isnt-itstrange

[isnt-itstrange]

normalise making a list of character x readers u like to read so you can spin a wheel every night before bed to decide ur bedtime story xx

[isnt-itstrange]

NO NO NO NO JUST HEAR ME OUT PLEASEEEE

[isnt-itstrange]

Chat pleas help me again

I deleted a downloaded fic from ao3 on my phone and I didnt have an ao3 login to save it 😭

It’s of Aemond x oc where she’s daemons legitimized bastard (with a mother who is from Essos I believe ?)

They end up having several kids and she secretly has her own plot to get the iron throne for aemond/her kids/ daemon I can’t really remember but she’s basically another side in the dance of the dragons

This is such a shittt description but it’s been too long for me to remember anything else abt it

[isnt-itstrange]

all i wanted | prologue

pairing: modern!aemond targaryen x female!reader summary: the beginning of zenith. warnings: bar setting a/n: special thanks to greta van fleet for inspiring me to make everyone in the band except for reader siblings lol. hope you all enjoy this beginning <3

series masterlist. next.

“You’re nepo-babies,” was what you had said to Aegon and Aemond Targaryen when you’d met for the first time.

You had been eighteen, freshly graduated from high school and without any plans for your future. All you knew was that you had a passion for music, and that when your uncle let you play at his bar, everyone told you that you were good at it. But that hadn’t meant you expected the sons of Alicent Hightower to approach you after one of your performances on a normal Tuesday night.

Alicent Hightower was one of the most well-known musicians of her age. when she was still relatively young, she’d married Viserys Targaryen, a man twice her age and the owner of the most successful record label in the last decade. Her fame had never dwindled, not even when she started to have children and devoted most of her time to motherhood. When her children entered into the music scene when they were young, the whispers of nepo-favortism had started flying.

So, your insult had not been a foreign one to either Targaryen boy. Aemond was your age, albeit a few months younger. Aegon, however, was three years older than you, and was certainly the reason that his younger brother had been able to sneak into the bar. 

“Smart, aren’t you,” Aegon had teased, though clearly had not been impressed with your sharp words.

“Very,” you had fired back just as quickly. Your quick-wit had been unexpected, but something that both boys would become accustomed to over time. 

“Is that a rejection, then?” Aemond spoke next, and for the first time that evening.

Ah yes, their offer. the one that had caused you to insult them so plainly. 

They’d approached you nearly ten minutes previous, complimenting you on your performance at first, and then all of a sudden offering you to start a band with them next. It was all very quick, and when you had tried to question them, Aegon had simply said that the brothers had been watching your for a while now, and they thought you could help them. 

That, of course, had been when you called them nepo-babies. How could they need your help when all they had to do was flash their unmistakable silver hair and mumble their last name to get what they wanted? 

“No, it’s not a rejection,” you said finally, but were quick to add, “It’s a ‘give me your phone number and I’ll text you an answer in the morning’.”

Aegon had done just that.

For the record, you didn’t text him for a month.

That had been three years ago, and since then Zenith had become one of the biggest rock bands in the world. You were their lead singer, praised for your consistency and the confidence you held on stage. Aegon was the guitaris and when they played shows, it was not uncommon for his name to be screamed the loudest. And finally, Aemond. The public’s opinion of him seemed to change every day - no one really knew what to think of him.

For the first four months of being a band, Zenith had no real drummer. It had bothered you so badly that you’d spent a whole day arguing with Aegon about finding one. He’d tried to bring in about a dozen of people he “knew” (he’d spoken with them all approximately once), but you had shut down every offer. It wasn’t until Aemond had suggested they have their sister come in that you finally came around. Helaena was a natural, and was undeniably funny. And though her joining had led to years of questions towards you asking what it was like being the one in the band that wasn’t a sibling, you hadn’t regretted it for even a second.

Zenith had taken off nearly immediately. You were certain it had to do with the Targaryen name at first, but you had not complained one bit when it was announced that Zenith’s first studio album had debuted in the top twenty. 

The band had been riding that wave of success ever since. In the last three years, Zenith’s popularity had only grown. They’d released a second album in that time, and its debut had done far better than the first album’s. It’d done so well, in fact, that the band has just announced they’ll be going on their first ever world tour. Everything was perfect. 

For the time being, at least. 

you can join my taglist by clicking here!!

[isnt-itstrange]

stayed up all night reading a fanfic n it turned out to be incomplete and it hasn’t been updated in 3 years

[isnt-itstrange]

“ you sweeter than honey ! ”

sammie “preacher boy” moore x black! fem! reader

synopsis: showin’ your favorite preacher boy ‘round the farm

cw: fluff. 30s in the south. written in southern tone. mentions of racism. slight cussing

the sun hung low, slow and lazy like molasses drippin’ off a spoon. the air smelled of dry earth and the faint sweetness of wild honeysuckle, thick with dust that floated in long golden rays. you sat easy in the saddle of belle, your old mare with a mane tangled like summer vines and eyes steady as the fading light. horses out here weren’t just animals—they were partners, pullin’ wagons, haulin’ shit tons of wood, carryin’ you through the sticky southern heat when roads turned to mud.

your curls/coils were are wild and free, like summer vines climbing a fence. mama always said, “they perfect just the way god made ‘em.” you wore a soft, faded-colored dress— maybe a sunwashed blue or faded rose— and sturdy boots you’ve stomped in a million fields.

down the dirt lane, the rumble of a worn-out car broke the quiet. dust kicked up behind it like a restless ghost, swirling lazy and red in the fading sun. the car was battered and dusty, no polish or shine to hide the miles it’d traveled, but it carried who you’d been waitin’ on.

you slid down from belle’s back, boots crunchin’ on dry straw, and stepped toward the porch where sammie’s folks stood. his mama’s eyes softened behind tired smiles, and his papa’s face was weathered but kind. you wiped dust off your hands on your faded dress and tipped your head in greeting.

“good afternoon, mr. moore, mrs. moore,” you said gentle, voice carrying just enough warmth to settle in the evening air. “glad y’all made it safe.”

mrs. moore nodded, “thank you, miss.” mr. moore gave a slow, steady nod that felt like a promise.

you stepped back, catchin’ sammie’s brown eyes from across the yard. he was leaning against the porch, that easy grin tugging at his lips already.

“look who’s showin’ up all fancy,” you teased, voice soft and teasing like a breeze through the magnolia leaves. “preacher boy.”

he cocked his head, eyes bright, slow and smooth as molasses syrup. “n/n,” he said, copyin’ you.

you tilted your head, eyes twinklin’, “still got that damn guitar?”

he smirked, steppin’ a little closer, “still got that damn goat piss on your dress.”

you laughed easy, the sound warm and bright, and before you knew it, he was pulling you in close. the hug wrapped around you like a worn quilt — familiar, steady, and safe.

“reckon if you keep ol’ boy out the house too long, he gon’ get dirty,” you said, nodding toward the guitar case resting by the porch.

after a moment, you pulled back, eyes gleaming. “come on, i wanna show you somethin’.”

| ⟡ ˙🐎 ̟

you led sammie into the barn where the smell of hay and horses settled like a warm blanket. belle stood patiently, her big brown eyes watching you both with quiet trust. a horse whinnied nearby, the sound carryin’ soft and sure in the evenin’ air.

“this here’s belle,” you said, voice steady. “she’s stubborn as a mule but she pulls her weight. we use her to haul the wagon, carry wood, and when the roads get slick, she’s the only way to town.”

sammie reached out, fingers brushing’ through belle’s mane, a slow smile playing on his lips. “she’s got fire in her, like you.”

you laughed, “wait till you meet old blue — he’s got a mind all his own. but, i’ll save that interaction for later.”

the horses stood quiet as the sun dipped low, the orange rays bleeding into the large, open windows and cracks through the wood.

you reached for the stiff-bristled brush hangin’ on a hook and handed it to sammie. “here,” you said, voice soft, “this one’s for takin’ the dust off. gotta brush in the same direction as their hair, slow and steady.”

sammie took the brush, fingers unsure but eager, and you guided his hand gently down belle’s neck. the mare shivered, leaning into the touch like she knew she was in good hands.

“see?” you smiled, “she likes that. horses don’t take kindly to rough hands.”

he laughed, a little embarrassed, but careful, brushin’ with slow, gentle strokes. “like with people, huh?”

you nodded, heart flutterin’. “yep. gotta be real patient and kind, or they’ll let ‘cha know real quick.”

as he brushed, you slid close, finger’s brushin’ ‘gainst his face to straighten up his hat.

“you doin’ just fine, preacher boy,” you teased, voice low and warm.

he grinned, eyes meetin’ yours, the world shrinkin’ to the quiet barn, the scent of hay, and the simple rhythm of two hearts gettin’ to know each other.

| ⟡ ˙🌿 ̟

you started walking back, boots crunchin’ over dry straw and dirt. voices drifted from nearby, your daddy and sammie’s papa deep in talk.

“yeah man,” your daddy said, wipin’ sweat from his brow, “them white folks—no mercy. we got the best crops in the south, yet they always turn away.”

“aye man,” sammie’s papa said slow, placin’ a hand on your daddy’s shoulder, “they don’t deserve it. you have an abundance of goods, and when god...”

“here he go,” sammie muttered low beside you, makin’ you chuckle softly.

“heard through the grapevine that you been lazin’ on them bible verses?” you teased him, elbow nudgin’ his ribs.

“cause,” he spread his arms wide, “the blues. it’s callin’ me.”

you turned the conversation light again, talkin’ bout the chow family’s grocery stores.

“yup, we one the reasons they still in business,” you said, boots crunchin’ over dry straw, “but,” you dropped your voice, “they don’t be telling folks where they get the produce from, ‘specially white folks.”

“why don’t they tell us?” he asked, eyes catchin’ how your hands and head moved as you talked.

“news spreads like wildfire. you tell somebody, then they tell somebody else—’round an’ ’round it goes.”

| ⟡ ˙🐓 ̟

later, you both bent low in the henhouse, picking eggs nestled safe in straw. hens clucked and shuffled nearby.

you crouched low by the henhouse, the wooden slats rough against your palms, the smell of straw and feathers thick in the air. soft clucks and gentle fluttering surrounded you as hens shuffled around, scratching at the dirt with their little feet. nestled in the corner, eggs sat safe in nests of golden hay — some smooth and white, others speckled like they’d been kissed by the sun itself.

sammie eased down beside you, eyes wide and curious, like a boy seeing something new for the first time. “you scared a chicken gon’ nip at ya?” you teased, nudgin’ him playfully with your elbow.

“no!” he said quick, voice a little too loud, cheeks flushing like a summer rose.

you laughed, that easy, warm sound you loved to hear. “you sweeter than honey!” you kee-kee’d, brushing a stray feather from his collar. “they ain’t gon’ do nothin’.”

a plump hen clucked nearby, peckin’ at the dirt right by your boot, making sammie jump back and chuckle, eyes crinklin’ with amusement.

