#the binding is fragile

[madeofbees]

them: what kind of eds do you have

me:

[more-than-ideas]

threads that bind

[antaripirate]

made this a couple months ago and forgot to post it🫢 (it’s so dumb)

[multicrazygummybears]

You know your deep in the hyperfixation hole when you make OC's. J.J is an accident prone boy who often breaks things around him, hurts himself or others due to his clumsy nature. This in regards makes some people not really like him due to being a klutz. He is often anxious and a people pleaser despite the dislike.

[salems-lots]

quick doodle of a revolutionary new concept - non wod artemiy

[ He's a medium who died and who's ghost got bound to his own body - which is an incredible privilege amongst ghosts but also. now he has to learn how to be dead ]

[kehannii]

Wouldn’t it be sad/ironic/depressing/funny if sometimes, when there are moments when adrien is plagued by memories and is in the perfect state to be akumatized and Gabriel, instead of wanting to prey on such raw negativity, wants to reach for his son and (hold him, love him, cherish him, beg him for forgiveness) he can’t, he sends a butterfly or three to him, not akumatized ones but the one full of life and light and purity and they gather around adrien and sit on his shoulders, his hand, his cheek, his heart and are just there. They don’t cheer him up but they make those horrible feelings go quiet and distant and he doesn’t allow himself to wonder why purified akumas are surrounding him but instead just enjoys it.

(He doesn’t notice that the butterflies he cant see, the ones on his back, when they leave are no longer pure but instead inky black after feeding off of his emotions, taking away his pain and hurt and returning them to his father because what burden should a son face without his father?)

(When he’s chat noir and sitting alone on a ledge, mourning what he has lost and what will never be his, an akuma comes to him but he isn’t afraid, not when they land on his impenetrable suit, inky and forbidding, teaming with despair and lose. He isn’t afraid even as the akuma brushes against his cheek, his skin where it could corrupt him, instead he holds it in his hands, cups it between his palms and closes them around the akuma like a dome, he touched his forehead to the ball his ands make and breathes out. When he finally opens his hands, a white butterfly flutters out, inky black darkness slipping off its wings as it flies away, brushing his hair as it dies. The purified akuma returns to its master, settles down against the man’s shoulders as they slump in quiet guilty relief)

[impossible-rat-babies]

depending on how beastmaster is handled there is a strong case for it to part of eyrie’s lore, but also please get it far away from them

[magnolia-stella]

I may have to consider amputation.

[neonsbian]

i wish i brought my book w me 😔

[moonlightearss]

you know someone only does something for appreciation when they get upset if you don’t kiss their feet for it or worse if you dare express you don’t like it

[fishnapple]

Their desires, fantasies, and style

(Lover, partner, future spouse)

Disclaimer : Contain mature contents. Minors (under 18y/o) do not interact.

This is a general reading meant for multiple people. Take only what resonates and leave out the rest.

Your feedback is much appreciated. If you find the reading resonated with you, leave a comment, I’d love to know 🎐

About me | Masterpost Book a reading with me - KO-FI (→ personal reading)

CITRINE

Energy : Hawk

They will keep a keen eye on your every action and reaction, your expressions and your voice. They observe them all and commit to their memory. Almost in a detached sense, like a scientist studying their subject.

The energy feels dry and hard, not soft and flowing.

This is a vocal lover. They want to talk and communicate with you in every moment. But not in the soft, gushing type, talking about how they feel, but more like commanding, authoritative type. They will want to tell you what to do, what they're about to do to you, and guiding you. Their tone could be firm and serious.

They want to have a spiritual feel to the act. Like feeling your mind and body expanding, both of you feeling connected to something higher together.

Most likely, the moments they feel the most aroused are when they feel a little sleepy, like before going to sleep or just after waking up, and when they're playing some sport, travelling to foreign place. The feeling of foreignness will make them want to do it with you there, to make a memory, to feel like you guys are experiencing something new together, connecting through new experiences. So that later on, they can associate that place, that activity with you.

Talk about newness. They will have some pretty novelty ideas for experiencing pleasures. Things that could make you or them or both feel a little out of their depth, a little uncomfortable and fearful, to try out new things and see how it goes. Almost like they want to make a library of sexual experiments and memories between you guys. Oh, here is this beach, we made love here once, how we felt, the wind, the scent of saltiness, the graininess and dampness of the sand, the brightness of the moon. Oh, here is this room with a thin wall, how we had to hold our voice, how your hands and arms or theirs are sore and tired. Here is this mattress, how much we wet it. Things like that.

They may like to have 'contrast' in the intimacy, as in big vs small, soft vs hard, light vs dark, inexperienced vs experienced, older vs younger, secretive vs open. So they may like to dress in more formal clothes while you wear little or naked or vice versa. Doing it in place where there are both light and shadow, half dark half light. To feel cool and warm sensation alternatively. To role play as someone in a more powerful position than the other person, to play the rescuer and protector of someone fragile. To have one person rebels against the other. Clashes that create strong emotional reactions.

CARNELIAN

Energy: Turtle

They are very grounded and soft. You will feel peaceful and calm in their arms. There will be a feeling that only you two exist in this world, no disturbance, and nothing else matters. What you guys shared with each other is unique, the story of your life, the kind that you won't need to compare to anything else.

Their energy is giving and balanced. Even the image of the stones remind me of a turtle swimming gently with the current. They will be very attentive towards you, making sure that you feel comfortable, that you are satisfied. Whispering soft and loving words to your ears while holding you close, they probably like to hear those words from you, too. They will want to feel the closeness between you and their body for sure. Holding so close, almost to the point of hurting or suffocating, binding, pinning down, they don't want to have space between you and them. They will try to eliminate and fill in the space. Wanting to penetrate or be penetrated fully and stay connected as long as possible. Like a hunger, an emotional need, could be acting a little bit needy and clingy. They will show themselves fully to you, physically and emotionally open their innermost pure part. They probably like you two to be fully naked, to feel the sensation of skins touching.

