bisa qurdon se leghagon ao rūsīr issa nūmo, ao raqagon bona?” (how about i bend you over this table and fill you with my seed, would you like that?). Your small clothes began to dampen with arousal.

To onlookers, it simply appeared as your brothers doting on you, as Aegon lightly traced circles on the small of your back.

Helaena’s eyes began to cloud with lust as she saw her brothers words effect on you. You rubbed your legs together at your brothers depraved words.

“Please”, was all you could muster as you looked over at your sister. Here you were, doe eyes begging her siblings to defile, corrupt as they please.

Soon, she leaned over and whispered in your ear, “Gūrogon aōla se jikagon naejot aōha”. (excuse yourself and go to your chambers).

Your mind was hazy with desire for your siblings, fantasizing about this day for years. A part of you knew you would end up with them, as it was Targaryen tradition. The wanton lust you carried for each of them only the cherry on top.

Scanning the room, you spotted your mother and beelined over to her.

“Dear mother, i’m afraid i need to retire to my chambers. I feel i need to lie down” your mother caressed your face.

“Have you fallen ill, dear? Your cheeks are quite flushed.”

You could feel their gaze on you. Stumbling over your words, you chuckled nervously, “I-I think I outdid myself with the refreshments”.

Your mother clicker her tongue critically, “You certainly made a spectacle of yourself tonight. I hope you’ve learned from this.” you nodded.

With a final scan over your form, Alicent bid you good night and kissed your forehead.

Your mind swirled with the possibilities of what they would do to you. You felt slick running down your legs at the unspoken promise in your sisters words. Soon, i will have them.

The door was in your sights as a hand reached out to stop you in your tracks.

“I must say, princess you look absolutely divine this evening,” lord Bronn Lannister brought your hand to his lips and smiled at you.

You could smell the wine on his breath, just as he probably could with you. You took a slight step back and curtsied, “You are most kind, my lord. if you’ll excuse me-”

“And where could such a lovely lady be running off to, the party is far from over,” he yanked you back into his space. He twirled a lock of your hair between his fingers, pressing himself disgustingly close.

“If you are in need of entertaining, I’d be happy to oblige,” his eyes shamelessly raking over your form.

Bile began to rise at your throat. The panic at his bold behavior surged through you, and you tried to pull away to no avail.

“Let me go, you’re hurting me-”

“Quite the gentleman, lord lannister. you’ve certainly outdone yourself tonight. Do you have such little regard for your life that you’d dare touch the princess?” your brother Aemond yanked him back by his collar.

“I-”

A hand from behind slithered up to squeeze his shoulders. “I could have your hand chopped off for laying a hand on my sister. even better, i could have you hanged at this very party,” Aegon whispered behind him, delighting in watching lord lannisters skin crawl.

“Forgive me, my king. I-I meant no offense-“

“It’s not them you should be apologizing too,” your older sister pulled you into her embrace. You buried your face in your neck to calm yourself, overwhelmed with what had just transpired.

“Sister, he frightened me,” you whimpered into her neck, her hand reaching up to stroke at your hair.

Aegon and Aemond fumed at seeing their sister in such distress.

“sir criston!” Aegon roared, “Perhaps Lord Lannister needs a refresher in banquet etiquette. why don’t you escort him down to a cell,” he took one of the lannisters cheeks in his hand and smiled sinisterly. Then, he wound his arm back and struck him with such force his stumbled to the ground.

The crowd stilled as the scene unfolded. Lord lannister was then unceremoniously dragged through the doors and down towards the cells.

Aemond once again took you in his arms and walked out of the banquet hall. As you did earlier that night evening, you tightly wound your arms around his neck for fear of losing him.

The three of you silently walked back to your chambers, Aemond keeping you his arms as he sat you both on the bed.

After a few minutes of silence, you mustered, “K am sorry for my outburst and the events that followed. I admit i have had my share of wine tonight, i just wanted to-“

Aegon took your chin in his hand and stared deeply into your eyes, “Dear sister, you have no reason to apologize. I will have that cunts throat for putting his dirty hands on you.”

The idea of your brother executing lord lannister made a bolt of desire spark through you. Knowing your brother possessed such power and would wield it to protect you made you rub your thighs. Aemond felt every ounce of it.

A yawn soon broke the silence. Aemond began to lay you back on your bed until you softly whined, “Brother i cannot sleep in such a contraption, can you unlace the corset?”

He was surprisingly deft at weaving through the bindings of your dress. Soon, you were left in a small cream colored shift, leaving nothing to the imagination.

Helaena tried not to stare, although proved futile as you reached over to kiss her on the cheek. “Sister, you look very beautiful tonight as well. the gods have blessed me with such a ravishing sister ,” the last bit of wine in you spoke as you pulled the shift over your head, leaving you bare for your siblings.

Aegon shamelessly looked over your body. He saw the way your nipples perked from the breeze, He had to contain his groan.

Moving down past your perfectly sculpted birthing hips, he ogled at his sisters plump, juicy cunt. Oh, how easy it would be to spread your thighs have a taste.

Perhaps he’d indulge in your cunt whilst you slept the wine away. He knew he could bring you to peak on his tongue, even in sleep.

Knowing you were on the brink of sleep, Aemond refrained from lingering on your form too long. Already feeling the effect of seeing your naked body in his riding leathers, he reached for the blanket to cover you.

Your head hit the pillows. and as your mind was pulled closer to the realm of sleep, you muttered, “I do want you, all three of you. issa ānogar.” (my blood)

A subtle glance was exchanged between the three of them before Helaena kissed you sweetly on the forehead. “Sleep well little sister.”

The doors to your chambers closed behind them and Aegon chucked,” How am i to sleep when our sister practically begged for me to spear my cock inside her”.

“Hush,” Aemond hissed, knowing there were likely guards lurking about.

“We will speak of this on the morrow. perhaps it was only the wine talking, she seemed quite out her wits,” Helaena suggested with the slightest tone of disappointment.

“She wants it. She craves it,” Aegon made to walk back into your chambers. Aemond snorted and abruptly stopped him with a shove to the chest.

At the sound of steps drawing closer, the three of them separated to their respective chambers.

The ache between your legs only worsened as the night grew later. You were enraptured in the most depraved of dreams. Imagery of your brothers impaling you on their cocks and filling you to the brim with their seed, all while getting lost in the taste of your sister’s cunt swirled through your mind.

You would soon wake with an inescapable hunger that only they could satiate.

— PART 2

i hope you enjoyed! planning on doing a part two so comment if you’d like to be added to the tag list! ♥︎

- alice 𓆩𓆪

#aemond targaryen #hotd #prince aemond #aemond one eye #aegon fic #aegon smut #aegon x reader #house targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #aemond smut #hotd smut #targa #helaena targaryen #hotd helaena #house of the dragon

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kckt88 · 3 months ago

Text

Stake My Claim.

