PLEASE I NEED READER INSERTS 😭

Game of Thrones House Aesthetics:

House Stark 🐺

House Lannister 🦁

House Arryn 🪽

House Tyrell 🌹

House Martell ☀️

House Baratheon 🦌

House Tully 🐟

House Targaryen 🐉

House Greyjoy 🦑

VHAGAR YOU RAGGEDY OLD BITCH

SHE WAS MY QUEEN UGH I CANT WITH THIS BRO

lock me up bc im guilty 😔

SOMEONE TAKE ONE FOR THE TEAM 😭💖 i would love reader be the Queen and Mother the realm needs

I need a story where reader takes the place of Alicent and is a loving and great mother to her kids. That’s all. She’s just a good mom. Please.

flickers of light — one ; kindling (reuploaded)

☆ aemond targaryen x gn!reader, house targaryen x gn!reader (platonic)

☆ summary: when the Light of the Realm – beloved in all of Westeros – begins to succumb to an illness that even the most skilled and wizened Maesters cannot treat, the royal inhabitants of the Red Keep must hold onto the flickers of light through memories of moments, before the Stranger snuffs them out. — 5k words

☆ warnings/tags: angst, terminal illness, mutual pining, friends to sort-of-lovers to strangers, dance of the dragons never happened and we'll see why, set 10 years after the dance should have happened, this is a fix-it fic basically, rhaenicent is very important to me, no use of y/n and no descriptions of reader, massive time jump, everyone gets along. enjoy!

News of the Light of the Realm's terminal state arrives at the Red Keep at the hour of the owl, on the 15th day of the twelfth moon of the year 139 AC, as a storm lashes above the Crownlands.

The halls of the Keep are empty, save for one Maester whose slipper-clad feet patter against the stone floors in earnest. A thin length of parchment threatens to crumple in his fist, and tears collect in his eyes as the words on the tiny scroll turn over and over in his mind.

A particularly loud howl of wind blows through the corridor, sweeps the cap off his head and blows out a few torch lights as it passes. The Maester continues on without pause, however, purpose and pain fueling his strides as he reaches the Queen’s quarters. 

The Dowager Queen Alicent faces the window of her solar, unable to sleep due to the relentless wails of the storm.

“It rages as if we are in Storm's End,” she mutters, her eyes tracking the rivulets of rain that slide down the glass. Worry creases her forehead over thoughts of the city folk who’ve no proper lodging, and she makes a mental note to speak to the small council about building more shelters for the needy.

A hum from behind her ripples through the quiet.

“Perhaps Lord Baratheon has convinced the gods to spare his lands for a night,” The Queen Rhaenyra jests, voice soft as she stares at the crackling flames warming the room.

She sips her tea after, eyes meeting Alicent’s as their heads both turn to look at the other. Rhaenyra’s lips curl around the edge of the teacup, a smile hidden by the ceramic. But Alicent knows it’s there, and she smiles back. 

“Thank you for lending your company, my Queen,” she starts, legs carrying her at a steady pace towards Rhaenyra. “Sleep does not come easily to me when the sky seems like it is falling.”

Alicent takes Rhaenyra’s hand not holding a teacup in both of her own. She looks down at her companion, noting the way the slope of her nose is more prominent in the orange shadows of the fire.

Rhaenyra returns her gaze through eyelashes, and her hand flips to tightly hold onto Alicent’s.

“You need not thank me, lo–”

A knock cuts the endearment off. Rhaenyra sighs, but does not pull away as Alicent grants entrance to the person at the door.

Ser Harrold steps in, bowing before the two queens. If he notices the tender aura that envelops the women, he does not mention it. Though, a conscious simper forms on his lips.

“Apologies, my lady, your grace,” he starts, and steps to fully push the doors open, “Maester Corren bears urgent news from Oldtown.”

Alicent’s brows knit together once again. Oldtown?

