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¿Summerhall? Ese mausoleo de aspiraciones quemadas. No me extraña que vuelvas oliendo a ceniza y a desesperación, hermana.─── Con una lentitud calculada, casi coreografiada, Vaelen levantó la mano. No fue un movimiento agresivo, sino uno de una familiaridad intrusiva y asfixiante. Sus dedos largos y pálidos alcanzaron un mechón de cabello plateado que caía sobre el hombro de Aerea. Lo tomó entre el índice y el pulgar, deslizando la yema de los dedos por la seda de su pelo con una suavidad que resultaba más insultante que un bofetón.───Me llamas cuervo...───dijo, observando el mechón con una atención clínica, como si buscara una imperfección en su linaje─── Pero los cuervos son los únicos que anuncian la verdad mientras los demás se ahogan en sus propias mentiras emocionales. Si cuento tus respiraciones, Aerea, es porque alguien tiene que llevar la cuenta de cuánto oxígeno desperdicias en este castillo con tu drama de hermana sufrida. ─── Vaelen retrocedió un solo paso, sacudiéndose los dedos como si el contacto con ella le hubiera dejado un rastro de polvo.───No te acoso por vacío, querida. Te observo porque eres la grieta más fascinante en la estructura de esta familia. Y ahora que el loco ha vuelto, esa grieta se va a ensanchar.

He wanted his nails to lacerate the gown, to reach the paleness and exquisiteness of the skin beneath. Gods, how he had missed seeing the consequences of his own hands upon her…  « When the dreams bit me, Aerea... when they tore at my vitals with no mercy of yours to lick the wound after. »  He sounded like a man possessed, a man made of the very wounds they spoke of. His hand climbed the curve of her spine, disappearing into the silver silk of her hair until fingers locked at the nape of the neck. Aerion held her there, fragile in his grip, yet violent in the passion that pulsed between them. He did not look away, he could not.  «  And even then, I wondered... if I was to die, could I wake within you once more? In your very flesh and blood, your sweat, your bones. Bonded in your very spirit. » He nodded to himself, then, lost in the rhythm of his own ragged words like a mad cunt, for he knew it to be the only truth left for him. He pressed his forehead hard against hers, the friction a grounding ache. « I am going to take you to Starfall, » vowed he did, breathe hitching as if the mere pronunciation of the act brought him to the precipice of release. « And there, I shall make you my sister-wife. » He rubbed his brow against hers, like an animal would. And like he, himself, liked to do. It was a dream he had nursed among the filth and the sellswords, to do what the blood demanded, to embrace the divinity that set them apart. They had exiled him once, let them try a second time. He feared his father’s sour verdict no more than he feared the crown on his uncle's head, a power that seemed mundane had he to compare it with the kingdom forged between her very thighs. He would spill oceans of blood to keep this, to keep them, just to hear her breathe his name. As many times as she pleased. « Bound to me until death. »  No less a toll would serve. 

Aerion felt her breath against his lips, a heat that carried the weight of her words, terms that seemed to seep into the very cracks of his skin. The truth of it was a ruinous pleasure he prized as much as he worshipped. There was no higher confirmation than that which his twin’s lips could engender, and so he let out a sigh, lilac orbs locking onto hers with need. Aerion surged upward from his knees, the movement sudden. He lunged for her mouth in a primitive kiss, the momentum forcing her back and up with him as he abandoned the posture of penance for one of possession. His hands were agile, snaking around her waist to steady her against the suddenness of his rise,  nails digging into the fine silks, fabrics he recognized from Lys, thin and treacherous, the kind he had spent a lifetime tearing away from her skin. The memory made him let out a low purr against the seam of her mouth. That taste was a haunting thing. It never faded, only grew more ravenous with the passing of seasons. So he parted her lips with insistence, his tongue invading the hollow of her mouth like a man who had spent a lifetime exiled from his own dominion. He sought her own, entwining with it, serpent-like, passing all the words he had kept locked in his marrow, words that tasted better in their shared saliva than they ever would spoken aloud. When he pulled back to catch the air, his voice was a rasp of exasperated need, born from the pits of his own madness.   «  I deemed myself a dead man, »  he whispered, his hand sliding from her waist to her hip, thumb hooking over the bone that pressed against the silk, before dragging slowly upward. (+) 