“here,” you whispered, holdin’ out an egg you’d just gathered, smooth and warm in your hand. “look how delicate it is, but still holds so much life.”

sammie reached out, fingers just barely brushin’ yours as he took the egg, careful not to crack it. “like you,” he murmured, eyes meeting yours, soft and steady.

your heart stumbled, caught in that quiet moment where the world seemed to slow just for the two of you.

“reckon i like this part,” he said, voice low. “feels... simple, good.”

you smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder. “me too.”

for a moment, all the weight of the world outside that henhouse faded away, and there was just you, sammie, and the soft rhythm of life around you — warm, gentle, and full of promise.

| ⟡ ˙🐄 ̟

then came the milkin’.

you showed sammie how to kneel beside the old cow, its breath warm and heavy, the pail set steady beneath. your fingers worked slow and gentle, squeezin’ just right till the milk splashed white and cool.

his fingers brushed yours, a spark in the fading light, and he laughed at the awkwardness of the first try.

later, the goat. smaller, quicker, and feistier. she nuzzled your hands, sometimes nipping playful.

“reckon she’s testin’ who’s boss,” you said, grinning.

sammie grinned back, more confident now, as the two of you worked together, hands wet and warm in the soft southern dusk.

after the last splash of milk settled in the pail, you wiped your hands on your dress, the cool evening breeze catching stray curls around your face. sammie watched you with that quiet smile that made your heart beat just a little faster, like a soft rhythm beneath the southern sky.

“reckon you did good,” you said, nudging him gently with your elbow.

“not near as good as you,” he said, eyes shinin’.

you laughed, the sound light as the wind through the tall grass.

“come on,” you said, reachin’ down to grab the basket sitting by the barn door— handwoven from sweetgrass and pine needles, the work of you and your mama’s patient hands. the basket was sturdy but delicate, the kind that smelled faintly of earth and sunshine, perfect for holdin’ the treasures of the land.

you led sammie down the path where wild blackberry brambles tangled thick, their deep purple fruit heavy and ripe against the thorny branches.

“these here berries,” you said, kneelin’ low and showin’ him how to pick gentle so the berries didn’t squish, “they’re sweet like honey but need careful hands.”

sammie crouched beside you, fingers fumblin’ but eager as he reached out to pluck a berry, holdin’ it up like a rare jewel.

“like you,” he said (again) softly, eyes catchin’ yours again.

you smiled, heart bloomin’ like the wildflowers nearby.

“bet mama’s got a pie bakin’ when we get back,” you whispered, your tongue flickin’ over your lips.

“hungry ass,” he teased before getting tapped upside the head. sammie laughed it off, the sound warm and easy. together you filled the basket with the summer’s bounty — dark jewels against the green, catching the last light like tiny promises of sweetness and hope.

and all around, the world was heavy with history, with struggle, but also quiet hope—like the soft hum of a blues guitar on a summer night, raw and real, but full of somethin’ that could carry you through.

hey hope ya’ll enjoyed !! second time ever publishing a fic so lemme know what ya’ll think of this one xx

[isnt-itstrange]

Can some one pleaseeee help me find this fic .

It’s a Modern Au of House of Dragon , Aemond x oc/reader?

Reader is helaenas best friend / roommate and aemond is living in helanas room while she is away

Reader has short situation ship/ fwb with Cregan Stark

It’s a multi part series .. pls help I’ve looked everywhere:((

Ignore the spelling errors in helana it’s 2am and im abt to pass out

[isnt-itstrange]

modern rugby/football fellas

[isnt-itstrange]

sugar and spice

modern!alicent and her sugar baby/younger gf

warnings: semi nsfw, age gap (alicent mid-40s, r early-mid-20s) mentions of drugs and alcohol, mentions of alicent trying and failing to be a good mom sometimes, viserys being a bad dad and husband, probably bad description of what it’s like to be rich bc im #poor

alicent really shouldn’t even give the girl a second glance

she’s more than twenty years younger than her, and even worse, she was the former best friend of her own second youngest child, aemond

alicent could remember her being around their unnecessarily large home, but she never paid her much mind

she was usually busy running the multi million dollar company she’d married into (her ceo husband’s health was failing), while also juggling pr issues after one of aegon’s nights out, or doing her best to keep helaena relatively stable (all the girl really needed was a stable childhood, therapy, and maybe some light meds, but it was wayyy past that point), or defending herself against the scandalous rumours and defamation in the media (almost all started by daemon and/or rhaenyra)

aemond and daeron were her least problematic children

aemond was a self-sufficient machine and genius who had decided he did not need his mother’s help to be successful, while daeron turned his mommy and daddy issues into becoming a star footballer and white boy of the month for three consecutive years straight

she was glad enough that they were able to find their own support systems—daeron in his career and large group of close-knit friends, and aemond in his best friend

they’d met in secondary school, attached at the hip ever since. she was from an upper middle class family, only able to attend such a prestigious school on a scholarship, whether it be entirely through school or also through sport, alicent was unsure

aemond had considered her to be the only other person at that school who was not a complete fool and was worth his time

alicent did recall her being present on a few family vacations, which were usually more focused on forcing her children out of london and into an unfamiliar and enclosed area for a period of time to keep them out of trouble

she noticed that she had stopped coming around shortly after their first year at college, after aemond’s very first instant of needing some the help of his family’s pr team

he’d admitted his deep and profound love for his best friend rather publicly, at a birthday party he’d organized for her at one of his family’s homes in the country

after she had let him down (both argue whether or not it was gentle or not) there was a bit of a blow up regarding some very passive aggressive tweets and insta stories aimed at one another (one of aemond’s may or may not have included a comment about her sexuality)

his followers (which was infinitely more than her own) flew to her comment section to torch her for being a gold digger, for leading him on, while the rest of the world turned on him for publicly outing her and also blaming her for her disinterest in him due to her sexuality

after that, there were no public interactions between this middle-class girl and the targaryen family

she had become somewhat of an influencer in the years to follow, but was relatively off of alicent’s radar once everything had blown over

that is until they were photographed leaving a club together, both of their lipsticks smudged and suspiciously smeared—almost as if they’d been mixed together

alicent had been there as her son’s guardian, overseeing a business deal with the owner, his first since succeeding his late father as ceo

daemon had gotten to rhaenyra during her father’s sickness, convincing her to begin their own rival company and leaving the seat open for aegon

after realizing that the meeting was nothing more than a reason for them to get plastered and creep on girls who were far too drunk to know any better, she decided to excuse herself in hopes of making a quick exit

cue her bumping into someone, spilling her glass of wine over the front of their outfit

she was surprised to actually know the person, after a slight reminder from the girl herself

the next thing she knew, she was pressed against the door of a bathroom stall, the younger woman meeting her in a fight of passionate kisses

she made an effort to have the driver meet them at the back door, but of course it did nothing to stop paparazzi from catching them climbing into the car together

she woke up the next morning in her own bed, naked with the younger woman tucked into her side, a throbbing headache, and a dozen angry messages from aemond

her initial instinct is to do some major damage control, to rush to her office and call her publicist

but as the woman next to her began to stir, eyes fluttering open and a smile crawling onto her face, she began to change her mind

she ordered breakfast for them, a seemingly endless spread of pancakes, eggs, bacon, fruit, yogurt, coffee, and baked goods all courtesy of her private chef, served to them on the terrace of her penthouse overlooking london

alicent was sure to fill the girl in on the pr nightmare that had come from their night together, but was clear about where they would go from here

they would lay low for a while and try to let the scandal blow over; it wasn't exactly great for her image as president of targaryen industries that she was sleeping with women more than half her age less than a year after her husband's death

alicent was very upfront with her; they could either go their separate ways and never speak again, or they could continue this arrangement (in secret, ofc)

neither of them formally discuss the arrangement but its very clear to both of them

alicent tells her in the beginning she isn't looking for anything serious for the time being, especially considering that this relationship in particular would cause her issues within her own family

it didn't really stay secret for long, more of a situationship that everyone knew about but also no one knew about

i'm thinking it's like a tom and zendaya situation, everyone knows but the pap pics confirm a few months later

their time together is usually limited to weekends or late nights, but usually once every few months alicent is able to get away and take her on little trips to a more secluded and private place where they do not need to worry about being seen

she loves taking her to the countryside, which she initially referred to as her late husband's "cottage" but is actually more like a small castle

sugar baby once woke up after alicent left for work to find her assistant helping another woman set up a tailoring station in the living room

the woman was a seamstress that alicent had asked to take her baby's measurements so she could surprise her by sending her custom clothing and lingerie that may or may not match some of her own

loves seeing her baby in green

she liked to send her baby gifts when she had to be away for work for a few days

also sent her an "allowance" of a minimum 5k a week

encouraged her to move into one of her spare condos

sometimes was a little overbearing about how her baby went about things but can you blame her for being a control freak with the family she has?

realises that she actually loved her after she broke down in front of her for the first time, and her baby simply held her and encouraged her to let it out rather than to compartmentalise her emotions

after that she felt like it was more of a relationship than an arrangement

when they finally go public, its totally unintentional and chaotic

alicent's baby is up for a big award in her field and alicent plans a little private celebration for the two of them

one of her bitch ass assistants snitched and the paparazzi showed up

this time around it was pointless to try and do any more damage control over the situation if she was gonna continue to have a relationship with her baby

their relationship caused some backlash, all on her baby's part

alicent was a millionaire and the president of one of the most influential companies in the world, she was basically untouchable

her baby, however, was a masters student with less than a million followers; just famous enough that people cared enough to both know her name and send her an endless stream of hate

the final straw was when some of her haters showed up to her school's awards banquet and caused a scene

after that alicent was determined to stop it by issuing a public message and having her lawyers get involved

it was bad enough that they were facing criticism from alicent's own family (esp aemond) so she was not willing to let any harassment to her baby slide

at this point alicent no longer considers this to be a sugar mommy/baby relationship and asks her to move in with her

officially moves out of the red keep (their personal building of condos) and into one of her own homes outside london and has her baby move in with her so she can be better protected

aemond doesn't speak to her for anything non-business related for months after they go public

alicent does try to speak to him, but understands that this situation will not be brushed over so easily

it finally blows over when aemond comes face to face with her baby and they fight it out

she apologises for dating his mom but also reveals to him that she was basically exiled from her own family after he outed her and had also lost her only real friend; alicent was the only person who seemed to genuinely care about her since they stopped being friends several years ago

he's still mad, but he makes an effort to let them be and eventually he gets used to it

he also likes that she is able to actually make his mother happy; she was not always there for them as she should have been, but he knew the person that she had become were a result of the environment she'd been forced into by her father

aegon thought it was hilarious that his prim and proper mother had subjected herself to such scandal, but also appreciated that she was less uptight when she was with her baby

he also thought alicent's baby was very funny and enjoyed trying to get her drunk at family dinners

he would be secretly refilling her glass whenever she wasn't looking and alicent would only notice when her baby was suddenly all giggly and sentimental

helaena was just glad that the drama was over, but also enjoyed spending time with her mother's new woman

she did help her with some forced exposure; she often encouraged her to join them when she and alicent went shopping or out to lunch just to get her out of the house

daeron isn't home much due to his football career, but he does follow her on instagram and comments something vaguely friendly whenever she posted something with or regarding his family

rhaenyra and daemon def use the scandal to their advantage in the media

she's suddenly being included in magazines and celebrity news pages every time she's spotted in public

especially when they catch sight of the big rock on her finger after a year or two

when they do finally tie the knot it's a super private ceremony and dinner at one of the hightower estates before leaving for a month-long honeymoon in the mediterranean; she does not want to use her late husband's money or assets to begin her new marriage

100% willing to financially support any of her baby's career decisions

she's wanting to start a small business? sure thing. she's beginning a new research project? consider it funded. she wants to make a career change? she's more than ready to take over all of the bills and expenses

since she spends so much time at work, she likes spending all of her free time with her baby

if her baby is going to get her hair or nails done? she's in the chair next to her. going to pilates? she's got her spandex on. going out with the girls? alicent will let her go alone but is on-call to pick her up and bring her home as soon as she texts her

alicent isn't a heavy drinker but def can pound back a glass of wine after work like no other

loves when her baby has it ready for her when she walks through the door

would prefer to stay in together than go out, but she's all about compromise here is her baby wants to be taken out

is a little guilty of having her assistant remind her of important dates or will have them run to buy anniversary/birthday/apology gifts

but its mostly in the beginning when there's a lot of drama and scandal surrounding their relationship

this might have all been me self projecting my dream relationship with my dream woman but ohhhh well i love this pairing smmmm

[isnt-itstrange]

tear you apart | aemond targaryen

Summary: The stolen moments in dark venues, lingering touches, and late-night whispers make it feel real, it is real. But just who is it real for?

