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zeciex · 2 days

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A Vow of Blood - 77

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 77: Haunted by the Daylight

AO3 - Masterlist

Aemond quietly made his way into the council chambers, his footsteps barely echoing in the vast, solemn room. There, he found his grandfather, the Hand of the King, situated in his usual seat at the King’s right hand. His posture conveyed deep thought, his elbow resting on the armrest, fingers tapping a rhythmic beat against his temple as he seemed to be contemplating weighty matters.

The King’s chair, along with the others, stood vacant, save for the wine cups scattered about–an indication of an adjourned session. Only Aegon’s cup showed signs of use, its contents gone save for a few drops at the bottom.

Near one of the stone columns, his mother stood noticeably isolated from the center of the room. Her posture rigid, the tension in her frame palpable. She fidgeted with the ring on her finger, her actions betraying her inner turmoil. Her brow was furrowed, her lips pressed tightly together in a clear sign of discontent. As her eyes lifted to meet Aemond’s, they revealed a mixture of dejection and concern, reflecting the gravity of the situation that weighed heavily upon them both.

Aemond positioned himself in front of the council table, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture radiating a sense of annoyance. He felt sidelined, his exclusion from the council meeting stinging particularly after he had spent hours patrolling the skies on Vhagar. The scent of smoke and dragonfire lingered on his clothing, and his hair bore the wild, windswept look of a dragonrider freshly descended from flight.

Otto Hightower looked up from the letter he had been scrutinizing, his expression marked by discontent. “Your mother’s attempts at diplomacy appear to have yielded no results.”

At these words, Alicent’s expression tightened further, her jaw shifting as if she were biting the inside of her cheek in frustration. Her fingers, previously twirling her ring anxiously, now shifted to absentmindedly pick at her cuticle.

The sight of his mother’s distress stirred a protective urge in Aemond; he wanted to reach out, to take her hand and gently stop her from picking at her skin. However, he remained motionless, his single eye fixed intently on his grandfather, maintaining his composed demeanor despite the turmoil swirling within him. His jaw clenched tightly, his frustration mounting.

Otto delved deeper into the troubling news, his voice steady but grave. “We’ve received a report from Gwayne that Rhaenyra has been crowned and has gathered her nearest allies at Dragonstone. We presented our terms to her…”

Otto held up a small, rolled piece of parchment, flicking it onto the table, letting it roll over its surface. “She has refused our offer of peace, and instead presented her own terms for our surrender.”

Otto's demeanor grew more serious as he reached for a small, rolled piece of parchment. With deliberate motion, he flicked it onto the table, letting it roll across the smooth surface as it slid towards Aemond. He reached for it.

“She has rejected our offer of peace,” Otto announced, his voice resonant with a note of expectancy. “Instead, she has had the audacity to present her own terms, dictating the conditions of our surrender.”

Aemond unrolled the parchment, his eye scanning its contents carefully. The implications of this defiance were clear, setting the stage for a conflict that seemed increasingly inevitable. With a flick of his wrist, he let the parchment fall back onto the table, its message clear and its consequences unavoidable. He then folded his hands behind his back, adopting a posture of readiness and contemplation.

“And what are we do do about it?” Aemond questioned, taking a deep, steadying breath, his jaw setting in a firm line–a telltale sign of his mounting resolve. His shoulders squared, reflecting a sense of determination and readiness to confront the looming challenges.

He was keenly aware that each passing moment brought them closer to the brink of war–a prospect he not only welcomed but felt thoroughly prepared for. This was a battle he saw not just as a duty but as an opportunity to demonstrate his valor and leadership. The weight of this realization settled on his shoulders, yet he carried it as a warrior would his armor, with a resolve as firm as the iron gates of a fortress.

Prepared for war, Aemond embraced the prospect of battle and the pursuit of glory that accompanied it. Like numerous men and second sons before him, he would carve his name into history through the crucible of war. He saw the impending conflict not merely as a challenge, but as an opportunity. It was his chance to prove his mettle, to earn honor and respect, and secure himself a place in the annals of history–to be remembered. He was ready to make his own indelible mark and ensure that his name, too, would be remembered alongside great king’s and warriors.

Otto sat up straighter in his chair, his posture aligning with the gravity of his next words, eyes as hard as the stone that made the foundation of the Red Keep.

“As Rhaenyra consolidates her power and allies, we must do the same,” he stated with a clear decisiveness. “Hence, I am sending you to Storm’s End.” Otto’s directive was sharp and unyielding, outlining a strategic move designed to strengthen their position and extend their influence. “There, you will secure a marriage alliance for Daeron with one of Lord Borros Baratheon’s daughters.”

Alicent’s response was a quiet murmur of disapproval, her head shaking subtly as she glanced down at her hands, visibly troubled by her father’s directives yet restrained in her dissent.

Despite this silent protest, Otto remained resolute. “It’s imperative that the Baratheons do not align themselves with Rhaenyra and her cause. We cannot afford to lose the Stormlands, do you understand?”

“I do,” Aemond responded, his nod firm and his expression serious, fully aware of the critical nature of his mission.

“There can be no mistakes in this,” Otto emphasized, standing up with an air that suggested the discussion was concluded. “You leave at dawn.”

He began to collect the letters and various parchments, his movements quick and precise as he readied to leave the council chambers, no doubt heading to his office to continue his preparations.

As Aemond turned to follow suit, Alicent called out, “Aemond.”

Her voice echoed softly across the room, her gown whispering against the stone floor as she approached with a measured grace befitting her status. Her footsteps clicked in a steady rhythm, yet her shoulders bore a trace of weariness, tension evident in her frame–and more so on her face.

Otto, who had been halfway out of the room, paused at the sound of her voice. He turned to cast a narrow, penetrating glance back at them, his eyes sharp with a cold discernment–a silent warning. Lingering for a moment in the charged atmosphere, he finally exhaled and continued on his way, the door closing soundly behind him.

Alicent stood before Aemond with a dignified grace and authority expected of a queen, her hand poised gently on her bodice, signaling both composure and concern. He watched her carefully as subtle expressions played across his mother’s face–her eyebrows slightly furrowed and raised at the inner corners, her mouth downturned at the edges–each minute change painting a clear picture of her inner turmoil.

“As the Hand has emphasized, there’s no margin for error,” Alicent asserted, her voice conveying a calm yet urgent resolve. She reached out, her fingers delicately smoothing the fabric of Aemond’s doublet in a comforting, maternal gesture. “It would be naive to think Rhaenyra won’t also be sending her envoys. You must reach Storm’s End before they do.”

Her eyes, large and earnest, met his with an intensity that underscored the seriousness of her words. “She will surely try to persuade Borros Baratheon to honor his father’s old commitments, but remember, we have more substantial offers for him. Ensure you present our terms convincingly and secure his alliance.”

“You needn’t worry, Mother, I will secure a Baratheon alliance,” Aemond assured her firmly.

“Lord Borros might not be…” Alicent began, her voice wavering as the lines of worry deepened around her mouth. “He may not readily accept your betrothal and subsequent marriage to his brother’s widow. It is crucial that he remains unaware of any past… dalliance between the two of you, and he must never suspect your involvement in his brother’s death.”

Her hand came to rest gently over his heart, her touch laden with concern. In response, Aemond covered her hand with his own, his gesture offering reassurance and a silent promise to heed her caution. “I will be careful. I promise.”

“Despite Rhaenyra’s rejection of our terms, I am adamant that we should not be the aggressors in this conflict,” Alicent declared resolutely, her words imbued with a sense of urgency to make her son understand. “We should not be the ones to draw first blood, nor will we be the ones to start this war. Let them reveal their true nature to the realm.”

Aemond gave his mother a nod of acknowledgement.

Laying in her bed, Daenera shifted, her eyes drawn to the flickering flames in the hearth. The room was dimly lit, the fire casting dancing shadows across the walls, which were adorned with faded tapestries depicting dragon’s in flight. The scent of burning wood mingled with the faint traces of yellow chrysanthemum-scented candles, creating a soothing ambiance to the night. Yet, despite the calm setting, a restlessness pulsed within her, her skin tingling with alertness as she exhaled a weary, frustrated sigh.

Nearby, Lady Mertha, her nominal lady-in-waiting, slept soundly in a chair. Her chestnut hair, streaked with silver, was neatly tied in a bun that served as a makeshift pillow against the wooden back of the chair. An unfinished embroidery project lay in her lap, the needle halted mid-stitch in the fabric of a delicate blue iris. The soft, rhythmic snores emanating from her seemed to chafe at Daenera’s frayed nerves.

As she lay there in bed, listening to the endless snoring, her thoughts drifted to a darker place. She imagined rising, seizing her pillow, and pressing it over the face of the old hag until she ceased to struggle, and then holding it just a moment longer to ensure the silence was permanent. Yet, she resisted, even as the thought tantalized at her fingertips, urging her to rid herself of the woman who veiled cruel remarks and poised insults under the pretense of servitude. Indeed, Mertha was a faithful servant–to the Queen Mother and the Faith, not to Daenera.

However, she knew that murdering her keeper would bring nothing but fleeting self-satisfaction. It would label her a murderer, likely leading to even stricter confinement, stripped of the few luxuries and freedoms she still enjoyed. Moreover, Mertha would surely be replaced by someone even more intolerable. With Mertha, at least, Daenera knew her adversary’s ways and how to navigate them.

Despite these rationalizations, the relentless itch of frustration remained, gnawing at her as she lay awake in the quiet of the night.

Restlessly, Daenera turned onto her other side, squeezing her eyes shut in a futile attempt to block out the tumultuous thoughts swirling within her mind–thoughts that always seemed to simmer beneath the surface of her consciousness. Her jaw clenched as she willed herself towards the elusive relief of sleep, but it eluded her, slipping through her grasp like wisps of smoke. Instead, her mind was besieged by the relentless storm of memories and anxieties, holding her captive in her own turbulent thoughts.

Her thoughts spiraled in a tempest, replaying the recent calamitous events that continued to haunt her. Each replay brought fresh pangs of what might have been, had her plans not crumbled into despair. The bitter taste of betrayal lingered acutely on her tongue, a poignant reminder of her misplaced trust in Larys. She chastised herself for the naive assumption that their unacknowledged familial ties could serve as a dependable foundation for trust.

As the night stretched on, Daenera lay awake, tormented by her choices and their fallout, each scenario playing out in her head like an relentless echo of what could have been–a cacophony of could-haves and should-haves that offered no solace, only the sharp sting of regret.

The betrayal by Aemond cut the deepest, its sting harsh and relentless as he forced her into a corner–into a marriage she had no choice but to accept, effectively chaining her to the Greens, to him. While Daenera could understand the political motives behind his actions, understanding them did little to mitigate the sharp, persistent ache that throbbed within her heart every time she saw him.

And despite her best efforts to banish him from her thoughts, he weaved his way into her mind–how he had wrapped his arms around her to restrain her from running to Rhaenys, and, in some convoluted way, to protect her. She recalled the way he had positioned himself between his mother and herself. She remembered the tenderness with which he held her, the way his head tilted towards hers, resting against her, allowing his warmth to envelop her–his hand on her stomach, protecting and claiming.

Yet, amidst the turmoil, a distressing truth gnawed at her–a truth she hesitated to acknowledge even to herself. Under different stars, freed from the shackles of duty and deceit, Daenera knew she might have chosen Aemond willingly. This, perhaps, was the most excruciating betrayal of all–the betrayal of her own heart against her better judgment.

Yet, it was not just betrayal that haunted Daenera’s sleepless nights.

The shadows of the departed loomed large in her thoughts, each name a heavy echo in her heart. Viserys, Joyce, Darvin, Edam, Kevan, Sithric–each memory a sharp stab of grief.

The circumstances of their deaths haunted Daenera, each loss made a specter in the back of her mind. The image of Joyce’s lifeless body, harsh ropes suspending it in a cruel mockery of peace, was permanently etched into her memory, alongside the horrific scene of decay that had befallen the bodies suspended in the inner courtyard. It seemed as though the ghosts of the dead lingered in the shadows of her room, their cold, dead eyes watching her relentlessly.

The dim light from the dying hearth cast eerie shadows on the walls, enhancing the surreal and ghostly quality of her restless contemplations. Most haunting, however, were the ghosts of those not yet dead. Her thoughts strayed to her family, wondering if Rhaenys had managed to reach them with the news of the usurpation and whether they were not rallying their forces, preparing to retaliate against the injustice that threatened to engulf her.

Dread and longing intertwined within Daenera whenever she thought of her family. Her mind churned with questions about how they were handling the usurpation–whether they had received the coerced letter she had been forced to pen. Above all, she harbored a fervent hope, almost a prayer, that they would recognize the letter for what it truly was: a fabrication, filled with nothing more than hollow words dictated by her captors.

Her brothers would have undoubtedly been the first to rally for her rescue. She hoped that Daemon would temper their fiery spirits, preventing them from taking rash actions that might endanger their lives. She imagined her mother, consumed with worry, possibly even considering conceding to the usurpers’ demands just to ensure her safety. However, Daenera clung to the hope that Daemon, or Jace, or Baela, or Rhaena–someone, anyone–would persuade her mother against it.

She had to remind herself that her mother was strong. Despite the gnawing fear and the strategic considerations that might tempt a less resolute soul, her mother would not yield; she would not bend the knee to the usurpers. Daenera clung to this belief, drawing a measure of strength from the imagined resilience of her family, despite the distance that separated them.

The ache of missing them was a constant companion.

The horrifying thought that they might meet the same grim fate as Joyce and the others–that their lives might end at the end of a rope–stirred a deep well of fear within her.

Tears prickled behind her closed eyelids as she wrestled with these fears, her body lying motionless on the bed yet her mind trapped in a tortuous cycle of apprehension and despair. The night offered no reprieve, with each haunting thought acting like a specter at the periphery of her awareness, ensuring she continued to remain awake.

There was no solace to be found in sleep, it seemed.

Her eyes snapped open once more as an especially loud snore shattered the fragile silence that enveloped her. Frustrated, Daenera sat up abruptly, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders in disheveled waves as she scowled at her sleeping warden. With a huff, she pushed the covers away, resigning herself to the sleeplessness of the night, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The cool touch of the stone floors greeted her bare feet as she stood, moving with a silent grace that conflicted with the clamor of her heart.

Daenera walked purposefully to where her slippers lay discarded, slipping her feet into them before wrapping herself in a yellow silk robe–one of the few pieces of her own clothing she had been allowed to keep. She then draped a blue shawl, adorned with intricate patterns, over her shoulders, the fabric providing a slight warmth against the chill of the night air.

Daenera approached the chamber doors, their imposing frames seeming to beckon her forward. With a delicate yet determined touch, she pushed them open, a faint creak escaping despite her efforts to be silent. As she peered into the corridor beyond, her gaze locked with that of the guard stationed outside her door–a man whose name she neither knew nor wished to learn. His face shifted from a look of wariness to one of surprise upon seeing her.

“I can’t sleep,” Daenera declared, her voice imbued with the weight of a demand rather than a mere request. Her eyes met his, asserting her intention. “I wish to take a walk.”

The guard hesitated, his lips parting as if he were about to refuse, but Daenera cut him off before he could formulate his objection.

“You’ll be with me the entire time,” she continued firmly, her voice dictating terms, not seeking permission. “I’m merely in my robe and nightgown; I’m not planning an escape. Besides, a walk has to be better than standing there all night, staring at the walls, wouldn’t you agree?”

His brows lifted slightly as he processed her words, and after a brief pause, he begrudgingly nodded in acceptance.

With a slight, mischievous smile, Daenera stepped through the threshold into the hallway, leaving her behind her slumbering warden, who would undoubtedly be in for a shock of surprise upon discovering her bed empty–if she woke at all. The smile on her lips grew at the thought.

The hallways of Maegor’s Holdfast were eerily quiet at night, deserted except for a lone servant who glided silently through the corridors, making scarcely more noise than a ghost. The shadows in the hallway seemed to challenge the flickering torches that staved off the darkness, creating a play of light and shadow that danced across the tapestries that littered the stone walls. Despite the deep shadows that clawed against the dim light, Daenera was not afraid; rather, she found a certain solace in the cloak of night and the solitude it offered–similar to the many nights she had spent with Aemond, seeking the solitude of a world of darkness to shield them from the days judgments. The night seemed to grant a type of freedom, a respite from the watchful eyes of the day, and she embraced this fleeting liberty with open arms, even as the guard’s footsteps echoed behind her, a constant reminder of her constraints.

They descended the grand staircase of Maegor’s Holdfast and made their way through the courtyard. Daenera paused in the middle of the open space, her gaze fixating on the banisters that were now clear of any ropes. The only remnants of their grime presence were the faint traces of rot that seemed to linger in the air.

Since Aegon’s crowning and the hanging of her men, Daenera had spent her days standing resolutely in the middle of the courtyard. This act of defiance–or perhaps self-punishment–served as a reminder of the injustice of the situation and a means to honor the lives that had been so brutally taken. She had stood vigil, watching their faces until they became indistinct, the flesh turning a disturbing, discolored hue. She watched as their bodies began to bloat, their features becoming near unrecognizable, their fingers turning an unnatural black as flies swarmed their orifices. The process of decay was relentless, and soon the stench permeated the entire courtyard.

The heat of recent days had only exacerbated the situation, intensifying the smell rather than diminishing it. The air, thick with the stench of death, made the courtyard almost unbearable as the process of rot quickened unnaturally under the oppressive heat. Flies had then taken to swarming the bodies, obscuring the men’s faces.

Mertha had tried to coax her away from the gruesome sight, but Daenera had refused to move. To endure the overwhelming odor, the old hag had resorted to carrying a small pouch of herbs to hold under her nose, trying to mask the scent.

Daenera couldn’t deny the impact the sight and smell of decay had on her. Even now, when she thought of their rotting corpses, the scent of putrid flesh seemed to haunt her nostrils.

In an effort to mitigate the grisly aftermath, the Hightowers had finally removed the bodies the day before. They had placed several braziers and bowls of incense throughout the courtyard, attempting to cleanse the air of the pervasive stench of death.

Drawing in a deep breath of the now fresher air that swept through the open courtyard, Daenera turned her face upward, gazing at the vast expanse of stars. It was a clear, beautiful night. With a momentary pause to appreciate the serene sky, she then made her way towards the doors of Maegor’s Holdfast, the night air providing a small reprieve from the heaviness that lingered around her.

