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darlingofvalyria · 9 months

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❝I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage. I will not be swept aside.❞

[ The Prince Jacaerys Velaryon should have known his wife better— or at least, her ire, for when his trysts with the bastard Snow reached the Spiders and soon, the ears of his Princess Consort, rage and war drummed for Winterfell, demanding heads.

—Maestre Kevan, Volume IV of The Bastard Eater, passage chapter under 'The Flame that Sung for the North'. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 10,062 ] [ series masterlist ] | jacaerys velaryon x targaryen aunt!reader (aegon's twin sister), one-sided aegon ii x reader, jace x sara snow

contains— canon divergence - manipulative reader, targcest, smut, angst - post-vizzy t death, rhaenyra is queen - mentions of children, pregnancy, childbirth - allusions to infidelity & character death(s) - targaryen madness, revenge, domestic violence (not jace), unhinge behaviour, intense use of 'bastard', profanity, gaslighting, guilt-tripping - this is basically gone girl, you gone girl jace - dark fic - mentions of depression (aegon ii), allusions to suicide (not reader) - nsfw: oral (f receiving), breeding kink, creampie - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.

a/n— i didn't think i was going to do the sara snow thing, but herewe are. also i just wanted an excuse to go absolutely ape shit. reader gets very intense, like thoroughly unhinged. this is literally me supporting women's wrongs. it is also quite insane that this reached 10k and it's still just the first part lmaooo + comment, reblog & like at will!

"THAT FUCKING BASTARD! THAT GODSDAMNED, WHORE-FUCKING STRONG HALF BREED!"

Your shrieks echo stone and shadow, interrupted only by the things you pick up and hurl. Anything your hands grab, you throw and spit obscenities against, rage and tears ruin your pretty visage. The fury swept past your cherub features, a dragon breaking through the Hightower seams, upending fire and roar from the pits of your being.

"HOW DARE HE?! I GAVE HIM AN HEIR! I BROUGHT HIM PEACE! I BETRAYED—" you roar, pulling your pearl dagger— a gift from your Strong Bastard of a Husband — and throwing it to your vanity mirror, glass shards exploding. "— MY KIN!"

"DAUGHTER, PLEASE!"

Arms wound across your torso—hardened and chain-mail — as you fight against your bounds before a pain flashes to your cheek. Your rage quiets, hard breaths from your lungs. You turn your tear-stained anger to your mother and her palm, fright and terror on her regale visage.

Death of a spouse becomes the Queen Dowager in her pale blue robe and unbound spirals of auburn hair. Peace had begotten a realm that is balanced on the lineage you had produced for the Queen, her heir, and your own, as the new Princess of Dragonstone. With Otto Hightower for evermore banished to Oldtown, Kings Landing had been brought to a flowering kindness.

Queen Rhaenyra's ascension had been a wondrous affair, fit the for the first crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Not a Queen Consort, not a Queen Regent. An heir who rose for the crown always meant to be hers.

But the calamity that brewed in her ascension... no. You paved the peace. T'was you who wrangled the Great Houses that proved allyship to your twin brother's banner, you who blessed her with tranquility of a rule that will be known for ages that will precede you all.

And now her son... her son dared to destroy everything.

A conversation floats above your head, by your Queen Mother and her sworn shield, the Ser Cole, but you barely hear anything past the ringing in your head.

The Targaryen Madness the sheep so call it, an idle voice, faint and familiar, whispers in the niches of your brain. It has infected you so. It breathes, fuelled by the air wrought by your husband's betrayal. It sings, sweet love. It sings.

"—your grace, I urge to hold her—"

"—she is my daughter, Ser Cole, I am not in danger. Release her."

Justice, the voice shrieks? Screams? But it is so soft in your head, a wail of a memory, a woman or a man? must be had. No dragon falls in such disgrace.

The tight wound over your torso is unleashed but the knight is not far, tensed to cage you, when your mother grasps your elbows as you grab hers, nails digging into the thick fabric of her hem that she still winces, your grip steel-tight.

"My darling, please. I cannot help you if you do not speak what ails you." She brushes her hand desperately across your face, smearing your tears, trying to find the daughter she bore past the savagery and madness that beholds you now. "What has happened?"

You draw a tightened, harsh breath to your lungs, rattling your bones that you quiver in your attempt for sanity.

"I am being shamed, mother," you whisper. Stark, violet eyes meeting the worried round, brown of hers. "The Strong bastard is whoring himself to another, a Northern bastard."

A cackle falls your lips as alarmed gazes are exchanged above your head.

"Y-You cannot say such things aloud, sweet girl," your mother hushes your madness, pulling you close to her chest as she shoots a glance at the door.

Criston checks outside, but only your maids linger. Dyanna presses a finger against her lips, catching the knight's eye, and the rest scatter, surely to make sure that no one that need not know of their mistress' words is within reach. A shiver still runs his spine. He will never get used to the quiet, almost non-verbal way your connection worked and reached. Your Spiders weave webs all around, even as their mistress sunders with rage.

"Mayhaps you are mistaken, for sure the prince is loyal, and he adores you—"

You pull back against her, teeth bared. She flinches and Ser Cole steps forward, wary. "It is the third missive now that I have received. Did you think I would not have confirmed twice— thrice? I didn't believe it the first time! But three people have now confirmed that all this time, in the guise of rallying his mother's cause in the North, he is spending ample time with the Lord Stark's bastard sister. His bastard fucking sister!"

Your mother's horror catches that of Ser Criston's, but your fury is your own, you are a dragon trapped in the ruin of your own making, of the webs you had spun so cleverly to get to this point, and you cannot stop.

"I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage, my blood spilled the birthing bed for it." A cry leaves your lips as your grief and rage pools like ichor from your chest to the floor. Alicent is torn away from you— your nails had gone through her robe and she had cried in pain, a mimick of your own, a mother to a daughter to a mother to a daughter, a cycle, an Ouroboros — and you fall to the floor, grasping at your chest.

"I will not be swept aside. I will not be ignored."

A gasp falls from your lips as your mind moves to a quiet, still place. The tremble fades, your rage and grief whirls, collects, as you push it all back inside your chest.

Your madness must be sharpened for it be used as a sword.

And you cannot let him be happy in another's arms.

If you cannot drag them to the Hells, sweet dragon, the idle voice hums, hisses? Screeches. Your ancestors— all of those who have succumbed to dreamy madness — appears in the corners of your vision like soldiers. Awaiting for you to join them. Awaiting the blood that you will spill.

Then you must raise the Hells unto Winterfell.

"...my daughter?" Alicent calls, hesitant. Cole hovers but does not approach, standing guard in protection of the Dowager. It breaks her heart to see you this way, a young woman still, much older than she was when she married but only because you had always sought your future. You had always had a hardened scale, far stronger than she.

Even when you made your entrance to the world— the unmeasurable pain of bringing not one, but two heirs into the world, her firstborns, all at once — you had never cried. The maestres, maids, they worried for you, as your twin brother had not stopped crying, so alive and red, raw from the wound of being fresh.

But you... you had not made a sound.

The entire weight of your being— your mind, your emotions — even then, you wrangled them close to your very centre, never letting them stray too far from the edges of your fingertips. As if any release must be made with a perused thought. An incentive of reason.

Even then, you plotted every step you took.

Now, Alicent watches as her firstborn daughter suctions all her emotions— that Targaryen madness that plagued the blood of her husband, his ancestors — and made her ploy.

Against the husband that dared make a fool of her.

The silence beckons nightmare. Old fear flickers inside the Queen Dowager.

"Where are my daughters?"

"What?"

"My daughters," you repeat, a hair's breadth louder than the first time you spoke. Your eyes flutter upward. The deadened gaze curled Alicent's heart in fear. "Where are they?"

"In the nursery, with the twins and Maelor. Helaena and Aegon are watching them."

You offer your hand up mutely, and Cole exchanges one last, lingering look with the Dowager, before offering his own. You stand up, thank him softly, and brush and clean up your face to the best of your ability. An utter calmness over your visage.

"Tell no one of what I had told you," you say, fixing your hair and rubbing the red from your cheeks. One minute there is madness, the next there is nothing. There is only a girl. A woman. A princess. "No one knows apart the three of us, and if you ever decide, Ser Criston, that nigh is the glorious time for you to betray my mother or I, know that the last thing thing oyu will fear is the Stranger's hand when I am through with you."

Your mother shouts your name, horrified. "What are you thinking? What are you plotting?"

You cup Alicent's face, smiling ever sweet. "Your innocence will keep you safe, mother. All I ask, for the heart you keep for your children, that you keep this between sealed lips and tilted chin. You know nothing, yes?"

"... Yes. Nothing."

You place a tender kiss on your mother's head. "Keep Daenera and Aemma safe for me. Aegon and I are flying to Dragonstone promptly. Sweet Helaena does ever so get overwhelmed by watching all of the children by herself."

"D-Dragonstone?"

Your sweet smile touched with poison, stretches. "It is high time I take a dragon for myself, don't you think so?"

While an insecure obsession had fraught your younger brother about claiming a dragon, you had met it with indifference.

For how can you not mourn the loss of Aemond's sight, staring in quiet horror the entire time as the maestre did his best to salvage the muck mess of blood and nerve endings, before the old man had shaken his head, and you turned to the small bowl that contained your brother's eye, unable to look at anything else.

Not even when your mother's rage was met with apathy and anger, her demands for justice nothing more than a woman's insanity, a mother's grief that must be swept away, tucked under a chin and a sadness she will never get rid of.

"Do not mourn me, mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon."

Your soft-hearted, darling, baby brother. None of his words had thawed the freezing of your heart, the grief under the swell of your breastbone.

Your own mourning was kept between teeth and tongue, as you had slept with your siblings that night. The four of you, tucked under the wing of the other, Aemond close to your chest as possible, as quiet, hot tears ran down your face. Every moan of pain or whimper he made in his sleep tore at each new vein inside of you.

"Dragons are the symbol of our House's power," Aegon had once said, windswept hair you tried to tame with your fingers, smelling fresh of Sunfyre and winds.

"And yet, there were no eggs in our child beds." He stiffened while you smiled sadly, curling your twin's hair away form his face, making him presentable and dusting the bout of sand that managed to find his leathers. You had been scolded long before by your grandsire of how you coddle Aegon, how you defend him, mother him more than your mother ever could, but you cannot stop. You were meant to care for him, tethered you once were inside your mother's womb together, you hold him steady now.

Whenever he was lost, whenever his sadness overtook him, wrung your brother dry of life, you bat the Stranger's hand and bring him back.

"But we have proved them wrong," he insisted. "All of us, even Aemond with Vhagar— the war queen, Visenya's dragon — we have claimed ours. Daeron all the way Oldtown has Tessarion, even Helaena has Dreamfyre. And yet you insist..."

You wound your arms over his torso, keeping him close in a silly hug where you sway and dance him around. A laugh escaped him while you inhaled the scent of smoke, soot, and that grime stench of beast.

Aegon on his good days lacked the bottle-edge of wine, of cheap salts from the waft of the soiled, Silk Streets.

This was your brother. No one else.

"I fare better without one," you whispered in his ear. "I appear innocent, sweet almost, without a beast in my command. They look at me with nothing but pity and the urge to protect me. Our father likes me like this, his poor, lovely daughter without a dragon of her own, listening so intently to his histories of Old Valyria. Our sister is eased, as one daughter is plagued by dreams and struggles with the real world, while the other cannot even claim a dragon of her own. Poor princess, Hightower blood must have thickened in her veins. She too, is no threat."

You pulled back, smiling at him. "They like me better like this. Pitiful, compliant, nothing but a sweet and pretty flower that sways in the Spring breeze. A beautiful decoration but no more."

He rubbed a thumb on your arm, a worry knot on his forehead. Aegon adored you but he struggled to piece together where your plot lies. You are a web-spinner, forever dancing out of reach, catching prey and lengthening your intricacies. "Is that why you hide your training with Aemond alone? Ser Criston is mother's sworn shield, he would not mind—"

"I will not place my secrecies to a knight with a soiled cloaked," you snorted. "No matter how tall he stands beside our mother. I trust no one but my kin. And I know that no matter how heavy you drink, sweet Aeg of mine, my secrets are your own."

He took your hand, kissing the back of it, stare impregnable. "As your blood is my own, our fire is one flame. I go where you tell me to."

You kissed his cheek, a reward, laughing. He smiles proudly at the sound. At this time, you dangled yourself to your brother as bait as the pressure from your grandsire to make him King started rising. You had been given notice that he had been talking to House Lannister, Wylde, even some Riverland lords.

You did not mind becoming Aegon's second wife. Just as his namesake, he will have his Rhaenys and Visenya. Unlike the Conqueror however, he would adore his Visenya more than a true flower. Helaena would enjoy that far better.

"And if I tell you to jump?" you half-purred.

"I will ask you how high."

Memories and choices break and tide as you scramble for hold on the rocky cliff face. Dragonmont in the dark is a behemoth beast, a screech or two breaking like lightning crackles, or the familiar drum beat of wings before the silence consumes once more. The stench of fire, of beasts and carcasses helps cloak the darkened night.

"Udligon ñuha brōzagon, Answer my call," you hiss into fraudulent emptiness, hands gripping rocky edges until your blood beads, "you fucking lizards."

"Have you gone mad!?"Aegon shouted, trying to pace with your run to the dragonpit.

A rocky laugh broke out from your being, not deigning that with a reply. Aegon huffed angrily.

"Alright, tell me this then. How are you so sure I'm not just about to put you on a bleeding volcano to die? We claim your dragon in the morn, sister. First thing before we break our fast. I'm sure by then, Vermithor or—"

You whipped your head around, pulling halt. "I leave tonight to claim my dragon. Whether it is you and Sunfyre who gets me there, or Aemond and Vhagar, is no matter to me. I will claim one tonight. It is up to you to decide now if we tell Aemond or not."

Aemond, whose anger is wounded tight, the barest excuse for war always at the edge of his hum. The misstep at Storm's End had cost him everything. Had cost your mother everything. Queen still, Alicent Hightower had bent the knee and offered her life in exchange for mercy. Before Rhaenyra passed judgement, Viserys I had passed.

It didn't matter that you had ensured a higher dosage from the Harrenhal witch in his usual milk of the poppy. Your spiders moving with ease through the silent channels you had established long before your own flowering.

The Red Keep had scrambled, the Heir with it. It was enough time for Lucerys to have come out of the red, confirmed to live through the worst of it without as much as a broken bone. Arrax however, had been badly maimed, and would no longer take flight. But he and his rider would live. Aemond would live. Alicent would have her son. Rhaenyea will have hers, and the crown.

Kevan had done his duty unto you while you settled the storms in Dragonstone. You rewarded him handsomely.

Aegon sighed. He too, would like your honour avenged, but not for the sake of war. "As you wish, sister. I hope you know what you're doing and I am not about to send you to your death."

Just like what you did to your mother, you reached forward and cupped his face. If before, your touch stills his heart and floods his cavities with warmth, a flash of fear strikes the twin son at the eerie smile on your face.

"Skoros morghot vestri? What do we say to the god of death?"

Aegon blinked. "Tubī daor. Not today."

You smiled. "Trust me, sweet Aeg. It is not my death the Stranger will take. Not until the fjords of the North are at my mercy."

"Iksan kesīr sir naejot māzigon ñuha sikagon pakto! I am here now to claim my birth right!" Your scream echoes and falls, repeating back to you. There is a hum, like an electric current that sizzles and pops inside your blood and marrow, and you scramble higher and higher on the rock. Your blood does not sing for the dragon lairs, but above. Up and up, jagged edges cut your skin and dress, the wind whipping with sea mist, but nothing, no one, can clamour you as you reach the peak.

At first you see nothing but darkness and hollow sounds. But you let your eyes adjust, a hiss breaking out of your dry lips as you stumble. You look down. What you first thought were rocks and wayward bones of cattle is bigger.

Whale? No.

Dragon. Dragon bone.

You look and will every sense that your eyes do not. The smell that is drowned— iron. Bones bigger than a person. Than cows and whales. Bones of fearsome beasts. Darkness moves, taking form, more than shadow. Scales hewn rough and jagged, as if stone themselves. Midnight black moving with the gentlest of sighs.

As soon as you realise what— or who — is in front of you, the eyes open with an intelligent gleam. Your heart jolts at the emerald irises that gaze back at you, slitting at the appearance of a human.

'The stench of death follows him', the voice of an old keeper hums into your ear. You no longer remember who told this to you, but the words ring true in your memory. 'Scales of midnight, as if hewn from darkness and death. A harbinger, your grace, an omen of the darkest nightmares.'

"Rytsas. Hello." You smile, ever sweet, ever charming.

This is a thread you had never felt before. Not one of your own making, but something older. A golden thread that led the eyes of Daenys the Dreamer. That spun the ties of Aegon the Conqueror. The voices that herded your madness had gone quiet in the mad rush to get here, but now their presence thickens. Words you cannot hear, nor understand, flood the silence as dragon met rider for the first time.

Keepers and historians have called him he, but every bone in your body tells you that the being before you is a she.

And wouldn't that make sense? A cannibalistic being is a woman?

She opens her maw, only ever slightly, smoke and fire crackling out of it. Molten lava in the belly of her insides tease the cool, night air and warms you.

Her version of a smile. Hello, she seem to say.

"Māzīs. Come," you say, giggling. "Dohaerās. Serve."

That night, you took your first flight.

That night, the Cannibal took her first flight with her first— and only — rider as well.

❝ . . . It is said that the formerly named "The Cannibal" had been entranced by the hunger of his new— first and evermore — rider. Prince Aegon the Elder who had escorted his twin sister that very night with Sunfyre, had looked up in alarm and fright to a maddened screech. Excitement and laughter pouring out from the newly bonded Dragon and Rider had soon turned fear into awe.

Gaelithox, she had been named as they had ridden until dawn broke by the rider who loved her 'till the end of their days, was said to have seen a mirror in Her Grace. The fathomless hunger for blood and organ from the same bodies of their kin. For Gaelithox ever hungers and satisfies for the same meat as her, at the height of her grief and ire that fuelled the Queen Consort to climb Dragonmont by hand, she too hungered for the throats of her traitorous blood.

Gaelithox will only have one rider in her whole life, as she found no same twin soul as akin in the Bastard Eater Queen. Their bond moved as if two bodies beheld one soul.

