NASA DID NOT CONFIRM THAT THERE IS A PARALLEL UNIVERSE/REALITY!!! Guys Please Stop Spreading Misinformation.

𝕆𝕦𝕣 ℙ𝕣𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕪 𝕃𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕝𝕖 𝔾𝕚𝕣𝕝

Summary: You try to escape from two fearsome Sith Lords. Surprisingly they take it rather well.

Author's note: This is totally getting a part 2. Or maybe a series we'll see. 

Warnings: dark, absolutely no regard for the rule of two, sorta a vent fic (venting that these two are so fine and I can't get them out of my mind), slightly fluffy.

The empire's warships have a tendency to blur reality. The interiors of their large hulking exoskeletons house endless corridors and makeshift chambers. Vast, endless arrays of space. They've been optimized for housing droids, clones, and artillery. Not for escape, not for an endless search of a freedom that has long since eroded. 

Calling yourself anything but desperate would be a lie. Your feet run to the chorus of your broken heartbeat. The need for freedom, the need to escape spreads through your body like a poison. You know it'll end up killing you, either from exhaustion or by their sabars. But you have to try, you have to run. Even if you've left fragments of yourself in the warm bed the three of you sleep on. Even if you forgot your heart under Anakin's pillow and your soul still lingers in Maul's warm embrace. Maybe freedom is worth cutting off pieces of yourself, if only in the hope that someday they might grow back. 

There's something wrong with the corridors you're sure of it. You've never been one for directions, instead relying on the holo screens and navigation systems to lead the way. Mirror images as far as the eye can see. Identical, plain. Nothing substantial to store in your memory. There's something ironic about this situation, a punchline that doesn't quite land. You half haphazardly tug on the skirt of your nightgown, desperate for anything familiar. You're not sure why.

You remember how Anakin called you pretty this morning, still hazy, still clinging to the sensation of slumber. Perfect blue eyes too dazed to look at you. Really look at you. The chosen one gazes at your ghost, your ethos. the perfect doll he and Maul had morphed you into. Behind you

 Maul pulls you to his chest. Hand running up and down her side, trying to resurrect you into his dreams. It's only when Anakin's eyes close, seeling the shimmering blue orbs, that you crawl out of bed and into the unknown. 

You're lost, abandoned in absolute desolation. The marble tiles bleed frost into the soles of your feet. Somewhere in the distance, you feel a disturbance in the force. Too far away to matter, yet leaking with a potent rage that burns. It's hope you think, albeit pathetically, maybe it's better to capitulate this pointless crusade and wait for the Sith lords to find you. The crash comes just as you're about to stop. You bump into him, falling in the process. All armor and steel. The Stormtrooper's mask is off giving you a clear view of his scarred face. His eyes flash, some dreary emotion too obscure to read, he offers you a gloved hand, something human something casual. 

You stare frozen. 

When exactly did you stop comprehending human idiosyncrasies? 

When exactly did you start reading every interaction as a threat? 

He's a monster, you think, just like the ones you've been warned about. Lectured time and time again by both Anakine and Maul. Monsters pry on little girls, especially ones who wander off on their own. Monsters lurk behind unsuspecting walls, ready to pounce when their prey approaches. You wonder if, the definitive definition of "monster" could be passed on to the two Siths who call themselves your lovers. 

There's blood, too crimson to be real. Metallic aromas wafted through the air. You've only now noticed how close the disturbance in the force really is. Close enough to distinguish itself. To reveal that, in actuality, it's not a disturbance at all.

 It's two...

Something cold yanks at your forearm. Pulling you to your feet. for a split second, your nerves calm. The familiarity of the cybernetic arm grants you a heavy ease. Anakin pushes you over to where Maul is standing. Golden eyes burning holes through the stormtrooper's armor. 'He didn't do anything' you long to say. But the words wisely die on your tongue as Maul grips your shoulders. Anakine's saber is lit, stabbing through the soldier's armor as if it were flesh. As if killing him where as easy as killing a rogue thought. "You're quite a foolish soldier for daring to touch that which belongs to your commanders. Even more imbecilic for so much as looking at emperor Palpatine's disciple." 

Maul's grip on your shoulders tightens, eyes never once leaving the bloodshed. One of his hands instinctively roams to your belly, then slides down to your thigh. Rubbing it ever so gently as his claws pierce your soft skin. You close your eyes trying to make yourself smaller. You hate how his touch grounds you. How the familiarity plucks at your heartstrings. When he touches you like this you wish you would forever rot in his arms.

"'I'm sorry" You don't know why the words come so easily. As if they've been itching to spill from your tongue. Maybe it's easier to say 'I'm sorry' rather than 'You've broken my perception of love, of reality and now I can only find comfort in your darkness.' "Hush" Maul's anger spills with every syllable. His claws dig deeper, earning him a pained hiss from his doll. 

"You're not sorry, in fact, you rather enjoyed this didn't you? Running away making us chase you down, I never thought your species would enjoy being the prey so much, little one." Anakin walks over, saber seethed at his side. His every step promised pain, retribution. He's angry, furious. They both are, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, they'll end it all today. 

Maul's chambers have always been a testament to Dathomir, bathed in deep scarlets and endless ebony. You wonder if he's homesick for a place he's only visited in his worst ephialtes. After the incident in the corridors, they drag you back to the Zabrak's room. Neither bothering to say a word. Merely permitting their rage to engulf you, subduing you into submission. It's an unwelcome surprise when they begin to prep for the day. Throwing on their black cloaks, prior to choosing your outfit. An abnormal affinity settles across the room. Too unnerving to go unchecked. 

They dress you each morning, a ritual you think, some attestation of love that's never been quite right. Maul drapes you in velvet dresses. Each one harbors a sui generis softness that sits erroneously across your skin. Their opulent sensation only brings forth feelings of aversion and despair. Their softness an ode to your imprisonment. 

the dresses come in shades of crimson, detailed sometimes in black, sometimes in gold, and sometimes in a frigid blue that sends shivers running up your spine. 

Anakin fusses over your accessories, why they feel the need to dress you so extravagantly daily is beyond you -as you've come to realize many things are- On days when Anakin's hubris reaches its apex, he bathes you in gold. Astonishing glittering collars across your neck and Kuat bangles hanging from your wrists. When he's sober from his pride he chooses black diamonds. Simple and exotic. scintillate and opaque.

Allusions to the dark side.

A hidden reference that crawls inside you. 

Once, back when you'd been sure defiance was still an option. Back when callow hope still dared to flow through your veins. Back when you'd been a jejune, stubborn thing. You had refused to wear one of the dresses they'd bought. Adimant in your refusal until Maul had stuck out his hand. Summoning the Force to remind you just who held the supreme authority here. 

The Force had strangled you, clawing hungrily at your neck. You felt your bones caving in on themselves, watched with exacerbating hysteria as your feet abandoned the floor. He'd only released you when he was sure you were near death's adorned door. Permitting you to molder on the floor akin to a ragdoll. 

Anakin had chastised you after you'd conjured enough strength to sit up, gasping greedily for air. He'd broken two fingers that day. One still harbors a small scar.

A Promise ring. 

An augury.

There are days, few and far between. When they've deemed you've been behaving adequately for long enough. That they permit you the choice of which dress you'd fancy wearing for the day. It's a rare event, reserved as a special treat. You think it's their way of proposing variety, giving you the illusion of choice. Making you feel a little less smothered. 

Today is not one of those days. Today, you feel them pick you apart, only to reassemble you in their image. Drowning you in extravagance. A reminder, one whose deprecating nature weaves itself within your muscles. You, little girl, are nothing more than a doll. And dolls should know their place.

No sooner do you feel the final lace fasten across your back, that Anakin is tugging you outside the door. Metal arm clasped around your forearm. 

Maul follows behind molten gaze locked on your face. The hallways bend to their will as if the walls themselves quiver with their presence. You recognize this corridor, recognize the frigid forlorn. 

There's something wrong with Emperor Palpatine's throne room. It's surreal, makeshift. His real throne lays somewhere cold, somewhere even his apprentices don't dare wander off to. The ironclad throne has never felt right. Never felt like it held any real power. Just terror, just dread, just hatred. But here it is in all its glory. Left to two apprentices who'd rather treat it as a toy than a sacred place.

 Anakin dramatically throws himself onto the throne. One leg thrown over the armrest as he leans against the other. His other leg planted firmly on the ground. He keeps you steady on his thigh. Torturing you with his distant, disappointed look. Maul stands in front of you. His eyes liquid gold melting into you. You see the galaxy in them. Hear it whispearing secrets meant to be forgotten. It's Anakin's voice that rattles you from your disjointed thoughts. 

"You caused us so much worry angel" he's being nice. You don't trust that. There's something sinister plaguing his words.  

"You know Ani, she may cease escaping if you'd cease to spoil her." Maul leans down, gripping your chin and squeezing. " The brat forgets her place, merely cause you'd rather coddle her than discipline her." 

Anakin glares, a shift in his eyes, blue bleeding into gold. "Hmm, Maul, you're starting to sound an awful lot like Kenobi right now."

"Why's that? Did the old fool tend to also point out your shortcomings?" 

You wonder who this Kenobi is, as you watch the Siths' exchange crude childish vitriols. Maybe he'd make a better lover than the two men you have the misfortune of being adhered to. 

They never could truly see just how similar they were.

Two sides of the same coin. 

One born of copper, the other, black rose petals.

Subconsciously you reach out. Grasping Anakin's robotic hand, fiddling with the panel, peeling it away to gain access to the wires and circuits. You have a bad habit of ripping things open. Anakin learned this the first time he kissed you and you tried to gnaw at his chest with your nails. Not in malice, but rather to satisfy a ravenous curiosity. A raging need to open him and see just how he ticked. You'd wished to perform an autopsy on his soul. Rip him open and devour all his secrets. Back then you'd wondered if you could kiss sunrises into Anakin's eternal night. Strip him of bleak blackened skies and introduce him to stars and a moon that shines. He'd only vaguely permitted it. Opting to pluck the stars lying within you. Swiping them for steel and lava and other mundane things that fueled his incessant rage. 

Anakin's head dips, lips pressing on your jugular vein. "You're ethereal" Anakin mubbles against your skin, like the dying prayer of a collapsing star. He's so pretty when he kisses your neck. Biting away pieces of you. Stealing your light for himself. 