Pairing: Metal Guitarist!Aemond x Reader (modern au)

Warnings (not in order): heavy smut (mdni) (individual smut warnings to be posted later), angst, longing, alcohol and drugs use, drama, and more to be announced.

Word count: TBC

authors note: was it just an evening or a thing that would last?

Series Masterlist

Coming Soon...

[isnt-itstrange]

Aemond Targaryen

Long Lost Love - Aemond Targaryen x female!reader

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7a, Part 7b, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15

You are the daughter of Daemon and Rhaenyra. When the invitation to Aegon and Helaena's wedding came, your entire family rushes from Dragonstone to King's Landing to take part in the festivities. You haven't seen your family in King's Landing for 6 years and seem a bit nervous about it.

Long Last Love - Aemond Targaryen x female!reader

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15

You are finally engaged to Aemond Targaryen. As the daughter of Daemon and Rhaenyra, you will now live in King's Landing and no longer on Dragonstone. Your marriage to Aemond is imminent, as is your life together. The relationship between Aemond and your family has never been particularly easy, but the future will show whether your love will withstand this and subsequent tensions.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Sense of duty - Aemond Targaryen x female!reader - NSFW, Fingering, Sex (p in v)

Sense of duty (II) - Aemond Targaryen x female!reader - NSFW, Sex (p in v)

Everlasting love - Aemond Targaryen x female!reader - NSFW, Fingering, Sex (p in v)

The battlefield of women - Aemond Targaryen x female!reader

Love at first sight - Aemond Targaryen x female!reader

Love at first sight (II) - Aemond Targaryen x female!reader

The bane of my existence - Aemond Targaryen x female!reader - NSFW, Fingering, Sex (p in v)

Breaking Down - Aemond Targaryen x female!reader

Voiceless - Aemond Targaryen x female!reader

Sinful desires – Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader x Aemond Targaryen - NSFW, Oral (male receiving), sex (p in v), Fingering

Emerald eyes - Aemond Targaryen x fem!stark-reader

12 Days of Smuff

12 Days of Smuffmas

[isnt-itstrange]

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽𝐀𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐑☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

𝐋𝐨’𝐚𝐤 𝐓𝐞 𝐒𝐮𝐥𝐢 𝐓𝐬𝐲𝐞𝐲𝐤’𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐧

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄ 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞/𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐱 𝐈 𝐁𝐞𝐭 𝐎𝐧 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐃𝐨𝐠𝐬

You would do anything he asked if he said he loved you, but his heart belonged to someone else.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄ Memories

After you go into labor unexpectedly it’s up to, Jake, your father in law and Lo’ak, your husband, to get you through it. Meanwhile, Lo’ak recounts all of the first times in your relationship while you’re giving birth to your first child.

𝐍𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐲𝐚𝐦 𝐓𝐞 𝐒𝐮𝐥𝐢 𝐓𝐬𝐲𝐞𝐲𝐤’𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐧

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄ My Dear, Don’t Ever Disappear

You wake up with a pounding headache and no clue where you are. It’s only after your cries for help your best friend appears. Except… it seems like he’s the reason for all of this.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄ Maybe we should kiss… just to know how it’s like

Neteyam has been your best friend since birth, attached at each other’s hip in every sense. As time changes so do his feelings, his best friend turning into his biggest desire. What happens when time for him to confess quickly runs out?

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄ Hunt You Down

After being married for so long you decide to experiment with some new kinks…

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄ Wicked Intentions

You made the foolish decision of seeking sanctuary with a vampire, who wants to keep you forever.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄ Let me Love You

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄ Our Last Summer x Mated for Life x United in Grief

You were never allowed to leave the lab, especially to venture off into the forest. However, one day you get a extreme urge to go to the river and that’s where you met him. The man who would surely be your downfall.

𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐒𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄ Festering Desire

After witnessing something you were not meant to see a new emotion began building inside you. It plagued your dreams, your thoughts and every part of your life until it reached a boiling point. 

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄ Teacher’s Pet

Neytiri Te Tskaha Mo’at’ite

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄ Our little secret

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄ Salvation

[isnt-itstrange]

#Alicent you are the father.

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON (since 2022) alicent hightower + jacaerys velaryon.

[isnt-itstrange]

When I get to the end of the fanfic and it says, "I'll update soon".......... it was written in 2017

[isnt-itstrange]

Save my baby.

I am Raneen, a mother from Gaza, and my husband, Ahmed.We dreamed of a simple life, a warm home, and a child who would fill our lives with light. But the war stole everything…Our homes were destroyed, our dreams were burned, and all that remained was pain and fear.

I gave birth to my son, Mohammed, amidst the sounds of bombing and the smell of death.But he was born to begin a greater suffering…

He developed severe lung infections due to the toxic gases that fill the air in Gaza.Every moment that passes steals his life…and every breath he takes is a struggle between life and death.

The doctors told us we had only one option to save him: an urgent and complex surgery to save his life.

But we are helpless… we don't even have the money for bread, so how can we afford this expensive operation?

I knocked on people's doors… I begged… I cried… I screamed from the heart of a mother broken by her son's weakness, but no one answered. Now, I appeal to you from the heart of a mother who is burning every moment:

Please save my child.

This is his last chance. If it's lost, everything will be lost.I swear to you, my child is dying in my arms, and I have nothing but prayers and compassionate hearts.

I beg you, my friend, my child needs your help. Please donate me a little.

There's no time left, my friend. My child needs your help. Please donate and share.

Verified : @90-ghost

Verified:@bilal-salah0

Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #576 )

Please share/reblog, and maybe donate if you can. if want to be removed @feralparsnip @disinfobot @realife-mermaid @lucidicer @damonalbarnsgf @anatomska-venera @cervidaecomplex @pimpa @rubbercasing @gentaroukisaragi @reiayanamiisbestgirl @jade-lop @loth-creatures @2violent2revolution @liliputian-thing @boot-sanford @wingedalpacacupcake @babacontainsmultitudes @raccobell @arocoded @bonesashesglass @kalosbian @antisocialxconstruct @gojobait @pornogrind @rosamundpkes @bootdork @rose-madder-gaze @pathogeniic @wakingstone @mesetacadre @thesummersucks @tweedfrog @polvuz @sunfudge @4arconinoma @kittykatninja321 @maraschinotopped @pastrytown @starsandspicedpeaches @curryaboo @chai-penguin @monards @mandrakeboo @saint-sebastian-coded @leonardcohenofficial @vaporize-employers @politijohn @elksewer @kiirodora

[isnt-itstrange]

overthrown - basic character bios

authors note. oh hiiii, i'm back! these are character bios! wanted to provide a little background as we go into the series! i hope to have the prologue out within the next few days, i'm in the thick of the semester so i have lots of work, butttt idc hehhe. this will be updated periodically as i post more of the series, almost like a character index! again, if you have any questions feel free to ask! because canon is getting BENT in this brief plot overview/world info part 1

the prophesized.

reader. 21, oldest child/heir and a twin, born to king malchor and queen shallan of ephia. ephia is known for their fishing, sea exports, and being the main trading post in the realm. non magical, but younger brother aaric is. artsy and kind, the princess is the opposite of her battle ready younger brother, though they are still close. the princess has a cat, pippin, a little orange thing she brings everywhere. possesses basic swordsmanship knowledge.

mark. 20, heir, born to high king nolan and high queen debbie of the viltrum empire. viltrum is known for their excess of magic users, many claiming its the 'land of the gods', their main export is goods; food, water, art, you name it, viltrum probably has it. mark is assisting his mother as she rules in her husbands place post suspicious death and amidst the chaos of the realm. his magic is incredibly strong, though he is still learning how to harness it to its full extent.

eve. 21, only heir, born to king adam and queen betsy of ansbonia. ansbonia is known for their craftsmanship, making the best weapons, tools and everyday items. eve is currently betrothed to rex (much to both of their dismay) but they mostly get along fine because it's a political marriage. eve's father is dead, her mother is the current ruling queen regent until eve is ready to take over. eve is a magic user.

rex. 22, only heir, born to the prince and princess of troylos. troylos is known for it's coal, precious materials, and mining. rex's parents were not yet king and queen when he was born, so currently, his mother's father is the king. he is betrothed to eve but could not care in the slightest. rex also possesses magic.

rae. 24, second heir/current heir, born to the king and queen of lanan. lanan is known for it's lumber and building materials such as stone or brick. rae's mother died in childbirth with a younger sibling and her father passed away from an uncurable illness, so her older sister is currently queen. she is unmarried making rae her heir. rae is also a magic user.

other notable people.

debbie. mark's mother, current ruling high queen after the death of her husband. non magic user, since she comes from a lesser house in the realm.

cecil. nolan's hand of the king, currently assisting debbie as her hand of the queen. comes from a house in the grand duchy of durna.

oliver. mark's half brother, a bastard who was legitimized by nolan when he was young. views debbie as his mother and debbie views him as her own. good magic user, even though he is only seven.

nolan. mark and oliver's father, debbie's husband, and the former high king of the viltrum empire before his death.

william. mark's longtime friend and gentleman in waiting, he comes from a small house in the viltrum empire and does not possess magic

the dark god's army. caused the death of high king nolan, formed of former council member's of the high kings court. they worship the dark god, unleashing dark magic into the realm. they plan to claim the realm and then the rest of the world. they currently have control of darkhold's reach after conquering the grand dutchy of durna and kaltia.

the oracle. a mystical figure that has aided house grayson for centuries, providing prophecy, visions of the future, and providing important information. will only appear to those it wishes to or when dire events are taking place.

