#[ flowers in her hair || visage ]

[enavant]

❥❥❥ aphrodite : hairstyles 001 / ???

#━━ ❥ visage » #━━ ❥ visage // aphrodite » #[ i did a bunch of these but i need to edit the others i did but here have these i rly like these hairs ansjad ] #[ hold her hand ?? put flowers in her hair ?? :pleading: ] #[ this shader drowns out her darker highlights weeps but its so nice ] #━━ ❥ wardrobe »

[blcknarcissus]

Narcissa Elladora Black

“Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.”

black coffee and old books. libraries full of books. old sheet music resting on a piano. classical music. rainy afternoons. lazy mornings tangled together in the sheets. breakfast in bed. pressing flowers. pink satin pointe shoes hanging from a barre. delicate, beautiful flowers that can kill you. the perfect little doll. a bird in a gilded cage.

~BIOGRAPHY~

TW: eating disorders

Years after Andromeda was born, Cygnus and Druella Black were surprised to find themselves expecting another child, contrary to the Healer’s insistence that Druella would not be able to bear another child. Despite the surprise, they allowed themselves to believe that the Fates were allowing them one more chance at an heir. Narcissa was born into the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black with the expectation that she was going to be the long-awaited son Cygnus and Druella Black had so far failed to conceive. When the disappointing news that they had once again borne a girl was delivered, Druella’s reaction was, “Well, at least she’s beautiful. That can be used to our advantage.” Growing up, Narcissa’s beauty was always the first, and usually the only thing, anyone noticed about her. Of course, there was talk about Narcissa’s unusual colouring; blonde hair was unheard of in the Black family, and her looks were anything but those of the Blacks. To her mother, she was nothing but a valuable asset to be pawned off to the highest bidder in exchange for social rank; Druella knew her daughter’s unusual beauty would land her a perfect match with one of the higher ranking Sacred Twenty-Eight families. Druella was strict with Narcissa, and instilled impossible beauty standards in her that she did not force upon her other two daughters. And her father wasn’t home often enough to protect her. Or at all, really.

By the time she was 8 years old, her mother had all but beaten the ideals of a perfect Pureblood wife into her. “The best pureblood wife is beautiful, elegant,” her mother told her during one of their many etiquette lessons, “Demure, but strong. Intelligent, but never outwardly. She is never to appear more intelligent than her husband. You must be beyond perfect, my petal. Perfect is what ensnares the best. And you were born only for the best. You must not show a single flaw, or the spell will break. You must be compliant and appealing; only then will you be able to manipulate a man into doing whatever you wish.” Druella began talking about how wonderful it would be to have a match between a Malfoy and a Black, two of the Most Ancient and Noble Houses. Though she was nowhere near the age for her parents to even be considering a marriage contract, Narcissa suddenly found herself to be the subject of the marriage negotiations being discussed between her mother and Mrs. Malfoy. She had thought, since Lucius Malfoy was closer in age to her older sister Andromeda, that the negotiations would involve the two of them. The Malfoys, however, had requested Narcissa, despite her young age. She looked, they insisted, like a Malfoy with her decidedly un-Black looks and colouring, and would fit the family perfectly. They would settle for nothing less than a girl who fit the Malfoy aesthetic perfectly. While conversations are in the works, there has been no agreed upon arrangement up to this point.

As she grew, a rare gift Narcissa possessed began to make itself known. She began to see things others couldn't, visions that often frightened or worried her. She told no one of the visions except her Grandfather Pollux, who told her she was experiencing visions that a Seer would often have. He called it a gift, but she considered it a curse and made him promise not to tell anyone. Always intent to keep the trust of his little Petal, Pollux took the secret to his grave. He did, however, insist on teaching her some skills to keep her secret safe. Legilimency and Occlumency. At the age of 10, Pollux handed her a few books on Legilimency and Occlumency from his own personal library, intent to support his granddaughter in keeping her secret––and ultimately keeping her safe. She told no one about this endeavour of hers, as she was tired of being lied to and spoken about without having any input on her life. She studied every book her grandfather gave her, discovering she had a natural aptitude for it. She practiced with him daily until it was time for her to go to school. By the time she was ready to go to Hogwarts, she had learned all she could from the few books she had at home. She went to Hogwawrts determined to learn more about it, along with Occlumency. If she was going to look into people’s minds to discover their intentions, she wanted to protect herself from people looking into her own mind.

Narcissa’s arrival at Hogwarts was somewhat tumultuous. Out of all the students in her year, her sorting took the longest, ending in a near 7-minute Hat Stall. She spent the time arguing with the Hat, pleading with it to put her in Slytherin where her family wanted her, though the Hat refused. She ended up in Ravenclaw, where the Hat said she truly belonged, and spent her first few nights terrified of how her parents would react to her sorting. Her parents, as expected, were less than pleased. But Ravenclaw at least was the second best House in their eyes. As the term went on, she began to feel at least some of her mother’s hold on her slip. Though she typically remained shy and fairly reserved, something which eventually earned her the title of Ice Queen as she grew older, Narcissa slowly came out of her shell little by little while in school. Despite her mother’s insistence that she not be seen as more intelligent than her future husband, Narcissa consistently received top grades in her classes. Her intelligence was one of her first small acts of rebellion towards her mother. 

Her mother’s influence didn’t dissipate entirely, however. Critical comments on her appearance would often continue over the Christmas or summer holidays, and finally a rather critical comment managed to take root in her mind. After her mother pointed out a fairly non-existent weight gain over the Christmas holidays of her second year, Narcissa began to watch what she was eating (despite the fact that she was already very small for her age and was still growing). This slowly developed into an obsession over her years at Hogwarts until it developed into a full eating disorder, which led to her hospitalisation in fifth year with Madame Pomfrey and multiple rounds of nutrient potions. The school matron started to take her under her wing, constantly mothering her and making sure she was eating.

During sixth year at Hogwarts, Narcissa developed a small crush on a boy she knew her parents would never approve of, a boy they would never allow her to marry. A Hufflepuff boy. A Muggleborn. It wasn’t until she was paired with him in NEWT level Potions in their sixth year that Narcissa even talked to this boy––Iain Stewart––for the first time. Unfortunately, getting to know him only deepened her crush on him. In another small act of rebellion, however, Narcissa allowed herself to spend time with him, usually under the guise of working on their Potions homework and projects together, or doing their assigned Prefect rounds together. Of course, she was always careful to disguise her true feelings for him when others were around. She fell in love with him completely by accident and against her better judgement.The relationship ended when Bellatrix discovered her writing to him over the summer between sixth and seventh year. It was the worst day of her life. Bellatrix threatened to tell their parents if she didn’t end it . . . and Narcissa knew Bellatrix had eyes at Hogwarts in the Slytherin girls. It hurt her to hurt him, but she did it to protect him. 