"Princess" Maul seethes venom pelting from his words. You realize you'd been ignoring him. Something he's not too fond of. "What in the stars was going through your pretty little head?" 

 he looks like he'd love nothing more than to wring your pretty little neck right now. "I just..." your words feel heavy. Tiny bullets polluting your tongue. It feels so cruel to say when you know just how much they love you. "I just wanted some freedom. Just a bit of space." 

"Dumb little angel" Anakin chastes. You lower your head in embarrassment watching Maul kneel in front of you. He cups your cheeks, placing a soft kiss on your head. "You can never escape us beloved".

 "I love you," says Anakin. All you hear is, I'll haunt you, I'll break your ribs one by one so that I may possess your heart. Maybe they mean the same thing. 

"And I'm pretty sure if Maul could feel normal emotions like everyone else, then he'd love you too." You can't help but let out a giggle as Anakin throws his head back laughing. A rare melodious sound, that causes your heart to skip a beat. Maul merely rolls his eyes before pecking you on the lips.

You trace your fingers across Maul's chest, feeling the pummelling of two hearts. A double heartbeat. Two melodies entwined, You wonder who he harbors in those hearts. One for love and one for family. You nip at his bottom lip. Ushering the blood into your mouth. He tastes of Ichor and smoke. Of sadness and rage. From behind you feel Akanin bite into the hollow of your flesh. Leaving traces of himself upon your skin. 

"Our pretty little problem" Anakin mumbles. 

You're a problem, a vexation draped in velvet, an unsolvable equation. Trapped between a love that seethes through your body like a toxin. Engulfing you until your mind relents. Maybe it's easier this way. Easier to say 'I love you' without the double entendre. 

You do love them.

A rather arduous conclusion to reach.

Maul and Anakin.

Palpatine's apprentices. 

Your lovers

Yeah, that sounds about right...

💜💜: @athanasia-day @hotpinkboots @jenn-patterson-69 @nickiiiixoxo-blog @the-chains-are-the-easy-part

Yandere Lestat de Lioncourt x Reader

Warnings: Yandere Behavior, mentions of suicide, baby trapping, kidnapping, based off of the 1994 movie and book(s), a bit of misogyny(?), verbal abuse

Lestat is a selfish yandere, who puts his desires above his lover’s. 

He does whatever he can to make you stay with him. 

Belittling you, so that it may seem like he’s the only one to care about you. Tells you how stupid you are for believing others can love you.

He’s very likely to kidnap/trap and isolate his lover. (He literally baby trapped Louis so he wouldn’t leave him).

He’s very clingy. Nicolas killed himself and Louis left him, causing him to form a fear of abandonment.

He’s a bit delusional. He doesn’t really understand why you get upset at him, and may mock you at times.

He doesn’t want to, but he may forcefully turn you. You would have to do something drastic for him to do so. Or he may coerce you into letting him turn you, so that he may feel less guilt.

Lestat is controlling. Specifically to your guys’ money. If you're a woman this would be easier for him to do so.

Arguments with him are terrible. Yelling about all the things he does for you, and even threatening to kill the people you hold dear to yourself.

You may soon believe that Lestat is the devil.

A/N: I'm really proud of this. I had to go through the book to write this and forgot how good it was.

❝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

Interview with the Vampire 1994 Masterlist

Louis x Reader x Lestat headcanons

Yandere Lestat de Lioncourt x Reader

Anyone else pretend that Rhaenyra or Alicent can somehow give birth to a poc baby while reading fanfics?

Safer In His Arms || Geralt of Rivia x Reader

Requested by anon

Summary: Since you were little you always dreamed of meeting a noble and brave knight, falling in love and marrying him to rule your kingdom together until the end of your days. But as you looked around at the men that had come to the banquet to ask for your hand in marriage, it was clear that those dreams were nothing more than a fantasy. Or at least that's what you thought until fate crossed your path with Geralt of Rivia. The witcher, with his hard expression and cold stare, was the last person anyone would describe as warm or chivalrous. But not you. From the moment you met him, you saw nothing but kindness in his eyes. And when he managed to rescue you from the hands of bandits, you knew that maybe there was still some hope that your fantasy could come true —just maybe not in the way you had always imagined. 

Warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, mentions of sexual assault (nothing happens but if it’s triggering for you I wouldn’t read it), protective!geralt, SMUT MINORS DNI, virgin!reader, inexperienced!reader, loss of virginity (not accurate this is just porn!), dirty talk, oral sex (f receiving), penetrative sex, creampie, aftercare, fluff

English is not my first language

Word count: 13500 (not even sorry)

Notes: I don't know why I keep giving every princess I write a sad/tragic story, sorry about that. Also this ended up being way more smutty than I anticipated, sorry about that too (not really). It was supposed to be a fun little hurt/comfort fic about Geralt saving the reader but it developed a mind of its own and ended up being another excuse to write more smut. I tried to make the smut a bit more fluffy than normal since it's supposed to be the reader's first time, but I didn't want it to be too fluffy given that they technically barely know each other, so there's no actual love between them (if that makes sense?). So, sorry if it's a bit all over the place!

The cold breeze of the summer night hit your skin the moment you set foot outside, reminding you that you should have taken a coat. While the days tended to be hot this time of year, once the sun set over the horizon a cool breeze embraced the entire kingdom, courtesy of the ocean forces that surrounded the borders of the land. It was quite peaceful. On a quiet night you loved to sit in the courtyard listening to the waves crashing against the rocks and smelling the scent of the salty water that was carried by the winds and mingled with the sweet perfume of the garden flowers. It seemed to always bring peace to your troubled mind, and that was exactly what you needed right now.

You could still hear the noise coming from inside the castle, though it was slowly getting lost in the sound of the sea. The laughter, the chatter, the joyful music, it all faded into the background as you plopped down on one of the seats in the courtyard, allowing yourself a moment to take a deep breath and let the beauty of your kingdom impart some of the wisdom you so desperately needed. All the guests were there for you —to talk and dance with you, to make unattainable but romantic promises in exchange for your hand in marriage— and yet all you wanted to do was disappear. You were tired of the politics, the diplomacy, tired of feeling the pressure of having to decide the future of your life and your kingdom in one night. The choice of a husband was very important to your parents, to your people and it should be to you too, but all you wanted was for the day to be over.

"I'm glad to see I'm not the only one feeling overwhelmed in there." A deep voice startled you. 

Looking up you were met with a tall man leaning against one of the stone pillars supporting the roof of the covered section of the courtyard. His arms were crossed over his chest, muscles showing through the fabric of his clothes. His white hair hid part of his face, though you could still make out his hard expression and defined jaw. But what caught your attention the most was not the size of his muscles or the fact that the clothes he was wearing seemed too elegant for someone like him. No, what caught your attention the most were the amber eyes that watched you, admiring you from a distance, hiding behind a few rebellious strands of hair. You had never seen such beautiful eyes before. They were piercing, and yet there was a softness in them. Like the sun on a summer afternoon, they shone with an intensity that would have blinded anyone. But you were mesmerized by them, unable to look away. 

"Though I must admit I did not expect to find you here, your highness, given that you are the center of the party."

"I needed some fresh air." You managed to say, forcing yourself to look away from his eyes. "I lost count of the number of men I danced with tonight...I just needed a break."

"That bad, huh?" His lips curved upward slightly, giving his hard expression a softer look. "I suppose if any of them had made a good impression at least you would remember their name."

"It wouldn't matter anyways. My parents have a very strong opinion about the one I should choose." You let out a bitter chuckle. "This banquet is just a formality, a contingency plan.... Give everyone a false sense of hope so they won't attack us for feeling left out."

"I'm sure you still have some sort of control over the whole thing. You're the one getting married after all."

"Since when does a woman's opinion matter when there's wealth and power involved? I'm just a pawn in their political game." Your gaze dropped, focusing on the embroidered details of your dress to avoid facing the intense gaze of the man in front of you. "When I was a girl I used to dream of growing up, meeting a brave and honorable prince and falling in love with him... now I know that feelings come after marriage, if they come at all."

Geralt watched you walk arround the courtyard, your fingers tracing the petals of the flowers that decorated the place without paying much attention to your movements. You had a blank stare and a sad expression adorned your delicate face. He was not a big lover of royalty —he didn't care about politics and didn't like the arrogant tone with which most of them used to speak—, but you were different. When he looked at you he didn't see a spoiled, arrogant princess or a manipulative political figure capable of anything to get their way. He only saw a sad and disillusioned young woman, confused about her future and the responsibility that fell on her shoulders. 

Geralt felt bad for you and had an inexplicable urge to hug you, though he restrained himself. He opted to move closer to you, just took a couple of steps forward and he was already able to breathe in the scent of your perfume. His nostrils were pleasantly assaulted by the sweet scent emanating from your skin and hair. It was special, a blend of jasmine, vanilla and a hint of sea water. It was like nothing he had ever smelled before and he was sure that your scent would linger in his memory for a long time.

"It is still your life." He spoke behind your back and you turned to look at him. He seemed much bigger now that he was closer to you. His figure towered over you imposingly, yet his eyes were soft. "You can always take back your control over it." Your lips curved upward slightly and Geralt thought the smile suited you much better than the grimace of sadness. 

You appreciated his effort to improve your mood. He was a complete stranger who had no reason to listen to your complaints about a life that many considered privileged. And though his words were simple, they accomplished their purpose. You felt so helpless and trapped that you were unable to see that things didn't end there. Yes, you were forced to marry someone you did not love for the sake of your kingdom, but that was not the same as giving up your life, your control and power over it. There was still hope.

"Thank you..." you trailed off, realizing at that moment that you had opened yourself so sincerely to a man whose name you didn't even know. 

But before he could introduce himself, a voice in the distance interrupted you, answering for him.

"Geralt! There you are! I have been looking everywhere for you. You are supposed to protect me, you know."

Geralt let out an irritated sigh as the man you recognized as one of the many musicians hired by your parents to play at the banquet approached you. You had to stifle a chuckle as you realized that rather than escaping the noise of the party, he had come there to get a break from his friend's vibrant and cheerful personality. They were an odd pair, but you had no doubt that there had to be trust between them from the way the bard addresses him.

“I’ve been doing the impossible to hide from Lord Kaius for ages! What the hell were you doing out her–” The artist's complaints were cut short when his eyes finally rested on your figure. "Your highness." He gave a subtle bow, the tone of his voice changing to a lower, more subtle one from one second to the next.

"I'm afraid it's my fault. I was preoccupying your friend with the problems that afflict my mind on this fine evening and he was too kind to interrupt me. He was a great help, but you can take him back now. You clearly need him more than I do."