She shied from humans, and oft found too rough with other dragons. Vhagar was an exception, oft seen acting as an elder sister to the Queen's dragon when neither royal rode them and played in the skies. Smaller dragons were forbidden to approach her however, nor was she allowed in the dragonpit after almost devouring the flightless Arrax.

She died two moons after the Queen's death, delivering her final flames for her rider and would never more breathe her infamous green flames akin to Wildfire, ordered by the Crowned Heir, Princess Daenera Velaryon. It is said that the princess attempted to bond with the cannibalistic dragon but it refused.

The dragon spent her last moons in heartbreak, oft seen in Dragonstone and the Red Keep, circling her rider's most favourite places. Her final resting place is at the very top of Dragonmont from whence the Queen claimed her. It is said that the Queen's crown, the one the King Jacaerys had gifted her after the birth of their first sons, the Princes Laenor and Gaemon, is said to be placed there, as well as a portion of her ashes.

It is said that the King and the Queen's twin brother, the Prince Aegon, personally made the trek in remembrance.

It is widely suspected that Aelyx, Princess Daella's dragon, the youngest child of the King and Queen, may have been Gaelithox's only existing hatchling for he too is made of rough, midnight scales. The dragon that bred with her remains to be unknown. ❞

—Maestre Kevan Noratz, Volume X of The Life and Lies of the Emerald Flame, passage chapter under 'The Time of Hunger: Gaelithox'.

You leave Gaelithox to a mournful goodbye on Dragonstone, pressing your forehead against her hard, scaly head, promising to come back, of exchanging her diet for fat, juicy whales, for more wind-whipped rides, before riding back on Sunfyre with Aegon. The younger dragon would not rise from the beaches in fear of the cannibalistic elder, but you made ensuring promises to teach Gaelithox not to chew your dearest brother's dragon.

You had gone most of your life without the feeling of a bond beneath you, warm and alive and wild, and the roar and stench that though new, felt so familiar in your ribcage— you will fly again. And with your brothers beside you. With Helaena and her lovely Dreamfyre.

To think they had taken this from you too, to placate them. To play into their hands like a mewling kitten.

No more.

It is paces before fast is about to break when you both touch back down to Kings Landing. The Keep busying with its occupants, servants and maids bolstering with quickened feet to ensure the lords and royals are awakened with full, poached meals, dresses and coats readied for their lords and ladies, a new, glorious day under the Reign of the Black Queen.

"What now?" Aegon asks, trying to keep with your pace but he is fatigued, failing to stop his yawns. The excitement of last night had come upon him like a fog, and he is missing his bed. Hells, he is missing the bed he stays with his wife if it meant he would get a full night's sleep in the hours of the day.

"Now, we speak nothing of what happened."

He turns to you, frowning. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." You beam, nodding in favour of soldiers and maids who bow in reverence to the Crown Princess. You know you smell of dragon and night, and you need a bath. And to talk to Dyanna before you seek your daughters. "I will need time and people. The board must still be set for me to perfectly execute what I have in store."

"Alright." He yawns again. "I'll be in my quarters, passed out, if you need me. Please do not need me until sup."

You laugh breathlessly, grabbing his hand and giving it a wet kiss. "I will give you your rest, be assured. Kirimvose, dōna lēkia, Thank you, sweet brother."

The words are simple, said in a quiet murmur heavy with love and meaning. Aegon presses a loving kiss to your head, unable to stop himself winding an arm around you.

"Syt ao, va moriot, ñuha prūmia. For you, always, my heart."

As you break to each other's chambers— his, to sleep, you, already meeting Yna and requesting for a bath — you don't notice the lurker that watched the intimate moment between twins, humming in amusement before it moves to follow you.

Back in your quarters— your marriage quarters as Jacaerys had requested that you forgo having your own, not wishing to part with you — the maids are already busying themselves airing the room, moving to follow your usual routine. The only thing breaking it is the tub now in the centre.

"Thank you," you say to Yna as she picks out the pins from your hair, shrugging off your dress in the process as soon as the maids had untangled the lace behind you.

"Call for Dyanna," you tell them as they bow and leave, the door clicking softly behind them. Plans must be made. Bath for now.

With the world stifled for a second, left with only you and your thoughts, you plunge your body under too-hot water, sighing against the aches and pains in your body. Dragon-riding is a new endeavour to your muscles, and though enjoyable, was still too new.

You sigh as tears fall from your eyes, blinking exhaustedly against soft, humming daylight. You had always known that love, as it is, is a maiden's folly. A foolish, hapless play meant to fool young girls into thinking the world is kind; a pretty place.

It was an even farther thought from you, a princess of the realm. At a young age, it has been drilled to you that your womb is a rare commodity. Your body has never been your own, a piece meant to be moved in a bigger game that you are used for, not play.

You weren't stupid.

If there's a few things Otto Hightower had ever granted you, apart from gifting you his keen prowess in moving power beneath your fingertips, in hungering for more, for better— it is understanding what each person is, who they can be, how you can move them. A flatter, a flair, a push. As a man, there is much to be desired about your grandsire; he used people, used family to pursue power, but you can't truly fault him for that as you were the same.

You just took better care of the people under your wing.

And for Jace, you had banished him.

The worst part, you knew there was a good, fat chance you would care for the princeling. He was a kind man, a sweet man, and with a guiding hand, you could forge yourself the best husband for yourself as much as you can mould a great king and a wonderful father. Women's hands are ever carved to mould and prod men. We stand behind, a presence or a hand, an echo of power.

But your Jace had surpassed it all, and in the moons leading up to your present day, to giving him his heirs, two beautiful daughters, the promised full Valyrian colouring in the silver hair in Daenera, your eldest, the wide, violet gaze in Aemma— the name of his mother's mother, a request of him that you had kindly, graciously fucking agreed to — of course there is a part of you, the girlish, tender heart that you long thought you had buried to get here, would fall for the brown-eyed, wondrous man.

You sink deeper into the tub, sighing as you let yourself unravel—

When you feel it. A presence in your room. It's soft. Silent. Not a lot would feel as such, but as paranoid as you are, as you keep your spiders clean and pretty with your dewy-eyed webs— you know better.

Your mind runs with ideas on who it might be, and come to a few people. No true name rises. The Red Keep is flooded with spies and traitors. You test your luck, sitting up on the tub, raising an arm over the lip of it and flicking water with your fingertips.

"If you are here to kill me, I'm afraid it will be a lost cause."

He laughs, sardonic and edged and familiar, jetting a tingle down your spine.

Well. There's getting a calm bath.

"Perceptive as always, niece," he says, heavy footfalls approaching now that he has been caught. "I'm just here to say hello."

You raise your eyes, mouth curled but unsmiling at the man who acts as the biggest thorn to your plots. Daemon Targaryen has never fallen through your webs, on guard against your flatter, your push, or your flair. Of course, taking the position of his daughter might have forever burnt that road, but you would think he'd ease up just a little bit when his wife, the Queen, had warmed to you considerably.

Unlike your mother, you had never been hostile to your bitch of an elder sister. Just like your plots for Aegon and Jacaerys, and nodding along to thread your father had started but abandoned, foolishly thinking the realm would follow without him fully ensuring your sister's claim to the throne— you carefully maintained a polite farce with Rhaenyra.

Ultimately, this became a boon to you, as she had responded positively to your abrupt marriage to her son, even reminding her deranged guard dog of their own marriage. The cream to your lemon cake had been when you birthed Aemma, the Queen's most favourite grandchild thus far. When she was a babe, Rhaenyra was never far; almost, always holding your daughter, cooing at her cheeks, remarking her likeness to her namesake with pure fondness.

But Daemon Targaryen knew, in the deepness of his marrow, that there is something wrong with you.

"Hello," you answer primly. He laughs, leaning against the passage to your open balcony. "We could have had this elating greeting at fast, if you wish to break it with me and my own."

He scoffs, unable to hide his disdain at the thought. It breaks his stare of your naked visage. Men. "I would rather jump to the fighting pits, good daughter."

"How rude. Is that all?" You meet his gaze steadily, tilting your head. "If it is not obvious yet, good father, I am bathing."

An amused smirk. "I can see that." Lecherous fucking geezer. "No matter. I just have a... curious thought, a wonder I suspect you may be able to answer. See. Truly odd it is, for the keepers to alert me this morning that Sunfyre had taken a ride past the Hour of Owl." Your heart thuds in your ribcage and you do your best to keep your expression mildly irritated. "Not with one, drunken rider, but with another. It had taken them hours, only coming back when morning had already presented in the air."

He steps forward, slow, menacing, until he reaches the edge of your tub and crouches. Your gazes are still unmatched in height, defiant as yours might be.

"The distinct smell wafts them, a Keeper said, and one suspects that though one dragon left last night, two might have come back this morning for he had seen another fly away." His fingers dips into the water, swirling the steam without breaking eye contact. "I wonder if you know anything about it, darling niece of mine."

The mocking emphasis is not lost on you. If the Queen is the Realm's Delight, you were Darling of the Realm. A sweet, merry girl, the secondborn daughter of Viserys I who frequently fought for the plight of the small folk, who gathered friends of all kinds of lords and ladies no matter the standing of their houses to her own, visiting far lands and charming every person in any room. Who made any feast brighter, always sparkling, always the darling.

Less of a dragon, more of a fairytale.

You sit up, leaning, baring your breasts completely to him as you pull yourself up on the ledge he is crouched from. He leans back, only slightly, as you smile demurely. Sweet. Tart. On the edge of pulling his head and hitting it against the copper tub.

"I am unsure of what you suspect, or is accusing me of, kepus, uncle," you purr and there's a twitch in his mouth, a widen in his irises— men are so fucking simple — "I had been feeling down last night, as my husband, as you know, is beyond my reach at the moment as he rallies alliances for the good of the realm. My brother had simply offered to take me out riding, trying to quell my loneliness with an excitable flight I had never been afforded."

You tilt your head. "Even if there had been a dragon binded to my own, why why would I not regale the realm with news of my success? I have longed for a dragon of my own, but alas, I have not quite succeeded where most of the family have." You pout. His eyes flicker. "Mayhaps I am more Hightower than I am Targaryen."

A huff leaves his lips, the amusement in his smile arching to his dark, dark gaze. Before you can react, his hand had comes forward to hold your chin in a tight grip, your jaw aching soon enough at the fingers that dig against your skin, wanting to bruise, to break.

Though a tremble passes your body, you keep his stare, gritting your teeth as the pad of his thumb brushes your lips. Moments and desires thrum between a charged hatred.

The lust is twisted from wanting to fuck you to wanting to kill you. The line is not simple. Maybe that is your fate together.

But he can't. You are well too ingrained in his family now, loved by the people he cared about. You are untouchable. For now. This is a warning, waiting for you to stutter, to show your hand. Any show of your true intentions... he is more than happy to swing Dark Sister across your throat.

He releases you without another word, standing up and leaving through the front door, the door clicking shut.

You sink back into the bath, letting the water engulf you.

Your daughters are moons apart in birth, and there are only a few differences between them that people oft remarked they could be twins. Daenera is taller, spindly. Built like Aemond when he was younger. Her hair is spun moon and eyes of mullish blue. It reminds you of Daeron's eyes. You had named Daenera yourself, a gruelling birth that took the entire night. You promised Jacaerys he could name the second. He had chosen Aemma for a girl, Laenor for a boy.

Not a few moons later, you were with child again. Your husband pinked at the cheeks at the chiding from his family. When she cried into the afternoon sun—Aemma was born mid day, during a council meeting — he pain did not stop the laugh that came out of your mouth from the horrified expression from the Master of Coin as your water broke.

Aemma had a sweetheart face, cheeks much fatter than her older sister's, with a yellowish tinge to her hair, curlier too, reminding you of Aegon. And Aemma laughed more, her deep, violet eyes always half closed as she exploded in giggles and bright, sunshine happiness.

Sons they might not be, but you had given heirs for the throne. And for them, you would do anything to keep their futures intact. Bond with a dragon, face the Rogue Prince, upheave Winterfell. Anything.

You flounce to the nursery where you know the two would be, smiling sweetly at every person you pass as they bow in reverence. Most wore sights of confusion, their greedy eyes and wagging tongues drinking in the deep, emerald glisten of your gown.

It's an old dress, one you keep in the corner of your collection. It isn't as if you had forgo the colours of your mother's house, but playing court meant every movement, even the clothes you wear, can be meaningful. And since your marriage, your Jace liked you in Velaryon colours.

"A goddess come to bless," he gasped against your collarbone, keeping your legs high on his waist as he rutted into you before his teeth sunk on your skin. As newlyweds go, there is not a lot of teasing to be had for your husband to curl against you in a darkened alcove. Merely wearing his favourite colour on your skin has him panting like a dog. His favourite dress is a seafoam blue that dragged longer against the ground in a soft, almost-gossamer material with a silver belt.

Enticing him never took long, but you enjoyed the dance presented. You enjoyed the dark hunger that filled him until he grabbed you to take you because he just had to take you.

The fresh wound slices deeper as you imagine all the things Jacaerys is doing to the so called Sara Snow. The emerald green of your gown shimmers with your anger.

"Fucking bastards," you can't help but say aloud, nodding at the guards posted on the nursery as you hear the squeals of your daughter and the calm, even voice of your brother.

"Muña! Mother!" Aemma squeals, untangling herself from being pressed against Aegon's side as the children— Daenera and Jaehaera — cuddle around him, before running to you. Helaena is on the floor, entertaining baby Maelor. Your mother, hands twisting against her own, stands vigil by the window, staring far ahead.

You catch your secondborn, giggling as you pressed kiss after kiss on her face.

"I see everyone has started without me. Where is Jaehaerys?"

"You were late, sodjisto, aunt," Jaehaera grins gummily. Jahaera is only a year older than Daenera. Your daughters, five and a half and five respectively. "Jaehaerys is with kepus, uncle. They are training."

"Smart girl." You meet your brother's gaze, whose eyes had notably been staring at your dress, mouth turned down. "Why don't you three play with Helaena? I shall speak about Name Day gifts for your Uncle Joffrey for a bit, hm?"

As Aemma shrieks something about cakes, and Daenera dutifully kissing your cheek in greeting before she takes Jaehaera's hand, you turn to your brother and mother.

"Aemond?" you ask softly, keeping your voice out of earshot. Alicent shakes her head. You nod. "Good. We don't want him inciting a war before I have mine properly planned."

As the Dowager draws in a sharp inhale, Aegon grabs your hands, the worry pulled taunt in his eyebrows. "Are you seriously contemplating war, sister? Isn't there a better way to punish them?"

"What punishment does a man regale in?" you hiss, stepping close to him. "Or the Queen's heir for the bloody matter? When Aemond nearly killed Lucerys, and he confronted me as if I had ordered Vhagar to tear through his brother, I thought I had put to bed any doubts in our marriage. It seems that men stray, regardless. My daughters may be his heir now, but what is to say that bastard wildling he's found himself cock deep in produces a son? Will he shame me with a mistress? Or will he shame me with a second wife?"

Your mother's lips tightens, her fingers paling at how tight she is gripping her nerves.

"Bastard or not, if he takes her to wife, I will be nothing. Make that babe a son, and the realm will rally for it. Daenera is his heir. My daughters will not be forgone. I will not be pushed aside. This is mercy, brother," you say softly, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. "My last one. It requires time, moons, to unfurl. It requires seeding doubt and unfathomable inadequacy. Better if Aemond is none the wiser, Helaena the same. But I will need both of you for this to work. It is the only time I will ever ask. For me. For my daughters."

"And you will punish Winterfell with a war?" your mother asks, frown pulled deep. "That is the plan?"

"I will not. I won't do such a thing so blatant, mother, you know me better than that. But this is my last mercy, and it will be the last. For the next time he offends me so, I do not care if Rhaenyra feeds me to Syrax. I will put a dagger through his heart, heir or not."

The Prince Jacaerys comes back not a week later. Though he comes back to the same castle with the same occupants— your shiny new threads gleam. The stage has been set, a play ready to act. You had sent more spiders in the North, keeping a close eye to every blasphemy your husband has been enjoying in the absence of his duties, and as the rage in you quietly grew with each new whisper, your determination hardens.

You mark each indescretion. You keep a tally.

You count for each fall your blow will land on him.

Vermax lands with a screech and a heavy thump, your husband leaping off him with a grin on his face, matching the one you own, waving your arm joyously with Aemma in your arm and Daenera beside you, holding to your skirt as she grinned at her father.

Aemma wiggles under your hold, and you let Jace get close enough before you set her down, laughing, "Okay, okay!" Her laughter carries through as she scrambles like a bull to her father. A squeal peals out of her as Jace picks her up just in time and tosses her in the air.

"Want to meet kepa, father, sweet girl?" you whisper to Daenera, running a hand down her hair before she nods, breaking out into her own sprint, hugging her father as he greets them with laughter and kisses.

You let them have their time, and this, at least, eases your heart truthfully. A kind reminder that Jace adores his daughters.

You stay at the edge of the entrance, your too-wide grin softens into a smile. You were dramatic, nothing new about that, but even in the pale, pearl blue of your dress in silky, Myrish lace, the emeralds in your heavy, golden belt winks. Green ribbons twisted in your hair alongside fresh flowers. When the trio of your family treks toward you, silver-haired babes clinging to your dark haired prince, you serve a wink at the girls and they untangle themselves from their father while you stepped forward.

A choreographed dance, not giving him time to think. To pause.

Every step is calculated, every item on your body— the silk, the small seahorse that locks your dress behind you, the tint on your lips to the oil in your hair and body — is made to perform. You engulf him in you as if you want to suffocate his senses, your arms wrapping around him with sweet kisses pressing on his face, his neck.

Most in the dragonpit looked away, others, scandalously amazed and enchanted, watch as the princess is undeniably enthralled with her lord husband.

His laughter rumbles across his body, infecting your own, smelling of dragonback and crisp winds. You wonder if your nose is more heightened, you would be able to smell his whore in him, but you don't. It's just him. Your Jace.

Your body moulds against his as his arms tightens around you. When you lean back, you sweetly press a chaste kiss on his lips, grinning.

"What is this?" he huffs a laugh, meeting your doeful gaze. Your fingers curl around his chin, his cheek, idly tapping and touching as if you are committing so much newness to memory.