Seventh year brought with it many benefits, though it also included much inner turmoil, something that had started during her fifth year when professors began pulling students aside to ask what they would like to do in life. She knew what was expected of her as a Black, but she also knew it wasn’t what she wanted. The last thing she wanted was to spend the rest of her life as an accessory on some controlling, Pureblood husband’s arm. She wanted to be smart and desirable, and love who she wanted to love. She wanted to spend her life performing on the stage, but she also wanted to get a job that would show off her intelligence. Either way, she knew she would be going against her parents’ wishes for her. Her indecision about her future career led to her simply taking as many classes as she reasonably could, just to cover her bases. 

After she finished seventh year, she received an invitation to attend WADA, though her mother refused to let her, stating that it was "improper for a Pureblood girl to been seen selling her body on the stage," essentially telling her daughter she would be no better than a prostitute. Narcissa, though, didn’t want to just be a Pureblood trophy wife. She wanted to be something, to do something. What was the point of being smart if she couldn’t use it? She practically fought her parents to continue attending Hogwarts after seventh year, rather than going to finishing school. Despite the turmoil of her seventh year, she decided to go into Magical Law. If she couldn’t perform like she wanted to, perhaps she could at least do something where she could use her intelligence to help their world. 

Narcissa has always been perceived as cold and uncaring by others. The truth is that she feels everything far too deeply. The only way for her to deal with it at times is to try and compartmentalize, something she began to get more proficient with as she learned (and then eventually mastered) Occlumency. She wears a mask of indifference and perfection, when in reality she always feels as if her life is constantly falling apart at the seams.

She was raised to believe her family’s blood supremacist ideals, and she held onto them for a long time. They were challenged when she fell in love with a Iain Stewart in sixth year, and she continued to try and fight what she considered a belief that her family tried to control her with for years afterwards. When she was finally forced into an engagement with Lucius, she felt it as a failure of sorts. She had failed to get away like Andromeda and Sirius, and so now she may as well just embrace what the world believed her to be. The stuck up Ice Queen. The supportive future wife of an heir to one of the Sacred 28 families. Why try to dispute what people believe?

The Ice Queen persona became another sort of protection over the years. A protection from her family, and from everyone else in her family’s circle. A protection from the world. Why should she let anyone else see who she really was if they didn’t really care to truly know her? There had only ever been one person who had loved the true her, after all. How disappointed he would be to see what she had become. A shell of her true self.

~BASIC INFORMATION~

NAME: Narcissa Elladora Black

NICKNAMES: Cissa, although sometimes Cissy among her sisters.

FACECLAIM: Lucy Boynton

GENDER/PRONOUNS/SEXUALITY: Cis Woman, She/Her, Heterosexual

AGE & BIRTHDATE: 20 & 23 June 1958

FLUENT IN: English, French, Latin

CURRENTLY LIVING IN: Hogwarts (when in school); Oxfordshire, England – Black Manor (when not in school)

POSITIVE TRAITS: passionate, loyal, intelligent, insightful, sensitive

NEGATIVE TRAITS: very perfectionistic, anxious, cold, withdrawn or distant, self-critical

MBTI: INFJ-T

BAD HABITS: the occasional cigarette (a habit she picked up during school during periods of high stress and anxiety), picking at loose threads on clothing or the skin on the sides of nails, biting her lip

GUILTY PLEASURES: Red velvet cake with cream cheese icing

~WIZARDING INFORMATION~

HOUSE: Ravenclaw

YEAR: Tenth

STUDYING: Magical Law

WAND: Silver lime wood, phoenix feather, 11″, slightly swishy

PATRONUS: White Swan

BOGGART: Her mother and all the cruel criticisms she gave her daughter; it went much further than that, however. The boggart’s criticisms go beyond her mother’s, mentioning the numerous ways she had failed or was going to fail. 

AFFILIATION: Neutral (although she’s leaning towards sharing similar ideals to the Order)

~APPEARANCE~

HAIR: Pale blonde (closer to a pale strawberry blonde than white blonde), curls to her mid-back.

HEIGHT: 5′1″

BUILD: Slim

COMPLEXION: Fair, with a light dusting of freckles over her nose and cheeks

TATTOOS: None

SCARS: A scar on her left arm from where the kitten she got in her first year of Hogwarts scratched her when one of her roommates managed to spook her.

ANY OTHER IDENTIFYING MARK(S): She has a light birthmark on her left hipbone that ironically happens to look vaguely like a daffodil

~INTERESTS~

FAVOURITE FOOD: Red velvet cake, though she tends to be fairly picky about both how the cake is made and the cream cheese icing and will often end up making it herself

FAVOURITE MUSIC: Classical, opera, and she has developed an affinity for Spanish and classical guitar music 

FAVOURITE COLOUR: Pale pink, lavender, and robins egg blue

CLOTHING STYLE/PREFERENCES: Her clothing style tends towards something of a 1940s kind of style. You will never see her in pants, only ever dresses or skirts and blouses.

HOBBIES: Narcissa plays the piano, the cello, and the harp, though she will always say the harp and the cello are her favourite. She sings as well. Growing up, she did ballet, and was even recruited by the Wizarding Academy of Dramatic Arts (WADA) after she graduated her seventh year at Hogwarts––she was unable to attend as her mother believed that “a pureblood girl should not be seen selling her body on the stage.” Is developing a fondness for baking, though she is absolutely horrible at cooking. She has quite the talent for Herbology, and keeps a secret garden back at her family’s manor that is her pride and joy.

LIKES: Dancing, reading on the hidden window seat in the library at Hogwarts, red wine, black coffee, daffodils

DISLIKES: Poor etiquette, her mother, Care of Magical Creatures (she found it far too dirty), getting dirty in general

#[tag dump] #you have a face full of contradictions [visage] #all things are perfect and poisonous [musings] #we shake hands with devils [threads] #the images stuck in your head [headcanons] #i will wear high heels so you can hear my approach on the cobblestones [clothing] #beware of the flush in her cheek and the flower in her hair [aesthetic] #the stars shine out for you [about] #something secondhand and broken [records] #does she even know? [asks] #we'll be a perfect family [family] #ridikkulus;intro #nox;intros

[pandoraceleste]

Pandora Lovegood

take no shit, do no harm. burnt matches. picking daisies. dancing like no one is watching. handmade flower crowns. scattered thoughts. writing with multicolored ink. losing track of time. never knowing when to keep quiet or when to speak up. though she be but little she is fierce.

