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purple-1995 · 2 days
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Pedro being his adorable self at red carpet & awards shows
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purple-1995 · 3 days
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The Walking Dead 5.01 — No Sanctuary
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purple-1995 · 6 days
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2x4 | 2x7 | 2x8| Season 3
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purple-1995 · 7 days
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in hightower green— a masterlist.
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The life and lies of the secondborn daughter of Viserys I, twin to Aegon Targaryen II, her rise to power and prominence, and her bountiful marriage to King Jacaerys Velaryon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm.
For her crown, though no conqueror wore, was bathed in the shadows of the silent battles and wars she had won. For the Kingdom and for her lineage. Though she too wore many names, those that knew the stories— or the whispers — called her by others.
The Bastard Eater. The Kingmaker. The Spider Singer. The Emerald Fire.
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+18 MDNI | Jacaerys Velaryon x Manipulative Targaryen!Reader, (Aegon's twin)
。˚ ❀↳˗ˏˋ please make note of the different TWs by each part ˊˎ˗ ↴
♡˗ˏ✎*ೃ˚ : MAIN STORY (chronological order; you can technically read it them each as one shots) ::;˚ ༘♡ ⋆。˚ ❀
I. IN SCALES OF GREEN, DRESSED IN SEA | smut, angst = The honour-bound prince does not want you. Or so he tells himself.
II. IN CLOTH OF BLACK, BABE IN BLOOD | angst, smut = Through all your scheming— you had made a mistake. It is about to cost you everything.
III. IN BASTARDS OF BLUE, WAGER IN WAR | angst, smut PART ONE | PART TWO (coming soon) = When whispers of the dalliance of bastards reach your ears, your vengeance roars for Winterfell.
(cold feet)
。˚ ❀↳˗ˏˋ ADDENDUM STORIES ˊˎ˗ ↴🌸
COLD FEET | fluff | you talk your daughter down from her cold feet.
AU! | A DALLIANCE OF DRAGONS | smut, angst | after your husband betrays you, you turn to your uncle for help.
THE CHILDREN (& LEGACY)
FIC TAG MOODBOARDS | [ The Queen Consort & Gaelithox ]
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Message to be added to the taglist!
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purple-1995 · 7 days
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𝕳𝖊𝖗 𝖌𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖊, 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕼𝖚𝖊𝖊𝖓 𝕮𝖔𝖓𝖘𝖔𝖗𝖙, 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝕲𝖆𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖝
It is said that the moment they met, the cannibalistic hunger met a twin soul. A mirror of the other. 'Till the end of their days, either rider nor dragon recognised another such dragon or rider, for after the Queen had passed, the dragon followed soon after. It is oft regarded that one was not subservient to the other, but moved in mirror as if they breathed under one heart and soul. [ SERIES ]
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purple-1995 · 7 days
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❝The story where your rage nearly tore Winterfell to ashes?❞
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[ You talk your daughter down from her cold feet. ]
[ 1,405 ] [ series masterlist ] | king!jacaerys velaryon x aunt targ!reader (aegon's twin)
contains— canon divergence - fluff, smidge of angst - allusions to warfare, character death(s), infidelity, revenge, manipulative targ!reader - children, arranged marriage, mentions of pregnancy and childbirth - sort of fluff?? bits of angst, toxic as shit hhshs - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.
a/n— a little blurb before the third proper instalment of 'in hightower green' (yes, we now have a masterlist and a series title!!). this is post-the series, & contains a hint on what happens to the third part, which will be a two-parter, cos its heavy and reader goes full gone girl shdjshdhs can't wait to share it!! but for now have a glimpse of the future lol + comment, reblog & like at will, my loves!!
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"I was told that you were on the verge of fainting, but I see you are upright as a horse." A faint smile glimmers on your playful lips as your daughter turns, smiling in an exact replica of how Helaena smiles.
It bursts wildflowers and warmth in your chest as you approach, standing behind her as you take the earrings from her fingers that have been turning them around and around, Nila, the spider whose web you placed by your daughter's, said.
You balance the heavy accessory, before you say, "Let me."
A quiet settles the pair of mother and daughter, the chaos of the feast unable to taint the tranquility provided in her chambers. As you take care in placing the baubles for her ears you press a gentle smile on your face as you gaze upon her on the mirror. Maegella Velaryon is a patchwork creation of your most beloved people, despite being the fourth born daughter and the second triplet, she bore Helaena's smile and Aemond's dusky laughter.
Though there is the Strong features in her jaw and face shape, her eyes and hair are your mother's. The Hightower features you have adored since childhood, the auburn hair and the gentle, round brown eyes.
Your seventh child bears the most resemblance to your Hightower roots, as she is the only one with her grandmother's auburn locks. Sweet orange red, a shimmer of a dying flame.
"I do not know if I am making the right decision, your grace." She breaks the silence, meeting your violet gaze with her gentle brown. She is young, on the verge of her womanhood, while you have aged, a mirror of what visage will soon become. "I understand that the Lord Stark is an honourable man, most auspicious is our arrangement thus far, but..."
"But?"
"I am fearful," she whispers.
There is Aegon in her chin, in her purse lips. It tugs at your heartstrings further at the reminder of your beloved twin.
Your children have always been Aegon's favourite to spoil, but much more your triplet daughters.
"They all look so much like you, sweet sister, even if their colouring is not fully Valyrian," he had said when they were born, snuggled against each other in their sleep much like the two of you when you were newborn babes.
"So they look like you, since we are twins," you teased. He nudged you with an elbow, giggling.
"Yes, exactly." He turned to Maegella, newborn as she is, her hair had been a lighter shade of red orange back then. He runs a finger down her hair and forehead before booping her button nose. "This one has mother's hair."
"And brown eyed. I thought of naming her Alicent, but I digressed. Much too on the nose."
He laughed. "Maybe the next one then, as for sure you will be round with the Strong bastard's babe once more."
Though there was no heat to his tone, you still slapped his arm. It wasn't like he was wrong. You promised Jace you will bring him heirs.
You promised yourself strong babes. Their blood is yours, and they breathe with you.
"Oh, my sweet, darling girl," you say now, smiling gently as you place a coifed, auburn lock back behind strings of pearl that swept up her hair in elegant coils, not unlike fully bloomed roses cinched together. "You are about to make a new life for yourself, there is much to fear. But you are the blood of the dragons. And of the oldest, greatest House in Westeros. And the sea. Which is ancient, and has drowned men in vigour despite her age."
"Just like Vhagar?"
You laugh. "Much like Vhagar when she lived, yes, that old, ferocious girl."
She giggles then sighs as you hold her close to you. Gentle as you are to her wedding attire, a faint, seafoam blue laced white dress. A gift from her father.
You stand straight, something in your expression triggers her own posture to straighten. The visage and orderly manner of a princess coming back to her spine and face.
"No true marriage is a fairytale. Most oft, you have to strangle fate by the throat and conquer your future."
Her eyes widen. "Mother! That sounds ghastly."
"It is." Your laugh isn't what she's used to. It's a breathless, mirthless exhale. A memory so entangled in your mind it weaves about in silvery threads between you. "But my marriage to your father had not always been such a gladdened time."
"I would expect so..." she says hesitantly, wary of every minute change of your expression. "It has been a long marriage, with a heft of babes of your own." Her hand finds yours and squeezes, trying for a jest with a pinch of honesty. "Do not expect the same amount of children from me, your grace. Though the birthing bed is a war all women must face, I have five other sisters to continue your lineage."
You exchange a laugh, pinching her cheek whilst she yelps.
"I cannot fathom birthing the same amount as you have. You are the strongest of us all."
"Your great-great grandmother, The Good Queen Alysanne, named after your sister, bore much more than I, I will remind you so."
She shivers. "Madness it is."
"It is," you agree. "The realm had asked for only two, but I had love your father so. But our marriage... it had almost cost me everything."
"Everything?"
Your smile is flaccid. "My crown, my birthright, my position in your father's life. Everything."
She stands, thoroughly alarmed, spinning to you and holding your arms. "Mother? I have not heard of this before."
"Oh, how can you? You were yet to be born." You run your fingers over her sweet face. Your seventh child. To think you almost lost them all. To think such bastards nearly took everything from you. "Only Daenera and Aemma had been, and I am not sure they can remember it all. They were quite young. And I am furious to tell further, but... but for you, I can. So you might understand that marriage is too, a battle to be won. A prize you must covet. As a dragon, your hoard is your own. Any who dare touch it must pay with fire and blood."
Your chin tips. "Even if sometimes, your enemy is your own spouse."
"Father?" A faint gasps leave her lips. "You are scaring me mother. What story is this?"
A smirk plays on your lips. "The story of how Winterfell almost burnt to the ground."
"What?"
"Rage, my sweet girl, especially born out of a dragon's flame, can raze armies to the ground. We were called conquerors for a reason." You cup her face with your hands. "Though I have not made a promise to your father, I had kept this piece of history deep within the wells of my heart. But for you I shall. To guide you into your marriage, and to comfort you that no matter what happens, no matter what tragedy curses your vows, you are able to control your future. You are no mere wife. Your blood sings above the sheep alike, and with it, a reminder to all that you are a dragon and nothing less."
You release her face, smiling gently, before you tug her to the bed. "We have time for a story, I'm sure. They cannot start it without a queen nor the bride."
"The story where your rage nearly tore Winterfell to ashes?" She frowns. "How does father fare in this?"
"Oh, he had lied to me."
"Father?! Lied?"
You tap her lips. "You must take this story to your bosom. And you must not look at your father any differently. He is changed now. He has kept his vows with much sincerity." Though a certain bitter triumph echoes in your heart at the idea that his own daughter might look at him with hatred.
The years had been kind to you, yes. But by no means have you met it with ease. The crown you bear on your head bore witness to every battle you had won, every war you had forged, and only those who understood its stench know of the blood you had spilled to get it.
And though you have forgiven him long before, the memory sings old embers anew.
"Her name was Sara Snow, and your father had dared..."
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TAGGED: @inkareds @marihoneywk @caterina-caterina @ahristata @xxvelvetxxxx @but-i-write-so-i-must-count @bunbunbl0gs @yazzzmints @bellstwd @hiraethrhapsody
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purple-1995 · 7 days
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❝I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage. I will not be swept aside.❞
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[ The Prince Jacaerys Velaryon should have known his wife better— or at least, her ire, for when his trysts with the bastard Snow reached the Spiders and soon, the ears of his Princess Consort, rage and war drummed for Winterfell, demanding heads.
—Maestre Kevan, Volume IV of The Bastard Eater, passage chapter under 'The Flame that Sung for the North'. ]
[ +18 MDNI ] [ 10,062 ] [ series masterlist ] | jacaerys velaryon x targaryen aunt!reader (aegon's twin sister), one-sided aegon ii x reader, jace x sara snow
contains— canon divergence - manipulative reader, targcest, smut, angst - post-vizzy t death, rhaenyra is queen - mentions of children, pregnancy, childbirth - allusions to infidelity & character death(s) - targaryen madness, revenge, domestic violence (not jace), unhinge behaviour, intense use of 'bastard', profanity, gaslighting, guilt-tripping - this is basically gone girl, you gone girl jace - dark fic - mentions of depression (aegon ii), allusions to suicide (not reader) - nsfw: oral (f receiving), breeding kink, creampie - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.
a/n— i didn't think i was going to do the sara snow thing, but herewe are. also i just wanted an excuse to go absolutely ape shit. reader gets very intense, like thoroughly unhinged. this is literally me supporting women's wrongs. it is also quite insane that this reached 10k and it's still just the first part lmaooo + comment, reblog & like at will!
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"THAT FUCKING BASTARD! THAT GODSDAMNED, WHORE-FUCKING STRONG HALF BREED!"
Your shrieks echo stone and shadow, interrupted only by the things you pick up and hurl. Anything your hands grab, you throw and spit obscenities against, rage and tears ruin your pretty visage. The fury swept past your cherub features, a dragon breaking through the Hightower seams, upending fire and roar from the pits of your being.
"HOW DARE HE?! I GAVE HIM AN HEIR! I BROUGHT HIM PEACE! I BETRAYED—" you roar, pulling your pearl dagger— a gift from your Strong Bastard of a Husband — and throwing it to your vanity mirror, glass shards exploding. "— MY KIN!"
"DAUGHTER, PLEASE!"
Arms wound across your torso—hardened and chain-mail — as you fight against your bounds before a pain flashes to your cheek. Your rage quiets, hard breaths from your lungs. You turn your tear-stained anger to your mother and her palm, fright and terror on her regale visage.
Death of a spouse becomes the Queen Dowager in her pale blue robe and unbound spirals of auburn hair. Peace had begotten a realm that is balanced on the lineage you had produced for the Queen, her heir, and your own, as the new Princess of Dragonstone. With Otto Hightower for evermore banished to Oldtown, Kings Landing had been brought to a flowering kindness.
Queen Rhaenyra's ascension had been a wondrous affair, fit the for the first crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Not a Queen Consort, not a Queen Regent. An heir who rose for the crown always meant to be hers.
But the calamity that brewed in her ascension... no. You paved the peace. T'was you who wrangled the Great Houses that proved allyship to your twin brother's banner, you who blessed her with tranquility of a rule that will be known for ages that will precede you all.
And now her son... her son dared to destroy everything.
A conversation floats above your head, by your Queen Mother and her sworn shield, the Ser Cole, but you barely hear anything past the ringing in your head.
The Targaryen Madness the sheep so call it, an idle voice, faint and familiar, whispers in the niches of your brain. It has infected you so. It breathes, fuelled by the air wrought by your husband's betrayal. It sings, sweet love. It sings.
"—your grace, I urge to hold her—"
"—she is my daughter, Ser Cole, I am not in danger. Release her."
Justice, the voice shrieks? Screams? But it is so soft in your head, a wail of a memory, a woman or a man? must be had. No dragon falls in such disgrace.
The tight wound over your torso is unleashed but the knight is not far, tensed to cage you, when your mother grasps your elbows as you grab hers, nails digging into the thick fabric of her hem that she still winces, your grip steel-tight.
"My darling, please. I cannot help you if you do not speak what ails you." She brushes her hand desperately across your face, smearing your tears, trying to find the daughter she bore past the savagery and madness that beholds you now. "What has happened?"
You draw a tightened, harsh breath to your lungs, rattling your bones that you quiver in your attempt for sanity.
"I am being shamed, mother," you whisper. Stark, violet eyes meeting the worried round, brown of hers. "The Strong bastard is whoring himself to another, a Northern bastard."
A cackle falls your lips as alarmed gazes are exchanged above your head.
"Y-You cannot say such things aloud, sweet girl," your mother hushes your madness, pulling you close to her chest as she shoots a glance at the door.
Criston checks outside, but only your maids linger. Dyanna presses a finger against her lips, catching the knight's eye, and the rest scatter, surely to make sure that no one that need not know of their mistress' words is within reach. A shiver still runs his spine. He will never get used to the quiet, almost non-verbal way your connection worked and reached. Your Spiders weave webs all around, even as their mistress sunders with rage.
"Mayhaps you are mistaken, for sure the prince is loyal, and he adores you—"
You pull back against her, teeth bared. She flinches and Ser Cole steps forward, wary. "It is the third missive now that I have received. Did you think I would not have confirmed twice— thrice? I didn't believe it the first time! But three people have now confirmed that all this time, in the guise of rallying his mother's cause in the North, he is spending ample time with the Lord Stark's bastard sister. His bastard fucking sister!"
Your mother's horror catches that of Ser Criston's, but your fury is your own, you are a dragon trapped in the ruin of your own making, of the webs you had spun so cleverly to get to this point, and you cannot stop.
"I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage, my blood spilled the birthing bed for it." A cry leaves your lips as your grief and rage pools like ichor from your chest to the floor. Alicent is torn away from you— your nails had gone through her robe and she had cried in pain, a mimick of your own, a mother to a daughter to a mother to a daughter, a cycle, an Ouroboros — and you fall to the floor, grasping at your chest.
"I will not be swept aside. I will not be ignored."
A gasp falls from your lips as your mind moves to a quiet, still place. The tremble fades, your rage and grief whirls, collects, as you push it all back inside your chest.
Your madness must be sharpened for it be used as a sword.
And you cannot let him be happy in another's arms.
If you cannot drag them to the Hells, sweet dragon, the idle voice hums, hisses? Screeches. Your ancestors— all of those who have succumbed to dreamy madness — appears in the corners of your vision like soldiers. Awaiting for you to join them. Awaiting the blood that you will spill.
Then you must raise the Hells unto Winterfell.
"...my daughter?" Alicent calls, hesitant. Cole hovers but does not approach, standing guard in protection of the Dowager. It breaks her heart to see you this way, a young woman still, much older than she was when she married but only because you had always sought your future. You had always had a hardened scale, far stronger than she.
Even when you made your entrance to the world— the unmeasurable pain of bringing not one, but two heirs into the world, her firstborns, all at once — you had never cried. The maestres, maids, they worried for you, as your twin brother had not stopped crying, so alive and red, raw from the wound of being fresh.
But you... you had not made a sound.
The entire weight of your being— your mind, your emotions — even then, you wrangled them close to your very centre, never letting them stray too far from the edges of your fingertips. As if any release must be made with a perused thought. An incentive of reason.
Even then, you plotted every step you took.
Now, Alicent watches as her firstborn daughter suctions all her emotions— that Targaryen madness that plagued the blood of her husband, his ancestors — and made her ploy.
Against the husband that dared make a fool of her.
The silence beckons nightmare. Old fear flickers inside the Queen Dowager.
"Where are my daughters?"
"What?"
"My daughters," you repeat, a hair's breadth louder than the first time you spoke. Your eyes flutter upward. The deadened gaze curled Alicent's heart in fear. "Where are they?"
"In the nursery, with the twins and Maelor. Helaena and Aegon are watching them."
You offer your hand up mutely, and Cole exchanges one last, lingering look with the Dowager, before offering his own. You stand up, thank him softly, and brush and clean up your face to the best of your ability. An utter calmness over your visage.