They made their way to the Red Keep, their footsteps silent, ghost-light as they glided through the veil of night. They ascended the stairs and moved through the intricate, labyrinthine corridors of the Keep. The silence was punctuated occasionally by the servants, recently released from the dungeons following the coronation, who bustled about their duties. The soft echo of their hurried footsteps and their hushed exchanges briefly infused a sense of life into the otherwise sober environment.

Rather than returning to the relative comfort of her chambers, Daenera pushed open the towering doors to the throne room. She and her guard stepped into the vast expanse, enveloped immediately by the encompassing darkness. The room seemed to swallow them whole, its shadows stretching out like living entities, reveling in their dominion over the space. The throne room, usually a place of power and ceremony, now felt like an immense void that echoed with the quietude of the night.

As Daenera and her guard moved deeper into the throne room, a chilling sensation enveloped her. The fine hairs on her arms stood on end, and an involuntary shiver ran down her spine. Moonlight seeped through the tall, narrow windows, casting weak rays of pale light through the overwhelming darkness.

The Formidable stone columns rose around them like silent sentinels, their towering forms casting judgment on all who tread within. If the Hightowers allowed it, Viserys might one day find his place among the kings of old, becoming another sentinel within this grand space. Tradition dictated that kings were etched in stone, immortalized in the heart of the Red Keep to serve as eternal reminders of the past. Yet, the Hightowers, seemingly intent on reshaping the legacy of House Targaryen, might allow this tradition to slip into the shadows, consigned to be a footnote in the forgotten annals of history, much like their attempts to obscure the rightful line of succession with their lies.

In the absence of any living presence, Daenera felt neither solitude nor solace. Instead, she felt profoundly lost–adrift in a vast ocean of emptiness, floating beneath a starless sky. She was surrounded by an endless expanse of darkness, while foreboding, unseen waves churned ominously below.

Pausing before the imposing Iron Throne, Daenera wrapped her arms tightly around herself, seeking warmth and some semblance of comfort as she faced the highest seat of power. The pervasive chill of the room seeped deep into her bones.

She sensed his approach not by sight but through the soft resonance of his footsteps echoing ominously in the vast space. She hard the subtle command he issued the guard, a quiet authority that prompted the guard to discreetly retreat to the entrance of the throne room.

Aemond’s footsteps echoed as he neared, each step resonating through the cold stone floor, sending shivers down Daenera’s spine and raising the fine hairs on the back of her neck. As he reached her side, his presence seemed to envelop her, a tangible force prickled uncomfortably beneath her skin–prickled with a familiar, comforting sense that she forced out of her mind.

“Can’t sleep?” Aemond’s quiet inquiry sliced through the stillness of the night. Daenera felt the question encroach upon her, the words prickling against her skin like the cold that clawed at her bare legs.

Within the hushed, expansive confines of the throne room, Daenera’s response was a mere whisper, each syllable heavy with the burden of their fraught circumstances.

“How could I when I am being held hostage?” Her tone was sharp, yet the night’s quiet seemed to soften the edges of her anger, smoothing the usual bite of her words. “Rest doesn’t come easy when an injustice has been committed–less so when my warden snores.” A trace of cold humor laced her voice, a fleeting attempt to lighten the gravity of her situation. “I see them when I close my eyes…”

“Is it so strange that you see them, after you’ve spent days staring upon them?”

Daenera’s gaze snapped towards Aemond, her eyes narrowing sharply. “They were good men. Honorable, and they deserved someone to stand vigil for them.”

Aemond’s voice carried a challenging tone as he responded, “They were good men, perhaps, but your vigil wasn’t solely about honor. It was as much an act of defiance.”

She met his gaze with an icy stare. “It worked, didn’t it?”

There was a brief emergence of a cruel smirk on her lips–a fleeting expression that quickly faded as her ire fell to the wayside. Her vigil had been a calculated display of defiance as much as it was a way of honoring them. The spectacle she created by standing vigil was minimal enough to avoid direct punishment, yet potent enough to unsettle those in power. The bodies, which would likely have remained hanging in the courtyard for a day or two more, had been taken down sooner because of the discomfort her actions had caused. She had effectively forced the Hightowers’s hand.

In the stillness of the night, there was a peculiar vulnerability, as if the moon’s light allowed them to cast aside some of the hostility and animosity that cloaked them during the day. It was just her and Aemond, alone in the shadows of the night, which provided a strange sort of solace, a temporary escape from the day’s harsh realities.

Within this nocturnal reprieve, Daenera found herself easing into the moment, her demeanor softening into a semblance of playfulness.

“It brings me a strange sort of solace, imagining the discomfort that Aegon must endure while seated upon the throne,” Daenera mused, her gaze remaining upon the imposing seat. “I can’t fathom how anyone might find it comfortable, with the sharp edges of those blades and the sheer coldness of hard iron…”

Her words floated in the air like delicate wisps as her eyes traced the sharp points of the throne. The swords protruded from the high back of the imposing seat, resembling a deadly crown forged from steel and iron and blood, melded together through dragonfire and sheer will.

“It doesn’t need to be comfortable,” Aemond responded, his voice echoing a sentiment he had expressed what seemed like ages ago. “It’s a symbol of power–a testament to the might of House Targaryen and a stark reminder to any who would dare oppose us. It represents a promise, not a mere threat.”

Indeed, the menacing spectacle of swords, twisted and contorted into unnatural shapes, emerging from the base and ascending into the air, was undeniably imposing. It served both as a warning and a vow that the same fire which had warped the metal could inflict even greater devastation of flesh and bone. It was a grim, brutal thing.

“I suppose I can only hope for Aegon to miss his step and impale himself upon one of those blades,” she said lightly, allowing herself an amused smirk at the dark thought. “It’s rather surprising that it hasn’t occurred more often.”

Aemond’s reaction was close to a laugh, a rare, and she caught the slight upturn of his lips out of the corner of her eye. “As far as historical records go, only Maegor has met that fate.”

The faint smile on her lips remained. “Well, history isn’t beyond adding a few more names to that list, is it?”

Daenera couldn’t help but envision it–Aegon impaled upon the throne he had usurped and claimed. How profoundly symbolic. Alternatively, perhaps Otto Hightower should meet a similar fate, impaled by the very symbols of the power he coveted. The thought filled her with a grim satisfaction, yet the existence around her remained unaltered, with both men still very much alive and their steps sure and unfaltering.

“And yet, despite the inevitable discomfort that the Iron Throne may bring to one’s rear, it remains the most coveted seat of them all,” Daenera mused, ascending a step. She turned slightly and found their eyes nearly at level, though he still held a slight height advantage. “The seat on Dragonstone is carved from the very rock like the castle itself. You might think it’s a cold, unforgiving seat, but the stone retrains a subtle warmth. It’s not particularly comfortable, but a strategically placed pillow can alleviate that, and, most importantly, it doesn’t pose the risk of impalement due to pointy swords jutting up from the ground surrounding it.”

A sharp retort seemed to form on the tip of Aemond’s tongue, a wave of biting cruelty that Daenera could sense preparing to crash down upon her. But instead of unleashing the words and letting them rake against her skin, he swallowed them down.

She could still feel the lingering sting of his unspoken thoughts, resonating like an echo in her mind: That if that throne is indeed more bearable to sit, then maybe her mother should do well to embrace it and remain on Dragonstone, instead of seeking this seat. His words might have been sharper, more volatile, and destructive if he had allowed them to break free, but she felt the sting nonetheless.

Breaking the silence, Daenera spoke again, her voice carrying across the echoing expanse of the throne room. “And the Driftwood Throne is just made of that, driftwood.”

Aemond’s reply was slow and deliberate, his tone tinged with a hint of amusement as he engaged in the verbal dance. “I imagine driftwood offers a more forgiving seat than that of cold, hard stone.”

Under the pale moon’s glow, Daenera regarded him with a blend of caution and intrigue. The moonlight illuminated his features sharply, casting one side of his face in light while the other melded into the shadows of the night, giving him an almost dual nature–sharpness like the edge of a blade, yet possessing a certain softness that hinted at tenderness as much as danger. The moonlight draped over him, accentuating the severe lines of his face, each angle casting a shadow that seemed to hint at both promise and peril. His expression was impassive, resembling the hard lines of a statue, yet the slight twinkle in his eye suggested a depth that Daenera found both perplexing and compelling.

A trace of wry amusement lingered on his lips, and he tilted his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if inviting her to continue this dance of words, “And what of the seat of House Baratheon?”

After a brief, contemplative pause, Daenera turned to face him completely, her response imbued with a subtle curiosity. “It’s made of stone.”

She maintained her position on the stone step, her eyes locked on his as he approached–prowling towards her like a predator stalking its prey. Each step he took resonated more profoundly within her, stirring a blend of apprehension and anticipation in her stomach. As the distance between them lessened, she felt a palpable tension building. Instinctively, she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, not just against the night’s chill but also as a shield against the way he looked at her.

“It’s cold, hard stone, with no comfort of a pillow,” Daenera answered, her mind drifting back to her time at Storm’s End. “It’s simple.”

Aemond halted his advance a few steps from her. His gaze seemed to cast a delicate web of sensations across her skin, as if he were trying to decipher her thoughts simply with his stare. “So, it’s plain.”

Daenera nodded, her eyes catching the interplay of shadows across his features, the darkness melding seamlessly with the eye patch that obscured part of his face–and in turn seemed to etch the scar even more into his skin. With a soft breath, she answered, “Yes.”

As he drew near, Daenera felt the rhythm of her heart quickening, and she silently cursed herself for it. Despite everything, he still had the power to stir such emotions within her, a fact she found both infuriating and unsettling. With a calculated move, she took a step back, ascending another step on the dias.

With that single step, Daenera rose slightly above him, gaining a modest height advantage. Yet, this small elevation appeared to change little in their dynamic. Aemond tilted his head slightly, his gaze intense and unwavering as he continued to watch her closely.

“Have you ever seen the seat of House Hightower?” Daenera found herself asking, her voice a soft murmur, as though fearing that speaking too loudly would draw him closer.

Aemond’s gaze briefly scanned her face, his eye sharp and discerning. Each glance seemed to dissect her expressions, parsing the subtle shifts for underlying messages or potential challenges–a mirror to the way she had scrutinized his words earlier. The intensity of his scrutiny was unnerving, as it always was, as if his gaze could penetrate beyond the facade and unearth her innermost thoughts.

“I have, once,” he responded, his voice low and contemplative, with a hint of something deeper lurking beneath the surface. “The seat is rather unpretentious, crafted from plain wood.”

“Perhaps the grandeur of the Tower negates the need for an ostentatious throne,” Daenera mused aloud, her tone thoughtful, tinged with a touch of irony. She held back a more pointed remark that hovered on the edge of her tongue–about his and his family's ambitions for a grander throne. Opting for a subtler jab, she continued, “Besides, with the Tyrells as their liege lords, I’d imagine wood is preferable to the bed of thorns and roses they must sit upon.”

A flicker of amusement briefly animated Aemond’s features, subtly lifting the corners of his lips further that the smirk he always wore. This small but perceptible change in his expression sent an unexpected flutter through Daenera’s chest, intertwining with the sensations of apprehension and intrigue that stirred deep within her.

Continuing her ascent, Daenera climbed another two steps, her movement embodying grace and poise. Each step she took was measured and deliberate, echoing softly in the vast, hollow expanse of the throne room. Aemond, perceptive of the distance she was creating, followed her, yet consciously remained two steps below her. Over her shoulder, Daenera cast a sly, inviting smile back at him.

“The realm’s second most pointy seat, I presume,” Aemond commented with a languid drawl. His words, light and teasing, floated through the cool air between them, sparking a bright, bell-like laugh from Daenera. The sound of her laughter filled the expanse around them, a rare echo of warmth that momentarily cut through the usual solemnity of the space.

Daenera turned to face Aemond fully, shifting the conversation towards another prominent noble house with a playful tilt of her head. “And the Lannisters?”

Their eyes locked, and a spark of shared amusement passed between them. Almost instinctively, they both said in unison, “Gold.”

Her laughter continued, richer now with an undercurrent of deeper amusement. “Indeed, crafted of gold, no doubt extravagantly adorned with their iconic lions and encrusted with jewels.”

Aemond’s response was smooth and tinged with humor, “Subtlety was never a trait the Lannisters embraced.”

With a hint of playful irony in her voice, Daenera responded to Aemond, “I remember Jason Lannister claiming that with wealth like theirs, subtlety is hardly a necessity.”

As she nonchalantly brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the motion seemed to catch Aemond’s attention. His gaze lingered on her, soft and all too gentle. His stance relaxed, the previous stiffness in his spine giving way to a more natural posture. His hands, previously clasped behind his back, now hung loosely by his sides, his fingers subtly twitching, betraying a hint of restlessness.

Aware of the dangers of Aemond’s restlessness, Daenera deftly steered the conversation towards another noble house, her pulse quickening as she felt his eye on her. She sought to maintain a veneer of casual interest as she said, “And what of the Tullys’ seat?”

Aemond’s eye twinkled with amusement, a hint of mischief playing at the edges of his demeanor, even as he spoke with an air of casual disinterest about the subject. His amusement appeared to be fueled internally by Daenera’s reaction to him, prompting a playful smirk to curl at the corners of his lips. He leaned slightly forward, his posture relaxed yet commanding, as he drawled, “It’s wood, replete with ornate carvings that resemble fish scales, similar to the Lannisters and their lions. Perhaps it even boasts a grand trout emblem overseeing it all.”

Daenera’s response came with a tone rich in appreciation, slightly correcting him, “I imagine the Tullys would prefer a more refined elegance–ancient wood, exquisitely carved, no gaudy fish scales involved.” She took another step up, and he followed that one step. “And the Arryns, with their thrones of venerable weirwood. What of House Greyjoy?”

Aemond matched her step, maintaining a distance that always left him two steps below her, subtly conceding the height to her. His voice rose with a clear note of certainty, echoing slightly in the grand space around them. “The Greyjoys preside over the Seastone Chair. According to Maester Theron, it is hewn from the same mysterious, black and oily stone found at the base of the Black Stone Fortress of the Hightower, artfully shaped into the form of a kraken.”

“And House Stark?” Daenera probed further, her curiosity undiminished, her words tinged with a genuine interest in his thoughts.

Aemond’s reply carried a hint of disdain, almost a scoff, as if the simplicity of the answer amused him. “Unremarkable wood, draped with furs.”

Daenera’s lips curled into a knowing smile, her eyes momentarily shifting away from Aemond as she stepped onto the final landing before the throne, her tone laced with both reverence and irony. “And yet, among them all, this throne remains the most sought after.”

Their interaction flowed with a natural ease, as if the cloak of night granted them a brief escape from the relentless scrutiny of daylight and its politics. In the realm of night, they could temporarily cast aside the heavy mantle of court intrigues and machinations. Despite the tranquility of the night, Daenera was keenly aware of the impending dawn, which would soon expose the harsh truths and intense demands of the day.

She sensed Aemond’s presence drawing nearer as he ascended the last of the steps behind her. Turning to face him, Daenera caught a fleeting expression in his gaze–something deep and enigmatic–before she deliberately shifted her attention away from his intense gaze.

Her eyes were then drawn to the menacing iron swords that jutted out from the stone floor around the throne. The blades, like savage fangs, seemed poised to tear into flesh at the slightest misstep. Moonlight casting its pale glow through the tall windows bathed the swords in a ghostly light, while casting deep shadows that stretched between the blades, giving them a sinister appearance akin to pools of blood.

Power had always been an ugly affair, Daenera mused, yet it seemed everyone desired it. The thought of ascending to the Iron Throne had once been a childhood fantasy of being queen–as all children had, oblivious to the consequences. It had been a daydream she entertained with the innocence of youth. However, she soon came to understand the grave implications: to claim the throne meant stepping over the bodies of her family–her mother, Daemon, Jace, Baela, and any of their descendants. Claiming power by force would brand her a kinslayer, a title she never wished to bear.

Her ambitions had thus been reshaped early on; she envisioned herself as a dutiful daughter in support of her family, perhaps earning a place on their council, offering counsel and securing their reign.

Yet, as she gazed upon the throne now, a sinister stir twisted within her. It was as if something dark and menacing from the recesses of her soul watched her, whispering seductions of power and dominance from the shadows of her conscience.

“It could have been you,” she mused softly, the hint of a challenge in her tone as she turned her eyes upon him–as she watched the familiar tightness snap at his lips. Her words seemed to find their mark, visibly rattling Aemond as she intended. He was inching too close for comfort, and despite the part of her that yearned for the solace he seemed to offer, she couldn’t afford to lower her guard further–it had already been a mistake to lower it this much. Her anger towards him remained–fueled by the ire of her captivity, the usurpation of her mother’s throne, and the tangled web of emotions his proximity evoked. She continued, “All you’ve ever wanted, within arm’s reach, yet you did not seize it. It could have been you–”

“No, it never could have been,” Aemond countered, his voice a dark murmur as he advanced a step closer–a note of bitterness sharpening his words.

She instinctively edged backward, her retreat bringing her alarmingly close to a sword protruding menacingly from the stone floor surrounding the throne, its edge seeming to thirst for contact. The air between them was charged with an unspoken tension, a mix of unresolved conflicts and the harsh realities of their present circumstances.

As Aemond’s head tilted slightly, his eye caught a sliver of moonlight that filtered through the tall, narrow windows of the throne room. The pale light transformed his blue eye, making it shimmer almost as silvery as his hair–echoing the metallic gleam of steel. “It had to be Aegon.”

Daenera was acutely aware of the political machinations at play; she knew it had always been about Aegon. The Hightowers had long schemed to secure the crown for Viserys’s firstborn son–it had to be the firstborn son, not the second born. Even if Aemond had allowed his brother to escape, Aegon’s mere existence was a looming threat–an obstacle should Aemond claim the throne. Even with Aegon gone, his firstborn son had the claim before Aemond–though he was still but a child. For the Hightowers, Aegon was essential, the foundation on which their usurpation was built on.

Daenera used Aemond’s ambition and desires as a shield against him–a necessary defense, and one she needed. It served as a barrier of cruelty to remind her heart not to flutter in his presence, to stay guarded despite its desire to be free.

