#ladyhelonawrites

[ladyhelona]

Updates:

I am alive. I had to go undergo emergency surgery because my gallbladder was secretly plotting for months apparently.

I will be going back home soon as I’m able and plan to start writing again.

[ladyhelona]

Between Dragons (Snippet)

💌Rhaenyra Targaryen x Lady in Waiting!Reader x Daemon Targaryen

💭Mostly SFW(?): Some teasing, sexual tension,

A/N: This was an idea I had and have been sitting on for a while but I honestly really struggled with how to actually write the smut, like how Daemon and Rhaenyra would share you was tripping me up so bad 😭 I was struggling with the characterization of Daemon and Rhaenyra in a threesome with a younger lady they both want who serves Rhaenyra. So anyways, enjoy this snippet. Maybe I’ll finish the smut, maybe I won’t. Who knows.

—

Dragonstone’s halls were never truly quiet, but Rhaenyra’s private solar came close.

You stood behind her chair as she reviewed letters, your fingers gently working through her long silver hair, braiding a small section with practiced care.

It had become one of her favorite rituals — you attending her in the quiet hours, close enough that she could reach back and brush her fingers along your wrist whenever she pleased.

“You’re getting better at that,” Rhaenyra murmured, voice low and amused. She tilted her head slightly, letting you have better access. “Though I think you enjoy making me wait for it.”

Your cheeks warmed.

She always noticed.

“I would never make you wait on purpose, Your Grace,” you replied softly, though the small smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

Rhaenyra hummed, pleased by the heat she could feel beneath her fingertips when she reached back to touch your hand.

“Liar,” she said fondly. “You like it when I notice you.”

The door opened without a knock.

Daemon stepped in, still in his riding leathers, silver hair windswept from Caraxes.

He paused just inside the room, violet eyes flicking from Rhaenyra to you — lingering on the way your hands were in her hair, the way you stood so close, the faint blush on your cheeks.

He didn’t say anything at first.

He simply watched.

Rhaenyra felt the shift in the air immediately.

She knew that look on her husband’s face.

She had seen it many times before — usually directed at something (or someone) he wanted.

This time it was directed at you.

And instead of irritation… something hot and curious uncurled low in her belly.

She imagined it.

You between them.

Your sweet, flustered face.

Daemon’s hands on your hips.

Your soft moans while Rhaenyra kissed you, claiming your mouth while he took the rest.

She liked the image far more than she

expected.

Daemon’s mouth curved into a slow, dangerous smile as he finally spoke.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he said, voice low. “She looks quite comfortable there.”

You froze, fingers stilling in Rhaenyra’s hair.

Your face burned hotter.

Rhaenyra, however, simply leaned back in her chair, one hand reaching up to rest possessively on your wrist.

“She is,” Rhaenyra replied calmly, eyes meeting Daemon’s with a spark of challenge and interest. “My favorite companion.”

Daemon’s gaze drifted over you again — slower this time, appreciative.

“I can see why.”

The air in the room felt suddenly thicker.

Rhaenyra didn’t dismiss him.

She didn’t tell him to leave.

She simply held your wrist a little tighter and let the moment stretch, wondering how long it would take before one of them broke first.

—

The afternoon light in Rhaenyra’s solar was warm and golden, spilling across the long table scattered with letters and maps.

You stood close beside her chair, leaning in slightly as you pointed out a passage in one of the reports, your voice soft and focused.

Rhaenyra wasn’t truly reading the words.

She was watching the way the light caught in your hair, the small furrow of concentration between your brows, the way your sleeve had slipped down your wrist again.

She reached out with two fingers and gently tugged it back into place, letting her touch linger just a moment longer than necessary.

“You always notice the small things,” she said quietly, her voice low and warm, almost thoughtful. “It makes me wonder what else you notice when you look at me.”

You paused, fingers stilling on the parchment.

Heat rose to your cheeks, visible even in the soft light. For a second you looked down, then — almost shyly — your eyes lifted back to hers. A small, tentative smile touched your lips.

You didn’t step away.

Rhaenyra’s own mouth curved, slow and pleased.

She let her fingers trail lightly down your wrist before pulling back, as if the touch had been nothing more than casual.

“Stay close today,” she murmured, turning her attention back to the letter with deliberate calm. “I find the hours pass more pleasantly when you’re near.”

You stayed.

The blush remained on your cheeks, but so did the small smile. You leaned in again to point out another line, your shoulder brushing hers, and this time you didn’t pull back quite so quickly.

Rhaenyra noted every detail.

The way you lingered.

The way you kept looking back at her.

The way you didn’t mind being watched.

She filed it away carefully, a quiet spark of satisfaction settling in her chest.

—

The council chamber was thick with the usual tension of war and uneasy alliances. Maps sprawled across the long table. Voices rose and fell as Lord Celtigar droned on about naval supplies and the latest reports from the Stepstones.

Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, posture regal, listening with sharp attention.

You stood just behind her and to the right — your usual place as her sworn companion and favored lady-in-waiting. Close enough to hand her documents when needed. Close enough that she could reach back and brush her fingers against your wrist if she wished.

Daemon lounged in his seat further down the table, one leg stretched out, looking every bit the rogue prince who found council meetings tedious.

He should have been paying attention to Celtigar.

Instead, his eyes kept finding you.

Again and again.

His gaze moved slowly over you — from the line of your throat down the modest cut of your gown, then back up. It wasn’t blatant enough for anyone else to notice, but you felt it like a physical touch. Heat crept up your neck.

In his fingers, he idly rolled a gold coin. Over and over. The motion was smooth, practiced, almost hypnotic.

He held your gaze as he did it, letting the coin glide across his knuckles, catching the light with every turn. The simple act felt strangely intimate. Sensual. Like a promise of what those fingers could do elsewhere.

Your cheeks burned. You looked away sharply, focusing on the map in front of Rhaenyra as if your life depended on it.

Daemon’s mouth curved into the smallest, most satisfied smirk.

Rhaenyra noticed.

Of course she noticed.

Her head didn’t turn, but her eyes flicked sideways — first to you, catching the flush on your cheeks and the way you refused to look in Daemon’s direction again, then to her husband.