[isnt-itstrange]

CHAPTER 1 PART 1

you agreed to spar and now you’ve basically dry humped in front of the royal guard

pairing - emperor!mark grayson x reader

summary - you were supposed to form an alliance. instead you slept with him three days in and now you have no idea what’s happening.

content notice: 18+. dry humping, accidental voyeurism.

a/n: this chapter is mostly expository, other chapters will be a lot more nasty ;)

This is a kind of quiet you’ve never experienced before.

It's not the type that drapes over the palace gardens in the early morning, when the fountains are quiet and the mist hugs the marble balustrades. It's not the quiet reverence of the Temple of Light when everyone’s deep in prayer at noon. It's like the quiet before the storm on a battlefield, just waiting for that first scream to break the silence. No, this is a different thing altogether. Something from the past. Feeling hungrier. The kind of silence that seeps into your bones and makes you forget what warmth feels like.

This is the silence of space.

And you hate it.

Not because it frightens you, fear isn’t what twists in your chest. You’ve stared down warlords, led charges into enemy territory, stood alone with your sword drawn against odds that made the palace scribes pray behind their hands. But this… this is different. This is distance. From your people. From everything you’ve ever known. From the world that made you who you are.

Swift Wind flies steady beneath you, his wings catching solar wind like sails. You can feel his frustration in the way his muscles tighten, the way he occasionally tosses his head even though you haven’t tugged the reins once. He doesn’t like this any more than you do. There’s nothing for him out here. No world to gallop across. No wind to play with his mane. No scents on the air. Just artificial gravity and stars that don’t sing.

You shift in your saddle and reach down, smoothing a hand over his shoulder. “Just a little longer,” you murmur. Your voice sounds strange in your throat. Too small. Like someone else is speaking.

You’re the Princess of Eternia. Second-born heir. Trained in all the rites, every weapon, every form of diplomacy and war known to your people. You were leading strategy meetings before your voice had even settled into its adult register. When you speak, kingdoms listen. When you fight, armies follow. You’ve bled for your planet. For your family. For the idea of peace your ancestors built temples to protect.

And yet right now, you feel like a single, ridiculous dot against the backdrop of an empire that has swallowed entire civilizations.

The Viltrumite flagship looms ahead now, just a silhouette at first, but it's growing larger. Closer. The shape of it is aggressive even at a distance. Smooth, sharp lines. No unnecessary parts. No aesthetic flourishes. No welcome. It doesn’t even look like it was made by people. More like it was forged in the belly of some god of order. Everything about it feels foreign. Antiseptic. Unfeeling.

Your jaw tightens. Not in fear. Not even in anger. But in resistance.

They asked for a diplomatic envoy. They’ll get one. But they’ll also get the weight of Eternia’s legacy riding straight into their cold, silent kingdom. Not because you expect to intimidate them. You’re not that naive. But because you refuse to arrive looking like a guest. You are not here to be inspected like merchandise or coddled like some glass heir.

You are here to see the Emperor. To look into the eyes of the man who rebuilt a bloodstained empire and decide for yourself what kind of ruler he really is.

Mark Grayson.

Even his name sounds strange in your mouth. Part-Human. Earthborn. Raised among people who live in wood houses and pave their streets with black tar. A world that thinks flying is for machines and still uses combustion for transport. And yet he rose from that place, half-Viltrumite, half-Human, and tore Thragg off his throne. Some say it was vengeance. Others say it was mercy.

You don’t know yet what you believe.

But you know this. You’ve met monsters before. And you’ve met men who wear crowns like excuses. You’ll know which one he is the moment you stand in the same room.

You’re getting close enough now that the ship's gravity starts tugging at Swift Wind’s path. You let it. The transition is smooth, mechanical, efficient. Another reminder that nothing here is natural. Everything about the Viltrumite Empire is sharp and deliberate. Their war was long. Brutal. You remember hearing about it even in the palace, whispers carried by offworld traders, fragments of footage buried in restricted archives. Eternia never took a side. Your world remained neutral, untouched. But you remember the images of the blood. Of planets reduced to dust. Of what a single Viltrumite soldier could do when given orders.

And now you’re flying toward the man who commands them.

You reach down to touch the flower on your wrist. Gold, red, and white, your family’s colors. Your mother tied it for you in the royal chamber, her fingers steady even as her voice trembled. She didn’t cry. She never does. But when she kissed your brow and whispered, “Be more than what they expect,” you felt her heartbeat echo in yours.

Your father had fewer words. Just a long look, a soldier’s nod, and the placement of his hand over your heart. “You speak for all of us now.”

No pressure, of course.

You square your shoulders and straighten your posture. You always do this before a new campaign or royal engagement, center yourself physically before your thoughts can spiral. You were taught to control your breath before your words. Stillness before action. Even now, that training holds. Your body moves into perfect form, as if it remembers the weight of your crown even when you’re not wearing it.

The ship’s docking bay begins to open.

A wide, glowing mouth spilling warm, artificial light into the dark. You narrow your eyes. You half-expect a formal reception. A landing platform. Trumpets, perhaps, or at least a guard waiting at attention. But the space beyond the gate is empty. No fanfare. No visible soldiers. No welcome at all.

You’re not sure if that’s meant as a power play or a sign of trust.

You adjust your grip on the reins.

This isn’t how Eternia would treat a foreign royal. But then again, the Viltrumites don’t operate by the same customs. You were briefed on that. Their culture is built on strength, but not always honor. They don’t value pageantry. They value results. That much, at least, you can understand.

Swift Wind slows his wings as you approach the entrance. His breathing is calm but alert. You lean forward slightly and pat his side, soft, but firm.

“No matter what happens,” you say, mostly to yourself, “we don’t bow first.”

You ease him toward the gate, eyes locked ahead. Whatever waits inside, whether it’s Mark Grayson himself, or just a long hall of silver metal and cool stares, you’ll walk into it standing tall.

Because you’re not just here to observe.

You are the Princess of Eternia. Defender of your world. Blade and voice and crown all in one. And the stars may not know your name yet, but by the time you leave this ship… they will.

The air inside the Viltrumite docking bay is thin and cold.

Not cold like the high Eternian cliffs in winter, where the snow bites and the wind howls and you can feel your blood pumping just to keep your fingers alive. No, this is colder in the absence of things. No birds. No scent of stone or pine. No breath of weather. Just the kind of temperature that machines choose, precise, efficient, untouched by anything natural.

Your heels hit the polished metal floor with a quiet finality as you dismount, the echo of your landing trailing out into the vast, cavernous space ahead of you. Swift Wind lands beside you in perfect unison, his wings folding inward with grace that stills the air around you. His hooves clink against the floor as he steps closer, ears flicking. He’s tense but obedient. Alert, but not alarmed. You feel that same tension wound tight in your own spine.

You stand tall. Because that’s what you were raised to do.

Your warrior dress gleams under the artificial light, white and gold, high-belted at the waist, ceremonial but fully functional. It’s a fusion of tradition and practicality, armor that still allows movement, dignity that doesn’t sacrifice readiness. Your sword hangs at your hip, resting easy against your side, the crystal at its hilt catching the sterile light like a living thing. You don’t touch it, not yet. But its weight reminds you who you are.

You are the Princess of Eternia. And this place doesn’t feel like it was made for someone like you.

Everything around you is clean to the point of emptiness. The walls are seamless metal, the light is without warmth, and the hangar doesn’t so much as stir when you arrive. No escort. No horns. No banners bearing your crest. No music to announce your entrance or mark your status. Just silence. Cool, white silence.

You hold your ground anyway.

Then the doors open.

A thin seam in the wall parts with a whisper, and two figures step through. Uniformed. Straight-backed. Viltrumite, by the look of them. One stays just behind the other, likely a junior officer. The one who approaches you first is tall, black-haired, his face a map of long years and longer battles. His gait is unhurried but sharp. Efficient. His presence reminds you of your brother’s war advisors, the ones who spoke rarely but whose words always carried weight.

He stops a respectful distance away. And bows. It’s a small bow, but a bow nonetheless.

“Princess of Eternia,” he says, voice formal, clear. “On behalf of the Viltrumite Empire, welcome. It is an honor to receive a warrior of your caliber aboard the Emperor’s flagship.”

You blink, just once. Not because you're surprised by the civility, but because you recognize the name before he gives it.

General Kregg.

The man who once led the siege on the Syndicate moons. The one they said lost three ribs and his right eye defending the armistice colony during the final battle against the dissidents. You studied him in your briefing. You hadn’t expected him to be the one greeting you personally.

You nod, regal and practiced. “General.”

He straightens. His gaze flicks over you, swift, professional, measuring without condescension. His eyes linger for the briefest second on your sword, then on Swift Wind’s wings. But he doesn’t comment. He doesn’t look surprised. Only intrigued.

“We’ve prepared quarters for your steed,” he says, gesturing slightly to the second officer, who nods and moves forward with a datapad in hand. “Fully gravity-regulated and climate-controlled. No restraints unless you request them. You’re welcome to accompany him, of course, or proceed to your suite.”

You glance at Swift Wind. He’s still watching. Still calm.

“He doesn’t do well in cages,” you say carefully, your voice low.

Kregg doesn’t flinch. “Nor do we, Princess.”

The smallest corner of your mouth twitches. They know how to play the game.

“You may stable him yourself,” he adds, stepping aside. “Or leave him in our care. The choice is yours.”

“I’ll handle it,” you say. “He responds to me.”

Kregg nods once. “As you wish.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then his tone shifts, still formal, but with a note of curiosity now, less rehearsed. “We’ve heard stories of you. Not just of your battles, but of the sword you carry. The Sword of Protection, forged in Castle Grayskull. Passed down only between you and your sibling.”

You don’t answer right away. You don’t like talking about the sword unless you have to. People always assume it’s symbolic. Decorative. They don’t understand the cost of it. The weight of carrying more than just your own strength.

“It’s not passed down,” you say finally. “It’s earned.”

Kregg inclines his head. “Then it belongs exactly where it is.”

He steps aside fully now, motioning toward the corridor behind him. “Once your companion is secured, I will escort you to your chambers. The Emperor is currently in council. He will receive you when his schedule allows.”

You nod once. “Understood.”

You glance down the hall. Smooth metal. No guards. No flourishes. The whole place feels like it was built by someone who values silence over grandeur.

As you begin to lead Swift Wind forward, your armor softly clinking with each step, you feel Kregg’s gaze still on you. Not hostile. Not even skeptical.

Just… interested.

“Is this your first time off-world, Princess?” he asks, keeping pace beside you.

You hesitate.

“Yes.”

He nods again, thoughtful. “You carry it well.”

You glance at him. “Carry what?”

“Being a stranger.”

You say nothing. But the words stay with you. Longer than you’d like.

General Kregg walks a half-step ahead of you, precise and silent, his boots clicking evenly against the metallic floor. The corridor stretches ahead in a gleaming line of polished steel and white-blue lights, the kind of sterile design you’ve only ever seen in offworld intelligence briefings. No guards line the halls. No banners hang from the ceilings. Every surface is stripped of ornament, everything here serves a function.

Including you.