“I have gained something from this,” Aemond whispered, now standing so close his breath could be felt on her skin. Daenera tensed, her heart beating rapidly within her chest, and her nails digging into her palm to ground herself.

His voice dropped to a low, drawling murmur, thick with insinuation, as he reached out towards her. Instinctively, Daenera raised her hand, deflecting his touch before it could graze her jaw and ignite a dangerous warmth.

Her gaze turned steely, “What was that old saying about touching before marriage?”

“I believe we’re past that,” Aemond remarked, a wry smile playing on his lips.

Daenera’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose we are… and it will remain that way… in the past.”

Daenera deliberately turned her attention away from him, her movement a silent act of defiance. Aemond’s gaze lingered on her, dark and contemplative, as if he were weighing whether she would act upon her declared intentions. Ignoring his scrutiny, she forced instead on the swords jutting up from the floor around the throne.

Tentatively, she extended a hand, allowing her fingertip to skim along the edge of one of the blades, cautious not to press too firmly against its still-vicious edge. The swords retained their lethal sharpness, as if the very act of forging the throne had permanently imbued them with a relentless edge.

The silence that had enveloped the throne room, thick with the weight of unspoken thoughts, was abruptly shattered by Aemond’s voice. His words cut through the still air like a Valyrian steel blade, clear and decisive.

“I’m leaving for Storm’s End in the morning,” he announced, his statement slicing through the delicate veil of their nighttime truce. This declaration signaled a stark shift back to the pressing realities that awaited in the daylight.

Daenera’s head whipped around sharply, her eyes widening in shock and a profound sense of betrayal settling heavily in her heart at Aemond’s sudden announcement. Her startled movement caused her to press her finger too firmly against the blade, and the sharp edge bit into her skin mercilessly. The pain was nothing more than a small jolt, insignificant compared to the emotional turmoil that was stirred by his words.

A hiss left her, and her eyes fell on the bead of blood welling on her skin. This seemed to catch Aemond’s attention, and as if on instinct, he stepped forward and grasped her hand. His touch was gentle, yet insistent as he drew her closer for a better look. His eye lingered on the small crimson welling, and for a fleeting moment, she anticipated that he might bring her finger to his lips–the thought was too much, too intimate, and before he could succumb to any such impulse, she swiftly withdrew her hand, her eyes flashing with indignant fire as she met his gaze.

“My mother refused to bend the knee,” Daenera stated, not a question but an acknowledgement. A wave of relief briefly swept over her, only to be swiftly replaced by a surge of apprehension as thoughts raced through her mind–who would support her mother’s claim? Were Daemon planning to advance on King’s Landing? What did it mean for her as the Hightowers’ hostage? Slowly, it seemed, they were teetering ever closer to the brink of outright war.

With a scornful scoff, she added, “Why ask me to describe the seat of Storm’s End when you’re going to witness it yourself?”

The decision to send him to Storm’s End to negotiate with the Baratheons for their support ignited a fiery rage within her. She could feel it burning in her chest, seeping into her lungs and heart, spreading throughout her boy like wildfire. Any semblance of peace between them was scorched by the sting of betrayal. The burdens and circumstances of the day seemed to crash in around them, harsh and unyielding, even as the soft moonlight continued to bathe the room in its ghostly glow.

“Daenera…”

Daenera swept past him, descending the steps with swift, deliberate strides. She felt the brush of his fingers against her wrist, a desperate attempt to restrain her, but she twisted away sharply, breaking free from his grip. As she turned she fixed him with a withering look. “I suppose you plan on sealing the alliance with a betrothal. Finally, your mother gets her wish–marrying you off to a Baratheon girl.”

Her heart was a battleground of conflicting emotions–relief clashed with profound disappointment. She struggled against the unsettling churn in her stomach as it twisted, and the oppressive weight that seemed to crush her chest. Bitterness surged through her, and despite her resolve, tears threatened to break free, her lower lip quivering with barely restrained emotion.

Aemond’s reply came through clenched teeth, frustration palpable in his strained voice. “I’m not going to Storm’s End to negotiate my own betrothal, but Daeron’s.”

A surge of relief pierced through her heart, and she immediately scolded herself for feeling it. Aemond descended the steps, moving towards her with a face that was impossible to read. He reached out, his hand almost tender as it moved to brush under her hair and cradle her head, but Daenera swiftly knocked his hand away, refusing the attempt. Part of her knew that if he managed to touch her, to hold her, her resolve might falter.

Daenera’s voice sharpened with accusation. “You’re stealing my alliance–”

“Daenera,” Aemond cut in, his voice mingling exasperation with a plea for understanding, as though trying to mend the rift that widened with every word they exchanged.

“No, you’re stealing it!” She shot back, the bitterness etching deeper into her expression as she battled the urge to cry. Her voice trembled as she continued, “I endured a marriage to Boris Baratheon for the sake of that alliance. I endured his cruelty and humiliation. And now, you claim it as if it were nothing, as if my suffering meant nothing!”

Aemond’s reply was sharp, his words slicing through the air with precision–cutting through to her very core. “I’m not to blame for your unfortunate misalliance. The alliance you suffered so much for was always weak, fated to end as it did. You cannot lay claim to an alliance that was never going to endure–Daemon should have seen that. He should have never sold you off to a man who humiliated you.” Aemond stepped closer. “Your alliance with the Baratheon’s ended the day your husband died.”

Aemond closed the distance between them with deliberate steps, towering over her as he continued. “Your alliance with the Baratheons ended the day your husband died.”

Despite Daenera’s desire to trust in Borros Baratheon’s vow to her mother, she was acutely aware of the harsher truth of their situation. Borros, known for his pride, might have stayed true to his word if his brother were still alive and she remained his wife. But with his brother’s death, the fragile threads of their alliance hung in peril, vulnerable to being cast aside for a move advantageous alliance. Her heart beat with the cadence of dread, each beat a heavy thud resonating within her chest, echoing her deep-seated fears.

Her gaze sharpened as stared up at him, biting the inside of her cheek.

“You understood the consequences,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper–the unexpected gentleness in his tone worse than had he sneered at her. “You knew that Boris’s death would unravel the alliance, and yet you proceeded.”

Daenera’s eyes remained on his, the sudden softness in his approach unsettling her as much as it drew her attention. Her voice, sharpened by bitterness and deliberately hushed to contain its echoes, shot back in a sneer of thinly veiled accusation, “Let’s not forget whose hands sealed his fate.”

Aemond’s response was measured, his tone now as incisive as hers, “At your behest, if I recall. You were as complicit in his end as I.”

“And what of Lord Borros reaction when he learns you intend to marry his brother’s widow?” Daenera snapped, her heart beating wildly against her ribs.

“I imagine he’ll be indifferent, so long as he get his marriage alliance,” Aemond answered dryly. Borros Baratheon, grappling with the burden of having no sons and having recently lost his only brother, would likely insist on nothing less than a marriage alliance to secure himself. It would only be a welcome addition that the marriage alliance would offer House Baratheon more royal blood and a dragonrider at that–more than she could ever give them.

Daenera pressed on, “What if he rejects the alliance? Will you exploit my involvement in his brother’s death to secure the alliance at any cost?”

Aemond’s jaw visibly tightened, the muscles beneath his skin rippling with restrained emotion. His lips formed a narrow, exasperated line as his gaze flicked away from Daenera’s penetrating stare. He seemed to search for words amidst the roiling shadows among the stone columns, or perhaps he sought refuge from the weight of her accusation.

Unyielding, Daenera’s voice sharpened, even as her eyes stung with the threat of tears. “And what if he demands my head? Would you acquiesce to such a demand?”

Aemond’s reaction was visceral, his eye snapping back to meet hers with a steely resolve. The dark pupil of his eye seemed to swallow the blue iris surrounding it, burning with something fierce and dangerous. His lips pursed almost imperceptibly as though tasting the words that lingered on the tip of his tongue.

A shiver traced Daenera’s spine as Aemond brushed her hair gently aside, cradling her face and tilting it upwards with a familiar, scorching touch that unleashed a storm of emotions within her.

“If he asks for your head,” he murmured, his voice a low, raspy drawl, “I will present him with his own instead.”

“You wouldn’t,” Daenera countered softly, her words laced with a sad resignation that hung heavily in the air. Her fingers instinctively curled around his wrist, a silent plea for understanding. Deep down, she knew the bitter truth; despite his assurances, Aemond would likely resort to whatever means necessary to secure the alliance. He might not want to sacrifice her, but she harbored no illusions that he wouldn’t exploit her involvement in her husband’s death to his advantage, tarnishing relations with Borros to serve his own ends–and should he do that, it would cost her her life.

Daenera gently removed Aemond’s hand from her, warmth lingering on her skin where his touch had been. Stepping back, she reclaimed her space, wrapping her arms around herself for a sense of solace and protection.

With a deliberate effort to maintain her composure, though her throat tightened with emotion, Daenera spoke. “Borros Baratheon is a man driven by pride and ambition, and he is desperate for a male heir. He will accept the marriage alliance you offer, but make no mistake–he’ll be a fickle ally, who will wait and see whichever way the wind blows.”

She turned from him and began her walk down towards the doors, her steps resounding with the solemnity of thunder through the silence of the throne room. She had only covered ten paces when Aemond’s cut through the stillness, its timber on the verge of desperation–a plea.

“Wait…”

At his call, her stride faltered, her feet unexpectedly rooted to the cold stone floor. Despite her strong impulse to continue, she found herself inexplicably unable to move, held by some invisible tether. The echo of Aemond’s approach filled the vast space around her, each step amplifying the rapid beat of her heart as he drew closer, and a prickling sensation crawled up her spine, the hairs at the back of her neck standing on end.

In that charged moment, darkness seemed to deepen within the room as a cloud veiled the moon. The shadows around them thickened, swallowing the edges of the room and casting everything into a more profound stillness, almost as if time itself had paused.

Then, Daenera sensed his presence just behind her. Aemond’s head came to press gently against hers, his body molding to her back, as his hand tenderly wrapped around her waist, stretching across her lower abdomen with a gentle but firm pressure. The warmth of his touch enveloped her, offering a relief from the chilly air of the night.

Her eyes fluttered shut as a surge of tears threatened to break free. Despite the inner chaos and the resentment she harbored towards him, Daenera found herself leaning back into his embrace, drawing a momentary solace from his closeness–she would curse herself for it later, but in the moment, it offered her a refuge.

In the near-total darkness of the throne room, they stood frozen for several heartbeats, the silence around them thickening, almost tangible in the vastness of the space–a sea of darkness, a world of its own. His grip on her waist steadied, his head now resting gently against the side of hers, his breath warming the curve of her neck as his fingers softly caressed her skin.

As Daenera’s eyes fluttered open, she steeled her resolve against the seductive comfort of his touch, her heart constricting with a mix of longing and resistance.

With her voice steady and edged with a blunt sarcasm, Daenera spoke, “If you’re looking for a woman to warm your bed, I’d suggest you cast your eye towards a more agreeable bride – maybe one of the Baratheon girls, or even a whore would suffice.”

She resumed her walk towards the door, Aemond’s chuckle echoing behind her, a resonant sound that filled the silence and slowly dissipated into the quietude of the room.

Daenera pushed out of the doors and met her guard outside. As she stepped into the grand hall, the guard's voice rumbled deeply, reminiscent of stones grinding against each other. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

His question caught her off guard and she was momentarily startled by it. Her gaze met his, eyes narrowing as she was unsure of what he was implying.

“Did the walk tire you, I mean,” he clarified.

“Yes, I’ve become quite… weary,” Daenera responded, her voice catching slightly as she acknowledged the deep-seated fatigue that seemed to finally pass over her. She could feel it in the stiffness of her muscles and the heaviness that seemed to weigh down her entire body. “And cold.”

In shared silence, they continued back to her chambers.

Upon entering, Daenera was greeted by the moderate warmth of her room–a sharp relief from the chill that pervaded the hallways. Her feet, icy against the stone floor, carried her silently across the room. She shed her shawl and robe, both faintly stained with the blood from the cut on her finger, and draped them over a chair before advancing further into her bedchamber.

Her fatigue was more than physical; it was her heart that bore the heaviest burden of exhaustion. As the residual heat of anger dissipated, weariness was all that remained to her–weariness and dread. She felt the stiffness in her muscles and instinctively rolled her neck in an attempt to loosen the persistent tension anchored between her shoulder blades.

Closing her eyes briefly, Daenera could not escape the ghost of his touch that lingered on her skin. Without thinking, her hand drifted to her stomach, tracing the path where his had once lain. With a deep, weary sigh, she moved towards the bed.

The room was filled with the soft, rhythmic sound of Mertha’s snores–despite the woman’s claim that she did not snore. Daenera cast a glance at the old woman, who was dozing in the chair, her lips parted in what seemed like peaceful slumber.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, Daenera slipped off her shoes, her movements slow and deliberate as she prepared to crawl beneath the covers. Just as she was about to recline, a particularly loud snore erupted from Mertha, shattering the room’s quiet. This was swiftly followed by Mertha’s sharp, groggy voice slicing through the stillness.

“Where have you been?” She demanded, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

Feeling a wave of exasperation wash over her, Daenera rolled her eyes and climbed into bed. She drew the covers over her cold feet, casting a withering glance at Mertha, who had straightened up in her chair, as though she had never fallen asleep to begin with. The flickering firelight played across Mertha’s features, deeping the lines on her face and intensifying the scornful expression directed at Daenera.

With a tone matching the sharpness in Mertha’s gaze, Daenera retorted, “Should I disturb your diligent watch whenever I need to visit the chamberpot?”

Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “Perhaps you’d like to inspect the contents of my bladder as well?”

Mertha responded with a profound huff, her lips forming a tight line as she reclined back in her chair. She picked up her needlework again, focusing her attention on the delicate stitches, glaring up at Daenera every time the needle punctured the fabric.

Meanwhile, Daenera snuggled deeper under the covers, pulling them right up to her chin. She closed her eyes, fervently wishing for the sweet escape of sleep to envelop her, to carry her away from the weight of her thoughts and the complexities of her reality.

*yellow chrysanthemum: Loyal Love *blue iris: Faith

#a vow of blood #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond x oc #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen x oc

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hopemikaelsongf · 1 year

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HOUSE OF THE DRAGON 1.01 | The Heirs of the Dragon 1.10 | The Black Queen

#totally insane how the show starts and ends like this #in the beginning everything is warm rhaenyra is carefree she's going on dragonrides #and alicent is there to pick her up after #the adults are worried about her but she doesn't really care she's having fun etc etc #and the last scene is a parallel of this but this time #everythings colder and she's the adult in distress and my goodness #she may have come back in one piece before but luke and arrax didn't get to come back. at. all.#house of the dragon #targnation #targaryensource #hotdcentral #dailyhotdgifs #daemon x rhaenyra #rhaenyra targaryen #lucerys velaryon #gameofthronesdaily #iheartgot #hotd

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kaemiezil · 1 year

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Rune Factory 5 Lucas and Alice sharing an intimate moment <3

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victorluvsalice · 6 months

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Hi, we're back with the Chill Valicer Save! And it's Winter Wednesday, which means one thing -- Winterfest! And the gang had a -- well, it didn't start OFF too bad, let's just say that. :p How about we just get straight into it --

-->Smiler, after FINALLY changing out of their party outfit (look, they rarely change clothes unless I prompt them to because they don't have to worry about temperature), took a moment to hop on their video production station and hype up their next video, then headed outside and hatched the latest chick to join the coop (always cute), before going to empty the garbage of recyclables and recycle all the trash that was in everybody's inventory. They ALSO attempted to clear the flies that were hanging around the garbage can, but...well. The flies DID clear off, but not before making it known they did NOT appreciate Smiler's attempts to shoo them away. *wince* Poor Smiler -- they can charm any HUMAN with their amazing charisma, no problem, but animals tend to be a bit more hit and miss...at least they didn't get straight-up murdered by the swarm!

-->Anyway, after that, they got put on wind turbine repair duty, because, as usual, the majority of the turbines had broken down. *shakehead* We're really lucky that we generally have a surplus of electricity in this house! (Plus those extra turbines atop the roof now.) Victor woke up while Smiler was doing that, and I decided I might as well have him practice his Practical Magic, in hopes of learning a new spell. And learn a new spell he did -- Transportalate! AKA the magical teleport! :D So now he has a PROPER teleport option, much like Smiler! :D Delighted, I let him play a little bit with Kelly, then sent him down to the greenhouse with his new spell to start the usual chores there -- replanting all the oversized crops, checking to see if anything needed tending, and doing some fertilizing with all the pet poops in his inventory. Might as well put them to good use, right?

-->Alice also woke up around this time -- but as her werewolf fury was looking a little, uh, high, I decided that she needed to get her zen on and thus sent her to spend the morning trying to meditate the mad away. As you can see, she's gotten quite good, to the point where she can float in the air at will! Shadow was quite puzzled by this. XD

-->As Alice worked on trying not to ruin a holiday with rampaging, Smiler and Victor continued with the chores -- Smiler did more recycling, paid the bills, cleaned the chicken coop, and chatted with the chickens to make sure they were all in good moods, while Victor refilled Moory's feed, attempted to joke with her (no dice, as per usual -- this cow doesn't have much of a sense of humor), and milked her before going to get the eggs as well. You know, the usual stuff that happens when you live on a working farm! It may be a holiday, but all this stuff still gotta get done!

#sims 4 #the lazy save #victor van dort #alice liddell #smiler always #yeah I was genuinely nervous for a moment when Smiler got swarmed so badly by those flies #but fortunately it was the 'first time's free' swarm #and they did clear off so I didn't have to worry about Smiler trying to do it again while the dangerous moodlet was active #after that having to repair a bunch of wind turbines YET AGAIN must have seemed like no big deal XD #Seriously these things break down so often #I need to upgrade them more #though if I remember some of James Turner's LP 'unbreakable' doesn't actually mean much for them...#on the other hand I was really hoping that Victor would pick up Transportalate from his practice #and practically squeed when he did #handy teleport option is handy!#yes he has his broom too but that only works outdoors so #that just leaves Alice without a proper teleport #but if she keeps meditating...#I think you have to max Wellness to get there #but that's totally within her reach -- especially as it keeps the Fury down!#queued

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northlt · 2 months

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Amortentia (Jegulus)

Regulus didn’t smell. It drove James insane sometimes.