They almost dread the climax because it will feel like an ending. They may also like to hold the passion in as much as possible, waiting until it explodes, like wishing for something diligently and finally having that wish fulfilled, the satisfaction will be immense. So they may like to play a little cat and mouse game as foreplay, edging, and delayed climax.

Being held in their arms will feel like you are expanding, despite the physical closeness. Maybe you could feel the sensation of your "outer shell" broke away, leaving the core open, energetically.

For their fantasies, they will want the sex to be soft and fun, smiles, and laughter. Serious but fun and intimate at the same time. The desires would come suddenly, especially when you guys are having fun together, like playing video games, doing some experiments together, you or them or both get turned on and just do it right then and there. They may want to add some surprising elements to spice things up. Could be toys, lingerie, or some unique clothes that get your or their mind going. They could fantasise about doing it in the water, with bubbles around.

They will want to spoil you with gifts. They like the act of giving to their lover. It's not coming from the place of insecurities or fears but just as a genuine desire to make both of you feel good. They understand the give and take in relationship. They want to be both the nurturer and the nurtured. Learning and teaching at the same time. Although they may want to be in the teacher role more. Just be careful not to make it one sided, one is giving too much while the other is just receiving.

OBSIDIAN

Energy: Sea serpent

Something feel very structured and traditional about this person. Like they want to create a cocoon for just the two of you to stay there. Something about the act of holding, of being inside something. They definitely like penetrative sex the most. As for being traditional, it's as in having your first time with each other after marriage and having your relationship sanctioned officially, approved by the society, so they probably won't have cheating fantasies. Why I'm saying that is because I see the Moon stone and the Saturn stone lay down next to each other, both turned to the same direction, as if two people are standing next to each other at the altar.

I also see a fetal position, a creation, a live conceived inside. This person could have a breeding kink. They love the procreative aspect of sex, the idea of creating a new living being together, to be a father or a mother will turn them on. If that's something you feel uncomfortable with, you should communicate clearly and early on with them.

If they want to have sex with you, they probably think of marriage, wanting to have something that lasts. They could even want to "play house", calling their lover their wife/husband and vice versa, hearing their lover calls them that even before marriage.

This person also like routine sex, doing it regularly. They see it as one of the ways to solidify the relationship. Practice makes perfect. It may sound boring but don't be deceived. They know how to bring in both the raw passion and the dreaminess. They will try to satisfy all your fantasies. They alternate between passivity and activeness. Sometimes they want to be in a more passive role, just lay there and receiving, then they will switch and take charge. For all their routines and structures, they are pretty flexible in the act. There will be times when the sex is full of soft touches and slow, with different seduction tactics, another time it will be direct, rough and quick.

They may like the wetness and the heat, the feeling of tightness. They like to use their hands to explore the body of their partner. They also like to say things that nudge you to be more open to experience things. They are open and accepting, their sexual energy is compassionate and nonjudgmental, giving you space to explore and be your true self. But the deliverance of those words could be out of the blue, a little shocking or awkward or irrelevant? Like when you're in the middle of sex and are feeling it, they could tell you that they think the babies will have dark hair like yours (maybe not that irrelevant then)

4. Flourite

Energy: Lion

Immediately I can see that your person likes to assert dominance. Not in the aggressive and crude way but more like showing their self mastery through words, expressions that makes other people respect them.

They are observant and precise in their words. Knowing what will make the other person ticks. Can be strategic and a little manipulative. The image of a lion stalking its prey. I don't feel like they use underhanded tactics or anything, they are dignified and want you to submit to them.

They want to coax out some of your more raw emotions, could be your pains and fears and soothe those. They want you to be open and vulnerable, showing the side of yours that you deemed ugly or unwanted then they will pour their love into that, almost like applying soothing balm. Translate to sex, they will want to make love to you after a long, deep conversation where you shared your pains and wounds, they want the sex to heal. They could get turned on when they see you cry, your teary eyes and crying face will seem beautiful to them. But they don't want to be the one that makes you cry though, there's a difference, it's not like they will bully you into crying to satisfy their desire. This person could have a savior kink. They want to come in and save you from any hardship. There is a certain desire for psychological struggle and pain to be intertwined with pleasure, not exactly physical pain. The explosion of emotions, the abandonment of the self.

Maybe, deep down, they want to do it so their partner gets attached to them, they want to be worshiped a little bit by their partner. To have their partner's attention all for themselves, being adored, being praised. Behind the intimidating and confident image are some insecurities, could be something from their past that they want to move on from. It's actually about their confidence in their ability to love. They feel that they weren't able to save their partner in the past or some obstacles were in the way and they couldn't overcome them. They fear the lack of power. They may mask those insecurities with jokes and a general optimistic attitude though.

They like to take their lover on sudden trips. They may show up at your door one day and hold out two tickets to travel overseas, depart at midnight, just like that. It could be pretty exasperating sometimes. They might get a kick out of having sex or at least having PDA in some public place, somewhere with other people around. Almost like wanting to show off, to make others jealous of the relationship that you guys have.

[youryanderedaddy]

tw: female reader, non - con, manhandling, religious subtext (it's sydney)

Sydney has never felt this way before. He doesn't know the name of that feeling, the warmth that fills his chest and tightens his throat and reddens his cheeks as you sit before him at the library counter. He can't explain the pulse in his loins and the sweat that sticks to his back when you lean in to ask him something and your shirt opens up slightly, revealing such soft, mesmerizing skin. His hands start to itch and his mouth waters and he feels almost thirsty - but water never seems to quench whatever it is he's deprived of.

He wants to ask someone - maybe brother Jordan or his father, but something deep within him, some basic instinct, rings a bell, a reminder that there is nothing pure or holy about the feelings he harbors towards you. He knows love. He's read about it - he knows he loves God, he loves his church, his friends, his books. He knows love is gentle. Love is caring and tender and quiet, love is giving.

But when it comes to you, he only wants to take. He wants to bite your cheeks when you smile, to squeeze you in his arms until he hears your fragile bones crack. He wants to rip off your skin and crawl in your shell - to see your insides, to admire every inch of your flesh for his own sick satisfaction. He even keeps a box of everything you've ever lost - small trinkets, cheap bracelets, ripped socks, locks of hair... Anything to feel closer to you.