“Oldtown?” Rhaenyra echoes the other queen’s thoughts. “What news from Oldtown cannot wait to be heard ‘til the morning?”

The Kingsguard side-steps to let the Maester inside, the chained man swift in his movements to plant himself in the middle of the room.

“My sincerest apologies, your grace,” Maester Corren’s usually seasoned and stoic tone trembles as he speaks, and he holds his down-turned fist out to offer the parchment to Alicent.

“I would not come at this late an hour if it was not distressing,” he continues.

“Corren, what has shaken you?” Alicent questions him. After a beat, it dawns on her what news from Oldtown might mean.

“Has something happened at the High Tower? To Daeron, or my father?” She cannot help but ask aloud, not wanting to accept the parchment yet.

She receives only shakes from the head of the Maester, and his chains clank against each other from the movement. The two queens watch as the trained scholar reaches up with his other palm to wipe at his face.

“Please,” he pleads, as if a young child. “I know this is most uncouth, but I cannot bear to read it again, your graces.”

Alicent looks down at her queen, their hands still grasping one another’s. With a nod from Rhaenyra, Alicent releases her hold and turns her palm face up to accept the scroll. The Maester releases it, as if it’s burned him, and takes a step back. 

She unfurls the paper with surprisingly steady fingers, unwilling to let her nerves get the better of her. Once she reads the writing on the scroll, however, she understands why the Maester trembles all over.

The red-haired queen barely registers Rhaenyra urging the shaken Maester to sit as she herself takes a deep inhale to steady her breathing. Alicent’s eyes rake over the tiny parchment multiple times, not believing the words before her.

“Alicent?” Rhaenyra sees her turn towards the window again, head ducked and both hands clutching the scroll. “What is it? What has happened?”

Rhaenyra catches her utterance of the word light, and one look at Ser Harrold is enough to have the older knight take over with assisting Maester Corren. She tries again to capture Alicent’s mutterings, coming up right beside her to grasp her elbow in a gentle hold.

“My dear,” Rhaenyra whispers, soft enough that only she and her doe-eyed companion can hear. “Look at me, please.”

The sorrow in the Dowager Queen's gaze washes over Rhaenyra's entire being. The corners of Alicent's mouth struggle to keep from quivering as she tries to relay the news, but sounds refuse to form in her throat.

"It's alright, you do not have to speak," Rhaenyra reassures. She gestures with her palm for the scroll. "May I?"

Rhaenyra takes the miniscule parchment from Alicent, who offers no resistance. The paper curls again as Rhaenyra pinches it between her thumb and forefinger, her other hand reaching up to brush away a tear that has found its way out of Alicent's wide eyes. Her heart aches at the sight, and she wonders what news the little parchment holds to have had cast such a large wave of emotion over everyone around her.

Alicent’s eyes flutter to a close, and she ducks her head again as Rhaenyra finally looks upon the writing. She hears a gasp, and when Alicent glances up, Rhaenyra holds the same grief on her face that she’s sure she mirrors.

After a beat of silence, Maester Corren is the first to speak.

"The Prince Aemond should know."

"No," Alicent answers all too quickly. "It can wait until the morn–"

"I beg your pardon, your grace, but you know it cannot," he interrupts. He stands from where Ser Harrold has sat him down on a chaise, voice reverting back to the neutral yet firm tone of a chained Maester.

Rhaenyra watches as Alicent's posture straightens at the man's tone, watches Alicent steel and ready herself to retort at the Maester's apparent lack of respect. Before she can, however, he continues.

"You've read the scroll," he says. "By the end of the moon, the illness will take hold no later than when the first rays of light hit the sphere of the Citadel."

Rhaenyra hears a shaky exhale come from Alicent, whose hand maneuvers to clutch at Rhaenyra's forearm for support. She surrenders it, lets the Dowager Queen lean against her.

"Corren, you must understand," Rhaenyra is gentle in her address. "This news... it will break him."