Swift Wind’s hoofbeats echo softly beside you as he follows, wings folded neatly against his sides. He doesn’t like the ship. You can feel it in the tightness of his posture, the way he keeps glancing toward the sealed walls as if expecting them to close in. But he stays close, calm only because you are. Loyal beyond reason, even in a place that wasn’t made for him.

Kregg doesn’t say much as you walk. But when he does speak, his voice is courteous, never casual. “The Emperor instructed that your quarters be suited to your station,” he says, glancing over his shoulder without slowing. “If anything is lacking, it will be corrected.”

You nod once. “Thank you, General.”

It still feels strange to say it aloud. That you are here, in the heart of the Viltrumite Empire. Speaking calmly with the commander of what was once its most brutal arm. Stranger still, that they’ve been… respectful.

Kregg stops at a wide set of double doors. They hiss open soundlessly, revealing a suite that, though minimalist, is spacious. A private chamber with a soft-glow light source, a bed more than large enough to stretch out in full armor, a curved viewport overlooking the stars, and a side chamber with cleansing facilities. No guards at the door. No locked panels. For a place built by conquerors, the trust is unexpected.

Kregg turns to you. “Your steed will be taken to the observation stables. Our handlers were given your specifications. If you prefer to check them yourself–”

“I do.”

He nods once, unsurprised. “This way.”

You follow him through a secondary corridor and down a short ramp that curves inward like the spine of some massive creature. The air smells faintly sharper here, ionized. Cooler. You pass several corridors where Viltrumite soldiers pause to look at you, some subtly, others more openly, eyes tracking the sword at your side or the gleam of the Eternian crest stitched over your heart.

You say nothing. Neither does Kregg. 

Finally, you reach a stable unlike any you’ve seen. It’s not a barn, not an open-air structure, but a tall, wide chamber with simulated atmospheric controls. A slice of programmed sky curves overhead, a soft glow simulating dusk. The ground is padded but solid, treated with pressure-sensitive plating. Not dirt, but closer to Earth than the rest of the ship. It's the closest thing to nature you're likely to find in the Empire.

Swift Wind snorts, his hooves clinking once on the floor as he steps into the open enclosure. He lifts his wings slightly, testing the air. Then he looks at you.

You rest your hand on his shoulder, running your fingers once through the side of his mane. “It’s not perfect,” you murmur. “But it’ll do for now.”

He lowers his head briefly, pressing his forehead to yours. You hold still, breathing in the faint, warm scent of him. Of home. When you pull away, Kregg is watching. Not unkindly. Not coldly, either. Just… measured.

“He’ll be guarded, not confined,” he says. “If anyone attempts to interfere with him, they will be removed.”

You nod. “He’ll cooperate.”

Kregg inclines his head. “Then I’ll take you back to your chambers.”

The walk back is shorter. Or maybe it just feels that way now that Swift Wind is settled.

When the doors to your suite close behind you at last, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding since you boarded the ship. Not relief. Not exactly. Just the first breath you’ve taken for yourself in hours.

You unfasten your armor slowly. First the winged crown, then the bracers. The golden breastplate comes last, heavy in your arms as you set it down on the bench beside the bed. Piece by piece, you strip away the ceremonial weight, until you’re left in the simple white battle-dress beneath, a high-cut tunic hemmed in gold, light but tailored, with the golden crest still gleaming faintly over your chest. Your red cape brushes against the backs of your legs. 

No one’s here to see you like this. No one but the stars.

You step toward the viewport, bare feet soft against the cold floor. The stars beyond the glass are endless. Quiet. Farther away from Eternia than you’ve ever been.

You rest your palm against the pane and let your eyes trace the constellations. You miss your mountains. The weight of soil. The wind. But you’re not here to long for home.

You’re here for answers. For peace, if it’s real. For a ruler you’ve never met but were sent to judge with your own eyes.

Emperor Mark Grayson.

You wonder if he’ll see you as a diplomat or a threat. A relic or a warrior.

Maybe both.

Kregg waits until you’re in the hall again before speaking. “I’ve just been informed,” he says, glancing at the small communicator clipped to his belt, “that the Emperor has concluded his meeting.”

You pause. Just slightly. A shift in breath.

Your heart kicks once, but your expression doesn’t change. “And?”

Kregg tilts his head, voice precise. “He is prepared to receive you now. If you wish.”

You hesitate, if only for a breath. You’ve barely had time to wash off the weight of your arrival. You’re still in your white dress, your armor discarded back in your suite. But this is how it begins, isn’t it? Not with warning. Not with comfort.

Just a moment, and a choice.

“Take me to him,” you say. Your voice doesn’t waver.

Kregg nods once. “This way.”

He turns, leading you down another corridor, this one narrower, curving in a way that feels deliberate, guiding you somewhere more central. You pass no windows now. No chambers. Just long lines of clean metal, lit from above with pale lights that cast a faint glow against your cape.

Your mind sharpens with each step.

You were trained for first impressions. Not charm. Not manipulation. Presence. Your parents used to tell you the first breath you take in a throne room is the one that defines everything. Even if you say nothing. Even if you bow.

Especially if you don’t.

You draw in that breath now. Calm. Controlled. Your back straightens, your chin lifts, and your fingers curl once at your side before stilling.

Whatever kind of man Emperor Mark Grayson is, whatever kind of Empire he rules, you will look him in the eye and decide for yourself.

The corridor widens. Ahead, a tall doorway flanked by sleek columns stands waiting.

Kregg stops just short of it.

He turns to you, voice quieter now. “He prefers plain speech. No titles.”

You blink. “He’s an emperor.”

“Yes,” Kregg says. “But he didn’t ask to be.”

With that, he taps a panel beside the door.

It opens.

The corridor widens. Ahead, a tall doorway flanked by sleek columns stands waiting.

Kregg stops just short of it.

He turns to you, voice quieter now. “He prefers plain speech. No titles.”

You blink. “He’s an emperor.”

“Yes,” Kregg says. “But he didn’t ask to be.”

With that, he taps a panel beside the door.

It opens.

The doors open with a low, mechanical sigh.

You step into the throne room of the Viltrumite Empire, boots silent on the polished floor. The air is cool, still, almost too still, as if the room itself is holding its breath. The architecture is sleek, practical. It wasn’t built to impress. It was built to last. The walls curve upward in clean symmetry. No tapestries. No flowers. No carved monuments to history. Just quiet gravity and gleaming steel.

At the far end, seated at the center of that long, echoing quiet, is Emperor Mark Grayson.

He’s not what you expected.

The uniform he wears is formal, but not extravagant, sleek red and grey marked by the Viltrumite crest, a long fur-trimmed cloak falling behind his shoulders. The fabric moves faintly with the ship’s hum, regal only because of who wears it. He looks more soldier than king, broad-shouldered and battle-worn, and there’s something about the way he holds himself, grounded, tired, still, that tells you this is a man who didn’t want a throne, but took it because no one else could.

He watches you enter with a silence that’s hard to read. Not cold. But not soft either.

You step forward slowly, letting each movement carry the weight of your station. You’ve been trained for this. You’ve greeted foreign sovereigns before. On Eternia, you would have arrived to applause and ceremonial fanfare. Here, your arrival was quiet. Measured. Observed.

You stop at the base of the steps leading to the throne and, instinctively, begin to kneel, one hand crossing to your chest in the formal Eternian salute, eyes lowered.

But before you can finish the bow, his voice cuts in.

“Don’t.”

You freeze. His voice is quiet but firm. Not unkind. But direct. He rises from the throne, cape trailing behind him as he steps down the stairs, no hesitation, no ceremony, just clean, purposeful motion. He closes the distance between you in three strides, raising a hand and placing it lightly on your shoulder.

“You don’t have to kneel,” he says. His tone is even, but not dismissive. Not casual. There’s weight behind it, like every word he chooses is one he’s already thought through twice.

You straighten slowly, eyes lifting to meet his.

He’s taller than you expected. Close, you can see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, faint, but there. The wear of leadership, of too many choices made under pressure, too many lives balanced on decisions no one trained him to make.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d expect,” you admit, voice low. “On Eternia, greeting a sovereign requires a formal bow.”

Mark’s expression shifts just slightly, more thoughtful than amused. “I didn’t ask to be a sovereign.”

His hand drops back to his side. He steps back, just enough to give you space again. But his eyes stay on you.

“I’m not interested in pageantry. Or reverence. Just honesty. You’ll get that from me, if I get the same from you.”

You nod slowly. “Then we understand each other.”

“Good,” he says. Still watching you. Still studying you, not in the way some rulers do, looking for weaknesses, but with something more complicated. Appraisal. Curiosity. Maybe even caution. “You’re the first Eternian to set foot in this part of space since the restructuring. I wasn’t sure anyone from your system would come.”

You don’t blink. “You weren’t the only one uncertain.”

That earns the ghost of a smile. Barely there. But it softens the edge of his gaze.

He turns then, walking toward the far edge of the throne room where the windows stretch floor to ceiling, revealing the black canvas of deep space outside. Stars flicker against the glass. Beyond them, war-torn systems are still reeling from the collapse of the old Viltrumite regime.

Mark’s voice is quieter when he speaks again. “I don’t want another war. But I’m not naïve enough to think peace just happens because I say the word.”

You move to stand beside him. The space between you feels neutral now. Not hostile. Not comfortable. Just… new.

“You rule over worlds that remember Thragg,” you say carefully. “You wear the same crest. How many of them believe you’re different?”

He glances sideways at you. Doesn’t bristle. Doesn’t deny it.

“Not enough,” he admits. “But I didn’t take this job because I wanted to be liked. I took it so no one like him ever holds power again.”

You watch him for a beat. “And do your people believe in that?”

Mark leans slightly forward, eyes on the stars.

“They don’t have to believe in me,” he says. “They just have to know I won’t stop.”

You’re quiet for a moment.

“My people sent me here to see if you’re worth trusting.”

His head tilts slightly, just enough to show he’s listening.

“And what do you think?” he asks.

You meet his gaze again. “I haven’t decided.”

That earns a second flicker of a smile. This time a little sharper.

“Good,” he says. “Neither have I.”

“I’ve heard of the warrior they call the Defender of Eternia,” Mark says, his voice steady, warm, but unembellished. “It’s an honor to finally meet you.”

There’s no posturing in the way he says it. No feigned flattery or diplomatic filler. Just genuine acknowledgment, delivered with the blunt, sincerity that defines so much of who he is. You’d expected formality. Maybe even distance. But not this.

Your cheeks warm before you can stop it. Not from fluster, Eternian warriors don’t fluster, but from something closer to being seen. Not as a symbol. Not as a representative. But as a fighter. As yourself.

You lift your chin slightly, proud and steady. “The honor is mine, Mark. Your victories against Thragg and your efforts to reform the Viltrumite Empire precede you.”

You keep your tone measured, as etiquette demands. But you don’t say it just to flatter. You mean it. You read the war records. You saw the footage from Robot, grainy and brutal, Mark Grayson holding Thragg by the throat inside of the Sun. You studied the political transitions that followed, the restructuring of the council, the negotiations with surviving systems. You know how hard it is to change something that never wanted to bend.

You respect that. Deeply.

