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chloe-petrichors · 2 months ago

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seething, blooming // jace x reader

your father has always been something of an opportunist, but trying to marry you off to the blacks while he courts the greens? this is taking playing the game to a whole new level.

the rose discovers she is an instrument of war. —victor hugo.

fandom; house of the dragon pairing; jacaerys velaryon x f!tyrell!reader (no use of y/n) warnings; canon au (set after aegon takes the crown but before luke's death bc luke will never die in my eyes), altered timeline (jace and reader are in their 20s), arranged marriage, mention parental death/death in childbed (reader's mother), love at first sight vibes, jace is a flirtatious little shit with his betrothed, tooth rotting fluff, love confessions. word count; 6k+ notes; one day i might write for another man. but that day is not today. jace velaryon u have my heart. i'm not majorly pleased w this fic but it's given me enough trouble and it's as good as it's gonna get! this was longer originally, and was meant to be a bit more political at first hence the blurb/quote choice, but i haaated some of the scenes so ended up scrapping 'em. she's not as long as predicted as a result but still an ok length i think. some of the scenes i scrapped were tragically the smut ones, so have this fairly pg one-shot with the promise of the smut-shot sitting in my drafts coming ur way soon. fair warning that the scrapping of scenes has fudged with the pacing a bit but honestly i can't take this fic sitting in my drafts any longer so here u go!! i have a taglist now, mostly cos eldrith keeps telling me i have to tag her in everything, so lmk if you'd like to be added to it! requests; are open !

the rising sun paints highgarden in shades of pink and gold.

you stand upon your balcony, finger curled loosely over the pale marble as you stare distantly out over the rolling green fields and blooming gardens. the faint bubbling of the river mander in the distance adds to the peaceful morning, the early wash of sunlight coaxing the sleeping world into life. a cool breeze carries the sweet smell of roses and you take a steadying breath, eyes fluttering shut as you tilt your face up to the sun.

it's a morning that starts like many others. you’ve always risen from bed early, the slow blooming of morning stirring you from slumber more often than not. birds chirp and bees buzz and the river flows and you rise with it, like part of you calls to the breaking dawn.

if not for the thick sheaf of parchment discarded on your father’s desk, it could be a morning like any other. but the parchment is there, and this day will be like no other before it.

today, a dragon is expected at highgarden.

a targaryen has not stepped foot in the reach since before you were born. you don’t think even the princess rhaenyra – queen, now, according to some – had come this far on her marriage tour years ago. but your father has taken it upon himself to invite a prince to your home.

you love your father deeply, but in this you think he must be a fool. as lord paramount of the reach he is, in theory, the power of this kingdom. but anyone with a lick of sense knows that it’s the hightowers that the people look to; oldtown is home to the starry sept, the citadel and, perhaps more importantly, the dowager queen’s family line.

the tyrells have only been in power for a few generations, and people’s memories are long. too many know the truth of how house tyrell had been only a steward when the gardener kings had ruled before the conquest. and so too many see tyrell as a house grasping for power that should be beyond their fingers, and your father is apparently determined to prove them all right.

he’s been careful about his neutrality as war threatens to break out between the targaryen kin, brother and sister both claiming their right to the throne and the realm splitting down the middle. your father has not officially allied with either side, walking a careful tightrope to appease both. up until now you had assumed he sided more with the greens, but he’d sent your assumptions crumbling with only a few sheets of parchment.

your father has always been too ambitious for his own good.

gods, how you miss your mother. when she’d been alive, she’d tempered the worst of your father’s foolishness. she’d been a stark before she’d married, steadfast and sensible in the face of your father’s folly. she’d been a woman unlike any other you’ve known; ferocious and a little wild, but with a good heart and a warm smile for any she’d met.

she’d taught you how to be a lady, but so much more than that – she’d taught you to know your own mind. to know when to mind your tongue and when to speak, how to grow your roots so deep you will always stand tall, flourishing and growing like the most determined of flowers. she’d taught you a little of that northern ice, too, reminding you oft that for as much as you were a rose of highgarden you were equally a wolf of the north, and the wolf’s blood has always run thick in your veins.