"Tell no one of what I had told you," you say, fixing your hair and rubbing the red from your cheeks. One minute there is madness, the next there is nothing. There is only a girl. A woman. A princess. "No one knows apart the three of us, and if you ever decide, Ser Criston, that nigh is the glorious time for you to betray my mother or I, know that the last thing thing oyu will fear is the Stranger's hand when I am through with you."
Your mother shouts your name, horrified. "What are you thinking? What are you plotting?"
You cup Alicent's face, smiling ever sweet. "Your innocence will keep you safe, mother. All I ask, for the heart you keep for your children, that you keep this between sealed lips and tilted chin. You know nothing, yes?"
"... Yes. Nothing."
You place a tender kiss on your mother's head. "Keep Daenera and Aemma safe for me. Aegon and I are flying to Dragonstone promptly. Sweet Helaena does ever so get overwhelmed by watching all of the children by herself."
"D-Dragonstone?"
Your sweet smile touched with poison, stretches. "It is high time I take a dragon for myself, don't you think so?"
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While an insecure obsession had fraught your younger brother about claiming a dragon, you had met it with indifference.
For how can you not mourn the loss of Aemond's sight, staring in quiet horror the entire time as the maestre did his best to salvage the muck mess of blood and nerve endings, before the old man had shaken his head, and you turned to the small bowl that contained your brother's eye, unable to look at anything else.
Not even when your mother's rage was met with apathy and anger, her demands for justice nothing more than a woman's insanity, a mother's grief that must be swept away, tucked under a chin and a sadness she will never get rid of.
"Do not mourn me, mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon."
Your soft-hearted, darling, baby brother. None of his words had thawed the freezing of your heart, the grief under the swell of your breastbone.
Your own mourning was kept between teeth and tongue, as you had slept with your siblings that night. The four of you, tucked under the wing of the other, Aemond close to your chest as possible, as quiet, hot tears ran down your face. Every moan of pain or whimper he made in his sleep tore at each new vein inside of you.
"Dragons are the symbol of our House's power," Aegon had once said, windswept hair you tried to tame with your fingers, smelling fresh of Sunfyre and winds.
"And yet, there were no eggs in our child beds." He stiffened while you smiled sadly, curling your twin's hair away form his face, making him presentable and dusting the bout of sand that managed to find his leathers. You had been scolded long before by your grandsire of how you coddle Aegon, how you defend him, mother him more than your mother ever could, but you cannot stop. You were meant to care for him, tethered you once were inside your mother's womb together, you hold him steady now.
Whenever he was lost, whenever his sadness overtook him, wrung your brother dry of life, you bat the Stranger's hand and bring him back.
"But we have proved them wrong," he insisted. "All of us, even Aemond with Vhagar— the war queen, Visenya's dragon — we have claimed ours. Daeron all the way Oldtown has Tessarion, even Helaena has Dreamfyre. And yet you insist..."
You wound your arms over his torso, keeping him close in a silly hug where you sway and dance him around. A laugh escaped him while you inhaled the scent of smoke, soot, and that grime stench of beast.
Aegon on his good days lacked the bottle-edge of wine, of cheap salts from the waft of the soiled, Silk Streets.
This was your brother. No one else.
"I fare better without one," you whispered in his ear. "I appear innocent, sweet almost, without a beast in my command. They look at me with nothing but pity and the urge to protect me. Our father likes me like this, his poor, lovely daughter without a dragon of her own, listening so intently to his histories of Old Valyria. Our sister is eased, as one daughter is plagued by dreams and struggles with the real world, while the other cannot even claim a dragon of her own. Poor princess, Hightower blood must have thickened in her veins. She too, is no threat."
You pulled back, smiling at him. "They like me better like this. Pitiful, compliant, nothing but a sweet and pretty flower that sways in the Spring breeze. A beautiful decoration but no more."
He rubbed a thumb on your arm, a worry knot on his forehead. Aegon adored you but he struggled to piece together where your plot lies. You are a web-spinner, forever dancing out of reach, catching prey and lengthening your intricacies. "Is that why you hide your training with Aemond alone? Ser Criston is mother's sworn shield, he would not mind—"
"I will not place my secrecies to a knight with a soiled cloaked," you snorted. "No matter how tall he stands beside our mother. I trust no one but my kin. And I know that no matter how heavy you drink, sweet Aeg of mine, my secrets are your own."
He took your hand, kissing the back of it, stare impregnable. "As your blood is my own, our fire is one flame. I go where you tell me to."
You kissed his cheek, a reward, laughing. He smiles proudly at the sound. At this time, you dangled yourself to your brother as bait as the pressure from your grandsire to make him King started rising. You had been given notice that he had been talking to House Lannister, Wylde, even some Riverland lords.
You did not mind becoming Aegon's second wife. Just as his namesake, he will have his Rhaenys and Visenya. Unlike the Conqueror however, he would adore his Visenya more than a true flower. Helaena would enjoy that far better.
"And if I tell you to jump?" you half-purred.
"I will ask you how high."
Memories and choices break and tide as you scramble for hold on the rocky cliff face. Dragonmont in the dark is a behemoth beast, a screech or two breaking like lightning crackles, or the familiar drum beat of wings before the silence consumes once more. The stench of fire, of beasts and carcasses helps cloak the darkened night.
"Udligon ñuha brōzagon, Answer my call," you hiss into fraudulent emptiness, hands gripping rocky edges until your blood beads, "you fucking lizards."
"Have you gone mad!?"Aegon shouted, trying to pace with your run to the dragonpit.
A rocky laugh broke out from your being, not deigning that with a reply. Aegon huffed angrily.
"Alright, tell me this then. How are you so sure I'm not just about to put you on a bleeding volcano to die? We claim your dragon in the morn, sister. First thing before we break our fast. I'm sure by then, Vermithor or—"
You whipped your head around, pulling halt. "I leave tonight to claim my dragon. Whether it is you and Sunfyre who gets me there, or Aemond and Vhagar, is no matter to me. I will claim one tonight. It is up to you to decide now if we tell Aemond or not."
Aemond, whose anger is wounded tight, the barest excuse for war always at the edge of his hum. The misstep at Storm's End had cost him everything. Had cost your mother everything. Queen still, Alicent Hightower had bent the knee and offered her life in exchange for mercy. Before Rhaenyra passed judgement, Viserys I had passed.
It didn't matter that you had ensured a higher dosage from the Harrenhal witch in his usual milk of the poppy. Your spiders moving with ease through the silent channels you had established long before your own flowering.
The Red Keep had scrambled, the Heir with it. It was enough time for Lucerys to have come out of the red, confirmed to live through the worst of it without as much as a broken bone. Arrax however, had been badly maimed, and would no longer take flight. But he and his rider would live. Aemond would live. Alicent would have her son. Rhaenyea will have hers, and the crown.
Kevan had done his duty unto you while you settled the storms in Dragonstone. You rewarded him handsomely.
Aegon sighed. He too, would like your honour avenged, but not for the sake of war. "As you wish, sister. I hope you know what you're doing and I am not about to send you to your death."
Just like what you did to your mother, you reached forward and cupped his face. If before, your touch stills his heart and floods his cavities with warmth, a flash of fear strikes the twin son at the eerie smile on your face.
"Skoros morghot vestri? What do we say to the god of death?"
Aegon blinked. "Tubī daor. Not today."
You smiled. "Trust me, sweet Aeg. It is not my death the Stranger will take. Not until the fjords of the North are at my mercy."
"Iksan kesīr sir naejot māzigon ñuha sikagon pakto! I am here now to claim my birth right!" Your scream echoes and falls, repeating back to you. There is a hum, like an electric current that sizzles and pops inside your blood and marrow, and you scramble higher and higher on the rock. Your blood does not sing for the dragon lairs, but above. Up and up, jagged edges cut your skin and dress, the wind whipping with sea mist, but nothing, no one, can clamour you as you reach the peak.
At first you see nothing but darkness and hollow sounds. But you let your eyes adjust, a hiss breaking out of your dry lips as you stumble. You look down. What you first thought were rocks and wayward bones of cattle is bigger.
Whale? No.
Dragon. Dragon bone.
You look and will every sense that your eyes do not. The smell that is drowned— iron. Bones bigger than a person. Than cows and whales. Bones of fearsome beasts. Darkness moves, taking form, more than shadow. Scales hewn rough and jagged, as if stone themselves. Midnight black moving with the gentlest of sighs.
As soon as you realise what— or who — is in front of you, the eyes open with an intelligent gleam. Your heart jolts at the emerald irises that gaze back at you, slitting at the appearance of a human.
'The stench of death follows him', the voice of an old keeper hums into your ear. You no longer remember who told this to you, but the words ring true in your memory. 'Scales of midnight, as if hewn from darkness and death. A harbinger, your grace, an omen of the darkest nightmares.'
"Rytsas. Hello." You smile, ever sweet, ever charming.
This is a thread you had never felt before. Not one of your own making, but something older. A golden thread that led the eyes of Daenys the Dreamer. That spun the ties of Aegon the Conqueror. The voices that herded your madness had gone quiet in the mad rush to get here, but now their presence thickens. Words you cannot hear, nor understand, flood the silence as dragon met rider for the first time.
Keepers and historians have called him he, but every bone in your body tells you that the being before you is a she.
And wouldn't that make sense? A cannibalistic being is a woman?
She opens her maw, only ever slightly, smoke and fire crackling out of it. Molten lava in the belly of her insides tease the cool, night air and warms you.
Her version of a smile. Hello, she seem to say.
"Māzīs. Come," you say, giggling. "Dohaerās. Serve."
That night, you took your first flight.
That night, the Cannibal took her first flight with her first— and only — rider as well.
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❝ . . . It is said that the formerly named "The Cannibal" had been entranced by the hunger of his new— first and evermore — rider. Prince Aegon the Elder who had escorted his twin sister that very night with Sunfyre, had looked up in alarm and fright to a maddened screech. Excitement and laughter pouring out from the newly bonded Dragon and Rider had soon turned fear into awe.
Gaelithox, she had been named as they had ridden until dawn broke by the rider who loved her 'till the end of their days, was said to have seen a mirror in Her Grace. The fathomless hunger for blood and organ from the same bodies of their kin. For Gaelithox ever hungers and satisfies for the same meat as her, at the height of her grief and ire that fuelled the Queen Consort to climb Dragonmont by hand, she too hungered for the throats of her traitorous blood.
Gaelithox will only have one rider in her whole life, as she found no same twin soul as akin in the Bastard Eater Queen. Their bond moved as if two bodies beheld one soul.
She shied from humans, and oft found too rough with other dragons. Vhagar was an exception, oft seen acting as an elder sister to the Queen's dragon when neither royal rode them and played in the skies. Smaller dragons were forbidden to approach her however, nor was she allowed in the dragonpit after almost devouring the flightless Arrax.
She died two moons after the Queen's death, delivering her final flames for her rider and would never more breathe her infamous green flames akin to Wildfire, ordered by the Crowned Heir, Princess Daenera Velaryon. It is said that the princess attempted to bond with the cannibalistic dragon but it refused.
The dragon spent her last moons in heartbreak, oft seen in Dragonstone and the Red Keep, circling her rider's most favourite places. Her final resting place is at the very top of Dragonmont from whence the Queen claimed her. It is said that the Queen's crown, the one the King Jacaerys had gifted her after the birth of their first sons, the Princes Laenor and Gaemon, is said to be placed there, as well as a portion of her ashes.
It is said that the King and the Queen's twin brother, the Prince Aegon, personally made the trek in remembrance.
It is widely suspected that Aelyx, Princess Daella's dragon, the youngest child of the King and Queen, may have been Gaelithox's only existing hatchling for he too is made of rough, midnight scales. The dragon that bred with her remains to be unknown. ❞
—Maestre Kevan Noratz, Volume X of The Life and Lies of the Emerald Flame, passage chapter under 'The Time of Hunger: Gaelithox'.
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You leave Gaelithox to a mournful goodbye on Dragonstone, pressing your forehead against her hard, scaly head, promising to come back, of exchanging her diet for fat, juicy whales, for more wind-whipped rides, before riding back on Sunfyre with Aegon. The younger dragon would not rise from the beaches in fear of the cannibalistic elder, but you made ensuring promises to teach Gaelithox not to chew your dearest brother's dragon.
You had gone most of your life without the feeling of a bond beneath you, warm and alive and wild, and the roar and stench that though new, felt so familiar in your ribcage— you will fly again. And with your brothers beside you. With Helaena and her lovely Dreamfyre.
To think they had taken this from you too, to placate them. To play into their hands like a mewling kitten.
No more.
It is paces before fast is about to break when you both touch back down to Kings Landing. The Keep busying with its occupants, servants and maids bolstering with quickened feet to ensure the lords and royals are awakened with full, poached meals, dresses and coats readied for their lords and ladies, a new, glorious day under the Reign of the Black Queen.
"What now?" Aegon asks, trying to keep with your pace but he is fatigued, failing to stop his yawns. The excitement of last night had come upon him like a fog, and he is missing his bed. Hells, he is missing the bed he stays with his wife if it meant he would get a full night's sleep in the hours of the day.
"Now, we speak nothing of what happened."
He turns to you, frowning. "Just like that?"
"Just like that." You beam, nodding in favour of soldiers and maids who bow in reverence to the Crown Princess. You know you smell of dragon and night, and you need a bath. And to talk to Dyanna before you seek your daughters. "I will need time and people. The board must still be set for me to perfectly execute what I have in store."
"Alright." He yawns again. "I'll be in my quarters, passed out, if you need me. Please do not need me until sup."
You laugh breathlessly, grabbing his hand and giving it a wet kiss. "I will give you your rest, be assured. Kirimvose, dōna lēkia, Thank you, sweet brother."
The words are simple, said in a quiet murmur heavy with love and meaning. Aegon presses a loving kiss to your head, unable to stop himself winding an arm around you.
"Syt ao, va moriot, ñuha prūmia. For you, always, my heart."
As you break to each other's chambers— his, to sleep, you, already meeting Yna and requesting for a bath — you don't notice the lurker that watched the intimate moment between twins, humming in amusement before it moves to follow you.
Back in your quarters— your marriage quarters as Jacaerys had requested that you forgo having your own, not wishing to part with you — the maids are already busying themselves airing the room, moving to follow your usual routine. The only thing breaking it is the tub now in the centre.
"Thank you," you say to Yna as she picks out the pins from your hair, shrugging off your dress in the process as soon as the maids had untangled the lace behind you.
"Call for Dyanna," you tell them as they bow and leave, the door clicking softly behind them. Plans must be made. Bath for now.
With the world stifled for a second, left with only you and your thoughts, you plunge your body under too-hot water, sighing  against the aches and pains in your body. Dragon-riding is a new endeavour to your muscles, and though enjoyable, was still too new.
You sigh as tears fall from your eyes, blinking exhaustedly against soft, humming daylight. You had always known that love, as it is, is a maiden's folly. A foolish, hapless play meant to fool young girls into thinking the world is kind; a pretty place.
It was an even farther thought from you, a princess of the realm. At a young age, it has been drilled to you that your womb is a rare commodity. Your body has never been your own, a piece meant to be moved in a bigger game that you are used for, not play.
You weren't stupid.
If there's a few things Otto Hightower had ever granted you, apart from gifting you his keen prowess in moving power beneath your fingertips, in hungering for more, for better— it is understanding what each person is, who they can be, how you can move them. A flatter, a flair, a push. As a man, there is much to be desired about your grandsire; he used people, used family to pursue power, but you can't truly fault him for that as you were the same.
You just took better care of the people under your wing.
And for Jace, you had banished him.
The worst part, you knew there was a good, fat chance you would care for the princeling. He was a kind man, a sweet man, and with a guiding hand, you could forge yourself the best husband for yourself as much as you can mould a great king and a wonderful father. Women's hands are ever carved to mould and prod men. We stand behind, a presence or a hand, an echo of power.
But your Jace had surpassed it all, and in the moons leading up to your present day, to giving him his heirs, two beautiful daughters, the promised full Valyrian colouring in the silver hair in Daenera, your eldest, the wide, violet gaze in Aemma— the name of his mother's mother, a request of him that you had kindly, graciously fucking agreed to — of course there is a part of you, the girlish, tender heart that you long thought you had buried to get here, would fall for the brown-eyed, wondrous man.
You sink deeper into the tub, sighing as you let yourself unravel—
When you feel it. A presence in your room. It's soft. Silent. Not a lot would feel as such, but as paranoid as you are, as you keep your spiders clean and pretty with your dewy-eyed webs— you know better.
Your mind runs with ideas on who it might be, and come to a few people. No true name rises. The Red Keep is flooded with spies and traitors. You test your luck, sitting up on the tub, raising an arm over the lip of it and flicking water with your fingertips.
"If you are here to kill me, I'm afraid it will be a lost cause."
He laughs, sardonic and edged and familiar, jetting a tingle down your spine.
Well. There's getting a calm bath.
"Perceptive as always, niece," he says, heavy footfalls approaching now that he has been caught. "I'm just here to say hello."
You raise your eyes, mouth curled but unsmiling at the man who acts as the biggest thorn to your plots. Daemon Targaryen has never fallen through your webs, on guard against your flatter, your push, or your flair. Of course, taking the position of his daughter might have forever burnt that road, but you would think he'd ease up just a little bit when his wife, the Queen, had warmed to you considerably.
Unlike your mother, you had never been hostile to your bitch of an elder sister. Just like your plots for Aegon and Jacaerys, and nodding along to thread your father had started but abandoned, foolishly thinking the realm would follow without him fully ensuring your sister's claim to the throne— you carefully maintained a polite farce with Rhaenyra.
Ultimately, this became a boon to you, as she had responded positively to your abrupt marriage to her son, even reminding her deranged guard dog of their own marriage. The cream to your lemon cake had been when you birthed Aemma, the Queen's most favourite grandchild thus far. When she was a babe, Rhaenyra was never far; almost, always holding your daughter, cooing at her cheeks, remarking her likeness to her namesake with pure fondness.
But Daemon Targaryen knew, in the deepness of his marrow, that there is something wrong with you.
"Hello," you answer primly. He laughs, leaning against the passage to your open balcony. "We could have had this elating greeting at fast, if you wish to break it with me and my own."