And yet Sydney tries to fight his urges - he averts eyes when you bend to pick something and pretends not to notice your bare legs in those mini skirts, the way the school swimsuit hugs your curves perfectly, or how your lips part when you bite down on a pencil. Or the marks of you teeth on the yellow wood, your smugded lipstick as you leave the bathroom, your hands on his shoulder with your nails digging in—

Sydney is a man of God, but you make him question his faith. In the sunlight everything is brighter, but when night comes, so do the nightmares. His pillow becomes softer, warmer - it lingers with the scent of your hair and he can't help imagining you laying next to him with an adoring smile on those luscious lips of yours. And as fatigue spreads over his tired body, his prayers long forgotten, the same dream haunts him - the one he's had since the day he first saw you.

You're no longer laying next to him - you're under him instead. Your hair isn't spread out angelically, but twisted and disheveled, wrapped around his fist. He's towering over you, tilting your chin up - holding you so tightly against his body you can't move an inch. Your eyes are red and swollen, lips bruised and bitten bloody - and you're trembling like an injured animal. You look so small, so pathetically adorable, so very naked and afraid, and splayed out like a feast in front of him, and he just devours you like the predator he knows he is.

You whine something incomprehensible along the lines of a plea, begging to be let go - but all your words become white noise to Sydney. His hands circle your throat painfully and only a few broken moans escape before you shut up completely. The man keeps thrusting into you without a sense of shame, egged on by the deep, inaudible sobs that shake your body to its core. The voice inside his head chants "mine, mine, mine" like a spell, like a curse that binds you both for all eternity.

Sydney always wakes up in cold sweat, unable to catch his breath. It's terrifying, seeing his darkest desires play out over and over each night. And as he tries to catch his breath and forget the taste of your neck on his tongue, there is one thought he never seems to fully rid himself of. How long until dreams are not enough to feed the monster inside of him?

How long until it all becomes reality?

[yeahihyperfixtate]

♡ —infatuated!sylus x reader

content : fluff, light angst (reader is badly injured), mc!reader, sweetpie sylus confessing.

authors note : first sylus fic, might be a pt 2 about dating if demanded <3, req are open!

♡ — infatuated!sylus whose heart almost stopped when he watched you brush with death himself, your instinct to save others never failing to make his blood run cold. used to flirting with fate, laughing in the face of danger with his nine lives to spare, but you—oh, you didn’t have such a thing, especially in that terrifying moment, he realised just how much he couldn’t afford to lose you.

♡ — infatuated!sylus who is just as bloodied as you are, the difference being that the blood he wears is yours. hands trembling as he pulls you into his arms, frantically searching for any sign that you’re still with him, that you haven’t slipped away. his heart is racing, his breath hitching in his throat, until—thankfully, mercifully—he feels the faint rise and fall of your chest beneath his touch.

♡ — infatuated!sylus who swears he’s a religious man when he hears the faint whisper of his name, soft and weak, coming from your lips as he carries you away from the source of danger. his arms tighten around you, a desperate grip as if he could protect you from everything just by holding you close.

♡ — infatuated!sylus who’s voice, breathless from the scare and the overwhelming emotions that flood his chest, finds his words blurted out—his feelings, raw and unfiltered, like a confession that had been clawing its way up from his heart. “scaring me like that… that’s the worst prank you’ve ever played on me, kitten,” he chokes out, his voice both trembling and teasing, trying to cover the rawness of his emotion with humour. “i don’t know what i’d do without you, and i don’t ever want to find out. you hear me?”

♡ — infatuated!sylus who hears nothing but silence from you, no response to his desperate confession, until he feels it—a weak, trembling palm pressed against his cheek, gentle yet grounding. it threatens to catch the tear that slips, unbidden, from the corner of his eye. he looks down, and there it is: your soft, fragile smile, a tiny curve of your lips that speaks louder than words ever could.

♡ — infatuated!sylus whos eyes meet yours, hazy but filled with something that quiets the storm inside him. no words are muttered, but none are needed. in that one look, he sees everything—trust, understanding, love. his heart aches with a fierce, protective devotion as he leans into your touch, his hand covering yours as if afraid you might slip away again.

“i’ve got you,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion. “i’m right here, and i’m not going anywhere. ever.” the promise lingers in the air, carried on the breath of his fear and his relief, binding him to you more deeply than he ever thought possible. and he swears, in that moment, that he will never take a single second with you for granted again.

[hearts4hughes]

tied up - rafe cameron x fem!reader

warnings: master manipulator!rafe ; mentions of violence ; sexual innuendos towards the end

a/n: the second i saw rafe tied up and sweaty in this episode, i KNEW i had to write about it. this is probably the first of many writings relating to this scene.

the ship rocks gently beneath you, creaking in time with the water lapping against its sides. you step carefully, feeling the weight of the metal plate in your hands, warm against your fingertips. the scent of food mixes with the salt air, thick and lingering, though you’re sure he won’t touch it. rafe sits a few feet away, hands bound to a pipe in front of him, his head drooped forward. he doesn’t look up as you approach, but you can feel his awareness.

you pause, just out of reach, and the light catches his profile—a bruise blooming darkly his eye, his lip split and red, dried blood marking his mouth like some careless stain from when jj knocked him out. he lifts his head slowly, almost deliberately, and his gaze finds yours. his eyes are sharp, narrowed, an intense blue like broken glass in sunlight, calculating and unreadable.

the plate feels heavier in your hands, like it’s suddenly full of something fragile. you set it down, the scrape of metal on wood cutting through the silence like a match. he doesn’t move, just watches you with that unblinking look, like he’s trying to measure how much of you he could break if his hands were free. the thought chills you, but you don’t step back.

“eat,” you say, trying to sound calm, detached, but your voice feels too loud in the confined space. his mouth twitches, a hint of something that might be a smile, but it’s too cold, too hollow. you can see the strain in his shoulders, the pure anger in the way he holds himself, but underneath it—something else. a flicker of vulnerability he’s trying hard to hide.