she’d called you her little winter rose; delicate and steely and a rare bloom, indeed. she had loved you so fiercely you’d flourished with her tender care, just as the patch of winter roses she’d brought from the glass gardens of winterfell had bloomed ‘neath her careful ministrations. a piece of the north she’d brought south with her, a tiny bit of her home that she’d cradled and cared for until the day you’d lost her to the birthing bed.

your little brother is nearing six, now, and many moons have passed since the sudden grief of your mother had overwhelmed you. but, in recent days you have ached with her loss more often, wondering what she would think of your father’s plans, what she would say to soothe your storm of anxiety. with your looming marriage you find yourself missing your mother acutely, the grief a reopened wound in your chest.

because you are a betrothed woman, now, to be married to a stranger, a prince who is sure to be fighting a war against his kin in the moons to come.

the velaryon prince arrives on dragon back as the sun reaches its peak in the sky.

he dismounts his winged steed in an empty stretch of land a distance from the keep itself, and your father greets him there with a host of staff to accompany him back to the entrance courtyard.

your brother leo bounces in place beside you where you stand with the rest of the household in the courtyard, fairly vibrating with energy at the prospect of seeing a real-life dragon. since the news of the prince’s arrival was announced a sennight ago, leo has done little else but babble about dragons and magic and targaryens. you wish you could share his excitement, his sheer uncomplicated joy, but this visit comes with too many conflicting emotions for you to enjoy it at all.

you’ve always known you would not marry for love. you are the eldest child and only daughter of the lord of the reach – love has never been a factor you could afford to consider. you would do your duty and marry for your house, to seal whatever alliance your father deemed important enough. you’d resigned yourself to this fate as a young girl when your mother had told you in slow, halting words the fear she had felt coming south to marry your father.

but you’d not expected to marry a total stranger. you’d thought your father would at least do you the courtesy of allowing you to meet a suitor before betrothing you to them, but in his feverish ambition to sit his blood on the iron throne he’d promised you to a man you’ve never laid eyes upon.

you don’t want to be queen.

frankly, you think yourself a touch unsuited for it. your father has many times bemoaned your wildness, the wolfs blood that drives you to stubborn recklessness. though you’ve mellowed a little with age and experience, you think you’re still a bit too prone to chaos to be queen of the seven kingdoms one day. never mind the complexities added by the fact that queen rhaenyra’s claim is so fiercely contested, and her half-brother is the one currently physically sitting the iron throne.

thinking about the mess you’re marrying into too much makes your head ache, and the blazing noon sun does little to ease it. leo beside you continues to whisper rapidly about everything he knows about dragons, which is actually quite a lot considering his young age. you think absently you might need to have a word with the maester’s again; leo has wrapped most of the household around his finger, and the elderly maester is prone to indulging your brother when he fixates on a new topic of interest instead of sticking to his lessons.

the sound of hooves on cobble stones startles you from your meandering thoughts, and you straighten your spine as your eyes take in the unfamiliar man riding into the courtyard beside your father while your brother finally falls silent.

he’s handsome, at least; a tumble of dark curls brushing his shoulders, a sharp jaw and a strong nose. though you like to think yourself more than superficial, it eases at least some of your worries to know the prince is attractive to you. your mother had done you the courtesy of explaining what was expected of you on your wedding night after your first moons blood, and in secret since you’d perused the library for books detailing more lustful acts in an effort to satiate your unending curiosity.

you’re worried enough about completing your wifely duties without having to worry about finding the man lying with you repulsive, and so you allow yourself a few moments of relief at his pretty face.

your father dismounts first, gesturing for you to step forward as the prince gets down from his own horse. leo moves forward with you, eyes wide and shining with something akin to hero worship as he gazes at jacaerys. you have a wry thought that perhaps he should marry him since he is so clearly already enamoured, but you brush that aside as your father and the prince approach.

“i am most pleased to introduce my daughter, your grace, as well as my son and heir, leo,” your father says as they reach you, his satisfaction in his successful planning clear as he smiles smugly.

you dip into a perfect curtsey as leo bows a touch clumsily at your side. as heir it would traditionally be leo’s job to greet the prince, but when you send him a sidelong glance you see he is too busy making moon eyes at the darkhaired man to say anything, and so you take it upon yourself to speak.