She saw the coin still moving lazily between his fingers.

She saw the way he watched you.

Her expression remained perfectly composed for the council, but her fingers tightened slightly on the arm of her chair.

She didn’t speak.

She simply noted it.

The way you had reacted.

The way Daemon had looked at you.

The way something hot and curious uncurled low in her own stomach at the sight of both.

The meeting continued around them, voices droning on about grain shipments and dragon patrols.

But the real conversation — silent, charged, and full of dangerous possibility — was happening in the glances between the three of you.

—

The fire had burned low in their chambers. Rhaenyra sat in the large chair near the hearth, still in her deep red gown from the day, while Daemon stood by the window, pouring himself a cup of wine.

The silence between them had stretched for several minutes, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was heavy with something unspoken.

Daemon took a slow sip, then turned to face her.

“She blushes every time we look at her too long,” he said, voice low and casual, as if commenting on the weather. “And she doesn’t look away nearly as quickly as she should.”

Rhaenyra’s fingers stilled on the arm of her chair. She didn’t pretend not to know who he meant.

“I’ve noticed,” she replied quietly.

Daemon’s mouth curved, not quite a smirk — something sharper, more knowing.

“I’ve seen the way you watch her when she’s attending you. The way you touch her wrist. The way you keep her close.” He tilted his head. “You want her.”

Rhaenyra didn’t deny it.

Instead she looked at Daemon, watching him closely, “And you do not?”

His mouth curved, “I did not say that.”

“No,” Rhaenyra said, “You spent half the council watching her.”

Daemon, leaning back slightly, “I spent half the council watching both of you.”

“And the coin?”

He was amused, “That worked better than I expected.”

Rhaenyra’s mouth curved slightly as she remembered your reaction— the way you had turned your gaze from Daemon sharply, cheeks flushed, “You were flirting.”

“Blatantly.”

And then it was quiet.

“She’s young,” she said after a moment.

“Sweet. Soft in a way most people at court have forgotten how to be. Highborn. She has a future ahead of her — one that will likely include a husband and children. We cannot simply… take that from her because we find her pleasing.”

Daemon set his cup down and crossed the room toward her. He stopped beside her chair, one hand resting on the back of it as he looked down at her.

“We are Targaryens,” he said, voice steady. “We do not ask permission to take what we want. We are the blood of the dragon. And you…” His fingers brushed lightly over her shoulder. “You are the Queen.”

Rhaenyra let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh — short and a little incredulous.

“And how do you suppose we approach her, Daemon?” she asked, turning to look up at him. “Walk up to her one day and ask if she would like to join us in our bed?”

Daemon didn’t laugh. He simply held her gaze, calm and unashamed.

“I think she already wants more than she realizes,” he said. “The rest… we can find out.”

Rhaenyra was quiet for a long moment, staring into the fire again. Her fingers tapped once against the arm of the chair.

She didn’t say no.

She didn’t say yes either.

But the fact that she was still sitting there, considering it, spoke volumes.

Daemon reached down and gently took her hand, bringing it to his lips.

“We don’t have to decide tonight,” he murmured against her knuckles. “But pretending we both don’t want her would be a waste of time. And I’ve never been very good at denying myself what I want.”

Rhaenyra’s thumb brushed over the back of his hand.

She still didn’t answer.

—

[ladyhelona]

Alicent Hightower Masterlist 🏰💚

💚 The Queen's Beloved - Read Here

Alicent Hightower x Highborn!Reader -> MDNI: Significant age gap (reader is 20, alicent is 33-35), smut, darker alicent, possesive vibes, and more. You were meant for Dragonstone. Alicent decides otherwise.

[ladyhelona]

The Queen’s Beloved 

💌 Alicent Hightower x Highborn!Reader

💭MDNI: Significant age gap (Reader is 20 and Alicent is 33-35), power imbalance, darker Alicent, reader was originally betrothed to Jacaerys Velaryon, but Alicent wanted you to herself, slightly manipulative Alicent, fingering, semi-public-ish (no one walks in

A/N: I need Alicent in ways that are concerning.

— 

The Red Keep still smelled of death.

Viserys had been gone less than a fortnight, and already the corridors felt different — heavier, sharper, as though the stones themselves knew the realm was about to split in two.

You had arrived only days earlier, a highborn daughter of a noble house sent as a political offering. 

The betrothal to Jacaerys Velaryon had been arranged quickly, a desperate attempt to bind old wounds and new ambitions. You were young — barely twenty — and you carried yourself with the quiet poise expected of someone who understood her place in this game.

You were not meant to be noticed.

And yet Alicent noticed.

She had seen you before, of course. A polite curtsy in the halls. A soft voice offering wine during a tense council meeting. Nothing more. You were simply one more lady moving through the shadows of the court.

But tonight, in the small private solar where she had retreated after another exhausting day of letters and accusations, something shifted.

You entered quietly to deliver a message from the maester, as you had been asked to do. 

The room was dim, lit only by a few candles and the low fire. Alicent sat at the table, quill in hand, shoulders tight beneath the heavy green of her gown.

You curtsied, voice soft and respectful.

“The maester sends word that Prince Aegon’s wound is healing cleanly, Your Grace.”

Alicent looked up.

And for the first time, she really looked.

You stood there in the firelight — young, composed, the betrothal ring on your finger catching the light like a taunt. The girl promised to the boy whose very existence threatened everything Alicent had sacrificed for. 

The girl who would one day stand beside Rhaenyra’s bastard and help legitimize the very claim that could destroy her sons.

Alicent’s grip tightened on the quill.

She should have felt only resentment.

Instead, something darker, quieter, more dangerous stirred low in her belly.

You were beautiful in that soft, untouched way that made her chest ache. Young enough to still believe in duty. Old enough to understand what it cost. 

And you looked at her with such careful, genuine respect that it made her want to ruin it.

To ruin you.

The thought shocked her so badly that she had to look away, fingers pressing hard into the edge of the table.

No.

This was wrong.

You were promised to Jace. You were barely more than a girl. You were on the wrong side of this war, even if you had not chosen it. 

And she — a married woman, a mother, a queen who had spent her life trying to be good — had no right to look at you like this.

Alicent forced her voice to remain even.