"Please, your grace," the Maester pleads. "My dear cousin has suffered far too much; this illness has taken far too much."

No one talks but the Maester, as everyone in the chamber knows the truth in his sayings.

"If you could read the letters I have received... the hurt I have deciphered, embedded in my cousin's handwriting. Please, my queens, do not sequester away things that you can so easily give."

"And what are those, Maester?" Rhaenyra poses.

"Relief," his scholarly façade ripples away for but a moment. "Healing... Love."

Rhaenyra feels her jaw clench, feels Alicent's grip on her arm tighten, feels Ser Harrold's stare on her face, waiting for a command. She glances at her friend, her closest companion– with her head bowed and shoulders heaving, a finger picking at the cuticles of the same hand. She glances back at the Maester, notes the way his voice wavers slightly at the mention of his cousin, notes the fact that he has never faltered in his duties as first and foremost a Maester of the Red Keep, until now.

When she looks at Ser Harrold, Rhaenyra notes the hesitation on his face. He knows what is right, what must be done, what must be said aloud, but cannot acknowledge what is so until she commands it so.

For the sake of the queen beside her, however, she does not say the words. As Ser Harrold's gaze meets hers, she simply nods. He knows.

Only the sound of the crackling fire can be heard, along with the clinking of the knight’s armour, as he moves to grasp Maester Corren firm on the shoulder.

Before his gloved hand can make contact, Alicent speaks.

"There is no need, Ser Harrold."

Her hold on Rhaenyra's arm loosens, and ultimately falls away. Alicent steps towards the Maester, and for a moment Rhaenyra sees fear flash in his eyes. But as Alicent reaches forward to hold Corren's upper arm in comfort, the fear is replaced with something akin to gratitude.

"You are right, Corren," Alicent says, understanding. "It will break him, yes, but perhaps... perhaps it can also heal him. As reconciliation often does."

She continues, "Your cousin had once granted me these things you speak of."

Her gaze comes back to meet Rhaenyra's, tone reminiscent.

"So, what am I if not ungrateful, if I were to deny such things from the Light of the Realm?"

The two queens' illuminated smiles hold a twinge of melancholy to them. If the men in the room know of the reasons, of the events, of the love behind such smiles, they do not say.

Prince Aemond's light dims, to a darker dullness he thought was not possible, at the beginning of the hour of the wolf.

He’s sat atop the bed, sapphire eye uncovered, knees bent to accommodate the tome he cradles in his lap. There’s a familiar heft to it, having been in the prince's possession for nearly a decade. Its spine cracked beyond care, its pages dog-eared, margins riddled with writing.

Though, the ink on the paper remains as fresh as can be. The book rarely leaves the four walls of the prince's quarters, sunlight never having the chance to fade its text.

It has become a comfort to the prince, despite its heavy weight and heavier content. Though, it is not solely the scholarly content that draws the prince to reach for the tome every night, tucked away in his bedside drawer, before he surrenders to sleep.

Tis more so what lies in between the lines: illustrations scribbled over with black coal, highlighted passages, notes, reminders to pursue treatments that he once believed would be successful.

"Once I have a dragon, we will fly to the Citadel and have the Archmaesters conduct this," he had said, underlining the title of a procedure he thought had the most chance of curing an illness that threatened his companion.

"They would not dare deny a prince of the realm, I swear it."

Aemond’s forefinger traces the curve in a diagram of the human backbone as he recalls the promise he had made and failed to keep, though to no fault of his own. Still, the ache in his chest makes itself known once again, as recognizable as the tome he clutches.

Pages fly wildly about when a gust of wind manages to slip through a crack in a window. Aemond can only watch as the candles in his room dance and writhe until most of them flicker out, the scent of melted wax left to fester in the air.

A sigh escapes him. His sole eye strains to make out a passage with whatever light remains in the room, but the darkness swallows his bed area too much. As he contemplates whether to take this as a sign from the gods to rest, or to relight the candles and continue on, a knock sounds at his door.