"Kostagon iā ābrazȳrys daor jaelagon zirȳla valzȳrys? Can a wife not want her husband?" you ask softly, pressing a few more kisses before sucking the last one just under his ear. His body shudders. You hide your smirk. "Skori ēza issare qrīdrughagon tolī bōsa? When he has been away too long?"

A yearning look tints your gaze from under your lashes, and you have to stifle the winning smirk as guilt pinches his face.

"My apologies, my wife. I did not mean to be away from you for long. From the girls." As his eyes flick to his daughters, your mask momentarily sharpens into clear distaste. The urge to dig your fingers into his eyes until he is bleeding and screaming under you is one you tamper with great distress.

Did not mean...

Did not mean to have a dalliance with another woman?

Did not mean to fall into bed with a fucking bastard, you insidious cunt, while I await here with your heirs?

Your anger thrums, nestled deep in your heart, it breathes. You school your face the moment he turns back to you, bringing your hands to his lips, kissing each finger with reverent tenderness. His brown eyes smoulder, rubbing your bare— irises widening — back.

"If you wish it, I can be on my knees for my apologies, my princess."

Your mouth curls. "I'm afraid that might have to be quite later, my prince."

"Huh?"

"The Dowager Queen hoped to congratulate you on your successful campaigning. Reaching as far as the North so frequently, we planned a feast for your return." Eyes shinning, you cup his face. You hope the guilt eats him raw from the inside out. Like worms. Like termites. Hungry, hungry, hungry. "We have never been more proud of you, I have never been more proud of you."

You laugh brightly, ignoring the way he squeezed you just a bit harder that mere second the same time his eyes tightened. "The moment I told the girls of it, they had begged to dance with you." Then you bit your lip, frowning slightly. "I... I understand if you are tired, 'tis a long journey after all, I did try to tell them you might want to rest, we can sneak you—"

"No, no, my heart, of course I would be happy to, I— I want nothing more." He brings you close, face disappearing into your neck. "Thank you. I love you."

You hum, carding your fingers through his hair. "As I love you."

For the rest of the feast, you dance just at the edges of his fingertips, ensuring that you permeated his sights and senses despite it. A game. A dance. When he thanks revelries who congratulate him, who ask him of his adventures, you proudly stand beside him, dutiful as the wife that you are, spearing him with compliments as much as you can. Hands squeezing his arm, your oils swallowing him with your smell.

When dinner came, you take chances massaging his thigh, sliding a salacious grin that had him blushing, ever so sweet, green— making you wonder what kind of fucking bastards do that he finds your attention so swallowing.

You don't let up.

Whenever he, in turn made a move, you sidestep, flutter a smirk, a wink; always escaping, letting him grow frustrated as the night went on.

Your one respite from taunting him had been when he danced with his daughters, making a gallant show of asking them, even Jaehaera. Giggles and spins, the ladies of the court fawn and coo.

Even now, you're making him to be the perfect man. The endearing husband, the wondrous father, the brilliant prince, the perfect lord.

To execute your plan, it must be made with a surgical precision. A slice that guts him to his knees, that breaks his spirit and quenches the whispering, wicked madness nestling with your ire. On another cheek, he must remain upright and upstanding, as to keep your daughters' future in perfect order.

You catch the domineering gaze of Daemon Targaryen, idle as he is, on the side of his distracted Queen, talking to a highborn lady. You don't look away as you toast him your cup of Arbour Red before you pucker your lips for a taste. Your eyes move to where your husband is already looking, flushed red and sweaty from all the dancing, your girls, preening and giggling around him.

You tilt your chin at him, a challenge in your gaze, before you slowly pull your lips away from your wine, stained red.

His throat bobs.

It will be a long, arduous game. Full of pitfalls and tightened webbing. One trip can kill you. But once the machinations are in order, once everything and everyone is in their proper places... oh, you cannot wait for the dance the dragons will make.

A flutter, a simpered footstep. Then a rustle of a dress as one bows.

"My lady," Dyanna greets behind you.

"Hm?"

"The spiders in the ice have met the pup in the snow."

"And?"

"The pup is not suspicious, in fact, they might go as far as to say that the pup is lonely. Though others largely understand her existence... no one likes a bastard."

You snort. "No, they don't, do they?"

"The wolf cares for the pup though, and is largely protective of his only sister."

"Hm. Complicated, but not impossible. Have Meera change the tone of my missive. A softer edge. Sweet but not overtly. Ensure the prerogative of politeness. Then have it sent to the Rookery. The proper channels."

You sigh, taking the edge of your braid and twisting through the ribbons your maid tangled between them. Tonight, you had elected Targaryen colours. A black dress akin to scales and a low, exposed back and dipping front, held together in red ribbons and silver chains. One that might be too on the nose, but the constant, feverish stares from your husband made it worth it.

"We have to ensure a good relationship with the Warden of the North, don't you think so?" You have not looked away from your husband since your maid came, and as he whispered something in Daenera's ear, nodding off to her grandmother with Aemma towed, he turned towards you, one stride after another.

"Precisely what I thought, milady."

"Go," you order her for the last time, giving her your cup, just before Jacaerys reaches you.

Game, set.

Worshipping you has always been something Jace excelled at. At the least, his cock was much larger than most, and without the preparation of his tongue and mouth, it burned. At most, he oft found himself holding your shaking thighs, your head and shoulders left on the bed as he feasted on you like a man starved, hungered for your nectar, the sounds you make, and the shaking of your body as you reached your peak on his tongue.

"J-Jace, please, I—" Your breath stutters, a hiccup escaping your mouth, but he is not letting up. On his knees as only a lordling can with his back straight, he is holding your thighs, your lower back, eating your cunny for the third time of the night.

As soon as he had reached you, he grasped your waist, whispering against your hair in a rumbled groan, "You are torturing me so, my wife. We leave. Now."

"Now?" you echoed, amused. "This is a feast in your honour."

"My honour is already hanging by a thread. The revelry will go on without us. I want to have my fill of you."

And fill he had. He didn't even wait to get you out of your dress before he had pushed your skirt upward, gone on his knees, and got his tongue inside of you.

Now, you are overwhelmed, overstimulated as you are hazy, gripping the wrecked sheets as your peak reached you once more. A strangled, breathy cry of his name falls between your lips as your back arched impossibly so, and instead of letting up, this seemed to fuel him harder, the muscle of his mouth working harder inside of your cunt, hands digging into your flesh to keep you steady.

It builds with a stimulation unending, and just as you're on the throes of your last high, it builds again, quick and fast this time, shuddering gasps of, "o-oh gods, g-gods, Jace!" is the last thing you are able to shout before your fourth peak breaks against the shudders of your last one, your wetness exploding, and you start crying before he lets up.

Your blubber becomes laughter, and he is soft as he lies you down, massaging your thighs as you twitched. He hovers above you, running gentle hands across your arms, kneading through skin, before he reaches your face. He's still in most of his clothes, his long white shirt and breeches, but his mouth is covered in your wetness before he wipes it, obscene in the prettiness of his face and messy locks from where you had tugged and grabbed.

He presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, so close to your body, all too tangled in your soul, and can feel his hard cock upright and wanting against your belly, but he pays it no mind. Concern mars his features as he brushes down your hair.

"Are you alright, my love? Too much?"

You shake your head, brushing your hand down his chest. "N-no, I am well. I just never did that before."

He smiles, kissing your closed eyelids before he brings you close to his chest, cuddling you deep. "You deserve all the pleasure I can give you," he says against your hair. "I have been gone far too long. Consider it my apology."

You hum, eyes open. "Apology for what? You were doing your duty, nothing more, ñuha zaldrīzes, my dragon." You feel him stiffen as you keep your voice soft, caring. "I understand duty far better than you. It is what I love most about you."

You look up, taking his chin between your fingertips as you stared at those warm, brown eyes. "You, who carries your honour like a shield and your duty like a sword. I feel as if the gods had blessed me a husband far better than I should have had for I know I do not deserve you."

"H-how can you say that? You are—" He swallows. "— You are the most excellent woman. The mother of my children. You... You are the one I do not deserve."

Your head falls back against his chest, gripping his shirt. Only by your teeth had you stop yourself from screaming.

You curdle, you keep, you poise.

"My love?"

But you pay him no mind, pushing him on his back as you straddle him, your hands working quick to unlace his breeches until his cock slaps against his stomach, end red and swollen. A sharp hiss falls from his lips as your hand tugs on it once. Twice.

He calls your name, spits it really, eyes blown with lust as he holds your waist, unsure if he should lift you off him or grind you against his aching cock.

"I want you inside me," you whimper, plead, feeling his cock twitch at your words, your false, yearning gaze. He mistakes the burned tears of anger in your eyes as unbridled want. "I have gone so long without your warmth, your cock, swelling inside me, your seed nestling deep, taking root—"

"Yes," he gasps, fingers digging into your doughy sides, pulling you up, moving you around whilst you grabbed his length and directed inside your wet, hot cunt inch by inch, filling you so thickly you can feel him in your throat. It takes time, patience and grit, but you're wet enough and you're determined. Once he's fully inside of you through a choked moan of your own, his neck arches, head thrown back. "Fuck! Yes, y-yes, there you are, my g-good fucking girl."

You move slow at first, taking him, bracing one hand on his knee, almost testing the feel him of back in the familiar contours of your cunt. Veins pop between each groan and choke that shudders through him whilst praise, your name, the possessive titles— my love, my wife, my princess — is spit in between.

When the heat tightens in your belly, you shift positions, placing both palms on his chest, and riding him without abandon, bouncing up and down as you watch with a sharp eye as his release builds. His hips move on their own, fucking up in you as you meet his thrusts with equal vigour, and it's delicious. It's heated. You grind your swollen folds against his mon and your cries make him thrust up harder into you, calling your name, denting your doughy hips.

You don't stop, your pleasure at the back of your mind, wanting him to unravel, to break— a final cry of your name dissolving into a choked moan, spilling his seed deep inside, the continuous snap of his hips digging it deeper into your womb.

But your last peak is still tightening, so you press a quick kiss on his chest, a bite really, before you continue to chase your own high, a hiss slipping his lips but moving your hips with his iron-grip, stutters of, "d-do it, reach your high, f-fuck! fuck!"— Your head throws back, nails digging his skin as your cunt clenches his cock in a vice grip, forcing his hips to snap up once more, twice, until you fall, slumping against him.

When he kisses the top of your head, murmuring words you ignore, you close your eyes.

Your plan is in motion. The missive will be sent to the Lord Stark, in pursuit of an innocent friendship. The spiders you have placed on the Northern bastard are set, and a dragon flies in Dragonstone with your bond in its blood.

Your Jace is home. He will fall in love with you all over again. His wonderful daughters and darling princess, he will regret the events that have transpired in the cold. In his head, he will make promises to do better, to be better, that whatever happened is a blip. A mistake that will not happen again. but you know, he will trip. He will wander once more.

But you will make sure that the next time he does so, he will regret it for the rest of his days.

Because it is not you who will burn Winterfell to the ground.

It will be him.

Your plan moves, your web is perfect.

Now, the spider waits for the idiot fucking flies to feed on.

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 3 months

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jorrāeliarzus (beloved) │ Chapter 1: Affliction

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 (In Progress!)

Synopsis: Daemon guides you on a journey of healing and self-discovery as you learn to raise your children and build a family of your own. You struggle.

Hello! Welcome back, all! This instalment is going to be a journey for Reader. A bunch of bad shit has happened in her life. It's about time she begins facing all that, you know? Not all of it will be heavy, but there will be some psychological fuckery and an opportunity to delve into the layers of the relationship I've spent time developing. My intention is to have this function similar to little slut, in that it's a series of one-shots set chronologically. Each will be a self-contained 'highlight' that is set during the six years Daemon is exiled on Dragonstone. This instalment will cover babies, healing, pregnancy, relationship development, funny hijinks, dragons and smut! Always smut.

EDIT: I am dumb-dumb and forgot to thank @ewanmitchellcrumbs for beta-ing and giving this her necessary stamp of approval and being the bestest biffle EVA, as well as @spoolofblack for reassuring me that Daemon is NOT too OOC here and cheering me on through the AO3 tagging journey. Thanks be!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of post-partum depression, lite smut, lactation and lactation kink.

“Thus was Prince Daemon banished from his brother the King’s city, and with him his niece and newborn heirs. Exile had long favoured the rogue, and this latest decree brought a period of quiet to the isle of Dragonstone, the years giving rise to further progeny to strengthen his House’s line. Together with the Princess Rhaenyra, Daemon and his wife presided over the Targaryen stronghold for several years before circumstances would take them once more to King’s Landing.”

- ‘Fire & Blood: Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros’ by Archmaester Gyldayn

He is staring again.

You do your best to pay it no mind, though the weight of his eyes upon you is heavy, nonetheless. An onlooker may well assume his focus is on the scene in its entirety—upon the babes propped on pillows before you, their grasping fists skating across dragonscale as they grunt and babble, reptilian rumbles filling the void between sounds—but you know better. Your husband has not been the same since… since that night. You cannot blame him, though it vexes you so.

One of the dragons—the creature with scales of amethyst glittering even in low light—hisses in outrage as Aelys takes hold of his tail, curling around himself with teeth bared as if to warn your daughter of the fate that awaits her. No bite comes. Unbothered, she tries to tug her quarry to her face, and you can only presume the intent is to explore this new surface with gnashing gums.

“Let go, my lovely,” you tell her as your fingers work to free the beast of its skin-and-bone shackles. The babe’s grip is surprisingly firm. “Azorion has done naught to deserve such untoward treatment.”

“Did it not shit in the cradle this morning?” comes Daemon’s idle question from the desk.

When you glance over, you find he has made himself busy once more, appearing for all the world as though he is deep in his papers. You suspect otherwise.

“He is only small,” you say by way of response. Aelys’s face flushes with the threat of tears when her clasp is finally released, so you slip your own digits into hers to placate her. The other dragon, the long-limbed and sun-hued Valnissar, presses its snout against her neck as if to soothe her temper. “He cannot help it.”

Azorion scrabbles back to Rhaenar’s side, huffing indignantly even while burrowing into the boy’s side, leaching his body warmth. Rhaenar’s eyelids begin to droop, the comforting mass of his future mount an unwavering reassurance, while the steadiness of Valnissar’s even breaths along her flesh ease Aelys into a state of calm.

“If it can eat unaided, it can shit in a place that is not where my children sleep.”

The creature seems to rouse at the mention of his earlier mishap; you pat him reassuringly. “He will learn.”

Daemon grunts, summarily ending the conversation.

This is how most of your interactions proceed as of late: a vague, uninterested query, an overly polite response, a terse conclusion, and two evidently discontented persons not quite certain how to bridge the divide that has risen between them. And there is a divide, you are sure of it—why else does the man who is never without a word to spare suddenly bereft of speech in your presence?

The only thing that eases your mind is the knowledge that, for all his recalcitrance, there is no love lost. His hands still linger—on your back, your waist, thoughtless touches that settle hot and heavy and remind you of his solidness. He smiles still, amused by the sing-song lilt of your voice as you coo down at the twins, laughs when they babble back in mimicry of true dialogue. At night, his arms are encompassing, almost too tight, the clutch of one upon that which they fear to lose most. His body speaks the words his lips cannot, laying bare the desperate frustration—the fear, the anger, the worry—that he has carried since the night you had fallen under the spell of old magic, the night you had woken your children’s mounts from their eggshell prisons and called them forth with fire and blood.

Daemon is not the only one who ruminates upon it. You yourself remember it in pieces, flashes of memory that you cannot make whole. The heat of the hearth. A glow, orange, red, yellow. Stinging upon your hands, and the iron tang of blood upon the air. It is as though it occurred to another being—like you had watched rather than been part of it all. There is little wonder that the sight must have made him so uneasy.

You startle when your uncle abruptly stands, rolling his neck to dispel any latent discomfort from remaining in a static position for so long. He falters, appears to decide on something unknown to all but his own mind, then moves toward the rug where you have arranged your babes and their dragons.

Crouching down beside you, his hand reaches forth to cup the round softness of Rhaenar’s head as he murmurs, “I’ll be back later.”

“Before supper?” you ask just as quietly.

He makes a vague noise of assent, smiling absently when Aelys jams her fist in her mouth and babbles to herself, drooling all the while. Valnissar perks up at the sight of his second-favourite person in the world, chittering excitedly as he makes a concerted attempt at climbing up Daemon’s leg. Daemon hisses, extricating the spindly creature’s claws and placing him on his shoulder. Valnissar flaps his wings and promptly tries to weave his way into your uncle’s hair. Your nostrils flare in amusement.

Daemon does not look at you, but you do not mind; you understand the draw of the twins and their young mounts all too well.

“Where are you going?” you ask.

At that, he turns further into you, his gaze finally lifting to find your face. From the corner of your eye, you see the looming shadow that forms whenever he allows his thoughts to consume him. It casts his features into darkness, the heavy set of his brow wrinkling inward as disquietude metamorphoses him. But the tale enacted through his expression is mitigated by the press of his other hand against the small of your back, achingly tender even in its firmness.

“To the Dragonmont.”

You nod. “Ah.”

He will not tell you yet, but you suspect he is looking for answers. The last great repository of Old Valyria is bound to provide at least some insight, though part of you—a large part—is too afraid to seek them yourself. You worry what you will find if you should search through the ancient texts of your people, what they might say of those with the power to hold fire in their hands without fear of burning. It is not something you have ever heard of. If House Targaryen could claim such a feat, it would not be a secret. What does it mean? You know not.

And so, you make no protest when his thumb strokes against Aelys’s cheek in parting, when he unceremoniously drops her dragon to the floor beside her and ignores the protesting squawks to lean in and kiss your cheek, muttering his goodbyes as he rises to leave. You do not turn around, but you know his routine well enough by now.

A clatter by the bed, and Dark Sister is retrieved—scabbard and all—to be fastened at his waist. A scrape, the chair at the desk being pushed back in. A pause. He takes one final look at you all, wife and children and dragons laid about by the hearth in seeming bliss. You feel his stare as it rests on you and you hear the sound of the door opening and closing, footsteps echoing, then fading, fading. The imprint of his lips and his touch remains, an unsettling reminder of all that has been left unspoken.

You dispel such thoughts with a sigh. As worrying as Daemon’s behaviour has become, it is by no means your first priority now that you are a mother.