He scoffs, unable to hide his disdain at the thought. It breaks his stare of your naked visage. Men. "I would rather jump to the fighting pits, good daughter."
"How rude. Is that all?" You meet his gaze steadily, tilting your head. "If it is not obvious yet, good father, I am bathing."
An amused smirk. "I can see that." Lecherous fucking geezer. "No matter. I just have a... curious thought, a wonder I suspect you may be able to answer. See. Truly odd it is, for the keepers to alert me this morning that Sunfyre had taken a ride past the Hour of Owl." Your heart thuds in your ribcage and you do your best to keep your expression mildly irritated. "Not with one, drunken rider, but with another. It had taken them hours, only coming back when morning had already presented in the air."
He steps forward, slow, menacing, until he reaches the edge of your tub and crouches. Your gazes are still unmatched in height, defiant as yours might be.
"The distinct smell wafts them, a Keeper said, and one suspects that though one dragon left last night, two might have come back this morning for he had seen another fly away." His fingers dips into the water, swirling the steam without breaking eye contact. "I wonder if you know anything about it, darling niece of mine."
The mocking emphasis is not lost on you. If the Queen is the Realm's Delight, you were Darling of the Realm. A sweet, merry girl, the secondborn daughter of Viserys I who frequently fought for the plight of the small folk, who gathered friends of all kinds of lords and ladies no matter the standing of their houses to her own, visiting far lands and charming every person in any room. Who made any feast brighter, always sparkling, always the darling.
Less of a dragon, more of a fairytale.
You sit up, leaning, baring your breasts completely to him as you pull yourself up on the ledge he is crouched from. He leans back, only slightly, as you smile demurely. Sweet. Tart. On the edge of pulling his head and hitting it against the copper tub.
"I am unsure of what you suspect, or is accusing me of, kepus, uncle," you purr and there's a twitch in his mouth, a widen in his irises— men are so fucking simple — "I had been feeling down last night, as my husband, as you know, is beyond my reach at the moment as he rallies alliances for the good of the realm. My brother had simply offered to take me out riding, trying to quell my loneliness with an excitable flight I had never been afforded."
You tilt your head. "Even if there had been a dragon binded to my own, why why would I not regale the realm with news of my success? I have longed for a dragon of my own, but alas, I have not quite succeeded where most of the family have." You pout. His eyes flicker. "Mayhaps I am more Hightower than I am Targaryen."
A huff leaves his lips, the amusement in his smile arching to his dark, dark gaze. Before you can react, his hand had comes forward to hold your chin in a tight grip, your jaw aching soon enough at the fingers that dig against your skin, wanting to bruise, to break.
Though a tremble passes your body, you keep his stare, gritting your teeth as the pad of his thumb brushes your lips. Moments and desires thrum between a charged hatred.
The lust is twisted from wanting to fuck you to wanting to kill you. The line is not simple. Maybe that is your fate together.
But he can't. You are well too ingrained in his family now, loved by the people he cared about. You are untouchable. For now. This is a warning, waiting for you to stutter, to show your hand. Any show of your true intentions... he is more than happy to swing Dark Sister across your throat.
He releases you without another word, standing up and leaving through the front door, the door clicking shut.
You sink back into the bath, letting the water engulf you.
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Your daughters are moons apart in birth, and there are only a few differences between them that people oft remarked they could be twins. Daenera is taller, spindly. Built like Aemond when he was younger. Her hair is spun moon and eyes of mullish blue. It reminds you of Daeron's eyes. You had named Daenera yourself, a gruelling birth that took the entire night. You promised Jacaerys he could name the second. He had chosen Aemma for a girl, Laenor for a boy.
Not a few moons later, you were with child again. Your husband pinked at the cheeks at the chiding from his family. When she cried into the afternoon sun—Aemma was born mid day, during a council meeting — he pain did not stop the laugh that came out of your mouth from the horrified expression from the Master of Coin as your water broke.
Aemma had a sweetheart face, cheeks much fatter than her older sister's, with a yellowish tinge to her hair, curlier too, reminding you of Aegon. And Aemma laughed more, her deep, violet eyes always half closed as she exploded in giggles and bright, sunshine happiness.
Sons they might not be, but you had given heirs for the throne. And for them, you would do anything to keep their futures intact. Bond with a dragon, face the Rogue Prince, upheave Winterfell. Anything.
You flounce to the nursery where you know the two would be, smiling sweetly at every person you pass as they bow in reverence. Most wore sights of confusion, their greedy eyes and wagging tongues drinking in the deep, emerald glisten of your gown.
It's an old dress, one you keep in the corner of your collection. It isn't as if you had forgo the colours of your mother's house, but playing court meant every movement, even the clothes you wear, can be meaningful. And since your marriage, your Jace liked you in Velaryon colours.
"A goddess come to bless," he gasped against your collarbone, keeping your legs high on his waist as he rutted into you before his teeth sunk on your skin. As newlyweds go, there is not a lot of teasing to be had for your husband to curl against you in a darkened alcove. Merely wearing his favourite colour on your skin has him panting like a dog. His favourite dress is a seafoam blue that dragged longer against the ground in a soft, almost-gossamer material with a silver belt.
Enticing him never took long, but you enjoyed the dance presented. You enjoyed the dark hunger that filled him until he grabbed you to take you because he just had to take you.
The fresh wound slices deeper as you imagine all the things Jacaerys is doing to the so called Sara Snow. The emerald green of your gown shimmers with your anger.
"Fucking bastards," you can't help but say aloud, nodding at the guards posted on the nursery as you hear the squeals of your daughter and the calm, even voice of your brother.
"Muña! Mother!" Aemma squeals, untangling herself from being pressed against Aegon's side as the children— Daenera and Jaehaera — cuddle around him, before running to you. Helaena is on the floor, entertaining baby Maelor. Your mother, hands twisting against her own, stands vigil by the window, staring far ahead.
You catch your secondborn, giggling as you pressed kiss after kiss on her face.
"I see everyone has started without me. Where is Jaehaerys?"
"You were late, sodjisto, aunt," Jaehaera grins gummily. Jahaera is only a year older than Daenera. Your daughters, five and a half and five respectively. "Jaehaerys is with kepus, uncle. They are training."
"Smart girl." You meet your brother's gaze, whose eyes had notably been staring at your dress, mouth turned down. "Why don't you three play with Helaena? I shall speak about Name Day gifts for your Uncle Joffrey for a bit, hm?"
As Aemma shrieks something about cakes, and Daenera dutifully kissing your cheek in greeting before she takes Jaehaera's hand, you turn to your brother and mother.
"Aemond?" you ask softly, keeping your voice out of earshot. Alicent shakes her head. You nod. "Good. We don't want him inciting a war before I have mine properly planned."
As the Dowager draws in a sharp inhale, Aegon grabs your hands, the worry pulled taunt in his eyebrows. "Are you seriously contemplating war, sister? Isn't there a better way to punish them?"
"What punishment does a man regale in?" you hiss, stepping close to him. "Or the Queen's heir for the bloody matter? When Aemond nearly killed Lucerys, and he confronted me as if I had ordered Vhagar to tear through his brother, I thought I had put to bed any doubts in our marriage. It seems that men stray, regardless. My daughters may be his heir now, but what is to say that bastard wildling he's found himself cock deep in produces a son? Will he shame me with a mistress? Or will he shame me with a second wife?"
Your mother's lips tightens, her fingers paling at how tight she is gripping her nerves.
"Bastard or not, if he takes her to wife, I will be nothing. Make that babe a son, and the realm will rally for it. Daenera is his heir. My daughters will not be forgone. I will not be pushed aside. This is mercy, brother," you say softly, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. "My last one. It requires time, moons, to unfurl. It requires seeding doubt and unfathomable inadequacy. Better if Aemond is none the wiser, Helaena the same. But I will need both of you for this to work. It is the only time I will ever ask. For me. For my daughters."
"And you will punish Winterfell with a war?" your mother asks, frown pulled deep. "That is the plan?"
"I will not. I won't do such a thing so blatant, mother, you know me better than that. But this is my last mercy, and it will be the last. For the next time he offends me so, I do not care if Rhaenyra feeds me to Syrax. I will put a dagger through his heart, heir or not."
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The Prince Jacaerys comes back not a week later. Though he comes back to the same castle with the same occupants— your shiny new threads gleam. The stage has been set, a play ready to act. You had sent more spiders in the North, keeping a close eye to every blasphemy your husband has been enjoying in the absence of his duties, and as the rage in you quietly grew with each new whisper, your determination hardens.
You mark each indescretion. You keep a tally.
You count for each fall your blow will land on him.
Vermax lands with a screech and a heavy thump, your husband leaping off him with a grin on his face, matching the one you own, waving your arm joyously with Aemma in your arm and Daenera beside you, holding to your skirt as she grinned at her father.
Aemma wiggles under your hold, and you let Jace get close enough before you set her down, laughing, "Okay, okay!" Her laughter carries through as she scrambles like a bull to her father. A squeal peals out of her as Jace picks her up just in time and tosses her in the air.
"Want to meet kepa, father, sweet girl?" you whisper to Daenera, running a hand down her hair before she nods, breaking out into her own sprint, hugging her father as he greets them with laughter and kisses.
You let them have their time, and this, at least, eases your heart truthfully. A kind reminder that Jace adores his daughters.
You stay at the edge of the entrance, your too-wide grin softens into a smile. You were dramatic, nothing new about that, but even in the pale, pearl blue of your dress in silky, Myrish lace, the emeralds in your heavy, golden belt winks. Green ribbons twisted in your hair alongside fresh flowers. When the trio of your family treks toward you, silver-haired babes clinging to your dark haired prince, you serve a wink at the girls and they untangle themselves from their father while you stepped forward.
A choreographed dance, not giving him time to think. To pause.
Every step is calculated, every item on your body— the silk, the small seahorse that locks your dress behind you, the tint on your lips to the oil in your hair and body — is made to perform. You engulf him in you as if you want to suffocate his senses, your arms wrapping around him with sweet kisses pressing on his face, his neck.
Most in the dragonpit looked away, others, scandalously amazed and enchanted, watch as the princess is undeniably enthralled with her lord husband.
His laughter rumbles across his body, infecting your own, smelling of dragonback and crisp winds. You wonder if your nose is more heightened, you would be able to smell his whore in him, but you don't. It's just him. Your Jace.
Your body moulds against his as his arms tightens around you. When you lean back, you sweetly press a chaste kiss on his lips, grinning.
"What is this?" he huffs a laugh, meeting your doeful gaze. Your fingers curl around his chin, his cheek, idly tapping and touching as if you are committing so much newness to memory.
"Kostagon iā ābrazȳrys daor jaelagon zirȳla valzȳrys? Can a wife not want her husband?" you ask softly, pressing a few more kisses before sucking the last one just under his ear. His body shudders. You hide your smirk. "Skori ēza issare qrīdrughagon tolī bōsa? When he has been away too long?"
A yearning look tints your gaze from under your lashes, and you have to stifle the winning smirk as guilt pinches his face.
"My apologies, my wife. I did not mean to be away from you for long. From the girls." As his eyes flick to his daughters, your mask momentarily sharpens into clear distaste. The urge to dig your fingers into his eyes until he is bleeding and screaming under you is one you tamper with great distress.
Did not mean...
Did not mean to have a dalliance with another woman?
Did not mean to fall into bed with a fucking bastard, you insidious cunt, while I await here with your heirs?
Your anger thrums, nestled deep in your heart, it breathes. You school your face the moment he turns back to you, bringing your hands to his lips, kissing each finger with reverent tenderness. His brown eyes smoulder, rubbing your bare— irises widening — back.
"If you wish it, I can be on my knees for my apologies, my princess."
Your mouth curls. "I'm afraid that might have to be quite later, my prince."
"Huh?"
"The Dowager Queen hoped to congratulate you on your successful campaigning. Reaching as far as the North so frequently, we planned a feast for your return." Eyes shinning, you cup his face. You hope the guilt eats him raw from the inside out. Like worms. Like termites. Hungry, hungry, hungry. "We have never been more proud of you, I have never been more proud of you."
You laugh brightly, ignoring the way he squeezed you just a bit harder that mere second the same time his eyes tightened. "The moment I told the girls of it, they had begged to dance with you." Then you bit your lip, frowning slightly. "I... I understand if you are tired, 'tis a long journey after all, I did try to tell them you might want to rest, we can sneak you—"
"No, no, my heart, of course I would be happy to, I— I want nothing more." He brings you close, face disappearing into your neck. "Thank you. I love you."
You hum, carding your fingers through his hair. "As I love you."
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For the rest of the feast, you dance just at the edges of his fingertips, ensuring that you permeated his sights and senses despite it. A game. A dance. When he thanks revelries who congratulate him, who ask him of his adventures, you proudly stand beside him, dutiful as the wife that you are, spearing him with compliments as much as you can. Hands squeezing his arm, your oils swallowing him with your smell.
When dinner came, you take chances massaging his thigh, sliding a salacious grin that had him blushing, ever so sweet, green— making you wonder what kind of fucking bastards do that he finds your attention so swallowing.
You don't let up.
Whenever he, in turn made a move, you sidestep, flutter a smirk, a wink; always escaping, letting him grow frustrated as the night went on.
Your one respite from taunting him had been when he danced with his daughters, making a gallant show of asking them, even Jaehaera. Giggles and spins, the ladies of the court fawn and coo.
Even now, you're making him to be the perfect man. The endearing husband, the wondrous father, the brilliant prince, the perfect lord.
To execute your plan, it must be made with a surgical precision. A slice that guts him to his knees, that breaks his spirit and quenches the whispering, wicked madness nestling with your ire. On another cheek, he must remain upright and upstanding, as to keep your daughters' future in perfect order.
You catch the domineering gaze of Daemon Targaryen, idle as he is, on the side of his distracted Queen, talking to a highborn lady. You don't look away as you toast him your cup of Arbour Red before you pucker your lips for a taste. Your eyes move to where your husband is already looking, flushed red and sweaty from all the dancing, your girls, preening and giggling around him.
You tilt your chin at him, a challenge in your gaze, before you slowly pull your lips away from your wine, stained red.
His throat bobs.
It will be a long, arduous game. Full of pitfalls and tightened webbing. One trip can kill you. But once the machinations are in order, once everything and everyone is in their proper places... oh, you cannot wait for the dance the dragons will make.
A flutter, a simpered footstep. Then a rustle of a dress as one bows.
"My lady," Dyanna greets behind you.
"Hm?"
"The spiders in the ice have met the pup in the snow."
"And?"
"The pup is not suspicious, in fact, they might go as far as to say that the pup is lonely. Though others largely understand her existence... no one likes a bastard."
You snort. "No, they don't, do they?"
"The wolf cares for the pup though, and is largely protective of his only sister."
"Hm. Complicated, but not impossible. Have Meera change the tone of my missive. A softer edge. Sweet but not overtly. Ensure the prerogative of politeness. Then have it sent to the Rookery. The proper channels."
You sigh, taking the edge of your braid and twisting through the ribbons your maid tangled between them. Tonight, you had elected Targaryen colours. A black dress akin to scales and a low, exposed back and dipping front, held together in red ribbons and silver chains. One that might be too on the nose, but the constant, feverish stares from your husband made it worth it.
"We have to ensure a good relationship with the Warden of the North, don't you think so?" You have not looked away from your husband since your maid came, and as he whispered something in Daenera's ear, nodding off to her grandmother with Aemma towed, he turned towards you, one stride after another.
"Precisely what I thought, milady."
"Go," you order her for the last time, giving her your cup, just before Jacaerys reaches you.
Game, set.
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Worshipping you has always been something Jace excelled at. At the least, his cock was much larger than most, and without the preparation of his tongue and mouth, it burned. At most, he oft found himself holding your shaking thighs, your head and shoulders left on the bed as he feasted on you like a man starved, hungered for your nectar, the sounds you make, and the shaking of your body as you reached your peak on his tongue.
"J-Jace, please, I—" Your breath stutters, a hiccup escaping your mouth, but he is not letting up. On his knees as only a lordling can with his back straight, he is holding your thighs, your lower back, eating your cunny for the third time of the night.
As soon as he had reached you, he grasped your waist, whispering against your hair in a rumbled groan, "You are torturing me so, my wife. We leave. Now."
"Now?" you echoed, amused. "This is a feast in your honour."
"My honour is already hanging by a thread. The revelry will go on without us. I want to have my fill of you."
And fill he had. He didn't even wait to get you out of your dress before he had pushed your skirt upward, gone on his knees, and got his tongue inside of you.
Now, you are overwhelmed, overstimulated as you are hazy, gripping the wrecked sheets as your peak reached you once more. A strangled, breathy cry of his name falls between your lips as your back arched impossibly so, and instead of letting up, this seemed to fuel him harder, the muscle of his mouth working harder inside of your cunt, hands digging into your flesh to keep you steady.
It builds with a stimulation unending, and just as you're on the throes of your last high, it builds again, quick and fast this time, shuddering gasps of, "o-oh gods, g-gods, Jace!" is the last thing you are able to shout before your fourth peak breaks against the shudders of your last one, your wetness exploding, and you start crying before he lets up.
Your blubber becomes laughter, and he is soft as he lies you down, massaging your thighs as you twitched. He hovers above you, running gentle hands across your arms, kneading through skin, before he reaches your face. He's still in most of his clothes, his long white shirt and breeches, but his mouth is covered in your wetness before he wipes it, obscene in the prettiness of his face and messy locks from where you had tugged and grabbed.
He presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, so close to your body, all too tangled in your soul, and can feel his hard cock upright and wanting against your belly, but he pays it no mind. Concern mars his features as he brushes down your hair.
"Are you alright, my love? Too much?"
You shake your head, brushing your hand down his chest. "N-no, I am well. I just never did that before."
He smiles, kissing your closed eyelids before he brings you close to his chest, cuddling you deep. "You deserve all the pleasure I can give you," he says against your hair. "I have been gone far too long. Consider it my apology."
You hum, eyes open. "Apology for what? You were doing your duty, nothing more, ñuha zaldrīzes, my dragon." You feel him stiffen as you keep your voice soft, caring. "I understand duty far better than you. It is what I love most about you."