Brow and marred skin crease together in confusion.

"Ser Arryk?" he calls out, unsure of which knight of the Kingsguard had taken station outside his chambers for the night.

The sudden arrival of the storm had scrambled the usual routine of the Red Keep, adding to that three of the Kingsguard having left to trail after members of the royal family who had ventured out into the Kingswood for a day or two of hunting.

Of the nephews, cousins, and siblings, only Aemond chose to remain– knowing in himself that he was lately not one for prolonged interactions, even if it was solely his family he'd be around.

"I would only dampen the mood, sister," he said to Helaena, tone playful. She carried Baela's youngest in her arms, the mother having stepped away for a few moments. "Bring me back one of those rare crawling creatures you are so fond of, won’t you?"

Helaena beamed at the request. She bounced the toddler excitedly on her hip, lilted voice asking the not-yet verbal babe what insects they might find in the forests. The child giggled in response, just as Jace and Luke walked into the room, hunting gear in their arms. Aemond noted the way Jace's eyes lit up at the sound of his child's laughter.

"Nephews," Aemond greeted them. Had he been the man that he was 10 years ago, malice and disdain would've seeped into his voice. Instead, he continued, genuine concern for his family coating his following advice.

"Be wary of your surroundings," he had said, grasping Luke's shoulder, "look out for one another."

When he asks again, it is not Ser Arryk who answers.

"It is me," his mother's voice calls out instead. "And Rhaenyra."

Aemond's puzzlement only grows, though not at the presence of his half-sister. He had long ago grown accustomed to the sight of the two women near each other after his father's death and the family's reconstitution– a process which had not settled so easily in him as it did in the matriarchs of their house.

No, his uncertainty at this moment comes from their joint company at such time of night. Nothing good nor godly has ever greeted Aemond during the wolf's hour.

"May we come in?" Rhaenyra says, muffled by the wood of the chamber door.

Aemond realizes that he's only clad in his breeches and a loose white poet shirt, hardly appropriate attire to wear in front of both Queens of the realm. He scrambles to where his dressing robe hangs by his bed and wastes no time in tying it closed before he whips the door open.

"Mother," he nods to Alicent before addressing his half-sister. "Your grace."

He takes in the sheen on his mother's face, and Rhaenyra's right arm outstretched behind her, no doubt on the small of her back in a steadying effort. Their solemn expressions pierce a needle of anxiety through him, the once stoic and confident one-eyed prince now overtaken with clammy hands and shaky breaths. He remembers his family stranded by the storm in the Kingswood, protected by sworn knights yet still vulnerable to the wrath of nature.

"What is the matter?” Aemond cannot help the worrying rambles that leave his mouth. “Has something happened to the hunting party? I can take Vhagar to retrieve them from the Kingsw–"

Rhaenyra's hand raising makes him pause. "They are alright, dear brother, you needn't worry."

"Apologies, sister," he says, sheepish. Aemond steps aside to allow them entrance. "Please, come in."

Alicent is first to cross into the threshold with Rhaenyra close behind. It is only when she passes Aemond that he realizes his mother has yet to look him in the eye.

He observes as Alicent settles herself down onto a seat around the center table of his quarters. Her gaze remains downcast, not meeting his.

"A Record of Incurable Illnesses in the Known Realm," Rhaenyra says aloud, tone questioning, eyes on the cover of the tome that he had haphazardly thrown upon the table in his haste. "Do not tell me you plan on forging a maester's chain, lēkia."

"I was doing some nightly reading," Aemond admits, though he's familiar enough with Rhaenyra's joking tone that he knows she is not fully using it. She knows why he reads what he reads, and he is thankful that she does not speak it plainly.

He hears his mother breathe in at the mention of the book, as though to brace herself. Aemond thinks she might plainly speak on it.