BIOGRAPHY // PINTEREST // PLAYLIST // WANTED PLOTS & CONNECTIONS

~ THE BASICS ~

NAME: Pandora Celeste Lovegood née Yaxley  NICKNAMES: Pan, Dora. FACECLAIM: Jeanne Goursaud GENDER/PRONOUNS/SEXUALITY: Cis-female, she/her, they/them, pansexual/panromantic (sidenote of being open to exploring polyamory with Pandora but willing to hold off if Xeno gets picked up and would rather not) AGE & BIRTHDATE: 29, July 31 BIRTH PLACE: Düsseldorf, Germany FLUENT IN: English, German, French CURRENTLY LIVING IN: London, England POSITIVE TRAITS: Imaginative, independent, compassionate, crafty, dreamer, energetic NEGATIVE TRAITS: Daring, impulsive, frivolous, nonconformist, crafty, uninhibited, feisty

~ APPEARANCE ~

HAIR: Pandora is a natural blonde. Her hair color and length can vary from day to day. She is prone to using spells to shorten or lengthen her strands and will occasionally dye her hair. It is not uncommon for her to spend a week or two as a brunette or redhead if she feels overdue for a change. If not up to dying her whole head, she will change the ends of her hair to pink, blue, or purple to add extra color in her life.  HEIGHT: 5′1″ BUILD: Petite COMPLEXION: Fair TATTOOS: Shoulders, back, and neck. Can be found HERE. PIERCINGS:  Multiple piercings along both ears, nose ring - left nostril SCARS: N/A ANY OTHER IDENTIFYING MARK(S): N/A NOTABLE ACCESSORIES: More often than not, there is some sort of flower or plant clipping in Pandora’s hair.

~ INTERESTS ~

FAVORITE FOOD: N/A - will eat whatever without complaint FAVORITE MUSIC: Muggle influenced but those records are not played outside of her and Xeno’s home. Fleetwood Mac is one of her favorites. FAVORITE COLOR: Dandelion yellow CLOTHING STYLE / PREFERENCES: Can be found HERE. HOBBIES: Jewelry making, spell crafting. Pandora happily sells handmade jewelry. There is an extra cost if charms or curses are involved with her wares. ROLE MODEL: At this point, she is her own role model.  LIKES: Early mornings, late night chats, walks on the beach, weaving flower crowns DISLIKES: Impatient people, being made fun of

~ Headcanons in no particular order ~

Pandora easily loses her focus, leaving her prone to zoning out if a conversation or task can’t hold her attention. Her mother used to lovingly refer to those moments as her conversing with the shadows. They were moments where Pandora was physically there but mentally somewhere else. School assisted in curving the behavior by stressing when it was important to pay attention and giving her something to fidget with but she never quite grew out of the habit.

Luna is under a year at this point in time and first time parenthood is particularly stressful for Pandora. Only because her biggest fear involves her small family being used as leverage by either side.

Pandora appreciates the luxury of not having picked a side on things. There may be assumptions that she chose the side the Yaxleys did but she has not officially claimed who she supports and intends to remain neutral unless forced into properly siding with her parents.

Jewelry-making, painting, and creating spells are Pandora’s hobbies. She happily sells her own jewelry and doesn’t mind using muggle influences when creating pieces. Spell work has been a crapshoot as of recent, with Pandora making small adaptations to commonly used spells.

Pandora masks some of her tendencies, having reminders from her mother on a loop at this point about needing to be ladylike and behave in a respectable manner. She has been working to outgrow those mannerisms but it is proving to be a process.

#[tag dump] #you're saying i'm fragile. i try not to be [musings] #paint me as i am [about] #i'm kind of like a prettier jesus [visage] #god it's brutal out here [headcanon] #she wore flowers in her hair and carried magic secrets in her eyes [aesthetic] #your friends don't dance and if they don't dance they're no friends of mine [records] #at this moment you mean everything [Xenophilius] #princesses don't cry [threads]

[pandoraalcmene]

“A girl should be two things: who and what she wants.”

#she wore flowers in her hair and carried magic secrets in her eyes {aesthetic} #paint me as i am {visage} #let us dance in the sun wearing wild flowers in our hair {closet} #pandora lovegood

[llcvegood]

luna lovegood tag dump.

i'm half child half ancient.

✧ dossier. | i'm half child / half ancient.

✧ musings. | creativity is the highest form of intelligence.

✧ visage. | she wore wild flowers in her hair.

✧ owls. | different doesn't mean wrong.

✧ interactions. | you can't always be strong; but you can always be brave.

✧ development. | the world is big and i am not. but i am still enough.

✧ all posts. | you are made of stardust and wishes and magical things.

#✧ dossier. | i'm half child / half ancient. #✧ musings. | creativity is the highest form of intelligence. #✧ visage. | she wore wild flowers in her hair. #✧ owls. | different doesn't mean wrong. #✧ interactions. | you can't always be strong; but you can always be brave. #✧ development. | the world is big and i am not. but i am still enough. #✧ all posts. | you are made of stardust and wishes and magical things.

[naturesesme]

tag dump ;

#visage ✿ (i grew up with flowers in my hair and dirt on my knees.) #study ✿ (wild spirit; but a soft heart and such a sweet soul.) #words ✿ (you can't always be strong but you can always be brave.) #aesthetics ✿ (it's that heart of gold and stardust soul.) #music ✿ (her aura is made of poetry; roses and galaxies.) #relationships ✿ (do no harm; my gentle one; to anyone on earth.) #answer ✿ (my soul is impatient with itself.) #interaction ✿ (love her but leave her wild.)

[childrenofslumber]

i said it & i meant it.