"Won't you come inside, your highness? You wouldn't want to miss your own party." The bard asked and you smiled at him. 

"In a moment. I'd like to enjoy the peace and fresh air for a while longer."

Geralt didn't know why, but his eyes kept searching for you in the crowd of people dancing and eating like there was no tomorrow. After Jaskier dragged him back to the banquet hall —and after saving him from the fury of the man whose daughter had lost her innocence in the hands of the bard—, he kept his eyes on the big dark wooden doors, waiting to see you enter. But the minutes passed and there was no sign of you anywhere. He hadn't seen you come through the door and he couldn't find you in the crowd of people or see you at the royal table sitting next to your parents. You had disappeared and some people were beginning to notice.

For a moment, Geralt wondered if perhaps his words had encouraged certain behaviors in you. Maybe your way of taking control of your life was to run away from there, leaving your parents, your suitors and your responsibilities behind and start from scratch. He was wondering if perhaps he should go out to look for you, when his thoughts were interrupted by the sudden entrance of a man running towards the king and queen waving a paper in his raised right hand.

"The princess has been kidnapped." He announced loudly, causing the entire room to fall into a deep silence. 

The musicians stopped playing, the people dancing stood motionless in the middle of the room and the queen almost fainted at that very moment. There was a collective sigh and then nothing. Pure silence while the king read the note that had been left behind by the bandits, establishing a payment for the recovery of the princess.

However, the silence did not last long. It was a room full of princes, knights and lords who were there to win the heart of the princess —or at least, the political interest of her parents— so chaos was bound to break out at a time like that. Lord Einar, the one who had found the note in the courtyard, was the first to offer his services to save the princess. His bravery set off a chain reaction of man after man appearing before the king to justify why they were the best suited for the task and not their competitors. And as they fought among themselves, Geralt decided to take matters into his own hands. 

He finally felt comfortable as he inspected the courtyard and its surroundings for some sort of clue as to your whereabouts. For the first time since he had arrived at the castle he felt as if he actually had something to do there. Banquets and politics weren't his thing, but tracking down and hunting evil was. And while his area of expertise was monsters, he was willing to make an exception —anything to find an excuse to get him out of the political mess unfolding in the banquet hall.

His senses enhanced by the mutation allowed Geralt to follow the path that your scent had left in the air. He only had to take a couple of deep breaths and he immediately caught the fragrance of jasmine and vanilla that he had smelled on your skin. It stood out above any other scent near him, almost as if he had you in front of him once again. All he had to do was follow it to the outskirts of the castle, where his tracking skills allowed him to form a clearer picture of the situation.

They were heading north, away from the ocean and into the forest. The four pairs of footprints in the dirt indicated the presence of three heavy men who were accompanied by a fourth subject that was not so pleased to be there. The footprints were more shallow and imperfect. They belonged to a person of smaller build who was being dragged by those men. Geralt found no blood on the path, so he felt optimistic. You were conscious and had no serious wounds that would leave traces of your blood on the road, so there was a high chance that he would arrive in time to save you.

Following the path became a little more complicated the deeper he went into the woods, but fortunately for him the vegetation was not so lush and the bandits had not hidden very far away. Soon he was able to hear their angry mutterings in the distance. The night wind carried your sobs with it and Geralt followed them as if it were a map straight to your whereabouts. 

You were being held captive in what appeared to be abandoned land. There was a dirty old shack and behind it, in the distance, Geralt could make out a barn that he had no doubt was in the same condition. A dim light was escaping through the half-open wooden door, so he knew that was where he had to go. 

Two of the bandits scattered around the property to control the perimeter while one remained inside with you. Geralt was able to slip past them unseen with ease. Clearly, they were not men of great intellect and wisdom. Only a fool would kidnap a princess on the one night she was surrounded by strong and capable noble knights looking to prove themselves to her. Although glancing around, he was the only one there, so perhaps the bandits had a point.

Geralt was very careful with his movements, seeking to stay in the shadows as long as possible to assess the situation. He knew he could take out those men without breaking a sweat, even if they attacked him all three at once. But he had to consider that you were in the middle and any mistake he made could end badly for you. So he took his time, stealing a glimpse of the barn through the cracked door. His vision was limited by the odd angle from which he was forced to observe the scene, as well as the dim light that illuminated the room. Geralt was considering going in with his sword held high and end it all, when a sudden movement forced him to retreat so as not to be found.

Still, he got to see the way the man was mistreating you, pushing you violently against a pile of hay while you cried and begged for your life. And he got to hear the string of degenerate words he spat at you, enjoying the fear in your voice as you struggled to keep your distance from him. It made Geralt angry. Very angry.

The next sequence of actions happened so quickly that it was hard for you to process it. Although, to be honest, your mind wasn't quite there either. A part of you was completely missing, preparing to face the worst. When your captor lunged at you, effectively imprisoning you against the hay and almost completely restricting your movements, your mind transported you to another place. You could still hear his voice in the distance, smell his unpleasant odor and feel his weight on your body, but it all felt distant, muffled by the sounds of the ocean waves crashing against the rocks and the smell of salt water. Your body was still struggling to break free and tears were still streaming down your cheeks, but your mind was preparing to face the horror you knew was coming.

"You can cry all you want, no one is coming to save you." The man clicked his tongue, an evil smile forming on his lips. "A castle full of people and not a single man in sight, what a shame! But don't worry, princess, the time has come for you to know what a real man is." He moved his hands to the buttons of his pants, his leering gaze roaming over your body. You felt like screaming, crying and vomiting all at the same time, but you remained immobile, not knowing how to react. You simply closed your eyes, concentrating on the images of the sea you loved so much, waiting for the moment to pass.

But instead of feeling the weight of your captor's body on you again, you felt the splatter of warm liquid on your skin. Droplets rolled down your cheeks, mixing with your tears, and streams fell on your clothes. When you opened your eyes you found the sharp point of a sword poking out of your captor's pierced stomach. It was his blood that drenched your body, his blood that stained your clothes. It poured down on you from the wound in his stomach and from the cut in his throat that prevented him from producing more than broken cries as he drowned in his own blood.

It took you a few seconds to understand what was happening. Your confused mind, on high alert for new dangers, was not able to comprehend that the death of your captor was something positive for you. You only saw blood in quantities you had never seen before and could not help but scream as you watched in horror as the sword disappeared inside the bandit's body —splashing a few more drops of blood on its way out.

In the blink of an eye, the dying body of your captor was removed from above you and was replaced by a hand that pressed over your mouth to silence you. You struggled against it, your own hands snapping out of their state of shock to clutch at the arm of the new danger in an attempt to separate it from you. But then your eyes focused on the man leaning over you, the one who had saved you and who was desperately asking you to keep quiet.

A surge of calm ran through your body as you made contact with those golden eyes that intrigued you so much. You knew then that you were no longer in danger for Geralt had come to your rescue. Your heart was still beating almost inhumanly fast, pumping adrenaline throughout your body, and your breathing was still rapid, but you were able to calm your whimpers of protest under his hand. You stopped fighting him, trusting that you would be safe under his care.

"There are more-" You tried to warn him as he removed his hand from your mouth, but Geralt shushed you.

"I know, they're outside. That's why I need you to stay quiet and hide while I deal with them. Can you do that, your highness?" You nodded slowly, letting Geralt lead you to the back of the barn. He settled you behind a pile of hay that was large enough to hide your crouched figure, asking you to stay there until he came back for you, no matter what you heard outside.

"Wait! Don't leave me!" you panicked as he took a step away from you. Your hand flew to his arm, clinging to his clothes in an attempt to keep him from leaving. You knew what he had to do, but the thought of being alone again terrified you.

"Everything will be fine." Geralt tried to calm you, his voice a soft whisper. "I promise I will come back for you." 

He gave you a moment before trying to leave once again, waiting for you to let go of his arm willingly rather than forcibly push you away. Geralt knew you were terrified and needed support, and he was more than willing to give it, but first he had to take care of the bandits that were still on the loose. And it would not be wise to fight them while you were present. It would only distress you further and put you in unnecessary danger. So, with a slight nod, he left you in the barn once more, disappearing into the night to finish what he had started.

You curled up in your place, listening to the distant sounds of the fight as you let another wave of tears roll down your cheeks. The smell of blood and dirt surrounded you. You were covered in it —in dirt, from being pushed back and forth around the place; in your captor's sweat, after he threw his body over yours; and in his blood, thanks to Geralt's fierce but effective attack. It made you want to vomit. The reality of the situation was starting to sink in, and your mind was slowly beginning to understand the great danger you were in and how lucky you were that Geralt showed up when he did.

“Princess?” 

His voice brought you back to reality. He was kneeling beside you, looking at you with concern in those beautiful yellow eyes. The skin on his face was stained with a few drops of blood, as you imagined yours to be, but that did not lessen the softness of his expression. You threw yourself into his arms without a second thought, hiding your face in his neck as you sobbed in relief to know that the danger was over.

"It's okay, you're safe. I'm here, it's going to be okay." Geralt muttered against your hair, pulling you into his arms hoping that would be enough to help ease your nerves. 

He held you against his body for as long as you needed him to, stroking your back with his hand in a slow, delicate way to inspire some sense of calm in you. He didn't move for a moment, not even when your sobs began to fade and your breathing became regular. No, Geralt waited for you to make the first move, breaking away from him when you were ready to do so. 

"It's all right. You're fine. Just breathe with me. In...and out...in...and out. All right." 

You let the soft but deep tone of his voice slowly wash away the paralyzing fear and nerves that plagued you. You focused on the warmth of his body and the way his arms wrapped around you, making you feel safe. You mimicked the rhythm of his breathing, letting him slowly guide you back to normal. 

When you opened your eyes again the world around you was no longer spinning. Your vision was still a little blurry from the tears, but you could make out perfectly the yellow eyes, bright as the summer sun, watching you carefully.

"There you are!" Geralt gave you a small smile. "Did they hurt you?" You shook your head. Most of the blood on you at that moment wasn't yours, thankfully. Beyond a couple of bruises on your wrists from the bindings, and a split lip from a slap, you weren't injured. Your head hurt and you had twisted your ankle in an attempt to escape but it was nothing you couldn't handle.

"Who were they?" You asked in a shaky voice as you tried to stand up. You winced in pain as you put weight on your injured foot, but Geralt caught you in his arms before you lost your balance.

"Trust me, you're not going to like the answer to that."