You look up, taking his chin between your fingertips as you stared at those warm, brown eyes. "You, who carries your honour like a shield and your duty like a sword. I feel as if the gods had blessed me a husband far better than I should have had for I know I do not deserve you."
"H-how can you say that? You are—" He swallows. "— You are the most excellent woman. The mother of my children. You... You are the one I do not deserve."
Your head falls back against his chest, gripping his shirt. Only by your teeth had you stop yourself from screaming.
You curdle, you keep, you poise.
"My love?"
But you pay him no mind, pushing him on his back as you straddle him, your hands working quick to unlace his breeches until his cock slaps against his stomach, end red and swollen. A sharp hiss falls from his lips as your hand tugs on it once. Twice.
He calls your name, spits it really, eyes blown with lust as he holds your waist, unsure if he should lift you off him or grind you against his aching cock.
"I want you inside me," you whimper, plead, feeling his cock twitch at your words, your false, yearning gaze. He mistakes the burned tears of anger in your eyes as unbridled want. "I have gone so long without your warmth, your cock, swelling inside me, your seed nestling deep, taking root—"
"Yes," he gasps, fingers digging into your doughy sides, pulling you up, moving you around whilst you grabbed his length and directed inside your wet, hot cunt inch by inch, filling you so thickly you can feel him in your throat. It takes time, patience and grit, but you're wet enough and you're determined. Once he's fully inside of you through a choked moan of your own, his neck arches, head thrown back. "Fuck! Yes, y-yes, there you are, my g-good fucking girl."
You move slow at first, taking him, bracing one hand on his knee, almost testing the feel him of back in the familiar contours of your cunt. Veins pop between each groan and choke that shudders through him whilst praise, your name, the possessive titles— my love, my wife, my princess — is spit in between.
When the heat tightens in your belly, you shift positions, placing both palms on his chest, and riding him without abandon, bouncing up and down as you watch with a sharp eye as his release builds. His hips move on their own, fucking up in you as you meet his thrusts with equal vigour, and it's delicious. It's heated. You grind your swollen folds against his mon and your cries make him thrust up harder into you, calling your name, denting your doughy hips.
You don't stop, your pleasure at the back of your mind, wanting him to unravel, to break— a final cry of your name dissolving into a choked moan, spilling his seed deep inside, the continuous snap of his hips digging it deeper into your womb.
But your last peak is still tightening, so you press a quick kiss on his chest, a bite really, before you continue to chase your own high, a hiss slipping his lips but moving your hips with his iron-grip, stutters of, "d-do it, reach your high, f-fuck! fuck!"— Your head throws back, nails digging his skin as your cunt clenches his cock in a vice grip, forcing his hips to snap up once more, twice, until you fall, slumping against him.
When he kisses the top of your head, murmuring words you ignore, you close your eyes.
Your plan is in motion. The missive will be sent to the Lord Stark, in pursuit of an innocent friendship. The spiders you have placed on the Northern bastard are set, and a dragon flies in Dragonstone with your bond in its blood.
Your Jace is home. He will fall in love with you all over again. His wonderful daughters and darling princess, he will regret the events that have transpired in the cold. In his head, he will make promises to do better, to be better, that whatever happened is a blip. A mistake that will not happen again. but you know, he will trip. He will wander once more.
But you will make sure that the next time he does so, he will regret it for the rest of his days.
Because it is not you who will burn Winterfell to the ground.
It will be him.
Your plan moves, your web is perfect.
Now, the spider waits for the idiot fucking flies to feed on.
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purple-1995 · 7 days
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❝Will you forsake me, my love? And the babe I carry?❞
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[ You had made a mistake. A slip up. You had overlooked the extent of Otto Hightower and his greed. Now you must make it right... or pay in fire and blood. ]
[ +18 MDNI ] [ 5,504 ] [ series masterlist ] | jacaerys velaryon x targaryen aunt-wife!reader (aegon's twin sister),
contains— canon divergence - manipulative reader— gets darkish but not yet dd:dne - targcest, angsty as fuck, pregnancy - nsfw: p & v sex, oral (male receiving) - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.
a/n— i... actually dunno how i got here tbh. thankfully, this isn't dead dove quite yet, but you, yes you, as jace's manipulative targ wife, almost did, girl, jfc. ahahaha! comments, reblogs & like at will, mwa! 💝 + now that there is a second part, and a third part i'm plotting (uh huh), this is officially a series!! its v loosey goosey, but it'll have a masterlist so... it means it has a taglist! message me to be tagged 💝 & if there are any drabbles/blurbs you wanna see!! message me lmk!! i have so many thoughts about jacey & manipulative reader hehe + dividers by @danowh0re
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The only warning you receive is the missive hastily made by your twin.
In his panic, Aegon's scrawl had been barely legible, but the cold sweat that shot through your spine at making sense of the text had you keening over; fingers over your mouth, a dangerous gurgle in your stomach.
The world tilts, the air sucks inward.
Fear... Cold, weightless fear, settles in your heart.
"Princess!" Your maid, Dyana, shrieks, hands grasping your elbows to prevent you from falling. She turns to the door. "Call the maestre back! Now!"
You shake your head rapidly. "No, no. No Ser Addam. I am alright."
"But princess—"
"No, Dyana, I am alright." But you are pale, and a thrum shakes through fingers, rattling your ribcage and trying to yank your heart out of your throat. You have to find your footing or all will be lost. You grab Dyanna's arms and she winces. "Tell me- the prince - where is he?"
"I'm not sure, princess, I can—"
"Quickly! We shan't lose precious more time."
You turn to Meera. You had invested in her from the early age you had taken her in from the orphanage. Loyalty, in its absolution, must be rewarded.
And ease for your own plans can be disguised as a reward.
She steps forward obediently, hands clasped behind her back like a soldier awaiting orders. She is nondescript with plain features, easily able to hide between other common folk; and no one, truly, looks at a maid.
"Go to the Sea Dragon Tower, wait on the Rookery for Johan. Only Johan, do you understand me? Keep the missive that I will dictate to you close to his heart, hidden, and he must depart immediately. Throw extra gold at the captain, I do not care. Meera, no other eyes must touch the paper I will send, tell him of the utter import such a thing. No other than another Spider. We cannot unravel further than this or we will start burning."
Meera's gaze darkens, her posture straightening. "Yes, your grace."
You grasp her hands, your mind whirring— so many plots, so many lies, in between them, he flashes in your mind; the dark hair, the warmth of his hand, the sweet, simpered smile and the flicker of rage that dances like a flame. In and out and calmed and wild.
Dutiful. A Perfect Son. A Beloved Prince. Your Lord Husband.
He flashes in between plans and unraveled lies. Along it, Aegon's missive, quickly written, panic seeping in every vowel.
Grandsire had gotten to Aemond's head. Went to Storm's End. Met Lucerys. They are calling him Kinslayer.
Your head is pounding. Kinslayer, Kinslayer, Kinslayer. It churns your stomach, dries your throat. Lucerys dead. Aemond beheaded. Jacaerys' rage. Rhaenyra's. Dark Sister in the Rogue Prince's hand. All your clever threads, your webs and tales, everything you have sacrificed to get here— they are unraveling, the lives you care about, your fondness and love — the fear has moulded and churned; the Stranger now haunting the skies, searching for names, trying to grasp for your neck.
Aemond, You, Aegon, Helaena, Alicent, Jaeheara, Jaehearys, Maelor—
Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.
Your baby brother. Marred and disfigured, dutiful and dedicated. Sarcastic and princely; dancing with you if you ask. Reading with him in the library. A flickering hearth, a kind eye, a protective arm.
Your baby brother, beheaded, gaping mouth and bloodred eye.
Justice spun and spun, but oh so corrupted when they had taken his eye and no name step forth to claim.
Disfigured, marred, and dead.
Focus, you think, your mouth moving, words spilling, plans stretching. Focus.
Otto Hightower must die. It is a pressing thought, digging into the centrefold of your mushy, wet brain. Pressing and pressing like a fever as words of instructions, orders, must be sent along one spider to another.
Your hand drifts to your stomach as Meera leaves, in her head the words that must reach King's Landing. That must pass only the cleverest of hands. Your hand curls, your fist tightens enough that blood clots and beads through crescent rings. Clever girl. Clever spider. You have to believe in Meera and the people under your hushed employ.
You have no choice. You have built your webs, you must trust your spiders.
Not when you can't even trust your own fucking blood.
It took a while to get your network going in Dragonstone. As soon as the smell of brimstone and dragon broached your nostrils, the plans for moving what you had started in Kings Landing became the forefront plan. There is only so much movement you can make in a board full of enemies; and with so many more things to do, you cannot be restrained.
People with stakes, with ambitions and wants of their own— be that money, a good future, a house with warmth and love — if you can provide it enough, dash it in enough kindness and care, people, like ants, could move mountains for you.
It took most of hyour life to have what you established in Kings Landing. Most of your free time— feiging afternoon teas, walks along the garden; young lady things that will not arouse suspicion, fit for a pious, devoted daughter of Alicent Hightower — was spent building and building webs.
Thankfully, as a Princess of the Realm— and as the future Heir's wife, the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms (the title tingles and throbs, comes alive in gasps and winning hands) — you can have your pick of maids and lady in waitings here too. Connections are important, and Jacaerys did not bereaved you of choice.
In fact, he so encouraged you to make changes to Dragonstone as you so chose fit.
"You are my wife," he sighed, pressing kiss after kiss to the side of your head. When he was wrapped around you like this— arms around your torso, a finger, almost absentmindedly, rubbing just the underside of your breast, and the smell of him, boyish but smoky, like a fireplace and first kiss, swaying you to a rhythm he is fond of, absentminded almost — it reminded you of how Vermax oft like to wrap around small hills and large rocks. A dragon mimicking another dragon; a twin soul so connected.
He sighed again as you run your own fingers against the back of his palm, against the side of his head behind you. "You may do so as you wish," he finished, nuzzling further into you as if he wants no more than to become one with you, flesh and blood. An engorged monster of sorts.
"Just your wife?" you teased. The wedding had only been a few moons ago. The missive had been immediately sent to Kings Landing (under your orders, of course, your new husband none the wiser as he had preferred a few more days of just you), and before lunch, your hand on Jace's thigh, his eyes more than hungrily looking at your lips— Caraxes screech alongside Syrax' wing pattern shook the walls, demanding answers.
Jace had looked nervous for a second, not at all prepared to be facing his mother so soon, his Queen, and his stepfather... whose own daughter he was supposed to marry. Better prepared to face all of them in Kings Landing was his plan.
But you had grasped his hands, had mounted girlish excitement shining in your eyes (an expression so familiar to you to adopt that it so perfectly hides the sharp edges of your excitement; your smugness. It oft reminds you of Aemond)— and Jacaerys had melted.
"My Queen," he reimbursed. You turned as his hands cupped your face. Gentle, possessive in its own way. You sighed, eyes fluttering close with a small, satisfied smile on your lips. "My beautiful queen."
A Maiden in love is not a hard thing to emulate. And he does not make it hard to be.
On some days, you even think it will be easy to actually fall in love with him. You already do so feel his warmth for you permeate your own being. His attention is addicting for one; it is whole and preserving. He makes it known when he is looking at his lady mother, at Baela, his former betrothed (who had given you a meaningful eye when Rhaenyra and Daemon escorted you back to Kings Landing to face the rest of your consequences), and other ladies of the court versus when he is looking at you.
He does not hide his adoration. His so obvious desire.
When you reward him for his loyalty, for private little ticked boxes you keep for him— siding with you in arguments, defending you upon ugly whispers in the Keep, requesting from his mother, a more permanent residence of your own in Dragonstone, in the guise of newly wedded bliss to hide growing your connections far and wide (once Rhaenyra takes the throne, Jacaerys will be named Heir and Prince of Dragonstone; your spiders and people must reach each end of Westeros, and Dragonstone is the perfect central chatter) — you mount him and bask at the lust contorting his features, at his hands gripping your waist in a staccato rhythm of feeling and gasp, each harsh bounce of your hips sending you both to bliss. You feel him inside you so deeply, enjoy his eyes rolling back and exposing his neck for you to sink bruises on.
Most oft, he enjoys mounting you. And you like the alternative of his choice to be buried so deep you feel him in your throat; to hold you down and hold you close, telling you to keep your eyes open for him as you come undone again and again— time and practice can manage his newness to the act. His enthusiasm, both for the act and for you, definitely helps his case, and he is so fond of finding your pleasure, of leading you to the precipe, so addicted to your sounds and writhes.
"There? Is that it, little dragon?" he huffs against your mouth, so attentive as he held your wrist and watch as you gasp, your face twisting as he hits that point inside of you, that sweet, sweet spot of undeniable pleasure buried so deep within— that he laughs. Not meanly, but of pride as he pulls back and hits it again. More insistent. You mewl and scratch his back, your toes curling as you seek the pleasure he so enjoys insisting you into.
"I've found it again, didn't I?" Another snap of his hips, another cry of your lips. "I will fuck your sweetest spot until you- are- crying- my name in that sweet, sweet whine of yours, shall I?"
But it's not really a question privy to an answer, surely not by your own mouth but by your body, as he manhandles you easily and does not stop until you are a quivering, overstimulated mess against wet sheets.
Sometimes, when you can't help but reward him as soon as possible— so excited from his gallant display; the perfect King bowing to his wife — you drag him to shadowy corners and solemnly drop yourself on your knees, unlacing his breeches with deft precision. You place your hot mouth against his manhood, your eyes fluttering delicately, making him reach completion enough times that he is left with a dopey, simpleton of a smile afterward, a soft, chaste kiss against your your head, your nose, your lips. So tender to how he was fucking your mouth not but seconds ago.
"I love you," he whispers against hot skin and cool, salty air.
And it eases, every time he looks at you like that, holds like you that. His love is patient, sweet, kind, and devouring. It overflows and seeps into you that when you whisper back, just as soft, just as troublingly honest, "Avy jorrāelan, ñuha zaldrīzes, I love you, my dragon," the truth of them bleeds further and further into your heart.
Jacaerys.
A warm grief swells within you. Your hands twitch, flattening your grief beneath your chest, deep in your gut. Deep below. You fought hard to be here. You cannot lose him now.
Otto Hightower must die.
A cruel thought, a natural order. With your marriage to Jacaerys meant a relative peace, a truce. Moving to Dragonstone many moons was more than just to establish your position, your future. It was also for your darling sister to take better control of her position back in the centre of power, alongside her husband.
Aged well with a stronger alley who most would not dare defy— a vainglorious guard dog, really, one who isn't afraid to sic people with a mere nod from his master — more than evens out the playing field.
The Queen To Be is prospering. And in her prosper, meant your husband's position more than fulfilled. He was to be King, and with you as his Queen, his reign will want for not.
You should have known it would put Otto on defense, would panic and use your siblings and your poor, nervy mother, to move in unfeasible decisions.
Aegon had taken to calling him grandsire again. Aemond... Your spiders had told you that Lucerys was sent to Storm's End as no more than a casual reminder of Lord Borros' oath. Viserys was in no doubt in worse conditions than he had been the last time you or your husband had visited him. Rhaenyra was settling on her position, reminding the Great Houses which heir was meant to rise soon, so close to the changing of the guard.
And your little brother no doubt was moved in panic.
This was a slip up on your part. Once the King was dead, Otto Hightower would hold no cards; Rhaenyra would never take him as Lord Hand, and his daughter would no longer be a foreground of power. Rhaenyra has her heir. The winning hand is more than ensured on her part.
His only move would be an usurpation, and would ruin your chance at being Queen... it was a good move. Your twin was not made for duty whilst you craved it. He knows you better than you know yourself; you will not be played in his palm. You would be useless to him.
"I should have killed him," you murmur to yourself.
Yna, the last maid in your arsenal, steps forward. She is the youngest of your main three wards, and the newest. She is still learning her letters, but she is young and always eager to serve.
"My lady?"
"I am going to find the prince. Whatever happens, tell them Vermax must not leave with his rider. Make up any excuse you must. My husband must stay in Dragonstone until I say otherwise." You raise your chin, tone icy. "Anyone who dares to defy my orders will be beheaded."
"At once, princess."
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Your steps are measured, your breath held between lie and tongue. So many pretty rings on your fingers, twisting and twisting at the idea of the confrontation plagues you.
But you raise your chin. You will not be defeated. All is not lost.
Dyanna had caught you at Aegon's Garden, windblow hair and wide, fearful eyes.
You had braced yourself. "The Prince?"
"The Stone Drum, my princess, he is..."
"Angry," you supplied. She nodded jerkily. "Tell me everything."
"The Prince was talking with Ser Robert, was about the missive sent from Kings Landing says Kevan, not soon after your own." Another spider, one that follows most of your husband's movements. Unassuming and quick on his feet. A good soldier. "Prince Lucerys is alive but badly maimed." The breath you had withheld between grit and fright unrolled, the world slamming back into the ground in a giant's fitful wake. "He still hasn't woken up, says Arrax took most of the damage— one wing torn but is awake. Dunno about recovery for dragons, 'specially against Vhagar. Mournin' the prince, Kevan says. Makin' loud, sad dragon noises."
"But he is alive?" you pressed. Aemond's life hung in its balance. Your sweet, vengeful baby brother who bore his tragedies between muted teeth and rage.
"Yes."
"And Aemond?"
"No word in the missive or between them." It made your throat tight, the convulsion restraining your neck once more.
"It's fine. As long as there no mention of his death. Then that's all I need."
"My lady, there's more. There might be a reason we haven't been getting much word from King's Landing. Or Oldtown. It seems to connect is all."
Your pulse jumped. "Tell me later. I have to see to the prince. No one is allowed in Stone Drum for the time being. Not unless absolutely necessary." You think and you think hard. "Ready to call in a maestre."
Dyanna had looked alarmed when you left her, but you only gave a pensive smile. A soldier's nod.
He is bent over the Painted Table, shoulders so hunched, reminding you of monsters and tall tales. A dragon, really. He may not have Velaryon blood, your husband, but you— nor others — could deny the thrum of fire in his blood. Roiling and boiling, so engulf in his rage, his voice is quiet at the approach of your footsteps.