#( not royalty but a royal pain ‣ ooc. ) #( with love in her eyes & flowers in her hair ‣ artemis; visage. )

[friggmaiden]

EDIT ?/? OF FULLA ( do not reblog )

True that I saw her hair like The branch of a tree Willow dancin' on air before covering me Under garden and calicos

#i couldn't resist bc 1) fulla's name is the kenning for gold. one of her symbols is specifically a gold ring. #2) my headcanon of her being able to turn things to gold by touching them #3) this song invokes very big 'fulla is very lovely and will make you fall in love with her before you know it' vibes #( my edits. ) #she wore flowers in her hair and carried magic secrets in her eyes ( visage )

[luinihilde]

EDIT ?/? OF NÍNIMETH

#( my edits. ) #i'd die for her #flowers in her hair and magic secrets in her eyes ( visage )

[elderbloodcarrier]

Lara Dorren Aesthetic: Nature

#VISAGE ;; Lara Dorren #LARA'S LIKES ;; The princess has a request #I just imagine Lara wears flowers in her hair at times and on her dress

[darlingofvalyria]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"DAUGHTER, PLEASE!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"—your grace, I urge to hold her—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you must raise the Hells unto Winterfell.

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

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

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

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

Even then, you plotted every step you took.

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

Against the husband that dared make a fool of her.

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

"Where are my daughters?"

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"... Yes. Nothing."

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

"D-Dragonstone?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was your brother. No one else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I will ask you how high."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aegon blinked. "Tubī daor. Not today."

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

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

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

Whale? No.

Dragon. Dragon bone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That night, you took your first flight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No more.

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

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

"Now, we speak nothing of what happened."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You weren't stupid.

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

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

And for Jace, you had banished him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well. There's getting a calm bath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Less of a dragon, more of a fairytale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You mark each indescretion. You keep a tally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did not mean...

Did not mean to have a dalliance with another woman?

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

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

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

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

"Huh?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don't let up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His throat bobs.

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

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

"My lady," Dyanna greets behind you.

"Hm?"

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

"And?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Precisely what I thought, milady."

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

Game, set.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You curdle, you keep, you poise.

"My love?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It will be him.

Your plan moves, your web is perfect.

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

TAGGED: @inkareds @marihoneywk @caterina-caterina @ahristata @xxvelvetxxxx @but-i-write-so-i-must-count @bunbunbl0gs @yazzzmints @bellstwd @hiraethrhapsody

#jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon fanfiction #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon x you #jacaerys velaryon x y/n #prince jacaerys #hotd jacaerys #dark!reader #jacaerys smut #jacaerys velaryon smut #jacaerys fanfic #jacaerys fanfiction #elle writes !! ꒱ ↷˗ˏˋ🍒 #₊˚ପ⊹ hightower green 🕷

[atrueneutral]

Bath, Bed & Beyond - Raphael x Tav

After weeks of constant battles and near-death-experiences, it was a slap in the face that the Crown of Karsus ended up in the Chionthar.

It could have fallen anywhere else but in the river.

It could have been easy.

Had it landed on the docks, Tav would have plucked it from the ground like any other item she pilfered. She’d have put it in her pack and would have promptly gone off to deliver the all-powerful Netherese artifact to Raphael - satisfying the terms of her contract.

But no! Nothing was ever as easy as it could have been; it wasn’t easy convincing Rolan to spend time on the docks casting spells on her and supplying her with potions; it wasn’t easy deep diving into the murky river waters for days on end; and it certainly wasn’t easy finding the godsdamn Crown of Karsus!

Bloody thing was a pain in her ass…

She should have listened to her friends, and she shouldn’t have made a deal with a devil…

Much to Rolan’s chagrin, Raphael had shown a number of times over the course of her search. He, apparently, “wanted to see how she was faring”, and, according to the wizard, seemed to find amusement in her desperation of trying to find the object that would see him rule the Hells.

One night, after failing to find her missing treasure, Tav wondered out loud why Raphael didn’t help her; it didn’t make sense that he’d prolong his ambitions after all of the salivating he did whenever he spoke of the Crown. 

Rolan suggested maybe there was a secret time limit buried in the nooks and crannies of her contract. Maybe Raphael wanted her to fail because he wanted her soul.

“He’s waited this long, I’m sure he can afford to wait a bit longer to ensure he gets both you and the Crown of Karsus. He’s a devil - are you really so surprised that he’d desire to keep you as well?”

To that, she called Rolan crazy, but Tav searched harder in the days that followed (out of fear that she was racing an invisible clock), and she eventually found what she was looking for.

—

Tav entered the Devil’s Den without knocking. She cared not that it was rude. She cared little about anything outside of fulfilling her contract, taking a bath, and sleeping for a very, very long time. Fatigue wreaked havoc on her body after recent events and days of stressful swimming, and the too long of a walk that brought her to Rivington drained her to the brink of wanting to fall over.

She ambled into the suite, and Raphael’s mortal visage made a face at her appearance - namely her water-logged countenance of damp hair and damp clothes that reeked of river water.

She hoped her exhaustion came off as apathy.

“Your message stated you had something specific for me?” he asked.

He was referencing the message she sent with a Scroll of Sending roughly an hour and a half ago. With it, she said: “I have your stupid Crown. Where should I meet you? Are you coming to the docks? Please come to the docks.”

Panting had, unfortunately, been included in-between some of her words.

Tav blinked, and her eyes went from staring longingly at the steaming bath littered with flower petals to the cambion who appraised her with a raised brow.

“I do,” she answered, and Tav reached into her pack for the Crown. She crossed over to him, revealed the artifact, and Raphael’s mask of composure cracked. 

Ambition bled from the fissures - his dreams would not remain dreams much longer…

With the current most important dream realized, a shaky breath left Raphael as he accepted and held the Crown in his hand. Tav rummaged around for the Netherstones, and she placed them on a nearby desk when it became clear that Raphael was having a moment between himself and his new shiny and dangerous toy.

She glanced down to see if he had an erection, and sure enough, a bulge was forming from inside his pants.

“Raphael?” she prompted.

“Hm?”

The Crown and fantasies of grandeur had successfully enthralled him.

“Is my contract fulfilled?”

“Yes.”

When he did not procure said contract, Tav sighed.

“Can I trust that you’ll see to completing my contract… when you’re done?”

“Mm, yes.”

Rolan was wrong; he did not want her or her soul. Raphael’s interest in his little mouse was purely in being a delivery tool for his precious artifact, and Tav found herself feeling oddly crestfallen at the verdict. It was nothing more than devilish amusement (or a form of punishment) that kept him from helping her fetch the Crown from the Chionthar.

“Great, thank you. Goodbye, Raphael.”