Summary:

Aemond knows his older brother lusts after his wife, so he decides to show Aegon what he will never have.

Warning(s): Angst, Jealousy, Possessive Behaviour, Dark Aemond, Uncle/Niece Incest, Begging, Smut, Kissing, Oral Sex, Fingering, P in V, Mutliple Orgasms, Multiple Positions, Squirting, Spit Kink, Breeding Kink, Slight Dom/Sub Aemond, Forced Voyeurism, Threat Of Murder.

AEMOND x O.C NIECE

Word Count: 8972

FILTHY/BASICALLY PORN WITH A SPRINKLE OF PLOT!

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated, do not copy/post to other sights without my permission.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9 @killua2dot0 @msassenach @xcharlottemikaelsonx @moonnicole

Prince Aemond Targaryen stood in the grand hall of the Red Keep, his violet eye sharp and brooding as he observed his older brother, Aegon.

The grand hall was filled with courtiers and lords, but Aemond’s attention was focused solely on one thing — the way Aegon’s gaze lingered far too long on his wife Vaelynn.

Aemond’s fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword, his jaw tightening as he watched Aegon, who was supposed to be speaking with one of the bannermen, glance surreptitiously in Vaelynn's direction.

It boiled Aemond’s blood. Aegon had his own wife, Helaena, yet he was letting his gaze drift hungrily toward Vaelynn as it often did.

It was as though Aegon saw everything in the world as his for the taking, as though he had some divine right to whatever he desired, including what belonged to Aemond.

He felt a surge of possessiveness, hot and fierce, rise within him.

Vaelynn was Aemond's — his wife, his partner. Originally their union had been one of family politics, and a desperate attempt to prevent the Targaryen bloodline from splintering into civil war.

It had been his father's final command, a last, dying plea for peace before Viserys had taken his final breath. Queen Rhaenyra, after dispatching those who conspired against her ascent had honoured her father's will and married her eldest daughter to Aemond.

A marriage that had finally united the two warring sides.

But Aemond’s devotion to his wife went far beyond a mere duty to his father’s wishes. Vaelynn was more than just a symbol of peace or a political pawn.

She was his wife, his future Queen, his precious jewel. Her long silver hair shimmered in the light of the torches, her Targaryen features regal and fierce, and every time Aemond looked at her, he was reminded that for once, he had something Aegon did not.

The thought of it thrilled him. Aegon, the first son from their father’s second marriage, had the ease of a life that required no true effort. Aegon, who had never needed to fight for anything.

Aegon, who had never known the pain of loss the way Aemond had when he'd claimed Vhagar and lost an eye in the process. Aegon, who still had the audacity to cast those lecherous glances at Vaelynn, as though he had any right to her.

Aemond’s eye darkened as he watched Aegon sip wine from his goblet, his lips curling into a lazy smirk as his gaze flickered yet again toward Vaelynn.

The possessiveness inside Aemond coiled tighter. He had trained with the sword, studied history and philosophy, and sacrificed his eye to gain his dragon.

But Vaelynn? He would not share her, not with anyone. Least of all with Aegon.

He stood straighter, squaring his shoulders as his gaze flicked to his wife. Vaelynn, graceful and poised, was speaking with a noble woman oblivious to the attention she was drawing from Aegon.

But Aemond saw it. He saw everything. And as his eye shifted back to Aegon, a small, dangerous smile curled on his lips.

The idea came to Aemond like a sudden spark of wildfire in his mind—filthy, depraved, but burning with a savage clarity that made his heart race.

He stood, still as stone, the sounds of the bustling court fading into the background as his thoughts darkened. The more he watched Aegon’s gaze track Vaelynn’s every movement, the more he fed that flame.

Aegon, who had always believed everything was his. Aegon, who likely thought that, with a few charming words and a lecherous smile, he could steal Vaelynn's affection. Aegon, who needed to be reminded—no, taught—a lesson. She belongs to me.

The thought festered inside him, twisting his possessiveness into something more potent, more vicious.

Aemond wanted Aegon to know exactly who Vaelynn belonged to, wanted him to feel the crushing weight of desire and envy as he watched her give herself to someone else—to Aemond. Her husband. Her lover. The one man who could claim her in ways Aegon could only dream of.

The wicked idea solidified; his mind drawn deeper into its shadows. He would make Aegon watch. It was brutal, vile, and the thrill of it surged through him like dragon fire.

He imagined it now, the moment clear as if it were unfolding before him—the two of them, Vaelynn and Aemond, wrapped in the heat of their bedchamber. He would touch her, undress her, claim her with a fervour that left no doubt of his dominion over her.

He would make sure Aegon could see it all—the soft, intimate whispers, the way Vaelynn would arch under his touch, the way she would moan his name as he fucked her. Not Aegon’s. Never Aegon’s.

Aemond’s lips twitched into a dark smile as he imagined the shock, the rage, the helpless hunger on Aegon’s face, forced to bear witness to what he could never have. He would see Vaelynn’s devotion, her loyalty, her desire—all directed at Aemond.

Aegon’s lustful glances, his smug arrogance, would be met with the bitter truth: Vaelynn was Aemond’s wife, bound to him by the law of gods and men, by their bodies entwined in the deepest of intimacies.

Aegon would learn, in the cruellest way, that some things—the most precious things—were beyond his reach.

The thought of it fuelled Aemond’s jealousy and his hunger, both fierce and untameable. Aegon would watch and suffer.

He would see with his own eyes the very thing he coveted most, knowing he could never touch it, never have it, never know the closeness that Aemond shared with her.

Aemond’s pulse quickened. He could already imagine how Vaelynn would react. She was no fool; she understood the tension between the brothers, though she had always carried herself with grace, with a quiet loyalty that was never in question.

And while Aemond had never spoken his suspicions about Aegon’s lecherous stares to her, he knew she was aware of the way her uncle lingered a little too long in her presence.

And so, when the time came, he would make sure Vaelynn knew what he intended. He would guide her through it, speaking to her in that commanding, silken tone that always stirred a reaction from her. And Aegon? Aegon would be forced to sit and watch, powerless, as Aemond claimed what was his.

The very thought was intoxicating. Aegon had always been handed the world without lifting a finger, always had what Aemond had worked so hard to achieve. But not this. Not Vaelynn.

Aemond would ensure that this one thing—his wife, his love, his life—would never be his brother’s, not in any way.

And Aegon would suffer for it.

Aemond moved across the hall with a quiet, purposeful grace, his singular violet eye locked onto Vaelynn. She was standing by the hearth, still speaking softly with one of the noblewomen.

The sight of her, regal and poised in her red and black gown, her long, platinum hair cascading down her back, made his chest tighten. She was so beautiful it hurt, and the more he watched, the more his need for her grew, sharp and insistent.