He had prayed she suffered as he did, that the way his veins constricted in the cold hours was a synchronization with her own body, a phantom ache shared across the Narrow Sea. Yet, perhaps it was all but the fruit of his own imagination after all. A fine line separated his nights of fever from reality, and he was closer to an epiphany than he dared admit. the ghosts of dragons he had never known visited his bedside. He could smell the smoke on them, hear the beat of wings and their roars. They whispered to him in their ancient tongue, reminding him that he was their kin, what was left of their divinity in a hollow present. They told him that his skin did not belong to him, that he was trapped in a body that was no more his own than it was Aerea’s. He would wake drenched and restless, reaching out for a comfort that was not there. And it made him miserable, truly, to be unable to take her then, to have her console him in joined bodies and the whispered words he could only ever find between her lips. Without that, the sweat on his body seemed to petrify, hardening into cold scales. When his conviction of divinity had turned into this physical torment, he did not know. Perhaps it was when the days without her became months. Perhaps not. He only knew that the pleasures of the world were no longer enough to mask the hunger. He did not care for the hollow comfort of being a man, he needed her. For he understood now better than ever that a dragon without a bond is a terrible thing, a creature of ruin that devours itself from within. He had returned because only the yoke could stop the flaying of his soul. Of their soul. His palm pressed firmer against the fabric over her belly.   “  And you and I, ”  he whispered only then between their shared breath, his voice visceral. “ still owe a debt. ”

No soy ninguna rata. Y ambos tenemos la misma cantidad de vida, nos lo enseñaron con claridad. ¿Si le prestas atención a los Maestres? 

Solo tengo curiosidad. 

¡Qué asco! 

¿Ella es la madre de Maegor 2.0?❤️

Que descendencia más therian 

His skin scorched under the press of her lips, much as his cheek did now beneath the fineness of her hand. He was not one to be touched, not by any soul, yet   Aerea’s   flesh was all but his very own.     “   Kessa.   ”     His words were a low sigh, weaving through the small groan her thumb drew from his lips. There was a   nakedness   in his confession, the Valyrian word weighing like lead upon his tongue, fueled by the   bile   still churning within. He did not expect the rot to fade soon, if ever. Yet the   touch   of his twin was an exquisite solace, and if he could bleed his sorrow into her, he would. It was   only   fitting.   “   He had the gall to lay a hand upon me, only to plead that I make him bleed in kind.     ”   The   Brightflame   laid his hand over hers, steering her thumb once more into the raw ache of his lip. A   visceral   reminder of the price he’d paid. As the warmth of her skin turned    viscous   with his gore, he sighed, yielding like a   creature   broken. It was then, perhaps, that he was at his most mad, for a   soul   as rot-stricken as his could not suffer such tenderness without corrupting it.   “   It made me   long   to see him dead.  ”    Though I   couldn’t   do it, he thought. Yet he harbored no   desire   to speak of it aloud, for a    dragon   could scarcely lament as a mortal might. 

Greedy, aren't we? You want my words and my blood both, as if one could ever suffice without the other. Tell me, do you truly need me to purr that truth into your mouth until you swallow it and believe? Must I spill it against your lips for it to be real, just as I’ve done so many times before? A tongue as cruel as mine shouldn't grant you peace. It is a fact that transcends. I crave your very insides, my Aerea, a bond no man could describe and no father forbid.  But you know this already. You feel it as deeply as I am within you, and you only ask to hear it to satisfy a whim... Is it not, little dragon? Well then, if the mere sight of me stirs you so, then grant me a name to break in the dirt tomorrow. Give me someone to crush, that I might watch the pleasure bloom across your pretty face as I ruin them for you, just as I long to ruin your body now for provoking my very own.

/ and I would rather see*