Looking down at them, you wonder if you will ever get used to the idea, to the fact that these two little beings grew in your belly until they were ready to come into the world, and now they are here and they are yours. ‘Mother’ means the woman through whom your very existence came to be, the name Aemma spoken in hushed whispers and always carrying with it the trace of unending grief. ‘Mother’ means Alicent, the girl-turned-Queen who birthed your brothers and sweet Helaena, who gave you little Daeron to love in place of all you had once been without. ‘Mother’ means Rhaenyra, your staunchly devoted sister who had in part raised you, who even now rears kind, intelligent sons who are more than deserving of the legacy she will one day leave them. You find it entirely strange that a word representing these women—such forces in your life, for good or otherwise—is a word that applies to you.

Motherhood is strange, foreign in a way you do not feel you can overcome by consulting dusty tomes in companionship with Ser Lysan, the manner in which you have familiarised yourself with all foreign things in summers past. This feeling has crept into the crevices of your mind in barely perceptible pulses, slow and unassuming with every new thing you learn about these wonderful, terrifying beings your body created, with every new feat they achieve as they grow and adapt to their environment. At times, when you are alone, you worry you will be no good at it. How can you possibly fare well at such a monumental task without a mother to guide you? What if you make a mistake?

What if your babes—who you know you love more than anything in the world, more than you ever thought anyone could ever feel in their beating hearts, so strong it is almost sickening—come to know of your inadequacy and loathe you for it?

“What seems to be the issue, Princess?”

Gerardys’s hands are folded together before him, his expression as kind and reassuring as always. You wish you truly were reassured, or the too-hot, roiling sensation of your gut might not be quite so pronounced.

There are many responses you could give. The fact that your husband is ill at ease with you for reasons you cannot risk explaining, lest the entire Realm learn through whispers and tales of Valyrian blood magic and some concealed devilry that ought to be put to the sword. That your doubts about how suitable you are as a mother are rising with every second of every hour that you are left to tend your children, feelings that must be wholly unnatural to a woman or otherwise, would you not have heard of such a thing spoken in your many years among the ladies at court? Or perhaps that the woman whom you would prefer to speak to of this matter is in King’s Landing to fetch fresh supplies at this very moment, leaving you no alternative but to be in the maester’s solar instead.

No. None of the answers to his question that come immediately to mind are appropriate here, and nor are they the true reason for your visit. Thus, you brush them aside and take a deep breath.

“I… I have some—concerns.” At his encouraging nod, you add, “About my… supply. For the babes.”

“Ah.” You are glad he seems to have interpreted your hedging correctly; he clears his throat. “I am a physician,” he reminds you, though his tone is by no means judgemental. For all Daemon’s dislike of him, such gentility is why you believe him to be one of the best practitioners in his field, and certainly preferable to Mellos. “While I—understand the indelicacy of the subject matter, I am afraid you are going to need to elaborate, your Highness.”

“Oh. Of course.” You glance away, discomfited. “I… wish to feed the twins myself. By myself. But I”—you gesture weakly to your chest—“my milk has not come in as much as I had hoped it would… by now…”

Rhaenyra has never had this problem, you think. You cannot help it. It was not so long ago that the merest mention of a babe had been enough to wet the fabrics of her gown, never mind that Joff had had the luxury of choice in his supply. Your sister had in fact bemoaned the stubbornness of her body in refusing to dry up—she never let her sons latch for longer than a moon’s turn after each birth, preferring to, as she said, “keep her tits from turning to suckling udders”, long-teated and all. Jealousy is the sin of the vain and impious, but your beating heart thrums with it even so.

Gerardys frowns. “Forgive me—but I was certain that a wet nurse had been requisitioned for them?”

“Yes. But I would—I would prefer to feed them on my own.”

It is not as though you dislike Freda. While she is certainly loud and bawdy and oft far too inappropriate for company, she cares a great deal for Rhaenar and Aelys. You see it in the readiness of her smiles at them, how she cradles them as if they are the most delicate beings in the universe, the way she praises them so effusively for the most base and vulgar of actions—“I’ve never seen a shit so splendid, your Highness, never did I once! A talented little fellow is our little prince, he is!”—but it is not the same. You are their mother, not she. Freda’s presence is not just expected, but required to ensure both your babes have full bellies. It does little to ease your lack of surety.

Though you can tell that Gerardys is perplexed by your insistence, he stares past you thoughtfully, his eyes squinting in his concentration.

“It is not uncommon,” he says slowly, “for a woman with two nursing babes to produce an insufficient volume to accommodate them both. ‘Tis why wet nurses are so popular!”

“I know. I would just… I want to do it.” You wonder if you sound as exposed as you feel. “I am their mother. I should feed them.”

Your words seem to matter not, for the maester is already muttering to himself and rifling through the cabinet by the door, low tones interspersed with the soft clinking of glass vials being shifted about.

“If you insist, Princess,” he says absently, humming under his breath as he balances on tiptoe to reach his higher shelving. After a moment of silence, a noise of muted triumph. “Ah—here it is.”

What he presses into your hands is not an ampoule of some sort, but a plain pouch of hemp and string. The contents within shift about readily, though it prickles when you squeeze too firmly, like dried herbs.

“Thistle tea.” Gerardys watches as you inspect his offering. “Steep for half an hour, strain. Consume plain, no milk or honey. One cup a day, no more or less.”

“How long will it take to work?”

“You ought to begin seeing an increase in production within a sennight. If you can encourage the babes to latch more frequently, you’ll have better results.” At your enquiring look, he elaborates. “The more often the breast is drained, the quicker it refills and thus the more milk you will produce.”

You colour at his use of such a word, not entirely accustomed to speaking so plainly of something so long viewed as unseemly with another man. It is scarcely tolerable even with your ladies. “You have my thanks, Maester Gerardys.”

“Of course, Princess. But remember—do not exceed more than a cup a day!”

You take his advice to heart over the next few days, exhorting the serving staff to ensure you are delivered of a cup brewed to the maester’s specifications each morning. It tastes unremarkable, a leafy bitterness so often customary of herbal tinctures and tonics, though you think you might find it more palatable with the addition of such ingredients as the ones expressly forbidden to you. The very worst of the flavour collects at the bottom of the cup, forcing you to steel yourself to stomach the sharp-tasting dregs and cleanse your palate with fresh water. You bear it silently, praying that you will soon see the benefits promised to you.

But, after a sennight passes, there is no change.

At least, you think there is no change. Rhaenar is not one for fuss and fuddle, and the one time Aelys is not so is in the hours following feeding, her belly full and warm and leading to an easy, calm drowse—but after letting them latch for half an hour, neither babe is sufficiently serene to suggest that the tea has done its duty. Rhaenar kicks and grizzles, mouthing vainly at your nipple as though you are concealing some previously stored contents still within your breast, while Aelys progresses to full, drawn-out wails. Freda watches on, wringing her hands as the twins caterwaul. The front of her dress is stained, sympathetic leakage in response to the veracity of their cries.

Perhaps it is this fact that finally breaks you.

All at once, you no longer feel saddened or confused, concerned or unsure. You are angry. Why should she—a woman who had neither carried nor shared blood with them—get to give your boy and your girl the sustenance so essential to them? What does she possess that you do not? Why have the gods forsaken you? If they have built the womanly form to bear and nurse her children, then you ought to be able to carry out your duty as intended. Not Freda. Why are they taunting you with such a poisonous reminder of your own failure?

“Your Highness—”

“No!” Your rebuke is sharp and swift, punctuated further by what you can only assume is a truly withering glare. “Leave us!”

“But the little pr—”

“I said get out!”

The shrillness of your voice only serves to further upset the babes. They both scream, red-faced and baying, and there is a strange sort of harmony to it that might even sound beautiful were it not so devastating. The noise is such that it sets off the panicked shrieking of Azorion and Valnissar, creating a truly chaotic calamity of sound that makes it terribly hard to think rationally. Or think at all.

You bar the room, refusing to allow Jeyne or Bethany entry. You do not need their aid. It is only morning, your thoughts whirl frenetically. Plenty of time to prove that the wet nurse is not necessary.

All manner of people come to your door as the moments—or maybe minutes, or perhaps hours, you cannot tell—pass, no doubt drawn by the crying and the screeching and your stubborn resistance to letting anyone assist you. Ser Lorent raps on the door, earnest calls of “Your Highness? Is everything well?” readily enough ignored and, when that fails, the kindly queries of the maester beseeching you to let him in “for fear there is something wrong, Princess, please let us help you” also dismissed, or rather more truthfully, not quite heard through the thicket of your growing panic. You do your best to disregard anything outside your chambers, your frantic focus centred wholly on giving Rhaenar and Aelys the care they need from their mother—and their mother alone.

But no matter the hymns you sing or the steadiness of your rocking, no matter how perfect your bouncing walk to soothe them or your murmured exhortations to please, please calm down, they will not be assuaged.

You forget what silence is like. Surely you have never been without the sound of bawling infants? The intensity of it reshapes memory, blocks out any sense of rationality or level-headedness. Your own despair rises the longer the babes sob, their sorrowful scrunched-up faces all but proclaiming aloud that you cannot do this.

Your mind rebels. What was I thinking? They hate me. They hate me. I’ve ruined them. I could not give them milk, and now I cannot even stop their tears. I am a terrible mother. A failure.

Failure.

The hatchling dragons, emblematic of their future riders’ dispositions as is the norm, only serve to intensify the battle between your spirit and your fear. They feel as Rhaenar and Aelys feel, only they have sharp claws and sharp teeth and the mobility fresh out of the egg to express their feelings in a way the twins cannot. You cannot fend off their snapping jaws and high-pitched snarls and tend to the twins at the same time. The situation quickly becomes untenable, though you have not the presence of mind nor good sense to discern this.

“Daor,” you snap as Valnissar nips at your exposed wrist. No.

At this age, the bite stings only a little, drawing a thin well of blood to the surface of your skin. You push the dragon away, doggedly continuing to try and force Aelys’s mouth to your breast. They feel heavier again, a sure sign that there is milk enough to quell the babes’ despondency. If only they would stop crying.

You sit upright on the bed, the curve of one foot pinning Azorion to the mattress below you. He hisses indignantly but makes no attempt to shift, resigned to being trapped for as long as you deem it necessary. Positioned perfectly against the cushion provided for precisely this purpose are your boy and girl, heads perfectly aligned to take to each breast, reclined so that their tiny bodies extend below each of your arms and your hands are free to cup their heads just right. Exactly how Ūlla taught you. So why—why—are they refusing to latch?

“Please,” you find yourself whimpering, the sound lost beneath the piercing howls. At this point, they have both become as distressed as each other, never looking more identical than they do with the same flushed flesh and misery-streaked cheeks, near to seizing with the force of their sobs. You try to bring their mouths to each nipple again, but all they do is cry and cry and cry, faces turning away. “Please, it’s right here. Mama has your milk right here, please please please…”

Valnissar tries to climb over your arm to sit on Aelys. You shrug the beast off, and he tumbles to the bed in a tangle of wings. He screeches, teeth bared, and you can just tell he is about to strike at you again.

You push him away.

“Leave me be!” you say, louder and steadily more overwhelmed, your attention wavering between creature and child. Pressing the babes to your breasts does nothing to persuade them to take from you, but what else can you do? “Please drink. For me? For Mama?”

More wailing. Their fists clench, their forms shuddering.

Useless. It is useless. I am useless.

“Why won’t you have your milk?” you ask, and you think you are calm and measured but really you are starting to sob yourself, a discordant symphony of despair. “Why won’t you just accept it? Please, please, I promise it’s good enough…”

Still, tears. And the dam breaks.

They hate me. They hate me. They hate me. It is like a metronome pulsing through your veins in time with the wrenching heaves of your chest, your lungs trying and failing to force in air. The babes cry, you cry, the dragons clamour, the room feels too full—of sound, of air, of heat—and you are so terribly close to screaming at everything to shut the fuck up because you cannot do this, you cannot do this, why did you ever think you could do—

The passageway at the opposite end of the chamber bursts open. You hear it, but you cannot see through the film of your own tears.

“What the fuck’s going on here?”

Normally, Daemon’s voice—even panicked as he is currently—is enough to reassure you. But it only makes you weep more. Here is your husband, arrived to see how poor a wife he has chosen, how poor a mama you make. Here is Rhaenar and Aelys’s father, arrived to see how enormous your incompetence is, how completely and utterly you have failed to do even the simplest of things. The shame of it is enough to send you spiralling.

You do not remember what follows very clearly.

Fingers fumbling to lace up the ties loosened on your bodice. Hands laid upon the babes, the span of palm large and rough enough to disturb their vocalisations, to ease them to a slightly duller caterwauling. You clutch them tighter to you, unable to even look up to see the owner of those hands, but you are not strong enough to resist the determined reach of those arms to pluck each infant in turn from you. A part of you is relieved. They are passed off with murmurs, man and woman’s voices exchanging in low tones. You vaguely recognise them through the fog of misery. The person before you stands, another taking their place. The steady touch of someone with skin that carries the scent of medicinal herbs feels your forehead, turns your head from side to side, presses clinically at the fullness of your chest. Then, the mattress rises, the weight dissipating, and you are alone.

It takes several long moments to realise that the noise—the babes and the dragons—has stopped entirely. That they are no longer present, no doubt escorted to safety far, far away from you. It ought to be enough to torment you to madness, the final step in this harrowing reprieve from reason, but your tears have fled too. All that is left is bone deep, heavy exhaustion and a full-bodied dispiritedness that makes you sink into the pillows behind you, slide down enough to turn to your side and ignore whoever is talking, shut your eyes and block everything out.

You let the darkness swallow you whole.

Of course he is here when you awake.

You do not know if you really expected otherwise. He has dragged a chair from the table by the balcony next to the bed, and he ought to appear more comfortable—slouched carelessly as he is, leg slung over the other in the assured manner that all men who are confident in their right to take up such space are—but his expression suggests otherwise. Not angry, no, but certainly serious; a pensiveness that comes from prolonged periods of introspection. His eyes seem far away. In fact, his entire self seems far from where he sits, as though his body has travelled back to the Keep but his mind is still in the Dragonmont.

Where he has been for days and days, you think bitterly. Reading thousand-year-old texts instead of being here.

His hands are clasped and resting under his chin, his elbows on the armrests. He seems tired. You regret the ire of your thoughts. It is not as though he has gone out of his way to avoid you, truly. He is here when you need him.

You do not realise he has become aware of your return to consciousness until you hear your name softly spoken.

“Rūhossa zaldrīzessē mazumbillā ilzi. Pōnta biktomy kisittaksi,” is the first thing he says. The babes and dragons are in the nursery. They were fed by the wet nurse.

The silence, previously unnoticed, registers at the same time as your relief. They are safe. They are far away from you. It is likely for the best, even though your breasts feel uncomfortably full.

Daemon shifts from the seat to the bed, staring down at you with an unnameable emotion in his gaze. His movements are relaxed, almost calculated, as one who is wary of spooking an injured animal. You think that if he had failed to glean some sort of response from whomever followed him into the room earlier, he would not be quite so calm.

For a moment, you are half-convinced he is about to reprimand you—until he strokes your jaw, brushes a stray tendril of hair from your face. Your heart skips a beat. His touch is kind.

After an indeterminate period of silence, the question eventually comes.

“Skorion massitas?” What happened? His tone is low, measured.

You sit up, making room for yourself by wiggling back against the pillows. Really, you are stalling. How does one go about explaining that they had taken leave of their senses?

“Ūī ūndetā, gōntō daor?” you ultimately choose to say. You saw, did you not? It sounds dull and lifeless even to your ears. “Se avy qubykto massinoti biktys ivestretos.” And the wet nurse must have told you of earlier events.

His responding look is unimpressed. Normally, you would expect him to have yelled by this point. Whatever it is that he has been told—whatever it is that you must have looked like here, near to yelling at your own infant children and sobbing with your breasts bared to the room and two small dragons buzzing about like particularly persistent insects—it is enough to stay his temper for the time being. Still, you do not believe his patience will hold for long.

You sigh, shuddering out an unsteady breath.

Even though the spell of hysteria has broken, it takes a moment or two to gather yourself. Daemon grasps your arms, erring on the cusp of too-tight to be solely encouraging, but it grounds you enough to attempt to explain what it is he stumbled upon before.

Your jumbled thoughts stream out unorganised, and you are only really half-aware of what exactly it is you convey through hiccuped breaths and shaking shoulders. Failure. Disgrace. Cannot even feed my own children. Useless. Bit by bit, it comes forth, juddered and broken, and you cannot even tell what language you are speaking in, or if you are dipping in and out of your native tongue and your learned one without a presence of mind to control it. As you speak, Daemon’s face morphs, knitted brows relaxing and mouth easing from its hard line into the gentlest of frowns. And then, you are silent. You wait for the death knell of judgement.

It never comes.

His hands slide lower, capturing your own and lacing fingers with you. He stares down at this joining, turning your wrist over as though he is marvelling at the disparity in size, in smoothness.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” It is low, strangely hurt.

Your heart thuds uneasily. This is not how you expected him to react at all. “I—I don’t know.”

He swallows, and again you are unsure if he is holding back anger or if he genuinely has none. The calloused pad of his finger strokes a line down the centre of your palm, eliciting an instinctive shiver from you.

“Gerardys said you went to see him. That you were in low spirits. Irritable. Fixed on this idea of nursing the babes by yourself.” He glances up, his lips twitching like he is reluctant to voice his next words. “He says… sometimes there is an—affliction—of the mind. It happens to new mothers.”

“You think I’m mad?” You try to pull your hand away, but he holds on.

Scoffing lightly, he says, “Maegor was mad, you silly girl. You are young. Frightened. A great deal has happened to you since we wed.”

His jaw tenses, no doubt recollecting those memories. The wedding night. The fight. Laena. Driftmark. Larys. Alicent. Father.

He sighs. “And I… I have not helped.”

Your mouth parts in protest. “I am happy with you,” you say stubbornly. “If you had not protected me—”

“And where have I been since the eve you hatched the twins’ dragons?” He turns from you, resting his elbows on his knees to rake his hands through his hair. “Hiding in the fucking Dragonmont. Like a coward.”

“You aren’t a coward. You’re the bravest man I’ve ever met.”

He laughs, short and sharp. It is an ugly sound. “Yes. So brave am I, I ran away and left my young wife alone to care for my children. I’m such a craven”—he lifts his head to look at you once more—“that I found it easier to let this happen instead of admitting how deeply that night unsettled me.”