He reached her side, slipping in behind her with a smoothness that belied the dark thoughts racing through his mind.

His hand, warm and possessive, slid up her arm in a slow, deliberate motion, causing her to shiver beneath his touch. Her skin, soft like silk, prickled with goosebumps as his fingers caressed her, and he could hear her breath catch in her throat.

Bending forward, Aemond let his lips brush the delicate shell of her ear, his voice low, barely a whisper. “You look so beautiful tonight, my love,” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. “I cannot wait until we can make our excuses and leave this place. I want you. Desperately.”

His words were laced with hunger, with a barely contained desire that made her cheeks flush, her posture shift as she pressed ever so slightly back into him.

He saw the way her lips parted, her breath quickening at the feel of his hand against her, and it thrilled him. She was his. Every part of her.

Aemond’s lips grazed her cheek, a soft kiss that sent a shiver down her spine, and he delighted in her reaction—the way her body responded to him without hesitation, the quiet whisper of his name that left her lips, breathless and needy.

“Aemond-” she whispered, her voice low enough that only he could hear it.

They had been married for six moons now, and though their marriage had started with tentative touches and gentle care—her innocence as a maiden requiring patience—it had not taken long for the fire between them to ignite.

Their nights together had grown wild, untamed, as they allowed themselves to give in to the passion that simmered beneath the surface.

Aemond had learned her body as well as he knew his own—how to make her tremble, how to draw moans from her lips as he devoured her sweet cunny, or how to leave her breathless and begging for him as he sheathed his cock inside her and fucked her into their mattress.

And he never tired of her. His appetite for Vaelynn was insatiable, ravenous.

No matter the time of day, he found himself craving her, stealing moments when they could slip away, taking her in their bed or wherever else they found themselves.

It wasn’t unusual for him to claim her multiple times in a single night, each time more intense than the last. And she gave herself to him completely, their bodies entwined in a way that left no doubt of their mutual desire.

He pressed another kiss to her cheek, slower this time, savouring the way her body softened under his touch. But as he kissed her, his eye drifted across the room, locking onto Aegon.

His brother stood near the dais, a goblet in hand, his lips curled into a faint sneer as his gaze flicked toward them. Aegon’s face betrayed his jealousy, the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes darkened with frustration.

Aemond smirked.

Without breaking eye contact with Aegon, he slid his hand to Vaelynn’s chin, tilting her head ever so slightly toward him. He leaned in, pressing his lips to hers in a slow, lingering kiss.

It was tender at first, but there was an underlying heat, a possessiveness that seeped into every movement. He kissed her with intention, with purpose, making sure Aegon could see every moment of it.

When he finally pulled away, Vaelynn’s eyes fluttered open, her cheeks flushed from the kiss, her breath uneven. Aemond’s smirk widened as he looked back at Aegon, whose face had twisted into a seething mask of jealousy.

Let him watch, Aemond thought. Let him burn with desire for what he will never have.

Vaelynn was his, and he would make sure Aegon knew it.

Aemond's grip tightened on Vaelynn’s waist as he whispered against her lips.

“Soon, my love-soon.”

Later that night, after Vaelynn had bid her goodnight to her mother Rhaenyra and her father Daemon, Aemond took her hand with a sense of urgency that made her heart race.

His grip was firm, and the fire in his eye was unmistakable as he led her through the quiet, winding halls of the Red Keep, back to their chambers.

The night air was cool, but the heat between them was undeniable, simmering just beneath the surface.

When they reached the door to their chambers, Aemond paused. He turned to her, his gaze intense, filled with desire.

Before she could speak, he pressed her against the stone wall, his hands moving over her body with a hunger that made her gasp. His lips captured hers in a kiss so passionate it left her breathless, the force of it consuming them both.

She felt his hands roam her curves, caressing her waist, her hips, the press of his body hard and unrelenting against hers.

Aemond’s arousal surged through him, a fierce, insatiable need that had built throughout the evening. Gods, this woman was something else entirely.

Never had Aemond felt so excited. Vaelynn wasn’t just his wife—she was his equal, his match in every way, and the very thought of her, of what they shared, sent waves of desire crashing through him.

When he finally pulled away, his breath ragged, he rested his forehead against hers. They stood there, panting in the dim corridor, the space between them crackling with unspoken intensity.

“I have a plan,” he murmured, his voice rough with need. His fingers brushed her cheek, tender despite the raw desire coursing through him. “I want Aegon to watch.”

Vaelynn’s breath caught, her body still humming from the kiss. She looked up at him, confused at first, but she didn’t speak. Aemond continued, his tone low and dark, as he traced the line of her jaw with his thumb.

“I want to show him that you belong to me, that you’re mine and mine alone. He thinks he can stare at you, desire you, but he will never have you. I want him to see it, Vaelynn,” he whispered, the possessiveness in his words unmistakable. “I want him to watch as I take you to bed, to see what he can never have. He needs to know.”

As he spoke, Vaelynn remained silent, her eyes wide but unreadable. For a brief moment, fear flickered inside Aemond’s chest.

Had he gone too far? Had his twisted desire to show his dominance over Aegon horrified her? He was prepared for her to push him away, for her to recoil at his suggestion, to tell him that this need, this dark urge, was too much.

But then, she surprised him.

Vaelynn surged forward, her lips crashing into his with a ferocity that caught him off guard. The kiss was wild, primal, filled with a heat that burned hotter than any flame.

She kissed him as if she could devour him, her hands pulling him closer, her body pressing against his with an intensity that left him breathless.

When she finally pulled away, her cheeks flushed and her breathing heavy, her eyes locked onto his, gleaming with the same fierce hunger he felt.

“I understand,” she whispered, her voice low, her lips brushing against his as she spoke. “I understand why you need this, Aemond. And I want it too.” Her words sent a flare of arousal through his body, her breath hot against his skin. “I want to show him that I belong to you. I want him to see what he can never have.”

Aemond’s heart pounded in his chest. They truly were a match made in heaven, each feeding off the other’s desire, each willing to push the boundaries to claim what was theirs.

His possessiveness was met with her fiery loyalty, and he had never felt so connected to anyone in his life. She understood him—his demand to be in control, his hunger for dominance, his need to be loved—and she shared it.

Vaelynn’s lips curved into a smirk, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “But how, Aemond? How do you plan to get Aegon to our chambers?”

Aemond’s own smirk deepened as he stepped back, his hand reaching for the door.

Vaelynn’s brow furrowed in confusion as she stepped into their chambers, the door creaking open.

The room was dimly lit by the flickering glow of candlelight, casting long shadows across the floor. Her breath hitched when her eyes fell on the chair facing their bed.

Aegon sat bound to it, his arms tied to the wooden frame with thick rope, his face twisted in a mix of anger and frustration. His mouth opened in a snarl as he saw them, his eyes wild with disbelief.