She turned and took a step for the door.

“Leaving so soon, Little Mouse?”

The rich purr of his voice stilled her.

“The delivery has been made, and you are preoccupied,” she answered, facing him again.

“Pardon my momentary lapse - I assure you it won’t happen again.” As if to make a point, he went to where the Netherstones were gathered and placed the Crown beside them. He leaned against the desk, blocking the artifact’s view from him and her. “Thank you for bringing me the Crown. I knew you wouldn’t fail - just as you knew failure wasn’t an option. You must regale me what the depths of the Chionthar look like sometime over dinner. The smell of the river, however, I could do without.”

Understanding his insinuation that she smelled, she gave him a thin lipped smile. “Then I shall be on my way...”

“You misunderstand, my dear!” Raphael gestured theatrically for the bath, and his features became predatory. “Stay awhile, won’t you? I will fulfill your contract before your very eyes, and you will sleep soundly tonight knowing you made the right choice in bargaining with a devil.”

The bath did look inviting…

“If you’d like, you have my permission to rest your weary head in this room,” he continued. “The bed is quite cozy - not nearly as comfortable as the bed in my House of Hope, but you know that already, don’t you?”

Tav’s blood went cold at his mention of her uninvited visit.

“Sorry about that…” she offered sheepishly, meaning it. Haarlep’s use of her body had become a nuisance, yet it often aroused her to think it was Raphael who benefitted and used the unintentional gift she left behind.

Based on the look in his eyes, he did.

Snap!

A contract materialized from within a plume of smoke and embers, and the infernal words etched into the parchment glowed. At Raphael’s behest and a wave of his hand, a new emblem-like symbol was magically inscribed before the parchment went up in flames.

“It’s been an Absolute pleasure doing business with you, Little Mouse.”

Oh no - his stare was making her feel warm in places.

Maybe Rolan was right in some regard.

Maybe Raphael did want her.

“Likewise,” Tav responded. “And I appreciate you loaning me the room.”

She waited for him to leave.

She expected him to leave.

Oh no.

He wasn’t leaving.

“Aren’t you leaving?” she questioned, intending on taking advantage of his offer to stay and use the room’s bath and bed.

“Leave? And miss the sight of you bathing? I think not.”

She flushed. 

“Ah.” Tav peered at the bath, then back at Raphael. “You’re not planning on joining me are you?”

He smiled devilishly. “Would you like me to?”

Yes.

“No, that’s alright.” Tav went to the bath and began to shed her pack and gear. When it came time to remove her boots, she decided to test the waters by turning the act of undressing into a show. She sat upon the bath’s edge and, with deliberate slowness, gracefully peeled away her footwear. “Are the flower petals your idea or are they an added flourish from the staff?”

“Do you like them?”

“I do.”

“They are my personal touch - just for you.”

The expression she threw at him while she undressed was filled with skepticism.

“You can stop trying to charm me, Raphael. The contract is done, you got what you wanted, and I’m in the middle of taking my clothes off.” Somewhere along the way her voice became decidedly more… seductive. “I wouldn’t normally allow you to watch the latter, but it’s conjecture to think that you’ve already seen me naked.”

It was thrilling to see that she enthralled him just as much as the Crown of Karsus. He was silent, his eyes blazing as he watched her stand and push her breeches down. Tav’s thumbs next hooked into the top of her panties and she slowly, teasingly, shimmied the undergarment past her thighs. They pooled at her feet, and she stepped out of them and her breeches, pushing both aside to be with the rest of her stripped attire.

He could not yet see her sex, as it was hidden by her tunic, but the shirt was soon gracefully pulled over her head and thrown onto the pile.

Raphael visibly swallowed.

Tav reached around to undo the fastenings of her brasserie. The undergarment went slack, and she quickly held the front to her with a hand before it could fall away.

She turned to face the bathwater and discarded the top with a flick of the wrist. 

The cambion let out a low hum. Whether in approval of seeing her bare backside or in disapproval or not seeing her nude state in its entirety, she couldn’t tell.

“Was this your plan?” Tav asked innocently as she bravely stepped into the steaming water. It was hot - excessively hot, but after waging and winning a war against a Netherbrain, after spending too long in the cold Chionthar, and after completing a deal with a devil…

It was heaven.

“What plan are you speaking of, my dear? I have many.”

Tav waded to the center of the bath, water rippling up to her thighs. She glanced at the cambion from over her shoulder with a smirk, and then rotated to give him a full-frontal view.

A deep-rooted hunger befell Raphael, and Tav mentally marked a point under her name: where the Crown failed in fully arousing him, she succeeded.

“When I sent my message to you, you sounded insistent on meeting here and advised that I shouldn’t tarry. You could have come to the docks, which, by the sound of things, you were fond of doing.” Tav lowered into the water while wincing and biting her lip at the temperature. “I was going to accuse you of wanting me smelly and exhausted so you could easily persuade me to take a bath as you watched, but, now that I’m thinking about it, I do recall there being a full bath and a smattering of flower petals when I initially met you here and signed the contract. Who was the bath for then? Voss? My companions and I?”

“I was merely setting the scene for my most important client of the day! I would never go to such efforts for Voss, nor your companions - nor for any other mortal whose name is but a tiny drop in the ocean of souls I’ve collected. It was all for you, Little Mouse.” Raphael crept towards the bath - a predator moving in on his prey. “Today I wished again to set the scene - with a reward. Now that you are without your troublesome friends and an even more troublesome tadpole, you can relax and enjoy without impediment! Soak, my dear! Soak and be content in your hard-earned and well-deserved bath, then off to bed with you…”

Tav reached for a fresh bar of soap that smelled distinctly like cherries and she ran it across her chest after wetting it. She batted eyelashes that suddenly felt heavy due to the talk of bed.

“Are you going to tuck me in, Raphael?”

His chuckle was downright sinful.

“Yes, I’ll even read you a bedtime story.”

“Oh?” Tav languidly rubbed aromatic suds into her skin. “What’s the story about?”

His eyes followed her hands.

“A fox who secured all that he wanted.”

Tav smiled and she briefly submerged herself.

“Did the fox secure the woods?” she asked after breaking through the water’s surface.

“He did, and the neighboring woods.”

She placed the bar of soap back onto the edge, and Tav scratched at her scalp and combed fingers through her hair.

“I presume he secured the animals inside of the woods as well?”

“Every single one.”