A collective sigh was heard as you and Geralt entered the war room, where the king and queen were coordinating a rescue party with some soldiers and half of the suitors present at the banquet. It was a sigh of surprise rather than relief. It was clear that no one expected to see you there, much less with the disheveled appearance you had. 

Your mother was the first to react, running up to you with tears in her eyes. Although she couldn't bring herself to hug you, the blood that stained your ball gown was still fresh, so she settled for holding your cheeks in her hands while repeating over and over again how happy she was that you were safe. Your father reacted by sending the guards to arrest Geralt as his worried mind believed that the witcher somehow had something to do with your kidnapping. You had to stand between them, taking your savior's hand in yours to make your position clear. 

"What you imply is ridiculous! He saved me, father. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for him." you stated firmly, keeping your head held high and holding back tears in your eyes. 

"He very well could still be behind all this. He's a witcher who wasn't officially invited to the festivities and conveniently vanished in the middle of the night without a word. No one can attest to him but that bard..."

"No offense, your majesty, but I just felt as though the situation was not being treated with the necessary urgency." Geralt interjected, speaking in a calm and slightly defiant tone. "I knew for a fact that she couldn't be far away and that time was of the essence, but everyone at that feast seemed more interested in proving themselves worthy of glory and respect than saving your daughter's life. I just did what had to be done."

"How dare you speak that way about these noble men, witcher! Any one of them would be more than willing to give his life for my daughter!"

"He is right, father. If you want to find a culprit, you should direct your gaze to Lord Einar."

The room fell silent as all eyes turned to him. But his gaze was focused on you, staring at you with a fury you didn't know if the others were able to detect. He took a step forward and you tightened your grip on Geralt's hand, instinctively seeking his support. He stuck to your side, silently letting you know that he was ready to come between him and you if necessary —though he seriously doubted that Einar would be stupid enough to try to hurt you in front of the king.

"This is absurd!" Lord Einar complained with exaggerated outrage. "I will not allow myself to be disrespected in this way! I was invited to this feast to formalize my interest in the princess, which is greater than that of anyone in this room, if I may add. Have you forgotten that it was I who noticed the princess's strange disappearance? If I had not gone out to look for her, perhaps the news of her disappearance would have come too late. And may I remind you, your majesty, that it was I who first offered my services to bring her back safe and sound."

"That was the plan, wasn't it?" Geralt spoke through gritted teeth. "To pay some coins to a bunch of desperate bastards to take her so that you could rescue her and thus win her and the king's heart."

"I will not allow this... thing to disrespect me like this!"

"Your scent was on their clothes. Your name was the last thing they uttered before I slit their throats. You knew you didn't stand a chance with her, so you found a way to force your name to the top of the list."

Intimidated by Geralt's cold, hard stare, Lord Einar turned to look at the king. "These are nothing more than baseless accusations made by someone who clearly wants to distract us from his own guilt and involvement." he said, keeping his head held high as he lied through his teeth. "I beg you, my king, to consider punishment for this insolent witcher."

"Is this proof enough for you?" you snapped, tossing an object on the table. 

After the bandits were dead, Geralt had searched their bodies for some kind of proof that their words were true. That's how he had found a ring in the pocket of one of them that clearly didn't belong to them. It was made of a fine metal and in the center, engraved in gold, was the seal of a noble family: the Blakesley family.

The ring rolled against the dark wood, exposing Lord Einar's lies with each flick of the ring before the gaze of all present. There was nothing he could say to avoid the punishment that was coming, so when your father gave the order and the guards took him by force, he decided to take his rage out on you. His voice echoed through the corridors as he was escorted to the dungeon, shouting a string of insults at you. He questioned your honor and your ability as a ruler, claiming that he only wanted to marry you to ensure that the kingdom would not perish when your father died. 

Those were nothing more than the words of an unstable man who was filled with spite, angered by your rejection. You knew it meant nothing, but you still couldn't help but feel humiliated as he shouted all those things in front of so many people. Your eyes filled with tears and you clung to Geralt almost instinctively, hiding your face in his neck so no one would see you cry. He wrapped his arms around you, ignoring the very unfriendly looks that several of the men in the room gave him. 

Your mother ordered the room to be emptied, realizing that the crowd was doing nothing to help your condition. The last thing you needed at that moment was to feel watched and judged by a bunch of people, so she personally closed the doors behind the last guard to leave the room.

"You should take a long bath, my love. I'll send someone to prepare the tub and clean clothes for you. That will certainly make you feel better." Your mother spoke in a soft voice, placing a hand on your back. "And you, witcher, are more than welcome to stay tonight. I'll have a room prepared for you and bring you some clean clothes. We can talk more in the morning."

You gave your mother a smile as you wiped your tears with the back of your hand, trying to convince her that you were fine. She knew you weren't, but she also knew you well enough not to push you at that moment. So she left the room without adding anything else, leaving you alone with Geralt once again.

"Thank you... for everything." Your voice broke the silence, your eyes traveling from the door to Geralt's face. "I just realized I didn't thank you yet." 

"You don't have to." He didn't need to hear it from your mouth, he could see in your eyes how grateful you were. Your expression hadn't changed much since he had found you, even though you tried hard to hide it, there were still traces of fear and distress in your eyes.

"Of course I have to! You have saved me from a terrible fate, not only at the hands of those bandits, but also at the hands of that... man." There were other words with which you would have liked to describe him, but you decided it was not appropriate for you to utter them. He didn't even deserve that from you. "I'm glad you were dragged here... I don't know what would have become of me without you tonight, Geralt."

The room fell silent as you looked into each other's eyes. You lost yourself in the amber that surrounded his pupils —which seemed to be more dilated, although it could well be an effect of the light, you thought—, trying to discover the secrets hidden in his eyes. Geralt was not easy to read, no matter how hard you tried, you had no idea of the things that could be going through his head at that moment. And yet, there was something in his eyes that calmed you. When he looked back at you, there was a softness in them that invited you to continue to admire them forever. It was a connection unlike anything you had ever felt before. It piqued your curiosity and some other things you didn't quite know how to explain. 

Your hand was still intertwined with Geralt's and you weren't entirely sure for how long. Although you weren't complaining, you found the warmth of his skin against yours extremely comforting. It made you feel less alone, less vulnerable. You trusted him with your life, you knew that as long as he was around nothing bad could happen to you. And boy did you need that at that moment. You were still quite affected by everything that had happened and the idea of being alone terrified you. You needed company, but not just anyone. You needed his company.

"Would you mind escorting me to my chambers?" you broke the silence, clearing your throat to make sure your voice sounded firm. "My foot still hurts a little and I wouldn't want to fall down the stairs."

It was a foolish excuse. You knew it. Geralt knew it. The twisted foot you got while struggling with your captors was not a cause for concern. It hurt a little, yes, but you could still walk normally. All you wanted was an excuse not to be separated from Geralt and luckily for you, he played along. He allowed you to take his arm for stability and walked with you to your quarters. You appreciated his proximity, enjoying the feel of his body pressed against yours as his warmth enveloped you. But unfortunately it only seemed to aggravate his absence when he pulled away from you, willing to leave you alone so you could rest.

Your hand closed around his arm almost as an unwilling reflex. Your body craved his closeness. Your mind needed his company to be at ease. As much as you wanted to, you couldn't let Geralt leave. Not tonight at least. His eyes lingered on your hand, admiring how small it appeared when compared to his arm, before he looked up into your eyes, searching your expression for an explanation.

"Stay, please." Your voice was almost a whisper. Your eyes had trouble making eye contact with him for the first time since you had met. Geralt knew then that you were embarrassed of uttering those words. "I need you. I... I don't want to be alone tonight."

"Are you sure?" He said after a few seconds of silence, his expression firm but gentle. You nodded, looking at him with pleading eyes as you released his arm from your grip. Geralt sighed and finally crossed the threshold of the door, closing it behind him. 

Geralt allowed you to guide him across the room to a door that hid a large private bathtub on the other side. It was already filled with water and salts, ready for you to use it. Everything smelled of you, of that delicious combination of jasmine and vanilla that Geralt found so special. It was intoxicating, like he was breathing in your scent straight from the source. 

"Would you mind helping me with the lace?" Your voice brought him back to reality. Geralt watched as you turned around, gathering your hair over one of your shoulders to expose your back to him so he could unfasten your dress. He knew it was inappropriate and that he was probably breaking some rule —not to mention, taking advantage of the king's hospitality—, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. Not when you were offering yourself to him like that.

Geralt's hands caressed your back first, his fingers slowly tracing a path from your shoulders to where the lacing of your dress ended. You closed your eyes, holding your breath as you felt him slowly loosen your dress. You could feel his imposing figure towering over you. He was so close that you could hear his breathing and feel the heat radiating from his body. You liked the proximity, probably more than you should.

When Geralt finished his work and your dress began to slide down your shoulders, you knew you should have been embarrassed. You were used to being naked in front of servants, but they were always women you trusted, handmaidens who had taken care of you since you were little and helped you dress or bathe. You had never been so exposed in front of a man before and you should definitely feel ashamed, but you were not. You simply let the dress fall to your feet and stepped into the tub as if there was no man present.

The water was warm and the tub was deep enough to hide your modesty if you sat in the right position. The dim candlelight also helped, though ultimately you really didn't mind feeling Geralt's gaze on your body.

"Join me, please. The water's nice and there's room enough for both of us."

Your curious eyes unashamedly traced the muscles of his arms and torso as he revealed himself to you. You noticed the scars that marked his skin, some smaller and some larger, and you couldn't help but wonder what the stories behind them were. Geralt was an exceptional man, unlike anyone you had ever met in your life. He was so rigid and reserved, and yet he had shown nothing but kindness and gentleness in your presence. He was a mystery and you wanted nothing more than to discover what he hid behind those beautiful amber eyes.

Out of respect —and some embarrassment—, you looked away as his hands undid the buttons of his pants. You focused your attention on the jasmine petals floating in the water, feeling your cheeks grow warm as a small voice in your head encouraged you to look up. 

Geralt settled next to you in the tub, avoiding being too close or sitting in front of you so that you wouldn't feel uncomfortable or self-conscious in his presence. However, you needed his closeness, so you shortened the distance as much as you could, pressing your arm against his. When he didn't complain, you went a step further and rested your head on his shoulder. Geralt stood still for a moment, debating once again whether his actions were appropriate, but in the end he relaxed. 