“so, they send you down to try to convince me to eat? think it would soften me up or something?” his voice is rough as it echos through the confined room. “i already told sarah that i’m not eating until they untie me.” he says with pure defiance. his eyes bore into you as if he’s trying to study you.

you turn your head, your gaze diverting to the dusty floor. “actually, no one sent me down here. they could give a shit if you starved or not. it would be doing everyone a favor.” you avoid his eyes, afraid that your confidence would melt if you met them.

for a second, you wonder if he’s about to say something, something meant only for you, and the realization tightens in your chest like a warning.

“then, why are you here?” he asks harshly. you look up to meet his haunted eyes, a chill runs down your spine and butterflies settle in your stomach. “what happened to never wanting to see me again, huh? what happened to ‘i love you forever’ ?”

his words command a flood of memories to rush through your head. your breathing becomes heavier as you remember it all; the lingering gazes, the sweet nothings, and finally, the way the absence in his eyes as he shot sherif peterkin.

“you know what happened, rafe,” you warn, your voice cracking slightly. he smirked, almost as if he could sense your anxiety. “you know why i left you.”

rafe’s smirk deepens, twisted and bitter, and he leans forward as much as the bindings allow him. “left me?” his voice is low, mocking, but there’s something raw in it too. “come on. we both know you didn’t leave me—you never really left me.”

the words cut through you, sharper than you expect, and for a moment, you can’t breathe. he watches you, waiting for a reaction, relishing it, and maybe even needing it. his gaze is relentless, pining you there like you were the one in restraints.

you force yourself to meet his eyes, even as every instinct screams to look away, to leave the room, and to escape. “i did, though. i left you because you weren’t the man i started dating. you were this,” you gesture to his bruises, his dried blood, and his hostility shimmering in his expression; the man who seems like a stranger and yet is all too familiar.

“you’ve always been mine.” he mutters more to himself than to you. “and i’m- i’m trying to change, y/n. i’ve been trying to change.” he says sternly, almost as if it was obvious, but it wasn’t. “y-you people don’t understand that i can change. i can change just as easily as you and sarah did when you started hanging around those goddamn pogues!” he raises his voice, jolting forward, and causing you to jump back.

when he notices you flinch, his gaze softens. he take a deep breath and sits back. you swallow harshly as he shifts from 0 to 100 in mere seconds.

“i’m just trying to change for the better; for you.” his voice is soft, not like what it was before. you can hear the sadness and the desperation dripping from his mouth.

it’s a trap. it’s all a trap. you’ve known rafe long enough to sense when he’s being manipulative, and he’s at his peak right now. you don’t respond, shaking your head, and going to grab the plate of food. as you grab the mental dish, his hands clasp around your wrist. the plate drops to the floor with a clatter.

“don’t- don’t go.” he whispers softly. his eyes search your face for even an ounce of reciprocated feelings. you bite the inside of your cheek as you ponder the possibilities. “stay here with me… please.” he isn’t speaking anymore, no, he’s begging.

your guard completely falls, leaving yourself vulnerable, and raw to his manipulations. when he senses the sudden shift, it’s as if he latches onto you, stringing his webs tighter around you.

you relax your shoulders with a sigh, not saying yes, but not leaving. he smiles and his eyes fall to your plump lips. his grip tightens around your wrist, fingers wrapping around your pulse. his breath is shallow and ragged, as if he’s afraid you’ll drift away.

your pulse quickens, a silent thrum that feels too loud, too obvious. his thumb moves softly, tracing small circles against your skin, a touch that’s barely there but enough to send a rush of warmth up your arm. you could pull away, break the moment before it goes any further, but you stay still.

rafe’s eyes drop to your lips, his jaw clenching as he takes a steadying breath. he’s drawing you closer, erasing the distance you swore to keep. “you don’t have to stay,” he murmurs, but his fingers tighten, betraying his words. “but… I don’t want you to leave.”

he inches closer, his face barely a breath away as his scent fills your senses. you can feel him hesitating, struggling against something, something that holds him back as much as it pulls him forward.

thousands of thoughts, warnings, and memories flash through your mind like blinding headlights, but they quiet under the intensity of his stare. then, he leans forward, closing the final sliver of space between you. his lips press softly against yours, and as if surrendering, you begin to kiss him back. the kiss begins gentle and sweet, but quickly turns into something desperate and fiery.

his tongue teases your mouth, slipping against your bottom lip. he’s frantic, raw, almost as if he’s afraid of losing you again, like he’s trying to make up for everything that happened. your lips slot against his like a puzzle piece.

you pull away breathlessly and stare at him. he lifts his arms that are bound by rope just enough for you to slip under them, now straddling his lap. you settle on his lap, something hard presses against your ass.

he smirks, “feel what you do to me, baby? i’ve missed you so much.”

the way he stares at you then and there tells you that you’ll be his forever. that there is no escape from him, even if you allow yourself to believe so. you’ll eternally be stuck in his web as he dances around you, only adding more silk to restrain you.

“calm down and untie me.” he says with a twisted grin. “let me take care of you, sweet girl.”

[serenity-black]

STOP SELLING BOUND FANFICTION

I cannot blame them for pulling their works, in fact I'm proud of them for doing so. Fanfiction is a community of gifting. As authors we write fics and share our works for free. Fanfiction is a weird, fragile, liminal space that can crumble at any time. This fragility needs to be respected.

If you want fanfiction to be around for you to enjoy, then the rules need to be respected!

You can bind fics. You can gift bound fics. DO NOT SELL BOUND FICS!!

Or soon we won't have fanfiction anymore and the world will be much darker for it.

[novaursa]

The Silent Pyre

- Summary: It was a rainy night when Blood and Cheese came to deliver you your half-sister’s message; a son for a son.