An understatement, to be sure. You do not think ‘unsettled’ is sufficient enough to capture how either of you feel.

“It isn’t your fault,” you settle on telling him. “I should have just been able to nurse Rhaenar and Aelys without crying like a child—”

“You were overwhelmed. Worried. Thinking that not having enough milk means you’re somehow not fit to be their mother. What utter shit.”

“I cannot even feed them. How am I supposed to raise them?” Your voice is abnormally high and thready. You hear it, though it does not register as abnormal until Daemon’s expression stops you in your tracks. You shake your head, trying to stave off the tremble in your lower lip. “You don’t understand. I want—I need to be—enough for them.”

I don’t remember my mother, you want to say. I only remember ’Nyra and Alicent and Father. None of them were enough. None of them were able to make me feel less alone.

How am I supposed to stop Rhaenar and Aelys from being broken in the same way I was? Who do I turn to? What do I do? How can I protect them when I could not even protect myself?

When Daemon’s touch returns, it is unimaginably delicate, nearly tentative. He cups your cheek, tilts your head so your eyes can meet.

“You are enough,” he says. “How can you think otherwise? To love them is to be enough.”

A part of you wants to heed his words, to allow him to soothe your worries as he is so often able to do. Your thoughts, self-loathing as they are, continue to press against your will and shake the firmness of your resolve. “But—”

“Ah-ah. Remember our vows, sweetling.” His lip quirks, finding fondness in memory. “Did you not promise to obey me in all things?”

You nod tentatively.

He hums. “Obey me now, then. Cast those foolish notions from your mind and listen to your uncle, hm?”

You do not think you can agree so easily as he expects. This is a war in your head that he cannot help you wage through a simple command. But you want to believe that it could be as uncomplicated as he has made it.

“Alright,” you say. “I’ll try.”

His answering embrace feels like a port in the midst of a harrowing storm. When the world around you is careening wildly, uncontrolled and unstable, you know that he will bring you back to safe shores. He would fight those waves off himself if he could. You press your nose to his neck, breathe in the familiar smell of him—smokeleatherspice—and, for a time, everything feels just a little less terrifying.

“See? They’re fine,” Daemon says. “A night away has done no harm.”

The babes are well-settled in the nursery, placid and rested and bright-eyed. Rhaenar grips onto your thumb in welcome, while Aelys kicks her legs and squeals when she sees you above her. Though you are glad for it—glad that you had not ruined them in your desperate madness—there is a part of you that wishes they had not clearly been so manageable without you.

You eye the sleeping forms of Azorion and Valnissar, coiled faithfully by the sides of each of your children. The Keeper loiters near the window, watching on.

Freda nods hastily. “They have been fed and bathed, Princess, all ready for sleep. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

She clearly thinks this ought to ease your mind. If anything, it only serves to disappoint you. Not only had you missed out—you despise missing anything they do, any part of their life—but now there is no recourse for the ache in your chest. Even thinking of it is enough to make your nipples itch, your breasts throb. You pray that the front of your gown remains dry.

You turn toward the other occupant in the room. “And the dragons?”

The Dragonkeeper is here primarily for the future mounts of little Joff and Corwyn—recently bestowed with the respective names Tyraxes and Skyfrost, for the Keepers are not always so swift in naming new hatchlings—given that the nurses brought in to care for the babes are not equipped to raise creatures so dangerous as the ones claimed by your House. Today, though, he is responsible for four of them. If the look upon his face and the sweat glistening on his brow is any indication, doubling his responsibilities has caused a great deal of stress, indeed.

“The elder two have been separated from the hatchlings,” he says, stepping forward jerkily. It is as though his limbs are fastened upon strings controlled by some higher being—a human marionette. The effect is startling. “The younger pair have been… spirited, though they are resting for the time being.”

Daemon snorts, shaking his head. “Of course they have. At least they don’t breathe fucking fire yet.”

“Fucky.”

Your husband’s head whips over to the rug by the table, where Corwyn and Joff happily toddle about on unsteady legs. Corwyn is looking straight towards Daemon, smiling and mashing his gums on what seems to be a wooden knight.

Like most of the children in your family, he appears to have developed a liking for the man. Mealtimes now often involve the boy stumbling to Daemon’s side to pass him whatever object he has deemed necessary to be kept in your uncle’s possession, wide amethyst eyes peering expectantly upward until the doll or block or carved figure is taken from his hands. Daemon will roll his eyes, thank him and pat him on his head of dark curls, the act inciting a squeal and babble before the child waddles back to his evening playtime.

At the abrupt cessation of conversation, Corwyn removes the figure from his mouth and speaks once again. “Fucky.”

“Shit,” Daemon murmurs. You strike his arm reflexively, but it is too late.

Corwyn laughs as he wanders back to Joff. “Shit. Shit. Shit-it-it-it-it-it…”

“Daemon!” you hiss, torn between irritation and a bizarre sort of amusement.

He shrugs. “Oh well. Nothing can be done now. It could be worse, sweetling. He could have walked in on us fu—”

“Rhaenyra will want your head on a pike for this,” you say hastily, in part to avoid scandalised stares from the attending staff and also to prevent Corwyn from repeating what his cousin has accidentally taught him. No doubt your little nephew will learn it from his half-brother, too.

“Perhaps we’d best depart for the evening, then”—Daemon’s hand is insistent on your elbow, a leading force that beckons you to follow—“lest you lose your husband to your sister’s temper.”

“That would be your own fault,” you say absent-mindedly.

You are unable to tear yourself away from Rhaenar and Aelys just yet. They are calm, yes, but this is not where they sleep, where they belong. You do not know if you can bear the sight of the empty cradle in your chambers or the absence of the sounds they make together with their dragons.

“Must they remain here?” you ask, more a whisper than a genuine plea.

“They are safe here.” Daemon reaches forth to let Aelys grasp his finger, an involuntary action since the babe had fallen into a doze during your visit, no doubt lulled by the sound of your voices. She is the more difficult of the pair to settle; you know Rhaenar will follow easily enough. “You ought to take respite from each other, if only for a night.”

His words are gentle, but the expression on his face reminds you of earlier. Obey me now. Cast those foolish notions from your mind. Listen to your uncle. You hear it as though it has been spoken aloud once again. Even so, the pulsing discomfort in your breasts stays your obedience.

“If I could just—”

“No. We’re leaving. You need to rest.” It is firmer this time, louder and more decisive. He is not persuading you—he is telling you.

With a sigh of defeat, you lean down and kiss each babe farewell, doing your best to quell the unreasonable instinct to cry at the thought of goodbye. Daemon offers his own departing caresses and steers you determinedly out of the room. The walk is silent, though the heat of his arm against your palm is comforting in its own way.

Your chest begins to truly ache, a sensation beyond simple fullness. The dress you wear feels too tight, too restrictive, and you are forced to concentrate on pushing each breath up and out to avoid friction between skin and fabric. The smallest degree of stimulation is enough to bring your milk forth.

The irony, you think in despair. No milk when the babes need it—and now, when they are full and slumbering, my supply is as bountiful as it ever has been. How cruel, the gods are!

When you are finally back in your chambers, you barely notice Jeyne and Bethany’s attempts at greeting, their offers of assistance, their gentle repositioning and the tugging of the laces at your back. All you are focused on as the gown loosens and spills to the ground is how you will relieve yourself of the weight in your breasts without bringing too much attention to yourself. Daemon is fascinated by the prospect, true, but given the strife you have caused… you know not how any complaint of it would be perceived. Perhaps he would finally be angered by your outburst? Perhaps he would be disappointed that you had been so juvenile that you could not even take control over your own body, decide that you did not need the milk and thus ought to have been able to will it away. You have been lucky thus far. It is not likely that fortune will continue to favour you today.

You resolve to dispose of the excess in the privy. It ought to be relatively simple—your uncle is hardly one to accompany you to such a place. ‘Tis certain that the notion of wasting it, especially when your goal is to increase its yield, is disheartening, but what else can you do?

If only Daemon was less observant.

“You’ve been far too quiet,” he says after your ladies exit, tossing his shirt rather carelessly over the desk and the papers covering it. His eyes trail you assessingly, and for a moment you are worried that he can tell. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” You try to avoid glancing down at your chest. It would not do to give anything away. “I just—I need to use the privy.”

“No, you don’t.” He kicks his boots to the side, fingers working at the ties of his breeches. “It’s not shameful enough to explain the look on your face. Try again.”

“I’m not ashamed!” you say hotly, spine straightening in your affront.

It is the wrong move. Your nipples brush against the weave of your shift, the sensitivity amplified near to pain. You wince, shoulders curling inward and cringing away from the clothing you wear. As a warrior trained to spot the smallest of discrepancies, Daemon’s gaze falls down.

And there—he has it. You know he knows.

“Ah.” His nostrils flare, visage contorting slyly. “Uncomfortable, talītsos?”

Your breath hitches. It would be barely perceptible to any other, but not him. His gaze drifts between your line of sight and the curve of your breasts beneath the thin layer that separates your flesh from the cool air of the room, almost as though he cannot resist the temptation to look.

“I—they did not feed,” you say quietly, resisting the desire to squirm uncomfortably at the intensity directed straight toward you. “If I get rid of it before it overflows, I’ll make even more. That’s what Gerardys says. I should—”

“You should take off that shift.” Daemon’s breeches drop to the floor, discarded easily as he kneels upon the mattress and shuffles into his desired position, reclining like a king against the pillows. He bares himself proudly, arrogantly, the rosy flush of his cock not quite pronounced enough for arousal. His hand extends in invitation, mocking little smirk gracing the line of his lips at the hesitation he can so clearly read. “You’ll not be wasting such a bounty on a hole built to shit in.”

You sway, dubiously convinced. “It’s for the babes, though.”

“The babes are sleeping. Your husband is not—and he is ravenous, sweet girl.” A shiver travels up your spine from the gravelled timbre of his voice, the shadowed fire in his stare. His fingers flex in your direction, beckoning. “Come here.”

The pause you take before you heed his directive to tug open the ties at your neck and shrug the shapeless sleepwear off your form is not borne of any insecurity. You are not unhappy with your body. Naturally, there have been changes: wider hips, softer belly, skin etched with silvery webs across your middle, your thighs, the tops of your breasts. Though you cannot see it, you are sure that the opening from which your children were birthed has been altered irrevocably, too. You are proud of these differences. They mark the finality of your girlhood and the beginning of life as a woman. They are reminders of the lives you have brought into the world. And, like the burns that mottle much of your uncle’s upper body, they proclaim to all who see them that you too are a victor of glorious battle, all the more unique in that the war you had waged was one of life, not death.

No. You pause because you know Daemon, know what he is like. His appetites. His perversions. In any other state—at any other time—you would happily indulge his lusts. But not only is your body not ready to accept him, you do not even think you are capable of experiencing desire at present.

Even so, you step forward, bear the manner in which he leers, take his hand, and allow him to do with you as he will. There is comfort in giving yourself up.

He lays you out next to him, propping himself on his side so that he looms over you. The ends of his hair tickle against your cheek, bringing forth an immediate smile. It is matched by his own answering grin as he dips down to kiss you, and this you have missed. What surprises you is that it is not a kiss of need, but one of softness, fragile as the wings of a butterfly. You exchange breaths as you exchange yourselves in the union of lips.

“Let me help you,” he murmurs against you, the words passed forth to collect on the tip of your tongue. “Let me make it better.”

You nod, tipping your chin back as he presses his mouth to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, sensual in his languorousness. It is like he carries no purpose other than to let you feel your own body again through his touch. The imprints of cooling damp left behind ground you, remind you of how it felt when you had first come alive under him, around him. When he reaches his target, you expect a shift in his demeanour—but he continues just as gently to take your right nipple between his lips and suckle as weakly as any infant might.

One, two, three pulls, and the relief is near instant. Daemon makes a low noise as your milk lets down, melting to your contours as his arms clasp you tightly against him. The sound of him taking sustenance from you is one of the few things you can hear in the relative silence of evening, carrying with it a peace of its own.

He is able to tell when to switch before even you, shifting swiftly and easily to your left to repeat the slow, tender drags that ease the discomfort and loosen the tight, full sensation weighing you down. The only attempt he makes at receiving his own satisfaction is to rut lightly against your thigh, aimless and lethargic, a base urge to self-soothe in moments of calm. You close your eyes, cradling his head to your chest and mindlessly dragging the tangles from his hair.

In seconds, minutes, hours—you know not—his movements come to a gradual halt. His cock remains hard against your skin, though he allows himself to deliver one final, lush glide of tongue along the fount from which he had supped before pillowing his head on the emptied swell of your breast. Together, you indulge in the serenity.

Eventually, you are driven to speak, though you are loath to disturb the mood that has befallen the room.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

His palms are warm pressed to the dip above your rear, tightening there as his ears register your voice. Otherwise, he does not move.

“I should be thanking you, sweetling,” he says, each word spoken with a gravity that conveys more than just the simplicity of the statement itself.

Vulnerability is difficult for your uncle, and you have learned all the ways in which he reveals the parts of himself too damaged by the world to readily expose. It is second nature to understand what he means to tell you, what he means to thank you for. Your children. Your life here. You. It is gratefulness, protection, apology, love all rolled into one.

You smile.

‘Tis true that nothing has been resolved. You have not succeeded in nursing the babes by yourself. You have not banished the sickening feeling that churns in the pit of your stomach, a constant reminder of the doubts that plague you. You have not spoken properly of the fire and blood of Azorion and Valnissar’s hatching.

But you have begun on the necessary paths to each. Every journey, however great or small, must start somewhere, after all. And—perhaps most importantly—there is not a single ailment that cannot be eased, at least for a time, by the strength of Daemon’s devotion to you.

As you crane your neck to proffer a kiss of your own to the top of your husband’s head, you know that whatever future awaits you is one you can face.

I can do this. I can do this. For the first time in days, you believe it.

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lady-ashfade · 3 months

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Blood And Pressure

Part four

Yandere!Pjo × Fem!Grisha!reader. (Platonic yandere gods) (romantic!various characters)

-♡ Chapters: Previous // Next

-♡ this is a shadow & bone slight crossover. Reader is a heartrender and that's all really (maybe more in the future!)

-♡ words: 1k

-♡ Please note that all characters are aged appropriately, so all characters are older versions of the book characters. So 17-19 characters for these, you can choose any of them really. Just that they are older teens.

-♡ warnings: short, yandere behaviors, obsession, stalking, slightly sick love, possessive, manipulative, gaslighting, platonic yandere too, blood powers, powerful powers but not godly, and future warnings when more chapters come out.

You’d like to say you could understand everything that was happening but you had not even a small clue. You sat in the big house with your bag in hand while the two adults argue over you.

“I forbid her to leave, she’s not hera’s child,” you sink back while Mr.d points his finger at you, “she belongs here, with me.”

The god fought for you to stay with him, he kept you happy and feed, even made you smile. All for someone else to claim you? It made his blood boil and you could see it on his face as he shouts.

“She’s been claimed and even if we don’t understand, it is how things have to be.” Chiron sounded disappointed but stern. Of course he would stay up for you, like he always does. He hated for you to leave but you wanted so badly to leave them and have friends and he could understand.

“Mr.d,” you step forward to the god, “I’ll make you a promise.”

“And what’s that kid?” He hated how he spoke to you but he was just too heated that he could banish everyone kid from camp.

“I’ll come visit and play cards with you every week?” You try and bargain your time, even when the thoughts made your bones tighten at thinking of being stuck like that again.

He looked down at you with a suspicious glare while he thought it over. He didn’t have a choice but that didn’t mean he liked it. So finally he let out a breath and agreed while rushing off and mumbling under his breath.

The next stop you had was weirder.

The cabin was dark and empty. Cold and you could feel your spine shiver at the lack of heat. You glanced around but found no furniture to even sit on. No one was supposed to sleep here. Hera had no half-blood offsprings because unfaithfulness was not her way, and yet here you stand being claimed by her. And something tells you all the gods had something to do with it. Mr. D seemed to be more jealous when he spoke about the queen of gods. Like she was unworthy to have you.

“I suppose we’ll be needing to fetch some essentials for your new home.” Chiron tried to sound happy.

“Don’t worry,” you hold up your arms that carried pillows as far as you can with a reassuring smile, “I’ll survive.” and truth be told your bed was the one thing you would miss about staying there.

You find yourself walking up to the firepit and staring up at the statue of hera holding her staff. The way her eyes looked…you felt calm, but almost afraid of what it would be like to look in the real ones. She wasn’t someone to mess with while even her husband feared her wrath.

“So, Chiron?” You ask. You continue to stare up at the stone goddess. “Do you know why she claimed me.” there wasn’t much hope he’d share his insight. the centaur kept quiet for a second to consider his next words wisely.

“Just as clueless to me. Maybe we’ll get some information in the morning after a goodnight sleep.” Just as you thought. Not a peep from him.

You nod and turn around and place everything you had on the floor which wasn’t much but you were glad you had all you did. Chiron handed you the blankets with a smile on his face and for a minute it looked like he was going to cry while he looked at you.

So you open your arms wide and pull him into a hug, or what you could reach and he chuckles deeply and pats your head. In all his years you were his favorite to ever walk into this camp and to guide you. To him, camp was nothing without you.

You settled in quickly while unpacking what you could to make you feel at home. You had two blankets, one on the floor and pillows on top and the other over yourself. You tried to pick a place to the fire without burning up or being too cold.

And for the first time you were all alone to your own thoughts.

“Pst” a hushed whisper called out from no where. The voice startled you as you jump forward and grab ahold of the nearest thing, your old book.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I’m a camper.” The voice had no body to go along with it making you confused. Was it one of Apollos children? Whoever they were they didn’t belong here.

“Says the person who stays hidden.”

The person in question lets out a laugh and then you see a figure appearing out of no where. A blue cap was the first thing you notice as they move their hand down with it grasped. A girl with a orange camp shirt, pretty eyes and blonde hair twisted into a braid.

“You grab a book to hurt me? Almost seems like you know me.” She smirked amusingly.

She had been watching you since you arrived at camp two years ago when she could, she grew to now you like no one else did. And now you’re out and into the camp with her she couldn’t let you walk without keeping a eye on you. You arrived with percy, another person she needed to watch so it was easy.

“What’s you name?” You ask the mysterious girl.