She made a point to stare into brown, dilated eyes.

“Including the mouse?”

“You’re going to spoil the story for yourself…”

It was at that moment that a yawn formed in her throat. She did her best to ignore the symptom of drowsiness (things were becoming interesting), but the yawn was persistent enough to force an escape. Tav covered what she could, but it was the kind of yawn that made her eyes water. When she blearily looked at the cambion, the desire on his face had been replaced with warm humor.

“I was wondering how long you would be able to keep your guise up,” he remarked.

Another smaller and shorter yawn broke through.

“Finish up,” Raphael ordered, and he walked away - disappearing to the other half of the room.

Tav complied. She rinsed out her hair, finished scrubbing in all the necessary places, and by the time she was done, Raphael had returned. He held out a plush red towel for her to take when she moseyed to the bath’s edge and climbed out.

“Thanks,” Tav said, fighting back what could possibly be an endless string of yawns. The towel was soft and thick, smelled like Raphael, and she made a note to steal it in the morning as she wrung out her hair and dried herself off.

“I won’t miss it,” Raphael said knowingly.

“How - I don’t steal everything, you know,” she scoffed.

“I am aware.”

Tav made a new mental note - to not steal the towel in the morning.

Sufficiently dried, she cheekily dropped the towel to the floor and peered at a bed that had been prepped for sleeping.

The urge to sprint and throw herself into the covers was extinguished when she was unexpectedly scooped up by arms and swept off her feet.

“This is becoming ridiculous,” Tav muttered. Despite her tone, and against her better judgment, she foolishly liked the feeling of being held by the cambion - the feeling of his hands on her...

“Did you not ask to be tucked in?” Raphael retorted, carrying her naked body up the couple steps that led to the bedroom portion of the suite.

She was too tired to think of a witty comeback, so Tav stayed silent while Raphael transferred her over to the bed.

“What do you normally sleep in, Little Mouse?”

Usually just her smallclothes.

Tav glanced up at him. “I sleep naked, of course.”

His eyes flared, and she could read that he wanted to do far more than simply tuck her in.

He gently laid her upon the satin bedding. A fluffy pillow was beneath her head, and the sheets were smooth against her skin. Raphael reached over to draw the top sheet and comforter over her, and Tav was enveloped by heavenly, toasty warmth.

“Would it be possible to have the room for the next day or two?” she murmured, making herself snug under the covers.

Her eyes closed as the fox smiled brightly.

“Oh, my Little Mouse, stay as long as you’d-”

And she was out.

#this started out as a prompt fill but turned into something else #womp womp #bg3 #raphael bg3 #raphael x tav #raphael x tav fanfiction #baldur’s gate 3 #my writing #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction

[pandoraalcmene]

Pandora Malfoy

paint stained jeans. flower crowns. take no shit, do no harm. burnt matches. picking daisies. dancing like no one is watching. scattered thoughts. writing with multicolored ink. losing track of time. each fingernail painted a different color. talking too much. mismatched socks. able to pick locks but not one to be called a miscreant.

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~ THE BASICS ~

Name: Pandora Alcmene Malfoy  Nicknames: Pan, Dora, occasionally will answer to blondie if she isn’t making a sarcastic comment about that being her cousin Faceclaim: Aleksandra Bortich Gender/Pronouns/Sexuality: Cis-Female,  She/her, Pansexual - no label past acknowledging she likes who she likes and people can keep their opinions to themselves if they have an issue with it Age & Birthdate: 27, July 31 Currently Living In: A flat by the sea. Can usually be found at Xeno’s if not at her own place. Occupation: Into charming or hexing items - done from home or at a location that won’t turn into having to have a chat with the auror department, sells jewelry at Nightscar Market Positive Traits: Imaginative, independent, compassionate, crafty, dreamer, energetic Negative Traits: Daring, impulsive, frivolous, nonconformist, crafty, uninhibited, feisty

~ APPEARANCE ~

Hair: Usually blonde. She is in the habit of not sticking to a particular length or style but her top two styles are a bob or her hair being below her shoulders. Pandora will occasionally charm the ends of her hair to be pink, purple, or blue. She may go brunette or red for a week or two if needing a dire change. Height: 5′2 Weight: Average Tattoos: Peacock feathers - Left shoulder, ‘Made of stardust’ quote and stars surrounding it - back of neck Piercings: Multiple piercings along both ears, nose ring, nipples Scars: Small one on her forehead from tripping down a flight of stairs as a child

~ INTERESTS ~

Favorite Music: Muggle influenced taste in music - Abba, Fleetwood Mac, and Tina Turner are a few of her favorites. Safety Dance is a song she will randomly reference. Favorite Color: Dandelion yellow Clothing Style / Preferences: Can be found here. Hobbies: Jewelry making, painting - prone to painting her jeans so it isn’t unusual for her to show up to order meetings with this look or something similar.

#not me throwing this up hella late #{tag dump} #{housekeeping} #you're saying i'm fragile. i try not to be {musings} #paint me as I am {visage} #if someone tells me one more time enjoy your youth i'm gonna cry {threads} #i'm kinda like a prettier jesus {about} #god it's brutal out here {headcanon} #she wore flowers in her hair and carried magic secrets in her eyes {aesthetic} #your friends don't dance and if they don't dance they're no friends of mine {records} #queue in the moonlight with your sleepy eyes #give to me your leather take from me my lace {disaster polycule} #They promised her the stars and the moon {Xenophilius}

[pseudepigraphon]

sibling honor

(image description under the cut due to length. pardon for that!)

A comic of humanized Hollow Knight characters, all in black and white except for a dash of red with a single source.

The swish of a bright red dress around scampering legs, quiet giggles, the cheeky grin on a little face: down an arcade of gothic arches runs a young princess Hornet, dressed in her best royal finery, her hair all done up under a double-horned hennin. She passes by statues of knights between each arch, with flowered branches growing up from their long, jamb-like carved forms. She smiles wider, elated to have gotten away with mischief, as she passes by a knight statue not between two arches but in one. She runs, then--

YANK! She's pulled up by the back of her cloak like a kitten by the scruff of her neck. "HEY!" She shouts. "Who--"

She pauses, eyes wide. Her voice dies down. Plucking her up from the ground, leaning over out of the arch with a stony look on their face, is the knight under the arch. Loose chunks of their hair flow over their chestplate. They are not, in fact, a statue.