“Thank you. You may go.”

You bowed your head, polite and obedient, and turned to leave.

But as you reached the door, Alicent spoke again, almost against her will.

“Wait.”

You stopped.

She rose slowly from her chair, the green velvet of her gown whispering against the stone. She crossed the room until she stood only a few feet from you, close enough to see the faint flush on your cheeks, the way your throat moved when you swallowed.

Her eyes traced the line of your neck, the delicate gold chain resting against your collarbone, the way the firelight caught in your hair.

She hated how much she wanted to touch you.

“You are to marry Jacaerys,” she said, voice quiet, almost conversational. “A fine match.”

You nodded, eyes lowered. “As the Queen commands.”

Alicent’s jaw tightened.

She stepped closer. Close enough to smell the faint lavender on your skin. Close enough to see the nervous flutter of your pulse at your throat.

“Do you want it?” she asked, so softly it was almost a whisper.

You looked up then, startled.

Alicent’s gaze held yours. There was no warmth in it now. Only hunger, carefully leashed, and a terrible, aching curiosity.

“Do you want him?” she repeated, voice lower. “Or are you simply doing what you have been told?”

The question lands like a stone in still water.

Alicent knew she should send you away and pray until the wanting left her. She knew this was madness.

But she did not send you away.

And for the first time in years, the pious, dutiful Queen Alicent Hightower let herself desire something she knew she should not.

You are caught off guard. Your eyes widen slightly, and for a moment you forget the careful courtly mask you have worn since arriving. The room feels smaller, the firelight too warm against your skin.

You swallow once, then answer with careful honesty, voice quiet but steady.

“I am doing what is right for my house,” you say. “This is duty. My father arranged the match, and I accepted it as any daughter in my position would. Jacaerys seems… kind. The alliance is important. It is what is expected of me.”

You do not look away from her, even though her gaze feels like it could burn through you. 

There is no defiance in your tone — only the quiet resignation of someone who has always understood the shape of her life.

Alicent stares at you.

For a long moment she says nothing at all. Her fingers remain tight on the edge of the table, knuckles pale. 

Something flickers across her face — recognition, sharp and painful, like looking into a mirror she did not want to see.

She sees herself in you.

The young woman bound by duty. The girl handed over for the sake of alliance and power. The way you speak of “what is expected” with that same careful, resigned acceptance she once had when she was led to Viserys’s bed at barely older than you are now.

It makes her chest ache.

It also makes the wanting worse.

Because you are older than she was when she married Viserys, yes — but you are still so young. Still soft in ways she had already lost by your age. Still carrying the weight of a house’s expectations on your shoulders the way she once did.

And yet here you stand, betrothed to the boy who could destroy everything Alicent has fought for, and all she can think about is how much she wants to pull you closer. To ruin the careful duty written into your future. To make you hers instead.

The thought horrifies her.

It also thrills her in a way that makes her feel sick with guilt.

She steps closer, slow and deliberate, until she is only an arm’s length away. Her voice is quiet, almost gentle, but there is an edge beneath it — something darker, more possessive than she wants to admit.

“Duty,” she echoes, tasting the word like it leaves something bitter on her tongue. “How well I know that word.”

Her eyes drop briefly to the betrothal ring on your finger, then rise again to your face.

“You speak it so calmly,” she murmurs. “As though it does not cost you anything.”

She does not touch you.

But the way she looks at you — like she is already imagining what you would look like if she took that ring off your finger herself — was dangerous.

—

The seamstresses had turned your chambers into a sea of silk and lace.

Bolts of cream and gold and deep Targaryen red lay draped across every surface. Pins glinted in the afternoon light streaming through the windows. 

You stood in the center of it all wearing only a thin chemise, the fabric so fine it clung to your body like mist. 

Your hair had been partially undone for the fitting, falling in soft waves over one shoulder. 

Your jewelry had been set aside — the heavy betrothal ring from House Velaryon resting on a small velvet cushion nearby, glinting mockingly in the light.

You felt exposed.

Not naked, but stripped of every layer of armor the court usually demanded.

The seamstresses moved around you with practiced efficiency, pinning and tucking and murmuring measurements, but you were acutely aware of every inch of skin on display.

The door opened without a knock.

Alicent stepped inside.

She was dressed in her usual deep green, the Dowager Queen’s attire still impeccable even in private. She carried herself with the same poised grace she always did, offering a small, polite smile to the seamstresses.

“I thought I might offer my opinion,” she said smoothly. “A wedding gown is no small thing.”

The room suddenly felt much smaller.

Alicent’s eyes moved over you slowly.

She told herself it was only natural. She was here to advise on the gown. To ensure the match with Jacaerys was presented properly. 

To do her duty as the Dowager Queen.

But her gaze lingered.

It traced the thin straps of your chemise, the way the fabric clung to the swell of your breasts, the faint outline of your nipples visible beneath the sheer material. It followed the dip of your waist, the curve of your hips, the long line of your legs. 

She imagined — against her will — what it would feel like to run her hands over that skin. 

To feel the warmth of you. To press her palms to the softness of your stomach and pull you close.

The thoughts were immediate and vivid and utterly shameful.

She was a widow. A mother. A queen who had spent her life trying to be righteous.

And you were betrothed to the boy whose claim threatened everything she had sacrificed for.

She should not be looking at you like this.

She should not be imagining sliding her fingers beneath that thin chemise. 

She should not be thinking about how young you were, how soft you looked, how much she wanted to ruin the careful future that had been arranged for you.

Alicent’s throat tightened.

She forced her voice to remain even, almost cool.

“The red would suit you,” she said, stepping closer. “It is a strong color. Fitting for a future queen.”

Her eyes flicked down again, unable to help themselves, tracing the way the chemise clung to your body as you shifted slightly under her gaze.

You noticed.

Heat flooded your cheeks, warm and sudden. 

Your pulse quickened. 

You should have felt embarrassed. You should have felt exposed, perhaps even offended by the intensity of the Dowager Queen’s stare.

Instead, a secret, treacherous part of you liked it.

The attention felt different from the polite, appraising glances you received from others at court. This was heavier. Hungrier. Like she was seeing more than just a future bride being fitted for her wedding gown.