“welcome to highgarden, my prince. we are honoured to host you,” you greet, finally meeting jacaerys’s eyes. they’re a warm amber shade, the noon sun turning them to liquid honey as he looks at you, and you feel your cheeks flush with the appreciation you can see in his gaze as he drinks you in. it seems he does not find you repulsive either, at least.

he sketches a quick bow, eyes never leaving yours, and you feel your heart start to race in your chest at his attention. “it is an honour to be here, my lady, and to finally make your acquaintance.” he smiles at you then, small and a little crooked but there, and your flush deepens. “i look forward to getting to know you better in the coming days.”

you swallow, hoping your budding attraction is not as obvious as you fear it is. your father is looking increasingly smug as he watches the interaction, though it seems to war with some paternal annoyance as jacaerys lightly flirts with you.

“and i you,” you return softly, a smile quirking on your lips.

“—can i meet your dragon?” leo bursts out, seemingly unable to contain himself any longer, and jacaerys blinks down at him in surprise as you resist the urge to press your palm to your face.

“leo,” you scold immediately as your father chortles at his heir’s enthusiasm for dragons. “the prince has had a long journey. you should give him a chance to settle in before demanding anything of him.”

“right you are, my dear.” your father waves to the household steward before turning to the prince. “alyn will show you to your rooms, your grace, so that you might freshen up, and then we have a feast prepared for this evening to welcome you to highgarden.”

jacaerys nods easily as the greeting crowd begins to disperse, the maester corralling leo to take him for his lessons with fond exasperation even as the boy loudly protests. you mean to go walk the gardens, and so you stay standing in place as the prince trails after your father and steward alyn.

he pauses beside you, though, a slight smile on his face as you look up at him questioningly. your eyes catch on the smattering of freckles on his face, and it takes a moment for you to process his words. “i look forward to speaking to you further at the feast, my lady.”

you smile back at him, cheeks flushing once again as his eyes linger on your mouth for a breathless moment. “i shall save you a dance, my prince,” you return a touch coyly, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“only one dance?” he teases, eyebrow arching.

you hum, head tilting to the side in mock consideration as something like satisfaction gleams in jacaerys’s eyes. “i shall have to use the first dance to judge your dancing skills, your grace, before i risk promising you another.”

he laughs then, a little surprised but no doubt pleased as his eyes crinkle with his wide smile. “then i shall do my best to meet your standards, my lady.” he dips into a quick bow of farewell, then, as you finally take note of your father lingering on the steps to the keep with raised eyebrows.

“we shall see,” you return as you curtsey.

you allow yourself a moment to watch his retreating back, eyes dragging over the strong line of his shoulders before you internally shake yourself and head to the gardens, thoughts swimming with honey brown eyes and tanned, freckled skin and a slow dawning certainty that while this betrothal may be unexpected, you doubt it will leave you unsatisfied.

the feast is in full swing by the time the prince arrives at the hall.

the minstrels are playing a jaunty tune as couples twirl on the dance floor. you sit at the head table with leo and your father, watching with a careful eye as your brother cuts up his food. he’s only just mastered the art of eating his food without spilling half if it down his doublet, but as distracted as he is by the festivities and the prospect of seeing a dragon close up, you worry he’s at risk of making a mess of himself regardless.

so absorbed in your task you are, it takes a long moment for you to realise jacaerys has arrived. it’s only when your skin prickles with awareness that you look up from leo and catch sight of the prince winding his way across the floor to the head table, eyes fixed on you. your head tilts to the side slightly as you watch him move, graceful and controlled, through the crowd.

he’s in black and red again, just as he had been when he’d arrived. it seems your father had been right when he’d stated that jacaerys favours his mother’s house colours. you smooth your hand over the skirts of your dress, the deep wine-red of the material feeling less out of place now, before standing with your father to greet the prince.

you all exchange pleasantries quickly as the noise in the hall dims, people realising the prince has arrived. your father ushers jacaerys into the empty seat between you and your father as he raises his goblet to the hall before speaking in his booming voice.

you don’t pay attention to your father’s speech, too aware of the warmth radiating from jacaerys who stands only inches from you to focus. you risk a glance at him from the corner of your eyes only to find his dark honey eyes fixed on you, and you cannot help but smile to yourself even as you flush, turning your eyes back to the crowd.

rousing applause and cheers draw you back to the moment, and you catch yourself in time to raise your wine in toast with your father. you go to sit back down as the crowd returns to its revelries, but the soft brush of a hand on your arm halts your movement. you turn expectingly to the prince, a soft smile on your lips.