- Paring: reader (twin!wife)/Aegon II

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N. Aegon and the reader have four children, the oldest son named Aeron, a daughter, Daena, and twin boys, Vaelon and Baelon. These events happen after Twin Fires and before The Fire That Binds Us. For full chronological order of these works visit my blog. The list is pinned on the top. Or, you can read it as a one-shot. Anonymous user inquired about these events, and I've decided to post it and share it with you all, it has been stashed away for too long in my file graveyard.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (no adult content, but there are graphic descriptions of violence, blood and gore)

- Word count: 5 133

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The night is heavy with the scent of rain, the coolness of autumn seeping into the stones of the Red Keep. The fire in Helaena’s chamber casts long shadows across the walls, flickering as the wind howls faintly outside. You stand by the door, the weight of your crown pressing down upon you as you gaze at your younger sister. Her pale hair gleams like moonlight as she kneels by her children’s cradle, whispering a soft lullaby. Her voice is a quiet, fragile thing, a melody that seems almost too delicate for the world that surrounds you both.

“Helaena,” you murmur, stepping closer. She lifts her head, her violet eyes distant and unfocused, as though she is seeing something far beyond the chamber walls.

“Y/N,” she replies, a small, distracted smile gracing her lips. “Goodnight. May the Seven bless your dreams.”

“And yours, sister.” You reach out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sleep well.”

With one last glance at her serene face, you turn and leave the room, pulling the door shut softly behind you. The corridor outside is eerily silent, the usual clamor of the servants and guards muted, as if the Keep itself holds its breath.

As you walk through the darkened halls, a sense of unease begins to coil in your chest. The silence feels unnatural, like the calm before a storm. The rain patters against the windows, a steady rhythm that should be soothing, but instead heightens your anxiety. You pull your cloak tighter around yourself, the chill of the stone floors seeping through your slippers.

Your thoughts drift to Aegon, waiting for you in your shared bedchamber. You picture him sprawled across the large bed, his platinum blond hair tousled, perhaps with a goblet of wine in hand. There is comfort in the thought of him, of the warmth of his body against yours, but it does little to dispel the growing dread that gnaws at your insides.

As you approach the nursery, the unease sharpens into fear. You pause, your hand hovering over the door. The sound of something crashing softly from within reaches your ears—a faint, almost imperceptible noise, but enough to send your heart racing. The shadows behind the door shift, moving in ways that shadows should not.

You swallow, forcing down the rising panic. Your children are in there, your precious sons and daughter. Steeling yourself, you push the door open slowly, trying to remain as silent as possible.

The scene before you is one pulled from the darkest of nightmares. The warm, cozy nursery is cast in a pall of terror. Your eyes first find your mother, Dowager Queen Alicent, bound and gagged on the floor, her eyes wide with a terror that you have never seen before. She struggles against her bindings, her muffled cries like the wail of a ghost in the suffocating silence.

But it is the two men in the center of the room who capture your attention—the one holding your eldest son, Aeron, in his arms, a cruel knife pressed to his throat, while the other stands nearby, his presence looming and sinister. Your son is awake, tears streaking down his face, his small body trembling in fear.

“Do not scream,” the man holding your son whispers, his voice low and threatening. “Or the boy dies.”

Your breath catches in your throat, a wave of nausea rising within you as the reality of the situation crashes down. You force yourself to remain calm, to not give in to the terror clawing at your heart.

“What do you want?” you manage to say, your voice shaking despite your best efforts to keep it steady.

“Vengeance,” the other man—Cheese, they will call him, from his size and the rat-like cunning in his eyes—replies coldly. “For son's blood has been spilled. Now, it is your blood that must pay.”

You take a step forward, and the knife digs deeper into Aeron’s tender skin, a small whimper escaping his lips. Your entire body tenses, every instinct screaming at you to protect your child, but you are powerless, bound by the threat that hangs over him like a blade.

“Let my son go,” you plead, your voice cracking. “Please. He is but a child.”

Cheese’s grin is twisted, devoid of mercy. “A choice, Your Grace. You must choose one of your sons. Two to live, and one to die.”

The words hit you like a blow, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your knees threaten to buckle beneath you, the world spinning as the horror of what they ask becomes clear. They want you to condemn one of your children to death. To choose between your sons.

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “I cannot.”

“You must,” the man holding Aeron insists, his voice a menacing growl. “Or we kill them all three.”

You look between your sons, your heart shattering into pieces. Aeron, your eldest, so brave despite his fear, his wide eyes pleading silently for you to save him. And twin boys, Vaelon and Baelon, still asleep in their cribs, blissfully unaware of the nightmare unfolding around them.

Tears blur your vision, the anguish of the choice tearing at your soul. You cannot do this. You cannot be the one to decide who lives and who dies. But their lives, three of them, hang in the balance, and the choice is yours to make.

“Please,” you beg once more, though you know it is futile. “Do not make me choose.”

Cheese steps closer, his breath foul as he leans in. “Choose, Queen Y/N. Or your precious children will all die, and it will be on your head.”

The weight of your crown feels like a curse as you stand there, trembling, the choice before you too terrible to comprehend. Your hands are shaking, your heart breaking, as the words begin to form on your lips, but they can't leave them.

The world narrows to the unbearable choice before you, every second stretching into an eternity. You stand frozen, the screams of your heart drowned out by the silence that has gripped your throat. Aeron, your firstborn, stares at you with wide, tear-filled eyes, pleading for a salvation you know you cannot grant him. And there, in their cribs, laid Vaelon and Baelon, so small, so unaware, their chest rising and falling peacefully with each breath.

It is the smaller and younger twin’s innocence, his lack of awareness, that seals your fate. If he must die, let it be without knowing fear. Let him slip from this world in the safety of his dreams.

Your decision comes not from cruelty, but from a twisted, desperate kind of mercy.

“Vaelon,” you whisper, your voice a broken thing. “Take him.”

The words taste like ash on your tongue, a confession of the darkest sin. The man holding Aeron grins, his eyes alight with a sadistic satisfaction. But even as the choice leaves your lips, a cold realization claws at the back of your mind—this was never meant to end well. They were never going to let Aeron live.

You see it happen almost in slow motion, the knife glinting in the dim light as it draws across your eldest son’s throat. The sound that escapes him is a choked gasp, eyes widening in pain and betrayal as the blood wells and spills down his neck.