His expression shifts, just slightly, but enough to catch.

The faint lines around his mouth ease. One brow ticks up. Then comes the grin, not wide, not cocky, but real. Surprised. Maybe even a little disarmed.

“Wasn’t sure how Eternians felt about me,” he says. “Most off-world reports focus on the bloodshed.”

You match his honesty. “They do.”

He huffs a short breath, more sigh than laugh. “Figures.”

“But I looked further than the headlines,” you add. “Not everyone conquers an empire and then tries to make it better.”

He holds your gaze for a moment, weighing your words. You can see it in his eyes, he’s heard enough false praise from planetary diplomats to spot the difference. But you’re not here to impress him. And maybe that’s why he believes you.

His grin fades, replaced by something quieter. Thoughtful. His arms cross lightly over his chest as he leans back just slightly, still watching you like he hasn’t quite figured you out.

“You’re not what I expected either,” he admits.

You tilt your head slightly. “What did you expect?”

Mark shrugs. “Someone stiff. Polished. All ceremony, no edge.”

A small smirk tugs at your lips. “I left the polished ones back home. They don’t ride winged beasts into orbit.”

He laughs at that, fully this time. It’s a brief sound, but real. Unforced. He glances away for a second, running a hand through his hair, like he’s trying to shake the moment off before it sticks too much.

You take the opportunity to study him closer. His shoulders are tense beneath the fabric of his uniform, but not with aggression. More like a man used to holding tension he no longer bothers to hide. His eyes are sharp, clear, but carry something older behind them. The burden of memory. Responsibility. Regret he doesn’t talk about.

“You came alone,” he says then, quieter now. “That’s rare. Even among envoys.”

“My people trust me to speak for them,” you say. “And to defend myself, if it comes to that.”

Mark nods slowly, something like approval flickering across his face. “You’ll fit in fine here.”

You raise a brow. “Is that your way of welcoming me?”

He shrugs. “It’s the Viltrumite version. We’re not great with warm receptions.”

“No,” you say, allowing the edge of a smile. “But you’re trying.”

That makes him look at you again, longer this time. More searching. Not calculating. Just… curious. As if he’s not sure how you’ll fit into the complicated machinery of everything he’s built. And maybe he’s not sure if he wants you to fit. Or if he just wants you to stay exactly as you are.

Either way, he nods once more and gestures to the archway behind the throne. “There’s a lot to show you. The capital, the council, the things that don’t make it into reports.”

You don’t hesitate. “Then let’s begin.”

He walks beside you, not in front. Not leading. And not quite following either. Just there.

You catch yourself wondering, quietly, what kind of man keeps a crown this reluctantly. And how much longer he’ll carry it alone.

The corridor stretches wide and quiet ahead of you, lit by soft overhead panels that cast a pale glow across the polished floor. The ship’s hum is a distant presence under your boots, deep and constant, like a low heartbeat. You walk beside Emperor Mark Grayson, the silence between you no longer awkward, just full. Considerate. Like you’re both trying to feel out the shape of this conversation before stepping too far into it.

He keeps pace easily, hands loose at his sides, his red and gray uniform fitting him like it was made for motion rather than ceremony. The white fur-lined cloak drapes from his shoulders, regal but not flashy. You realize it matches him, formal enough for a throne room, but nothing about it screams extravagance. Just authority, worn without effort.

“So,” he says, glancing over at you with a faint tilt of his head. “How was the journey?”

You exhale slowly, letting the tension start to slide off your shoulders. “Long. And quiet. Too many stars. Not enough wind.”

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “That sounds poetic. Or miserable.”

You huff a dry laugh. “A bit of both.”

He smiles at that, barely there, but warmer than you expected. The kind of smile that sneaks up on his face before he can stop it. It fades as quickly as it came, but the ease of it lingers in the air between you.

“My brother, Adam, he’s king of Eternia now,” you begin, voice softer but steady. “He sent me here. Said there might be common ground between our worlds. That our values, honor, strength, discipline, might actually align with what the Viltrumites are trying to become under your rule.”

Mark’s expression doesn’t shift, but something behind his eyes sharpens, attention tightening.

“He asked me to represent Eternia,” you go on, watching the way his shoulders stay square, but his jaw ticks ever so slightly. “And I accepted. Gladly.”

You look ahead as you speak, the words more honest than diplomatic. “It wasn’t a hard choice. I’ve seen the footage. Read the reports. I know what Thragg was. What the Empire was. But it’s what it’s becoming now that interests us.”

Mark’s voice is quieter when he speaks again. “Most people still think we’re the same. Just with a new face on the throne.”

You stop walking for a second. “Are you?”

He turns to face you, then, really looks at you. Not like you’re a diplomat or a symbol. Just a person. A warrior. One who asked a fair question.

“No,” he says. “I’m not.”

He draws in a slow breath, like the words coming next aren’t ones he says often, maybe not to anyone.

“After Thragg, there was a vacuum. The council didn’t know what to do. Half the commanders still thought conquest was the answer, and the rest were too afraid to change anything. So I stepped in. Not because I wanted the title, but because I knew if I didn’t, someone else would, someone worse.”

He speaks like someone who’s already seen too much. Someone who’s tired, but still holding himself up for everyone else’s sake.

“I’ve been trying to lead differently,” he says. “Justice. Mercy. Accountability. I’m not perfect. But I’m doing what I can.”

You’re quiet for a second. Then your voice softens, but not out of pity.

“Eternia respects warriors who fight for justice,” you say, meeting his gaze. “If you lived among us, Mark, you'd be honored for that.”

The moment hangs.

Something flickers in his expression, something almost vulnerable. His shoulders draw back a fraction, but his gaze doesn’t drop. It stays locked with yours, like he’s trying to decide if what you just said is real. If he can let himself believe it.

You didn’t mean for it to hit that hard. But you’re not the kind of person who says things you don’t mean.

And maybe that’s why it lands the way it does.

“You say that like it’s simple,” he says finally, voice quieter now. Almost careful.

“It’s not,” you reply. “But it’s true.”

The corridor is still, but the energy between you shifts, like tension, but not uncomfortable. Just… charged. There’s heat beneath your skin, the kind that has nothing to do with proximity and everything to do with awareness. You notice the way his fingers flex slightly at his side, like he wants to reach for something and isn’t sure if he should.

And he notices you noticing.

He takes a slow step forward, not looming, not close enough to crowd you, but closer than before. The scent of him hits you now, faint but distinct, clean, warm, a mix of metal and something deeply human. The air between you feels thin.

“You’re different from the others we’ve dealt with,” he says.

“Good different?” you ask lightly, lifting an eyebrow.

A corner of his mouth curves. “Dangerous different.”

You raise your chin, letting that land. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

“I didn’t say that.”

There’s a flicker of something else in his eyes now. Not caution. Not wariness.

Interest.

He looks at you like he’s trying to figure out what to do with this…you, this warrior who stepped onto his ship and didn’t flinch. Who praised him without an angle. Who matched his intensity with your own, and didn’t blink when he let the walls slip for half a second.

You take a breath. The tension lingers in your chest, behind your ribs, not uncomfortable, just sharp.

Mark finally exhales, and some of that heat in his expression tempers, though it doesn’t disappear. He nods toward the end of the corridor. “Come on,” he says. “The council chamber’s this way. You should see the view. It’s the only thing out here that reminds me there’s still beauty in the galaxy.”

You walk beside him again, shoulders brushing now and then in the narrow space.

You don't say anything about it.

Neither does he.

But neither of you steps away.

You stop at the edge of the observation deck, the stars stretching wide in front of you, scattered like shattered light across the dark. The ship hums faintly under your boots, but otherwise the room is silent, too silent for a space this big. You and Mark stand shoulder to shoulder, the air between you warm with the kind of tension that isn't hostile. Just full. Quiet. Unresolved.

Mark exhales slowly. Not tired. Just... careful.

“People think I wanted this,” he says. “The title. The power. But I didn’t. I was trying to stop Thragg, not... take his place.”

You glance at him, the seriousness in his voice cutting through the formality that had clung to the edges of the conversation until now.

“But then he was gone. And someone had to keep everything from falling apart. So I stayed. I didn’t have a choice, really. Or maybe I did, and I just couldn’t walk away.”

You understand that. Too well.

“I was raised to fight,” you say. “To protect my people. To carry legacy and command and expectation like it was part of my spine. There wasn’t time for anything else. Not really.”

Mark looks at you then.

“I get that,” he says, his voice low, steady. “I didn’t grow up thinking I’d be a leader. I didn’t even know what being Viltrumite meant until I was seventeen. But now I’m here, and every choice I make has weight. Every mistake I make costs something.”

You nod. “It gets lonely.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It really does.”

There’s a pause.

Then you both glance at each other at the same time, and when your eyes meet, there’s something between you that wasn’t there before. Not exactly trust. Not yet. But understanding. Respect. Recognition.

And something else.

Mark’s gaze lingers, just a second longer than it should. He doesn’t look away.

You don’t either.

He clears his throat a little. “I’ve got two kids.”

You blink, the tone shift catching you slightly off guard. “Really?”

He gives a small smile. Not forced. Just… real.

“Yeah. My daughter, Terra, she’s seven. Lives on Earth most of the time with her mom. She visits when she can. And Marky, my son… he stays here. He’s eight. Smart as hell. Stubborn as hell, too. Which I guess he gets from me.”

You can’t help the way your lips curve. “So you’re not just holding the galaxy together, you’re also doing homework help.”

Mark laughs under his breath. “Basically. Yesterday he asked me why the gravity stabilizers don’t rotate, and when I didn’t have an answer, he told me to Google it. On a ship that doesn’t even use the internet.”

You smile, and it feels… different this time. Not formal. Not diplomatic. Just soft. Human.

“You must be proud,” you say.

“I am,” he says, without hesitation. “They’re the reason I haven’t completely lost it up here.”

He glances sideways again, and his voice drops slightly, lower, rougher, less guarded.

“I don’t really get to talk like this with people. Usually it’s meetings. Reports. Everyone watching their words. But you... you’re just saying what you mean.”

“I’ve had enough of politics,” you say. “I don’t know how to be anything but honest.”

Mark nods slowly. “That’s rare.”

The silence between you stretches again, but this time it’s comfortable. Almost warm.

Then, his eyes on the stars, voice quieter now, he says, “You’re easy to talk to.”

You glance at him. “So are you.”

That gets a small breath of laughter out of him, like he’s surprised. “Not what people usually say about me.”

You tilt your head. “Maybe they’re not listening.”

His eyes flick to yours. And stay there.

It’s subtle. The shift in his expression. But it’s there. Like he’s just now realizing how close you’re standing. Like maybe he’s wondering the same thing you are, that if you both weren’t carrying the weight of entire worlds, this conversation might be going somewhere else.

He doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t say anything bold.

But the way his gaze drops briefly to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes? That says plenty.

You feel the moment hover. Real. Unspoken.

And then, gently, Mark breaks it.

“Come on,” he says, his voice back to that low steadiness. “Secondary wing’s this way. I’ll show you the view. It’s not Eternia, but… it’s quiet. Sometimes that’s enough.”