“yes, your grace?”

“would you do me the honour of a dance, my lady?”

your lips quirk into a sly smile even as you bob your head in a nod. “i suppose i did promise you one, did i not?”

“that you did, my lady, and i have thought of nothing else since.” dark honey eyes sparkle with mirth as he offers you his hand, and with a quiet giggle you take it and allow him to lead you to the dance floor.

you feel the heat of his hand on your waist like a brand even through the layers of your dress, and it makes your breath catch in your throat. you inhale deeply in an effort to steady yourself as you rest your palm on his strong shoulder, and are immediately overwhelmed by the woodsy scent of him as he claps your hand in his and begins to dance.

you start the dance in comfortable silence, both of you taking a few moments to get a feel for the other and settle into the steps, and when you feel comfortable enough you speak.

“how are you finding highgarden, prince jacaerys?”

“jace, please,” he entreats, and elaborates only when you blink at him in confusion. “my friends and family call me jace, not jacaerys. we are to be married, my lady. it would please me a great deal for my future wife to refer to me as such.”

you nod in acceptance, butterflies erupting in your stomach at his eager expression. “jace it is, then,” you say, and try not to feel the way your heart flutters at his radiant smile in response. “although you have not answered my question. how are you finding highgarden?”

he hums, twirling you as the dance requires and then pulling you closer before responding. “your father has been very hospitable, and it is certainly beautiful here. the grounds especially, though i’m afraid i’ve not had the opportunity to see much of them as yet.”

“a shame we shall have to rectify, i think.” you offer him a small smile as you press just an inch closer, finding yourself wanting to be nearer him. “perhaps i could show you the gardens on the morrow?”

“yes,” he agrees a touch too quickly, and you giggle as his cheeks turn pink. “that is to say— i should like that very much, my lady. very much indeed.”

you lapse into silence once more as the dance reaches its crescendo, and you find yourself reluctant to leave the comfort of his hands as the music pauses while the minstrels ready their next song.

jace seems to share the sentiment, it seems, as his eyes linger on your entwined hands for a long moment before returning to your face. “have i met your standards enough for another dance, then?”

you take a moment to pretend to consider it, eyes narrowing slightly as you hum. he shuffles on his feet as he waits for your response, and you find the nervous motion far too endearing.

“i suppose so,” you concede after a moment, grinning at his smugly pleased smile as he tugs you closer.

“and what about the dance after that?” he asks lightly, something cheeky in his eyes as the music starts up again and he sweeps you along the floor.

“you should not press your luck, jace,” you say imperiously, although the effect is rather ruined by the silly smile on your face as he laughs with you.

jacaerys smirks. “my lady, since meeting you, i have felt nothing but a lucky man.”

you smother a snort, shaking your head at his unrepentant expression. “you are incorrigible.” it comes out a touch exasperated and yet far too fond.

“yes,” the prince agrees readily, a sly twinkle in his eyes. “but i think you rather enjoy it.”

your startled laugh is loud, though thankfully not so loud as to be heard over the minstrels. “perhaps.”

after that, the night is lost to flirtatious banter and dance after dance in your betrothed’s arms as a seed of affection is planted deep in your heart. and when you wake in the morning after dreaming of nothing but jace’s lips and eyes and words, you can think only one thought;

gods, i am in so much trouble.

time passes in a slow trickle of syrupy summer heat.

as the days go by, you find yourself spending more and more time in jace’s company. you’re always chaperoned, of course, a household guard following at a respectful distance wherever the two of you choose to roam. you find the whole thing a touch ridiculous; jace is to be your husband. it’s hardly like spending time together alone would be a significant scandal in light of your impending marriage, but your father insists there will be no doubts about your honour before the marriage actually takes place and so ser dickon is assigned as your reluctant shadow.

the date of the wedding itself remains unset as you and jace start to know one another. your father wishes for the marriage to wait until the war is done – a last-ditch chance to keep his options open, perhaps. Or, if you are feeling generous, a way to try and keep you safe from the greens when war inevitably rages. jace’s mother wishes the marriage to happen as soon as can be arranged – a way to try and ensure further heirs with the uncertainty of war looming, you assume.