“Annabeth, consider me your guide from now on.” She walked further and stood above you. Her wicked smile seemed off just like everyone else you have seen.

“What cabin are you from? I heard some kids saying Apollos kids-” she cut you off by waving the hat in her hand.

“Athena.” You nod.

“And you’ll need me.” You tilted your head at her words and arched your brows. Need her? What was she talking about.

“For what? I mean I’m glad to have a friend but..” taking a deep breath as her eyes glint with something almost dangerous.

“For capture of the flag.”

Taglist: @maria699669 @gorgeourrific-nerd @alliriseabove @targaryenluvs @theaaeht @dabalyuteeeftia @weepingwitchofthewest @iris1587 @tulipmagnoliaisme @ameliashideout @purplerose291 @poppyflower-22 @riaaavm @anonymouslyawesome25 @orionspaperwork @a-cat-loverr @Ilpovi @eatmyassfictionalstyle @theanklebiter-blog @nasyu-kookies

#yandere percy jackson #Percy Jackson x reader #yandere percabeth x reader #percy jackson x you #book Percy Jackson x reader #annabeth chase x reader #grover underwood x reader #yandere annabeth chase #yandere Grover underwood #yandere clarisses x reader #clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse x reader #luke castellan x reader #yandere luke castellan #yandere Luke castellan x reader #yandere greek gods #yandere gods

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eightmakesonebraincell · 1 year

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[fic rec mlist] ot8 x reader | multi x reader

main mlist | next (member-specific)

only general themes and tags are listed - please read through the author's specific tags and warnings

both sfw and nsfw fics are included. minors please dni with nsfw fics and respect the age restrictions put into place by the writers (suggestive, smut, and trigger warnings are highlighted in red)

🩶 favourites

into the aurora | @honeyhotteoks 🩶

pairing: ot8 x reader

genre: idol!ateez x non-idol!reader, fluff, angst, smut, trigger warnings

length: 35/35 chapters [completed] - 208.6k

you didn’t expect to run into choi san outside of the venue, especially when your phone was dead and you were stranded in a random city. a kind offer for a phone charger turns into so much more, and you end up falling into a relationship with all eight members of ateez.

murphy's law | @atzfilm

pairing: ot8 x reader

genre: alien!ateez, soulmate au, angst, fluff, smut, trigger warnings

length: 5/5 chapters [completed] - 98k

according to murphy’s law, everything that can go wrong will go wrong. black holes circle each other until they collide and merge, a cataclysm so fierce, sends ripples soaring through the fabric, crossing thousands of kilometers within a fraction of a second, leaving behind a wave on the space-time continuum. that’s the simplest way you can describe meeting him. and yet, even that is an understatement.

dewdrops at dawn | @sunmoonjune 🩶

pairing: ot8 x reader

genre: demon!au, fluff, angst, heavy suggestive content, trigger warnings

length: oneshot - 17.2k

you’ve never really believed in angels, or anything of the sort, but in a last ditch effort to escape a grave situation – you find yourself to praying for someone - anyone - to come help you. “wow, you would not believe how fast angels are! I had to fight like six of them to answer your call!”

oh my *** | @ohmyamor

pairing: ot8 x reader

genre: guardian angel!au, fluff, angst, comfort, near death experiences

length: oneshot - 10.2k

everyone supposedly has a guardian angel, one that’s tasked to always keep their human out of trouble and on the right path of life. but you don’t just have one, you have...eight?!

like the moon | @sunmoonjune 🩶🩶

pairing: ot8 x reader

genre: hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, heavy themes, trigger warnings

length: 17/? chapters [ongoing] - 160k

it’s finally the day of your trial. you’ve been waiting for this day for years. will you succeed and become a warrior your clan can finally be proud of? or will you fail, and be banished from the village forever?

the rainbow thief | @bluehwale

pairing: ot8 x reader

genre: demigods!ateez, fluff, crack, angst

length: 2/3 chapters [indefinite hiatus] - 5.1k

camp half blood introduces you to a new life — new routines, a goddess as a mom, siblings you've only recently knew about, and of course, the eight friends (or lovers?) you made along the way.

first flight to hongkong | @byuntrash101

pairing: ot8 x reader

genre: flight attendant!reader, smut

length: oneshot - 18.3k

yes, you’re suprised when your company offers you a vacant spot in the vip crew. but “surprised” doesn’t cut it when you discover what kind of service your company provides the vips

front row angel au | @bobateastay

pairing: ot8 x reader, some parts ot8-focused

genre: emo rock band!ateez x fangirl!reader, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, smut, trigger warnings

length: 6/? parts [status unknown] - 17.9k

nil author synopsis

[new chapter added] misfits | @tainsan

pairing: ot8 x reader

genre: college!au, fluff, angst, smut

length: 13/? chapters [ongoing] - 113.3k

when your world comes crashing down, the only people who are able to comfort you are the notorious group, ateez. you’ve heard rumours after rumours about the eight males who are as cold as ice, yet for some reason, they are the warmest people you know. when they offer you a place to live after your housing is destroyed by a fire, you end up finding out dark secrets that have been hidden for years.

without a trace | @stayarmytinyzenmoa-l 🩶

pairing: ot8 x reader

genre: vigilante!au, action, angst, slight crack, heavy themes

length: 11/11 chapters + 10/10 podcast transcripts [completed] - 98.6k

vigilante work has been outlawed, thus sending nine prominent vigilantes either into retirement or into lower ground and, while some abide by the law, a few continue on. then, one day, a greater threat forces these vigilantes to come together once again, regardless of the law.

pirate king | @chaseatinydream 🩶

pairing: hongjoong x reader, wooyoung x reader

genre: pirate!au, fantasy, romance

length: 90/90 chapters [completed] - 251.8k

life as an amnesiac on board a pirate ship ruled by the one and only pirate king doesn’t seem very promising, but hey, anything’s better than becoming shark food.

this night together | @honeyhotteoks 🩶

pairing: yunho x mingi x reader, ft. seonghwa x san x wooyoung x reader

genre: a/b/o/omegaverse, fluff, angst, smut, trigger warnings

length: 14/? chapters [ongoing] - 126.5k

you’re finally getting your dream job, working with some of the best dancers in the business, but a job change means a break in your healthcare coverage and suppressants these days are expensive. going into heat at the studio pretty much seems like the worst case scenario, but you find yourself in the care of two alphas who won’t let you go through it alone.

not all that glitters is gold | @the7thcrow

pairing: seonghwa x san x wooyoung x reader

genre: action, adventure, fantasy, romance, angst, fluff, suggestive

length: 11/? chapters [ongoing] - 146.4k

as a princess fleeing a royal assassination attempt, you have no choice but to put your trust in a band of three thieves in order to reach the kingdom of kuroku alive. however, amongst magic, deceit, and the bounty hunters that are hot on your trail, you realize that you might have stumbled upon a relationship far more complicated than what meets the eye.

making wishes | @hwaightme

pairing: seonghwa x wooyoung x reader

genre: fluff, established relationship to poly, smut

length: oneshot - 7.0k

making wishes on shooting stars, on burning candles, you wanted one thing to come true. seonghwa and wooyoung are more than willing to celebrate the birthday girl.

outlaw miniseries | @hongism

pairing: yunho x jongho x reader (part iii), san x wooyoung x reader (part vi - coming soon)

genre: outlaw!ateez, dystopian futurism, lore, angst, fluff, smut

length: 3/6 standalone parts [ongoing] - 14.8k

(part iii) ‘two for the price of one!’ the sign outside the shop had read, and well, you’ve never been one to pass up on a good deal.

(part vi) author synopsis coming soon

we ransacked the city | @tenelkadjowrites

pairing: hongjoong x seonghwa x reader

genre: richsnobs!hongjoong and seonghwa, badgirl!reader, angst, smut

length: 5/5 chapters [completed] - 31.4k

five years ago, torn between losing your wealth or remaining friends with hongjoong and seonghwa, you chose money. working on leaving your life of bad behaviour behind you, your days are now spent obeying your parents and playing the good girl in order to keep your inheritance. but when hongjoong and seonghwa suddenly return, everything is thrown upside down…and old habits die hard.

letters to a ruined king | @setsugekka (nb: links to ao3 as fic is no longer available on tumblr. author permission to share received)

pairing: hongjoong x reader, seonghwa x reader, yunho x reader, san x reader

genre: pirate!au, royalty!au, fantasy, romance, action, angst, smut

length: 20/20 chapters [completed] - 150.8k

if there’s one thing you remember as a mantra from growing up in a street thief guild, it’s ‘trust no one but your own, don’t get wrapped up with the wrong crowd.’ unfortunately, these seven pirates and their irate captain have left you with little choice.

as the world caves in (to eden) | @atzfilm (nb: links to ao3 as fic is no longer available on tumblr. author permission to share received)

pairing: hongjoong x reader, san x reader, wooyoung x reader, ? x reader

genre: apocalypse!au, friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, fluff, angst, smut, trigger warnings

length: 11/? chapters [hiatus] - 55.2k

a mysterious virus has taken over the world, resulting in the undead and the new ‘eden race’ of humans. desperately trying to find your brother jongho with your friends, you stumble across another group in an abandoned hospital tent. strangely, they’re looking for him as well.

better than me? | @beahae

pairing: san x reader, ft. seonghwa x yunho x wooyoung x reader

genre: bf!san x reader x bf's best friends!seonghwa yunho wooyoung, smut

length: twoshot - 10.4k

it’s always been just a harmless game, flirting with your boyfriend, san’s, good friends. he’s even in on it. but one night, he starts pushing things further than ever before.

last updated: 01 april 2024

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aethon-recs · 5 months

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23 Tomarrymort Recs for 2023 (Longfic Edition)

Happy New Year! 🤍 Here is a round-up of some of the most engaging multi-chaptered works/longfics that I came across in this ship in 2023.

I found each of these fics, in their depiction of the ship, to be a fresh or surprising take on our familiar beloved characters of Harry and Tom|Voldemort, truly groundbreaking in some way in their approach to the ship. It's amazing to me that even after 20+ years of this ship existing, there's still new themes / tropes / dynamics to explore, and the authors are all so talented in making me think about the ship in some new way — just incredible examples of what it means to be a transformative work of fanfiction.

Criteria for this list: multi-chaptered, Tomarrymort-centric, with at least 1 update published in 2023. As with a previous longfic rec list, I tried to find longer fics that were relatively under-rated (which is hard to define, but below 2K kudos for the most part).

See here for Part 1 (2023 Tomarrymort one-shots), and hope you lose many many happy hours to the unbridled joy of immersing yourself in one or more of these incredibly addictive, lovely longer fics!

23 Tomarrymort Recs for 2023 — Multi-Chaptered Fics

A Darkness by Any Other Name by river_marrow (M, 30k, WIP)

Decades after the war ends, Harry is thrown through the Veil, and finds himself in an alternate reality where the leader of the Muggleborn uprising is the Dark Lord Voldemort.

A Dead God's Faith by @selfishrot (M, 35k, WIP)

Blood and spittle rush to follow Riddle’s words that are dragged out through a wrecked throat. “I will consume you.” Harry felt a thrill run up his spine, along with the usual fear and anger that accompanied Voldemort's threats. “Be gentle, I can feel your soul ripping its stitches.”

And the Living Will Envy the Dead by @k-s-morgan (M, 81k, WIP)

When Harry looks at Tom, he feels overwhelmed. There is a spark that makes him hopeful, the fear that nothing he does will save Tom from himself, and the horror at what his lies might lead to. When Tom looks at Harry, he feels nothing. Until he does, and then Harry’s world starts drowning in blood.

At the expense of the world by @itsevanffs (E, 24k, WIP)

"He had a lover, you know," Jenkins says to Remus once Harry's behind a wall and out of sight again. "A boy, and a gorgeous one at that. Nobody really knew where he came from, and Tom didn't seem to favour him either, at first, but by the end, he was besotted."

Bitumen by @crowcrowcrowthing (E, 32k, WIP)

Harry finds out the hard way that Dementors can’t digest Horcruxes. Now separated from his body, his best option is to seek out a similar soul for help. A love story about immortals with too much time to kill.

Creatures of the Dark we are by @hikarimeroperiddle (M, 25k, WIP)

Banished to his cupboard at age 4, Harry learns to listen only to the Voice in his head. Its teachings wrap all around Harry until no more than dark magic and devotion remains, along with visions of a wraith with red eyes.

Exceeding Expectations by @mosiva (E, 56k, complete)

Harry Potter’s life ran along very different lines than Tom Riddle’s. He knew nothing more of the man than he read in the Daily Prophet. Then they get stuck in a lift together.

Exegesis by liquoricepantomime (M, 38k, WIP)

In exchange for peace, Voldemort asks for Harry Potter. And so, there is a new legacy that forms — of The-Boy-Who-Was-Sold, and his childhood spent in a castle, with a man who has killed his parents. A man who is mad, and whose ire reigns fiery hell. A man he will marry, and yet knows nothing about.

found by @honbug (E, 112k, WIP)

Tom knows from the beginning that he is destined for greatness. Nothing and no one will stop him from achieving his goals. (And then, of course, there are the dreams.)

hook, line, and sinker by @purplemineralwater (E, 21k, WIP)

Harry asks Professor Riddle for help in killing Voldemort. Riddle is endlessly amused.

if we were lovers by @reggieblk (E, 277k, complete)

When Harry arrives at the most prestigious theatrical school in the country, he doesn't have many expectations. The most unexpected thing he encounters is Tom Riddle, and subsequently, falling in love with the only other person who deals with feelings as well as him. But maybe, just maybe, he and Tom will find out that not all love stories have to end in tragedy.

Lover's Spit by @pinktom & @k3uuu (E, 123k, WIP)

Following his father's arrest on a dull hot Sunday in North Yorkshire, 10-year-old Tom Riddle becomes a dark internet sensation. If Harry Potter listened to his father, he would never speak to Riddle again. But eight years after the arrest, an unexpected and painful encounter leads Harry to reconsider events — and arrive at a conclusion all his own.

One Year In Every Ten by @saintsenara (E, 189k, WIP)

A decade after the final battle, a serial killer emerges, with a message that proclaims the Dark Lord has risen again. Harry is assigned to the case.

Oversight by @dividawrites (E, 21k, WIP)

Voldemort’s resurrection ritual doesn’t go as smoothly as he’d planned. He requires assistance and there’s only one person he can ask—the boy tied to his father’s gravestone.

Paved With the Best Intentions by @perhaps-sunlight (M, 113k, WIP)

Instead of dying during the Battle of Hogwarts, Voldemort de-ages into an infant. Until he becomes old enough to be legally executed, he will be magically bound to Harry.

Prison Blues by @metalomagnetic (E, 68k, WIP)

Harry and Voldemort find themselves locked up in a mysterious prison in an A/B/O alternate universe setting.

Revolution of Configured Stars by @tollingreminiscentbells (E, 110k, WIP)

In a Voldemort Wins AU, Harry Potter was spared, and enters his seventh year at Hogwarts wanting to do Arithmancy research and keep his head down. However, after a chance encounter, it looks like it may not be so simple. Marvolo Gaunt seems to have his eye on Harry. The trouble is, Harry has no idea why.

Tender Reigns Our Night by @noumena-writes (M, 93k, WIP)

Sent on a Ministry mission to fight for magic's survival, Harry goes back in time with two simple objectives: find and destroy any existing Horcruxes, and stop Tom Riddle ever evolving into Voldemort — using any means necessary. Harry thus finds himself working alongside Riddle at Borgin and Burke's, examining dark artefacts and desperately trying to fulfil his orders.

the demiurge, the leontoeides by @ramabear (E, 125k, WIP)

Thomas Gaunt reaches through the dimensions and plucks an eleven-year-old Harry Potter from his world and brings him home again.

the eternal flame by @duplicitywrites (E, 25k, WIP)

There’s a well-dressed older man who enters the orphanage asking after Tom Riddle. The man’s green eyes fix on Tom’s face, searching and searching. “My name is Harry Gaunt,” the man says, the tenor of his voice soft and faltering, a reflection of Tom's deepest, most secret anxieties, “and I’m here to adopt you.”

the righteous dead by @aspengray (T, 23k, WIP)

Harry is resurrected, sewn together with thread and magic. He remembers nothing except that he loves his savior, a man named Voldemort.

The Longing by @aglassroseneverfades (M, 33k, WIP)

Harry is not thinking of his parents right now as he trudges up to Voldemort’s eerie castle. He is thinking instead, as he often does, of a name that burns too brightly on his wrist in the pre-dawn light. He is wondering if somehow the fruitless tugging on his heart means that somewhere, some way, Tom is watching over him.

With a resolute heart by Act_Naturally (M, 157k, WIP)

A Hunger Games-AU featuring Harry and Tom as competing champions. Harry has a saving people thing. It’s not conducive to surviving a battle royale. He doesn’t fancy his chances. Especially against Tom Riddle.

#tomarry #harrymort #tomarrymort #tomarry recs #tomarrymort recs #hp fic recs #longfic recs #ao3 recs #fanfic recs #harrymort recs #2023 reads #2023 recs

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kidasthings · 14 days

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Echoes of Eden by Kida

Noa x Mae - #omgisthisastorywithplot?

Chapter 2: Echoes of Eden by Kida – @kidasthings on Tumblr

Prologue

Three centuries after a catastrophic virus decimated human intelligence, turning the survivors into primal shadows of their former selves, the world has irrevocably changed. The ALZ virus, originally intended to combat Alzheimer's disease, not only ravaged humanity but inadvertently gave rise to a new dominant species: intelligent apes.

Near the ruins of what was once Los Angeles, Noa, a valiant chimpanzee of the Eagle clan, has just thwarted a power-hungry bonobo, Proximus Caesar, from enslaving his people. Guided by the teachings of a certain orangutan, Raka, who revered the nearly forgotten, peace-loving chimp Caesar, Noa believes in a world where apes and humans can coexist peacefully. However, during his quest, he encounters Mae, a human who defies his expectations. Mae, immune to the virus and possessing the ability to speak, challenges Noa's perceptions of humans as mere animals.

Together, Noa and Mae manage to prevent Proximus Caesar from seizing a cache of potent human technology by flooding an old bunker. In the process, Mae secures a crucial computer drive that enables her underground human community to reconnect with distant survivors, bridging isolated pockets of humanity; she also manages to betray Noa and his clan by leaving them to fend for themselves.