You kept your voice soft and careful, almost casual, as you glanced down at the red silk being pinned around you.

“The red does suit me, Your Grace,” you said, a little flustered, the words coming out quieter than you intended. “Though I wonder… if it will suit the occasion as well as you think.”

It was a perfectly proper thing to say.

But the way you said it — the slight catch in your voice, the way your eyes flicked up to meet hers for just a heartbeat before dropping again — carried something else. 

A subtle, unspoken acknowledgment. 

A quiet admission that you had noticed the way she was looking at you.

And that you did not entirely mind.

Alicent’s fingers tightened on the back of the chair she stood behind. Her expression remained carefully neutral, but you saw the way her throat moved when she swallowed. 

The way her gaze darkened just a fraction more.

She knew.

And for a moment, the air felt thicker, the distance between you charged with something neither of you could name out loud.

— 

A few days later, a servant found you in the gardens.

“The Dowager Queen requests your presence in her solar, my lady. She wishes to discuss final arrangements for the wedding.”

You nodded, a polite smile already forming on your lips. 

Your stomach still fluttered whenever you remembered the wedding gown fitting — the way Alicent’s gaze had lingered, the heat that had flooded your cheeks, the secret thrill you had felt under her attention. But you pushed the memory down. 

This was nothing scandalous. Just another meeting about fabrics, dates, and political optics. Nothing more.

You arrived at her solar with your usual composure, the betrothal ring heavy on your finger.

The door was already ajar.

You stepped inside.

Alicent stood near the window, the late afternoon light casting long shadows across the room. She was dressed in deep green velvet, elegant as always, but something was different.

The seven-pointed star — the one she had worn every day for as long as you had known her — was gone.

No necklace. No brooch. No symbol of the Faith that had guided her every decision for years.

She turned when she heard you enter. Her expression was calm, almost serene, but her eyes were darker than usual, focused on you with a quiet intensity that made your pulse quicken.

“Close the door,” she said softly.

You did.

The click of the latch sounded louder than it should have.

Alicent stepped away from the window, moving toward the center of the room with slow, deliberate grace. There were no seamstresses this time. No scribes. No witnesses.

Just the two of you.

“The wedding arrangements,” she began, voice smooth and measured, as if this were any other conversation. “I thought we might discuss them in private. There are… details that require discretion.”

She stopped a few feet from you, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of her perfume — rose and myrrh. 

Her gaze moved over you slowly, taking in the way your gown hugged your figure, the slight flush still lingering on your cheeks from the memory of the last time you had been alone with her.

You tried to keep your voice steady.

“Of course, Your Grace. I am here to serve in any way you require.”

Alicent’s lips curved into the smallest, faintest smile.

“Serve,” she echoed, tasting the word. “How dutiful you are.”

She took one more step closer.

Her eyes flicked down to the betrothal ring on your finger, then back up to your face. The smile faded, replaced by something darker, hungrier.

“I have been thinking about you,” she said quietly. “More than I should.”

The air in the room seemed to thicken.

You felt the trap closing around you, but you still didn’t fully understand it. Not yet.

Alicent reached out and lightly brushed a strand of hair from your shoulder, her fingers lingering just a moment too long against your skin.

“Tell me,” she murmured, voice low and velvet-soft, “does Jacaerys make you feel wanted? Or does he simply make you feel… useful?”

Her eyes held yours, dark and unblinking, waiting for your answer.

You feel flustered by her closeness, by the intensity of her gaze.

Alicent is only a few feet away, but it feels like she is already inside your space. Her eyes hold yours with a quiet, unrelenting focus that makes your pulse thunder in your ears. 

You try to answer her question, the words coming out softer and more uncertain than you intend.

“He is… kind,” you manage. “The match is advantageous for my house. I am doing what is expected of me. I do not expect—”

Your voice falters.

Alicent steps closer.

She notices everything — the way your cheeks flush deeper, the faint tremble in your hands, the way you cannot quite hold her stare. 

A dark, quiet satisfaction flickers behind her eyes. 

She likes this. 

She likes the effect she has on you. 

She is older, steadier—a queen who has already survived the kind of duty you are only beginning to understand.

She reaches out and gently brushes her fingers along your jaw, tilting your face up so you have no choice but to meet her eyes again.

“You are trembling, sweet girl,” she murmurs, voice low and velvet-soft. The endearment lands like a caress and a command all at once — affectionate, intimate, and quietly possessive.

Your breath catches. Heat floods your entire body. The words undo you more than you want to admit.

Alicent’s thumb strokes once along your cheek, slow and deliberate. 

Her gaze drops to your lips for a heartbeat before returning to your eyes. The darker part of her — the part that has spent weeks fighting this want — is quietly satisfied by how easily you come apart under her attention.

She leans in closer, her voice dropping even lower.

“Does he make you tremble like this?” she asks, almost conversationally.

Her other hand rises, bolder now, and rests lightly at your waist, fingers pressing just enough to feel the warmth of you through your gown. 

She does not pull you against her. 

She simply holds you there, close enough that you can feel the heat of her body, close enough that her thumb can continue its slow, maddening stroke along your jaw.

She is watching you with the same focused intensity she once reserved for prayer.

Only now the hunger is no longer hidden.

Alicent’s fingers stay at your waist, warm and steady, but her touch grows bolder. Her other hand slides up your side, palm pressing against the fabric of your gown, tracing the curve of your ribs before cupping the side of your breast with quiet intent. 

The touch is deliberate, possessive in its gentleness, and it makes your breath catch sharply.

“Look at me,” she says, voice low and even.

You do.

Your eyes lift to hers, cheeks burning with heat. You are flustered, tongue-tied, unable to form a single coherent reply to her earlier question. Your pulse is loud in your ears.

Alicent’s gaze darkens at the sight of you — flushed, nervous, and so visibly affected by her. 

She leans in slowly, nose brushing along the line of your jaw, her breath warm against your skin. 

Then she presses a soft, lingering kiss just beneath your ear, lips warm and deliberate.

“Sweet girl…” she murmurs against your skin, the endearment soft, almost reverent, but laced with something darker.

Heat floods through you so intensely it makes you dizzy. Your knees feel weak. 