He didn’t smell after quidditch practice, or even after just waking up. It was another one of those things about him that made him seem “perfect”. James hated it.

Regulus was so much more than the image he presented himself to be, but he’d gotten too lost in playing the part, maybe that’s all he’d become.

Every single “imperfection” had been driven away by his mother. Not just for Regulus, but for Sirius as well. The Black family had an image to maintain, high society they had to live in. They couldn’t accept body odor, crooked teeth, or any blemishes on their skin.

James didn’t know how they did it. But none of the Blacks had any negative body odor. No matter how much they sweat.

It’s not to say they don’t have a particular smell. According to Slughorn, everyone had a distinct smell, something unique about them.

Sirius smelled like wet dog fur, James knew this because he slept in the bed next to him and every night Sirius turned to padfoot in his sleep.

Narcissa smelled like spring, like her namesake— narcissus. Strangely intense, yet cool and floral. James had only placed the smell last year when they had grown the flower in herbology.

Walburga black smelled like roses, James imagined that’s what the queen of hearts from Alice in Wonderland smelled like. It was suffocating if you had the displeasure to be near her, like a thousand thorny plants squeezing your windpipe.

James wasn’t padfoot, he didn’t memorize smells. But it’s hard not to notice how his closest friends smell. It made him feel warm, to be surrounded by so many people he loves, all with a distinct smell.

Remus smelled like chocolate, like wet fur, wooly sweaters, a warm fire and old books. James could tell that’s what Sirius was smelling in his cauldron right then. That’s the reason he was thinking so much about smells in the first place.

Sixth year brought with it responsibilities, but also more advanced potion making. James always wondered why he didn’t drop potions when he had the chance.

Sirius was blushing so hard, his skin tone matched the pink potion. James had to stifle his own laughter as Remus tried to go over the recipe once again to make sure they had made it correct. They were all paired up for this particular class. Sirius and Remus at one cauldron and James and Peter next to them. It used to be Sirius and James together, but after one too many pranks in the classroom, Professor Slughorn had separated them.

“Clockwise!” Remus corrected Sirius just before he could have ruined their potion. They were the second ones to finish their potion so Slughorn was already making his way towards the boys. “Bloody hell, Sirius. Stop overmixing it”

James exchanged a look with Peter. Why had he let Sirius pick Remus while pairing up again? Oh that’s right— Wingman duties

James was nowhere near as great as Lily or Remus or even Snivellus in potion making, but he managed. Mostly he used Remus’ notes and applied common sense. It drove Remus insane sometimes, how much work he’d have to put in to memorize something, only for James to make an educated guess about it. James couldn’t really explain how he knew stuff, he just did. Call it pattern awareness, or whatever.

“So from the way Moony was yelling at Padfoot, I’m guessing we have to stir it clockwise?” James raised an eyebrow.

Peter only snickered as he watched their other two friends bickering like an old married couple. “What’d you think Moony smells, James?”

“Wet dog” James replied easily, “And that awful old leather jacket Padfoot refuses to throw away,”

“I bet Sirius smells chocolate and wool”

James had known Peter for years, they'd had baths together when they were babies, learned how to ride a bicycle from James’ father, spent ten christmases trying to make gingerbread houses and so many more memories.

That’s all to say, James knew what Peter smelled like. He had a distinct cologne he swore worked wonders on the ladies, and as stereotypical as it was for the rat to love cheese, he really did.

So if James was in love with his best mate, that’s what he would have smelled.

But instead when he dared to take a whiff of the potion (after coughing violently because it was pretty strong), all he smelled was broom wax, old books and paint.

“Mmmhmm” Peter grinned, “Camembert, and candy. Smells so great I’m hungry now. And you?”

“Old books” He frowned, “And paint”

“Careful, Pads might think you’re in love with Moony too”

James wasn’t sure what he was expecting. He was glad he didn’t smell lilies, relating to his old embarrassing crush. It had been months since he had obsessed over Lily Evans and even thinking about that time made him cringe.

James had quickly realized he had no idea what love was supposed to be. He grew up watching his parents so immensely in love he’d been in love with the idea of love and the idea of Lily Evans. And ideas are dangerous things to be in love with.

For his sake and Lily’s, he was glad he stopped liking her.

But after Lily… well, there had been someone James had grown a liking too. And he couldn’t help the disappointment when he didn’t smell Regulus in the potion. He took a few more whiffs, just to be sure. But to no avail. The potion still smelled the same.

James wasn’t sure why it bothered him so much. Maybe he was just incapable of loving. Because he couldn’t smell Regulus, that had to mean he wasn’t in love with the boy as he had previously thought. This was clearly a Lily situation again. And that bothered James. Mainly because he wanted to be in love. Not just because of his fantasy of being so in love with someone, but also because Regulus was so lovely.

He was witty and sharp, beautiful and sarcastic, knowledgeable and petty, headstrong and stubborn but also sweet and funny. He seemed to positively glow under James’ praise. James loved it when he flushed pink, James loved it when he shot back a retort, when he smiled a secret smile for only James, when he dragged his long fingers over James’ skin— touch for the sake of touch. James loved every single thing about Regulus, the way his eyes crinkled when he tried to stop himself from laughing at one of James’ bad jokes, the way he sneezed, the way his lips parted, the way he tasted so sweet when they kissed, but most of all, James thought he was in love with Regulus.

He wasn’t sure what smell he was searching for. He knew Regulus didn’t smell. He didn’t have a signature smell like Peter’s cologne. But James was still disappointed.

He wanted to make Regulus feel loved, he wanted to be in love. He had said it once and Regulus had said it before.

Three simple words.

And what if they were a lie?

A knock on the door made Slughorn change directions. He had been heading toward James and Peter’s potion to check it, but he walked toward the open door.

James would have recognised those curls anywhere.

Even before Regulus was fully visible, stepping into the doorway, eyes searching the class, James was grinning. Who cared what the stupid potion said? The potion could be wrong. Maybe James and Peter brewed it wrong.

All that mattered was that Regulus lit up James’ world, it genuinely felt that way. Just passing him in the hallways, getting to stare at him as he stared at the stars, just listening to him talk about astronomy or his favorite paintings felt like a reward to James.

So yeah, fuck the potion.

James Potter was in love with Regulus Black.

That’s when he spotted the paint splattered on the edges of his otherwise neat robe. He was handing a book he must have borrowed back to Slughorn. His eyes landed on James and though he tried to keep his composure in thanking the professor, James grew ecstatic at the acknowledgement.

The effect Regulus had on him really had to be studied.

Just before he left, he sniffed the room, his eyebrows furrowing in that Regulus Black way as he mock glared at James. He had the face of an aristocrat but the mind of an artist. Maybe he was both.

James was thankful his table was the closest to the door and the others were too busy either bickering, fawning over their potion or still completing it.

“You smell, Potter” Regulus scrunched his nose in disgust, turning to walk away, “Didn’t you shower after quidditch? It’s disgusting, it’s a wonder the whole room isn’t gagging with how strong it is, even your sandalwood perfume can’t mask it.”

James could barely say anything before Regulus had walked away.

Paint splatter, the old books in the room of requirement and Regulus’ personal collection, the broom wax from when James had watched him polish his broom before a match against Hufflepuff.

Slowly the pieces floated together and James thought he had started floating too. He felt light, like a floating lantern, a ball of warmth in his chest.

And what had Regulus been talking about? James twisted his ankle his last game. Madam Pomfrey hadn’t cleared him to fly the whole week, he had been moping about not being able to play.

When he looked at Peter, his friend was looking back with an amused look.

“Fucking hell, Prongs”

“Don’t tell Padfoot”

#jegulus oneshot #jegulus #dead gay wizards from the 70s #starchaser #amortentia #james and regulus #regulus black #james potter #wolfstar #remus lupin #sirius black

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darkmold · 5 months

Text

Thinking about casual dominance with the Cullens

Carlisle makes sure you bring a jacket whenever you go out. You both could be halfway out the door and he’ll turn around just to go get one for you (not without a gentle scolding, of course)

Esme never lets you cook for yourself. She’s so excited to have someone to cook for. Plus, it allows her to make sure you’ve eaten well that day.

Edward keeps track of all your likes and dislikes. He can order for you at restaurants flawlessly and is not afraid to send the dish back if it’s not up to standards. It also lets him keep Alice’s party plans in check (after all, you can’t enjoy yourself if things are subpar)

Jasper has a hand on your waist at almost all times. He guides you through crowds and away from people he deems threatening. He’d also kneel and tie your shoelaces for you if they came undone. He doesn’t want you to trip!

Emmett is not about to let people disrespect you. If someone gets a little too passive aggressive in history class, he’s gonna call them out on it. Holds you close and glares at them in the cafeteria.

Alice picks your outfits. She insists she knows more about fashion than you and that you should listen to her expertise, but it’s usually just so you two can match. She’d even help you get dressed if you let her.

Rosalie helps take care of you. Makes sure you drink lots of water and brush your teeth every morning/night. She’d definitely give you a little “excuse me?” look if you say the routines aren’t that important (because taking care of you is important)

#twilight x reader #twilight headcanons #the twilight saga #carlisle cullen x reader #esme cullen x reader #edward cullen x reader #jasper hale x reader #emmett cullen x reader #alice cullen x reader #rosalie hale x reader

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axelsagewrites · 2 months

Note

Hey, can I please request Jacaerys x aunt!reader where he goes to her after the dance as she had been imprisoned in the dungeons and he offer her to let him have her or she'll be sentenced to death or sum. And reader is as pious and religious as Alicent and she is horrified by the idea of being sullied by ""bastard seed"" but she reveals to be c0ck-drunk by the end of it?

Jace Velaryon*Perfect Wife

Pairing: Jace x f!reader

Word count: 2809

Warnings: dub con, imprisonment, held at knife point (not during smut), praise, degradation, nipple play, p in v sex, hickeys, spanking, bruising, forced marriage, smut 18+c

Masterlist here

You weren’t much of a warrior. You had been raised the way a princess should have been. Well, that’s what your mother told you. However, when two days had passed since Aemond and Aegon had left to confront Rhanerya, and everyone refused to tell you what was happening you decided to get the hell out of there on your dragon.

Maybe you’d end up in Essos and sell a dragon egg for a home. Maybe even Dorne. You could try throw yourself on their mercy. After all, their ambassadors had always seemed to enjoy your company. However, all your plans soon crumbled when you accidentally flew into what you’d assumed to be an empty clearing.

You’d landed in a small field and had quickly tried to ‘borrow’ an apple from a local farm when you felt a strong grip on your arm and a sharp blade on your neck. So cold it had to be Valyrian steel. “And who do we have here?” you recognised Jace’s voice clearly. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you pretty girls shouldn’t go about dawdling?”

The stone floors bruised your knees each time you knelt to pray but you didn’t complain or even wince at the pain. You’d counted the days you’d been here by etching marks in the stone with the corner of your Seven-star necklace your mother had given you. 27 days so far. Each morning you prayed. Well, what you thought was morning. Then each afternoon then evening. Each time to a different member of the seven. Even the stranger since perhaps the god of death was the one you truly needed right now.

“My lady,” a sing song voice called out, “Lunch is ready,” Jace said as he approached your cell with his usual grin. He didn’t come every day but when he did it only seemed to add to your punishment. “I made sure to pick you the freshest apple,” he crouched down, holding it out to you.

You kept your eyes on the ground as you tried to finish your prayer, “C’mon now. They’re clearly not listening to you,” he mocked, sitting down the tray in front of the bars to your cell.

Still, you ignored him as you wrapped them up. Jace sighed and just as you finished your prayers he stood, taking the tray with him. “Where are you going?” you called, moving to stand on your feet and grabbing the bars, “That’s my food,”

“No this is my food,” he said, as if he was calling the sky blue, “And you never took it,”

“I was praying!”

“Not fast enough,” he teased. “Maybe next time you’ll remember to acknowledge the heir to Westeros,” he said as he turned to leave.

“My brothers not here,” you mumbled, turning around to go take your place on the wooden bench they called a bed.

The wine cup clattered against the wall, missing your head by only an inch. You span on your heels to confront him, but the only trace was your food dropped on the ground in a head and the apple slowly rolling towards your cell.

It stopped just out of arm’s length of the bars as if the gods really were mocking you. It took you laying on the ground, stretching out the tips of your fingernails to manage to roll it closer so you could grab it. You consoled yourself knowing he never came twice in one day.

Yet this time he did.

Jace arrived with a meal so nice looking it almost reminded you of what you used to eat. There was even a whole chicken leg on it. when he saw the apple core in the corner of your cell Jace couldn’t help but laugh. “Here,” he said, reaching it out for you to try manoeuvre through the bars when he suddenly pulled it back, “Aren’t you going to thank your prince?”

“Thank you,” you glared, reaching your hand out.

Jace just smirked, “Thank you what?”

“Thank you, dear nephew,” you offered with a fake smile.

“Say it. say that I am the true heir, a true prince, and I will be most obliged to give you this chicken leg. Straight from the queens table,” he said, showing it to you once more just to rub it in.

You could feel your stomach rumble, but you couldn’t say it. not after all this time. Not after all the battles. Not for a chicken leg. “My mother isn’t here,” you said through gritted teeth.

Jace reached through the bars, grabbing your neck before you could react. His grasp was tight but despite his fingers digging into your skin you weren’t afraid, “I can only be so patient,” he warned before letting you go. He turned to leave, taking the food with him, “besides, who said your mother is even alive?” he mocked before slamming the door shut behind him.

The stalemate continued for another day and a half and suddenly you were regretting not rationing the apple. At least the guards had kept your water jug topped up, but you didn’t want to risk that being taken too.

“I have a new deal,” Jace said, walking in empty handed.

“Where’s my food?” you said, not even standing from where you sat on your bed.

“That’s not very polite,” Jace tutted, leaning against the bars, “How would you like to get out of here?” you couldn’t help your eyes widening at the idea. Something Jace seemed to revel in. he unlocked your cell and despite wanting to run you sat still as he closed the door behind him. “Come here. Let me get a closer look at you,”

You wanted to slap him but instead you stood up and slowly crossed the floor while Jace’s eyes scanned your frame. “Still so beautiful,” he mumbled before he finally brought his eyes back to yours as your cheeks burned, “I have a new proposal for you,” he said, reaching to stroke your cheek. He was gentle but you still flinched at his touch.

He stepped closer, moving his hand down till he was toying with your necklace, his eyes not so subtly on your chest, “Marry me,” he said, and you instantly grimaced at his words, “Be my wife and I will let you free,”

“I wouldn’t be free,” you snapped, “I’d be the wife of a bastard, a nobody, a waste of space- “you began to spit your venom at him only to be cut off by his tight grasp around your neck.

“I wouldn’t be so hasty if I was you,” he warned, “What I’m offering is generous. You should hear what Daemon had planned for you,” he dropped his grip and you instantly stepped back, trying to recatch your breath.

Jace slowly began to circle you, eyeing you up from every angle as you silently thought over his offer when suddenly a thought popped into your head, “What’s in it for you? Last time I checked you already had a betrothed,”

“Alliances can change, we both know that” he drawled, his chest pressed against your back while his hand grazed your hip. Not mine, you thought, but you stayed silent instead. “Besides I need a wife. Someone to show off in court,” his hand trailed up from your hip to your waist making you shudder through the thin dress they’d gave you, “Someone to bear children. Someone to warm my bed,” he said, his lips pressed against your ear.

His hand went to move to your front, but you grabbed his wrist before he could touch anything, “I’d rather die,” you spat.

Jace grabbed your hips, spinning you around and pulling you flush against his chest, “That can be arranged,” he warned but he still wore his teasing smirk, “You think you’d survive here without me? A pretty young things like yourself in nothing but her night dress roaming around court, think of the scandals. Gods help you if you even make it out the castle. What do you think the small folk would do with a princess like you?”

“Perhaps they’d save me. If they believed in the true king,” you said, trying to hold firm but feeling yourself shake.

He chuckled under his breath, “There is only a queen. C’mon, I can’t be that bad surely. You saying you’ve never thought about it?” he said, his hand moving down to your ass, his lips moving to your ear, “Its not just the gods who know your dirty little secrets,” he whispered, his hot breath fanning your neck.

“I want my dragon back,” you said suddenly making Jace lift his head from where he’d been dragging his lips across your neck, “If I’m to be your wife,”

“As soon as your belly swells with my seed,” he said, “Anything else?”

It felt like a trap, but you tried anyway, “And separate rooms. I don’t want to see you more than I have to,”

He chuckled this time, “That can be arranged, anything else?” you eyed him carefully before shaking your head no. one child and then you could escape with your dragon. It would take a year, maybe two, and then you’d be free. “Good. I shall have them draw up a treaty. But in the meantime,” he said, grabbing your ass so suddenly you gasped, “I want some kind of reassurance you won’t back out,”

“And what’s that?” you asked through gritted teeth.

“I want to fuck you,” he said making the words dry up in your throat, “And if I didn’t know any better id say you wanted me too,”

“And if I say no?” you asked.

Jace dropped his grip, but a smirk fell on his lips as he began to walk away. “Then no deal,” he said, reaching for the door.

“Wait!” you called, reaching out to grab his arm. Jace turned his gaze back to you with a knowing smirk, “I suppose if you are to be my husband. The gods, they’d understand,” you said, trying to rationalise it all.

Jace moved closer to you till his chest was flush against yours, “I’m sure they’d understand after all,” he said, pushing the hair out of your face, “Who could blame you for wanting some pleasure in your life?” he said, his hand trailing down till he grabbed your tit, squeezing it softly, “Why would something that feels so good be so wrong?” he whispered in your ear, his hand traveling lower to your thighs, toying with the hem of his dress.

His lips moved to kiss down your jaw, across your neck till he was kissing your undiscovered sweet spot making you moan softly. His arms moved to slip around your waist, pulling you somehow closer to him as your hands rested on his shoulders. You gasped when he squeezed your ass and winced at the quick slap, he gave it before his hands moved to the hem of your dress.

The cold air rushed over your frame, making your nipples harden as Jace pulled the dress over your head in one swoop. The only thing to cover you was your necklace but right now that felt even worse. Jace’s eyes travelled your frame, soaking up every inch, “The gods have blessed me with you,” he murmured.