you find yourself hoping the queen’s will wins the day as time creeps on. jace becomes ever dearer to you the more you learn about him, and soon you think of your impending marriage with nothing but hope and warm desire.

because oh, how you want him. from the first moment you’d laid eyes upon him you’d been attracted to him, but the more you get to know him, the more your heart opens to him – the more you ache for him. for his mouth on yours, his fingertips on your skin, his voice in your ear. if you were a less reckless woman, a little less shameless, you’d be embarrassed of how easily you think of him in your moments apart.

but late at night when the candles burn low and you are alone in your bed, there is no shame to be found, only the wildness of your wolfs blood and liquid heat as your hand drifts between your legs and you find completion with your betrothed’s name on your lips.

beyond the desire, though, is a slow blooming affection. it feels like every time you learn something new about him or share a new experience together, another petal of tenderness unfurls in your chest. when your father had first told you about your betrothal, you’d not dared to hope for more than civility with your husband-to-be, but now you find yourself harbouring deep fondness on top of steadily burning desire, and you look to your future as his wife with little else but excitement.

you’re not sure if jace feels the same. you don’t doubt he desires you; his flirtation and the weight of his gaze on your form is too frequent a thing for you to think otherwise. but desire is not the same as affection, and though you hope desperately that the way he always seeks your presence whenever he steps into a room means what you want it to mean, you can’t be sure.

after a week passes, you both start to chafe at the relentless presence of ser dickon. it feels like every time you so much as think about inching closer to jacaerys, ser dickon is there with his stern glare of disapproval. and so, when one morning jace suggests taking you to meet his dragon, alone, you are quick to agree.

you leave your guard long behind at jace’s instruction; he doesn’t want vermax crowded with strangers, he explains, but you personally think he seems a little too gleeful at the idea of being alone with you for that to be sole reason behind his insistence ser dickon stays far away. you don’t say anything since you’re equally pleased to finally be spending some time with your betrothed without feeling others curious eyes on you.

your excitement starts to waver, however, as you and jace get closer to his dragon. you’ve only seen vermax from a distance before this, and though it perhaps shouldn’t the size of him startles you. he’s just so large and fierce looking, the sharp spines on his back catching your eye. the beast yawns as you slow to a stop, jace sending you a quick smile before he continues on to greet his dragon with fondness, and the glimpse into vermax’s open maw – gods, there as so many teeth – has your palms starting to sweat.

jace stands beside his dragon, murmuring soothing words in high valyrian that you don’t understand as his hand smooths along his snout. your heart races in your chest, nerves making your hands shake when faced with this great beast. you curse your reckless curiosity, your northern stubbornness that makes it impossible for you to refuse a challenge. you have no idea how jace can look so at ease, the line of his shoulders relaxed and the slightest smile on his face as he talks to his winged steed, but there he stands.

“you can come closer now.” he turns to you, brown eyes shining with excitement and, yes, a hint of challenge.

he expects you to back out, you think, and that realisation has you straightening your spine and pressing your lips together. you twist your fingers in your skirts to hide the way they tremble as you step cautiously forward, eyes darting from jace to vermax and back. when you’re within touching distance of the velaryon prince, he reaches for your hand. the shock of his bare skin against yours arrests you for a moment, the slide of calloused fingers around your wrist startling in how easily it sparks desire in you.

you’re so distracted by the feel of him that you don’t realise until it’s too late that jace has tugged you closer, guiding your hand until it’s pressed to vermax’s scales, and then you’re too busy being surprised by how soft they feel to be annoyed that he’s so easily coaxed you into this position.

you still as the dragon rumbles, swallowing thickly as your fingers twitch against green scales. he blinks lazily at you, an alien intellect gleaming there as he seems to consider you for a long moment, and as you blink back at him some of the fear in your chest shakes loose.

because this is not just some beast, you realise. this is fire and blood and magic made flesh. there is life and intelligence in vermax’s eyes, not one you recognise but one you immediately respect. being this close to the dragon is a heady rush of awe and adrenaline; the knowledge that vermax could so easily harm you at any moment but is choosing not to because he trusts his rider. it’s staggering and wonderful and beside you jace is beaming, eyes shining with happiness at seeing you greet his draconic companion, and you are helplessly, hopelessly, wholly overwhelmed by your affection, your desire, by jace.

you kiss him.