As Mae's group in Los Angeles prepares to merge with new allies from Fort Wayne, Indiana, tensions escalate. Unaware of Mae's bond with Noa, a small but well-armed scouting party from Fort Wayne comes across the Eagle Clan’s village on their way to Los Angeles to meet up with Mae’s people.

Far more adept on their own home turf, the scouting party is caught by the apes, rounded up, and held hostage. Their weapons are confiscated. Mae is called in when the scouting party never reports to the underground bunker where the rest of the intelligent humans in her group seek refuge. Caught between her origins and her convictions, Mae faces the ultimate choice during the tense encounter: stand with her human kin or protect Noa, the ape she has come to admire.

This story explores the fragile hope for reconciliation in a world torn apart by fear and prejudice. Can Noa and Mae forge a path toward peace, or will the shadows of old wars darken the future dreamed of by the legendary Caesar?

---------------------------------------------------

Chapter 1

In the dense shadows cast by the towering trees that skirt the Eagle clan's village, the air was thick with tension and the faint scent of smoke from distant fires. The setting sun bled red over the horizon, casting long shadows across the rough-hewn faces of the Eagle clan and their new captives. Five ALZ-immune humans from Fort Wayne sat bound and rigid, their eyes darting nervously as they listened to the low, ominous murmurs of the assembled apes.

Noa moved deliberately among the captives, his demeanor stern yet marked by an inherent fairness. Each human he approached met his gaze with a mix of defiance and fear, but none spoke. They clung to their silence like a shield, even under the weight of Noa's penetrating stare.

"No purpose here can be good if it starts with secrets," Noa stated, his voice resonating with a calm authority as he paused before a younger man whose jaw was stubbornly set.

The chants from the simian crowd grew louder, a discordant mix of anger and fear, with proposals of banishment or worse. They remembered what happened with Proximus Caesar, the obsession with human technology and worldly knowledge, and want none of it. Noa raised a hand, called for silence, but the restlessness was palpable, a living thing that fed on uncertainty and fear.

At the perimeter of the village, a human woman keeps a low profile in the brush. She had followed a single flare that burst bright in the sky to this location. It was a habitual thing, to bypass this region when doing her rounds in the forest. Immunity to the Simian Flu had bequeathed her the role of tracker, hunter, and scout after her initial mission was completed. Brown hair, blue eyes like the sky, Mae can only watch the scene unfold with a pounding heart. Worry lines were etched deeply into her brow, and her hand reached up to clutch at something around her neck - Raka's pendant - the symbol of peace promoted by an ape named Caesar long ago.

Noa gave her that pendant. For an inopportune moment, Mae was lost in reverie.

Without warning, a strong hand gripped her shoulder, yanked her from the shadows. Mae stumbled forward, dragged into the open. Her breath caught as she was thrown unceremoniously to the ground before Noa and his human captives. Dust and small stones bit into her palms as she caught herself, and a small grunt escaped her lips.

The sudden appearance of the human - a known and not particularly fondly remembered human - amongst them drew shocked gasps and murmurs.

Noa’s eyes widened in recognition, then narrowed in a complex tumult of emotion. The last time they parted, it was with a promise of peace, and yet here she was, thrown at his feet, disrupting the fragile balance he had fought to maintain.

Mae’s chest heaved as she pushed herself up slightly, her voice raspy but resolute as she met Noa's gaze. A single word hangs between them, charged with layers of meaning, a plea, a greeting, a reminder of shared dreams and bitter realities.

"Noa."

In that moment, the world narrowed to the space between them. Noa stood motionless, the voices around him faded into a distant hum. His heart fought a fierce battle within, torn between his duty to his clan and the undeniable pull he felt towards this woman who embodied both the past they shared and the future they might still forge. He can see Caesar’s pendant, an encircled diamond, as it swung from Mae’s neck wildly.

She still had it.

It is a symbol of ideals that suddenly seem so distant in the face of palpable tension and looming conflict.

The standoff stretched out, every breath, every silent plea, every hope and fear suspended in the dusty air of the dying day.

“Noa,” Mae tried again, defeated. She pulled herself up to stand on shaky, coltish legs. The Eagle Clan scout that initially seized her did not reach for her again as Noa lifted one hand to stay him.

Noa closed his eyes, as if in contemplation.

“What are you doing here?” he finally asked, as he reopened his eyes and shuttered his gaze.

Mae’s lips thinned out into a seamless line, and she cut a gaze over to the trussed-up humans attached to poles in the center of the village.

Noa nodded, once. He did not need much more than that as he added, “They approached our borders. We do not yet know their intention.”

The five Fort Wayne humans, still tied tight, share deliberate looks of fear between themselves. There is clear intelligence writ into their faces. They are not gagged, much to the chagrin of some of the villagers, as Noa would not have it. Still, they are oddly quiet. A few cast curious looks at Mae, no recognition in their eyes. The only woman in the group chewed her lower lip in frustration. Her blonde hair is cut short in a severe bob.

“Let them go, Noa.” Mae stated boldly, taking a step forward. Two other apes, positioned parallel to her, moved to intercept her advance towards the hero of the Eagle Clan. Once again, Noa lifted his calloused palm and gritted his sharp canines.

“Follow,” he told her, indicating something or someplace to the left with a sharp jerk of his head.

There is a short murmur of indignation from the gathered villagers, save for a small group which consisted of Soona, Anaya, and Noa’s mother. They appeared stuck in a shallower tumult of emotion. Noa’s mother took a step forward, unsure, but Soona placed her palm on the female ape’s furry shawl-covered shoulder and stopped her.

Mae’s eyes followed Noa, capturing his unique profile in a blink, and then dipped her head and hesitated. It is always that hesitation, caught between following an ape and leaving her kind behind, but with a reluctant glance at the captives she turned to follow.

He led her to a towering edifice of wood and natural materials that might be described as a tree house. Far above them, hawks circled in the sky, their soaring shadows blotting out the last rays of the sun. They landed at the top of the tower, a dizzying height, and screeched down at her.

Noa ascended a small ramp and stepped past a woven flap of material.

Mae did the same after taking a moment to peer backwards over her shoulder to ascertain the serious faces of a few apes herding her to the entrance.

Once inside, the darkness enveloped her, and the woman became hyper-aware of a dual pair of reflective eyes that watched her in the darkness of the interior.

“You came back,” he said, voice rough with something like emotion.

“Not by choice,” she quipped, and then stepped sideways away from the shaft of light thrown down by the door.

“Why?” It’s a simple question for a complex answer, and she wasn’t ready to answer it.

“I saw a distress signal in the sky,” she replied easily, eyes skating over the shadows and shapes in the interior of the newly rebuilt tower. “I had to see for myself. It looked like a human flare.”

“A flare?” he questioned; voice flat.

“It’s a human thing,” she sighed.

She heard him padding closer to her, his eerie eyes backlit by whatever reflective photo-sensitive cells nocturnal animals possessed. More of his face came into detail. After he stood about a few feet away, he stopped.

Mae froze.

“You have ... it,” he informed her quietly.

“Yeah,” she agreed.

A hand reached out, seemingly disembodied in black space, and she felt the immediate lift of the small weight at her neck.

“Do you ... still believe .. in what it stands for?”

Her answer is the same as before, the same empty mantra. “I-I don’t know, Noa.”

A huff, a sigh. The weight on the back of the cord returned and he stepped back.

“Let them go,” Mae demanded, again.

He did not reply, not right away, but he did give her a long look. It was hard for her to discern in the dim dark, but it might be a soft rebuke. “I have to know … why they are … here.”

Mae’s mind shut down, because she wasn’t ready, or can’t tell him that. Her group of survivors had been expecting the Fort Wayne scouting party for months now. The underground bunker housing her people was the last of its kind for hundreds of miles. They had not come across any other intelligent humans in that time, so this must be the group they awaited. Mae was not an idiot; she had seen the sentry apes rifling through a small stockpile of guns on the ground when she was roughly manhandled to the ground.

She trusted Noa situationally, sure, but did she trust him with this?

There might have been a flash of hurt on his face but the dim interior concealed it well. “They belong with me,” is all she can muster.

“Tell the truth,” he parried back. There was a frustrated edge to his voice, nearly a growl.

“I am telling the truth,” she quipped stubbornly.

“Mae,” he refuted quietly, moving so fast that he is suddenly in her space again, too much and too soon. She gasped, caught off guard. His fingers found Raka’s necklace again, still around her neck. He was staring hard at it.

“Tell … me.”

Her tongue is nothing but a slug in her mouth, unable to form words. Noa had never been this close before, taking up her space, her attention, her very being. Caught between one moment and the next, she shook her head in utter disbelief. She could see his features more clearly, the craggy brow, the dark-light eyes, the slight downturn of his mouth beneath an inhuman nose. For a second, he gripped the pendant around her neck tightly, as if he wanted to hold it for some length of time, and then released it yet again to step past her.

Their shoulders brushed, and Mae forgot to breathe.

His voice carried over from somewhere behind her, close to the entrance. “If you will … not speak … they will.” A rustle of fabric against fur, and he is gone.

Within the crude tower, Mae lets out the breath she held in a slow whoosh.

Noa.

#mae #noa #monster romance #kingdom of the planet of the apes #mae x noa #nomae #planet of the apes #kotpota #rise of the planet of the apes #noamae #owen teague #freya allan #fanfiction #enemies to lovers #kotpota mae #kotpota noa

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emihead · 4 months

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i had an idea earlier:

deltarune.com, for a few years before the game's release, only contained him.png, an image with wingdings reading "THREE HEROES APPEARED TO BANISH THE ANGEL S HEAVEN"

so what if, in the same way that people theorize new deltarune chapters now, someone found deltarune.com before the game came out, and theorized about a direct undertale sequel based on the limited info they had?

Arha - A human who lives near Newer Home, a predominantly monster-populated town which was the first settlement created by monsters after they reached the surface. They were born in the area before the barrier was destroyed, and grew up watching its development. Their design is based on the unused human sprite in Undertale's files.

Suzy: Monster Kid's mean sister. Like her sibling, she's a bit of a rebel, and often sneaks out of the house. She is based on the old theory that the "Suzy" mentioned by the Clam Girl NPC is Monster Kid's sister.

Napstablook: You know them already. When they came to the surface, they realized that most humans get spooked by seeing ghosts, so they asked their cousin where she got her body. They were referred to Alphys, who found them a doll to inhabit. It's a friend of Mew Mew that she said Napstablook "reminds her of".

the story basically consists of the three heroes traveling to mt ebott and ascending it so they can reach the angel's heaven. its progression is much more similar to undertale's; no dark worlds, just traveling from area to area

i doubt i'll turn this into a fully fledged story or anything, it's just a fun idea :)

#undertale #deltarune #emiheadart

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limerenceheart · 2 months

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all i wanted was you....yan! sunday

losely inspired by this song.

sunday just wanted to know more.

your hobbies, dislikes, likes, pet peeves, fears, dreams and maybe a dirty little secret.

a secret that he could use to get what he wanted.

gallagher managed to reveal one.

"(y/n) is a stowaway, that's why she never talks about herself."

a member of the oak family spelled out your fate. one of the worst party to discover the truth but surely, you would just be banish forever.

you just hung around as a casual citizen, never causing any trouble or drawing attention to themselves. penacony was the planet of festivities not judgement so the consequences cannot be too bad.

unfortunately, sunday's smile is much more scarier than imaginable.

"all i wanted was you."

the first thing that sunday said upon you starting a new chapter jail sentence with this deranged man.

you just hoped that sunday would never deem you as a naughty girl because you rather be locked away inside his mansion than a real jail cell.

you still felt trapped though.

but at least the pillows and blankets could soothe you away to sweet dreams, a temporary escape from everything.

sometimes, the dreams would become nightmare though when sunday would lose his temper. you ignited the first incident and it was terrifying.

the rage transformed his halo into horns.

you rather be his docile doll with zero freedom.

it's still better than being a bad girl.

#yandere honkai star rail #honkai star rail #yandere hsr #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #yandere hsr x reader #hsr #yandere sunday #yandere sunday x reader #sunday

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biconickyoshi · 5 months

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Zuko and Aang as they appear in Book 2: Water of my slowburn Zukaang AU, The Avatar and the Fire Prince!

Overall Synopsis (for new readers):

In the year 96 AG, a freshly burned and banished 13-year-old Prince Zuko discovers a strange boy frozen in an iceberg. When Zhao interferes with Zuko's plans to deliver the Avatar to his father, Aang helps Zuko and Iroh escape. They take refuge in the abandoned Air Temples, Aang searching for any remnants of his people that he can find. Along the way, he teaches an indoctrinated Zuko about the true nature of the Air Nomads. Zuko must come to terms with the fact that everything he has been taught was a lie, while Iroh must acknowledge and face the sins of his past. Eventually, Aang and Zuko become close friends, and Zuko begins to feel things he has never felt for anyone before. However, Zhao will not give up easily, and will do whatever it takes to capture the Avatar and his traitor accomplices.

Book 2 Synopsis:

Zuko and Iroh have now officially denounced the Fire Nation and the Royal Family and are dedicating themselves to helping Aang fight against the forces of their homeland. After narrowly escaping Admiral Zhao at Crescent Island during the winter solstice of 96 AG, Aang, Zuko, and Iroh travel south in search of the Southern Water Tribe village Aang has been dreaming about. The village is in danger: the Southern Raiders are coming, and it will be up to our trio - with the help of a couple of Water Tribe siblings - to unite the remaining villages of the Southern Water Tribe so that they will stand a fighting chance.

I got an iPad for Xmas and I’ve spent the past couple days working on this! :) I’m super happy with how it turned out!

Zuko’s about 14 here - his hair length is how it looks about halfway through this Book. I’ll probably do another piece to show what he looks like at the end of the Book since his hair is a lot longer now with it being almost a year since he cut it in the AU’s timeline (we’re now approaching the Northern Water Tribe storyline). I’ve also never drawn weapons before… so I hope his broadswords don’t look too wonky 😅

Aang is about 13 here. He’s wearing a new outfit as well, which I thought made sense since this AU takes place over 3-4 years instead of less than one year like in the OG series. Aang’s gonna grow a lot over the course of this AU, so he can’t just keep wearing his Air Nomad trainee clothes indefinitely lol.

I plan to do a lot more pieces in the future as I get the hang of digital art, so I would like to draw more characters (like Iroh, Sokka, and Katara) and more looks for Aang and Zuko. I’m also really excited for Book 3, which will be Earth in my fic (Earth is my absolute favorite season of the OG show). Zuko’s hair will probably be long enough to pull back into a ponytail again at some point during that book… Though this time it will be a different style :) gotta do some brainstorming for that one!

I’m close to wrapping up the next chapter, in which our characters make a return to the Northern Air Temple! I haven’t had as much time to work on it recently just due to all the holiday stuff that’s been going on. It’s probably gonna be a shorter chapter as well (which I don’t mind, I hope y’all don’t either). But after that, we’ll finally be in the Northern Water Tribe! :)

#the avatar and the fire prince #taatfp #my art #atla #atla au #zuko #aang #atla fan art #avatar the last airbender au #zukaang #zukaang au #zukaang fanfic #atla fanfic #zuko x aang #aang x zuko #ao3

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p1nkshield · 1 year

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Welcome esteemed guests to chapter four of my still unnamed fanfic! Please place your suggestions on a name in the comments if you feel so inclined. :)

Bruce massaged the bridge of his nose as he turned on the coms, hopefully one of his family members would have one in right now.

“Team, Constantine will be here in five to visit our guest. Either be in gear and in the bat cave or make yourselves scarce.”

“Understood Father.”

“Why is Constantine coming here?”

“You got it, b!”

Bruce did his best to answer Tim’s question as he surveyed the confiscated items from the self proclaimed guys in white, eyeing the vials of bright green liquid he had yet to finish analyzing.

“The infinite realms sounded familiar to me so I posed some inquiries about it to Constantine. This apparently set off the alarms for him as I attempted to elaborate. Now he’s on his way.”

Bruce made no efforts to hide his exasperation as he headed towards the zeta tube entrance of the bat cave.

Jason sat in a large ornate chair vigilantly as the boy he was tasked to watch slept in the plush guest bed. He looked no older then seven. Who could hurt such a small kid? The thought made Jason sick.

Dick entered the room after knocking gently. “Hey little wing, did you hear Bruce earlier? Constantine is really gunning it over here. We need to either get lost or put on our dominos at least.”

Jason scoffed at the cutesy nickname and made a move to get up until Danny stirred in his sleep. Jason stopped in his tracks.

“Can’t” Jason uttered

“What?” Dick said inquisitively

“Can’t leave him.”

Jason really couldn’t. It was like he was glued to the chair at the bedside of this kid.

Dick looked with concern at his younger brother. “I see… how about this! I will go get your gear and keep an eye on him while you change in the en-suite. That way you aren’t far!”

Jason squinted his eyes at the proposition.

“Jason, I promise Danny is safe here. You don’t have to worry.”

It ended up working out perfectly.

“Hey Disco boy”

“hm?”

“I don’t know what came over me, thanks for not giving me a hard time.”

“Aww you’re welcome mama bird!”

Jason met this teasing with a myriad of expletives that were whisper-yelled at his brother.

“Try not to be a helicopter parent!” Dick laughed as he retreated from the room.

Danny stirred once again as his eyes flitted open. He sat up groggily and surveyed his surroundings. Jason could tell panic was seeping into his veins as he saw his unfamiliar environment.

“Hey, it’s okay”

Danny’s head snapped towards the source of the voice.

“You’re safe” Jason continued “ someone named CW sent you here to heal”

Jason’s soothings seemed to reach him as he relaxed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Where is he?!? Bats,this could be the catalyst of an inter dimensional war! A war against a people who’s base power set is comparable to Martian Manhunter do you understand?”

“Constantine”

“This literal child usurped Pariah Dark Batman.”

Batman blinked as that name held no weight for him.

“Pariah Dark was a ruler so cruel and powerful that he was banished by his own subjects. The only way for power to change hands is via single combat but no one could do it.”

“Constantine?”

“Until the new king broke him out of his sarcophagus and promptly handed his ass to him! Rumors are that he’s not even full grown yet!”

“Constantine!”

The magic user paused, snapped out of his hasty exposition.