The prince decides he shall be forthright, not pleased with the feeling of his body physically manifesting his anxiety. His jaw clenches, and sweat begins to pool in the dip of his back despite the chilly air of the night.

"As much as I enjoy your company, my queens, I must ask, why have you graced me with it at such an hour?"

"Aemond," his mother at last looks up at him. Her eyes brim with tears. "A raven from Oldtown arrived earlier, at the hour of the owl."

His mouth runs dry. "Is it Daeron? Or grandsire?"

Aemond’s mind forbids itself from wondering about the only other person residing in Oldtown worth mentioning.

He does not miss the quaking exhale from Rhaenyra, who speaks when Alicent seems at a loss for words. "It came from the Citadel."

He goes still, as if turned to stone.

A cold rush starts from the tips of his fingers, and it spreads to his arms, to his torso, and grips his spine. The last word his sister had uttered melts into a continuous ringing in his ears which grows and grows until even the storm outside ceases to exist.

Numbness has rendered him immobile, he thinks, he is rooted to his spot.

And then he mutters a name his lips had not formed in years A name that he has not heard anyone say in his vicinity, in fear of what his reaction might be.

Your name comes out in a whisper. Posed as a question that he prays they leave unanswered.

He's undeserving to speak it with full volume. He fears that merely allowing his throat to form the sounds of it will make it so, manifest it into reality.

And Aemond thinks, when Rhaenyra nods in confirmation, what a twisted reality this has become.

She continues speaking, though the pealing in his ears has grown louder ten-fold and permits him to decipher only bits and pieces.

Raven... Maester Corren... take hold...

He sees Rhaenyra pull out a strip of paper and begin to read from it.

Aemond needs to sit down. Instead, he stumbles back, shoulder bumping against the wall. He vaguely hears the scraping of a chair–vaguely registers the arms that find purchase under his to keep him upright. He hears his mother call out his name, though it sounds distant and dampened. He sees his sister halt mid-statement, arms out in a ready stance to assist Alicent if need be.

But when Aemond's eye stares into hers, when he briefly glances at the parchment curled around her fingers, she knows what he is asking for and carries on reading.

"... most likely succumb to the illness not long after the first rays of light hit the sphere of the Citadel on the last day of this moon. We urge you – visit while you can, before the Stranger comes, while there is still time left."

"Aemond," his mother repeats. "Come, let us take a seat."

Alicent pulls her arms away from under his. She opts to clutch at his forearm instead and attempts to tug him towards a chair.

But Aemond is stock-still against the wall. The last sentence echoes in his mind.

Visit while you can.

While you are still alive.

Before the Stranger comes.

Death had not taken you yet.

While there is still time left.

He still had time.

The prince is shaken out of his stupor when another gust of wind flitters about his room, the howl of it catching his mother off-guard.

"Mother," he turns to her, places his hand atop hers that holds onto him. "I must go."

Alicent peers at her son for a moment to search his face. What she expects to find, he doesn't know. He half-expects her to argue, to protest against his admittedly rash and unspoken plan of action, and he fails to conceal his surprise when his mother does neither.

Alicent’s hands move to either side of his face, and he feels the press of a kiss to his forehead, where his scar topmost starts. A sad smile graces her face as she gazes into her son’s eyes.

“I know.”

He can see his mother's internal qualms with his leaving at such an hour, in such weather, but she does not voice them.

The Queen does, however.

"The storm is unrelenting," Rhaenyra states. "Too dangerous to face alone.”

“You’d have me wait?”

You’d have me wait, have me prolong my suffering even longer? Aemond wants to say, though he bites his tongue.

“That is not what I meant, lekia,” Rhaenyra says, soft, against his own firm voice. “You need not face it alone; I shall accompany you on Syrax."

“No,” Aemond blanches, the memories of what had almost occurred the last time dragons flew amidst a storm flashing through his mind.

“You… you are needed here, my queen,” he tries to reason.