Hornet flails and scrabbles in the air. "LET GO! I'LL BITE!" She shrieks.

The knight looks at her. Without a change in expression, they began turning and walking.

Hornet startles badly at that, falling practically limp. "Wait no--" she pleads, hands on her cheeks. "Don't take me back to the retainers, please, please, please!" She looks up at them pleadingly. "They'll be so mad, then mother will be so mad, and-- wait a second--"

She properly looks at them as they hold her in the air. She recognizes that long face, too pale to be properly human, or half-spider like her. She recognizes that horned helmet with the three spikes on each horn.

"I... I know you," she says slowly.

The epiphany comes to her and she leaps out of the knight's hand and leaps onto their shoulder, supporting herself with one pair of hands and clasping at the knight's cheeks with the other. "YEAH! I DO!" She cries, elated. "YOU'RE THE HOLLOW KNIGHT!"

She beams at them. "And that means we're siblings!"

The Hollow Knight returns her look with that same blank stony visage.

She gestures flippantly, her smile chilling out. "And--" she declares-- "that means you can't tell on me. Sibling honor, y'know."The Hollow Knight looks at her for a long moment. Lifts her by the underside of her arms off of their shoulder.

"Well?" She asks. They keep looking. Perhaps they would have been deliberating, if they were not a hollow vessel.

Far down at the end of the arcade, voices can clearly be heard coming from outside, the double doors wide open.

Everything rushes to the Hollow Knight at once. With a quick and lashing whip of their cloak, they drop Hornet and conceal her. "HEY!" She cries indignantly as they do so. "WHAT?!"

Two retainers, donned in find garb, walk down the hallway, talking about this and that. As they approach the Hollow Knight, standing still and straight and silent by the wall, they both slow.

"Ah, knight," says one retainer, looking up at them with a haughty expression. "Have you... by any chance... seen Hornet, daughter of Herrah, pass down this hall?" They ask with a pleasantly average smile, as if they are glad the Hollow Knight cannot ask why they do not know where she is.

It takes the Hollow Knight a moment to move. Slowly one hand leaves the hilt of their sword, making their cloak furl and swish, revealing a gloved forearm and a segmented elbow. They point further down the hall.

The retainer smiles, while the second one behind them has been sending the Hollow Knight a sour look. "Ah, I see," the retainer says. "Thank you."

The two depart quickly further down the arcade of flowers and statues until their statures are small, continuing to chatter all the while. The Hollow Knight watches them as they go.

They slip a hand down to give a thumbs up to Hornet, who is hiding most sneakily at the back of the Hollow Knight's cloak. She holds onto their cloak and gives a delighted and mischievous smile.

#hollow knight #hk gijinka #hornet #the hollow knight #newt art #newt comics #AUGHGHG i did this in like the middle of the night bc thats when i got the idea and motivation lmao #no regrets but still

[lexsssu]

Moon (Kaedehara Kazuha)

TAGS: Kazuha/Dragoness!reader, breeding, smut, oneshot Ao3 ver. | Ko-fi | Commissions (OPEN)

Kazuha is all too used to seeing odd things from his perch atop Beidou’s ship. Sailing across the sea for months at a time had accustomed him to the strange happenings that occurred when one could only see and smell saltwater for weeks.

“The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?” 

His neck practically snapped towards the direction of the unfamiliar voice, ruby orbs widening and jaw dropping as he beheld an ivory-haired young woman seemingly floating in the air. She was sitting on thin air as if she had a chair beneath her, but the samurai knew that if he held his hand out his fingers would touch nothing.

Whoever or whatever she was, the golden hue of her eyes twinkled as the soft beams of moonlight gave her body an ethereal glow that solidified Kazuha’s theory that if not a figment of his overactive imagination, she was definitely some sort of spirit unbound by the shackles of mortality.

Because how could a mere human ever look as beautiful as she did? Merely a glimpse of her pure visage stole his breath away as all the flowery and poetic words he could use to describe her seemed stuck in his throat.

“Yes. Beautiful…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Please, allow me just this once and I shall never ask anything of you ever again. You can return to whichever realm you’ve come from, but please...just this once and I’ll be satisfied for the rest of my life…”

The wandering samurai’s whole body was flushed from head to toe, rational mind fogged thanks to the copious amounts of alcohol he’d downed earlier after finding himself in a somber mood. He’d allowed himself to be goaded by his fellow crewmates for once, drinking until he could barely even walk straight as the ale numbed his senses.

But no amount of drink can ever numb the feelings that had inevitably planted itself in his heart like a small seed, blooming into a flower as night after night passed where he’d spend the majority of his evenings in your company. It didn’t help that as otherworldly as you looked, you were as down to earth as any ordinary person.

Perhaps that’s what hooked him in the first place. 

The soft smiles you’d send him would send his heart aflutter, the melodious giggles had him captivated, and everything else you did set his blood ablaze with feelings he never thought he’d experience as a man who prided himself in being as airy as the wind he wielded.

“You’re so warm...so...so soft…!” Kazuha gritted his teeth as sweat dripped down his temple, hips unrelenting in their thrusts as he was consumed by his undeniable desire. He had you on your knees, face down ass up as he pummeled the entire length of his cock into your warm and tight hole. His red eyes glowed with fire, so unlike the calm winds, as moans and whimpers were coaxed from your pretty lips that he'd had the pleasure of tasting just earlier. 

While he was no green boy, his brother-in-arms Tomo having repeatedly dragged him to the red light districts of the places they'd wandered to, he wasn't as easily swayed by carnal desires as the other man. Usually, he just waited at the oden carts located near such establishments, conversing with their owners and or other patrons as he waited for his inebriated and satiated friend to finish.

But this? Kazuha had never felt such an intense need to stuff his cock inside a willing cunt and paint it white with his virile seed, but then again you weren't just any willing cunt, were you? The platinum-blonde is enamored with you, a corporeal spirit, to the point that you made him throw away all his calm out the door.

That is why he fucks into you so furiously, plowing you with the single-minded mission to pour all his desires inside of you. Since you're a spirit and he's a human there's no way that his seed will take, right? Despite reassuring himself, a small and dark part of Kazuha fed him images of you glowing with a maternal shine as your belly swelled with life.

Such an image has the samurai speeding up his movements, hips sputtering all too soon before shoving the entire length of his cock inside your warm and moist insides as jets of hot and gooey cum filled you to the brim.