“Let me go, Aemond!” Aegon barked, his voice filled with rage as he struggled against the restraints. “This is madness!”

But Aemond only smiled, stepping inside the room and closing the door behind him with a heavy click of the lock.

“No, brother,” he said, his voice calm and dark as he moved closer to Vaelynn, his hand resting possessively on her waist.

Vaelynn’s eyes met Aegon’s, and she could see the mix of desire and fury in his gaze.

But all she felt was excitement, her body pulsing with the same hunger Aemond had stirred in her earlier.

She looked back at her husband, her heart pounding, and whispered, “Show him.”

Aemond’s lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile as he turned her toward the bed. "With pleasure."

Aemond’s grip tightened around Vaelynn’s waist as he guided her toward the bed, positioning her directly in front of Aegon.

The soft flicker of candlelight cast shadows along her figure, making her pale skin glow in the dim room. Aemond’s eye never left his brother, his gaze sharp and filled with cruel satisfaction as he reached for the delicate laces of Vaelynn’s gown, his fingers working methodically to undo each knot.

Aegon, bound to the chair, turned his gaze to the floor, his jaw clenched, refusing to look. The tension in the room was thick, a palpable mixture of desire, jealousy, and anger.

Aemond noticed his brother’s reluctance and snarled, his voice cold and commanding.

“You’ve had no problem gazing upon my wife before,” Aemond said, his tone laced with venom as his fingers slipped the final lace free, the gown hanging loosely from Vaelynn’s shoulders. “So, you will watch now.”

Aegon hesitated, his body still for a moment, the weight of Aemond’s words sinking in. Slowly, reluctantly, his eyes lifted, dark and stormy, settling on Vaelynn.

Aemond smirked in satisfaction, feeling the power of his control over his older brother. With a gentle tug, the silken material of Vaelynn’s gown slid off her shoulders, falling in a soft pool at her feet, leaving her in nothing but a sheer shift that clung to the curves of her body.

Aegon bit his lip, hard, as his eyes betrayed him, taking in the sight of her. The translucent fabric left little to the imagination—the curve of her breasts, the soft swell of her hips, the slender lines of her waist.

She was breathtaking, every inch of her a testament to the beauty of their Valyrian blood. Aegon’s chest rose and fell, his breathing uneven as he fought to control the surge of arousal that rushed through him.

A barely audible groan slipped past his lips as he stared at her, helpless to look away.

Aemond’s lips curled into a smile as he stood behind Vaelynn, his hands sliding up her sides, possessive and deliberate. He leaned in close to her ear, his voice soft, but loud enough for Aegon to hear every word.

“Isn’t she beautiful, brother?”

Aegon remained silent, his jaw clenched, struggling to maintain some semblance of control as he watched Vaelynn’s bare form through the thin shift. His eyes flickered, a brief spark of rebellion in them, but Aemond wasn’t having it. His patience wore thin, his fingers gripping Vaelynn’s waist a little tighter as his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.

“I asked you a question,” Aemond growled, his eye blazing with anger as he met Aegon’s defiant stare. “Isn’t. She. Beautiful?”

Aegon swallowed hard, his pride battling against the situation he found himself in. Finally, his voice, rough and barely more than a strained whisper, broke the silence.

“Yes,” he muttered, his eyes flicking briefly to Aemond before falling back to Vaelynn. “She’s beautiful.”

Aemond’s smile returned, smug and triumphant, as he ran his hands over Vaelynn’s body, slowly peeling the sheer shift away from her, leaving her completely bare.

The cool air kissed her skin, but it was Aemond’s touch that made her shiver. He stood back, admiring her for a moment, before his gaze flicked once again to Aegon.

“Good,” Aemond murmured, his voice dangerously calm. “I want you to remember this, brother.”

Without taking his eyes off Aegon, Aemond reached down and undid the belt that held his sword and dagger, letting it fall to the floor with a loud clang.

As the weapons hit the stone floor, Aemond’s hands moved to the rest of his clothes, removing them one by one with deliberate slowness, savouring the moment. His tunic fell to the floor first, followed by his trousers and small clothes, leaving him just as bare as Vaelynn.

His body, lean and strong, was a testament to the hours he spent training, every scar a reminder of his victories.

He stood tall, his presence commanding, as he turned to Vaelynn, his gaze softening when it landed on her.

She looked up at him, her eyes dark with desire, the tension between them electric. Aemond’s lips quirked into a small, possessive smile as he cupped her chin, tilting her face up toward him.

“This-” he whispered, his voice low and intimate, “-is what he will never have.”

And with that, Aemond kissed her, slow and deep, his hand tangling in her hair as he claimed her in front of his brother.

It was a kiss filled with all the passion, possession, and love that had been building since the moment they wed, a reminder of who she belonged to, now and forever.

Aemond circled Vaelynn slowly, his steps measured and deliberate, his eye tracing every curve of her bare body like a predator stalking its prey.

There was an intensity in the way he moved, his gaze devouring her from every angle as if he were committing every inch of her to memory. His breath was heavy with arousal,

Aemond’s gaze darkened with satisfaction, his eye flickering between Vaelynn and Aegon. The sight of his brother, bound and helpless, his face twisted in frustration and arousal, was everything Aemond had hoped for.

It fuelled the possessive fire burning within him, and he was eager to remind Aegon just how much power he held.

With a commanding presence, he stepped back from Vaelynn, his voice low and authoritative as he spoke.

"Kneel" he ordered, his words cutting through the thick air of the room.

Without hesitation, Vaelynn obeyed. She sank gracefully to her knees, her eyes never leaving Aemond's as she positioned herself in front of him, her posture submissive yet confident, entirely at his mercy.

The trust between them was palpable, a silent understanding that neither needed to voice.

Aegon whimpered from his chair, his restraint becoming more unbearable with each passing moment. He struggled against the ropes binding his arms, his face contorting with a mix of desperation and desire.

The sight of Vaelynn kneeling, so willing and obedient to Aemond’s command, only added to his frustration. A low groan escaped his lips, but he was powerless to look away, no matter how much he wanted to.

Aemond’s lips curved into a smug smirk, his eye gleaming with satisfaction as he watched his brother squirm.

Slowly, he reached down and caressed Vaelynn’s cheek, his touch gentle and reverent despite the raw desire simmering beneath the surface.

His thumb brushed over her soft skin, tracing the line of her jaw before he brought it to her plump lower lip, pressing against it with a possessive tenderness.

“Open your mouth,” he murmured, his tone commanding yet intimate, a whisper meant only for her.

Vaelynn, always eager to please him, parted her lips without hesitation, her breath warm against his thumb as she obeyed his command.

Aemond smirked and then spat into her mouth.

“Swallow” he ordered.