“You do not know the gods,” you glared but Jace just chuckled as his hands went to cup your tits, stroking his thumbs over your perked nipples making you whimper.

“Perhaps you don’t either,” he said as he led you by your hips to your bed. He sat on it, his hands resting on your hips as he pulled you into his lap.

His lips moved to your collarbones, kissing and nipping at the soft skin. Your brain told you to push him away, but a strange feeling was overcoming your body as his hands moved to your hips. You could feel a hard bulge under his trousers as he began to move your hips, pushing your core onto his clothed cock. You moaned at the friction, his bulge rubbing perfectly against your clit sending shock waves up your body.

Soon you felt your hips begin to buck and move of their own accord. You felt his smirk against your skin as his hands moved to your tits. You gasped when he pinched your nipples, rolling them between his fingers making you moan. “Oh god,” you couldn’t help the moan that slipped out when he took one into his mouth, sucking on the perked bud.

You weren’t sure what had come over you, but you felt a knot tightening in your stomach, your moans growing louder as you took the gods in vain at the top of your lungs. You felt your peak hit you like a boulder before you slumped into Jace’s chest.

He moved to kiss your cheek with a chuckle. “Not even fucked you yet and look at you,” Jace said, slipping his hand down to rub against your sensitive core making your body lurch, “So wet for me,” he praised, his hand moving to unlace his trousers. “Can’t wait to see what my cock does to you,”

Before you could protest you felt his tip pressing into your entrance. You gasped, your hands moving to grab his shoulders, “Aw,” Jace pouted, “Does it hurt?” he mocked, pushing you down further, “Too fucking bad,” he practically growled as he used your hips to push you all the way down.

You almost screamed at the feeling, as if you were being split in half but Jace groaned, throwing his head back against the wall as you felt his cock twitch inside you, “Fuck you’re so tight,” he praised, giving you a moment to adjust. Your hips betrayed you again, moving without your mind thinking making him chuckle.

“Such a desperate little thing,” Jace mocked, grabbing your jaw as you tried to move away. His thumb ran over your bottom lip before using it to pry your mouth open, resting it on your tongue, “Good girl,” he praised, his free hand moving your hips.

“Fuck,” you gasped as you felt him hit all the right spots. You gave up trying to resit as your hips began to grind onto his cock.

Jace’s hands moved to your hair, grabbing it suddenly and pulling it back so he could have full access to your neck. You were sure by the way he kissed it there would be marks tomorrow but that didn’t matter now. Your hands went to his hair, tugging it softly making him growl against your skin.

His free hand went to your ass, grabbing it tightly before suddenly leaving stinging slaps against the soft flesh. You could feel your second peak fast approaching and when Jace moved to run quick circles against your sensitive bundle of nerves you felt your cunt squeeze around him as it came crashing down again.

“Fuck,” Jace mumbled, a stream of profanity tumbling from his lips as his hands moved to your hips so he could fuck you through your orgasm, “You feel so good,” he praised, resting his head in the crook of your neck.

You felt yourself coming down from your high and his movements began to slow, “Don’t stop Jace. Please gods don’t stop,” you began to beg, and you could feel his smirk.

“Begging suits you,” he teased, grabbing your jaw so he could make you face him, “You look so good right now. So drunk on my cock. Is that it?”

“Yes,” you whined, “I need you please,”

“Aw my poor baby,” he teased, “So desperate for her king,”

“Yes,” you weren’t even thinking any longer, and a spark ignited behind his eyes, “Need you. Want you my king,” you moaned.

Jace grabbed your hips tightly, standing suddenly before turning as you back slammed against the wall. You winced until you felt his hips begin to snap up against yours. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him tight against you. This new angle had him hitting newer spots that had your legs wrapping tight around him.

“So good,” Jace mumbled against your skin as you felt a third orgasm approaching, “My perfect little wife,” his words sent you tumbling over the edge.

Jace couldn’t resist anymore as your cunt squeezed around his cock and with a couple more pumps, he began to spill his seed. His thrusts became slow as he rode out his own peak, fucking his seed deep inside you. You were both panting as he pulled out, his forehead resting against yours as your feet finally hit the ground again.

“I always knew you had a dark side in you,” Jace chuckled as he pulled away.

“Tell anyone and I’ll kill you in your sleep, husband,” you threatened but the last word made him smile. Maybe this was a good trade after all.

Taglist Sign Up Here

General taglist: @strvngestark @headinfantasy @meg-ro @427120lxld @obx-josie18 @ravenmoore14 @tessakate @justtilly @jjkjbhj @clairacassidy @valeskafics @perla434 @selenestar78 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @urfavnoirette @randomstory56 @qardasngan @https-luvvia @im-the-fucking-lunar-prince @bryandechartisasmolbean

HotD taglist: @qardasngan @randomstory56 @sashadevil766 @idkwhatsgoingonwithme @janii-722 @hypocritic-trash-baby @cookielovesbook-akie

#house of the dragon #house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon headcannons #hotd #hotd headcanon #hotd imagine #hotd jace #jace velaryon #jace velaryon imagine #jace velaryon x reader #Jacaerys Velaryon #jacaerys velaryon imagine #jacaerys velaryon x reader #modern Jacaerys Velaryon #jace velaryon smut #jacaerys velaryon smut

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ellecdc · 14 days

Note

hi! so i was wondering if i could make a request of poly!jegulus x reader fic where the reader goes out to maybe a bachelorette party or smth and gets drunk and james and regulus takes care of her afterwards? if not then no worries! hope you have an amazing day!

thanks so much darling! I love our little Jegulus fics <3

please note: my requests are currently closed as I finish exams and work through the requests that I currently have.

poly!Jegulus x fem!reader who they pick up from a bachelorette

Regulus tried to ignore the strobe lights and the booming bass that currently accosted his senses as he pushed through the masses of sweaty bodies and drunk people ��dancing” in his mission to find you.

Fortunately he needn’t search long.

Unfortunately, his and James’ appearance elicited blood curdling squealing from the bachelorette party you were currently attending.

The bride (Alice) and maid of honour (Lily) started wolf whistling at the two boys and Regulus was certain it was Marlene who started the chant “take it off!”

Much to Regulus’ chagrin and to everyone else's joy, James actually started lifting his shirt before Regulus pinched him harshly in the side.

“James Fleamont Potter, you keep your sodding clothes on!” Regulus hissed before his eyes finally landed on you.

He ignored what sounded like a petulant “I was only giving the ladies what they wanted” from James as he crouched in front of you.

Regulus tried (and failed) to control his love sick smile as your foggy gaze cleared when you realised who was suddenly situated in front of you.

“Regulus!” You cheered, your mouth hanging open in a permanent smile as if you couldn’t possibly believe he was truly here.

“And James!” James added as he sat beside you on the pleather settee and roughly pulled you into his side.

“What are you guys doing here?” You slurred slightly as you looked lovingly between your two boyfriends.

Regulus felt his eyebrows pinch, but James - ever the master of nonchalance - simply pressed a kiss to your hair. “You asked us to come for you, angel.” He explained plainly.

Your eyebrows pinched to match Regulus’ as you let out a quiet “oh.”

“Well, that was ver-very smart of me.” You declared through a hiccup.

“Yeah? Why’s that?” James asked as he rubbed your arm and Regulus confirmed that all of your belongings were safely stored within your purse.

“I was just thinking how much I, how much I would like to be home with my boys now.” You admitted in a sigh, letting your head - which seemed to weigh far too much for your neck - fall onto James’ all-too-willing shoulder.

“Awe, you’re such a sweetheart, aren’t you?” James murmured, earning him a snort from Dorcas.

“Right, you’ve got yourself a real sweetheart there Potter - which one of you taught her how to play poker?” Dorcas sneered, causing James to bark a laugh, you to hide shyly into his shoulder, and Regulus to grin proudly.

“Did you take them for all they’re worth, amour?” He whispered as he encouraged your face from its sanctuary in James with a gentle hand on your chin.

“Of course she did.” James answered for you, blowing a cheeky raspberry over your head at your friends. “She’s an all-star.”

Dorcas laughed good naturedly as Lily rolled her eyes fondly. “That may be; but she’s officially banned from playing with us.”

“Fair enough.” Regulus admitted as he smiled at your petulant pout and helped you stand like a baby fawn in your heels.

“How’s everyone else getting home?” James asked the other girls as he supported you with a gentle arm around your waist.

Dorcas, Marlene, and Pandora were getting a ride from Barty and Evan, and Lily, Mary, and Alice were getting picked up by Frank.

After far too many hugs and cheek kisses and what looked like the beginning of tears on Pandora’s part as Regulus finally pried you away from the group, you clumsily made your way into the back of Regulus’ waiting car with James.

“Did you have fun tonight, sweets?” James asked as he ensured your buckle was properly clasped.

“Oh, yes.” You declared breathlessly; as if being chaperoned to the car, basically lifted in and buckled up was exhausting work.

The streets were quiet at this time of night and Regulus enjoyed the comfortable silence that came over the three of you as he stole sneaky glances over his shoulder, sharing soft smiles with James at having their girl back.

“What time is it?” You asked urgently; you tone and words suddenly sounding half-sober as you interrupted the serenity of the car.

“It’s almost three, amour.” Regulus answered, peaking in the rearview mirror to see you staring straight ahead and James looking at the side of your face concernedly as Regulus navigated the quiet, lamp lit streets.

“In the morning!?” You shrilled, causing James to snort a laugh and rub at your hairline with his thumb as he rested his hand at the nape of your neck.

“Yes, baby. In the morning; that’s usually when the party’s over, yeah?”

“Did I wake you guys up?” You asked far too shyly for Regulus’ liking.

“Of course not, amour.” Regulus responded quickly, which was followed up with a “we stayed up waiting for you” from James.

Regulus heard a disbelieving breath escape your lips, the sound of James pressing a kiss to your hair, and then nothing but the sound of the tires on the road beneath you for a few moments.

Suddenly, disturbingly, upsettingly; he heard a sniffle.

Regulus immediately took his foot off the gas as he looked at you through the mirror to find your face pointed down in your lap and James leaning forward in an attempt to see your face.

“What’s the matter, angel?”

“Do you feel okay?” Regulus asked quickly, worrying you may be sick.

“I feel fine.” You cried quietly; Regulus could just make out what looked like the fall of a fat tear from your eyes where your head was lowered.

“What are the tears for, sweetheart?” James asked again, trying to encourage you to face him which you stubbornly refused.

“Why is she crying, Jamie?” Regulus asked desperately.

He pretended he didn’t see James shoot him an unimpressed look in the rearview mirror.

“Amour?” He whispered which elicited a quiet sob from you.

Regulus - only slightly unsafely - hastily pulled onto a side street and parked the car before he moved out of his seat, opened your door and crouched beside you.

“Amour, please darling. What’s wrong?”

“Do you feel sick?” James asked, still rubbing affectionately at the nape of your neck. You quickly shook your head no.

Regulus was at least a little relieved you weren’t about to sick up on him.

“Why are you crying, mon cheri?” He whispered, moving a lock of your hair behind your ear and tracing his thumb across your cheekbone.

“You guys are so lovely.” You admitted miserably.

“Angel.” James cooed as he roughly rubbed between your shoulders as if trying to ‘shake you out of it’. “You’re crying because your boyfriends are lovely?”

“Yes.” You sobbed and hid your face in your hands.

“Okay, that’s it.” Regulus demanded as he stood and closed your door gently before walking around the car and opening up James’.

“You’re fired. Get out.” He barked simply.

James let out a disbelieving laugh and looked at Regulus strangely.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You have our sweet girl sobbing back here.” He explained (overdramatically) as he flung a hand in your direction. “So, you’re fired; you have to drive now.”

James couldn’t help the fond grin that took over his face (the kind Regulus loved the most; the kind that resulted in two dimples instead of just the usual one) as he shook his head in exasperation and acquiesced to his new role as chauffeur.

“Okay amour, that’s enough now, yeah? You had a good night? Lot’s of fun with the girls? And two boys who love you a lot?” Regulus cooed as he took James’ recently vacated seat.

“I know!” You cried and flung your hands into your lap. “I’m so lucky!”

Regulus made an embarrassingly gooey ‘tsking’ sound as James laughed.

“Thank you, but we’re the lucky ones, angel.”

This just caused you to cry harder.

Regulus could have killed James right then and there if he didn’t look so sodding good behind the wheel of his car.

He’d deal with him later, though; for now, he had a sweet drunk lovie to snuggle.

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via-l0ve · 7 months

Text

Dating Carlisle Cullen HCs!

a/n: was the requested? absolutely not. am i a slut for daddy cullen? abso-fuckin-lutley

warnings: fluff, smut, swearing, im lowkey an edward hater in this i’m sorry, smut is fem!reader based!! dating daddy carlisle

- when you guys hang out at night /alone he’s all over you

- he holds you, lays on your chest, plays with your hair while you sit inbetween his legs SHSSUWHEISN

- he plays with your fingers while you guys are around other people and he gets a little nervous

- like if your hanging out with friends he’ll play with your fingers and hands, twist around your bracelets and rings

- i love him he’s so soft

- he desperately tries to stop you from popping pimples and blackheads

- “y/n sTOP”

- sometimes you’ll laugh at stuff he says bc it sounds so old fashioned

- he attempts to make you food and most of the time it’s amazing but usually when you two cook it almost always ends up burnt or undercooked or missing an ingredient

- bc he gets distracted by your stupid jokes that sometimes result in a food fight

- carlisle would do anything for you

- literally one time you brought up wanting to go to disneyland because they do a mardi gras parade and he almost bought plane tickets right then and there

- “what’re you doing?”

- “buying plane tickets.”

- “what??? STOP-“

- he loves how you hate when he spends money on you

- it makes him want to do it more

- you both have multiple matching things

- bracelets, rings, necklaces, etc

- he bought you this EXPENSIVE bracelet once and you almost passed out on the spot

- it has your and carlisle’s initials engraved into it and it’s your favorite color

- he lets you paint his nails frequently

- he loves when you do little designs on them too

- he loves being the person you feel comfortable ranting to

- it breaks his heart when he opens his door and sees you with puffy eyes and a red nose, tears reminiscent on your face

- he lets you in and picks you up, speeding you to his bedroom

- he grabs you a big t-shirt and a pair of his boxers and tells you to shower or change before talking about it

- and then after that he does whatever you want

- sometimes he’ll comb your hair while you rant to him, or make you some tea on the kitchen island while you talk to him about what happened

- he’d totally sit you on the counter and cut up + feed you fruit and clean the juice from your chin. im sobbing

- 100% takes care of your stuffed animals

- he would love how you bond with his “kids”

- you and emmett would totally play horror games together

- emmett and you are this clip:

https://youtube.com/clip/UgkxJdszrIKDCtmfnyVLdhVwf2sGqLcJ6NBU

- honestly either of you could be rhett/link and it would still make sense

- you lowkey make fun of edward ngl

- i feel like he plays games with you and emmett too and he sucks ass

- carlisle looses his shit when he hears you make a gooddamn good roast of him and you can hear him laughing from upstairs

- alice constantly tries to buy you clothes she thinks not only you, but also carlisle would like

- Rosalie would confide in you a lot

- tbh it took her a hot minute to warm up to you but when she saw how happy carlisle was with you she gave you a chance

- jasper loves you tbh

- he games w/ u and emmett and you guys kick ass in rocket league

- sometimes Carlisle will just stare at you for no reason

- you’ll catch him and he won’t break eye contact and you get all flustered and look away

- and proceed to look back to see him still staring

- “what’re you looking at?”

- “just you. :)”

- “okay but why”

- “youre beautiful.”

- “get a room!” ~ emmett

- reminds your to take ur medication

- after meeting your family, he’s always down to babysit with you or go to family reunions or vacations

- if it’s a sunny place he’ll just busy himself with work inside

- always liking ur instagram posts

- he always comments on them too

- just a simple “i love you” or “gorgeous🩷”

——— smut time

- respect and consent king

- wouldn’t dream of hurting you/degrading you ever

- he loves tits. sorry not sorry it’s true

- he’ll play w/ ur nipples and leave hickeys on ur boobs

- fucking looses it when you moan his name

- like, if you do that he’s giving you literally everything he has

- his fav position is missionary or when you ride him but you face him

- specifically if he’s sitting in his office chair and you get ontop of him and-

- makes your legs SHAKE

- he has his hands on your hips while you ride him bc that’s hot

- literally adores your body

- he couldn’t care less of your stomach pokes out or if you have love handles or stretch marks

- he loves you for you

- PRAISE

- this man loves to make you blush and he knows exactly how to do it in bed

- master at giving you head

- literally knows exactly what to do and how you like it done

- fucking dies when you ride his face

- like it’s not a thing that he wants he NEEDS it

- he pays attention to your body movements and how you react to certain things

- he’s the typa guy to get on his knees and eat you out

- tongue around ur clit and fingers inside you pumping in and out and moving around inside to touch your g-spot

#love u mwah #im in love with this man #twilight #carlisle x reader #carlisle cullen x reader #carlisle #carlisle cullen #twilight imagine #twilight headcanon #twilight x reader #carlisle cullen smut #carlisle cullen fluff

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lady-ashfade · 7 months

Text

Yan!Mother!Alicent targaryen x Crybaby!Fem!Reader. Vs other Yandere house of the dragon characters.

Just a small idea for the AI picture, it gave me a few ideas and might write more.

Warnings: Yandere content, bullying to get attention, reader being a massive cry baby

The sound of bare feet echo through the halls and many people gasp as a child runs passed them. The young princess covered in mud and her dress ripped, her eyes rolling with tears as she sobs. Her body hit a few on the way but kept running up the stairs to find her mother or anyone she can. The boys had pushed her in the mud when she asked to play, they had never been so cruel to her before. Her sweet nephews were always so kind and let her do what she wanted, but Aegon had always made fun and poked at her. The young girl made her way to the floor, she didn��t care about the meeting and all she wanted was her mother.

Pushing open the door she ran into the room and stoped to look around for her mother. The table turned quickly and their eyes widen in shock and confusion. “My dear girl,” Alicent stood up immediately and pushed her chair to the side and rushed over to her crying daughter, “What’s has happened.” The mother bend down and rubbed the mud off her face. The girl just continues to sob and wail. Viserys stood up at the table, Rhaenrya feeling sick and waiting for her moment to comfort the sweet girl. “It- It was Jace, Luke and Aegon.” She stuttered with her small voice.