"Aemond,” Rhaenyra tuts, worry in her voice. “You may ride the largest dragon, but even Vhagar might not be a match for the gales of wind that plague the skies tonight."

“Perhaps,” he starts. “But our family stays stranded, with no dragons, in the Kingswood. One of us should keep near, should they need assistance."

I will not be able to protect you, he wants to say. Not when my thoughts are elsewhere.

Aemond squeezes his mother's hand once, twice, smiles at her and lets her go to step towards Rhaenyra. She contemplates his statement, though part of her knows he is right.

But they are siblings, and Aemond's stubbornness is her own.

"Then perhaps wait and see if the storm breaks by sunrise," Rhaenyra suggests. "If it does not, then at the very least you will have light in the rain. But do not venture out during the night's darkest hour– not with this downpour added to it."

Aemond turns her counsel over in his mind. "Do you say this to me as queen?"

"I say this to you as your sister,” she stares at him fondly. “Though, you might consider, your older sister."

He glances at Alicent, who now stands once more beside Rhaenyra, and merely shrugs. "It is your choice, my son. I leave it to you."

There is not a trace of hesitation in his being. “Then I shall forge ahead to the Citadel.”

At that, he moves to turn to his wardrobe. He's eager to change into his riding leathers as quick as he can – when Aemond catches Rhaenyra's loving glance at his mother. And as Alicent returns the queen's gaze with equal, if not more, affection – an epiphany he had years ago, when he first lost your companionship over his foolishness and shortcomings, comes back to him.

You did this, he echoes in gratitude what he had once said to you in anger. You are the one I have to thank for this happiness.

(He still remembers the word he used then – this farce.)

“Mandia,” Aemond calls out to his sister, steps faltering. Rhaenyra meets his gaze— one that once held indifference and disdain towards her, now only full of gratitude and kinship.

“Thank you,” is all he breathes out.

Rhaenyra nods in understanding. “I shall follow after you with the others once they’ve returned from the Kingswood.”

The two queens watch as Aemond moves about with a fervor they’d not seen in the one-eyed prince for nearly a decade.

“Here you are,” Alma lifts a cup to your lips, its contents steaming. “Steady, dear.”

The fragrant tea is warm as you sip it, and you sigh in relief at the wonders it does to soothe your aches and pains. You sink deeper into the soft bed, your eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment, still slightly heavy with sleep.

“Thank you, Alma,” you say, voice shaky, as you gaze up at her. “Your tea is magical, and tasty, as always.”

She beams at your compliment and brings the cup up for another sip.

“Thank you, though I wish I could take credit for the beneficial parts of the concoction, dear light,” Alma says. “You know it is your cousin who has developed its base, I merely added the herbs to make it more bearable for consumption.”

Her use of your epithet does not go unnoticed by you.

“Hm, still, thank you for making it so,” you hum. “And you know I’m not particularly fond of that name, Alma.”

“Tis an apt title, in my opinion,” she retorts. Alma sets the cup down on the table by your bedside, afterwards reaching over to lovingly caress your hair.

“And one most deserved,” she adds, in a quiet voice. You can only grace her with a small smile, knowing that an argument with her will only end up with you frustrated and her ever more triumphant.

Alma leaves your side to flit about the room, tidying up the blankets at the foot of your bed and using the rag on her shoulder to wipe down the dust on the many shelves of books. She chats while she moves about, though her attempts at asking you questions about what literature you crave to read next are mostly ignored.

Your attention favours the arched window on the far-right wall of your chamber— large and low enough on the wall for you to be able to look at the world beyond from where you lay, bedridden. One of its stained-glass panels had been cracked open, and a light breeze jostles the short green drapes that frame the window. Not so distantly, the High Tower gleams solid white against the blue morning sky, an ever constant and looming presence, a permanent fixture within the limited view your chamber window offers.

The sight of the tall structure, clean and angular, never fails to remind you of the man half-descended from the family charged with its care.