You follow.

And when your arms brush as you fall into stride beside him again, neither of you pulls away.

Mark leads you through a smaller archway tucked behind the main council hall, one you might’ve missed if he hadn’t known exactly where it was. The ship grows quieter as you walk, the walls giving way to wide panes of tinted glass, warm light bleeding in from a carefully simulated sun. The atmosphere shifts here, not colder, not exactly, but gentler. Less imperial.

He taps something on a wall panel, and the doors slide open into a terrace.

The space is open, designed like a garden with precision more than nature, sleek flowering plants in elevated beds, the petals bioluminescent, glowing faintly against the warm metal of the walls. There’s greenery here, soft and cultivated, trimmed into smooth lines. A central tree, tall, wide-branched, arches toward the transparent ceiling. Simulated sky glows violet-blue above it, stars twinkling faintly, as though the ship remembers what the sky was supposed to look like.

Mark gestures to a long bench beneath the tree, then to the open edge of the terrace where the railing overlooks space.

“Council keeps forgetting this place exists,” he says. “I had them build it a year ago, somewhere people could go without talking about galactic disputes or casualty projections.”

You glance around, slowly. “It’s… beautiful.”

He nods. “Not as impressive as flying horses, probably.”

That earns him a look. “Swift Wind is not a horse.”

Mark holds up a hand, mock-serious. “Right. My apologies.”

A Viltrumite attendant steps through a side panel without fanfare, silent and efficient. He bows his head once, then offers a sleek tray with two slender glasses of an amber-colored liquid that glows faintly, like sunlight caught in syrup. Mark thanks him with a brief nod.

You accept one of the glasses, lifting it with a curious frown and sniffing the rim.

It’s sweet. Floral, almost. Faintly citrus and something warmer, deeper, like stone fruit and spice.

“It’s called vireel,” Mark says, watching you over the rim of his own glass. “Traditional celebration drink. Some Viltrumites say it boosts endurance. Others say it makes people too honest.”

You arch a brow. “Which one are you hoping for?”

His grin is slow, careful. “I’ll let you surprise me.”

You take a sip. The taste blooms on your tongue, smooth and vibrant, with just enough bite to make you take a second, smaller sip after.

You smile. “I like it.”

Mark leans against the railing beside you, arm draped loosely, glass in one hand, watching the slow trail of a comet outside the window as it drifts through a curve of nearby stars. He doesn’t press. Just lets the silence stretch long enough that when he finally speaks, it feels natural.

“What’s life like on Eternia?”

You exhale through your nose, the smile still tugging at your mouth even as your gaze grows distant.

“It’s… green,” you say, softly. “Vast. Wild, but shaped by history. The skies are layered, there’s the surface, then the floating plateaus above that, and then the higher temples, where the light breaks like glass when the moons align.”

Mark hums quietly. He’s not looking at the stars anymore. He’s looking at you.

“The cities are made of stone and gold,” you continue. “But not heavy. Everything’s built to breathe. We have libraries carved into mountain faces, rivers that run through entire provinces without needing to be redirected. And the royal court sits atop Castle Grayskull, surrounded by warriors and scholars and advisors who’ve known me since I could walk.”

Your fingers run absently along the edge of your glass.

“I was raised in it. Duty came before everything. My sword was forged before I was given a crown. I led my first campaign when I was sixteen, against an uprising of warlords that had been terrorizing the desert provinces. I haven’t stopped leading since.”

Mark doesn’t say anything. But you can feel his attention like heat. Steady. Grounded.

“There’s beauty there. Deep beauty. But sometimes…” You pause, just for a breath. “It’s easy to forget it when you’re always bracing for the next battle.”

There’s a silence that follows. Not heavy. But honest.

Mark takes a sip of his drink. Then says, “Sounds like you never had much room to be anything but a symbol.”

You glance over, surprised by the accuracy of it. But you don’t correct him. Because he’s right.

“I was taught that sacrifice defines greatness,” you say. “That selflessness isn’t a choice, it’s the requirement.”

He leans forward a little on the railing, gaze softening.

“And is that what you believe?”

You turn your eyes back toward the stars.

“I think… I haven’t had time to believe anything else.”

For a moment, the quiet stretches again. You feel him beside you, close, but not imposing. Just present. The heat of his arm a few inches from yours. The subtle smell of him, clean, warm, the faint spice of the vireel still lingering.

Mark’s voice is quieter when he speaks again. Not uncertain. Just sincere.

“That kind of strength,” he says, “people assume it means you don’t feel the weight. But I know better.”

You look at him again. And this time, you don’t look away. His expression holds no pity. No overfamiliarity. Just… admiration. Quiet and honest.

And something else. Something in the way his gaze flicks to your mouth for the briefest second before returning to your eyes. Something that makes your pulse thrum a little louder in your throat.

You wonder if he notices. You suspect he does.

“Do you ever get tired?” he asks. It’s a simple question. But the way he says it, low, almost intimate, makes it feel like he’s asking more than what’s on the surface.

You nod slowly. “Yes.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that answer for you.

“Me too.”

You don’t touch.

But you both lean just a little closer.

And in the hum of the ship and the glow of the stars and the taste of something sweet and unfamiliar still on your tongue, you know something’s changed between you.

Not fully spoken.

Not yet.

But real.

The light from the simulated sky pours in low and golden across the terrace, casting long shadows under the glowing branches of the central tree. You and Mark lean quietly against the sleek railing, the hum of the ship a faint, ever-present heartbeat beneath your heels. For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

When you finally do, your tone is thoughtful. Uncalculated.

“You mentioned Earth before. What was it like? Your life… before all this.”

Mark lets out a breath, a short one. “Messy,” he says, mouth tugging into something between a smirk and a sigh. “Normal, I guess. I had school, friends, a mom who worked too much. I didn’t even know I was Viltrumite until my powers kicked in. One day I was trying to pass math, the next I was flying through buildings.”

You blink at him. He’s not exaggerating, but he’s not being performative, either. Just stating facts the way someone does when they’ve had to retell their origin story more times than they can count.

“You didn’t want any of this,” you say.

Mark glances sideways at you, then back out at the stars. “No. I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, softly. “That you had to make that kind of choice.”

Mark looks over at you again, eyes steady.

“Don’t be. I made it. And I’ll keep making it. It’s just… not easy.”

You fall into silence again, and it’s natural. Not awkward. Just full.

But the curiosity that’s been lingering at the edge of your thoughts finally escapes before you can think better of it.

“Your people call you Emperor,” you say slowly, politely. “Does that mean… there is an Empress by your side?”

It’s not meant to be a pointed question. Where you come from, a ruler of his status usually has a consort. It's protocol. Expected. The assumption is innocent. But the effect is not.

Mark’s expression stills. Not dramatically. Just a flicker, a pause in his breath, a subtle tightening in the set of his jaw.

You regret it instantly. But his eyes find yours again, and when he sees your sincerity, your open curiosity with no hidden meaning, something in his shoulders eases.

“There was someone,” he says, voice quieter now. Honest. “Her name was Eve.”

He glances down at his glass. Doesn’t drink from it.

“We met in high school. She had powers too. We fought together. Grew up together. I loved her. We went through everything, the worst of it, side by side.”

You place your hand gently on his forearm. Not intruding. Just… there.

Mark doesn’t move away.

“She’s the strongest person I’ve ever known,” he says. His voice is calm, but there’s a rawness beneath it, like he’s repeating something he’s practiced how to say without letting it hurt too much.

“But after the war with Thragg, things changed. I stayed out here to rebuild the Empire. She stayed on Earth. And eventually…”

He exhales, gaze drifting out past the stars.

“We stopped making time for each other. Started making choices on our own. And the longer that went on, the more we realized we weren’t on the same path anymore.”

You don’t speak. You just listen.

Mark looks down at your hand on his arm, then back up at you.

“She’s not a bad person. I’m not either. Sometimes you just grow in opposite directions.”

There’s no bitterness in the way he says it. Just a quiet acceptance. The kind that’s taken time to arrive at.

You nod. “That’s… a hard thing to come to terms with.”

Mark’s lips twitch faintly. Not quite a smile. “Harder than any war I’ve been in.”

You both stand there for a while, the quiet between you filling with unspoken thoughts.

There’s a new silence in Mark now. Not the kind that comes from restraint. The kind that happens when someone allows themselves to be seen and isn’t punished for it.

You feel it too.

The heat of his body near yours. The tension that’s no longer political, no longer formal. Just… charged. Present.

He looks at you again, gaze lingering just a second longer than before. You feel it settle behind your ribs.

“She would’ve liked you,” he says, voice low.

“Oh?” you ask.

“She had a smart instinct for people. Especially the good ones.”

Your pulse kicks, and he notices.

But he doesn’t press.

He just stays beside you, letting the silence stretch, close, familiar, maybe even a little dangerous.

And when his hand brushes against yours as he shifts, just barely, he doesn’t pull away.

Neither do you.

Your hand tightens slightly around Mark’s forearm. It’s deliberate, more than just politeness, less than a declaration. A brave gesture, given how tightly you were taught to keep yourself in check. Your thumb brushes once, instinctively, like your body wants to memorize the heat of him before your mind catches up.

Mark doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t tense. But you feel the way his body stills. Like something in him has shifted just slightly off balance, recalibrating to this new contact. His eyes stay on you, unreadable in that particular way of his, blunt, but not unkind. Always looking straight through you.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “In Eternia, duty often asks us to sacrifice our own hearts’ desires too.”

He doesn’t say anything. Not right away. And the silence he gives you isn’t cold. It’s weight-bearing. Like he knows how heavy this is for you, and he’s giving you room to carry it.

You look down, suddenly aware of the vulnerability in your posture, how open you feel with nothing to hide behind but your own honesty.

“I’ve never had a bond like that,” you admit, voice lower now. More breath than sound. “I was raised for duty above all else. For service. Strength. Everything I am, everything I’ve been, is built around what I can do for others.”

You swallow, gaze fixed on the floor between you. “I don’t fully know what it means to love someone. Not in the way you did.”

That silence again. But heavier now. You can feel his gaze on you. When he speaks, his voice is quieter than before, rougher, like he’s trying to say something simple without making it sound easy.

“I didn’t either,” he says. “Not at first.”

You glance up. He’s looking at you now, not with pity, not with some hollow attempt at comfort. But with a kind of focused interest that makes your chest tighten. Makes the warmth in your belly start to build slowly, steadily.

“I screwed up a lot,” he continues. “Even when I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought love would just fit around everything else, my powers, the wars, the empire.”

His mouth quirks, but there’s no humor in it.

“It doesn’t.”

You let out a breath. “And yet, you had it.”

“Yeah,” Mark says, quieter. “For a while. I knew what it felt like to be seen. To have someone want you, even when you’re tired. When you’ve bled. When you don’t have anything polished left to offer.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t mean to, but your fingers move again, just slightly, pressing into his forearm like you’re grounding yourself in the heat of his body.

He notices. You know he does.

And when his eyes meet yours again, there’s something new there. Low and steady and unmistakable.

Tension.