“No!” The word tears from your throat as you lunge forward, but it is too late. The man has already sliced deeper, crimson blooming like a terrible flower. Yet, Aeron is not yet gone. The blade catches as the man’s hand slips, and in that moment of weakness, Alicent—your mother—finds her strength.

With a fury you have never seen, she throws herself against the man holding Aeron, her bound body knocking him off balance. He stumbles, the knife digging deeper but freeing your son from his grasp. Aeron falls to the floor, clutching at his bleeding throat, his small hands stained red.

A scream of pure, primal rage rips from your chest as you hurl yourself at the man, the world around you narrowing to a singular purpose: kill him. You grab for the knife, your hands slick with Aeron’s blood, and wrest it from his grasp. The man struggles against you, but your desperation lends you strength. With a wild, desperate thrust, you drive the blade into his side, feeling the give of flesh and bone as it sinks in.

He gasps, a wet, gurgling sound, eyes wide in shock as he stumbles backward, clutching at the wound. You pull the knife free and stab again, and again, each strike fueled by the agony that has consumed you. Blood splatters across your face, warm and sickening, but you do not stop until he falls, lifeless, to the floor.

In the chaos, you do not notice Cheese until it is too late. He has turned his attention to one of the twins, to Vaelon, your youngest, the one you had chosen to condemn. As your daughter, Daena, screams—a piercing, heart-rending sound that echoes through the nursery—Cheese moves swiftly, seizing the smaller boy from his crib.

“No! Please!” you cry out, scrambling to your feet, but your voice is drowned by the sheer panic that has overtaken you. You are too far, too slow. Vaelon’s eyes flutter open, confusion and fear flickering across his tiny face as the knife flashes once more.

And then it is done. The light fades from Vaelon’s eyes as his small body crumples to the floor, lifeless. 

A silence falls over the room, broken only by the sound of your daughter’s sobs, Baelon’s baby gurglings and the ragged breaths of Alicent, who is desperately pressing her hands against Aeron’s wound, trying to stem the flow of blood.

“Aeron!” You rush to him, dropping to your knees beside him. His eyes are glazed with pain, his breathing shallow and labored. The wound is deep, but he is alive, clinging to life by the barest thread.

Cheese is panicking now, his eyes darting around the room as if realizing for the first time the gravity of what they have done. The plan, whatever it was, has gone horribly wrong. He looks at the bodies—the man you killed, Vaelon’s small, lifeless form—and he falters, unsure of his next move.

“You will die for this,” you hiss, every word trembling with a deadly promise. “You will not leave this room alive.”

Cheese takes a step back, fear flashing in his eyes, but before he can act, you move. Fueled by a mother’s wrath and the madness of grief, you surge forward, the bloodied knife still clutched in your hand. He tries to fend you off, but he is no match for the fury that drives you. With a wild, savage strike, you plunge the knife into his chest.

He gasps, a final breath escaping his lips as his eyes go wide, then glassy. He collapses to the floor, joining his fallen companion in death.

You stand there, panting, covered in the blood of your children’s murderers, and of your children themselves. Your hands shake as you drop the knife, the sound of it clattering to the floor barely registering in your mind.

“Y/N,” Alicent calls out, her voice trembling. “Aeron needs you.”

You blink, the fog of rage lifting just enough for you to focus on your son. You drop to your knees beside him, your hands finding his, trying to staunch the flow of blood with trembling fingers.

“Stay with me, my love,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face. “Stay with me. Please.”

Alicent is beside you, pressing her hands down on the wound with all her might. “He’s strong,” she says, though her voice wavers. “He will survive this.”

You nod, though your heart is breaking. You dare not look at Vaelon’s still form, his twin, Baelon, now wide awake in his crib, or at your daughter, Daena, who is now curled into a ball in the corner, sobbing for her brothers. You can only focus on Aeron, on keeping him alive, as the horror of what has happened sinks into your soul.

The night is no longer just cold and rainy; it has become a night of death and despair, one that will haunt you until your last breath. But you will not let it claim Aeron. Not him, too.

And as the dawn begins to break, casting pale light over the carnage, you hold your son close, praying to the Seven to spare him. To spare at least one of your children, as the taste of your own choice, the bitterness of it, poisons your every breath.

Aegon sits in the dim light of your shared bedchamber, his goblet of wine resting lazily in his hand. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the walls, but the warmth it offers does little to chase away the chill of the autumn night. He sighs, his thoughts drifting to you, knowing that you will join him soon. The bond you share, forged not only by blood but by a deep, consuming love, is one that neither of you can escape, nor would you wish to. Sleep eludes him without you by his side, as it always has since you were children. 

He takes another sip of the wine, waiting for the familiar sound of your footsteps approaching. The thought of the night ahead, of holding you close, offers a comfort that softens the weariness in his bones.

But then, a scream pierces the stillness of the night—a scream that he recognizes instantly as belonging to your daughter. It is followed by your voice, raw with anguish, echoing down the corridors.

The goblet slips from his hand, clattering to the floor as he leaps to his feet. The wine spills across the stone, forgotten as dread seizes him. He knows something is terribly wrong. Without a moment’s hesitation, he rushes to the door, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Your Grace!” one of the Kingsguard calls as they fall into step behind him, but Aegon doesn’t respond. The only thought in his mind is to reach you, to reach his children.

He tears down the hall, his bare feet slapping against the cold stone, until he reaches the nursery. The door is ajar, shadows flickering ominously in the light from the hallway. The scent of copper fills his nostrils before he even crosses the threshold, a scent that chills him to the core.

He bursts into the room, but in his haste, he doesn’t notice the slickness beneath his feet until it’s too late. His foot slips on the blood that pools on the floor, and he stumbles, barely catching himself on the doorframe before he can fall.

For a moment, everything seems to slow. He looks down at the blood smeared across the floor, the vivid red of it stark against the stone. And then he sees the scene before him, a tableau of horror that makes his breath catch in his throat.

Two men lie dead on the floor, their bodies twisted in death, blood oozing from fatal wounds. But it is not them that hold his attention; it is the small, lifeless form of Vaelon, his infant son, lying not far from them, his throat cruelly slit. Aegon’s heart seizes, his vision blurring with tears that he fights to hold back.