"You have bound me to Dragonstone," he says calmly with all the quiet rage you can hear in your very soul. It makes you shiver, but you stand resolute.
He is still turned away, away from you, palms flat on the surface. The iron brazier is lit up, and so is the Painted Table itself.
"Can you honestly tell me you won't try and kill my brother if I let you, ñuha valzȳrys my husband?" you say softly. You plead. His refusal to turn to you spikes your madness in corners. The night reaches and you finger your rings as you try not to spill all over the floor; your own madness, your own fears, your quiet, quiet webs. "Aren't you at least satisfied at the thought of your stepfather excelling at planting Dark Sister to his neck? At least cheery at the idea of him suffering inside those dungeons?"
He spins then, rage—white hot and spilling — breathes as he bellows, "He has harmed my brother!"
You calmly met his gaze. "You do not know that for sure."
He laughs without mirth, arms wide and daring. Crazed anger outlandish and wild, while in response you tighten and become small.
But you do not cower. No truth cowers. And you are a princess. A dragon the same as he.
Lest all, he is a mere husband.
"What else could it be? Your brother has called us bastards our entire lives," he spits. "Neither of us are blind to his dark looks. Despite your family's attempted plots, his rage beholds him. His grudge is stronger. He attacked Lucerys, on fucking dragonback— Arrax, a dragon Luke has barely flown against your brother's war dragon — and that makes him a kinslayer."
Your blood leaps, and you cannot control your own fear, your own anger. "Do not throw that word around so carelessly, Jacaerys! My brother has killed no kin!"
"He has tried, " he hisses and it makes your eyes burn because he has never looked at you so before. At his thunderous footsteps to reach you, to aggravate you, you fight the urge to flinch. His anger spills and spoils you. You try not to curdle. You keep yourself braced. Kinslayer is so ugly said aloud. "That is enough of a brand to call him kinslayer."
Your jaw tightens, tears unleashed from your eyes and there's a glimmer there— a spark, of your Jace. Your husband. It is small and short, a comet so faint it is almost nothing, but it is there.
He does not like to see you cry, your Jace. Not if it isn't from pleasure.
You raise your chin. "My brother is no kinslayer. Lucerys is alive. Do not make Aemond what he is not."
He laughs humourlessly against your face, his hand reaching for your jaw, thumb over your chin, but the mock gentleness wounds you worse. "And who has alerted you of the news? Your twin usurper?"
"W-what?" Blood rushes to your head. Something is missing. He knows. He knows about grandsire's plans. Dyanna would have said. Dyanna didn't know. "Aegon is not an usurper," you whisper, faint but firm.
His thumb rubs against your bottom lip, his eyes tracing your face. "Is this the plan all along, then?" he says softly. "While your brother and grandsire plot to usurp the throne from my mother, and your younger brothers raise bannermen from Oldtown to Storm's End, and try to kill my own when they get the chance, I suppose your job is to warm my bed and to ensure I'm out of the fray before you kill me in my—"
His words stutter for you have slapped him. It is not the hardest move on your part, and he stops not from pain but from shock. Tears freely flow down your face now as you push him off you.
"I know nothing of these plots you speak of." That in much is true. These plots are half-assed. Made in panic and fear, and it makes you curse Otto Hightower to the depths of further Hell. "And you may bully me as you wish, husband, but I will not take it as if it does not hurt me. As if- as if I would take pleasure from your death."
He raises his chin, so defiant in his own anger that he clenches his jaw. "Are you telling me you took no part in your grandsire's plans?"
"We have been married for many moons now. I think, out of anyone on this island, amongst our family even, you would know me best. I have only ever truly bloomed in your presence," you say softly. Lies and truths are balanced so precariously; they spin and spin in a tantalising grip that even you don't know where fabrication meets honesty.
If your own lies befuddle you, why not your truths to him?
"If you are doubting me, then you are doubting our marriage, is it not?" You give a mirthless laugh of your own, chin wobbling as you brush your tears away. His eyes track your movements and his brows are furrowed. "Is it ease, that has turned you so from me? Has your doubt been seeded long before you took us to Dragonstone? To affirm your mother that you have wedded me? Yes, Aegon sent me a missive a mere hour ago. He says Aemond had been urged by our grandsire, no doubt played with as he had done so to our mother, as he tries with Aegon. With me."
Jacaerys' eyes darken. Bottomless pits of dark, dark eyes. You've grown to love them you realised.
"I will give you all the violet-eyed heirs you desire," you had purred once in your new marriage bed, having just christened (one to a few times) your new marital chambers in Dragonstone. "But I do so wish I get a babe with your eyes."
"They are hardly exemplary," Jace had said, snorting. His hand rested on your back while you rest on top of him. The air is acrid in sweat and sex, but neither of you mind. "They are not a show of Valyrian blood."
"Who cares?" You reached to dance your finger against his lashes. "A daughter with your eyes... I fear, I would spoil her rotten. She would be an absolute beauty."
"Are you calling me a beauty?" he teased, trying to hide his rosy cheeks.
"Your eyes, yes," you teased back.
"If I was such a pawn to him," you say now. "If I was using you as you so callously accused me of, why would I bother with a marriage with you? You are right, they have accused you of not being a trueborn Velaryon—" He flinches. "—So why would Otto decide marrying you was a good idea at all? Any babes I carry would be questioned, and it would serve no benefit at all if the main plot was Aegon usurping the throne. To keep you entertained? Hardly. It would serve him better, as was his earlier plan, if I had married Aegon myself."
He loses his stance, a grit in his teeth gives you way to a slow curl of possession. A renewed sense of anger. His fists clenched at his sides.
You found a thread. You don't just unspool, you decide, you will yank, and you will yank hard.
"Aegon is a firstborn male heir, even as twins. It made sense to anyone who understood Targaryen customs that marrying us would be the natural order. It did not matter any past transgressions he may have had, I keep him better. I am his tether to this world. It was obvious to anybody with eyes that if we were to marry, we would breed good Valyrian stock, our children—"
But he has lurched forward, grasping your face, seething, angry at an idea, at a diverted road.
"He wanted us to marry," you continue, a snake's hiss that it is. "But your mother sent a missive asking for Helaena's hand, and I had already told her I wanted someone else. I wanted you." You grasp his leather, pulling him to you in equal ferocity. Madness meeting a mirror. "From the very start, grandsire could not control me for my blood sung for you. I had done my very best to free my siblings from him, resigned myself to be their forever protector inside that Keep with no real power of my own, but when the Gods gave me the chance to have you, I had been selfish. I abandoned them for you. Because I wanted to be yours for a night, I was willing to have that, if it is the only moment you will grant me."
You are crying again, and lies are spinning with their truths, golden and bloodstained, but you are cracking him.
"But it was you, Jacaerys Velaryon, who had asked for my hand. You wanted to marry, whisk us away to Dragonstone, and I love you too much to blind myself to the idea of becoming your wife would not be a totally selfish act, for what act of ours would be considered selfish if it was borne out of love?" you sob hard, grasping and reaching against him, trying to shake and ruin him. "I thought you loved me, and yet here you are, accusing me of plotting? What? Usurping your mother? Killing you in your godsdamned sleep?"
"Wife, I—"
"No. I am sorry for what happened to Lucerys. But if it is vengeance that is truly what you seek, and in the morrow my brother," my choke out. "My brother would be announced d-dead, I would rather you kill me now for it seems I have not only failed them from my grandsire's clutches, I have also failed at being your wife."
Your hands reach in and pull his dagger out, and he is instinctive, a true swordsman, holding onto the dagger before your own. But you do not give up. You yank him forward so suddenly, the dagger now positioned over your heart.
You keep him there, defiant as you are. As no true dragon is afraid of metal. Metal melt in the face of dragonfire.
The tip of his dagger deepens against your skin as war rages in his own mind. Truths and lies spinning and spinning in his head, but your thread— your thread is Hightower green clung in blood and gold — and it's the brightest, twisting beneath his lids and rage. Rage and grief, the tethering madness is spilling, trying to break into the dragon's clutches—
But your Jace is strong. He holds it at bay with a fury.
It is love, it is love, it is love.
But you are not sure. And you have to be.
You have been betrayed already, your Jace cannot betray you. If you are to have a future with him as King, there must be no doubts.
You step forward, letting the blade sink against your skin. It draws blood. A few beads bloom and slide. Thick red in a string or two. It makes his jaw tighten, and you feel, almost impercibly, the strain in his hand give.
That flash of panic, panic bathed in love, in adoration, is all you need.
You grasp his hands in yours, blade nestled between two grips now, and he gasps, thinking you were going to push him away finally, but no. You hold on tight to his hands, nails digging into his skin, keeping the blade where it is before you push forward once more. The tip sinks into your flesh, blood gushes as pain explodes.
"What are you doing!? Let go!" he roars, but you stare at his eyes, brown, so pretty, framed in featherlight lashes, did he even know there are violet flecks in his eyes?
You will not harm me, you think. You realise. For you have given yourself to me body and soul. Even the Gods know.
"Will you forsake me, husband?" your voice is no higher than a whisper, than a wind's hum. It is hollow and cracking. A siren song. In the silence, it is a whip cracking against petty flesh. Against a beating heart thrumming for you. "And the babe I carry?"
Before the words register in his brain, you yank his hands again with every strength you can muster, the dagger, to hover over your stomach. Your Jace roars, pulling with his entire strength as complete fear in floods his beautiful, brown eyes. The strength propels your force of gravity, and you fall with a hard thud. The dagger is flung in the second as he reaches for you, cold-curdled terror ruining his face as he tries to make sense of where to touch you.
The fall is hard enough that you wince. And your instincts, new as it is, is to curl your hands protectively over your stomach.
"M-my heart? Does it hurt? I-I am so sorry, I-A MAESTRE, CALL A MAESTRE FOR THE PRINCESS NOW!"
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Your child is strong, you have always known that in your heart.
The second you held suspicion, pressing against the tender flesh of your breast to the nausea that kicked in out of nowhere, before Maestre Gerardys had confirmed: you are with child. Your firstborn. The heir of heirs. You could not wait to meet him.
"I hope it is a boy," you murmur weakly into the darkened space of your chambers. You don't turn as Jacaerys' head snaps, his hands over your own, sat on a chair by your bedside. Relief, guilt, fear breaks and crashes in waves against him, trying to nudge you, but you don't look. You stare from your position on the bed; forward and into nothingness.
"My love," he breathes, hands against your own warm and tight. "I am so, so sorry. I shall call for a maestre—"
"No need." Your other hand moves to your stomach. An emotion glimmers in his gaze at the movement. "My babe is strong. Blood of the dragon that he is. I know him already in my blood. Call for my maid instead. Any of them. Tell them to move my things to a different room, perhaps the one above Aegon's Garden. By morn, I will fly to Kings Landing to be with my family."
Panic fills and breaks. His hold tightens. "I-If that is what you wish, we can go as soon as Maestre Gerardys says it is alright for you and the—"
You turn to him, finally, your eyes dead of emotion. "I will go for I do not think you would like your would-be murderer to sleep beside you, haunting you with a dagger. This way, I can take advice from my mother about births and the like, and you can sleep comfortably. Do not worry, I will not poison you to your child's mind. You may visit him as you would like. You might even take comfort in knowing your mother would look for him as if he were hers. She is so very motherly, I'm sure she would enjoy a grand..."
Your words drift off as he had fallen to his knees, tears soaking your hand as he presses it to his face. You feel like the Mother, looking down on a penitent. Or the Father. Or the Stranger. You feel complete, as his apologies fall in graceless, shaky exhales and sobs. The axe is in your hand. His neck is exposed.
"—I will do anything, a-anything for your f-forgiveness. Y-You can move rooms if it comforts you, I will not s-shadow your doorway, but please. Please. Do not leave me. Anything. I will do anything."
You, and you alone, is the owner of his absolution.
You smile, despite yourself.
Maybe you should reward your grandsire after all.
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TAGGED (bold means I couldn't tag you: @inkareds @marihoneywk @caterina-caterina @ahristata
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purple-1995 · 7 days
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❝I am going to make him bow to me, brother. Mark my words.❞
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[ Jace does not yearn for you. Does not wish for you. Does not want you. But oh, lies are bitter and brittle under a tongue that yearns to taste. ]
[ +18 MDNI ] [ 4,753 ] [ series masterlist ] | jacaerys velaryon x targaryen aunt!reader (aegon's twin sister), might be small aegon ii x reader but it's one sided on aeg's behalf, sorry.
contains— manipulative reader, targarcest, mild nsfw, angsty - CANON DIVERGENCE - use of bastard, mentions of alcohol and slight phys. abuse (otto's a dick) - sort of non canon compliant, timeline is loosey goosey; in the books, rhae & dae visit kings landing frequently even after moving to dragonstone, so im going by that - nsfw: male masturbation, strong allusions to sex but no actual woohoo, creampie - no kings, no martyrs, no betas. unedited.
a/n— for my boy jace, the prettiest dark haired prince there is. simp!jace you will always be loved by me. comments, reblogs & like at will! + dividers by @danowh0re + accompanied song: SWEAT— HAYZ.
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Aegon, under the guise of weighty cups and half-mast eyes, slides beside you, following your gaze as you appraised the entrance of the Strong bastards into the courtyard.
"Are you sure about this, sister?"
"Does wine taste like heaven under grandsire's scolding, brother?"
Aegon snorts. As your twin, the difference between the two of you are more stark than people might think. Though you share the childish, almost babe like features that usually got women to bow down to Aegon— with your doe eyes, the soft cheeks, and the curled pout — where people think Aegon is a horrible mess of a git, your shared grandsire the forefront of this slander, you are quite the opposite. Beloved, dutiful, and innocent in the eyes of many.
It didn't matter that you wore green as prettily as your mother, or that your twin is a mess of wine and women— you were different. You were kind, pretty, and enticing.
A precious flower among green thorns, the smallfolk whispered.
People had even commiserated how, despite the typical Valyrian looks of silver-gold hair and lilac eyes, your Hightower lineage softened your edges. Your looks.
Your personality.
Snort.
"You know Aemond would rather see you insult the little bastard in half, than whatever it is that you are thinking of doing."
You hum as you don't remove your gaze from the dark haired prince, making jokes with his younger brother, Lucerys. From the corner of the courtyard, you and your twin could see Aemond sparring with Ser Criston with more vigour than he usually did, especially at the time of day. Occasionally, he spared the younger Strong bastard a glance that spoke of trying to unearth his insides from his body, no doubt imagining the very same as he swung his blade.
Aegon and you shared a look, stifling laughter, before you focused back on your prey. Jacaerys Velaryon. A name he uses like a shield despite having not a single drop of the sea in his blood. All you had to do was look at the dark hair, the skin and the nose of the First of Men before him.
How your half-sister Rhaenyra can say he was a Velaryon with a straight face is beyond you.
Your gaze might be searing as Jace looks up at the balcony from where you had been idly staring at him for the better half of the time, and you give him a wry sort of smile. A soft sort of smile. An acknowledgement. Just as he makes a nod of hesitant acknowledgement— unlike your brothers, you had not join in on the hostility and mean-spirited comments — you had already turned fully to Aegon as if you are enraptured by conversation.
"It's a contingency plan, my darling Aeg," you say softly as you brush the back of your hand to his face. You are aware of Jace's gaze now focused on you and your twin and you make it good for him. You make a performance. You follow the steps you've practiced so eagerly.
And eager for your soft touch, Aegon's eyes flutter in response. Ever since you were young, and seeing how harsh everyone is of Aegon and his failures, you decided you would be the kindness to him.
Though you do like him, another contingency plan for him wouldn't be so bad, would it? After all, you can bet on a lot of things, but your grandsire's award-winning thirst for power and your mother's malady to anxieties are good tidings to see them planting Aegon on the throne and usurping everything from your dearest, oldest sister.
Aeg didn't need to know that, of course.
What he can know and what he can help with, is making sure Jacaerys was looking as you smiled softly at your brother, your gold and silver spun hair bathed in morning light, and in one of your favourite dresses— a white silver dress lined with black lace and green embroidery of dragons — you were angelic personified. The Maiden come to gather and soothe your dearest brother.
You capture Aegon's face in your hands, ever soft, ever sweet, as you smile at him. He's so deprived of physical touch that doesn't harm him that he sighs against your palms. You do feel a little bad, but you need this plan to work.
"I am going to make him bow to me, brother," you whisper, giving him a soft kiss to his temple. He shudders, hands placing them on your waist, enunciating the kind curves you sport. "Mark my words, that boy king will stifle under my hand and foot. Mother's fears will not come to fruition. All will be well."
"I am older than you," he says softly, half smiling.
A gaze sears at the side of your face, as strong as the concussive heat radiating off a dragon's maw as your thumb brushes across your twin's cheek.
There is that, you think amusedly. No one can deny the little heir is his mother's child. Bastard he maybe.
"And I am better," you whisper, snickering.
"That you are." But his gaze is past you, back at the courtyard, at the reason for the heat in your skin. A spark of jealousy is quick in his mulish blue eyes but you only laugh. Light but loud, echoing.
"Come," you say with finality, taking a step back and offering your hand as you make the conscious choice of not daring even a peripheral glance, and heading back inside the keep. "We shall see them at dinner. The king's orders."
Your brother makes a sound crossbred from a huff and a groan, and you are already making plans to ensure his wine is controlled for the night, lest he makes a fool of himself in front of the King— or gods forbid, your grandsire — and mayhaps ensure the seating arrangement once again with your mother.
But everthing else is background noise; your schemes and your plots, your facades and faces, because a faux Velaryon has made it known that he cannot keep his gaze away from you.
Everything else is moot.
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Jacaerys Velaryon, firstborn son of Rhaenyra Targaryen, soon to be Heir to the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone, does not understand himself.
Perhaps you are just eye-catching. Your hair is more gold than silver, but it shifts like a mirage against sunlight. You yourself seem to change under shadows and light, as if you're casting a new spell again and again. Your eyes, your lips, the slivers of presented skin (have you really shown this much skin, all this time?), and your hips.