The sound that escapes you is completely involuntary — a soft, shaky exhale that borders on a whimper.

Alicent hears it.

She delights in it.

You feel the small, quiet curve of her lips against your neck, the way her fingers tighten just slightly at your waist. She is pleased — deeply, quietly pleased — by how easily you come apart under her touch.

Then she kisses you.

It is not frantic.

It is deep. Certain. Like something she has denied herself for weeks and is finally, deliberately, taking.

Her mouth claims yours with slow, consuming intent. Her hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, holding you there as she kisses you like she has been thinking about this moment every night since the fitting. 

There is no hesitation left in her now — only hunger, long-suppressed and finally allowed to surface.

You are startled by the kiss.

For half a heartbeat you freeze, lips parting in surprise. Your hands hover uncertainly at her shoulders, not quite sure where to settle. But then the warmth of her mouth, the steady press of her body against yours, the way she holds you like she has no intention of letting go — it undoes you.

You melt into the kiss carefully, hesitantly at first, then with growing need. Your hands slide up to her shoulders, then into her hair, holding on as you kiss her back. 

The kiss deepens, slow and intense, your tongues brushing as you lean into her.

Alicent makes a quiet sound of satisfaction against your mouth, her hand at your waist pulling you closer, her fingers threading gently into your hair as she kisses you like she has been starving for this exact surrender.

She is not letting you go.

—

Alicent pulls back from the kiss just enough to look at you. Her breathing is unsteady, her eyes dark with a hunger she no longer tries to hide. 

She sees how flustered you are — cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes wide and overwhelmed — and something in her expression softens with quiet satisfaction.

She takes your hand.

Without a word, she leads you across the solar to the cushioned chaise near the window. The late afternoon light filters through the narrow windows, casting long, golden beams across the room. 

She sits first, then gently but firmly pulls you into her lap, guiding your knees to either side of her thighs so you are straddling her.

You settle there, flustered and a little overwhelmed, your hands resting uncertainly on her shoulders, The position feels intimate, vulnerable. 

Alicent’s hands settle at your waist, holding you steady. She looks up at you for a long moment, as if committing the sight of you like this to memory. 

Then she leans in and kisses your neck — slow, open-mouthed kisses that savor the warmth of your skin, the way you shiver under her mouth. 

She lingers there, lips brushing, tasting, feeling the rapid flutter of your pulse.

You tremble in her lap, overwhelmed by the deliberate slowness of her touch, by the way she seems to be savoring every reaction you give her.

Her hands move with quiet intent.

She reaches for the laces of your gown, loosening them one by one with deliberate care. The fabric parts easily under her fingers. 

She tugs it down your shoulders, slowly, almost reverently, until the gown slips down your arms and pools around your waist, baring your chest and stomach to her gaze.

Alicent exhales shakily.

Her eyes move over you with open, aching wonder — taking in every inch of newly revealed skin, the curve of your breasts, the flush that spreads across your chest. 

Her hands slide up your sides, warm and steady, cupping your breasts with trembling care. 

She leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to the center of your chest, then another, and another — slow, open-mouthed kisses that trail across your skin as if she is trying to memorize the taste of you.

You are still flustered, still a little overwhelmed, but you do not pull away.

Alicent’s hands slide up your sides with quiet intent, cupping your breasts more firmly now. Her thumbs brush over your nipples in slow, deliberate strokes, feeling them tighten under her touch. 

She watches your face the entire time, eyes dark with a hunger she no longer tries to hide. The way you shiver, the way your breath catches, the way you lean into her touch without meaning to — it thrills her.

She has you right where she wants you.

Young. Flustered. Trembling in her lap with your gown bunched around your waist, chest bare and flushed under her hands. 

It is wrong.

It is intoxicating.

Alicent leans in and kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, her mouth moving against yours with quiet possession. You lean into the kiss, wanting her back, your hands sliding up to rest on her shoulders as you return it with flustered, eager need. 

Your body trembles slightly against hers, but you press closer, chasing the warmth of her mouth, the firmness of her hands on your breasts.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes heavy-lidded. One of her hands leaves your breast and moves to your left hand. Her fingers find the betrothal ring on your finger — the heavy gold band that marks you as Jacaerys Velaryon’s intended. 

She slides it off slowly, deliberately, and sets it aside on the small table beside the chaise without a word.

The ring clinks softly against the wood.

Alicent’s gaze returns to yours, dark and satisfied. She cups your breast again, thumb brushing over your nipple with more purpose, watching the way you shiver and arch into her touch.

“You look so lovely like this,” she murmurs, voice low and velvet-soft. 

Her other hand slides down your back, pulling you closer as she kisses you once more — deep, slow, and full of quiet control. She is in no rush. She has you here, bare and wanting in her arms, and she intends to savor every second of it.

You are still flustered, still trembling slightly, but you lean into her, hands clutching her shoulders, mouth moving against hers with needy, overwhelmed desire.

Alicent smiles against your lips — small, dark, and quietly pleased.

She kisses you again — slow, deep, and unhurried — while her palms slide down your sides, over the bunched fabric of your gown at your hips. 

She gathers the silk in her fingers and pushes it higher, up your thighs, until the gown is bunched around your waist. Her hands find the soft, bare skin there, stroking with quiet reverence, feeling the warmth and the faint tremble beneath her touch. 

She wants every inch of you, and for the first time, she allows herself the greed of it.

She takes her time, palms smoothing over your thighs, thumbs tracing the sensitive inner skin as if she is memorizing the feel of you.

You lean into the kisses, needy and overwhelmed, your mouth moving against hers with flustered eagerness. Your hands clutch at her shoulders, then slide into her hair, holding on as her touch sends heat flooding through you.

Alicent’s fingers tighten on your thighs when she feels you press closer. She pulls back from the kiss just enough to look at you, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. Her gaze flicks briefly to the small table where she had set the betrothal ring aside.

You follow her eyes.

The ring sits there, heavy and gleaming, no longer on your finger. 

“You took it off…” you whisper, voice soft and flustered, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

Alicent’s gaze returns to yours. She does not look guilty. She looks calm. Controlled. Certain.

“Yes,” she says simply.