“They pushed me into the mud, and I ripped my dress falling all on it.”

Rhaenrya placed a hand on her belly at the image of her boy’s hurting you. She raised them well and they wouldn’t do that, at least on their own since they loved you so much. Alicent pulled her closer and kissed her forhead even if it was still dirty. “We are to have a meeting later about what happened after she is cleaned and calm.” The queen stood up and looked at her husband and then glared at rhaenrya. “Your boys will be there.” All Viserys could do was sigh and rub his face. He dismissed the council, rhaenrya looked at her father but he shrugged and agreed with Alicent.

The princess was bathed fully and placed in her favorite dress, her mother getting her all her favorite food and treats. Aemond found out and hugged his sister while she continued to cry about how she didn’t know what she did. Aemond was furious how they picked on his perfect sister. As they awaited for rhaenrya and her children the princess hugged her mother tight and refused to let go. Alicent was ready to behead them all or exile them since they dare hurt her child. Then Aegon…who had puffed red cheeks from a slap he earned from his mother, and getting screamed at by his father too. He stayed quiet and looked down.

As soon as Rhaenrya entered with her sons the room shifted into a deep tension between everyone. You still stood by your mother and cling to her dress, too upset to look at your nephews eyes. Aemond walked closer and beside you, placing a hand on your head as you sniffled. Alicent looked at the young boys and then to their mother with a suspicious glare on what she would do. “Tell me boys, why have would you do such a thing.” The queen asked them. Their eyes shifted from the queens to her eldest son who refused to look up feeling their presence.

“The boys have said that it was a way they could earn her affection. I believe the words spoken to them were “Treat a woman rough and like a toy and they’ll be forever grateful.” along those lines. And I do believe your son, Aegon told them so.” Alicent looked over at Aegon. She had just got done dealing with him and now this? “It was just a bit of teasing, we did not think she’d actually fall and get hurt.” Alicent fumed and the mouth and tried to control herself again. Jace and Luke looked at the princess head and tried not to cry. Luke started to tear up at the memory of her crying and screaming, Jace couldn’t believe he was mean to her. Even if it was to get her affection.

“You’ll all apologize to her, now! Do you understand me? I shall speak to the king for a harder punishment for this acted but for now you can no longer see her.” Rhaenrya gasped and looked at the sweet princess she loved. When if Alicent was her mother she still had no right. The boys pouted. “My queen, please rethink-” Alicent stopped her by lifting you up and turned your face around to reveal the smallest cut on your chin that was once covered by mud. “She is injured. There are bruises already showing up and the maesters tell me she could have broken a arm! So no, I do not think I will reconsider.” Luke was the first toe break.

“We are truly sorry, Y/n. It was never intended for you to get hurt we promise.” He cried as his brother agreed beside him. You look at the boys crying and apologizing for your forgetfulness that it makes you forgive them a bit. “I- I forgive you.” You mumble so soft before turning away and back into your mother’s embrace while still being mad at them. Thought you didn’t fully forgive them it was a start and you expected their apology. They could make it up to you soon if they can see you again. Aemond looked at the crying boys and smirks a bit while reaching for his sister to pull her into his arms. The princess expected his gesture and wrapped her arms around him for comfort.

Rhaenrya looked at Alicent who stared back at her. The boys all looked at each other with glares over the princess. Aegon who hated that he would hurt his precious sister who was the only one nice to him.

#yandere house of the dragon #house of the dragon x reader #yandere house of the dragon x reader #yandere alicent hightower #yandere rhaenrya targaryen #yandere jacaerys velaryon #yandere lucerys velaryon #yandere aemond targaryen #yandere team green #yandere team black

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 1 year

Note

I love your writing!! Could you do a short 1 or 2 part fiction based on this prompt: a highborn girl is to become Aemond's wife but she is a mute. Her other senses are well even though she isn't able to speak. She is youngest in her family and is extremely shy. No fiery bone in her body. Alicent coaxes her son into being betrothed to her due to Alicent having issues with high-born ladies not wanting to marry the prince due to his eye missing and his tendency to have a temper. They bond over reading and Aemond is enthralled with her beauty. Also Aemond never is a kinslayer in this story lol. Thank you!

Her Voice

Summary: You are introduced with the prince as his second option for a marriage in your family. But how will the Prince react to you own affliction | Mini-Series Masterlist

Links to my Taglists: General Taglist | Aemond Targaryen Taglist

A/N: I changed the request up a little and it's strange that I got this ask because I do actually have a stutter myself that was debilitating growing up, so I tried to shoehorn some feelings that I felt myself into this character, but hopefully I still did it justice (and I made it more about her intelligence cos I think Aemond would find that hot)?

Thank you for the request anon! Also thank you all for your love and comments I really love them! I can’t comment on them since this is a side-blog, but I appreciate you all!

Warnings: none, just fluff, Aegon being Aegon

"Do you think that any highborn woman with a brain between her eyes would desire to spend the rest of her life with a tempestuous prince?"

Alicent was circling the room, hands smoothing over one another to keep herself calm, doing this in exchange of picking at her fingernails, which her father hated. And with Otto sat brooding in the corner of the room, Alicent chose her actions wisely.

Aemond barely resisted the urge to roll his eye, one hand rested on one side of his face, disinterested. Another reprimand for his temper, his behaviour. He didn't realise his mother had it in her to keep on doing this for so long, especially after having a son like Aegon. But even then, her solution had been to marry him to his sister, and it was clear how well that ended. And how Aegon's actions persisted.

"Perhaps if they were not so empty-headed they would know to leave me be"

"Like it or not, you will be wed" Otto butted in, resulting in Aemond sending an annoyed glare, "It has been difficult enough to introduce ladies to you"

"Because they think me a monster" Aemond retorted, one hand gripping the arm of the chair beside him. His mother was still pacing around, a million thoughts banging around in her brain, working endlessly on how to resolve this. In truth, he did not enjoy seeing his mother in such distress and his heart to see her in this way more often than not.

"That is not true, Aemond" Alicent's voice was soft, as if he were still a child.

"True enough that it whispers through the court"

"A marriage and children with her would mean security in the Reach" Otto said simply. His mind forever focussed on matters political and never of the heart. Alicent was proof of this and at this quip, Aemond could see the discomfort it bought her.

"I do not wish to marry that loud-mouthed half-wit"

Every time Aemond protested, he could see his mother begin pacing around the room once more.

"At this rate, half the ladies in Westeros will have met that beast before you"

Aemond extended a hand out with a sigh, "It is no fault of mine that she is scared of Vhagar"

"It nearly landed on top of her, Aemond!" Alicent begged out and Aemond genuinely had to hold back a smile as he imagined Vhagar pinning the girls dress to the ground with her large claw. It had scared the girl stiff and her loud-mouthed was quickly stiffened from the presence of the largest dragon in the world before her. Her face pale as a sheet.

"Vhagar did not like her" he simply responded.

A moment passed in silence and Aemond nearly stood to leave when Alicent crossed her arms, her warm, brown eyes trained at her second son. Half in pride and half in scolding.

"There is of course, another choice" Alicent suggested quietly, taking a side glance at her father.

Now stood before his mother, seeing over her easily, he placed his arms behind his back, a brow was arched in not only question but anxiety at her suggestion.

"She has a younger sister, only half a year younger than you"

Aemond scoffed, "This is desperation"

"It is a suggestion" Alicent corrected. In front of her son, she seemed so small as she took his large hand in both of hers, her rings clicking together to rub her fingers over his skin, "See how you feel"

With a sigh, he took his leave.

There was no harm in trying.

The days seemed to pass the slowest and the Prince busied himself as he usually did, performing his duties. He trained with Ser Criston, he read books on various subjects and he rode on Vhagar in an attempt to tame this temper his mother so wanted gone. One that she thought would be solved by marriage.

But one insufferable thing he could never escape from, was court gossip.

It seemed so rampant and neverending that he wondered if the ladies ever did anything else.

On more than one occasion he heard the ladies talk in hushed whispers when he walked by.

"I heard his dragon almost ate her"

"I do not see what woman would want a man who looks like that"

"I think he looks rather handsome with it"

"Yes, but he has a quarrelsome temper. Blood of the dragon indeed"

"I heard her little sister is to join the court. His dragon may actually swallow her whole with any luck"

"She is a hollow little fool. I heard she has not spoken a word since she was a babe"

He knew better than to listen to any of it. But it seemed to impregnate the walls of the Keep, like a smell that won't go away. Slowly seeping out of the stone to skulk in heavy plunders of smoke across their feet. It smelled of deception and the feeling was so heavy, it was almost liquid.

Like oily blood.

He had barely paid attention to his mother as they all lined up outside the Keep, anticipating the sister's arrival. The older sister had been closest to the dirt road, wanting to see her siblings and father before anyone else. The Royals were all standing shoulder to shoulder at the top of the stone steps, Aemond's eye trained forwards, not focussed on anything in particular. Aegon wishing he were somewhere else, preferably at the end of a barrel of Dornish wine. And Helaena, whose gaze never found anyone's, staring at the ground, watching the ants disappear beneath her slipper.

Alicent almost jumped out of her skin as the lady screamed in delight seeing the familiar colours of her house on the side of the carriage, pulling up to a stop. Aemond's chest inflated and he tightened his grip behind his back, bracing for the undoubtedly emotionally painful exchange he was about to have.

The carriage door flung open and two brothers emerged, clearly a lot older than the sister had been, but nonetheless they scooped her up into a hug. Aemond raised an eyebrow and dared look over at his own brother, who was smiling back at him already, as if suggesting they should hug like that. And at this Aemond did roll his eye.

The three siblings were stuck like this for a moment, talking over and amongst each other like a clutter of turkeys and it was impossible to tell what they were actually saying. The father eventually found his footing outside the carriage, a small figure following small behind him, head lowered. The older sister wrapped her arms around her father's neck but she was quickly pushed away, and not a single one of them seemed to address the youngest, who blindly followed her father.

"Queen Alicent" the father addressed, taking her hand in his to kiss at the ring.

"My Lord, how nice it is to see you and your…family again" she swallowed her words and her roundabout manner made Aegon smile somewhat.

"And you, your Grace. I hope my daughter has been a grateful guest"

There was a faint echo in the background of her horrific laugh, the father closed his eyes slowly, bracing himself for the sound of it.

Alicent merely smiled, "I understand we are to receive your other daughter"

The father stepped aside, but the figure still remained relatively hidden, "Yes, although she is the slowest of my daughters, your Grace. She…finds it difficult to speak"

The father looked behind him again and gripped his other daughter's arm and Aemond noted how hard he held her, so much so that when he tore away the marks remained. And he wondered if he was so rough with his other daughter, the one he thought was the grace of his house.

The girl was presented before Alicent. Yes she shared features with her sister, but hers were much were smoothed out. Her sister, while sharp featured and cheeks plump, her eyes were too close together and her nose seemed unfit for her face. This sister however, her cheekbones were higher and eyes were almond-shaped and she had a faint mole next to her eye on one side.

Her eyes briefly met Alicent's and sent a small smile and a curtsy, doing the same to the Princes and Princess, but never really meeting any of their gazes directly.

"Your Grace, my youngest"

Aemond almost scoffed, he didn't even have the decency to address her by her birth name.

"As I say, your Grace, she is quite slow but her mind is nimble, her other senses remain…unaffected"

All the young woman could do was listen to her father's cruel words about her, her hands were clasped in front of her, one finger fiddling with a golden ring that was on a forefinger. Aemond's gaze raked over her form, the dress she wore just being a bit too tight and he wondered if it might have been in her ownership for a while and had grown too big for it. This made her chest swell against the fabric and her could not help but admire the way she fit into it as she inhaled and exhaled, the golden necklace against her chest moving as well.

It was as if she could feel his burning eye on her and her hand raised to her necklace to turn the pendant over, her gaze briefly meeting the one-eyed Prince's before her cheeks became flushed and averted instantly. In a strange turn of events, it made Aemond smirk, knowing that someone would blush in his presence.

"If you'd like to follow me, I can introduce you to the King" Alicent stepped side to side with her father, "Perhaps your children might amuse themselves"

Her father turned to face his children, a haggard expression on his face, "Make yourselves scarce"

The young woman merely watched as her siblings waltzed away without her, no doubt to drown themselves in drink. And she stood for a moment watching them enjoy themselves before feeling a hand grasp her elbow to find Aegon's face close to hers. She made a surprised sound.

"Extraordinary" he murmured, pulling the poor thing to walk with him, "How much I would give to have a woman who did not speak back"

She attempts to push herself away, but he was much stronger.

"I bet that mouth is as disgusting as those whores on the Street of Silk"

A hand clamped at Aegon's shoulder, shoving him away and the woman looked back to find Aemond parting the two with his body, a hand brushing against her arm to place her behind him.

"Brother, I do not think she desires your company"

With a focussed eye zoned in on his brother, Aemond failed to notice that she had himself wrapped his hand around her wrist. A wave of heat rose to her face s she looked down and saw how his large fingers easily took her, feeling the sheer body heat of the Prince next to her, so much so that she was able to smell the various musks that had attached themselves to him. A faint smell of leather from his clothes, whatever he used for his long, illustrious hair and then something akin to being around an animal. Was this what dragon smelled like? She wondered if he had been riding before meeting her family.

His touch was easily softer than Aegon's grip had been, and for this she was grateful. He had been the first man to lay a hand on her that had not been forceful. The brothers continued to bicker.

"She is not deaf, Aegon. She can hear you"

"Deaf or not, she is a simpleton. If you are to marry her, do yourself a favour and find comfort in others, as I do"

All the blood seemed to rush to your ears in embarrassment and you tore your wrist away from the prince, turning swiftly on your heel in the other direction, away from the harsh words you had unfortunately become accustomed to. Your steps were swift as you heard Aegon cackle with laughter, but you did not see Aemond's saddened stare bore into your back.

With a book clutched longingly to your chest and the echoes of your already drunken siblings echoing down the halls, you pushed a hand to the library door, finding comfort in the quiet of this room in the chaos that was the Red Keep.

It had of course, not been your first time here. You had accompanied your sister on her journey many moons ago, and even then you felt the stares of those at the court boring into you like a flame. The hushed whispers of those were not lost on you, perhaps they also thought you were deaf. But it didn’t matter. You heard the horrible things the ladies said about you and equally, the awful things the men said as well. Although some of those had been about other matters.

Contrary to popular belief, you were not entirely mute. A lot of it was purely by choice. And you had become accustomed to the silence, for simply trying to speak, becoming out of breath and tight about the chest, gave you more anxiety than simply saying nothing at all.

You sighed in relief, finding the library completely empty and almost just how you had left it all those months ago, when you had come here for relief after your sister had accustomed herself to the ladies.

The book, which you had been in the middle of reading last time you were here, was still perched on top of the fireplace in the heart of the room, with a piece of paper sticking out in the spot where you had been rudely torn away. Your hand grazed over the cover, feeling all the intricacies of the people who may have read it before you. The spine was slightly worn away, and the fabric that coated the front page was discoloured. But it was the book smell that enticed you so and you opened where you were to bring to the pages to your face.

It smelled like home. Like a solitary childhood.

It reminded you of who you were.

Someone so disenchanted with life that they would lose themselves in books, fiction or not.

You lifted your skirts, inhaling sharply as the corseted part of the gown dug into you for being too small. Your father refused the request for new dresses, so you had to make do. After all, it was your older sister who was supposed to be enamouring the Prince, not you. So what need was there for fine dresses.

The chair hugged you, its fabric arms tucking you in like a bed and you laid the book before you to pick up where you had left off, the only sound in the room being the flickering of some candles and the uncomfortable sound of your finger tracing the next page.

You had been so interested in your book, the large oak doors opened without a reaction from you.

"I know you are not deaf, my Lady"

The voice startled you, and your head popped round the back of the chair to see the Prince standing closely, smirking and arms tucked behind him. A surprised sound left you as you stood, the book that had been placed on your lap hurtling to the floor as well as a small notebook you had been clutching. Your cursed yourself for the clumsiness but offered him a curtsy all the same before bending to retrieve the books.

He seemed to move too quickly for his stature and had his hand flat on the book before you had even reached out. Turning it over he smiled, bringing the book with him stand,

"Ah, so it was you"

You grasped the small notebook in your hand and stood to meet his gaze, eyes slightly wide with fear. As if he had caught you in his grasp.

He let out a small laugh, which seemed uncharacteristic for him, "Do not worry. I merely found it"

He placed the book down on the table and looked back at her. Even though he had one eye, it seemed to rake over her for an eternity before returning to her face.

"Are you afraid, my Lady?" he asked, still smirking.

Realising that she had been gawking, gripping onto her notebook, she shook her head. He seemed satisfied with the answer, only offering a 'Hm' in response as he began pacing the space around her.

"I may have limited vision, but I can see you are not afraid of me"

His back was facing you now, and with his eye not trained on you, you took the opportunity to study him and his form for a moment.

He was tall and his long silver hair trailed over his back, thick and straight. He certainly had that air of intimidation behind him and seemed to dress as such to scare people. In thick black leather with clasps, he almost looked imprisoned in his own clothes, straining against them. All this study of his form made you look down at yourself, wondering what he thought of you. The small woman without a voice, dressed in the clothes she was made several years ago.

"Your sister says I have a temper" he started, turning slowly to meet your gaze. He studied the way the candles flickered washes of amber and yellowish hues onto the side of your face, bringing the flush of your face out even more. How the flames bounced off the colour of your eyes. He wondered; how could someone be so expressive with simply their gaze.

He could not explain it, but you seemed content in the silence between you.

Slowly, as if movement would trigger the man, you opened the small notebook you carried with you, using the strip of charcoal to scribble something down. Aemond smirked seeing how concentrated you looked staring at the pages, how the line in between your eyebrows popped out slightly as you wrote.

You passed him the notebook, pointing at the page. He handled the book with such care that is astonished you, the way his fingers grasped it, there was a sensitivity to it. You swallowed your breath as his eye ran over the page all too slowly.

I do not know you well, but I have seen no temper.

Without moving an inch, his eye met you again and for a moment you worried you had said something wrong. But he softly handed the notebook back to you, watching your every move.