Vaelynn closed her mouth and smiled as she swallowed.

Aegon’s strained breaths filled the room, his frustration palpable as he watched, his eyes wide and dark with envy.

He bit his lip hard, trying to stifle the sounds of his helpless arousal, but it was clear that the sight of Vaelynn submitting so completely to Aemond was almost too much for him to bear.

Every twitch of his muscles, every laboured breath, was a testament to the agony of witnessing something he would never experience for himself.

Aemond’s smirk grew as he glanced back at Aegon, watching his brother's pitiful struggle. "You see, brother," Aemond purred, his voice dripping with satisfaction, "She belongs to me-and you will watch."

Aemond extended his hand to Vaelynn, his grip firm yet gentle as he helped her to stand. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down her spine, and she felt the pull of his intensity in every movement, in every glance.

He guided her to the bed, his eye never leaving her, a predator ensuring that his prize remained within reach.

Vaelynn sat gracefully on the edge of the bed, her bare form glowing in the candlelight, a vision of ethereal beauty.

She stole a glance at Aegon, bound and seething in the chair across the room, his cheeks flushed a deep pink, his gaze locked helplessly on her body.

Despite himself, Aegon couldn't tear his eyes away, watching her with a mixture of shame and longing. The sight only fuelled the dark satisfaction building inside Aemond.

Vaelynn's attention returned to Aemond, her hands slowly moving up his lean body, fingers tracing the contours of his muscles with delicate but purposeful intent.

She felt the tremble in his body as her nails scraped lightly across his skin, and he groaned low in his throat, the sound primal, raw with desire.

Her touch held him captive, and as her hands continued their slow, torturous path, she whispered to him, her voice soft but commanding. “Take off your eyepatch, I wish to gaze upon your beauty in its entirety”

Aemond hesitated for only a moment, his lips parting in a quiet whimper, the sound so rare for him, so vulnerable.

She knew what her words, her praise, did to him—how they disarmed him in ways no one else could.

His heart raced in his chest, and the possessiveness in him faltered for just a second, replaced by something deeper, more intimate.

Without a word, Aemond reached up and pulled the eyepatch from his face, the black leather slipping from his fingers to fall carelessly to the floor.

He stood before her, exposed in a way few had ever seen him, the sapphire in place of his left eye glinting coldly in the dim light. It was a mark of his strength, his pain, his triumph—a reminder of what he had lost and what he had gained in return.

Vaelynn gazed up at him, a soft smile curving her lips as her eyes traced over his face.

The sapphire, so stark and striking, only added to the beauty that was uniquely his. He stood before her, raw and powerful, and her heart swelled with affection and desire.

“Ñuha gevie zaldrīzes” whispered Vaelynn, her voice laced with adoration (My beautiful dragon).

Aemond’s breath hitched at her words, his body responding to the warmth of her gaze and the tenderness in her voice. She saw all of him—the scars, the vulnerabilities—and still, she called him beautiful.

It was a power she wielded over him that no one else could ever claim. His hands trembled slightly as they came to rest on her shoulders, his thumb tracing soft circles on her skin as he gazed down at her with something that went beyond possession.

Vaelynn leaned forward and pressed a series of tender kisses to his bare stomach, her lips brushing against his pale skin.

Aemond closed his eye and let out a low groan as he felt her teeth grazing against him.

Aegon’s gaze was transfixed, no longer able to look away as Vaelynn leaned forward, her bare form moving with graceful, deliberate intent.

She pressed her soft lips to Aemond’s stomach, her touch feather-light, trailing kisses along the ridges of his taut muscles. Each kiss sent a ripple of pleasure through Aemond, his body responding to her affection with a barely contained hunger.

Aegon’s insides twisted in a storm of jealousy and desire, watching helplessly from his bound position as his younger brother stood in a state of near reverence before Vaelynn.

Aemond’s hands instinctively moved to her hair, his fingers weaving through the silver strands as he tilted his head back, his chest rising and falling with laboured breaths.

His voice, deep and rough with need, cut through the silence like a blade, the words slipping from his lips in their mother tongue, soft and intimate.

“kostilus, ñuha gevie ābrazȳrys,” he rasped, his voice a low growl, urging her on with each kiss. (Please, my beautiful wife).

Aegon’s jaw clenched at the sound of Aemond’s voice, rasping and raw with devotion for Vaelynn. There was something different in it—a passion that Aegon had never heard before.

The language of Old Valyria, spoken between them with such intimacy, felt like a knife twisting in Aegon’s gut. It was as if he were not only excluded from the moment but from a bond that ran deeper than flesh—a connection forged in fire and blood, something he could never possess.

As Vaelynn continued her trail of kisses, Aemond’s grip on her hair tightened, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His eye was half-lidded, his focus entirely on the woman before him.

Then Vaelynn moved back to lay on the bed, her bare body on display, as she reached out for Aemond and pulled him on the bed with her.

“Let me show Aegon how I take care of you” muttered Vaelynn as she placed kisses along Aemond’s sharp jaw and then down his neck, making sure to gently nip and suck his skin as she went.

She carried on moving down, pausing as she reached his chest, she grinned as she looked up at Aegon before taking one of Aemond’s nipples into her mouth, her tongue teasing it before she bit down gently.

“FUCK” moaned Aemond.

“Does ñuha dārys like that?” asked Vaelynn as she moved across and gave his other nipple the same attention, (My King).

“Oh. Gods” whimpered Aemond as she moved further down his body, her tongue and teeth grazing his pale skin.

Aemond’s gaze moved to Aegon who was watching intently.

Aegon’s body tensed, his heart racing as the jealousy burned hotter, more potent with each passing moment. His gaze flicked between the two of them, torn between wanting to look away and the torturous need to watch.

When Vaelynn reached the trail of hair from his belly button down to his cock, she pressed her nose against him and giggled when she felt the hair tickle her skin.

“Kostilus ñuha jorrāelagon” begged Aemond (Please my love).

“Ao līs umbagon ñuha zaldrīzes” replied Vaelynn (You must wait, my dragon).

Aemond stared down at his naughty wife, his mouth hanging open as Vaelynn’s warm, wet mouth wrapped around the head of his cock.

Her tongue gently moving around the tip – tracing the ridges and licking off that drops of pre-cum that had started to leak out.

“Fuck, Vaelynn” groaned Aemond as he threaded his fingers through his wife’s silver hair.

Vaelynn ran the flat of her tongue along Aemond’s length, tracing every hard inch of him.

Aemond’s heart almost stopped when she sucked his stones into her mouth, one at a time.

Her hand moving slowly over the hard length of him.

When Vaelynn moved and engulfed Aemond’s cock in her mouth again, he squeezed his eye shut.

But Aemond forced himself to open his eye, he needed to watch as his wife sucked his cock.

“Your taking me so well. Such a good girl” moaned Aemond.