No explanation. No apology. Just that single, quiet word — steady and final.

Then she leans in again.

Her mouth finds your breast, lips brushing the soft swell before she takes your nipple into her mouth and sucks gently. The sensation is warm, wet, and overwhelming. 

A soft, involuntary moan escapes you, your back arching as pleasure sparks through your body. One of your hands immediately reaches for her, fingers threading into her hair, gripping tightly to ground yourself. 

But you lean into it — into her mouth, into her touch — hips shifting restlessly in her lap as you press closer.

Alicent makes a low, satisfied sound against your skin. Her hand stays on your thigh, holding you steady, while the other cups your other breast, thumb brushing over the nipple in slow, deliberate strokes. 

She sucks gently, then firmer, tongue circling with focused care, like she is learning exactly what makes you tremble and moan for her.

You rock against her.

Your hips move in small, needy circles in her lap, pressing closer, seeking more of her touch. The friction is not enough and too much all at once. Your hands clutch at her shoulders, steadying yourself as soft, flustered sounds escape you.

Alicent’s breath catches.

She feels the heat of you, the way you press against her so openly, so greedily. 

It delights her in a dark, quiet way. 

You are untouched in the ways that matter, betrothed to the boy who could destroy everything she has built. And here you are — trembling in her lap, rocking against her like you cannot help yourself.

She is going to be the first to touch you like this.

The thought sends a thrill through her that she knows she should not feel.

Her hand slides lower, pushing your gown further up your thighs until it is bunched high around your hips. Her fingers brush the thin linen shift, feeling the damp heat of you through the fabric. The evidence of your arousal makes her exhale shakily, eyes 

darkening with want.

She wants to ruin you.

She knows it is wrong. You are younger than her. You are promised to another. But the desire is stronger now. It overshadows the guilt, even if it does not erase it.

You exhale, voice shaky and flustered.

“This is wrong…”

Alicent pauses.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, her hand still resting high on your thigh, fingers brushing the edge of your shift. Her thumb strokes your cheek gently, almost tenderly.

“Yes,” she says simply.

The word is quiet. Honest. Controlled.

She holds your gaze for a long beat, letting the truth of it settle between you.

Then, softer, almost gentle:

“Do you want me to stop?”

You shake your head, the movement small and shaky.

“…Please don’t,” you whisper, voice trembling with need and embarrassment and everything you cannot name.

Then you lean in and kiss her.

It is not graceful. It is desperate, a little clumsy, full of the same flustered want that has been building since she first looked at you like this. Your hands slide up to her shoulders, holding on as your mouth moves against hers with quiet urgency.

Alicent makes a low, broken sound against your lips.

The words — soft, shaky — seem to undo something in her. Her hand slides higher beneath your bunched gown, fingers finding the edge of your thin shift. She pulls it aside with deliberate care, baring you completely to her touch.

The first brush of her fingertips against your bare heat makes you gasp into her mouth. 

You are wet, slick with arousal, and Alicent exhales shakily as she feels it. Her fingers glide through your folds, slow and gentle at first, exploring you with reverent care.

She takes her time.

Her touch is soft, almost tentative, as she rubs slow circles over your clit. She watches your face the entire time, eyes dark and intense, cataloguing every flutter of your lashes, every hitch in your breath. When your eyes flutter shut and a soft, needy sound escapes you, Alicent’s breath catches.

She leans in and kisses you again, slower this time, as her fingers continue their gentle exploration — soft rubs, careful circles, learning exactly what makes your hips twitch and your thighs tremble.

She pauses at your entrance, thumb still stroking soft circles over your clit, as if giving you one last chance to change your mind.

You don’t.

She pushes one finger into you — carefully, slowly, letting you feel every inch as she sinks inside. The stretch is gentle but undeniable. 

Your eyes flutter shut, a soft, shaky moan slipping from your lips as your walls clench instinctively around her.

Alicent watches you.

Her gaze is dark, intense, drinking in every detail — the flush spreading across your cheeks and down your neck, the way your lashes tremble, the parted lips and the soft, involuntary sound you make. 

She feels the way you tighten around her finger, warm and wet and so responsive, and something possessive curls low in her stomach.

She is the first to touch you like this.

The thought thrills her in a way that should horrify her. You are young. You are promised to another. You are the very symbol of everything she is supposed to hate. 

And yet here you are — trembling in her lap, clenching around her finger, letting her ruin you with nothing but her hand and her quiet, overwhelming want.

Alicent leans in and kisses your neck, slow and open-mouthed, tasting the warmth of your skin as her finger begins to move inside you — gentle, exploratory strokes that curl carefully, searching for what makes you gasp and shudder.

You tilt your head back without thinking, giving her more room, quietly seeking more of her mouth, more of her touch. Your hands clutch at her shoulders, breath coming in soft, needy pants against her hair.

She feels it.

The way you open for her. The way you lean into her. The way you let her take this piece of you that no one else has had.

Her finger curls again, slow and deliberate, and she presses a lingering kiss to the pulse point beneath your ear, feeling the rapid flutter of your heartbeat against her lips.

Alicent’s finger moves inside you with slow, deliberate care, curling gently to find the spot that makes your breath hitch. You rock against her hand, soft and needy, hips rolling in small, instinctive circles as you seek more of her touch.

She watches you closely, eyes dark and intent, savoring every reaction — the way your lashes flutter, the way your lips part on a shaky exhale, the way your body trembles against hers. She is quietly delighted by how responsive you are, by how openly you want her.

Then, carefully, she adds a second finger.

The stretch is slow and full. You moan a little louder, the sound breathy and unguarded as your walls flutter around her. Your hips rock more firmly against her hand, chasing the deeper fullness, the perfect pressure of her fingers inside you. 

You cling to her tighter, one hand fisted in the fabric of her gown at her shoulder, the other gripping her wrist where her hand disappears beneath your bunched gown.

Alicent’s breath catches at the sight of you.

She curls her fingers again — gentle but precise — stroking that spot inside you that makes your whole body jolt with pleasure. 

Your head falls back against her shoulder, and you whimper her name, soft and broken, “Alicent…” 

The sound is needy, almost pleading, and it seems to affect her deeply. Her arm tightens around your waist, holding you closer as she continues to move her fingers with focused, deliberate care.