"Is this how you communicate?" he asked genuinely.

You nodded, as if embarrassed. Thinking of something to write down, you quickly flipped to a new page.

He accepted the notebook again once you had done, looking significantly more nervous this time, the charcoal rubbing black on your fingers.

I hope that the suggestion of our marriage does not embarrass you. If it is to be, I will be an amenable wife.

Aemond read the words on the page a few times, each time saddening him more so than the last. He saw how you fumbled with the charcoal, eyes averted, afraid of his reaction. He sighed so quietly that you did not hear it and only looked up once again when he handed the notebook back to you.

The words seemed to sincere, it bought a pain to his heart to see you think such things.

"Do not reduce yourself to such a thing" he said. But you did not look up.

There was a pregnant pause between you both as he regarded you.

"You are not entirely mute, are you"

You shook your head at his question, he winced at the painful look on your face. Immediately scribbling something down, faster this time.

It is sometimes better not to say anything at all.

Aemond nodded at this, "It is good advice, perhaps it can be bestowed on some within the court"

At this genuinely unexpected quip, you looked up at him letting a laugh escape you, hand immediately coming to your face to hide the smile that bubbled there.

It surprised you how quickly his eyes lit up upon hearing your voice. You could not help but look at him as he smiled before you, your cheeks firing up with embarrassment and you cleared your throat almost immediately, trying to dispel the air.

"You have a lovely voice" he said. It was here that you realised you were still smiling, eyes on his face, trying to find any signs of deception. For a second, you opened your mouth, tempted to say something. But the confidence quickly died as a block constricted your throat and the breath was expelled, but you nodded anyway, in thanks.

Do you read?

He nodded, gesturing to the book you had been reading, now reserved to the side table, all but forgotten.

"I do. I come here often" he said quietly, pacing about again.

You could no longer hide the way you looked at him. Your sister had said he was quick to rise and that she had been scared stiff at the interactions with him, that he had given her no notion of acceptance or equality. She spoke like he thought he was above everyone else.

But this was not the person you saw before you. Before you was some so soft spoken, you could barely hear him most of the time. Someone who enjoyed the serenity of a quiet library with the only sound being the flickering of the candles and the rain hitting the stone walls outside. You envisioned him being the only one to people-watch at parties, not amusing himself with the prospect of dancing. And perhaps not entertaining the thought of speaking to a woman directly.

"I come here when people like your sister remark on my tempestuous nature. Solitude is the only remedy for it" he paused looking over at you, "I imagine it is the same for you"

You scribbled something down, meeting his gaze when you handed it over.

Perhaps it is just that we are misunderstood. Solitude offers comfort.

A smile tugged at his lips once more and he thought that this is the most he had smiled in a long time.

"And books, it seems"

You nod genuinely, your eyes lighting up with an idea. Placing the notebook to one side, you rush past the Prince, giving him an opportune moment to feel the fabric of your skirts pass his thigh and the whips of your hair drag across the leather of his arm, releasing their scent. And with his eyes closed, he relished in these perfumes.

He allowed himself to think about what it would be like to live in that scent. To have it around him.

You placed a book in his hand, looking up at him excitedly. His long fingers grazed over the cover, admiring the gold leaf applied to it.

"Is this your favourite?" he asked, noting how close you remained after placing the book in his hand, though this you had not realised yet. You nodded, smiling as he opened the cover page to inspect the contents. A book he had not read.

He squinted at the pages, confused and looked back at you, barely needing to move his head since he was so tall.

"You can read this?" he asked. Ever humble, you shrugged your shoulders, "This is Valyrian" he sounded almost as if he did not believe you.

But you had read enough books for a lifetime already and you intended to prove to the Prince that what you were implying was truth.

Taking a deep breath, you lean forward and point to a word in Valyrian, inspecting the swirling text upside down. It had been a page right in the middle, telling the history of Aegon the Conqueror's mission to the Riverlands.

"…i-istan…hae…" you took another breath, not meeting the Prince's eye, nervous that if you did all confidence would surely die, "…darys…"

"…dārys" Aemond softly corrected. You could not help but look up at him now, the eye that had been filled with mischief and confidence, now had something else there. You licked your lips and motioned for him to repeat what he has said so you might copy, "dārys…"

"…dārys…h-he….he…" you struggled on the 'h' sounds of the next words, so paused to gather your breath and push past the newly developing blocks. But the Prince waited patiently, more enamoured at the fact that you were attempting to speak before him and that this was possibly the most you had said to anyone in months, perhaps years.

The mere sound of your own voice surprised you, but concentrated on finishing the sentence, you licked your lips once again in concentration. Aemond almost laughed as the line between your eyebrows returned, "…hen ry…vest, vesteros…o-o…" you sighed at yourself, frustrated. The words beginning with vowels were always the hardest.

"…ondoso…" you managed, pushing past the breath quickly and it was the loudest word you spoke in the whole sentence. It felt clumsy and wrong, but if you had looked ahead, you would have seen the hooded look of Aemond looking down at you, mouthing along with you in silent appreciation.

"…rhaenys…" you finished, looking up at the prince. He closed the book and repeated the word back at you but with the trilled 'r' that was difficult for many to pronounce. You smiled, fiddling with your hair, only now realising how close you were to him so you were able to read the book.

You stepped back, suddenly feeling embarrassed and hot. As if you'd been caught doing something you shouldn’t.

"Very good" he said. The smile on your face was difficult to keep at bay and he placed the book to one side, "It is not an easy language to learn. From books?" he asked, to which you nodded.

You were grateful he did not mention anything about your slowness, about the stumbling over the words. He simply complimented your ability to even read and speak any Valyrian and that was all you wanted from him.

You scribbled down.

Perhaps you could teach me how to pronounce it properly.

"I would enjoy that, my Lady" he stepped forward to give you the notebook back, only to keep a hold on it when you tried to take it. His other hand laid on top of hers and all of a sudden, it all felt so real.

You could feel his fingers rub over yours with a strangely soft touch and all the heat rose to your face again.

"It is a brave thing, to show yourself to someone" he said, looking down at you, "Someday, I hope to do the same for you" he said quietly.

You flicked from one of his eyes to his eyepatch, knowing that this was the source of his own pain. All the things the ladies and your sister had said about this man. Saying he was monstrous, tempestuous and someone to fear. It was clear that these people just did not know him.

"Being with you is like being alone" he said quietly, almost to say it to himself.

Your other hand came to his arm, hand smoothing over the soft leather, reaching out to touch him to see if he was real. Your smaller hands barely came around his arm but you squeezed it, offering whatever comfort you could.

At his words, you nodded in agreement, and he could see the sincerity in your eyes. Perhaps he merely wanted to be understood, like everyone would like, but something that people like yourselves was difficult to find.

Dropping the notebook, the charcoal fell to the ground and snapped in two and before Aemond could open his mouth to question, you laid your head against his chest, hearing and feeling his heartbeat through the thick leathers.

He stood stock still for a moment, hands suspended in the warm air around you until he carefully laid them on your shoulders, pulling the hair over your shoulder. And for a moment he could not tell if he was greatly confused, shocked, horrified or comforted by the feeling.

A shudder rattled down your back as you felt his chin rest on top of your head.

"Kirimvose" he whispered, making a burst of air leave you with a laugh. It sounded mildly forced, and it warmed your chest in a way that bloomed across your whole body, knowing now that despite his discomfort, he had said it.

Thank you.

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cranberryjuice-posts · 3 months

Text

Abby Anderson modern day head-cannons

Parings - Abby Anderson if the apocalypse never happened

Tw- some nsfw at the end

An- this is both In general headcannons and relationships

Abbys father is a neurosurgeon so mans is loaded bro 😭- abby def went to one of those hella expensive private schools.

She’s kinda old and new money

So Abby can go three ways ok

The typical basic blonde IT girl

Straight girl on the weight lifting team

Muscular masculine lesbian

I think we all know which one makes the most sense.

Abby wouldn’t come out to her father about being a lesbian until like high school

I’m pretty sure her mom died in the beginning of the apocalypse but it could be safe to assume that she’s also a doctor in modern day

Abby would of gone to a really good university and become a neurosurgeon like her father

While in medical school she met Nora and Mel - they knew Owen and manny and that’s how the group all met

She would of definitely done sports - so sports Abby did would be

Weightlifting

Basketball

Ice hockey

She’ll go online and see the thirst edits and comments about her and laugh because she’s not only flattered but she’ll find multiple women who are her type and like their comments.

HEAVVVYYY against college parties like girly is a student athlete and on a scholarship for her medical degree — she’s always studying and doesn’t want to do anything to ruin her scholarship

After she gets her degree she works in a well known and high paying hospital

Got a German Shepard and named her Alice

Graduated top of her class

A big football fan and if her school has a football team she would go to every home game.

You and Abby most likely met in college.

you two met after both taking a same extracurricular.

she had to actually prep talk herself into actually going up to you and talking to you

once she actually asked you out she was freaking out over wether or not you actually liked her (she had Nora help her pick out an outfit)

after a few dates she awkwardly asked if she could be your girlfriend. You said yes of-course

At first you thought the relationship would be hard since Abby’s always busy but much to your surprise she always made time for you

After like a week together she took you to meet her parents, you were anxious as her parents were well known medical professionals but they welcomed you with open arms

Once she introduced you to the friend group you knew you were stuck with her.

Is overly protective of you- a guy hits on you she’s passive aggressively getting into his face. Some girls are starting drama with you - she’ll tell them to fuck off . A teacher is refusing to take your paper late - Abby will go have a one on one possibly bribe the teacher to take your paper.

If you did well on exams she’ll take you out to a nice resturant however if you did poor she’ll reassure you take you to a comfort food restaurant and help you study next time.

Outside Abby’s the sweetest most gentle person you’ve ever seen however in the bedroom it’s completely different

Abby is the type of woman to take her time devouring you. She would spend hours between your thighs with her tongue on your clit and her thick fingers pumping in and out of you painfully slow

She can either be soft and loving whispering sweet nothings into your ear taking her time with you compaired to when she lost an important game or is stressed out about exams she’ll fuck you like no tomorrow, denying you your orgasm and degrading you, with her thick strap deep into you

#lesbian #wlw #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson #abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x reader #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us #tlou fanfiction #abby headcanons

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cupid-styles · 4 months

Text

new year's stranger

in which harry and y/n only see each other on new year's and he tries to convince her it's fate.

word count: 5.5k

content warnings: cheating (not on y/n or harry), drinking, drug use

masterlist | talk to me

. . .

New Year's Eve, 2020

Y/N hates New Year's.

If it were up to her, she'd sleep right through it, but Alice would never let her do that. It's why she's at this party to begin with. The owner of the house is a friend of Alice's who Y/N has never met, and isn't expecting to be introduced to tonight. The second they walked in, it was pure chaos, and it set off blaring alarms of anxiety throughout her entire body. She'd lost Alice somewhere around 10:30, but she was grateful that despite having a less than fun time, time still ticked steadily to midnight.

The sooner 2021 arrives, the sooner she can leave.

Harry, on the other hand, doesn't mind New Year's, but he hates this party.

Gemma forced him out with her and her boyfriend after finding out his planned accompaniment for the evening was a bottle of red wine and his favorite Elton John records. She said she hated to see him having a hard time with the breakup (that made Harry want to throw up on the spot) and demanded that he at least try to have a nice time tonight.

However, she failed to loop him in on the details of this party, which was apparently a proper rager that had him feeling like he was 17 again, but only in the worst ways.

He wasn't snooty by any means, but if one more drunk person comes up to him and asks if he's the Harry Styles, Gemma and her boyfriend can try to find an Uber home.

(He would actually never do that, knowing it would be impossible to locate one that wasn't three times the normal price given the holiday, but he can't help imagining cozying up in his bed, clutching one of his ex-girlfriend's tee-shirts, soaking it with tears, and falling asleep.)

It's why he's taken to sitting outside in this stranger's backyard, enjoying their wooden patio set. He doesn't typically smoke but he's chain smoking cigarettes tonight; he asked to bum one off of some guy inside, and he gave him the entire pack because he's — you guessed it — that lad from One Direction! So now it's sitting prettily next to a half-gone bottle of Cabernet, and Harry really, truly thinks this may be the worst New Year's he's had in a very long time.

He's grateful no one's discovered his little hiding spot yet, but perhaps he's spoken too soon as he takes a draw from the lit cigarette in his right hand. His shoulders tense when he hears the patio door slide open, desperately hoping Gemma found him and wants to go home.

"Oh, fuck, I'm sorry." The voice says, making Harry crane his neck slightly to see its owner. He can't really tell if he recognizes them, but it's clearly a female figure dressed in a black mini skirt, tights, and an oversized vintage sweater. "I didn't know anyone was out here, sorry."

"'s fine," Harry mutters, stubbing his cigarette out in the grass and toeing it out with his slip-on Vans, "It's all yours."

He goes to stand up, reaching over to grab the neck of the bottle of wine, when he accidentally bumps into the small table and knocks it over. He curses loudly as he watches the deep red hue stain the concrete floor, the puddle growing larger with each passing second.

"That's unfortunate." she points out and he scoffs. If he wasn't in such a piss poor mood, he may have contemplated cleaning it up, but he's decided that he doesn't like the owners of the house, especially because of their tiny little patio table.

"I think the hosts of this party are dicks, so I wouldn't worry about wiping that up," she says, almost as if she's reading his mind, "Sorry if you're friends with them."

"I'm not." Harry says curtly, leaning down to at least pick up the shattered pieces of glass.

"That's good. They're letting people do blow and ketamine off their dining room table. I think breakfast tomorrow will be interesting."

He snorts as he gathers broken chunks. He thinks that she's left him alone when he doesn't hear her ramble on anymore, but she returns a moment or two later with a garbage bag. She gets down on her knees and nudges the opening in his direction, wordlessly encouraging him to drop the pieces in it.

"Thanks." he mumbles through a sigh.

"Sure," she nods, "Having a bad night?"

"Yeah. Don't really feel like talking about it, to be honest."

Harry knows better than to discuss personal matters with strangers at parties (he learned that lesson years ago), regardless of how down he's feeling. She shuts up after that and continues helping him clean up the shards, tying off the bag when all that's left is a dark purple mess.

"I'll toss it." he says, stretching his arm out to take the garbage bag. She nods and gives it to him. "Thank you for helping."

He hopes she takes the hint as he ambles through the darkness of this unfamiliar backyard, attempting to locate the garbage bins. Eventually, he finds one (he knew they were shitty people, they don't even have a separate one for recycling!), and breathes a sigh of relief when he turns and sees that she's gone. He was starting to worry that she would ask for a picture or an autograph.

He sits back in his original seat and pulls his phone from his pants pocket, scrolling through drunken New Year's texts from people he barely knows. Really, he's only looking for two names (Gemma looking for him, or his ex-girlfriend magically deciding she needs to be with him going into the new year), but neither appear. He grumbles and reaches over to grab the pack of cigarettes, jumping in surprise when he realizes the girl is standing there with another bottle of wine.

He clutches his chest dramatically, "Were you trying to scare me or something?"

"Oh! No, I'm sorry, you just looked busy so I was waiting," she replies, placing the unopened bottle on the table. "Here. Um, is it okay if I sit out here? We don't have to talk. I know you said you don't want to."

His night can't get much worse, so why not split some wine that suspiciously appeared with a stranger that refuses to leave him alone?

"Sure." he mutters.

As promised, it's silent for awhile. She doesn't say anything but he notices her pick at her tights, then her nails, clearly antsy from the lack of discussion. The steady thumping from the music inside is the only relief.

He doesn't know if it's been five or 10 or maybe even 15 minutes, but finally, he breaks. He holds in a sigh as he turns his head to look at her.

"Are you having a bad night, too?"

She shrugs. "Kind of. I just don't really like New Year's."

He nods in understanding, "It is a bit overhyped."

"I lost my friend awhile ago," she adds, biting her lip. "I feel like I'll end up just going home a little after midnight."

"Yeah, my sister and her boyfriend dragged me here but I haven't seen them in hours."

She chuckles humorlessly. "Maybe I'll just try to get a cab now."

Harry glances at the time on his phone screen. It's 11:04 and he knows it would be stupid to do the thing he's thinking about, but he can't help it — maybe it's the strange connection he's feeling to his fellow sad stranger, or maybe he just really wants to go home and needs a good excuse. The words are leaving his mouth before he even truly contemplates it.

"That's crazy, you'll never be able to get an Uber at this time. If you don't live too far, I can give you a ride."

Y/N is quick to bat him off, easily rejecting his offer. "Thank you, but you don't have to do that. I'm sure you have tons of plans tonight."

A wrinkle forms between Harry's brows. "No, actually. This was it. And if I'm being honest, I'm dying to get out of here, too."

He watches as she contemplates it, gnawing on her bottom lip and wringing her hands in her lap like a child. Finally, he speaks up.

"I'm leaving with or without you, so really, it's your choice."

Her eyes glance over to him and she quickly nods, gathering her purse to her side. "Okay, yeah. I'll take the ride, please."

"Sure," he says with a nod, rising from his seat. "Do you live far from here?"

She gives him her address, surprised to find out that she only lives a few streets over from his own apartment. He sends off a text to Gemma, claiming that he ran into someone and needed to take them home (it wasn't a complete lie, even if he knows he was being pushy about leaving), and they silently walk in the dark, one in front of the other, quiet footsteps sounding against the stone pathway of the backyard. Eventually, they approach his sleek black Range Rover, Harry mumbling out a "this is me" and unlocking the doors so she can get in the passenger's seat.

"Thank you again for this," she says as he cranks the heat up. He had noticed that her teeth were chattering on the short walk back to his car.

"'s fine."

Harry doesn't play music or say anything else on the short drive to her place. Exhaustion is hitting hard and he's ready to go home and curl up in a sad ball. When he pulls up to her apartment, she's already clicking her seatbelt off and pulling her keys out of her bag. He wonders if he was being that standoffish, to the point where she's all but jumping out of his moving car.

"Well, happy New Year." she murmurs with a small smile, glimpsing over at his tight expression. He nods curtly, hands gripping the steering wheel.

"Happy New Year." he returns tersely.

"I hope 2021 is better for you," she says, her tone almost so genuine it makes his heart thump wildly in his chest, but just for a moment. "I'm sorry you had a shitty night."