Aemond knew it would push the limits of his control, but he did not care. He just had to watch his cock disappear into Vaelynn’s mouth and see it come back out, shining with her spit.

Her head moving back and forth, her perfect pink lips stretched around him.

“I’m not going to last if you carry on” Aemond admitted.

Vaelynn smiled slightly and began moving faster, also using one of her hands in rhythm with her mouth.

Then she moved her other hand over his stones, caressing them before she slid one of her fingers towards his hole.

“F-Fuck” moaned Aemond as she gently massaged over the tight ring of muscle.

“Do you like that ñuha raqiarzy?” asked Vaelynn (My beloved).

“Y-Yes” exclaimed Aemond.

“What about this?” asked Vaelynn as she put a finger into her mouth and then returned it to his hole before she gently slid the tip of her finger in.

“It feels so good-that’s it” groaned Aemond.

“More?”

“Y-Yes. P-Please. M-More” groaned Aemond.

Vaelynn responded to his statement by relaxing the back of her throat, and swallowing as much of her husband’s cock as she could, whilst her finger slowly moved inside him.

“Another-p-put another inside me” begged Aemond his body rocking against her.

Vaelynn smiled and gently added another and Aemond began to whimper as she curled her fingers inside him.

Aegon’s fingers clawed at the wooden arms of the chair, his nails digging into the grain as if he could tear himself free by sheer force of will.

Watching them—watching Vaelynn touch Aemond so intimately and seeing the way his brother unravelled under her hands—was pure agony.

Aegon bit his lip hard, hard enough to draw blood, the coppery taste filling his mouth as he tried to stifle the sound that threatened to escape him.

“Shit-Vaelynn I’m going to come. Oh, fuck, I’m coming!” shouted Aemond as he exploded.

Not hearing Aegon’s moaned gasp of “Fuck”

His wife took every last drop, swallowing his warm seed and licking him clean.

Aegon whimpered slightly at the sound of his brother’s climax, the sound of his voice—so vulnerable, so exposed—made something tighten in Aegon’s chest.

He had never seen Aemond like this, never imagined that his unyielding brother could be reduced to such a state, trembling and begging at the hands of a woman. And yet, here he was, utterly undone by her.

When Aemond recovered, he saw Vaelynn’s self-satisfied smile.

“Was that to your liking husband?” asked Vaelynn.

“Y-Yes. Now get up here and ride my face until I’m ready again” gasped Aemond as Y.N removed her fingers from him and wiped them on the sheets.

“Are you sure” asked Vaelynn

“Sit on my fucking face” ordered Aemond, ignoring his brother’s small whimper.

Vaelynn hovered above Aemond’s face; her knees splayed on either side of his head.

“Such a pretty cock sleeve" breathed Aemond as he ran the flat of his tongue along Vaelynn’s soaked slit, from bottom to the top, tasting her.

“Oh, my god” moaned Vaelynn her eyes rolling into the back of her head.

“That’s it ñuha dōna. Let me hear you” (My sweet).

“YES. It feels so good. Don’t stop. Aemond. Please” begged Vaelynn.

“FUCK” growled Aemond.

Aegon’s breath came in shallow gasps, his heart pounding furiously in his chest as the sight of Vaelynn rolling her hips as his brother devoured her, he was painfully aroused, his body aching with desire.

His mouth was dry, his throat tight, and despite his best efforts, tears of frustration welled in his eyes, blurring his vision.

He blinked rapidly, trying to force them back, but the feeling of helplessness was overwhelming.

“Ooooh A-Aemond” shrieked Vaelynn.

"Delicious" purred Aemond as he began lapping at Vaelynn, running his tongue along every fold.

"More" panted Vaelynn "Please. I need more”.

Aemond inserted two fingers, sliding them in and out of her slick wet folds.

“Oh" whimpered Vaelynn; her chest heaving as she began to gently roll her hips against him.

“That’s it baby, ride my fucking face” groaned Aemond, his cock was so hard that it was boarding on painful.

Vaelynn was giving off a slew of whispered swear words, moans, and pleas.

Aemond’s fingers were soaking wet as they continued to pump in and out of her tight heat, then he grasped her thigh with his other hand and rolled her onto the bed, her back colliding with the soft mattress with a dull thud.

“Ohhh Aemond” whined Vaelynn at the sudden movement.

“I can’t wait to get my cock inside you. I don’t want to wait any longer, come for me baby,” moaned Aemond, his face pressed between her shaking thighs.

Finally, he felt Vaelynn’s inner walls start to flutter around his fingers, squeezing them. Vaelynn’s back arched taut as a bow and she screamed her release.

Aemond pumped slowly and lapped at his wife’s centre as she squirted all over his face.

Aegon’s eyes widened, his pulse quickening as realization dawned on him. Gods, no-did she really just squirt?

He had heard about it before, whispered in courtly gossip and salacious tales shared over wine, but never had he witnessed it himself. He had always imagined, fantasized, but no woman had ever done this for him.

The sight was overwhelming, mesmerizing in its erotic intensity. Aegon’s chest tightened, his arousal spiking to an almost painful level.

A low groan escaped his throat before he could stop it and he felt his cock throb as he spilled his seed.

The look of pure, tortured desire on Aegon’s face did not escape Aemond.

"Did you just spill in your breeches?" Aemond drawled, his voice low.

The words hit Aegon like a blow, and his entire body tensed, his face flushing an even deeper shade of red. He tried to avert his gaze, his lips parting as if to protest, but no words came out.

Aemond’s smirk deepened, his eye glittering with dark amusement as he watched his brother’s reaction.

"-I thought so." Aemond mused, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

Aegon’s humiliation was written all over his face. He could feel the sticky warmth in his breeches, the evidence of his disgrace.

His stomach twisted with shame as he realized he had been so consumed by the sight of Vaelynn and Aemond that he had lost control of himself entirely.

“Hmm” muttered Aemond as he returned his attention to Vaelynn and pressed a series of kisses to her inner thighs, his teeth nipping at her skin.

“P-Please A-Aemond. Need you” begged Vaelynn.

Aemond rose to his knees, his chin shining with her slick, he smirked as he swiped his fingers over his chin and then placed them in his mouth savouring the delicious taste of his wife.

Aemond moved up Vaelynn’s body pausing to grasp hold of her left breast as he ran his tongue over the rosy nipple, his teeth grazing the stiffened peak.

“Oh-yes“ gasped Vaelynn, as he moved to the other breast and lavished it with the same attention.

“Issa jorrāelagon-Issa glaeson-ñuhon” growled Aemond as he seized his wife’s lips in a ferocious kiss, his hard cock throbbing against her thigh (My love-my life-mine).

Aemond wrapped a hand around his cock and slowly ran it over Vaelynn’s wet entrance, she began squirming impatiently against him as he continued to tease her.