They sway, like a panther's.
Like a dragon's.
Jace has always known you to be pretty; Helaena has always been his favourite aunt with the fact that she's quiet and doesn't antagonise him like your brothers. Because Helaena simply cared little for him not because he was Rhaenyra's son, or that he didn't look like his father, or because he was a prince of the realm set to become heir once his mother was crowned.
Helaena simply just didn't care about him as a human not as hisn ame or his blood, her thoughts lingering more in her bugs and the fat babes she had with her brother, humming nonsensical under her breath. Not insults.
You were different. You looked. Jace knew you looked but he had never caught you before. It's a dance, he later realises come dawn he is awoken and there is a weight on top of him in rings of gold and silver, breathing softly— alive and so very warm, and from that moment, his — but for now he doesn't know.
Doesn't understand.
Your gaze is weighty, leaving searing imprints like a dragon marking it's favourite horde. But it's so hard to catch.
It started at the training grounds. As if his Uncle Aemond's wasn't enough, there was yours. He knew but could only see once, and even that felt like it was deliberate, a mere nod. As if you controlled how he worked around your sphere, and by gods, were you beautiful. Then you had turned to your twin brother as if he was nothing to you— really, he was, in the scheme of things, you were the secondborn daughter of the Queen, no matter how pretty your visage or blood is, you are a woman and a third child (right after the firstborn daughter and son), and in the other end, Jacaerys was the first son and heir of the Princess of Dragonstone, soon to be Queen. In fact, you should be nothing to him.
He was to become King, and you to be offered to a lord. To be someone's wife, to relinquish your surname and become someone's mother. Rear your new lord husband countless of babes and live your life having fulfilled your sole duty.
It is a fact that tasted brittle and bitter in his tongue, like soot and ash, and he doesn't understand it. You had crossed his mind, idle as it maybe, from time to time, but nothing concrete. You are pretty, you are kind, mischievous at times, playful, and you purposefully don't keep him long in your orbit.
You were just another aunt. Aegon's Twin Flame.
Misbegotten to not even marry your brother.
It was at dinner that night, amongst clinking goblets and fat foods spilling the edges of the table, his grandsire having arrived, even Aegon, rumpled hair and sunken eyes but dressed and suspiciously sober— and you, your mother's favourite, her most affectionate daughter, late.
"Where is she?" Jacaerys heard the Lord Hand asked, but the Queen had no reply, as confused.
And then you arrive, not ten more minutes later, and Jace's entire body had locked.
Though he did not know why or what, he knew you were up to something. You arrived in a new dress from this afternoon— close to it's style, nothing like the Queen's or Helaena's, conservative high necks and pious ever green— no, you came as a surprise with a flutter of a silken hand and an embarrassed laugh, tipping to your father a kiss on the side of his good face.
Even as you sat, it took a good, long while before the chatter would arose again (from your gracious laugh at your father's compliment no less), before everyone's eyes— even Criston Cole's, ever loyal rat — would lift from your visage.
You were ethereal, simply put, in a dress that is not of pious ever green or high collar trim; but in a flutter of what Jacaerys remembers as his mother's gown when she was pregnant with Aegon, and the days got too hot. When the babe inside her, made of pure dragon, had made her a furnace burning from the inside out.
It was the same lightweight material draped over your skins, a thin material bunched up several times so it is not too sheer. Not too inappropriate. Jace doesn't know what the fabric is, doesn't care to, but it looks like flowing water against your body. It moulds to your movements. Your shape is obvious, so are the expose arms, collarbones, your chest dipping low, too low sometimes when you lean over and laugh, eyes alight— Jace's eyes cannot stay away, they are glued to your necklace, to the top of your smooth breasts — and the dress is held together in links of golden dragons, your hair made up in braids, in pearls and small emeralds, with curled strays framing your cheeks and smile, your exposed neck.
It was meant to garner looks, compliments.
But it was the colour that Jacaerys knew it was meant for him.
At the centre of your chest— your bosom that dips, two mounds, so soft looking and the urge to reach over and press his fingers down, see how soft and pliant you really are, hear the kind of noises you make, in pain or pleasure, his thoughts make him hiss, tightening his hold on his wine, pinching nails to skin to ground himself — it starts off a darken green, shifting, blending to a winter green, a bluer green, a seafoam that he is more than familiar with, before escaping the edges in deep water blue.
The colour of his father's house had never looked so good, so charming, so sinful before.
He tears his eyes away from you because it is improper to be staring so, to be looking at you and feel like he is feasting when he is rooted in his chair and still so hungry, especially with the plans of betrothal with Baela, his mother had already asked him if she is ever in his thoughts.
Baela who sits beside him, ramrod straight and keen-eyed, respectable Targaryen lady, a confidant and a good friend. She would make a good queen in the future, he had thought so before. Respectable and fearsome, the best parts of his stepfather and the late Lady Laena.
He shakes his head, swallowing down his slice of veal before he kicks Luke's leg under the table.
His brother yelps, a mournful irritated sound for his eyes had ogled far longer (just like he, but would never admit) on you than was proper, reminding him, and yet when you look up at the sound, your eyes— have they ever been so violet? — lands on him. Again.
When your gazes meet, he is enraptured, but he clears his throat and nods. "You look good, aunt." And because he cannot step, because his thoughts are cloudy and you are looking at him as if you know he can't stop looking at you, as if you can read each filthy thought he tries to stifle, as if you like it, he continues, "The sea green is a nice colour on you."
He can feel eyes on him, even the Lord Hand's. Even Aegon, goblet pressed against his lips, hiding a smirk. He burns, but he doesn't burn as bright when your smile stretches, your lids lower, and he burns so bright he fears he might be on fire.
The flames are licking him and he does not mind, so long as you keep your gaze.
"Thank you, nephew," you hum. "That is so very sweet of you to say."
And Jacaerys blushes, coughing once when he notices his lady mother giving him a look. Knowing. Curious but not probing, not yet. What he doesn't notice is the Queen's perceptive frown as she gazes at her daughter, the Lord Hand's raised eyebrow, or Aegon trying so very hard to stifle his laughter, turning to Helaena as if he is saying something to her.
But what Jacaerys does see is Aemond's intense glare, sharpened and rekindled and suspicious, and Daemon... The Rogue Prince is eyeing you differently. No longer just another Targaryen bleeding Hightower green, no longer just another offspring of the Hightower cunt.
No, Jace can almost see inside his stepfather's brain and see the Valyrian looks. The body of a woman freshly sloughed off the body of a child.
You are pretty and young and Daemon Targaryen is looking at you.
It shocks Jace how much he despises it.
It is for my mother, his thought persists even as he looks at you again and his insides whirl. I am upset for my mother.
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Daemon Targaryen can see plainly what you are doing.
You've always hated that about men with good insight, who do not care for what is between your legs, only for your actions. For what it might do for what he cares about.
And Daemon cares for Rhaenyra, for Viserys, for the Targaryen legacy, pure and untainted.
(As if the blood of the First Men is okay to bastardise his bloodline but gods forbid the oldest and greatest of the Great Houses).
And he is now looking at you as if he has noticed the steps and webs you have spun around for his stepson, the direct legacy, and he is amused.
The dinner comes to a conclusion to a small dancing, and your twin, dutiful to you and your orders you had told him as you cleaned and prepared him for dinner; stood up, brushed himself off, and politely asked Baela for a dance— the latter looking so surprised he was fully sober, much less asking for her hand — that she found no excuse, and reluctantly accepted as they pivoted to the centre.
As Daemon continues to look at you, to unravel you as if you are an enemy in a battle map, you stand up quickly and turn to Aemond, smile wide and fake.
Jacaerys won't ask you to dance. He had drawn looks with his compliment, suspicion. Grandsire was right, they are planning to marry him off to Baela to strengthen their cause. Jace will not entertain anything anymore publicly.
Duty bound, honour bound.
But, but, but.
you are not a fool, you know men and their pissing contests. You are a daydream hiding a nightmare.
For the past few minutes, he had noticed Daemon's inquisitive, amused appraisal of you, and his brown eyes (pretty for a bastard's; Ser Harwin's lashes must have been long) had burned a different fire and it gives you an idea, an exhale of relief.
Jealousy can salvage anything.
You just need to push him.
And Aemond is beautiful, a true Valyrian King in visage, the Warrior come alive. You look so much softer when you are beside him.
"Sister?" Aemond looks up at you, curious, confused since the beginning of the night. There is a plot he isn't privy to, and he has been spearing glances at you, at Aegon, at his grandsire just in case he knew anything.
You were unmarried while Aegon had married Helaena. Your time is coming, and he loathes the idea of a betrothal to the Strong Bastard. He had made his complaints known when the missive came from your sister, asking sweet Helaena's hand for your son thinking your mother would have surely betrothed you to your twin.
Neither side knowing you had almost sent back your name, offering your hand.
"It has been a while since you had asked me to dance, little brother," you say, hands behind your back, framing yourself soft and playful. There are so many gazes on you, you play with it well.
"I was ten and one then, mandia sister, a boy."
"Too long," you tease. "Kessa ao daor lilagon lēda aōha mandia, valonqar? Will you not dance with your sister, little brother?"
He hums, acquiescing easily, and standing up. You peel a laughter that attracts a chuckle from the king. This is how you dance around the palm of Viserys I. Men like it when you play a part. Not to cost trouble, not to step over the line.
You aren't the elder sister, the firstborn child. You are means to further a line, not to have any important position. Rhaenyra is the exception only from the womb that bore her. You, like Helaena, are likened to fall in line and act like you like it. Like being a fat, old lord's wife has always been your dream. Bear his babes and suffer the trauma of hanging your life in the balance to produce them into the world.
It makes you burn with rage most days.
"What are you doing, mandia sister?" Aemond whispers against your cheek after having brought you close, dancing through the steps swiftly, keenly. It truly is a shame that Aemond doesn't dance oft.
"Won't you just believe and put your faith in the sister that you adore?" you snipe playfully. It's easy to use Aemond's hair to hide the glance you drop Jacaerys and see the seething glare he burns through your baby brother's head. Lust, yearn, jealousy— they dance and cook in his gaze. You giggle despite yourself.
"Grandsire will not allow you to marry that bastard," Aemond hums, unable to hide his irritation. You roll your eyes. Clever little brothers.
"As much love as I can grasp from my heart for our grandsire, valonqar, I am a dragon. I will take what I want. A tower is nothing to dragonfire. Grandsire oft forgets I am a princess of the realm and he is only a lord." You step back and bow as the song ends, as your father tires and wishes to go to bed. He only stays this long, or even leaves his chambers, when Rhaenyra decides to deign Kings Landing with her presence.
Always more for the heir. More effort, more love, more care.
And what is left for the other daughters of Viserys I?
He remembers Helaena's existence less, and if you do not make it a point to visit him everyday— to entertain him, read to him, laugh at being mistaken for Rhaenyra — you are sure you will be nothing more than a faint dream to him.
Your anger licked dark and green. Inside, it rages.
You watch as Jacaerys Velaryon says something to his mother, a rushed farewell, an excuse— a press of your fingers against your lips as you catch his breeches are tight, that his jaw is clenched — you step closer to Aemond once more, Aegon now drifting away from Baela and back into your orbit.
"Don't worry, little brother, I do not actually desire the Strong bastard. I want his crown."
Aegon giggles breathlessly, eyeing as Aemond's eye widen a fraction before he composes himself. "And what do you need now, sister, to accomplish such a beguilingly easy task?" Aegon snorts softly. There is only a faint scent of alcohol on him. You take it as win. "He's like a green boy from a quick flash of your chest. What more your tits in full display?" He leans close, mean and adorable. "You do not want a husband who is too quick for your own pleasure."
You swat his arm, pinching the soft flesh of his stomach before Aemond fully throttles him.
"Watch your tongue," Aemond hisses, fists clenching.
"It is okay. I take no offense, he is just being silly to rile you up," you placate him, pulling your twin closer to you just as Helaena approaches, shuffling close to your other side, burying her head against your collarbone. You hum, letting her quietly choose which physical affection she can take from you.
The four Green children, missing one. Scales of the dragon they may have, green fire burning from their maws. The four Green children, miss one. Sons and daughters of Viserys I. Nothing more than wombs and seeds for his legacy.
You finally turn to Daemon's probing stare and you keep it. "Keep his family away from him," you whisper to your siblings. You do not care if he understands. At this point, even your grandsire may have an idea for your plots.
And for the crown, for his lineage, no ambition is too small.
If he can send your mother to an old, grieving man after he had butchered his first wife, what ease it is to send a granddaughter willing to dance a scandal?
"I need him alone tonight."
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You do not come to him immediately, more than knowing what he is doing. Maegor's Holdfast is a fun little place, with its secrets and tunnels. You had already studied the path to his apartments beforehand, and you are there, against the hidden way, hearing him fuck his fist to the vision of you, your name dripping and spitting from his pretty red lips.
You catching him after the high, chest up and down breathing hard. There is a self-loath, a disgust. You can just read his thoughts. When you enter, he is alarmed, a sword in his hand, guarded replaced to shock at the sight of you.
"Aunt," he whispers, appalled. Lustful. Righteous.
You tilt your head, unsmiling. You guard your thoughts as you approach, hands behind your back, voice soft. "Do you always reach to completion with my name in your tongue, nephew, or is today an exception?"
Jacaerys Velaryon flinches, sword hand dipping. "I—"
You are close, a hair's breadth away. Amusingly, he is struggling with himself. His honour in one hand, his desire in another. He wants to leap away from you and pull you close.
His choice is still open.
You answer for him.
"Would you like to know whose name falls from my lips when I reach completion?" you whisper against his lips. So close but still so far. Your fists are clenched behind your back, nails drawing blood. You cannot fail now. The Rogue Prince might be wandering now, ready to yank you or kill you.
You are a viper in a vipper's nest, and Daemon Targaryen is too late to realise you only want one true victim.
Jacaerys is drawn, the shock of your words melting to make way for the flutter of his eyes and the full shudder of his body as you lick a strip across his bottom lip, staining him.
Break yourself for me, Strong Boy, you think as he opens his eyes and stares at your lips. Break your oaths, your promises.
"Whose?" he asks, voice hoarse.
The surrender is at the hands he has brought first to your hips before he rose it slowly up and up, until his warm palms cupped your jaw, your face, swallowed in his hold. It is a delight to know his hands are bigger than your face, that he is told to tower over you. A boy king grown.
"Yours."
He groans but does not let you go. "I am betrothed."
You still. Such a Good, Strong Boy, resisting until the very fucking end. "I have not heard of such announcements, nephew."
"Mother will announce soon."
"Is that what you want then?" You grip his hands and stride forward until your are chest to chest. Until he can feel every outline of your body against his, until you can feel the hard line of his manhood against your stomach. Until he feels his own body breaking his oath.
"Please, Jace," you whisper, you beg. Your eyes begin to water. "I want you to take me... Only you. I have longed for you for so long. Your mother— my sister betrothed you to me first." He leans back, surprise flitting. "Yes, my love. But my mother had refused. I— I thought you would see it nevertheless. The affection in my gaze, the smile I give only to you. That I am offering my heart, my soul, my body to you. Only to you, Jacaerys."
Your tears are running down now, your voice so soft and so desperate. Where lust had clouded him, it is now tinged with a flattered adoration.
Men are so simple. Boys far simpler.
"I thought you knew," you say at last in a voice as broken as your heart. You take his hands away and step back. He grasps but you turn away, a sob wracks from your chest as fake as when you were a child, trying not to get in trouble with your mother so she can fire the septa that you hated. She had sneered at Aegon's drunken folly and was disgusted by Aemond's fresh wound.
You wanted her gone.
"Aunt, I—"
"It is alright," you cut him off. You turn back slightly, your smile watery, your gaze to the floor. "Aegon did not choose me either, unlovable as I am. Men only want me for my body and nothing more. I-I'll leave you be. Good night—"
You never finish your spiel because he had yanked you, hard, against him, his lips moving against yours— clumsily, not enough practice but aggressive in its desire — pressing you against him as if he is trying to swallow you whole.
Jacaerys is not bowing, not yet. But that night with his seed warm and full inside your womb, his body encased against your own, tightening whenever you made a movement, as if in fear any step you take away from him would slip you so freely from his fingers— his mouth, his lips, bruised by your own making, pressing featherlight soft against the side of your head, your hair — it is not too soon to think the boy king will bend the knee to you and only you.
And maybe the babe you bear him, but there is no need to rush. These steps are delicate but sure.
After all, he has only just cemented the thought that he will whisk you both to Dragonstone at first light, a traditional Old Valyrian wedding.
He will bow soon enough.
For now, you will enjoy your glowing win.
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purple-1995 · 7 days
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CERSEI LANNISTER Game of Thrones, 1.06
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purple-1995 · 7 days
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EWAN MITCHELL as AEMOND TARGARYEN House of the Dragon (Official Trailer) | Season 2
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purple-1995 · 7 days
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"Bewitched" - Aegon Targaryen II x Witch!Reader x Aemond Targaryen
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a/n: a request from @dreamfyre03 combined with one from @the-shadow-queen02 🤭🩷
Summary: Bewitching the men of House Targaryen and bringing them under your thrall proves quite easy.
TW: profanity, innuendo, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, manipulation, mommy kink, dom!reader, breeding kink, p in v sex, unprotected sex, face sitting, oral f receiving, tiddy succin, ass eating, anal sex, jealousy
Word Count: 1,625 words
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.
Comments, likes, and reblogs are never required but are immensely appreciated 🩷
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When Aemond returned from Harrenhal, his mother could not hide her shock at who he had brought back with him.  He said he found you on the side of the road, thrown from your horse, bleeding from your temple with little memory of how you came to be there. He, of course, did the chivalrous thing and took you into his care. But Alicent can tell that it is far more than that when she sees how he looks at you. With care, affection, but something much darker as well. Possessiveness. Intense desire, hunger even. You were quite beautiful, disarmingly so, and it is no wonder her sweet boy was so taken in by you. Buxom with crimson red lips, eyes that seemed much wiser than the age you claimed to be, lined with kohl and framed by long lashes that you knew how to bat oh so prettily at the prince. Your gaze pulled people in. There was a mysteriousness to you, a danger she could not quite name. 