He put his arm around your shoulders, effectively pulling you closer to him. A smile formed on your lips as you adjusted yourself in the new position, hiding your face in his neck. Geralt's fingers traced soft lines on the skin of your arm, a caress that both relaxed and excited you. That kind of intimacy was something new to you. Feeling his naked skin against yours, inhaling that musky scent mixed with something you couldn't describe as anything but his own essence, feeling the soft caresses of his calloused fingers, everything made you feel a certain way inside. You didn't have the exact words to describe it. It was like a flame, a warmth spreading through you that was both comforting and exciting. Ultimately, you didn't care about being able to put a name to what you felt. You just wanted to stay close to Geralt for as long as you were allowed.

Without even realizing it, your hand traveled up to his chest, your curious fingers tracing the jagged lines that marked his skin. You used the scars as a map to his body, letting them guide your path as you explored his chest with your touch. And as your fingers moved, you imagined the heroic stories behind each one, wondering what kind of monsters had inflicted them and if there were any that were human-made.

"I wonder how many princesses you've saved to end up like this." You broke the silence, your voice soft as you got lost in thought. It was mostly a joke, but there was some genuine curiosity hidden in it. 

"Surprisingly, less than you're probably imagining."

You didn't quite know why, but hearing Geralt say that put a smile on your lips. It made you feel special, in a way. He hadn't been hired to save you —technically he hadn't even been invited to the party—, he had no obligation to you or your family, and yet he had risked his life to help you. There was something in you that awakened in him his noblest instincts.

"I'm sure that's what you tell everyone." You laughed, looking up at him from your position on his shoulder. You could admire his profile, his sharp jawline and the way his lips curved upward slightly as he let out a huff.

"Often delicate young women like you find my methods to be too... grotesque. They don't see me as being much different from the monsters I kill." Geralt spoke honestly, remembering the horrified expressions on the faces of the maidens he had sought to save from danger in his past, when he had little experience as a witcher. He was young and naive at the time and believed he could use his skills for more than just hunting monsters. After all, evil came in all shapes and sizes, even in humans. It didn't take him long to understand that humans didn't see a knight of noble spirit when he intervened in such situations, only a mutant designed to kill.

You noticed his thoughtful expression, his eyes looking straight ahead as if his mind was transporting him to another place. You wondered what kind of memories he might have swirling around in his head at that moment, outraged to think that someone could treat him badly after he saved their life. You admitted that he had quite an imposing figure and that his expression wasn't very friendly most of the time, but you still couldn't understand how anyone could be afraid of him. Even before he saved you —when he was just a stranger who took the time to listen to your problems— you saw nothing threatening in him. His beautiful yellow eyes inspired nothing but trust in you from the first moment you made contact with them.

“Then they were all fools." You sat up straight, one hand resting on Geralt's cheek to force him to look at you. "I don't understand how anyone could look at you and see danger in you. Even covered in blood, all I see is... safety and comfort." You gave him a small smile as your finger carefully wiped a small spot of blood from his cheek.

"Or maybe you're being naively nice."

Geralt took a cloth that rested on the edge of the tub and dipped it in the warm water. Then one of his hands cupped your chin, tilting your face slightly so he could get a better look at you in the candlelight. The flames danced in the air, creating shadows on your delicate skin. But even in the dim light he could still see the splashes of blood that stained your beautiful face. They made such a contrast that it was impossible to ignore them. The implication of such a violent act had no place on the delicate face of a princess like you. He hated to see the scratch on your lip, the dirt on your cheeks, the dried blood on your skin. You should not have been subjected to such horrors and he wanted to do everything in his power to erase the evidence from your body. So Geralt took the trouble to wipe the blood away, carefully running the wet cloth over your skin until it was all gone.

You remained silent as he worked on you, completely immobile while you watched him closely. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed, but his expression was gentle. His hands moved delicately over your skin, as if he was afraid of breaking you if he wasn't careful. You could barely feel the cloth brushing against your cheek from how slow and gentle Geralt was being. But his fingers... his fingers were another story.

They were warm against your skin, caressing every little spot the cloth passed through to soothe any possible irritation the fabric might arouse. They awakened a tingling sensation as they traveled down your face. When they reached your neck, you knew that Geralt could feel the accelerated pulsing of your heart against his fingertips. It was impossible that he couldn't when you could hear the beating in your ears yourself. His hands felt so big against your neck. If he wanted to hurt you, he could probably do it with just one hand. That should have scared you, considering he was a man you barely knew, but it didn't. You knew he wasn't going to hurt you, not when he caressed the sensitive skin of your neck and collarbones with such gentleness.

"Maybe I'm naive," you broke the silence, your voice barely more audible than a whisper. "But I honestly don't think a mutant designed to kill, as you say, would go to the trouble of caring for me the way you are doing."

Geralt's eyes looked up at you, that intriguing yellow you loved so much capturing you in a transe. They were calling you, daring you to dive into the ocean of honey and mystery that was his gaze. And you obeyed without the slightest resistance, letting your heart take the reins of your body. You leaned towards him, slowly. His hands were still on your neck, but he didn't use them to stop you. On the contrary, he leaned towards you too and when your lips finally collided, he used his grip on your jaw to deepen the kiss.

The kiss started slow, a quick brush of your lips as you finally let yourselves indulge in your deepest desires. But as you became more comfortable in each other's arms, the kiss intensified. You let Geralt guide you, knowing that he would undoubtedly have more experience than you. You surrendered to his lips and the caresses of his tongue, giving yourself to him completely as you struggled to keep up with him. 

That wasn't your first kiss, however, it was the first kiss that felt like this, so... intense, passionate. You barely remembered the boy who had given you your first kiss, but you knew you would remember Geralt for the rest of your life. You didn't know how he did it, but the simple touch of his lips and the strokes of his fingers on your skin turned you to mush between his hands. You had never felt anything like it before and you didn't want to stop. But despite your protests, Geralt suddenly pulled away from you.

"What are you doing?" He didn't sound annoyed or confused, more concerned. 

"I'm taking control of my life." You leaned into him once more and Geralt accepted your kiss, his desperate lips demonstrating his true intentions. He let his desires consume him for a moment before regaining control over his body and pulling away from you again.

"Are you sure?" It wasn't that he wanted to stop, but the voice of morality in the back of his mind compelled him to make sure you wanted the same. He needed to know that he wasn't taking advantage of you, that you weren't throwing yourself into his arms as a result of your vulnerable state after the attack.

"For as long as I can remember, I have always dreamed of meeting a noble prince who would protect me from danger. We would fall in love and live a long and happy life together after our marriage. Now I know that is impossible. I cannot choose who I marry. I cannot choose to marry for love. There's nothing I can do to change it, that's just the way things work." You paused, your hands reaching for Geralt's to entwine your fingers. "But I can still choose who to give myself to, body and soul, for the first time... and you're the closest thing I have to that fantasy."

There was a sadness in your eyes that made Geralt feel bad for you. He didn't know you very well, but he knew you deserved better than a future you didn't want. The inability to choose your own path in life was something that seemed to affect you greatly, and if he was able to bring you some peace he was willing to do so. But the tub full of dirty water was not the place for it, much less considering it would be your first experience of something like that. 

"Speak freely." You said after a few seconds of unbearable silence. "If you don't want to be with me because you don't like me I'll understand. But please don't turn me down just because you think you're guarding my honor or something. I want this... I want you."

Those last words seemed to do the trick, because Geralt's lips joined yours once again. Only this time the kiss was different, much slower and more sensual, though just as desperate. His lips moved in time with yours, tongues intertwined in a sinful dance as Geralt allowed his hands to slowly explore your body. His fingers ignited flames on your skin in their path, pleasure and anticipation building inside you. 

The water in the tub swirled violently as Geralt lifted you into his arms, moving you to sit on his lap as if you weighed nothing. You clung to his shoulders for support, feeling his fingers dig into the sensitive skin of your hips. But it didn't hurt, at least not in a bad way. It was a pleasant ache that made you feel alive. Just like his kisses, which trailed down your jaw to your neck, sucking and nibbling on the sensitive skin. 

Geralt's kisses continued their way down and you couldn't help but buck your hips against his when his lips closed over your nipple. You pushed your chest into him instinctively, giving yourself to him as one of your hands got lost in his hair. Pure pleasure traveled through your veins as his tongue played with your breasts, giving attention to one before moving on to the other. He held you tightly against his body, one strong arm stretched across your back while the other wrapped around your waist, pulling you against his growing erection. 

You both moaned as your cunt made contact with his cock. The sensation you felt when the tip brushed against your little bundle of nerves was unlike anything you had ever felt before. The pleasure was much more intense, much more raw. You could feel it spreading through your body and into your bones. So, naturally, you sought it again, creating a rhythm that had you panting in no time. 

You were forced to stop when Geralt suddenly stood up, carrying you in his arms. Your moan of pleasure turned into a cry of surprise, the water in the tub moving violently, flooding the room as he moved towards the exit. You clung to his shoulders, afraid of falling, as you asked him what he was doing.

"We can't do it here. It has to be done properly, in a bed where you’ll be comfortable, and not in a bathtub full of filthy water."

You couldn't help but smile to yourself as you understood the meaning of his words. Once again, Geralt was looking after you, worrying about you and your well-being more than any other man in your life had ever done. He wanted to make things right, to make sure that your first sexual encounter was a positive experience. And while he wasn't exactly the man you had imagined doing it with, he was quite close to it. Every thing he said, every gesture he made to you, made you feel more confident in your decision.

Geralt carefully laid you down on the bed, making sure you were comfortable before continuing his assault on your body. He kissed you again and, as you let his tongue explore your mouth, you couldn't help but think how much bigger he felt now that he was leaning over you. He had one arm on either side of your head, holding himself up so he wouldn't crush you with his weight. One of his toned legs rested in between yours, keeping you open and exposed to him. You were essentially trapped under his body, completely at his mercy, and you liked it.

The pleasure building up inside you was starting to feel too overwhelming. As much as you enjoyed Geralt's wet kisses, you needed more. You needed relief. So you pushed your hips into him once more, seeking that intoxicating pleasure you'd felt in the bathtub. Your wet pussy slid easily up his thigh and a wave of pleasure coursed through your body. 

"Fuck!" Geralt moaned as he felt your wetness trickling down his leg. You looked so sensual moving your hips against him with adoring desperation, struggling to find some relief. The little moans that fell from your lips in between ragged breaths drove him crazy, making it difficult for him to control his instincts. He had to be gentle with you, it was your first time and no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't pin you down and fuck you until your legs shook.