“The boy is still resting and hasn’t woken up yet. In the letter we received we were told that this is the safest place for him to recover. I’m sure that whoever is in charge is doing everything they can to keep the child safe.”

Just as Batman was about to continue to explain how he managed to get in this situation Jason exited the elevator to the bat cave.

“Yes I promise he’s nice. No, he dresses like a bat to scare bad guys.”

Danny who was holding tightly to Jason’s continued to rattle out questions.

“Who is that?” Danny asked as he pointed towards Constantine who looked thoroughly confused.

“This tiny tyke is the Ghost King? Oh come on you’re pulling my leg or something spooks.”

Constantine then addressed the boy

“You defeated Pariah Dark single handedly?”

Danny replied to his questioning with a crinkled look of confusion.

“… Ghost King? …Pariah Dark?”

Realization dawned on Constantine.

“Was he reduced to his core?”

Jason replied with another question.

“Is that why he looked like a fancy rock?”

A beat of silence filled the room.

“I can’t help you with this. Let me know when he remembers enough for me to grovel for the sake of this dimension.”

Constantine made his way towards the zeta tube and swiftly left.

Danny blinked a few times, processing the strange man and his strange questions before letting go of Jason’s hand.

“Where are you headed kid?”

“I’m thirsty.”

“There’s not much in terms of refreshments down here how about we- hey woah don’t drink that!”

It was far too late Danny had phased his hand through the container holding several large ampules of a glowing green liquid. He snapped off the top at the scored break point and began to drink it.

“Danny! Danny spit that out right now!” Jason hurriedly approached.

“Why? It’s good! See?”

Before Jason could protest Danny offered some of his drink to Jason.

Despite his best efforts he smelled some of the unidentified liquid. It smelled … really good. Before he himself or Bruce could stop him, he took a small sip. It was sweet, citrusy and effervescent. He took another sip before finishing the whole thing. It lessened a headache he forgot he had.

“Heeeey! That was mine!”

Jason regarded the boy who looked at him with intense betrayal.

He reached into the containment unit and uncorked another ampule with some effort and handed it to him absently, still confused as to what just happened.

This is the second time this week Bruce has been genuinely shocked by something. He did not like this feeling at all. He looked forlornly at his samples that had just been raided like a fridge. He let out a long sigh.

@boo-ghosties @skulld3mort-1fan @addie-lover-of-stories @isaactheautobot @krzys2000 @ectoradiation @worthlesswall @mewzaque @mnemovoid @phantom-dc @justwannabecat @kitty-page @cutelittlebeanie @meira-3919 @amyheart19 @scarlette-foxx @thegatorsgoose @farmercale

#dc x dp fic #dc x dp #fanfic #Bruce is just looking at the ampules he made like :(#At the Core fic

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tofics · 1 month

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Out Of This World

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x fem!Reader x Dean Winchester

Summary: You and the Mikaelsons are fighting a powerful witch that’s trying to take over New Orleans. The only solution: banishment to another universe. However, the spell goes… wrong, and it’s not the witch that ends up in another universe, but you. - At the same time, over a thousand miles away in a bunker in Lebanon, Kansas, an alarm goes off: a rift has opened up. The Winchesters and their angel partners in crime decide to investigate. What will they find when they get to New Orleans?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

A/N: Total number of chapters might vary in the end :) Putting this out for the mobile navigation that I've prepared so that my stuff can be accessed more easily via mobile!

Tag list:

@vicmc624 @foreverrandomwritings @imoompalumpa @wildernessflora @spnaquakindgdom @zepskies @starkleila @scripteria @estrelacaida @joonseuph0ria @jamerlynn @katiergriff @chaersun

#elijah mikaelson #elijah mikaelson imagine #elijah mikaelson x reader #elijah mikaelson fic #the originals fic #the originals imagine #reader insert #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fic #dean winchester x you #elijah mikaelson x you

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villainsimpqueen · 2 months

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Echos Of Paradise Lost

Adam x Reader x Eve.

(Art found on pinterest all rights of the art goes to the original artist.)

summary:

In the turmoil of Adam and Eve's troubled relationship in Eden, you are created to bring harmony. Despite uncertainty surrounding your existence, you learn survival skills from both Adam and Eve. However, sinister voices plague you, impersonating your beloved partners.

What does the mean for you and your lovers?

This sets place in the Garden of Eden. They speak in old english.

Reader is Intersex and goes by they/them.

(All my fics are 18+. This is also available on A03. with same title.)

Trouble in paradise, The sole reason why you were created.

After the disaster of a marriage that was Adams and Liliths that ended in anger and hurt leading towards the Banishment of his Ex wife.

Adam was unconvinced of his new wife's Commitments towards him, even if Eve's love seemed ever undying, but even one who was created with the most seemingly undying patience, can grow thin.

The two humans' only purpose was not being fulfilled and the gardens that were created for humanity remained mostly empty as the Two humans that inhabited it seemed to fall into arguments, more from the former than the later.

The high elders did not want to have to wait for years for the two to consummate or have another Rouge angel accident occur to the newest wife.

So after much consideration they came to their final judgment in creating you with the leftovers dust and flesh they had from creating heavens first man and second woman.

The seraphims molded and sculpted you much in a hurry, and recklessly blew life into the husk of your body giving it life, giving birth to you. They hadn't even thought of giving you time to realize what you even were before plummeting you into the cold waters of Eden's most glorious ponds causing you to freeze and sputter as you slowly dragged your freshly made body out of the pond coughing up the glacier cold waters from your lips.

Unbeknownst to you that it was all part of their great plans as when you were focused on hacking up your freshly created lungs, your sputtering and flailing in the pond's water had distinguished the starts of a yelling match between Edens two current residents.

A golden sunkissed gentle hand found its place on one of your shoulders causing you to jerk away from the warm welcoming touch, falling backwards into the pond's shoreline square on your ass as you head jerked up to meet two sets of eyes.

One with the softest gold hue like the blissfully sweet sunrise, the Other the most intense Golden hue like the sun at its most highest and sourcing peek burning into one's skin.

"Art thou well?” The softer honey gold eyes beholder speaks, their voice sweet and soft like morning doves. Eve, you would later learn her name. Her gentle hands would help raise you from the muddy shoreline causing you to stand and fully expose your body to both of them.

"What manner of being art thou?" The scorching eye beholder questions you, Their tone being deeper, almost as if it had an itch to their voice yet it was pleasant on your own ears. You would later learn his name was Adam.

Both of them eyed you taking in your body with curious eyes, you were so similar to the both of them and yet so far different than them both.

“I am Y/n” You told them, for the only thing about yourself that you knew was true was simply the name you were given.

They brought you to their home, a spacious cave surrounded by lush fruit bushes and trees, they welcomed you with Wide and begrudgingly open arms.

You brought uncertainty to them, as they did not know exactly where you fit with them.

Were you a husband? A wife?

Clearly you had to be married to them somehow, why else would you be in the gardens?

Were you to Hunt like Adam?

Were you to gather like Eve?

To help provide? To help nurture?

You didn't know.

They didn't know.

And in the end it was decided that you would be allowed to do both, and both humans showed you all that they knew, even if it was limited and that they themselves were still trying to figure out things much like you, but you welcomed their aid.

Eve showed you what fruits to gather, which vegetables were Adams favorites, she showed you how to weave baskets out of tall grasses to make carrying the foods gathered easier. She happily spoke to you about your shared Husband Adam.

"He is of a stubborn nature, yet he doth provide abundantly.” She tells you as you both gather berries for the night's supper, Adam off hunting.

"Doth he engage in naught else?” You asked her softly as you plucked ripe red berries from the brush. Eve's soft honeyed eyes look at you from over the bushes.

"He is reserved, keeping his heart close, yet when he extends it, his love is profound.” She tells you assuringly, you do not think she understood. But you nodded to her anyways and helped carry the baskets of gathered food back to the home they welcomed you too.

While Adam had not allowed you to join him on a hunt yet, he would ask you to assist when skinning and cleaning whatever animal he had successfully captured.

"Grasp the blade thus, and glide it along the boar's rear in this manner.” He instructed you, he never touched you simply moving his hand above as to guide you. Never hinder your attempt by taking away the stone carved blade he had crafted.

You would glide the blade through the animal's backside lifting the skin away from the meat like Adam would show you and he would take one of the many bowls Eve had made from clay filled with water to wash away the red liquid that would pool and gush from where your blade would glide from.

Once the bowl was empty he would turn to the pond you had not so long ago nearly drowned from when escaping out of it to fill the bowl and come back to wash away the seemingly endless red.

You were soon to learn that He not only provided for Eve and You, But also protected.

As you were too focused on your task, hoping to impress the first man by your quick learning abilities, you did not notice the slithering creature approaching your backside.

You only noticed when Adam grasped your wrist roughly snatching the blade from your hand jerking you away making you fall to the side as you heard the sickening sound of the stone blade stabbing through something fleshy and the harshness of a hiss.

You sputtered, slitting out wisps of your own hair, your hands stung from the ground dirt digging into their pores as you braced yourself from the fall. When you were able to get up once more wanting to shout at your shared husband for attacking you, your words fell on silent lips as you saw him move up from a crouch to a full stance, His blade tipped to the sun as the body of the slithering creature slide down the blade being impaled more. His eyes narrowed in a harsh glance you had never seen on His nor Eve's face before..

You swallowed thickly as you stared at its opened jaw where long spikes jagged outwards from it, its limp body had no other limbs but it was still striking in color.

"What manner of thing is that?” You rasped out as you stared at it.

"I deem it a loathsome creature, named as a snake.” He answers you before flicking his hand that holds the blade, sending the dead animal flying off of it and into the brush before he turns to you moving towards you and taking one of his large hands to help you back to your feet. Those intense scorching eyes moving over you as his hand moved your hair behind your ear.

"Never allow a snake to come near thee, for it bringeth naught but agony.” Adam warned you and you swallowed your eyes going to the bush where he flicked the creature into.

"I shall keep my distance from such creatures.” You promised him as you looked back into his eyes, watching as if the sun was melting in them as they softened his hand moving to your cheek grazing a thumb across your cheek bone.

"Let us hasten back to Eve where she grows anxious in our absence.” He speaks softly to you, perhaps for the first time since your Arrival to Eden before he moves to the boar, with quicker hands he finishes the task at hand before carrying the boar's carcass over his shoulder to carry back to the home you all shared.

His sourching eyes glancing back at you more this time back home to make sure you were safely behind him.

Sometimes you Husband and Wife would leave you at the cave home that you three shared. You never believe it was of ill will, just that they merely wanted to have moments alone together as they had them with you when you helped them with daily expectation chores.

It was when you were left to be alone you tried to understand more about yourself.

As the morning was crisp with fresh air as you moved to the pond, entering its chilled waters you moved to rub its waters over your warmed skin causing an army of bumps to form up. In the water, reflections you took in your appearance moved your hands against your features.

Hair long Like Eves, your face soft and yet sharp like Both of the other humans.

You had thick eyelashes like Adam, but your lips you suppose were supple like Eve's.

Your shoulders Broad, strong and yet have a kiss of femininity.

Your chest was much like Eves, soft, fleshy, Your waist like adams and your hips having a slight curve and dip like Eves.

The biggest difference that separated you from your Husband and Wife was what was below your hip line.

Perhaps it was what confused them at debating what you were to be.

You had both Adam's and Eve's parts.

They never ceased to be a hindrance to you..Nor did Eve or Adam ever demand you to be one or the other.

But you questioned why the Heavens above made you have both.

You stared at your reflection as you were unsure of what to make of yourself before moving on to gaze at your thighs to your feet.

"I trust thou hast acquired the skill of swimming.”

Your eyes snapped up from the pond's waters at the sound of Adam's voice. Your gaze focuses on the shoreline not seeing the first man, before moving to the Gardens forests. The hairs of your skin starting to arise suddenly and a tingling formed on the back of your neck as you tried to find your husband.

"Thou shouldst not linger in the waters for too long, lest thou catchest an ailment.”

The call of your Wife's voice softly called out, yet you could not see any sights of her.

You felt the pounding of your heart in your chest quicken as you turned to check the other side of the pond. You could feel eyes upon your body and it did not feel the eyes of your Husband or Wife.

You felt seen in a way that made a shiver of panic move down your spine as you moved your arms over your chest and a hand to your lower half, covering, hiding.

"Why dost thou not join us?”

Adams' voice called out, yet you could hear the lacking in its tones. Not quite like your husband's voice, close but you knew your husband's voice well enough by now to know that whatever is speaking, taunting you, was not Adam.

"I have discovered the most delicious fruit to share with thee, my dear.”

Eve's voice coaxed out from the trees, Yet it was like song birds and not like morning doves. The coaxing voice called and it only made a cold sweat form on your skin as you turned once again in a new direction trying to find the creatures that had stolen your Husband and Wifes voices.

You felt stalked, preyed upon and it filled you with a sense of dread.

"Come and join our company.” Both the stolen voices called, coaxingly and demandingly.

You grasped yourself together trying to hide as you prayed to the heavens above to keep you safe until you were back in your Wife and Husbands arms as you moved to leave the pond.

“Come”

“come”

You scrambled from the pond's shoreline running in the direction where your shared cave home was, where surely Adam and Eve would be waiting for you. Where you would be safe.

"Why dost thou flee from us, dearest?”

The garden's dirt and rocks dug into your bare soles as you fled through the trees following the path to your home.

"Do not forsake us, return to us, dearest.”

Your heart raced, your lungs burned as you gasped forced air into them as you fled from the stolen voices of your partners. Ever growing closer to the Cave, to home.

"Return! Dost thou not care for us?”

“Dost thou despise us so greatly as to abandon us?”

“Return to us.”

The stolen voices started screaming at you causing whimpers of panic to leap out of your throat, as tears began to sting at your eyes as you fought through the brush's obstacles breaking free of the forest once again and into the clearing where your cave home was waiting.

“Y/n!”

“Y/n Where art thou?!”

Your Husband and Wife's true voices shouted as you scrambled towards the cave, relief washing over you in sharp waves as you could see them standing near the entrance of the cave, puzzled looks morphing into relief as they saw you stumbling out of the forest towards them.

Then the process of watching that relief change as looks of concern as they took in the state of you.

Yet you ran to them, a broken sob stuck in your throat as you hid into their embrace, Gentle and strong arms holding you as your knees started to collapse.

And their safety engulfed you to finally allow that choking sob to let out as you clinged to both Adam and Eve, Your beloved husband and wife.

“What has happened?” Eve's soft voice asked as her warm hands found their way to your hair stroking it ever so softly.

You felt Adams' large hands move you back, as his eyes moved over you to look for any signs of harm.

Your eyes staring up at his own intense golden ones as tears streamed from your eyes like rivers.

“What troubles thee, dearest?” His voice was so soft, suspicion and concern boiling in the golden pools of his eyes.

Your chest ached as the stolen voices of your partners still screamed in your head causing another tremble and a wave of a small sob force from your lips.

“ Snakes.” You gasped out, you haven't seen the creatures that brought this tourment to you, But Adam had warned you of the agony they caused, and that was nothing but agony.

“They summoned me with voices akin to thine own.” You wheezed out, you didn't miss how Eve stiffened nor how Adam stood up tensely, his Eyes immediately staring out into the forest.

His gentle Hands moved to Eve and Your shoulders before leading you both into the cave.

“Remain herein and concealed from view.” He had ordered before he moved to grab his hunting spear leaning against the wall and left for the forest.

You let out a choke wail calling out for your husband to come back, fearful that the snakes will cause him agony like they had you, to prevent him being tormented by hearing your and eves stolen voices summoning him to certain doom.

Your wails fell on Adams deaf ears but on Eves worried ones as she moved you to the shared bedding area and laid you down moving to soothe you.

You cried into her, with warm furrs around your body as you still felt the snake's eyes piercing on your skin. Once you were able to settle down Eve had asked you to explain what had happened.

“They gazed upon me, their stares piercing until I felt as if I was tainted... I am tainted…” You stammered out brokenly as you kept the furs flush against your body, hiding yourself away from your Wife's gaze. You heard her let out a soothing shushing noise as her hands softly moved through your hair.

“Thou art not tainted; thou art pure.” She assured you as she moved to lay beside you her gentle hands moving to the furrs slowly lifting them only stopping when you flinched clinging to them until your knuckles discolored. Tears burned at your eyes as you looked at her with uncertainty.

“Thou art pure.” Eve whispered softly to you as she finally coaxes you to let her under the furrs to join you, moving her body so that you are close to her as she wraps her arms around you leading you to rest your face into her chest, like you've seen her do to Adam when your shared Husband was upset. You now understood why it seemed to calm him as you nuzzled close to Eve looking for her comfort.

“They beheld me, witnessed all, yet how dost thou not despise me?” You whimpered out to your wife in a broken stammer.

Eve's hand that strokes up and down your back, tracing your spine barely hesitates.

“For thou didst not succumb to their guiles, thou didst find us; therein lies the proof of thy purity.” Eve tells you confidently before her gentle fingers weave into your hair softly tugging it making you pull back from her chest to see her honey eyes, and warm loving smile.

“Thou art my spouse, my beloved; I could never harbor hatred toward thee.” *She softly whispered before pressing her lips softly again , causing a surprise jolt through you as you pulled away. You watched her eyes furrow slightly in soft confusion and concern.

“Thou art pure.” She assured you once again watching as you brought fingers to your lips where they still tingled from her own. An action you only saw Eve and Adam do, for they had not done such action to you yet until now.

Your first kiss was one of surprising comfort, And it had concerned you for you did not know if you were allowed to receive such affection from Eve, Your wife without Adam present.

You ever stuck in your internal dilemma missed how Her honey eyes flicked behind you, A Look of concern for you on her face sharing the look on the other, and you let out a noise of surprise as large hands and arms moved around you, another warm body pressed behind you as your back hit the chest of your Husband.

“I banished the serpents, they shall never inflict such feelings upon thee again.” Adams' warm breath brushed against your ear as he whispered out relieving assurance.

You felt great relief and you felt safe and protected in the arms of your Wife and Husband. Your eyes drew heavy as the dark feeling that plagued you in fear finally slain away allowing you to find peace in your beloved ones arms as sleep graces you.

Part 2

#Hazbin Hotel Fanficion #adam x reader #Eve x reader #adam x eve #Adam X reader x Eve #Bible inaccuracies cause i dont know much of anything lmao #adam hazbin x reader #Eve Hazbin x reader

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