And she hated that Aegon seemed to be just as entranced by you the moment he saw you, descending from his throne to take your hand and press a kiss to the back of it, giving you his most charming smile. The dowager queen saw the way Aemond’s nostrils flared, the way his jaw clenched. You were going to be a problem. And you knew the way you had both the king and the prince wrapped around your little finger. Your smile was one that looked as if you were hiding some deep, dark secret. One that could ruin everything Viserys wanted her to do. A peaceful reign for Aegon, his legacy maintained.
But when she suggests that he send you away, back to the Riverlands where you belong, Aemond raises his voice at her, shocking her entirely. He glares at her, gnashing his teeth as he declares that you are to remain by his side. That you are his guest, his lover, and anyone that has a problem with that will be put to the sword. What sort of spell have you put on her son, she wonders? Are you some kind of enchantress? Some witch who has seduced him with false promises, with the affection he’s so desperately craved all his life? She does not know. But what Alicent does know is this - people are frightened of her third-born for good reason. She has never been on the receiving end of Aemond’s anger before. He’s always revered her, as one reveres the Mother herself. But it would appear that you have replaced her as the most important woman in his life. She watches as you rest a hand on his chest, looking up at him and calming him with a few honeyed words and a bat of your lashes, his eye fluttering shut as you caress him. A low moan escapes from his lips, one that she truly wishes she did not have to hear.
And it’s no wonder what the spell you’ve put him under is. The way he stares unabashedly at your breasts as they strain against the bodice of your dress, the way he licks his lips when you give him that coy little smile. You have seduced him into your grasp and she wonders if you will ever be willing to let him go.
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Aemond watches as you move to get up from his bed, the moonlight shining through the window and reflecting upon your bare body as you walk. He stares without shame, admiring your full breasts, the curve to your hips, your soft thighs as you move to grab yourself a robe. He can already feel his cock twitching, imagining burying himself inside you once again, filling you with his seed, tasting your sweet, wet cunny-
His train of thought is cut off when you hand him a goblet of wine, having already poured one for yourself. You smile at him playfully, moving to sit in his lap, running your fingers through his hair. He lets out a soft sigh of contentment, leaning into your touch, feeling your nails scratching at his scalp. You do not judge him for it, the way he clings to you like a babe, his lips finding your breasts, suckling greedily, his tongue laving attention onto your pert nipple. You just continue running your hand through his hair, soothing him. Aemond’s other hand moves to squeeze at your neglected breast, only to have you wrap his knuckles, fixing him with a sharp glare.
“Do not be greedy, my prince,” you say in that silvery voice, scolding him affectionately, the sound making him grow all the harder, “Now, I must go see your brother.”
Aemond shakes his head, arms wrapping around your waist, “No. You have to stay here with me. You are mine. You belong to me. I will not let Aegon take you away from me. He has gotten everything he has wanted all his life. I will not let him have you.”
You run your fingers along the length of his scar, smirking slightly when his breath hitches at your soft touch, “My sweet, sweet Aemond. Surely you remember my vision. To make it a reality, I have told you what it is that I must do.”
“It does not mean I have to like it. Or even approve of it,” he mumbles, burying his face in your neck, nipping at your soft skin, “You are mine.”
“Of course I am yours,” you coo affectionately, “When you sit the Iron Throne, I will be at your side. You will wield Blackfyre, the Conqueror’s crown upon your handsome brow.”
“And you will be my queen,” Aemond insists eagerly, letting out a groan as you sink down onto his cock, the subtle bounce of your breasts as you move your hips mesmerized him, “Oh Gods, you take me so well…”
Your fingers trace his throat all, squeezing gently, a grin spreading across your lips when he lets out a lewd moan of your name, “Yes, my king. I will be your queen. And you will breed me every night. Perhaps this is the night your seed will take and your heir will begin to grow inside of me.”
The thought of you, your breasts heavy with milk, your belly swollen as his child grows inside of you… It is all almost too much for him to bear. He feels you tense around him, his seed spilling inside you at the feeling as you milk his cock for everything he has. You always take him so perfectly, as if you were made for him and only him.
He hates watching you brush your air, applying some scented oil to your neck before taking your pitcher of wine and leaving the chambers you currently share with him. Aemond knows this is all for the greater plan, the vision you saw in the fire on the way to King’s Landing. Him on the throne, his babe in your belly. Aemond tries to stay in his chambers. He tries to play the part of the responsible, dutiful man. To let you do what the two of you planned. You will whisper in Aegon’s ear, bewitch him with promises of a life far away in YiTi. You will get him to abdicate his claim to the throne, allowing Aemond to take his rightful place. And to do all of this, Aemond knows seducing him, bedding him is necessary. But he cannot bear it.
So he storms into Aegon’s bedchamber. He sees you there, sitting atop Aegon, much as you did atop him mere hours earlier. Aegon’s hands hold your hips, his eyes blown wide with lust as you ride him. Aemond is transfixed by the sight. You look so beautiful, so powerful as you give his brother pleasure, as you take your own from him. You grab Aegon’s hands, pinning them above his head as you roll your hips faster and faster. Aegon moves to take one of your breasts in his mouth, whining pathetically when you smirk and move back just out of reach.
Aemond glowers at the two of you for a moment before storming up to you, gripping your hips from behind. You glance at him over your shoulder, a wicked smile curling on your lips as you pull him into a hot, wet kiss. Aegon watches the two of you, his lips parted as he continues bucking his hips up against you before finally spilling himself in your cunt with a pathetic whine of your name. You smirk at the two men before speaking in a cool, measured tone.
“There’s enough of me to share, darlings.”
The two stare at you in awe as you move to straddle Aegon’s face, turning to Aemond and glancing downward. Immediately, he knows what you expect him to do. Before you, he never would have thought of himself as being interested in this sort of depravity. But while you ride his elder brother’s face, his own tongue teasing your puckered hole before preparing you to take his cock, he realizes that he has very much grown addicted to you.
The night continues this way, the three of you losing yourself in your shared pleasure, each brother sound asleep on either side of you. You slip from the bed in the dead of night, putting your robe on once more and preparing to meet a figure, hidden under the shroud of darkness. He waits for you in King’s Landing, near Mysaria’s brothel, a smirk on his face.
“How is the plan progressing, little witch?”
Your lover pulls you into his arms, groaning against your lips as you palm at his cock, “The plan goes well, Daemon. Very well.”
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purple-1995 · 8 days
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Soothe Me (Homelander x Reader Powerswap!au)
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18+ | gender neutral reader, light descriptions of gore, showering, he takes care of you | Fic Directory
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He’d never admit it, but there’s a part of him that really likes when you come home like this.  Something sick and twisted in his core, something rotten that quivers with excitement every time you walk through the door covered in viscera.
Maybe it’s because of the way his life is.  He’s just some average, ordinary guy shackled by the restraints of a regular human life.  Wake up, take Ryan to school, go to work, pick his son up, eat dinner, sleep, and then repeat until he’s dead.  It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate his simple life or that beloved son of his who he was so fucking proud of,  but the mundane…
He’d be a liar if he said he never wished he was special.
You make him feel that way though. When you show up at his apartment drenched in gore, he feels so very special.  He feels like the keeper of an especially violent creature that would maim anyone and anything but him.  Something that, despite its sharp fangs and jagged claws, would only ever touch him with tenderness– with softness.
Even at times when your hand has gone around his throat, he’s always known you would never.
So when you show up like that again, is it any wonder that John practically bounces out of bed to greet you?  Hands at your cheeks to thumb away chunks of whatever moron pressed their luck, fingers combing through your blood-slicked hair, a kiss pressed to a dried patch because he is only human and doesn’t quite want some stranger’s bodily fluids in his mouth.
He’s started wearing darker shirts because of you.  It’s hard to explain to a child why there’s a red handprint that won’t wash out of his clothes, but it’s much less obvious this way.  Your leather clad hands fall to his waist immediately and your grip flexes the tiniest bit to steady yourself.
You can feel his warmth.  You can smell him more than the reek of iron and intestinal gunk splattered all over your body.  He smells of… cooked chicken. Some kind of cheap cheese.  A bitter salad dressing.  The lingerings of milk on his breath.  He must have just finished having dinner with his son.
You shut your eyes and focus.  You can hear the boy in his room. Legos clattering, narrations of dialog.  He still doesn’t know about you.  John doesn’t know how to tell him in a way that’s not overwhelming.
You breathe a deep sigh as he frets over you.  It’s the same every time. He’s scared you’re hurt, inspecting you as he brings you to the bathroom.  You’re only half aware of what’s going on.  The running of the shower, the hands tugging at your suit, his clothes hitting the floor. 
You’ve had a terrible day and it’s all you can think of…
Somehow, though, he draws you away from all of that.  Walks you into the shower and under the stream.  He adjusts the temperature the moment he sees you flinch at the heat.
You still haven’t told him about all of… that.  Your life before being Homelander.  When you were a mere lab rat, a product in development, poked and prodded and tortured to see what made you tick– what could make you sell .  He knows a little, but… you don’t quite have it in you to see him look at you with pity.
The hands that touch you in that cramped shower take you away from everything.  You’re here, not there. You’re not fist deep in that stupid fucking assistant who found you arguing with your other half in the mirror.  What’s left of that fool swirls down the drain.  You’re not getting berated by Edgar or dragged into some stupid fucking publicity stunt. Ashley isn’t up your ass about your itinerary.  You’re here.
He’s here.
Lips press to yours, gentle and sweet, and he whispers to you.
“S’okay.  You’re home now.”
Home.   It was such an odd concept.  You’ve had many homes.  Each of the cells in the lab, the penthouse, your cabin.
None of those have ever felt like home.  Here, though..?  You imagine it must be as close as you’ll ever truly have to a home.
You press him to the wall, his wrists trapped in your hands as you nuzzle into his neck.  His pulse rings in your ears. It pulsates louder than the stream of the shower and his breaths that grow with anticipation and a touch of excitement.
You know he enjoys it.  You meant to turn this into some kind of a hug, but… all you can do is just stay like that.  Hidden against him, lost in the symphony of all that keeps him alive.
“Long day, sweetheart?” His breath gusts over the tip of your ear.  
You release his wrists and wrap your arms around him, drifting away.  You answer him in a nod and he hugs you closer.  He has to be the one to do the squeezing.  If you did it, you’d shatter him.
“Let me take care of you?”  He asks for permission first.  He knows you love his doting, the way he spoils you rotten, but sometimes…  
Sometimes you’re not able to accept it.  Like a stray dog, wounded and afraid, your mistrust and fear comes out on him.  He has a small understanding of why you bite.  Of how many hands have hurt you, how many times you’ve had this very thing promised to you only for it to be a carrot on a stick with which you’d be beaten for ever stepping out of line.
He knows you’ve been made to beg for that which others have by right of simply existing.
Love.
He won’t ever make you beg.
He tells you this as he lathers you with soap.
“I love you.”
He tells you again as he thumbs a cleanser onto your cheeks.  Looks you right in the eye and declares it with a soft smile, twinkling eyes, and a kiss.  Watches you become like butter in his hands, softening, melting.  The coldness in your eyes dissipates into something sorrowful and pained– something yearning.
He knows that’s how you say it back.  He hopes one day he’ll hear you say the words, but this is okay for now.
He washes you meticulously, carefully, until not even a whisper of pink tint remains in the suds.  He dries you before himself.  Stands there dripping and cold as he puts you back together, caring for himself only once you demand it.
He wouldn’t stop shivering.  You practically had to say something.
How is it that he’d sacrifice his own comfort to take care of you?  He’d give and give until you had to fucking force him to take.  He confuses you.  You’ve never met anyone like him.  
He makes you feel insane.
“Give me that,” you grumble, taking the blow dryer from him to fan it over his hair.  He’d already taken care of yours.  You feel practically out of your mind at how badly you’ve wanted to do this.  You run your fingers through his pretty blonde locks, ruffle them into place, fluff the front just right.  He practically purrs at your touch.
He’s just as bad as you in that regard.  There’s something about the way he preens in the mirror as he watches you, perks up and grins, adjusts his hair just slightly from where you’d styled it that makes you chuckle.
John can’t even begin to explain how happy he is to finally see you smile.
He brings you to bed.  Normally you’d be initiating shenanigans, teasing and touching him every step of the way, but you’re tired in a way that not even sleep will fix.  He’s told you before that it’s a mental fatigue– that you’re overloaded and need to make time for yourself.  That even The Homelander needs to take a break sometimes.
He’s adamant about it tonight. 
“You can stay here.  Use some of your sick days.” He schemes.  “You’ve gotta have some of those after all these years, right?”
When you don’t answer, his brows knit in confusion.  He knows that means no, which makes no sense to him– but he doesn’t press you to explain.
“I want you to stay here.”  He says firmly.  He squeezes your hands between his as he stares into your eyes, engulfing you in that oceanic gaze that has a special way of getting you to do damn near anything.
You find yourself nodding.  What did you care if you pissed off everyone at Vought?  It’s not like it’d be the end of the world, and you’d much rather be with him anyway.  You huff a laugh against his neck as you nuzzle close to him.
How many people have ever been able to sucker you into something the way he can?  Well, there was one person, but… what’s done is done.  
But, John?
He had a way about wearing you down with just a simple smile, honeyed words, pretty blue eyes, and a declaration of love.  You really like the way his grin grows wider when you agree.  You like the way he hugs you tight and kisses the top of your head in excitement.
There’s no one in the world like him.  Nobody at all.
Your Johnny is so very special.
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purple-1995 · 8 days
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Indulge Me (Homelander x Reader Powerswap!au Smut)
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18+ | 1.5k words | Pure smut, gender neutral reader, oral sex, lazy blowjob, ball sucking, rimming, begging, overstimulation, come eating, HL!reader, oral fixation | Fic Directory
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This is your favorite.
He really was so perfect for you. Indulging this little need of yours, head tipped back on the couch, warm breaths escaping between his parted lips.  
Your head rests in his lap while his fingers thread through your hair.  It’s how he grounds himself.  You know he enjoys this, too.  This little… fixation of yours.
You lost track a while ago of how long you’ve been like this.  Head turned toward his body as you suckle the head of his limp cock, tongue teasing his foreskin.  You can’t recall how many loads you’ve swallowed, but you know he’s dazed and you’re in heaven.
Your own arousal has long since drenched your underwear, but you’ll take care of that eventually.  
You roll your tongue lazily over the head, drool spilling down your cheek landing in a dark patch on his pants.  He tastes so good, so sweet, and he’s all yours.  You roll closer to him, letting his soft cock slip further back your tongue. 
The goal was never quite to get him off, but rather to satisfy that little oral fixation of yours. He’d discovered it fairly early on in your relationship.  A thumb pressed to your lower lip after a kiss, the digit sucked into your mouth, your eyes glazing over.
John had looked like a deer in headlights, but he went along with it.  Pushed and pulled his thumb in and out, soft sighs escaping from him as he imagined how that tongue would feel on his cock.
He took your hand back then.  Guided it into his pants, under his cute little briefs, let you grasp and stroke him while you laved over his finger.  He ended up lightheaded and had to sit.  That was when you, filthy little thing you are, traded his finger for his cock.  
You held him in your mouth until your chest was soaked in a slick combination of come and slobber.  Even then, you didn’t want to let off.
You feel him grow against your tongue, twitching again after his refractory period passed.  He uses his grip in your hair to rock your head gently.  
You don’t care.  As long as you get what you want.
He pushes until the tip is at your tongue and you wrap your lips around him, sucking gently.  Can’t be too careless, can’t hurt him.  But you have to have him.
He looks down at you with glassy eyes and red cheeks. His chest heaves, he chews his lip, lets his hands roam.
“Mmm, god, what’d I ever do to deserve you?” He moans.  “That’s so– oh, fuck…”
His cock twitches and you roll to swallow more of him.  Your tongue travels lazily along the length.  You angle your head to catch the bump of the vein that runs on the underside and his hips jerk.
“Hnngh,” he gasps.  He’s sensitive, damn near overstimulated.  His eyes travel to the window of your penthouse, basking in the beautiful blue sky as you work his cock– but not for too long.  
The sight of you is far more gorgeous.
You shift, releasing him to prop yourself on your elbow.
“Pants off,” you tell him.
Without a second of hesitation, he pushes them down to his knees.
“Lay back.”
Once again, John does as you say, kicking his garments away and splaying his legs wide.
Your face is buried against him almost immediately, though this time you take one of his balls in your mouth.  You hold it gently, tongue swiping over it in meticulously slow strokes.  You taste the salt of his sweat and a flavor that is uniquely his.
You can feel him start stroking himself, his skin moving along with the more aggressive tugs.
He’s a moaning mess above you, but he knows not to come.
Not until your mouth is back around him and he can be savored.
His heel digs into your back and he arches up, pressing his sack against your mouth.  He feels your drool slowly dribble down his balls, over his perineum, a small trail painting over his hole.
“Ah, might be a, uh, a weird ask,” he shudders, “your spit feels r-really good when it goes… down there, uh… C-Can you uhm, you know… drool… more?”
You look up at him with a twinkle of amusement in your spaced out eyes. You suck off of his sack with a wet pop, grabbing both of his thighs to push him so that his ass is exposed entirely to you. 
“H-Hey!” 
You press his thighs to his chest, kneeling before him.  You can see the realization in his eyes and it stirs something playful in you.  You drop a heaping glob of saliva on his hole before diving in, tongue swirling around the tight muscle.  There’s more of an effort here than what you’d been doing before.
He deserves a treat for being so good for you for so long.  
Your sweet little Johnny.
He keens below you, hands swatting below his rear to seek any part of you he could grab.  Somehow he manages a handful of your cape.
You press your tongue flat against his rim, holding it there to warm him.  Your hands move to knead his rear, the globes of his flesh so soft and malleable in your palms.  
His whines and whimpers are so sweet, but your name flying off his tongue is by far the most delicious part of it all.  He practically screams it when you pierce that tight ring of muscle, tongue wriggling inside.
How fucking amazing to know he was all yours.  You could take him apart at your leisure, in any way you want, and he’d always beg for more.