It’s not overt. Not theatrical. But it hums in the space between you, coiled and waiting. It’s in the way he doesn’t pull back, in the way his voice drops just enough to slide under your skin.

“I think,” Mark says slowly, “if you’ve made it this far without losing who you are, then you’ve already got the hardest part figured out.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What part is that?”

His gaze flicks down. Once. To your mouth.

Then back up.

“Letting someone get close enough to matter.”

That’s when the air thickens.

You’re still touching him. He’s still too close for this to be innocent. And yet, he hasn’t moved. Because Mark Grayson doesn’t make the first move when the moment’s unearned. He doesn’t need to push.

He just waits. Watches. Stays. Like he knows if something’s going to happen, it’s going to be real. And earned. And worth it.

You pull your hand back slowly, fingers trailing along his arm as if reluctant to let go entirely. The connection breaks, but the heat remains, settled under your skin, in the space between you like static clinging to breath. You take a slow sip of the vireel, letting the sweetness cool the sharp edge blooming in your chest. Mark watches you, still half-turned, still close.

You let the silence stretch, just a bit, before tipping your head toward him, voice light but edged with challenge.

“You know,” you say, “for someone who talks about duty and legacy and responsibility like it’s all that matters, you carry yourself like someone who could split a planet in half.”

He quirks a brow, lips twitching at the corner. “You saying I look violent?”

“I’m saying,” you murmur, drawing the words out, “you’re holding a lot back.”

Mark huffs through his nose. “You don’t want to see what I look like when I’m not holding back.”

You raise your glass again, tilting your head. “I’m not afraid of strength.”

“No,” he says, eyes darkening slightly. “I can tell.”

Your stomach flips.

There’s something in the way he says it. Not teasing. Not mocking. Just observant. Careful. Like he’s trying to decide if he’s imagining the undercurrent here, or if it’s real. If you feel it too.

You lean casually against the railing beside him, glass balanced in your hand.

“So what’s it like?” you ask, a little softer now. “Raising two Viltrumite children while trying to reshape the empire?”

Mark breathes out a laugh, the kind that sounds a little tired but no less real.

“Marky’s a handful,” he admits. “Strong. Smart. Smarter than me, honestly. He’s already asking questions I don’t have answers to. And Terra…”

His voice shifts when he says her name, subtler, more grounded.

“She’s got Eve’s heart. Mine too, unfortunately. Stubborn as hell. But sweet. Loyal.”

You smile, something warm unfurling in your chest.

“Sounds like they have a lot of you in them.”

Mark looks at you, more serious now. “I hope they end up better than me.”

You tilt your head again, teasing gently. “Tough standard to beat. Galaxy-saving Emperor. Former war hero. Probably strong enough to lift a starship.”

He scoffs. “Now you’re just flattering me.”

“I don’t flatter.”

The look he gives you then, half grin, half dare, sends a ripple of heat down your spine.

You let it linger. Then, slowly, you set your glass on the railing.

“Tell me something.”

Mark raises an eyebrow.

“You’ve gone toe-to-toe with Thragg. Led battles across half the known systems. Rebuilt an empire.” You smile, sly now. “But how are you with a blade?”

That gets a real reaction. He leans in a little, not enough to touch, but close enough that you feel the shift in air, the quiet flare of something waking up between you.

“Depends on who’s holding the other one,” he says.

“I’m not just a ceremonial warrior,” you murmur. “I’ve trained since I could walk. My sword’s seen more battlefields than most living people.”

Mark’s eyes flicker. Not in doubt. In recognition.

“And I’ve never sparred with a Viltrumite before,” you continue. “Not properly.”

Mark’s grin is sharp now. Not cruel. Just excited.

“So you’re asking if I want to fight you?”

“I’m asking,” you say, stepping a breath closer, “if you’re willing to see what happens when you stop holding back.”

The tension tightens instantly, like a line pulled taut between your bodies.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer right away.

But his gaze drops, just briefly, to your mouth. Then back up to your eyes. His voice, when it comes, is lower than before.

“You sure that’s the reason you want to spar?”

You meet his stare evenly, your pulse loud now behind your ribs.

“You tell me.”

Mark lets the silence hang.

“I’ll clear the training deck.”

And the way he says it, quiet, calm, already certain, makes your breath catch.

Not because you’re nervous.

Because you want him to stop holding back, too.

Because you're starting to want to see what he looks like when he's not guarding every edge of himself.

The training deck is silent except for the low hum of the containment field overhead and the soft creak of your heels against the reinforced metal floor. You're already moving with purpose, cape trailing behind you, gold boots gleaming with each step. The Sword of Protection rests against your shoulder, humming faintly, pulsing with the quiet, living energy of Eternia itself. You stand tall, chin lifted, body relaxed, though every muscle is ready to spring.

Across the chamber, Mark watches you, not leering, not even appraising in the usual way. No, his gaze is different. Analytical. Focused. The way a tactician watches the moment before battle, measuring the distance between two stars before launching a war.

You don’t shy away from that look. If anything, you meet it head-on.

“Don’t worry,” you say with a light smile. “This isn’t a duel to the death. Unless Viltrumite diplomacy has changed since I read your files.”

Mark doesn’t smile, but there’s a faint flicker of amusement behind his expression. “We don’t kill our guests,” he says, tone flat but not unkind. “Unless they give us a reason.”

You laugh, stepping onto the center mat. “Good thing I’m here to be friendly, then. Think of this as... a cultural exchange.”

Mark steps forward, his cape fluttering faintly behind him. He’s not wearing armor, doesn’t need to. The fabric of his suit stretches tightly over his shoulders and chest, every inch of him built for destruction and survival. His pace is steady, deliberate.

“You’re stronger than you look,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “And you already look strong. What exactly are you trying to prove?”

“Nothing,” you reply, turning your sword once in your grip before lowering it to your side. “But I figure if we're going to talk about trust, we should start with what really matters. Power. Control. How far each of us can go without hurting the other.”

His eyes narrow. That gets his attention.

You hold up your free hand. “Don’t worry. No magic tricks. Just strength.”

He nods once. “Alright. Friendly.”

You don’t shake hands. There’s no countdown. No signal. Just a moment of silence, and then motion.

He comes at you first, no frills, no speed tricks. Just a clean, straight jab aimed at your midsection. You block it with your forearm, steel bracing against his strength. The impact jolts up your spine. He’s holding back. You can feel it.

You push off, driving your shoulder forward to counter, and he steps aside with a short, efficient pivot. His movements are tight, experienced. There’s no wasted motion. You’ve sparred with knights, sorcerers, even demi-gods, but this is different. Mark fights like someone who’s been training since he was a kid, someone who’s seen the cost of losing too many times to accept it now.

You slash the blade upward, not to cut, but to test his speed. He ducks, pivots around you, and you feel the rush of air behind your back as he circles close.

“Faster than I thought,” he mutters.

“Careful,” you say, spinning, sword back in guard position. “Flattery makes me want to win more.”

He chuckles once, a dry sound. “Good. I want to see what winning even looks like for you.”

This time you both move at once.

Your sword meets his forearm with a sharp clang, and he grabs the flat of the blade, stopping it with sheer strength. The force of the collision sends a ripple of vibration down your arms, but you don’t pull back. You twist, wrench the blade free, and slide forward with a low kick aimed at sweeping him off his feet. He hops it easily, flips back, and lands in a crouch.

You take a breath. So does he. No one’s bleeding. No one’s bruised. Yet.

“I’m surprised,” he says, rising again. “You’ve got finesse. You’re not just swinging that thing around.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I trained with swordmasters. Learned how to disarm someone without leaving a blow.”

Mark straightens, rolling one shoulder. “Viltrumites don’t learn that way. You either survive the training or you don’t.”

You frown slightly. “That sounds... lonely.”

He pauses. “It is.”

There’s something in his voice, quiet, buried under layers of command and duty. But it’s there. You store that away, then flash him a grin.

“Well then,” you say. “Let’s make this less lonely.”

You dart in again, sword high, feinting left then spinning low. He catches the trick, but you still manage to close the distance, the flat of your blade pressing lightly against the base of his throat before he can fully recover. It’s not a win. But it’s a point.

He looks down at the edge of your sword, then back up to meet your eyes.

“Nice,” he says. “Didn’t expect you to close in like that.”

“Part of the charm,” you say, stepping back and lowering the blade. “Care to go another round?”

He straightens, brushing his thumb against the spot your blade had rested. “Yeah,” he says, a slow smile forming at last. “I think I do.”

And so it continues, back and forth, blow for blow, parry for parry. Neither of you looking to dominate, just to understand. Each clash is a wordless sentence, a question and a response. The test of strength becomes a conversation, and in every strike, you learn something new.

About him.

About yourself.

Your heels slide lightly across the polished Viltrumite alloy, the hum of the containment field above now a familiar pulse at the edge of your hearing. The Sword of Protection gleams faintly in your hand, though you haven’t needed to strike with it in minutes. You’re already winning, slowly, piece by piece, without ever landing a decisive blow.

And Mark knows it.

He won’t say it, of course. He’s still standing tall, chin up, posture measured with the ease of someone who’s been Invincible too long to imagine losing. But his attacks are sharper now. Less precise. His counters a fraction late. That slight exhale he just released? Frustration.

You pace across from him again, chest rising and falling with controlled breath, strands of hair stuck to the sweat across your forehead. The high-cut white dress clings tighter now, but you don’t notice. You’re too focused. Reading every shift in his stance. Every twitch of muscle under his royal uniform.

Mark rolls his shoulders slowly, not to loosen up, just to buy time. “You’re not fighting like anyone I’ve sparred with before.”

You tilt your head. “Good.”

“No strategy. No formations. But you’re wanting to trap me, aren’t you?”

You shrug. “I’m aiming to learn.”

He gives you a look, the kind that’s not quite skeptical, not quite annoyed. “You’re baiting me. You know that?”

You blink at him, genuinely confused. “Is that bad?”

There’s a pause, longer than it should be. His mouth opens just slightly, then shuts again. Whatever he expected you to say, it wasn’t that.

You step in, fast, and he reacts late. Just enough. The edge of your sword slips under his guard, brushing the inside of his thigh before you pull back. A clean, disarming move. He tenses, not in pain, but in awareness. You don’t even realize what you’ve done until you see his eyes flick downward.

“Oh,” you say quietly. “Was that–rude?”

Mark’s jaw clenches. “No,” he says tightly. “It was effective.”

You back off, uncertain, brow furrowed. “You keep looking at me like I’m doing something wrong.”

“I’m not,” he says. He sounds too fast. Too even. “You’re not.”

You hesitate, sword lowering just slightly. “Then why do you look... distracted?”

He meets your eyes. Dead on. “Because I am.”

You stare at him. The air between you is heavy. Stretched.

“I don’t know what that means,” you admit.

Mark exhales through his nose. “It’s not important. Let’s keep going.”

But it feels important. You’re not sure why.

And you launch forward again, harder, cleaner, faster. His guard is stronger now, focus renewed. But there’s something between your motions now. Something unspoken. Something that flows beneath every feint and step.

You still don’t have a name for it.

But it’s there.

And neither of you lets it go.

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