it’s barely a kiss, more a breathless press of your mouth against his, and he startles at the sensation even as his arm loops around your waist. you break apart for the barest moment, nose sliding against his as you tilt your head, and jacaerys sighs out your name with heavy relief before he captures your mouth once more.

you’ve been kissed before, so you know the mechanics of it, but it’s never been like this. his lips move smoothly against yours as his hand flexes on your waist, drawing you closer until your chest is pressed against his. your hand tangles in his hair, fingers twisting in the soft curls and he moans with it, hand dragging up your back to cradle the back of your head tenderly as his tongue sweeps over your lips.

the gentle pressure of it has you gasping and he takes the opportunity immediately, tongue sliding against yours as heat pools in your core. your thoughts tumble wildly, incoherent as you can think of nothing but of how desperately you want more. the taste – the smell – the feel of him is drowning everything out that isn’t jace and you cannot resist it, do not even want to.

you want to kiss him forever, want his hand in your hair and his tongue in your mouth for always. you think he might even let you with how relentless he is, barely giving you a moments pause to catch your breath before consuming you in another desperate kiss.

you finally part only when vermax grumbles, cheeks blazing with heat as you step out of jace’s arms. jace murmurs lowly to his dragon in valyrian, and he nudges his great snout against jace’s shoulder in response before stepping away and curling down into the long grass to sleep. you take the moment to properly catch your breath again, hand pressing to your heaving chest in an effort to soothe your racing heart.

when you peek up at jace from beneath your lashes, you flush deeply at the sight of him. his curls are a mess, his lips swollen and cheeks pink beneath his tan. he looks almost debauched, and it sends a rush of desire through you. you suddenly can think of nothing other than him looking like this only flusher and skin glistening with sweat and in your bed.

the thought startles you into dropping your gaze to your feet, and you shuffle uncertainly. you feel – unsettled. you don’t think there’s anything wrong with sharing a kiss with your betrothed, and yet something like guilt curdles in your stomach as you worry at your bottom lip. you had kissed him. for all that he’d kissed you back, you worry that now he will think differently of you. think worse of you.

a knuckle tucks under your chin, then, lifting your face so that you meet jace’s eyes. you feel small and strangely vulnerable in the aftermath of your kiss, like you have somehow shown him something you never intended to, and the urge to shy away remains. but you are not a winter rose for nothing and so you tuck the doubt away as jace runs his thumb soothingly along the line of your jaw.

“i have been thinking of doing that since the moment you first smiled at me,” he confesses, a hint of shyness in the quirk of his lips even as he stares steadily into your eyes.

“oh.” you blink at him once in surprise, the uneasiness in you finally settling at the fondness in his gaze. “oh. that’s— good.” you curse yourself for your lack of wit in this moment as jace snickers. “i-i mean, i’m glad that it was not… unwelcome.”

your betrothed looks at you with deep affection, then, cupping your cheek and ducking down to press a fleeting, butterfly-soft kiss to your mouth before reluctantly parting from you. “it was most welcome, my lady. most welcome, indeed.” his eyes sparkle with mirth. “i find myself looking forward to the next time you greet vermax, if this is the kind of response such a thing garners.”

“jace!” you narrow your eyes at him in pretend annoyance, even as you smother a giggle with your fingers. “you should not expect me to indulge in such desires again, then, if you persist in being so smug about it.”

his laugh warms you as the two of you fall into easy banter, leaving vermax to his rest and returning to the ever-watchful ser dickon, and all the while all you can think of is how much you cannot wait to kiss him again.

as the air cools with the dying light of day, you lead jace to the gardens.

in the week since your first kiss, jace has oft tugged you into shadowy corners for more kisses any chance he’s had. his desire for you is matched only by your own for him, and as your confidence in your mutual attraction has grown, you have been equally as likely to pull him into a dark alcove to trade sweet words and sweet kisses in secret.

it’s thrilling and exciting and wonderful, but as the week passes you find a growing doubt whispering in the back of your mind.

while you cannot doubt jace desires you, not when he is so relentless in chasing after your smiling mouth, neither of you breathe a word of any feeling between you beyond attraction. perhaps it is reckless of you, foolhardy to fall for him so quickly – but then you are your parent’s daughter, all wolfs blood and deep roots, and you know no other way of being than this.

so you take him to the gardens as the moon rises in the sky, sneak past the night guards and out into the fresh air. you guide him through the blooming flowers and swaying trees, stopping along the while when the fancy takes one of you to stop and examine an interesting bloom or inhale a sweet scent. at least three times he stops you to slot his mouth against yours, to swallow your breathless giggling with feverish kisses, and each time he does it takes longer and longer for you to disentangle yourselves from each other.

eventually, with swollen lips and mussed hair, the two of you reach the winter roses. your effervescent mood becomes sombre as the moon shines on the blue flowers, turning the petals almost silver, and jace seems to recognise the change in atmosphere, a seriousness overtaking him as he watches you approach the flowers.