“P-Please, I want you” exclaimed Vaelynn desperately.

“Hmm” rasped Aemond as he slid inside her with a singular thrust. His hips coming to a stop against hers.

Aemond started to thrust slowly, trying to prolong the feel of his wife squeezing his cock.

"Faster, Aemond" begged Vaelynn.

"Patience, ñuha dōna" chided Aemond as he ran his nose up his wife’s neck (My sweet).

“Yes, Aemond, just like that-" panted Vaelynn.

Her hands ran over his arms, over his shoulders. Her fingernails raking down his back.

“Fucking mark me harder-“ growled Aemond.

Vaelynn dug her nails into his skin and clawed at his back deep enough to draw blood.

Aegon shifted uncomfortably in his seat, still reeling from the humiliation of Aemond’s mocking words, but he couldn’t stop the stirring deep inside him as Vaelynn and Aemond began again.

The fire between them was unmistakable, an unrestrained passion that filled the room with heat and tension so thick it was almost suffocating. He watched, helpless, as they moved together in a rhythm that was both primal and intimate, their bodies completely in sync.

“Gods-" grunted Aemond, speeding up slightly, revelling in the pain.

"Fuck me, Aemond. Fuck me with that big, cock of yours. You feel so good inside me”.

Aemond groaned loudly, knew exactly what his wife was doing, but he couldn’t help himself. She wanted faster, he was going much faster now.

His pace had increased with every filthy word that dropped from his wife’s luscious lips. Now he was quickly thrusting in and out, shaking the bed, the headboard banging loudly against the wall.

Aemond lifted Vaelynn’s legs onto his shoulders, and wrapped his arms around her thighs, squeezing them together as he thrust his cock into her soaking wet cunny.

His wife folded her arms above her head as she moved her hips, meeting Aemond thrust for thrust.

“Aemond! I’m going to come. Oh, fuck!” screamed Vaelynn.

“That’s it baby-come for me” exclaimed Aemond as he felt her clenching on his cock.

Aemond could feel the tension building in his abdomen, but he didn’t want to come. Not yet.

Not even waiting for her orgasm to fully subside, Aemond moved Vaelynn’s legs off his shoulders and quickly manoeuvred her onto all fours, she whimpered as his cock slipped out, but he bent forward to press a series of kisses to her glorious arse, his large hands kneading the soft pale flesh, before he sunk his teeth into her.

“AEMOND” squealed Vaelynn.

“Hmmm”

“P-Please Aemond” whispered Vaelynn, her voice slightly muffled as she pressed her face into the mattress.

Aemond stuck his finger in his mouth before he ran it over her puckered hole.

“Is this alight?” breathed Aemond.

“Y-Yes. Put it inside me. I can take it” whimpered Vaelynn.

“Tell me-Tell me if it’s too much” replied Aemond as he slowly pressed his finger inside her.

“Ooh Aemond, yes. Please. More” babbled Vaelynn as he moved his finger in and out before adding a second.

“Your doing so well-my darling” moaned Aemond as he moved his fingers inside his wife, his other hand slowly stroking his cock.

“I want you-please Aemond”

Aemond moved into position and sheathed himself inside Vaelynn once again, his eye rolling into the back of his head.

“FUCK-” groaned Aemond,

“God. Yes. Aemond” moaned Vaelynn, his fingers in her arse and his cock deep in her cunt was so good.

Aemond began to thrust in and out of her in deep achingly slow thrusts, his fingers moving in rhythm with his cock.

“Harder-more-please ñuha raqiarzy” wailed Vaelynn (My beloved).

“Issa vaogenka hāedar” growled Aemond, his fingers moving faster (My dirty girl).

“Valzȳrys-” whimpered Vaelynn (Husband).

“That’s it-take it-take all of me” muttered Aemond as he removed his fingers, and grabbed hold of Vaelynn’s hips and increased the pace of his thrusts.

Vaelynn took one of Aemonds hands that was on her hip and brought it to the back of her head.

Knowing what his wife wanted, Aemond placed his hand on the back of her head and pushed her face into the mattress, her back arching.

His cock reaching deep inside her as he moved with such ferocity it could rival an animal, his long silver hair unbound and sticking to his sweaty back.

Aemond then grasped both of Vaelynn’s arms and held them behind her back as he pounded into her, the sound of his hips slapping against hers echoed around the room.

Each movement was filled with a raw, unrestrained hunger that Aegon had never witnessed before.

Vaelynn’s cries of pleasure were muffled by the mattress, her face buried in the soft fabric.

Her body arched in response to Aemond’s relentless rhythm, each cry escaping her lips in a series of desperate moans that reverberated through the room.

Aemond’s grip on Vaelynn was fierce, his movements relentless. He drove into her with a force that seemed almost brutal, but Vaelynn took every thrust with an almost frantic eagerness.

Her body trembled under him, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she surrendered completely to the intensity of their coupling.

“Fuck-that’s it” moaned Aemond.

He released Vaelynn’s arms and then took hold of her long hair, twisting his fingers into the messy braid before he pulled her backwards, her sweaty back colliding with his chest.

Aemond held his wife tight too him as he fucked her, his cock reaching deep inside her.

One hand grasped her hip, his blunt fingers digging into her flesh. Whilst his other released her hair and moved to her throat, squeezing gently.

“Give it to me please” pleaded Vaelynn her head lolling back onto Aemond’s shoulder, her arm reaching behind her to tangle in his hair as their lips connected in a messy, passionate kiss.

“Look at her, brother,” rasped Aemond, his voice laced with dark satisfaction and dominance. “See who she belongs to.”

The words were a taunt, a challenge, and Aegon’s heart pounded with a mixture of torment and desire as he heard them. His eyes were locked on Aemond, unable to look away from the intense display of ownership and passion.

Aegon’s moans escaped his lips before he could stifle them, a sound of frustrated longing and tortured arousal. His body ached with the need for release as he watched the scene unfold, every movement of Aemond and Vaelynn driving him further into madness.

Aemond could feel the tension building in his abdomen again, as he thrust his cock inside Vaelynn.

“I want you to come on my cock again, but not like this-” muttered Aemond as he once again withdrew from his wife’s wet heat and laid across the bed.

“-Aemond” exclaimed Vaelynn breathlessly.

“Ride me-” replied Aemond as he pulled her on top of him. His hand moving to his cock, rubbing it along her folds before she sunk down and completely engulfed him.

“Ooooh” gasped Vaelynn as she rolled her hips against Aemonds.

“That’s it baby, take it. Take all of me”.

Aemond placed his hands on her hips and marvelled at his wife as she rode him.

Vaelynn dug her nails into Aemond’s chest as she moved her hips against his, his cock hitting the sweet spot inside her perfectly.