"Tell me, princess, have you ever touched yourself?" Geralt spoke against your skin as his lips continued their path of wet kisses down your body. "Perhaps when you were alone at night, hidden in the darkness of your chambers."

It took you a few seconds to process Geralt's words, your mind distracted with the way his kisses slowly trailed down your chest, barely pausing on your breasts before continuing to travel down. It made your body tremble with anticipation, wondering what he was up to. He was watching you from his position on your abdomen, lips barely pulling away from your skin so he could observe your face more comfortably, waiting for an answer. The color of his eyes had darkened, the yellow glowing like the flames of the candles that lit the room. There was hunger in them. Geralt was looking at you like a wolf at its prey. You couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious, managing to answer him with a simple negative shake of your head. 

"So you don't know what real pleasure feels like, huh?" You weren't sure if it was a question for you, but you shook your head again anyway. You felt Geralt's lips curving into a smile against the sensitive skin of your lower belly and a shiver ran down your spine when you heard his next words. "I'm going to change that."

Despite the firmness in his voice, Geralt was slow and gentle with each movement he made next. He was careful to position himself between your legs, pushing them open and revealing your most secret part to his hungry gaze. He noticed almost immediately the way you tensed with embarrassment, feeling vulnerable, so he was quick to spread sweet kisses on your right thigh, while gently caressing the skin of your left. He could smell the scent of your arousal with every breath he took. It was intoxicating, the sweet nectar he had been waiting to taste all this time. But first he had to make sure you were comfortable. He was there to pleasure you, nothing mattered if you didn't enjoy it.

"It's okay, my sweet. You don't have to be ashamed, you're beautiful." He spoke against your skin, his voice a raspy, sensual, whisper. "I have to get you ready for my cock, all right? This will feel so good, I promise. But if it doesn't, I want you to tell me, can you do that?" You nodded, but that wasn't enough for him. "I need you to use your words."

"Yes, Geralt, I will."

"Good."

Geralt gave you a few seconds to relax before diving into your cunt, spreading wet kisses down your inner thighs as he got closer and closer to the place where you needed him most. When his tongue finally made contact with the sweet nectar trickling down your folds, he let out a sound that vibrated in his chest with force. All hint of self-control disappeared then, buried under the primal desire that the taste of your arousal awakened in him.

He ate you like a starving man, his tongue exploring your most intimate place with expert skill. Your hips jolted as his lips closed over your small bundle of nerves, your whole body convulsing as you felt pleasure like you had never felt before. It was so intense it was almost too much. It scared you in a way, as it felt like your own body didn't respond to you —like it didn't belong to you. It belonged to Geralt now, and only responded to the stimulation he gave your body.  You were torn between the need to pull away from his entrancing lips —which were no doubt uttering some spell to claim ownership of your innocence— and your body's carnal desire to surrender to his clever tricks in order to continue to feel such pure pleasure.

"Does it feel good, princess?" Geralt spoke between your legs, his warm breath crashing against your pussy and sending shivers down your spine. 

"Yes! So good... please don't stop." You didn't recognize your own voice as you spoke. It sounded raspy from all the moaning, and there was a hint of desperation you'd never heard in yourself before. It wasn't the first time you had begged someone for something you wanted, but it was the first time you actually meant it.

"I won't, I promise. I'm here to make you feel good." Geralt assured between slow, long licks, focusing his attention on your clit before continuing. "But if you're going to take my cock, I'll need to stretch your tight hole." You tensed again and once more he used his strategy of stroking and kissing your thighs to calm you down. You knew that penetration was an important part of the whole thing and you were ready to face it, but still, the unknown scared you a little. "I'm going to insert a finger inside you, is that all right my sweet? It might feel a little uncomfortable at first, but I promise it will feel great afterwards. But first I have to know that you still want this."

"Yes, Geralt, I want this. I trust you, please." You gave him a shy smile, looking at him with complete admiration. He saw the desire in your eyes, mixed with anticipation and a hint of fear. But you were confident in your decision, so he continued.

"Relax, I'm going to take care of you." He murmured against your skin, his kisses slowly moving closer to your wet cunt. "Just focus on the pleasure."

Geralt's voice echoed in your mind, your body obeying his commands as if he had cast a spell over you that left you with no other choice. You focused on the fire burning inside you, on the skillful way he flicked his tongue against your abused bundle of nerves and on the knot in your stomach that tightened with each passing second. You tried not to tense up as you felt Geralt's finger press against your entrance, biting your lip and taking deep breaths to calm your nerves. His tongue was doing a good job of distracting you, but you could still feel the slightly painful drag of his finger inside you. 

"You're doing so well for me." Geralt complimented you, keeping his finger still inside you to give you time to get used to the new sensation. You couldn't hide how much it pleased you to hear those words, because your walls clenched around his finger, revealing your deepest desires. Geralt grunted against your pussy, fantasizing about how good your tight hole would feel around his cock. 

It took you a moment to get used to the strange sensation of his intrusion. It wasn't painful exactly, mostly uncomfortable since your walls weren't used to stretching like that. But eventually the discomfort faded into pleasure, bringing new sensations as he slowly began to move his finger inside you. 

Your moans became uncontrollable, increasing in volume with each of Geralt's caresses. If you weren't so wrapped up in your own pleasure, you would have worried about the possibility of being overheard by some servant or guard walking down the corridor. You knew it might potentially ruin your reputation, but you couldn't focus on anything other than the way Geralt's long, thick finger stretched you, making you feel full in the most pleasurable way possible. 

"Geralt I-" You tried to speak, but the air caught in your throat as you felt the knot in your stomach becoming incredibly tight, threatening to snap.

"I know, my sweet, I know." Geralt interrupted you as he noticed your trouble forming coherent sentences. He could sense you were getting close to relief in the way your walls tightened around his finger, your juices dripping down your legs and soaking his hand. "Just let yourself go. I've got you."

Geralt added another finger inside you, stretching your walls even further. He was careful, his movements slow and precise as he both prepared you for his cock and brought you closer to the edge. His mouth focused on your clit, his lips closing around your sensitive pearl as his fingers explored your insides, reaching that spongy place deep inside you and rubbing it until your whole body shuddered with your orgasm.

It felt like your insides exploded, the tension that had been building in your core suddenly snapping as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through your body. Your mind went blank, eyes rolling back as Geralt did his best to hold back the violent spasms of your muscles. 

And then your body fell limp on the sheets. You could barely hear the world around you over your racing heartbeat that throbbed in your ears. You knew Geralt was muttering things against your skin as he kissed his way back up, but your mind was too lost in the pleasure to make sense of his words. Your chest was rising and falling rapidly, your body desperate for oxygen as it struggled to regain control.

"There you are!" Geralt gave you a soft smile as you opened your eyes, his face slowly coming into focus on your clouded vision. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine! That was..." you paused, searching for the words to describe it. Although explaining your feelings proved to be more difficult than you expected. You were convinced that there were no words in any language you knew to describe what he had made you feel. So you let out an airy laugh, hiding your face in his neck and spreading small kisses over his skin.

"Do you still want to go through with this?" Geralt asked you, pulling away from you a little so he could look into your eyes. You kissed him back, tasting the sweet flavor of your arousal on his tongue. It was strangely erotic for you to feel your own essence on him, like a mark that, though temporary, showed to whom his lips belonged. It sent a rush of desire and confidence through your body, igniting the fire inside you once more.

The pressure of his cock was nothing like his fingers. While the stretching sensation was not completely foreign to you, Geralt's cock was much longer and thicker than his fingers so it hurt a lot more when he began to push it into you. The mixture of your arousal and his saliva helped his member slide more easily through your walls, but you still couldn't hold back the whine of pain, which vibrated against Geralt's lips. 

"It's all right... you're all right. Just a little more." He crooned as he rested his forehead against yours. His fingers caressed the skin of your hip, giving you comfort as you clung to his shoulders. "You're doing so good for me, my sweet." His voice was soft, but erratic, laced with the clear pleasure that sliding so torturously slow inside your tight walls brought him. 

Geralt remained immobile once he bottomed out, spreading kisses all over your face and neck as he gave you time to adjust to his size. It was the hardest task he had ever had to do in his life. Facing any monster was easier than staying still when your warm, wet walls wrapped around him so well. He was desperate to move, pull out of you almost completely only to slam back in, thrusting his hips against yours as he pinned you against the bed. But it was your first time, so he had to be gentle with you. You weren't ready for that kind of rough loving, so Geralt pushed his dark desires aside and waited for you to give him the signal to move. 

After a while, your moans of discomfort turned into whimpers of protest, not from pain, but from the growing fire inside you that wasn't being tended to. You experimentally moved your hips against Geralt's, just to see what it would feel like. It was a small movement, but it was enough to push his cock deeper inside you, sparking a pleasurable tingling sensation that spread throughout your body. So you did it again, moving with more confidence this time. And again, only this time, Geralt met you halfway, grinding his hips against yours.

Your walls tightened around his cock and the growl that escaped his lips was so deep and primal that it almost pushed you over the edge once more. Something about knowing that you were the cause of those moans, that your body, your pussy, your caresses, were responsible for such reactions was so arousing. Knowing that even though you were inexperienced you were able to elicit such pleasure in him made you feel more comfortable and confident. You were turning his world upside down as much as he was turning yours.

"You look so beautiful like this." Geralt said as he slightly increased the rhythm of his hips. "So small and fragile underneath me, eyes filled with lust as you try your best to take me in your tight hole." 

You moaned into his mouth, desperately searching his lips for something to keep you grounded as pleasure took over your body and mind. Your cunt clenched at his words, finding the mix of softness and roughness in his action incredibly arousing. His hips moved against yours in a consistent and deep, yet slow and sensual rhythm. His calloused fingers roamed over your body, caressing you in such a subtle way that it gave you goosebumps. His filthy words perfectly balanced flattery and roughness, awakening feelings you didn't know you had. It was all a dangerous, overwhelming mix, slowly getting to you close to the edge.

"Does it feel good? Do you like feeling me deep inside you?" You could only moan incoherently in response, hiding your face in the crook of Geralt's neck as your nails dug into his back. "I like it too. You feel so good wrapped around me, my perfect princess."

"Yes, I'm yours! I'm all yours, please..." You begged, for what, you weren't sure. But that didn't really matter, you just wanted Geralt to do whatever he wanted with you. You knew there was no future in your relationship, but this was no time to think about tomorrow. At that moment you were giving yourself body and soul to him, allowing him permission to use and explore your body as he wished.