“No… no, no…” The words are barely a whisper as he staggers forward, his mind unable to fully comprehend the sight before him.

But there is more—your mother, Alicent, is on the floor, her hands pressed desperately against Aeron’s throat, trying to stem the flow of blood. And there you are, kneeling beside your eldest son, your hands covered in blood, your face a mask of desperation and despair as you try to keep him alive.

“Y/N!” Aegon chokes out your name as he rushes to you, his voice filled with fear and anguish. “What… what happened?”

You look up at him, your eyes red and swollen from crying, and the sight of you breaks something deep within him. “Aegon… they… they killed Vaelon,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “They tried to kill Aeron… we… I couldn’t stop them…”

Aegon falls to his knees beside you, his hands hovering uselessly over Aeron, unsure of what to do. He can see the life fading from his eldest son’s eyes, the pale skin, the way his breath comes in shallow, ragged gasps. Aegon feels a crushing sense of helplessness, something he has never experienced with such intensity before.

“Aeron, my boy… stay with us,” Aegon pleads, his voice thick with emotion as he brushes a trembling hand over Aeron’s hair. “Stay with us, please…”

Alicent looks up at her son, her own eyes filled with tears, though she fights to keep them at bay. “We need to stop the bleeding, Aegon. If we don’t… if we don’t…”

“I know,” Aegon says, though his voice is strangled. He tears a strip of cloth from his sleeve, pressing it to Aeron’s wound with a firm but gentle hand. “Stay with me, Aeron. You’re strong. You can fight this.”

But even as he says the words, he feels the cold dread settle in his chest, knowing that the wound is too deep, that his son’s life is slipping away with every passing moment. 

You lean into Aegon, your body shaking with sobs as you press your bloodstained hands over his, trying to help, trying to do something—anything—to save your child. But the blood keeps coming, seeping through your fingers, staining the floor beneath you.

“Please… please…” you whisper, over and over, your voice breaking with each word. “Don’t take him from us…”

Aegon pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around you even as he continues to press down on Aeron’s wound. He can feel your pain, your sorrow, as if it were his own, and in that moment, he knows that this night will haunt both of you for the rest of your lives.

The Kingsguard finally arrive, swords drawn, their faces pale as they take in the scene before them. But there is nothing they can do; the threat is already gone, the deed already done. All they can do is stand there, silent and grim, as the horror of what has happened sinks in.

“Get a maester!” Aegon commands, his voice rising with desperate urgency. “Now!”

One of the guards rushes off without a word, the others standing watch as if expecting another attack, though it is clear that the danger has passed. Aegon looks down at Aeron, his heart breaking as he watches the light in his son’s eyes flicker and fade.

“Stay with us, Aeron,” he whispers again, but the words sound hollow, empty, even to his own ears.

Alicent, her hands still pressed against the wound, glances at you, her eyes filled with a sorrow so deep it seems to swallow the room whole. “Y/N,” she says softly, her voice thick with grief, “he’s… he’s still fighting. But we need to prepare ourselves… we need to…”

“No!” You cry out, shaking your head violently. “No, he’s going to survive. He has to. He’s strong. Please, Aegon, tell her… tell her he’s going to survive.”

Aegon swallows hard, trying to keep the tears at bay as he looks at you, seeing the hope in your eyes, fragile and desperate. “He’s strong,” he agrees, his voice trembling. “He’s a dragon. He’ll survive this.”

But even as he says the words, he knows that they are more for your sake than for his own. He knows the truth, as much as he hates it, as much as it tears at his very soul.

And then, as if in response to your pleas, Aeron’s breathing hitches, a faint, ragged sound that sends a jolt of hope through your heart. But Aegon sees the truth in the way his son’s eyes begin to flutter shut, the way his small body goes limp beneath your hands.

“No, no, stay with us, please…” you sob, your voice breaking completely as you try to shake him awake, as if you can keep him from slipping away just by sheer will alone.

Aegon pulls you closer, holding you tightly against him, his own tears falling freely now. “Y/N… he’s…”

But before he can finish, the maester arrives, pushing his way into the room with a satchel of supplies. He takes one look at Aeron and immediately sets to work, but Aegon can see it in his eyes—the resignation, the grim acceptance of what is to come.

Aegon watches as the maester tries to stem the bleeding, his hands moving quickly, efficiently, but it is clear that he is fighting a losing battle. You cling to Aegon, your tears soaking into his tunic as you watch, your breath catching in your throat every time Aeron’s breathing falters.

Minutes pass, each one stretching into an eternity, until finally, Orwyle pulls back, his face pale and drawn. He looks up at Aegon, then at you, and shakes his head, his expression filled with sorrow.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” he says quietly. “There’s… there’s nothing more I can do.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, and you cry out, your hands trembling as you reach for Aeron, as if you can somehow pull him back from the brink.

“No… no, please, no…” you whisper, your voice barely audible as you cradle your son’s head in your lap, your fingers brushing through his hair.

Aegon feels his heart shatter completely as he watches you, as he sees the light finally fade from Aeron’s eyes, his small body going still in your arms. He can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but hold you as you break down completely.

The days following the brutal attack on your family pass in a haze of grief and despair. The Red Keep is draped in a suffocating silence, its once lively halls now cold and empty, as though the life has been drained from its very walls. The horror of that night lingers in every corner, every shadow, a constant reminder of the blood that was spilled and the lives that were lost.

Your remaining children, Daena and Baelon, are kept under the strictest watch by the Kingsguard. No less than two knights are stationed outside their chambers at all times, and they are never left alone, not even for a moment. The memory of what happened to their brothers hangs over the nursery like a dark cloud, and every sound, every creak of the floorboards, sends a fresh wave of terror through the household.

But it is you, their mother, who is most affected. The grief has hollowed you out, leaving you a mere shadow of the woman you once were. You spend your days in a state of numbness, your heart shattered beyond repair. Nothing and no one can console you, not even Aegon, who tries desperately to reach you, to bring you back from the edge of the abyss into which you have fallen. But his attempts are in vain. You are inconsolable, broken beyond words.