“See how well she takes me, brother,” Aemond rasped, his voice dripping with satisfaction and dominance. “She feels divine, wrapped around me, her body made to fit perfectly.”

His words were a taunt, a declaration of his complete claim over Vaelynn.

Aemond’s gaze never wavered from Aegon, the intensity of his stare a clear challenge. “I’m going to get her with child,” he said, his voice filled with a dark promise. “You’ll see her all round and full of me, carrying the future King-my heir, my legacy upon the Iron Throne”

The declaration was meant to wound, to make Aegon feel the full weight of his helplessness. But it was Vaelynn’s response that drove Aegon to the edge of sanity.

Her voice, desperate and breathless, cut through the room. “Yes-yes. I’ll give you a son-please put a babe in me” she pleaded, her words sending a shiver down Aegon’s spine.

Aegon’s breathing became ragged, his body straining against the ropes that bound him, his face flushed with a combination of desire and frustration.

“A-Aemond” moaned Vaelynn as he suddenly sat up, moving his hand to her breast again and taking her nipple into his mouth, his teeth biting down on the rosy bud.

“Let go baby, I can feel you clenching around me” exclaimed Aemond, as he moved to the other breast and lavished it with the same attention.

“AEMOND” screamed Vaelynn her vision going white as she came around his cock.

Her husband pulled her closer and then rolled her back onto the bed his cock never leaving her warmth as he pounded into her with a series of deep penetrating thrusts, her legs wrapped around his waist, trapping his body against hers as he chased his own end.

Aemond’s grip on Vaelynn tightened as he neared his own climax, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more forceful.

The noises he made were almost otherworldly, a mix of guttural growls and breathless moans.

“I love you-I love you-I love you” groaned Aemond as he exploded.

The sight of Aemond’s utter surrender, the way he tensed and then finally collapsed onto Vaelynn, left Aegon unable to control himself any longer.

His own release came suddenly, a hot, throbbing wave that he could do nothing to stop. He spilled in his breeches once more, the sharp pleasure of his climax mixing with his lingering frustration and shame.

The noise of Aemond’s climax was a final, excruciatingly beautiful sound that Aegon could barely tolerate.

His brother’s ragged breathing, the way he clung to Vaelynn, the sheer force of his release—it all combined into a potent reminder of his own helplessness.

Aemond’s body tensed against Vaelynn’s, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he rode out his orgasm. Then, as his pleasure subsided, he collapsed onto her, his chest heaving as he relaxed against her.

Vaelynn’s body shifted slightly beneath him, her own breath coming in soft, satisfied sighs as she remained still, embracing the weight of her husband.

She looked up at Aemond with a tender, loving gaze, her hands caressing his back as he rested against her, his breathing gradually slowing.

Aegon watched, his body trembling and his mind reeling, as Aemond leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Vaelynn’s lips.

The tenderness of the moment was a stark contrast to the primal intensity that had preceded it. Aemond slowly withdrew from her, the sheen of sweat on his skin catching the light as he moved gracefully off the bed.

His softened cock shining with the combination of Vaelynn's slick and his spend.

Aemond bent down to retrieve his dagger from where it lay on the floor. The metal glinted in the dim light as he unsheathed it.

His gaze, sharp and knowing, flicked toward Aegon, who was still bound to the chair. Aegon’s face was flushed, tears streaking down his cheeks, his breaths coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

The sight was one of raw humiliation, and Aemond’s smirk widened with a mixture of satisfaction and dominance.

With deliberate slowness, Aemond approached his brother. The blade in his hand catching the light as it moved.

He leaned in close, the tip of the dagger brushing against Aegon’s wet crotch.

Aemond’s voice was a low growl, laced with a dangerous edge. “If I ever catch you looking at my wife again, I’ll cut you from cock to throat” he said, his tone leaving no room for misunderstanding. “Do you understand?”

Aegon nodded quickly, his eyes wide with fear and desperation. The sight of the dagger’s point so close to him, coupled with Aemond’s menacing promise, left him feeling more vulnerable than ever.

“Good,” Aemond said, his smirk growing colder. “Now get the fuck out.”

With shaking limbs, Aegon stood up, his movements unsteady as he hurried toward the door, slamming it shut behind him with a force that echoed through the corridor.

Aemond dropped the dagger onto the floor with a casual flick of his wrist. The metal clattered loudly, breaking the silence that had settled over the room. He turned back to the bed, his expression softening as he returned to Vaelynn.

He climbed onto the bed and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. Her body fit perfectly against his, and she sighed contentedly, her voice a soft whisper as she said his name.

“Rest now, my love,” Aemond murmured into her hair, his tone tender and protective.

As Aemond lay wrapped around Vaelynn, his heart still thrumming with the aftermath of their passion, a sense of deep, primal satisfaction settled over him.

The confrontation with Aegon had been brutal, but it was necessary.

The lesson he had imparted to his brother had been harsh, but it was a declaration of his dominance, a claim he needed to establish.

Aemond’s gaze, now soft and contemplative, drifted over to where Aegon had previously been bound. The sight of his brother’s humiliation, the way Aegon had been forced to witness something so deeply personal and intimate, filled Aemond with a grim sense of triumph.

Vaelynn belonged to him, and he had made it unmistakably clear that no other man would ever be allowed to infringe upon that bond.

Aemond’s mind replayed through the events that has transpired—Each moment was a reaffirmation of his claim, a way to mark his territory and ensure that his position was unassailable. The lesson had been as much about asserting his dominance as it had been about protecting what was rightfully his.

He looked down at Vaelynn, her face peaceful as she nestled against him, her breaths slow and steady.

She was his wife, his partner, and the thought of anyone else daring to come between them was unthinkable.

The possessiveness that surged through him was a deep, almost primal need to ensure that she was safe, cherished, and unequivocally his.

Aemond’s lips curved into a satisfied smile as he pressed a gentle kiss to Vaelynn’s forehead. The warmth of her body against his, the sense of completeness he felt in her presence, reinforced his conviction.

The message to Aegon had been clear, and Aemond took a dark pleasure in knowing that his brother had been forced to witness the depth of his commitment and possessiveness.

In the quiet aftermath, Aemond allowed himself a moment of triumph. He had secured his place, solidified his claim, and made it painfully clear that Vaelynn was his and his alone.

The lesson had been harsh, but it was necessary to protect what he valued most.

As he held Vaelynn close, the sense of satisfaction filled him, a reminder of the lengths he would go to ensure that no one could ever challenge his claim.

Perhaps her bastard Strong brother Jacaerys needed teaching the exact same lesson, as his gaze would often linger upon Vaelynn far to long for Aemond's liking and it made his blood boil.

Yes-he would teach him who she belonged too and he would enjoy doing it, for she was his and his alone.

No one would take her from him.

NO ONE.

A.N - Is Aemond bat shit crazy? Let me know your thoughts......

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