"Yes you are, but not just for tonight." Geralt moaned in your ear, his voice a deep hoarse whisper. He sucked a mark just below your earlobe, nibbling the sensitive area playfully before continuing to speak. "You will always remember this night and think of me when your future husband takes you to bed on your wedding night. He's not going to compare to me... to how good I'm making you feel. But that's fine, because at least you had a chance to know what it feels like to be adored like you truly deserve, my princess."

"Fuck, Geralt! I'm-" Your warning was interrupted by a moan as you felt him sink his teeth into the sensitive skin of your neck at the same time he pushed his member incredibly deep inside you.

"I know, I can feel you squeezing me so tight. It's alright, just let go for me, my sweet. I want to feel you as you come undone on my cock." 

His hand traveled south, calloused fingers pressing against your abused bundle of nerves, drawing circles over it. The way your pussy clenched around his cock made it hard to focus, his own orgasm approaching with alarming speed. But he kept a steady rhythm, his hips moving in a slow, sensual way to make sure his cock brushed that special place inside you without causing you any pain.

"That's it, keep making those pretty notices for me. You're doing so good for me, my beautiful, perfect, princess. Just let go, I've got you. You're safe with me, just let go."

It was the softness in his husky voice that finally pushed you over the edge, your whole body shaking with the intensity of your orgasm. Geralt's name was the last thing you uttered before the world around you disappeared behind the waves of pleasure. It was a pathetic whimper, a plea for mercy as you felt frightened by the sheer intensity of your orgasm. Geralt was sure he had never heard a more sensual melody. The way you had uttered his name just before the pleasure exploded inside you was something he was never going to forget.

"That's it, my sweet. You did such a good job for me." He complimented you, slowing down the rhythm of his hips to give you time to recover. "You're alright. I'm here, I've got you. Just breathe... that's it." 

Geralt's voice helped you refocus on the real world, his sweet kisses slowly lifting the fog that clouded your mind. You could still feel him inside you, his cock throbbing desperate for relief. The shallow thrusts weren't enough and you needed to feel him falling apart inside you. You needed to know what it felt like to have a man —and especially him— come inside you. And you knew it was safe with him since witchers were incapable of fathering children as a result of their mutations.

"Geralt, please... I want to feel you." You managed to say between gasps, locking your legs around his hips to keep him in place, pressed inside you. He let out a deep growl as he understood the meaning behind your words, his eyes darkening with lust. You were definitely going to be the death of him.

"Of course, my sweet, how could I deny you anything?" He murmurs against your lips, slowly increasing the rhythm of his hips. "You want to feel my seed deep inside you, is that it? You want me to fill you up, leave a part of me inside you so you won't miss me so much when I'm gone?"

His words alone were enough to ignite that flame inside you again. Your body was tired, but still screamed for more. Geralt's thrusts became erratic with each passing second, desperate to reach his own relief. And in the search for his pleasure he was taking you with him to a new limit. 

"I will give it to you, my princess. I will give you all of me. I could never deny you anything, my sweet, beautiful girl."

His sweet words contrasted with the harshness of his movements, hips crashing against yours in desperate thrusts. He was getting closer to his relief and he could feel in the way your cunt clenched around his cock that you were too. His thumb focused on your clit once more, one, two, three strokes accompanied by his thrusts and you were crying his name again. But he didn't get to enjoy much of the way you tightened around him, because he came seconds later, shooting his load deep inside you.

Geralt collapsed on top of you, his body crushing you against the bed as you both tried to catch your breath. But even though he was much bigger than you, it wasn't an uncomfortable position. The weight of his body felt comforting against yours. You liked the way he hid his face in your neck, breathing heavily against your sweaty skin. It gave you the opportunity to stroke his back and run your fingers through his hair. It felt intimate, in a completely different way than the sex you'd just had. 

You whined in protest as he rolled to the side, feeling the mixture of your arousal and his sliding down your legs now that his cock had left you. It was a strange sensation to feel empty without him inside you. You didn't know such a feeling was possible, for you that used to be normal, the only way to feel. But now that you had had Geralt buried deep inside you, that you had felt his seed filling you to the brim, you would always be aware of that strange emptiness between your legs.

"How are you feeling?" you heard him say and you struggled to open your eyes, your eyelids heavy with exhaustion. He was standing at the foot of the bed, a cloth in his hand, and you wondered when he had moved from your side without you noticing.

"Great! That was... great." You mumbled, still unable to find an adequate word to describe how good he had made you feel.

Geralt gave you a small smile before lowering his face to your legs, placing small kisses on your skin as he moved closer and closer to your center. "Open up for me, my princess. I need to clean you." 

You reluctantly complied, feeling much more exposed and vulnerable now that the deed was done. However, he was gentle with you, moving carefully as he cleaned you so as not to irritate your sensitive, abused cunt. And when he was done, he kissed his way down your face, caressing your skin with his lips, culminating his journey in your mouth.

"What about you?" you tried to sound casual as you spoke, though you failed miserably. "Was it... good for you too?" You immediately regretted your choice of words, worrying that you had ruined the moment.

"I thought I had been quite clear if not with my words, with my actions at least." Geralt let out an airy laugh and you followed suit, feeling a little more relieved. 

Then the room fell into silence. It wasn't an awkward or uncomfortable one, but a peaceful one. You got lost in Geralt's eyes, admiring the yellow glow that was much softer now, though just as captivating. The candlelight reflected in them in a special way, highlighting their unique beauty. You could stare at them for hours if it weren't for the tiredness that was slowly beginning to take hold of you. 

You didn't realize you had closed your eyes until you felt Geralt move beside you. You stopped feeling the weight of his body on the bed, so you opened your eyes immediately. Your hand flew to his arm, fingers closing around his wrist. "Please don't go," you begged as you saw that he had sat up in bed. "I want you to stay with me tonight."

Geralt smiled, the corners of his lip curving slightly upward as he reached out with his free arm to grab the blanket that had been left forgotten at the foot of the bed. His eyes lowered to your hand and his expression turned hard as he noticed the ligature marks on your skin. He hated to know the horrible treatment that someone as delicate and beautiful as you had to go through at the hands of those bandits. Even though he had rescued you before something even worse happened to you, as he looked at the marks on your wrists he feared he had not been quick enough.

Noticing the change in his expression, your eyes followed Geralt's gaze with curiosity. You felt embarrassed when you realized what he was looking at with such intensity and released his grip on his arm, seeking to hide your injured wrist. But he didn't let you. Geralt intertwined his fingers with yours and brought your hand to his lips. His eyes didn't break contact with you as he scattered delicate kisses over the irritated area of your wrist, showing you that you had nothing to be ashamed of with him.

"I'm not going anywhere if you don't want me to, my princess. I'm here to serve you tonight." Geralt said as he lay down next to you once again, covering you both with the blanket.

You took advantage of his words and his desire to please you by curling up against him, resting your head on his chest. Geralt wrapped his strong arms around you, pulling you even tighter against his body as he let his fingers trace invisible patterns on your skin. It was extremely relaxing, his gentle touch and the warmth of his body enveloping you was exactly what your tired mind needed to rest. All the fear, the terrifying memories of your attackers and the feeling of danger completely disappeared as he held you in his arms. 

"Good, because I feel safer when I'm in your arms." You mumbled as you closed your eyes, feeling sleep slowly overcome you.

It was hard to say goodbye to Geralt when the time came for him to leave. He had only stayed at the castle for a couple of days at your father's insistence, but that had been more than enough for you to grow fond of him. He was not a very talkative person, but that only made your conversations more interesting. He was intriguing, a closed book that only opened with the pronunciation of the right words. You had fun unraveling some of his history, hearing about his adventures and the monsters he had faced. He was definitely the most interesting man you had ever met - far more interesting and noble than most of the men who were competing for your hand in marriage. And now you had to see him go.

You always knew that your days were numbered, that Geralt would eventually leave and you would have to go back to reality. You thought you could do it, enjoy his company and the illusion of freedom you had created with him and then say goodbye as if nothing happened, but you would be lying if you said you weren't a little sad about his departure. Especially because you didn't know if you would ever see him again. Maybe on your wedding day, if you invited Jaskier to play at the festivities he would bring him as security again. Or perhaps, if the kingdom was haunted by some evil creature he would find his way back to you. But nothing was certain and that made you feel quite sad.

"I guess this is our goodbye." You watched Geralt settle his horse's saddle, tucking away his swords and clutching his bag as he prepared to leave. You tried to hide the grimace of sadness that wanted to form on your face, but the disappointment in your voice betrayed you. "I'll never see you again, will I?"

Geralt stopped what he was doing to look you in the eyes. You could have sworn you saw a glint of sadness in the golden fire of his irises, though it disappeared as he blinked. "It'll probably be a while, yeah." He sighed. "But nothing is set in stone. Maybe the search for a job will bring me back down these roads."

You smiled. Even moments before he left, he was still making an effort to make you feel good. "I'd like that." You took a couple of steps closer to him, taking his hand in yours to feel his skin against yours one last time. "The gates of this castle will always be open to you, Geralt of Rivia. And as long as I am alive, you will always find safe passage through these lands."

"Thank you, your highness. It is an honor." He bowed slightly even though he knew it was not necessary. Formalities had been forgotten between you since your night together. Then, he took your hand and brought it to his mouth. His lips caressed your skin gently, planting a soft kiss of farewell. "Until we meet again."

You held back the urge you had to taste the flavor of his lips one last time, knowing that there were too many eyes around you that would deem such behavior inappropriate. And perhaps they were right, after all, a respectable maiden like you, in search of a husband to marry and rule with, could not be seen kissing anybody. You knew you would probably regret it for the rest of your life —especially if Geralt never stopped by again—, but it was the right thing to do. Your days of freedom were over, now you had to resume your responsibilities as a princess and that meant holding back the urge you had to run after Geralt, get on his horse and let him take you wherever he wanted. So you just watched him leave, seeing how his figure became smaller and smaller on the horizon while you wished with all your soul that fate would cross your path again.