A hungry part of her enjoys this immensely. 

She is the one unraveling you, feeling every flutter and clench around her fingers, every desperate roll of your hips, every soft, needy sound you make for her. She savors it all — the way you cling to her, the way you moan her name, the way your body opens for her so willingly.

She can feel how close you are.

The way your walls flutter and tighten around her fingers, the way your hips lose their rhythm, the way your breath comes in short, desperate pants against her neck.

She does not speed up.

She simply keeps moving — curling, stroking, giving you exactly what you need — while she holds you close, lips brushing your temple, letting you fall apart in her arms.

Your moans grow more desperate, breathy and broken.

“Alicent…” The name leaves your lips in another needy whines as the pleasure coils tighter, sharper, almost unbearable. Your hips rock against her hand with increasing urgency, chasing every curl of her fingers, every stroke that makes your thighs tremble. 

You cling to her harder, face buried in the curve of her neck, soft, helpless sounds spilling from you with every breath.

Alicent holds you through it, her arm tight around your waist, her fingers never slowing. 

She watches every reaction — the way your eyes flutter, the way your body tenses and shakes, the way you whimper her name like it is the only word you remember.

When you come, it crashes over you hard.

You cling to her with everything you have, a sharp, broken cry of her name muffled against her skin as your walls clench tightly around her fingers. 

Your hips stutter and roll, chasing every last wave of pleasure while she works you through it, slow and steady, drawing it out until you are trembling and gasping in her arms.

Her fingers are soaked with you.

Some dark, possessive part of her finds great satisfaction in that — in the evidence of how completely you fell apart for her, how openly you wanted her. She does not pull away immediately. She keeps her fingers inside you, gentle now, letting you ride out the final tremors while she holds you close.

You stay pressed against her, breath coming in soft, panting gasps as you slowly come down. Your body is limp and warm in her lap, still trembling faintly.

Alicent presses a soft kiss to your forehead, her lips lingering there.

“Sweet girl,” she murmurs, the endearment quiet and warm against your skin.

She glances briefly toward the small table where the betrothal ring now sits, heavy and discarded. Her expression does not change, but something satisfied and possessive flickers in her eyes.

Then she tilts your chin up with two fingers, searching your face with that dark, steady gaze.

“I do not think I shall let you go to Dragonstone.” she says, voice low and certain.

You shake your head, still a little out of breath, voice soft and shaky.

“I do not think that I could go anymore.” 

Alicent smiles then — small, pleased, and quietly selfish.

She has decided.

[ladyhelona]

House of The Dragon Masterlist 🐉 🔥

Each character has their own masterlist for organization!

Rhaenyra Targaryen

Alicent Hightower

Daemon Targaryen

Aegon Targaryen

Aemond Targaryen

Jacaerys Velaryon

More to come!

[ladyhelona]

Talk with Helona:

I am taking a break.

Not a “going away forever,” just a short break. I’ve been writing for a long time, changing and adding fandoms, and I’ve had the time of my life.

But I’m also really tired. And I’m struggling with a lot of writer’s block.

For the record, I have tried to sit down and write some stuff, and…. crickets. Which I think is fair with the output I’ve had! I think I’m well owed some time to rest and recover so the content I do post meets the The Lady Helona Standards of Quality™️

I did notice some comments on other posts asking if I would stop writing for Harry Potter and the short answer is: No. I will continue writing for it when my break ends.

I am entering my GOT/HOTD obsession era (yes Aemond Targaryen has me in a chokehold) but my Harry Potter content won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

Do I have any idea when my break will end? Well… No, not exactly. I’ll still be reblogging content and responding to comments, and I may open up my inbox again so we can have a nice little chat, but requests will probably stay closed for the while.

I love and appreciate all of you <3

- Helona

[ladyhelona]

Love Bites 

💌 Harry Potter x Vampire!Reader 

💭MDNI: Short Drabble, Harry loves when you bite and drink from him, dry humping/lazy grinding, Harry loving neck attention (??? idk what to call it??), reader is the same age as Harry and also in Hogwarts

A/N: Inspired by me watching rewatching vampire diaries! Have a similarly styled Tom one that I also just started. Also after checking the HP wiki on vampires, I followed TVD rules for this since there’s not a lot of info on vampires in the HP universe other than “they hate garlic and also maybe live longer the wizards and drink blood.” 

— 

“You’d let me?” You ask quietly, nose brushing Harry’s jaw. Your breath is warm against the skin of his neck. Harry can feel it— the careful drag of your fangs against the delicate skin. Teasing, light. 

Harry’s pupils are blown wide as he watches you, fingers digging into your hips as he carefully grinds into you. 

You suck in a sharp breath when he grinds right against your clothed cunt. Your hips roll against him, chasing the friction. 

“Want you to,” Harry begs softly, “Please?” 

His hands never let go of you, instead they pull you down harder against him, keeping you flush to him. 

You’re not one to say no to Harry Potter. Especially not when you can hear the way his heart beats like he needs this. Not when he looks up at you like that.

“I’ll be gentle,” you murmur against his pulse point, peppering his skin with soft kisses before you make your move. 

His hips buck under you, far too needy. Harry’s head tips back, giving you room against his neck. 

Fangs pierce into the delicate skin of his neck as gently as you can, trying to make it not hurt. 

The soft gasp leaves Harry immediately, from pain or pleasure— you’re not sure. 

It takes every ounce of your being to remain restrained. This is Harry— your Harry. He’s being so sweet for you, and he tastes even sweeter. 

But you can’t hurt him. 

Even though you itch for greedy gulps of his blood, you take small, careful sips. Ears listening to each beat of his heart, making sure he’s alright. 

He groans—soft, melting into you. Hips rutting up into you in needy grinds. 

And then— 

“You’re holding back,” Harry whispers, eyes closed. He sounds disappointed—like he wanted all of you and you’re barely giving him anything. 

You pause, and pull carefully back—licking the spot where you bite him soothingly, placing a kiss there. 

Your lips are stained red—though neither of you mind. 

“Harry, I have to hold back,” you warn, tone still soft. Always soft. “I’m drinking your blood. Holding back is the difference between… affectionate love bites with small sips and potentially killing you.” 