Just like now.
“Ah, please! Please– fuck! Fuck!”
Your little birdie loves to sing for you.
“Oh, god, fuck, can– can I t-touch mys– AH!” He cried out as you pushed your tongue further, slipping out to suck hard on his perineum.  “Please, please, oh fuck, please!!” 
Your hand slipped around his waist to grasp his cock, squeezing just enough to make his whole body jump.  You drag your fist over the length of him torturously slow as you tongue fuck him.
He weeps, begging and pleading.
Through his tears, he tells you how close he is.  You angle his body, pointing the tip of his cock right at his mouth.
“Catch it,” you tell him, “but don’t swallow it.”
He nods like the desperate slut he is.  Needy for you, needy for all that you’ll give him, starved until he can have it.
You drag your tongue from hole to sack, suckling his flesh and jerking him in three hard pumps that leave him howling an open mouthed moan, ropes of his come painting his face and tongue.  You trail back to his hole and dip your tongue inside to feel every pulsation of his glorious release.
He feels his body drop and your tongue is upon his face in a fraction of a second, licking him clean.
He’s pretty sure it’s in his hair, too, but he can’t possibly care about that.  Not when your tongue delves between his parted lips to lick everywhere you can possibly reach, desperate for more of his taste.  
You’re like an animal starved for something only he can provide. 
You press him against the couch, tasting your little pet, savoring his sounds and how they echo inside of you.
He’s so fragile looking when you pull away. He’s been undone and put back together over and over again.  So good, so perfect for you.
All for you.
“Good boy, Johnny.” You purr into the shell of his ear.  
He arches against you.
“You’re gonna take such good care of me now, right?”
He nods eagerly, nearly rising from the couch if not for your overwhelming strength keeping him in place.
Your hands slip under the hem of his sweater, pushing it up to reveal his nipples.  You lean down to tongue over one, fingers finding the other.
“That delicious cock of yours is gonna be ready for me soon, right?” You murmur against his chest. You relish the feeling of his hands in your hair, gripping and tugging.
The thought of more damn near scares him.  He’s not sure if he’s got anything left; he might end up shooting dry.  Would you be upset that you didn’t get your little treat if that’s all he had?
“You’re gonna fuck me and take such good care of me, baby. I know it.” 
You suck his rosy bud into your mouth, smirking at his weak moans.
“My sweet little Johnny…”
239 notes · View notes
purple-1995 · 8 days
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Satisfy Me (Homelander x Reader PowerSwap!AU)
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18+ | 3.4k, stalking, masturbation, mostly mutual masturbation, graphic violence, powerswap au, gender neutral reader | Fic Directory
Ask Prompt: Non supe hl x HL reader. Like the reader has his powers, and he's just a regular guy.
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You find him by chance. Could've been any of those little ants down on 36 assigned to your old suit's preservation, but it was him. 
What an ordinary fellow he was, too, running around in those little blue sweaters over his dress shirts, his soft box-dye-blonde hair, those pretty blue eyes behind dark framed glasses. It drove you nuts, but that was the best part. 
John was the best part. 
You fixated on him from the moment you saw how he handled a literal part of you, how he touched your suit with care and grace, expressed how much of an honor it was to be picked to take care of you. 
And you? You were bigger than life itself! The fucking Homelander, for crying out loud. Of course he should be honored to preserve and maintain your old suit; it's you for fuck’s sake. So why was it that his anxious little demeanor was so endearing to you?  What was it that made his promise to keep something of yours in tip-top shape turn him into the center of your attention?
Why did you find yourself lingering on 36 far more often? Going down with the excuse of wanting to see progress on the display, but really just wanting to see him, talk to him, learn about him. 
Your gloved hand on his shoulder makes him nervous. You can hear his heart beat as quickly as a hummingbird’s wings as he glances up at you. His cortisone spikes, but not in the wrong way. You rile him up. 
It's adorable. 
You begin to watch him. You follow him along the route of the subway, trail him from his stop to the school where he picks up his son, then to his apartment. You float up at the same pace that they ascend the stairs until you're lingering outside the window to his bedroom, watching him sleep. 
This becomes your routine, and god help anyone who tries to take you away from it.  
You sneak in a few times when no one’s home. Roam between rooms, investigating every little piece of his life. You borrow a sip or several from the milk in the fridge, peek at the living room, investigate the bathroom. You learn the boy's name is Ryan from the little wooden letters mounted on the wall above his bed. There's not much of note in the kid's room save for action figures, lego sets, and a few stick figure doodles labeled ‘me and dad.’
John's room is where you have your fun. You start at his desk, sifting through papers and soon-to-be-due bills. You wiggle the mouse at his computer and find his desktop background to be a picture of himself and Ryan. You're almost offended that it's not a picture of you and all your star-spangled glory. 
Almost. There's better things to do than care about that. 
There's a closet full of clothes to run your fingers over, a drawer of underwear from which you can pick your new favorite keepsake.  You settle on a pair of dark red briefs, holding them to your nose to inhale deeply, groaning as the scent of him fills your lungs.  You make your way over to the nightstand where you find a drawer with a stroker and lube hidden inside a ball of paper towels.  You smirk and toy with it for a time, tongue jutting out to lave over the inside, hoping and praying that there’s even a drop of him left in there. 
And then there’s his bed, full of his scent.  You lay on it and press your face into his pillow, breathing in his scent in several deep, focused breaths.  Underneath a smell that is so uniquely him, you find a hint of something woodsy and herbal.  It tickles your nose sweetly but you focus more on his natural scent than that of his products. You want to stay more than anything. You’re surrounded by him in every sense of the word. All of your senses are bombarded by parts of him; the only thing missing is the man himself.
You roll on your back, eyes shut as you picture what it would look like to gaze up at him from that angle.  How he’d look leaning above you, sweat on his brow as he drives into you over and over and over again… How he’d pant and gasp, exerting himself just to please you, just to pump you full of his love and devotion.
God, you hadn’t even realized you’d snaked your hand into your pants during the fantasy.  You shut your eyes and continue anyway.
Your mind wanders back to the thought of him. You’d touched yourself to the thought of him quite a few times, but doing it in his bed?
Delicious…
You imagine wrapping your legs around him, featherlight lest you crush his pelvis.  You roll him, straddling his waist as you come down hard on his cock.  Beneath you is where he looks best.  Squirming and panting, hips thrusting to meet you in desperate, sloppy motions.  You’d be so good to him, too.  You’d ride his cock until he saw stars, until the only word that could come out of his mouth is your name…  
You’d let him pump you full of however many loads that pitiful, human body of his could muster, until you’re dripping with his come and he’s yours inside and out.
Maybe you’d mark him up, too.  Leave some handprints at his hips, some bite marks where he’s soft… Wouldn’t be hard… Wouldn’t take much to mar that perfect skin with your claim of ownership.  Some hickeys at his inner thighs, maybe an extra special one right where his cock meets his groin.
Your salacious fantasies come to a head at the same time as your pleasure.  You grind against your hand as you picture what it’d be like to milk his cute little cock.  Suck him dry, watch him beg and plead, let him squeeze your head with his legs as if he could possibly make you stop.  You’d eat up every ounce of him and spit it back in his mouth.  Make him go down on you with a mouthful of his own come.
“Oh, fffuck!” You howl, writhing on his bed, fist gripping and pressing his blanket to your nose. Your underwear are soaked, but you couldn’t care less.  Not as you pant heavy breaths, your body blissful and surrounded by him.
You linger for quite a while, only breaking away for your regularly scheduled visit with him. 
You had asked for a lesson about The Federalist Era - not that you really gave a shit beyond getting to consume his time. John was all too excited at your sudden interest and he offered to stay late just for you. Ryan would be with his mother, as was the case for every Friday to Sunday, and he’d have nothing but time for you. 
He meets you in your penthouse with a textbook and it's everything you've got not to devour him whole. He’s so precious.  You keep your gloves off, brushing your fingers over his as you point to parts of the text you ‘didn't get.’ You do everything in your power to keep him red and blushing.  You scoot closer, hover in his space, lean over his shoulder.  You practically eye-fuck him every time you look at him.  You toy with him all night until he finishes his lesson.
He stays for another hour just for the hell of it. Just to spend time with you. It's not until he's yawning that he entertains the idea of heading home. 
“Why don't you let me fly you?” You offer, smirking at how he deeply he flushes. 
“Oh, I mean I don't- I just-” He stammers. “I’m just a little scared of heights, you know?” 
You scoff a laugh at his confession, taking him by the hand and leading him to your balcony. He doesn't resist you whatsoever. 
“C'mon, Johnny! I won't let anything happen to ya!” You wrap your arms around his waist and begin to hover. You whisper in his ear, “I'll protect you,” and you can feel the way he shivers before nodding.
His arms wrap around your neck, textbook dangling from one hand as he presses himself against you. The higher you rise, the tighter he holds on. 
“Good boy.”  You breathe soft and low, thumb rubbing circles at his lower back.  “I’m a much better ride than the shit they got down there.”
He clings to you the whole way home, only realizing after you've dropped him off that you somehow know where he lives. 
You drive him wild. You stir a feeling in him that he hasn't had time to focus on in so long, and it's to your absolute pleasure that you get to linger and peer through his roof that night as he takes care of himself. 
John fucks his fist with reckless abandon, then his toy that he just can't help but imagine is your hole. You focus extra hard, trying to make your senses pick up on everything happening in that room.  You can smell the salt of his sweat, the pheromones in the air, the scent of his precum.  You hear every little gasp and moan, every groan that rattles out of his pretty little mouth.  The sound of lube squelching in his stroker riles you up so much more, and you’ve half a mind to burst through the fucking wall and mount him.  
You tease yourself in time with him, knelt on the roof so perfectly that no one could catch you.  You gaze through matter with hooded eyes to watch him, and it’s the most beautiful, tempting sight you’ve ever seen in your life.  You can’t remember a time you’ve been so fucking horny as you are right then.
He comes near violently, shouting, “H-Homelander!” as he does. Your eyes roll back and a quivering moan rips from your throat as you come apart with him.  He called your name.
He called your fucking name.
He’s already yours.
He works the next day for some overtime pay. Nothing stressful, just some extra document filing. You're preoccupied with filming away from the tower, much to your heavily expressed ire, and he's bored. 
He's bored for the whole day, wishing you'd come by.  He stays extra late, hoping beyond hope that you’ll meander in like you don’t actively choose to come down to such an insignificant level.  
But you don’t.
He’s thoroughly bummed out as he steps off the train, walking the rest of the way home in the dark.   He knows you didn’t forget about him; you’re just busy.  Even the world’s greatest superhero’s gotta take care of their commitments, right?  He’s deep in thought as he makes his way down the cold street.  The yellow glow of the streetlights sets a somber feeling deep in his heart as he shuffles further along, passing the occasional stranger, hands in his pockets.  He should’ve worn more than a sweater and a scarf.  He had no idea it was gonna be so chilly.  Or maybe he’s just so used to running hot after spending time around you.
God, had he really caught the attention of Homelander?  Like, really caught it?
He’s heard stories– god knows there’s enough to go around.  Was told by more than a few of his coworkers in the archives that it’s dangerous to be around you.  That there was a good reason that the loneliest spot was always at the top.
He didn’t like that, though.  What he did like, however, was you.  The way you look at him as though he’s worth wanting.  You give him your full attention and fuck, you always come back.  It’s like he matters now.  He’s not just some orphan-turned-moderate-success trying to raise his son and keep from drowning under the oppressive cost of New York’s rent.  Well, he still is, but he’s all of that and he’s got the attention of The Homelander!
And he finds you sweet.  Like a big, scary dog that only likes him.  He wants to know more about you.  As much as he likes history, he’d love yours even more.
He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he neither sees nor hears the man sprinting up behind him to grab him by the scarf.  John chokes harshly as he’s dragged into an alley, kicking and thrashing to no avail.
He’s thrown on the ground and he wants to get back up, fight for what little good it’d actually do, but there’s a clicking sound directly in front of his face and–
He freezes.  Eyes go wide, skin chills far colder than the air alone could ever turn it.  A pit forms in his gut and oh god he’s fucking helpless.
“Empty yer fuckin’ pockets,” demands the gunman, motioning down with the barrel of the firearm.  He can barely see them as more than fuzzy silhouettes and he realizes that he’s lost his glasses.
He pulls his wallet and phone free shakily, laying them gently on the ground before raising his hands up in surrender.  He watches the man who grabbed him go through his wallet, and he hears a scoff.
“Twenn’y bucks?”  The man slurs exasperatedly.  “Yer life ain’t worth twenn’y, son.  Ah shit… we could sell ya!  I got a guy needs a good piece’a meat to throw ‘round in his dog fights.  Should see the way the mutts fight over fresh food.  Y’look like good bait.”
John blinks rapidly, eyes wide and panicked as each word settles in.  He tries to shuffle backward, but he’s grabbed by the ankle and yanked back.
“Bet he’d go for a few hundred.  He don’t stink.  Not a ton of meat on ‘im, but there’s enough,” the gunman muses.  “Shit, Gordy, we might as well.  Fuckin’ twenty bucks… Ain’t even worth the effort to–”
John hears a sound like fabric flapping, and suddenly everything goes silent.
Silent, until he hears you.
“Howdy ho, boys!”  You greet, though your tone couldn’t be further from inviting.  “Say, what’s got two idiot fucks like yourselves out tonight, eh?”
John pats at the ground, desperate to find his glasses.  His heart pounds in his ears so loudly that he can’t hear what the men say to you, only the sounds of shrill, agonized screaming.  Something warm splats against his cheek and a deep, unsettling feeling in his bones tells him that it’s blood.
“C’mon, boys!  It’s not that bad!”  He hears you chuckle, followed by a flash of red and more howls of pain.  “You guys! It’s not like I’m, oh, I dunno, feeding you to a pack of dogs?”
As he scrambles, he feels the cracked lenses of his glasses and puts them on in time to see just what you’d done.
His assailants kneel on the ground, their arms laying next to them. He swears he sees bones jutting out of their legs.  
You’re elbow deep in one’s chest, smiling sadistically with every crunch and squelch as you rip free a blood drenched length of bone and shreds of muscle.
His stomach should churn at the sight of you shoving the gunman’s body to the ground.  It folds in half without a spine to support it, and it’s objectively the most terrifying thing he’s ever seen. The other man whispers to himself, which must really piss you off.  He sees it in your eyes.  Yet, he’s not scared.  Not of you.
“Greedy little thing, aren’t ya?”  You muse as you stare down at the man.
John can hear him reciting a prayer.
“God? No.”  You kneel down to pat his cheek, staining his skin a deep red.  “No god. The only one in the sky is me.”
He watches you wedge your hands into the man’s mouth, effortlessly ripping his jaw and head apart, splitting him down the length of his neck.
John watches in a mix of awe and horror as you continue tearing all the way down through the chest cavity.  There’s a sick look in your eyes.  Like you’d done this before.  
Like you were comfortable doing this.
So why the fuck wasn’t he afraid when your gaze flickered up to him?  Why did the shakes of his body quell the minute your blood stained hands reached down to loosen the scarf still tight from when he’d been dragged?
You’re drenched in blood.  The pungent liquid soaks you, drips down your collar and into your suit. It’s all over your face, coating your hair, resting thick on your eyelashes.
His hands come to rest at your cheeks, thumbs smoothing through the viscera as he gazes up at you in awe.  Your grip on his arms is featherlight at most, and he’s amazed.
You are a creature of unfathomable violence.  You have ripped and torn through an incalculable amount of flesh, committed sins far greater than even his mind full of historical horrors could imagine, and yet…
You hold him as though you’re afraid to break him.
Even as you gather him in your arms and fly away, you’re so gentle with him.  Considerate and kind, courteous and caring as you bring him home.  Your boots leave bloody prints across the hardwood floor of his bedroom as you walk him to the bathroom.  You’re on autopilot and that nagging voice in your mind berates you for prioritizing some simple mud person over yourself, over the thrill of the kill. 
“Are you hurt?”  You hear him ask, and it leaves you deeply confused.  Are you, The fucking Homelander, hurt?  Are you, indestructible force that you are, in pain?
He forces you to sit on the edge of the bathtub as he scrambles around for supplies.  You’re not sure why you let him move you around.  Hell, you’re not even sure why you let him wash the blood from you.  
Worse yet, you let him strip your upper body bare.
You let him see the truth of your suit and what you lack beneath.  You’ve got the power of a god, certainly, but you’re so regular underneath the facade. But you can’t find it in yourself to care as he wipes you clean with a warm, wet cloth.  Not with the way he holds the back of your head and removes the evidence of just how far your love for him will push you.
At some point your eyes lock and his hands stop moving.  
Time stills, but he does not.  He leans forward and takes you in a kiss so soft that you wonder if it even counts.  Just a peck at first, barely even a graze of his flesh against yours.  When you don’t pull away, he comes back, this time brushing his lips to yours with the slightest bit of pressure.  His lips are soft, his kisses unsure until you finally reciprocate.
Then?
Oh, then he devours you with a need fit to rival your own.  His arm wraps around your upper body and pulls you against him, all while your own hands scramble to grab at him.  Your breaths mingle together, fanning hot and heavy against each other.  He tastes blood on your lips, and you taste the remnants of his afternoon coffee.  The scent of iron mixed with him surrounds you, and god it is the most exquisite aroma. 
His taste, his scent, his touch, his sweet little gasps…
You want it all.
He pulls away once he, fragile human that he is, gets dizzy.  John giggles breathlessly against your mouth, tongue sliding over his lower lip to lap at your lingering taste.  You smile in return, indulging in something you’ve never quite felt before.  His hands still roam, and you’ve a pretty good idea of exactly where this night will end up once he’s got the rest of that pesky blood wiped from you. For now, though, you’re satisfied even if you’re not entirely satiated.
After all, you’ve truly proven yourself to be–
“My hero…”
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purple-1995 · 8 days
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OMG!!!! This is everything I hoped for ❤️
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They're so beautiful ❤️❤️❤️😍😍😍
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purple-1995 · 8 days
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I’m glad ppl on tiktok are doing ok
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