He is always a careful man, because he knows that he can't give a good life to any woman who wants to wed him and bear his child with his current situation. However, he supposes that it's alright to finish inside you, because this is most likely the last time he'd see you and as a spirit there was no way your body would actually accept his inferior seed...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Hey, look who the cat dragged in. Took you long enough to visit, Kazu-chin~"

"...Tomo?"

"In the flesh! ...Or maybe not since my soul is still definitely mine, but it's the body that's new since the old Shogun fried me back then. Hahaha!"

"But...but how?"

"It's all thanks to our new archon! You should've seen it. I've been hanging out here ever since I died, but no one can see or hear me except for her of course! She kinda just appeared all of a sudden and me being the gentleman that I am, I watched out for her and you wouldn't believe how shocked I was when she could apparently see and hear me!"

The former fugitive could only gape as he stared at his old friend with wide eyes, acting as animated as he was before challenging the raiden shogun. Tomo however, wore new attire now that was especially befitting of a samurai that served a worthy lord. Unsurprising as he was now apparently part of the new shogun's honor guard.

"Anyways, I told her all about what's been happening here and you know what she did after I finished the whole story? She marched straight towards the shogun and ANNIHILATED her. It looked like something straight out of the Archon War with how ruthless she was! Oh, but she didn't hurt anyone else after that. Heck, she even returned everyone's visions and gave me a new body that she just conjured from nothing. So here I am now, back and even badder than before!" 

The new captain grinned as he flexed his 'new' body, posing embarrassingly until Kazuha gave him a deadpan stare at his antics. A group of handmaidens passed by, giggling as they gave Tomo sly looks which the man returned with his own flirtatious wink.

"...You've essentially died and risen from death, but you're still an incorrigible flirt as always"

"It's not my fault that the ladies just can't get enough of this—"

"Tomo? I was looking everywhere for you—"

And just like that first night beneath the light of the moon, the young man practically snapped his neck at the speed at which he turned to behold the owner of the voice that haunted him even in his dreams.

There you stood, as beautiful and ethereal as the last time he managed to hold you. Except...there seemed to be some roundness around your midsection, almost as if you were actually preg—

"KAZUHA!!!"

Like a predator that caught sight of its prey and assured in the inevitability of its kill, you pounced and he could do nothing except catch you in his arms. He took care not to embrace you too tightly however, conscious of your apparent condition as his fried brain tried to take in all the revelations that had been dropped on him in less than an hour.

You purr and chirp as you rub your cheek against your mate's neck, scenting him and staking your claim upon the male as he stood still as stone from the information overload.

Meanwhile, Tomo was equally shocked and amused at the turn of events.

"...Huh, so you're the bastard that knocked up our new archon… Guess this means I'll be a very proud godfather and uncle very soon!"

The former scion of the noble Kaedehara samurai household turned wanderer, branded a fugitive, escaped as a sailor, was now the consort of an archon and a soon-to-be father.

...He knew he should have never befriended Tomo in the first place.

#lexsssu writes #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #kaedehara kazuha x reader #kaedehara kazuha x you #kaedehara kazuha x y/n #genshin kazuha #genshin impact kazuha #genshin impact smut #crossposted on ao3

[snazzydwarf]

DP X DP Prompt: A White Robins Visage

We all know about the AUs of Danny being Jason's alternate version aye?

Well what about Danny being the ghost of Jason. More specifically the ghost of his Robin.

Picture this:

When Jason was killed at the hands of the joker he appeared within The Zone. Wearing his Robin uniform that was now covered in blood and soot. The greens barely seen underneath all the burgundy red.

However when he was revived/resurrected he wasn't quite... whole. Things of his past escaped him, almost as if the memories where covered in a thick fog.

It was assumed this was because of the pits. That it somehow scrambled his brain and caused not only the pit rage but also the slight memory loss and cloudyness.

However what no one knew was that when Jason left the zone to the mortal world. Something or rather someone was left behind.

Robin, now called Danny, has only ever known a life within the Ghost Zone. The small boy would be often caught running around with a large smile despite the large, gaping wound on his temple. Right bellow a large patch of black hair, the rest being stark white colour.

Somedays his form would flicker to that of someone older, in a brighter set of clothing. Almost of that you would see in a superhero movie, the once eyecatching colours have been speckled with blood. It's unknown if it came from his bleeding head or there was more injuries underneath his clothing, but no one had the heart to ask. Only Frostbite, the best healer in the Far Frozen knows the answers but refuses to speak of them. His eyes would sadden whenever it was asked, so the topic was dropped.

But one thing was certian. This boy had been so brutalized, so beaten and damaged it reflected in his ghost form. It's known that Ghosts can heal from almost anything given enough time and rest, but sometimes there where wounds that could never heal. Not unless you scared over those in your mind first.

An example of this would be Ember. The burns that once covered her body has slowly faded over time as she has come to terms with her own passing. Now only the ones on her back remain, the most important one as a flaming beam had fallen on her before she could escape the burning inferno. The smoke took her mind, but the fire took her body.

Seeing little Danny run around with the forever gushing laceration caused a grave sense of sadness to sweep those who saw him. How young, a little spark blown out before it had the time to be the light they all knew he would've became.

So it was rather a shock when one of the Bats saw the face of a younger Jason infrount of them. Sitting upon the grave of their brother humming a tune long forgotten by the older version, but forever remembered by the younger.

Flowers dropped from their hands as the second Robin turned around, domino mask wide beneath the white and black hair.

Wait... didn't they just see Jason a few days prior? Who is this? Who is wearing their brothers clothing that they swore was still displayed within the tube in the Batcave.

Their hands shook, and body trembled. Blood, oh oh god there was so much blood. The boy, Jason? was covered in it. What happened?

They knelt on the wet soil, plams held up and outwards towards the kid.

"Hey, are you oka-" right as they where about to place a hand of the child's shoulder it just... passed right through. A cold sensation washed over their body, their hand was through his shoulder but crimson stained their knees in the pool bellow them.

A voice whispered in their ear, light and airy, almost as if a passing breeze has blown through the graveyard.

"Who are you?"

#dcxdp #dp x dc #dc x dp #tw: bruns #mentioned thou but just incase #tehe #danny is jasons ghost #danny is still in the robins costume #even when hes smaller #it's just become dull and washed out #the colours are reversed but no longer hold the shine they used too #you can choose which bat this is #could even be Jason if you wanna #writing idea #i might continue dis lol #SnazzyPrompts