He looks up at you, eyes blown and fingers still holding onto your hips like his life depends on it. 

“Don’t be careful with me,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I’m not made of glass.”

His fingers tighten on you as he nudges his throat into your mouth, like he can’t stand the distance.

Your fangs ache, just a little at the temptation. 

“You’ll let me know if it hurts?” You ask, quiet, a hand resting on his shoulder as you kiss the spot on his neck where you bit him. 

“Course I will,” Harry breathes, pulling you closer. 

You inhale shakily, fangs pierce his skin a second time. 

You take greedier gulps this time… and it’s euphoric. 

No one has tasted quite as delicious as he does. 

His blood rushes into your mouth—warm and sweet. Harry shifts under you, fingers digging into your hips as he ruts up into you helplessly, friction right here you need it most makes you stutter against his neck. 

He’s enjoying this. Immensely. 

It’s evident in the way he’s so hard beneath you, fingers gripping you tight so he can rock up against you at that perfect angle. The way he groans softly every time your tongue brushes against the bite mark. 

The front of his pants are soaked with your slick and his own arousal, it makes the friction more electrifying. 

Harry’s head is fully dipped back, neck bared to you as you continue to drink from him—indulgent and yet careful. 

His breathing gets shallower—uneven as the pleasure in his body continues to build. It’s coiled tight in his abdomen. His head feels delightfully light. 

Your hips move down against his own in controlled movements, but Harry’s getting sloppy—needy little ruts right against your sweet cunt. 

He breathes out a soft groan when you trail a hand over his abs, feeling him hot under your touch—it’s overwhelming and yet not enough. 

His hands trail down from your hips, grabbing your ass to help you move against him just how he likes. 

“S’good,” he breathes, eyes fluttering shut. 

You pull your fangs back just to keep kissing and gently sucking on the area where you bit him—determined to leave him with a trail of hickeys. 

He can feel every pulse in his throat, each one sending a jolt down his spine—it makes it hard to think about anything else but you. 

You overwhelm him so beautifully. 

“So good for me,” you murmur against his skin, kissing his jaw. You drag your fangs across his skin just to make him tremble. 

Harry buried his head into your shoulder, muffling the pathetic whine that escapes him when you kiss that sensitive spot where his pulse hammers. 

“So pretty when you can’t think straight,” you murmur, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, mouth hovering just above his.“You don’t even realize what you do to me.”

And then you kiss him. 

Your mouth slots over his so perfectly, and Harry doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

His hands move from your ass and roam your sides— unsure where to settle. Soft groans escape him every time you grind down onto him at that perfect angle. 

His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest so there’s no distance. Harry keeps rocking up into you, sloppier now, he’s close— you can feel it.

Your hand trails over the ridge of his abs downwards, and you can feel his hips stutter at the touch. 

“Fuck love,” he mutters against your lips, panting, “Don’t do that.” 

You pull back just barely, and he whines—immediately chasing your lips. 

“Didn’t say stop kissing me,” he whines against your lips, hips still chasing yours, greedy for every bit of you he can take. His hands move to cup your face, “Don’t stop kissing me.” 

He kisses you like you’re the air he’s breathing, hot and needy with no desire to let you go. 

One hand tangles in his hair and tugs—just the way he likes, and he groans against your lips, cock twitching in his pants. 

Your lips trail down, back to his jaw, kissing all those sensitive spots along his neck that make him stutter. 

Every part of him burns, his skin is hot where your lips and fingers trail. 

Harry’s eyes are squeezed shut—it’s too much and yet not enough. 

You kiss under just under his ear—and his hips stutter. 

“Sensitive,” you murmur against his skin, kissing the area again while tugging on his hair. 

Harry feels it bubble up in his lower abdomen—coiled tight and hot in his veins. 

“Please, I-,” Harry opens his mouth, tries to warn you that he’s finish right in his pants but the only coherent sound that comes out is a broken cry of your name. 

His hips jerk upward, slamming into you as his hands scramble to find something to hold on to—Harry grips your hips tight enough to bruise. 

He pulls you impossibly closer, face buried in your shoulder to muffle his moans as the pleasure overtakes him. He twitches in his pants, hips moving on their own accord as it all comes crashing down. 

Harry chases his high, even when his movements get tired and lazy until his hips finally still against yours. 

It’s quiet for a moment— you can hear the sound of his pounding heart start to calm down, his breathing starting to even out. 

“M’sorry,” he murmurs into the skin of your shoulder, fingers gently rubbing where he gripped you too tight. 

He briefly glances down between your bodies, the sticky mess he made evident. Heat rushes to his face, and he’s quick to look away. 

“M’sorry about that too,” he mumbles, shifting awkwardly beneath you. 

“I thought it was hot,” you admit with a coy smile, a hand rubbing his back soothingly. 

He looks up at you, lips kiss swollen and cheeks flushed, utterly flustered, “…What?” 

You shush him, kissing his cheek, then the spot you bit.  Soothing and sweet. 

“I’m just saying…” you say softly, voice full of adoration, “You were… perfect. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” 

Harry nods, still a little breathless against you. 

You touch the bite mark on his neck again, touch lingering.

“It’s hard,” you begin to confess. “Not to keep you all to myself. I don’t want to share you with the world.” 

You grab your wand, a whispered Terego cleans the sticky mess between your bodies. 

Shifting carefully into a more cuddly friendly position, you grab the blanket and pull it over you both. 

“I love you, Harry,” you say while looking at him, thumb stroking his cheek. “I love selfishly. I don’t think I could ever stop.” 

“I like it,” he admits after a second. “Knowing you want me like that.”

Like he finally gets to be someone’s first choice.

You smile, pulling the blanket up a little more. You’re both clean (thanks to magic), and the world can wait. 

[ladyhelona]

Hey girl I absolutely ADORE your writing it’s the best part of my day 😝 Anyways could you do a Rarryxreader threesome? It could kinda give challengers vibes possibly? Not anything specific just wanna read smth abt my mans. Thank youuuu xx

HOLD UP.

You mean like Ron and Harry sharing you basically????

Oh.

Now THAT could be interesting.