Rhaenyra Targaryen Masterlist

One-Shots:

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Headcanons:

Their Love Language

How They Mark You Headcanons

Hotd characters x Sick!Reader

House of the Dragon characters with a s/o that hates Targaryens

Fake scenarios weren't enough, so now I'm reality shifting. 🧍‍♀️💀🙈

the feminine urge to keep inventing fake scenarios to be with my comfort characters as i make up yet another story line with thought out dynamics and plot twists

— A STUDENT’S GUIDE TO HOGWARTS CLASSES

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

FOR EVERY CLASS . always sit where you can see (or avoid) the professor’s mood swings. bring a spare quill, and for Merlin’s sake, read all instructions on the board

★⋆. ASTRONOMY

DEALING WITH PROFESSOR SINESTRA . she’s chill if you stay quiet. don’t interrupt her passionate stargazing rants, or she’ll assign extra homework on constellations literally no one’s ever heard of

HOMEWORK . star charts and essays on planetary motion. tedious but straightforward—accuracy is everything.

TIPS TO EXCEL . memorize constellations and learn how to cast Lumos just dim enough so that you don’t blind everyone during late-night pitch black lessons

EXTRA CREDIT . spot and track a rare celestial event, like a comet. (bonus points if you can pronounce its Latin name to Sinestra without choking)

AVOID MISHAPS . never mix up Mars and Mercury on your chart—you’ll be doomed in astronomy and divination

★⋆. CARE OF MAGICAL CREATURES

DEALING WITH PROFESSOR HAGRID . show genuine interest in his creatures, even if they look like they could eat you (because they definitely could)

HOMEWORK . research magical creature habits and write about their care. watch out—he loves long essays (he can basically make students write books about his favorite subject for him)

TIPS TO EXCEL . always wear dragonhide gloves and boots that cover your ankles. treat the creatures and Hagrid with respect—he’ll notice

EXTRA CREDIT . help feed or clean up after the creatures during your free periods or after class. it’s messy, but he appreciates it immeasurably

AVOID MISHAPS . never, ever call a Blast-Ended Skrewt “gross” within his earshot

★⋆. CHARMS

DEALING WITH PROFESSOR FLITWICK . he’s sweet but sharp. pay attention, or you’ll be called on mid-yawn to demonstrate something tricky.

HOMEWORK . practice spells at home. if your wandwork looks like you’re conducting a dance recital, you’re doing it wrong.

TIPS TO EXCEL . focus on precise wand movements and pronunciation—no “swish and flick” means no charm

EXTRA CREDIT . perform an original charm in class and explain how you invented it (hint: slap a name on something flashy, and ramble about how Flitwick’s class gave you the “tools to do it”)

AVOID MISHAPS . don’t use charms on your classmates (no matter how obnoxious they are) unless you want detention for “unsanctioned spellcasting”

★⋆. DEFENSE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS

DEALING WITH THE PROFESSOR . varies wildly year to year. if they’re twitchy, don’t ask questions. if they’re confident, challenge them slightly—they love it

HOMEWORK . spell practice, theoretical essays on defensive strategies, and (sometimes) practical exams.

TIPS TO EXCEL . master shield charms early—Protego is your bread and butter. always watch your back in “surprise” practical tests (the surprise could be a curse aimed at your back)

EXTRA CREDIT . propose new defense tactics for obscure threats like Lethifolds or hinkypunks, it shows interest in the less ‘cool’ aspects of the dark arts

AVOID MISHAPS . don’t hex yourself in class while demonstrating a jinx. you won’t get in trouble. but it’s embarrassing.

★⋆. DIVINATION

DEALING WITH PROFESSOR TRELAWNEY . just nod and act fascinated. she’s happier when you look like you believe her

HOMEWORK . dream journals, tea-leaf sketches, and guesses at what the stars are “telling” you.

TIPS TO EXCEL . make up dramatic predictions that sound poetic. extra marks for impending doom towards a classmate

EXTRA CREDIT . spot a “true vision” (or just pretend you did). a fainting act doesn’t hurt

AVOID MISHAPS . never laugh at her predictions, even if they sound ridiculous—she’ll doom you for life (and you never know what fate holds)

★⋆. HERBOLOGY

DEALING WITH PROFESSOR SPROUT . show some love for plants, and she’ll adore you. don’t sass her or underestimate how dangerous some herbs are

HOMEWORK . care guides for magical plants, essays on uses for their parts, and detailed sketches

TIPS TO EXCEL . be gentle with the plants, even the ones with attitudes. also, if you’re prone to daydreaming, please keep a note of which vines bite

EXTRA CREDIT . cultivate a rare magical plant and present its uses in class (good luck)

AVOID MISHAPS . always wear gloves when handling anything spiky, slimy, or screaming

★⋆. HISTORY OF MAGIC

DEALING WITH PROFESSOR BINS . he doesn’t even care if you’re awake, but it helps if you look like you’re taking notes

HOMEWORK . endless essays on goblin rebellions, giant wars, and other events you’ll most definitely forget by next term

TIPS TO EXCEL . use mnemonic devices to remember key dates. start essays early—he grades on length

EXTRA CREDIT . find obscure historical details to add to essays. mentioning “primary sources” makes you look smart, and Binns doesn’t typically look into it further

AVOID MISHAPS . don’t doodle in your notes too obviously—he might drone on even more if he catches you

★⋆. POTIONS

DEALING WITH PROFESSOR SNAPE . know your ingredients and don’t speak unless spoken to. follow his instructions perfectly and try to look invisible. or he’ll eviscerate you

HOMEWORK . brewing practice and essays on potion theory. if you mess up the potion, he’ll expect twice the length in your essay

TIPS TO EXCEL . re-chop your ingredients before class, and try to do other prep work. Snape hates inefficiency

EXTRA CREDIT . create a new potion under his supervision. (warning: he will make you test it.)

AVOID MISHAPS . don’t ever blame Snape or his instructions if something explodes. just accept it and clean up quietly

★⋆. TRANSFIGURATION

DEALING WITH PROFESSOR MCGONAGALL . she’s strict but fair. do your work well, and she’ll respect you; slack off, and she’ll make you wish you hadn’t

HOMEWORK . spell diagrams, written explanations, and frequent wandwork practice

TIPS TO EXCEL . precision and focus are key. get creative, but don’t try anything too wild without permission

EXTRA CREDIT . demonstrate a flawless human-to-animal transfiguration (with her approval)

AVOID MISHAPS . never let your transfigured objects escape—chasing a hopping teacup through the halls is not fun, and you’ll never hear the end of it

★⋆. ARITHMANCY

DEALING WITH PROFESSOR VECTOR . she’s sharp and no-nonsense, but she’s got a soft spot for students who genuinely try. don’t show up without your charts; she’ll notice

HOMEWORK . endless numerical equations and analysis of magical patterns. expect to translate runes into numbers and vice versa

TIPS TO EXCEL . understand how numbers relate to magic—this isn’t just math, it’s magic theory in disguise. double-check your work; one wrong digit can tank your entire assignment

EXTRA CREDIT . present a new numerological correlation, like how the number “7” might affect potion brewing. bonus if it’s creative but realistic

AVOID MISHAPS . never guess at a solution—Professor Vector will spot laziness in seconds. keep your workspace neat, or the equations will haunt you

★⋆. ANCIENT RUNES

DEALING WITH PROFESSOR BABBLING . she’s patient and incredibly smart, but don’t come to class unprepared. misreading a rune will make her launch into a lecture about “respecting the symbols.”

HOMEWORK . translate ancient texts, decipher rune sequences, and write essays on magical etymology. sometimes includes carving your own runes for practice.

TIPS TO EXCEL . memorize the rune meanings and their magical properties—flashcards help. pay attention to detail; even a tiny line can change the meaning of a rune

EXTRA CREDIT . create your own rune sequence that produces a magical effect and explain its purpose. creative runework always gets top marks

AVOID MISHAPS . don’t mix up Nordic and Celtic runes—they have very different contexts, and Professor Babbling will lecture you for days

★⋆. MUGGLE STUDIES

DEALING WITH PROFESSOR BURBAGE . she’s enthusiastic and loves students who ask questions, even obvious ones. if you show respect for Muggle ingenuity, you’re golden

HOMEWORK . research papers on Muggle inventions and their impact, as well as practical exercises like identifying Muggle objects

TIPS TO EXCEL . don’t overthink it—Muggles live without magic, but they’re surprisingly clever. show curiosity and avoid using the word “primitive”

EXTRA CREDIT . present a Muggle artifact and explain how it works. bonus points if you demonstrate something functional, like a can opener or a bicycle pump

AVOID MISHAPS . don’t call electricity “the Muggle version of Lumos” unless you want a 10-minute tangent about how they’re completely different

★⋆. FLYING

DEALING WITH MADAM HOOCH . she’s strict but fair; listen to her instructions, and she’ll let you have some fun. mess around, and you’ll be grounded faster than you can say “Quidditch”

HOMEWORK . practicing broom control outside of class and writing essays about famous flyers or the mechanics of flight

TIPS TO EXCEL . focus on balance and broom grip—this isn’t about speed (yet). always stretch before class; cramps mid-air are embarrassing and painful

EXTRA CREDIT . show off advanced flying techniques, like tight turns or broom dives (but only if you’re really confident). bonus for clean landings

AVOID MISHAPS . never try to show off in front of the first-years—wobbling on a loop-the-loop is not a good look. keep your broom maintained; a splintered handle spells disaster.

[ there you have it—follow this guide, and you’ll not only pass these classes with flying colors, but you might even look like you know what you’re doing while you’re at it, and maybe you’ll avoid getting hexed by Snape. we’ll see ]

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

Little Lion Man

summary: Sent on an assignment back to 1943, you encounter a drastically different version of the man you know pairing: bucky x reader warnings: time travel, a charming af 40s!bucky 😉, a sad af present!bucky 😔 a/n: I used the time travel logic from Endgame except fixed points exist. This was also written for @buckysknifecollection​‘s 1k challenge! I had the song prompt of Little Lion Man by Mumford and Sons! Congrats on 1k hun!!

Weep little lion man, You’re not as brave as you were at the start

You found blue eyes lighting up across the crowded courtyard, beaming smile touched on the dirt freckled glow of his face, and it startled you; stilled you right in your tracks and set a stone deep into your chest, made it hard to breathe, because that wasn’t the man you knew.

No—he wore a weightlessness about him, even as he stepped away from the crowd erupting in celebration and shied to the outskirts of the commotion, he was smiling. It wrinkled up by his eyes, left behind dimples in his cheeks, a slight shake of his head as small wisps of hair fell down to his forehead. 

He didn’t seem to be counting each moment of joy on his fingers, calculating how much relief he allowed for himself before the shadows came rushing back in to take it away. He was… happy.

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