A small crick forms in your neck from the prolonged turn of your head, and you slowly face forward again to avoid the discomfort turning into an ache. In your periphery, the High Tower remains, and so do thoughts of the man.

You cannot help the question that leaves your mouth.

“Have any ravens arrived from the Crownlands?” From the Red Keep, you mean to say, though Alma knows you well enough to know what hides behind the generalization, but kind enough to not point it out. You’ve asked the question many times to many others in the past few days, since the Citadel raven left with the Maesters’ scroll secured to its leg.

“I’ve not heard anything from the rookery,” she turns to you with a rehearsed answer. “There’s apparently quite atrocious weather over the capital, I don’t expect creatures of any kind would want to venture out into it.”

“I see,” you say, deflated. She turns at the change of pitch in your tone.

“Soon, dear light,” Alma reassures you from her spot in front of the bookshelves, kind gaze taking in your solemn expression.

You look up at her, grace her with a small smile and a nod in understanding. “Right, soon.”

“Now,” she says, determined to distract you from your anxiety. “I do think it’s about time to break fast.”

“Oh, I’m alright,” you start. “I’m not that hungry—”

Your stomach grumbles in discontent, the sound bouncing off the stone walls of your chambers.

Alma raises her eyebrows, as if to say What were you saying?

“Fine,” you sigh. “But something small, please. I don’t have much of an appetite, truly.”

“I’ll ask the cook for a warm meal,” Alma counters. “A large, warm meal.”

“Alma—” your groan is cut off by another, stronger growl, though this time not accompanied by the familiar vibrations of hunger in your stomach. Alma lets out a laugh at the noise.

“My!” she exclaims, hands on her hips as she looks at you. “Maybe some pastries as well, then? I’ll have Blythe fetch some from the bakery.”

“That wasn’t me,” you whisper, brows furrowing. Alma’s amused expression morphs into one of confusion, likely mirroring your own.

“What—”

A roar, loud as a crack of thunder and close enough that you feel it shake your bones, rattles the chamber. Dust falls from the ceiling, and your frail trembling fingers clutch at the sheets either side of you.

“Seven Hells!” Alma yelps. She drops the rag in her hand and strides to your bed. She sits down beside you and takes your hand. “What in the gods’ name was that?”

You don’t answer her, though an inkling feeling develops in your mind as you painfully whip your head to peer out the window. The quaking had caused the pane to open even more ajar, and your breath hitches in your throat at the sight you see.

The High Tower remains grand in the distance, though its domineering presence is now diminished by the shade of a winged shadow, which grows and grows until the being attached to it comes into view. It circles the tower twice around before it flies to land on an empty hill, stretching its wings and letting out another quaking roar.

Alma lets out a shaky breath beside you. “Is that…”

You nod, silently, to answer her trailed off question. The crick in your neck reappears, though you pay it no mind.

“Vhagar.”

☆ translations: lēkia= brother, mandia = sister

☆ this is a REUPLOAD bcs i didn't like the ending of the first version. also i chose the most hectic time of my life to start writing a multi-chapter fic so only the gods know when i'll be able to update this lol.

is this bad, is this good? let me know what you think!

no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while i gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cow girl, doggy, backwards, forwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling. teeth jitterbug, mind boggling, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip bitting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, can't walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail scratching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, splendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tangos, he could put a nuclear bomb inside me and

NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH MY FAIR LADY WIFE 🧎🧎🧎🧎🧎🧎 BENDING THE KNEE FOR YOU RN SWEARING MY ALLEGIANCE

MILLY? MY WIFE? OH MY GOSHHHHH AHHHHH

kicking my feet and shi ☺️✋ stawpppp

(HYPERVENTILATING BC YOUR WORKS ARE THE AIR I BREATHE AND I LOVE THEM)

MILLY? MY WIFE? OH MY GOSHHHHH AHHHHH

[every action has consequences]

🔪 inspired by this tweet:

🤷‍♀️