He swallows harshly, willing away the lump of tears forming in his throat just from a stranger's kindness.

"Same to you."

She pauses, as if she wants to say more, but instead pushes the door open and gets out. With one last smile, she waves goodbye to Harry.

He waits to make sure she gets in safely before driving away.

. . .

New Year's Eve, 2021

"I'm not going out to a karaoke bar on New Year's Eve."

Y/N rolls her eyes at Mike, her boyfriend of six months. She had told him weeks ago that this was the plan for the night — her friends wanted to have a fun time out, and after last year's disaster of an evening, she was more than willing to put some cash in to rent out a room at a karaoke bar in downtown LA. But of course, a mere hour before they were due to all meet up for dinner, Mike was trying to bail.

"You agreed to this forever ago," Y/N replies with a sigh, lowering her eye shadow brush. She swivels in her seat to face him with a slight pout. "It'll be fun, I promise."

"What's so fun about people singing shitty cover songs all night?" he sneers, crossing his arms over his chest childishly. "I think it would be better if I just went to Reese's place tonight. He's having a party, you should go there instead, too."

"I already put money down and told my friends I was doing this with them, Mike."

He scoffs. "But I'm your boyfriend."

"And they're my friends."

"So you're seriously gonna ditch me, then?" he asks snidely, a pang of guilt firing through Y/N's chest.

"I mean, maybe I can meet up with you later? I can try to come to Reese's after dinner or something."

He rolls his eyes, making him look like an angsty teenager.

"Whatever. Don't bother, I'll just see you tomorrow or something."

Mike doesn't even send her off with a kiss or wish her a happy New Year before he's out the door. Y/N sighs, resisting the urge to bury her head in her hands and mess up the makeup she's applied to her face. Mike was great at the beginning — she thought she'd really gotten lucky with him, but around two months ago, he started acting like everything she asked him to do was a chore. From date nights to attending family dinners at her parents' place, he always made her feel dumb for requesting his presence.

She tries to ignore the anxiety brewing in her stomach when she meets her friends for dinner. They all ask where he is, and when she has to say that he would rather go play video games with his friends all night, they're quick to jump on what an awful boyfriend he is. She knows that — she really, truly knows that, and she doesn't know why she hasn't ended things yet.

When they get to the karaoke bar around 10 pm, Y/N's already tired, even if she's attempting to press on and make the most of her night. She giggles as she watches her friends scream the lyrics to songs by Queen and Fleetwood Mac, and she's particularly impressed by Nina's cover of "good 4 u" by Olivia Rodrigo, which she of course dedicates to Y/N.

With a few shots and two mystery cocktails under her belt, Y/N's actually having a good time. She excuses herself 10 minutes before midnight to go to the bathroom, not wanting to miss out on any of the excitement when the clock strikes 12.

Only, when she's walking down the long hallway, her eyes on the floor as she navigates her slightly drunken steps, she bumps into a figure. A hard figure, wearing a fuzzy cardigan.

And when she glances up, it's the last person she expects to see.

"Holy shit!" the curly haired brunette exclaims, pupils wide and breath smelling of tequila. It's clear that he's just as messed up as she is, if not a little bit more. "You're that girl from last year!"

She immediately giggles, the warmth of the alcohol in her system dismissing any embarrassment she may have felt otherwise.

"From that shitty house party, right?" she asks, thinking back to 2020.

"Yes!" he shouts, slamming his palm against his forehead. "You helped me clean up that wine!"

"And you drove me home." she laughs.

"Oh my god, this is crazy," he declares, making Y/N laugh even harder, "Sorry, I'm kinda fucked, but this is still exciting."

"Why? We were both having awful nights last year and I could tell you wanted nothing more than to kick me out of your car."

"What are you talking about? You were the nicest person I met at that party," he replies with a slight wrinkle between his brows, "Plus, you were the best part, since you got me out of it."

Y/N snorts. A few people attempt to brush past them in the hallway and they both move to the side, leaning their shoulders against the wall.

"I'm glad I could be of service," she says with a smirk. "What are you doing here tonight? Are you having a better New Year's?"

"I mean, I'm definitely higher and drunker this year," he cracks and it makes her roll her eyes playfully, "How about you? Feeling good?"

She allows the question to ping pong around in circumference of her brain. She was feeling good, but only because of alcohol, her friends, and the absence of her boyfriend. Taking a beat, she looks up at the green-eyed male before her, her breath catching in her throat when she realizes he's somehow gotten closer, likely because of all the traffic in the hallway. She swallows, her throat suddenly feeling dry.

"I'm feeling good," she finally answers, wringing her hands together in front of her.

"That doesn't really sound like a confident answer." he teases, crossing his arms over his chest. Her eyes flutter down to the tee-shirt he wears underneath the striped cardigan, the word sex scrawled simply across his chest.

"I had a fight with my boyfriend before I came here," she admits, though she doesn't quite know why, "He knew about these plans for weeks and he just bailed to go play video games with his friends. I'm kind of pissed about it."

He hums and she notices that his jaw clenches slightly when he presses his lips into a line. She's not sure if it's from the drugs or something else, but she quickly glances back up at his eyes.

"Sounds like a dick move." he says decidedly. Y/N shrugs.

"He's kind of a dick, to be honest."

That makes him bark out a laugh, shaking his head as his lips form into a half-hearted smile.

"What do you need to turn your night around, then?" he asks, patting his pockets as he looks for something, "I have some more coke on me if you need to get inappropriately high. I'm also not against buying you shots at the bar, but given my inebriated state, I unfortunately can't be your Uber driver tonight."

"Do you always speak like a scholar when you're fucked?" Y/N mocks with a smirk.

"Maybe," he grins, "So what can I get you, New Year's stranger?"

It hits her then that they've never exchanged names. Not officially, at least. Y/N of course knew who he was — his name and face had spent the better part of 2020 being plastered across tabloids, and she recognized him back to his One Direction days — but it felt weird to just assume as much.

Likewise, Harry wasn't above asking Gemma if she was familiar with the girl he'd met a year ago today. He hoped she may have some connection to her, given the fact that her silly little ramblings stuck around in his brain far longer than he would've anticipated. After Gemma asked around, he learned her name, but never did anything with it, instead opting for a year of distracted hookups and flings.

And even without acknowledging the fact that they each know the other's names, they're somehow more comfortable with being a New Year's stranger.

"Can I bum a cigarette off you?" Y/N asks, remembering back to last year when he was chain smoking, somewhat pathetically, on the back porch.

"Haven't smoked for a year," he replies cheekily, "But I can ask a friend for one if you want."

She shakes her head. "I just need some air, really. Would you wanna take a breather with me?"

Harry nods and follows her out, eager to speak with her away from the crowded, loud interior of the bar. He can't help but check her out from behind, lips pressing together as he drinks in her thin slip dress, black tights, and platform heels. She looks cute. Similar to last year, just a tad more mature. It fits her, he thinks.

When they get outside, Y/N's ears are ringing, but her warm skin is enthralled by LA's sad excuse for winter weather. She instantly feels less clammy, leaning back against the brick exterior of the building and allowing it to cool her. Harry follows her lead, his mind spinning slightly as he continues to take her in.

"How've you been?" he finally asks, desperate to break the silence. She peeks an eye open and glances at him in her peripheral.

"Fine. Work's busy. Friends are good. Boyfriend's... there," she answers in short sentences, like she's checking things off. "You?"

"Just about the same, minus the boyfriend. Single as can be, actually."

Y/N hums. "Any shitty exes this year?"

"Not any official ones," he says, his nose wrinkling as he mentally runs through the year's rolodex of flings. "Can I ask why you're still with this guy if he's such a dick?"

She lets out a humorless laugh before shrugging her shoulders, a look of disarray twisting her features.

"Your guess is as good as mine, stranger."

Harry turns to look at her, pressing his side into the cold brick building. "You don't have to torture yourself with him. If you're unhappy, you have every right to stand up for yourself and leave him behind. Life's too short."

"I know," she says, her eyes fluttering shut again, "I know."

"You deserve to be happy."

She smiles, but there's no happiness behind it.

"You don't know me."

"You think it's a total coincidence we ended up meeting again, exactly one year later to the near hour?" Harry asks, halving the distance between them with a single stride, "This feels like fate."

"This feels like we're both fucked up on New Year's Eve."

"Sure. But alcohol and drugs didn't get us here."

Y/N sighs. When she opens her eyes, he's right in front of her, so close she can see the lengthy wisps of his eyelashes. She swallows tightly, unsure of her next move or his intention. If she really cared about Mike, she would leave Harry here. If she didn't feel the mutual attraction to the man in front of her, she would go back to her friends. If she didn't wonder if he was onto something with this fate thing, she would forget this whole thing ever happened.

But she doesn't care about Mike, and she's attracted to Harry, and he's making her believe in fate.

"It's almost midnight, stranger," Harry breathes, and Y/N glances behind him to see people beginning the countdown from 10. "What do you wanna do about it?"

She knows what he's implying.

She's not drunk enough to view this as a mistake, but she's sober enough to want it.

"Tell me what you want."

"Kiss me," she exhales, her hands shaking at her sides, "Kiss me, please."

There's cheering and yelling and whooping from everyone around them. Cars are honking their horns, fireworks are going off in the distance, people are screaming happy new year. And with all the stimulation surrounding them, all she can focus on is Harry's lips on hers, wet and sloppy and still somehow so perfect. She kisses him back eagerly, teeth clashing annoyingly, hands exploring hips and backs and sides as they lick into each other's mouths, heavy and hot with lust.

She doesn't know how long they've been at it, clawing at one another on a public sidewalk in downtown LA. But she knows that eventually, someone stops to breathe and she takes it as an opportunity to step back. Harry's eyes flicker open, confusion and sadness radiating through the jade green, and she gives him a sorrowed smile in response.

"See you around, stranger."

She's gone before he can stop her.

. . .

New Year's Eve, 2022

"You're fucking joking, right?"

Maybe if Harry had glanced up from his phone two seconds earlier, he could've turned around and avoided this happening. But he's stupid, and he was too busy flipping through his mom's annual Christmas post on Instagram when he hears her voice, and he knows he's in for it.

So he's not entirely surprised when the interaction ends as quickly as it began, just with a tequila soda staining his sweater from her angry drink throwing.

If he's being honest, he gets it. After last New Year's Eve, when they so intelligently decided to eat each other's faces in the middle of LA, gossip blogs and tabloids alike blew up. He felt awful — there were pictures of it everywhere and his fans were desperate to find out who she was. It wasn't a shock to him when they found her social media, job, and, worst of all, the fact that she was in a relationship with someone.

Harry wanted to send flowers, bake her a million apology pies, and grovel on his knees to express how gross he felt about the situation. But instead, he figured it was better for him to stay away. He could only assume that continuing to bother her would make the situation worse, especially considering how cruel the internet could be.

Instead, it just seems like a sad, sick joke that they ended up at the same New Year's Eve dinner party.

When he agreed to come, he was completely unaware that his friend Lea was dating Alice, one of Y/N's oldest friends. They just moved in together a month back and decided to throw a small get together to ring in 2023.

He wishes someone would've warned him that she would be here.

A year ago, he was in a different place. He was in deep with doing drugs and drinking to cope with stress after a busy year of nonstop work. He knows it wasn't an excuse for what he did, and while it took both of them to form that situation, his world was far more complicated than hers. Had it been any other person, it would've been a one-off hookup on New Year's Eve.

With a sigh, his heeled boots carry him to Lea and Alice's kitchen, where he's eager to dry off some of the liquid that's sopping through the material of his sweater. Luckily, it's empty, the rest of the party meandering around the dining and living rooms as they wait for dinner to be served. He mentally curses Sarah and Mitch, who were supposed to accompany him tonight, but bailed last minute because their baby was being fussy.

A shit excuse, if you ask him.

He's forced to rejoin the party when Alice announces it's time to eat. Harry's thankful to be friends with such excellent chefs, who have prepared an array of vegetarian, vegan, and meat dishes for every food restriction imaginable. When he sits down at his place setting, he's admiring the salad in front of him when he feels someone towering over him.

"Alice, can I change my seat?"

Of fucking course.

He looks up to see her standing there, pinching her own name plate between her fingers with a less-than-satisfied expression painted on her features. His eyes follow her target, the brunette with a shag haircut holding Lea's hand, who sends a glare back her way.

"No. Just sit down, Y/N."

Silently, she does, though her actions seem far more petulant and childish than her lack of response. She doesn't exchange any words or throw any more drinks at Harry as she serves herself, though she also doesn't offer to pass any of the plates he's clearly reaching for, either. With a sigh, he allows her to avoid him, all the way through the toast when she refuses to clink her glass with his.

The table settles in a baseline chatter, the sounds of multiple conversations filling Harry's ears as he scoops forkfuls of quinoa and asparagus into his mouth.

"Can you stop chewing so loud?" she hisses at him, just loud enough for only him to hear.

"Can you stop being so rude?" Harry fires back lowly, wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin, "I'm sorry for last year and I apologize for anything that came of it, but it's not fair for you to only blame me."

"My job fired me," she sneers and Harry's eyebrows shoot up, "And what did you get? More album sales?"

"No— no, I didn’t get anything from it, but— I’m so sorry, I had no idea—“

She rolls her eyes, suddenly standing from the table and pushing her chair in. Her heels clack against the wood floor as she steps away from the dining room and in the direction of the outdoor balcony. Immediately, Harry follows her lead, feeling Lea and Alice's eyes on him.

Her back is to him, the doors shut, but he can tell she's exhaling smoke from the cigarette wedged between her fingers. Carefully, he twists the doorknob open and gently closes it behind him, his stomach gurgling with nerves.

"I'm very, very sorry that your job fired you. I didn't know. I wish I did more. I thought about you constantly — I wanted to apologize but I didn't, and that's no fault but my own." he pauses to swallow but she doesn't look at him once. "It's not an explanation, but I was really drunk and high. Last year was... messy. And I should've known better, but I didn't."

She hums, as if in contemplation, as she takes another draw from her cigarette.

"You just... you took so much from me without even knowing it. I know it was both of us, but..."

"I know," Harry says, taking a step closer to her. "I can't express to you how awful I feel."

She shrugs. "It's fine, it's in the past. I just wanted… an apology, or closure or something. I didn’t know you wanted to offer that.” she takes a shaky breath. “I got a new job."

He resists the urge to say that's good, because in actuality, it isn't, and he's the reason why it happened to begin with. Instead, he bites his tongue, pinching his bottom lip between his fingers as she turns to face him.

"Are you still not smoking?"

He smiles gently. "Yes. No drugs either, this year. Maybe by the time we run into each other in 2023, I'll be totally sober."

"You don't seem like the type. Feel like every time I see you, you have a glass of wine or tequila in your hand."

He chuckles.

"To be fair, you've only seen me on New Year's Eve."

"Mm," she nods, stubbing her cigarette out with the heel of her boot, "Isn't that weird? All these years of being my New Year's stranger."

The nickname sets fire to his chest. 12 months later and he forgot that's what they'd started calling one another last year.

"It is weird," he nods, agreeing, "Almost seems like fate."

"Oh, we're not going down that road again," she snorts with a roll of her eyes, and it makes his own eyes crinkle in amusement. "If it was fate, we would've run into each other more. I think we just have mutual friends."

"That might be true. We only live 15 minutes away from one another."

She raises her eyebrows, "Really?"

"Have you moved since 2020?"

She shakes her head.

"Then yes. You live on Maple, I'm on Bleeker."

"That's three blocks over," she says, clearly bemused, "How did we seriously never see each other otherwise?"

Harry shrugs. "I mean, I guess I'm out of the city, like, 9 months of the year."

A silence blankets over them as she presses her elbows against the cool banister on the balcony, looking out to the city. Harry glances at the watch on his wrist. It's a few minutes past 10, just a few hours before the year ends.

"I'm sorry for throwing a drink at you."

"It's okay. I deserved it."

Silence again. And then: "Would you ever want not be my stranger?"

Y/N tilts her head and looks at him with confused eyes.

"I mean," he pauses in an attempt to get his words together through his slightly buzzed brain, "Would you wanna know me outside of New Year's? Start fresh, maybe."

A gentle smile worms its way onto her face. It gives him a glimmer of hope.

"Remember what you said about fate?"

He nods.

"Find me any other day of the year," she says softly, stretching her arm out to pat his hand lightly, "If you do, it's fate."

. . .

2023

Harry's having the most chaotic morning ever.

He slept through his alarm (something that rarely ever happens), got to his pilates class late, and completely forgot he has three early afternoon meetings with his record label. From the gym, he rushed over to the grocery store because he recently got home from tour and there's absolutely no food, and he has about 20 more minutes before his stomach starts growling embarrassingly loud.

He's all but pushing old ladies out of the way with his cart, grabbing boxes of granola bars and bins of fresh fruit with no agenda in mind. Glancing down at his watch, he sees his first meeting begins in a half an hour, which means he'll definitely have to take it in the car over Bluetooth, considering traffic makes it near impossible to get places within a reasonable amount of time.

He's huffy, tired, hungry, and sweaty as he waits in line to check out. He's wearing his sunglasses inside like a douchebag, but he can't be bothered to take them off. He's also trying to be better about not distracting himself with his phone when he's in public places, so he decides to people watch and take stock of those around him: An elderly couple who are struggling to use self check-out, a woman who looks like she may be on one of the housewives shows on TV, and a girl that looks suspiciously similar to his New Year's stranger.

Only, when she turns her head, thanking the cashier with her bag of groceries in her hand as she walks out of the store, it hits him like a massive bag of bricks: It is his New Year's stranger.

Suddenly, nothing else in the world matters — not his cart full of snacks, his meetings, his empty stomach. He's jogging, damn near running to catch up to her, brushing past the morning rush of the supermarket as he tries to grab her attention. It isn't until they're out in the parking lot when he finally does it. Perhaps one of the more embarrassing things he's chosen to do in broad daylight, but he doesn't care, because it's her, and he's not letting her get away this time.

"Hey! Stranger!" he shouts, cupping his hands around his mouth to carry his voice against the parking lot.

Almost immediately, she turns around, her eyes wide as she looks to see who the greeting came from.

And maybe it's just wishful thinking, but Harry doesn't think he's ever seen someone grin so beautifully when her eyes finally meet his.

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