Aegon himself is a man consumed by fury. The fire of his rage burns hotter with each passing day, fueled by the sheer injustice of what has happened. He holds a small council meeting in the dead of night, summoning only those he trusts—or at least, those whose loyalties he can control.

In the dimly lit council chamber, Aegon sits at the head of the table, his hands gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles are white. His eyes are bloodshot, his face drawn and pale from lack of sleep. The tension in the room is palpable, every man present feeling the weight of the King’s anger pressing down on them like a physical force.

Around the table sit Otto Hightower, his face a mask of stern concern; Ser Criston Cole, his expression grim and unyielding; Lord Larys Strong, who watches the proceedings with his usual calculating gaze; Lord Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws, his fingers tapping nervously on the table; Lord Tayland Lannister, the Master of Ships, who remains unusually quiet; and Grand Maester Orwyle, who sits with his hands folded, his eyes downcast.

Aegon’s voice breaks the silence, a low, seething growl that sends a shiver down the spine of everyone in the room. “How did this happen?” he demands, his eyes blazing with fury as he looks from one man to the next. “How did two men infiltrate the heart of the Red Keep, murder my sons, and nearly take the life of my other children without anyone knowing? Where were the guards? Where was the protection I was promised?”

Otto is the first to speak, his voice calm but firm. “Your Grace, we are all grieved by this tragedy, but rest assured, we are investigating every possible lead. The guards who were on duty that night have been questioned, and those found negligent will be dealt with severely.”

“Dealt with severely?” Aegon echoes, his voice rising with incredulity. “My sons are dead, and you speak of discipline as if that can undo what has been done! This was not just negligence—this was treason, betrayal of the highest order!”

Ser Criston Cole, ever the loyal sword, speaks next, his tone as hard as steel. “Your Grace, the Kingsguard were stationed as ordered, but the enemy was cunning. They knew exactly where to strike, and when. We are searching for any who might have aided them from within the Keep.”

Aegon glares at him, his anger still simmering. “You should have been there, Ser Criston. You should have been protecting my family, as you swore to do.”

Criston bows his head, accepting the rebuke without argument. “I failed you, my king, and I will bear that burden until the day I die.”

Larys Strong, who has remained silent until now, leans forward slightly, his voice smooth and unhurried as he speaks. “Your Grace, the men who did this were not acting alone. This attack was meticulously planned, designed to strike at the heart of your family and weaken your claim. There is but one who stands to gain the most from such an act of terror.”

Aegon’s eyes narrow as he fixes his gaze on Larys. “Speak plainly, Lord Strong. Who do you accuse?”

Larys meets Aegon’s gaze without flinching, his voice carrying a weight of certainty. “Rhaenyra Targaryen, and her husband, Daemon. They are the ones behind this atrocity. They seek to undermine your rule, to sow chaos and discord within the realm, so that Rhaenyra might usurp your throne.”

Aegon’s breath hitches at the mention of his half-sister’s name. His hatred for her is no secret, but to hear that she might be responsible for the deaths of his sons sends a fresh wave of fury coursing through him. “You have proof of this?” he demands, his voice shaking with barely contained rage.

Larys inclines his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. “The men who committed the murders—the butcher and the rat catcher—are known associates of Daemon Targaryen. They were hired by him to carry out this heinous act. The gold they were paid with was traced back to Rhaenyra’s supporters in King’s Landing. This was not just an act of violence—it was a message. Response to the death of Lucerys Velaryon by the hand of Prince Aemond.”

Aegon’s hands clench into fists, his nails digging into the wood of the table. “A message? They dare to send me a message by murdering my sons? Two innocent boys?”

“Yes,” Larys replies, his voice as cold as ice. “They wish to show that you are vulnerable, that your rule can be challenged. They wish to provoke you into rash action, to draw you into a conflict that will weaken your position.”

“Rash action?” Aegon scoffs, his anger flaring anew. “They think they can provoke me? They think I will sit idly by while they murder my children?”

“Your Grace,” Otto interjects, his voice measured. “We must be careful. If we move too quickly, without proof, we risk turning the realm against us. Rhaenyra still has many supporters. We must gather our strength, consolidate our power, and then strike when the time is right.”

But Aegon is beyond reason, his grief and rage too great to be tempered by caution. “I will not wait!” he snarls, slamming his fist on the table. “They have taken from me what I hold most dear, and I will make them pay for it, tenfold! If Rhaenyra wants war, then war she shall have!”

The council members exchange uneasy glances, each man aware of the storm that is about to be unleashed. Aegon’s wrath is a dangerous thing, and they know that nothing they say will dissuade him from the course he has set.

Grand Maester Orwyle finally speaks, his voice soft but insistent. “Your Grace, the lives of your remaining children—Princess Daena and Prince Baelon—must be your foremost concern. They are the future of your house, and they must be protected at all costs.”

Aegon’s expression softens slightly at the mention of his children, the thought of them momentarily piercing through the fog of his anger. He knows that Orwyle is right, that the safety of Daena and Baelon is paramount. But even this knowledge cannot quell the burning desire for vengeance that has taken root in his heart.

“I will protect them,” he says, his voice hardening once more. “But I will not allow this attack to go unanswered. Rhaenyra and Daemon will know the price of crossing me.”

Otto inclines his head, understanding that there is no turning back now. “Then we must prepare for war, Your Grace. We must rally our banners, secure our allies, and strike swiftly and decisively.”

Aegon nods, his jaw set with determination. “Do it. Call the banners, prepare the dragons. We will bring fire and blood to those who dare to defy us.”

The council members rise from their seats, each man knowing that the decisions made this night will plunge the realm into chaos. As they leave the chamber, Aegon remains behind, staring at the bloodstained map of Westeros spread out before him. His thoughts drift to you, to the shattered look in your eyes, to the bodies of his sons lying cold in their graves.

He swears to himself, to the gods, and to the memory of his murdered children that he will not rest until Rhaenyra and Daemon are brought to justice. No matter the cost, no matter the blood that must be spilled, he will have his revenge.

And so, the storm begins to gather, the winds of war stirring in the darkness of the Red Keep.