“my mother planted the first of these roses,” you tell jace as you kneel at the edge of the flowerbed, uncaring of the risk of dirt on your dress as you brush fingers over the pale blue petals tenderly. “winter roses, they are, from the north. from winterfell. she was born a stark, you see, and when she was betrothed to my father the only thing she asked was to be able to bring a few blooms from the glass gardens. she used to call me her little winter rose when i was a child, and she would bring me here and show me how to tend to them.”

jace kneels beside you, glancing at the side of your face before turning to look curiously at the blue flowers. “they’re beautiful,” he tells you sincerely.

“i’ve always thought so, too,” you agree almost absently, stroking the petals in an effort to calm your racing heart. “everyone told my mother she’d never be able to get them to grow so far south. they’re very rare, you see, and need very particular conditions.” your lips quirk up into a fond smile. “but my mother, for all that she became a tyrell, was always a stark at heart. stubborn, you know. and now look at them, thriving.”

you gesture out at the carefully tended rows of roses. “nobody else comes here, now, other than the gardeners and me. i think… i think my father finds it too hard, being here. it makes him miss her too much. so i come here when i need to be alone. or when i wish to be reminded of her. it's the one place in the world where i feel i can be wholly myself, without any pretence or worry.”

jace’s gaze is fixed on you, now, eyes almost black in the faint moonlight as understanding dawns on him. “thank you for bringing me here.”

you nod once, climbing back to your feet, and jace follows you. he watches you so intently, like he’s afraid that you might disappear if he dares to look away. you feel a little like you might, feel tenuous and vulnerable and a breath away from cracking your chest open.

“i’ve never brought anyone else here,” you confess quietly, flexing your fingers with nerves as jace’s lips part in surprise. “i wished… i wished to share this with you. to share who i am, myself, with you, i suppose.” you laugh a little self-deprecatingly. “however pretentious that sounds.”

“it doesn’t,” jace denies immediately. you sense he wants to say more, but he seems to understand that you’re building to saying something yourself, and so he stays quiet, expression earnest and open and fond as he gazes down at you.

“i know it’s perhaps too soon – we have only known each other a few weeks. but i… when i first found out we were betrothed, i was so scared. i worried you would be some arrogant princeling, and i dared not hope for anything more than civility between us. i’ve always known i would not marry for love, but i did not ever consider i would marry a man i had never met.”

you pause for long enough to suck in a breath, feeling a little like the floodgates have opened and you simply can’t stop speaking, can’t stop the feeling pouring freely from you. “and then i met you, and you were so unlike anything i’d expected. i know we still have so much more to learn about each other, and i know that things are— complicated, with the war, and that our marriage may be a ways off yet, but still— i find myself feeling for you, and i cannot hide it anymore. i don’t wish to hide it from you anymore.”

you let the open affection in his face buoy you as you steel yourself, pressing your shoulders back in a mimicry of confidence. “i wanted to show you this part of me, this place, because i….” you hesitate for a breathless moment, biting your lip, before gathering every scrap of courage you possess and diving in headfirst. “i am falling in love with you, jacaerys.”

you inhale the sweet scent of the pale blue petals deeply, let the familiar scent soothe you as jace stares at you with wide eyes. the winter roses are something that, until now, have been so uniquely yours. as you’d told jace, none other than you and the gardeners comes to this corner of the gardens now. the staff that tend so carefully to the flowers know to leave you well enough alone if they stumble across you, skirts splayed on the ground and fingers diligently caring for the roses. you’ve never even brought your sweet little brother, though you can admit that’s for practicality as much as anything else – his childish energy is a bit too boisterous for these delicate blooms.

bringing jace here, bringing him here to confess the deepening affection you harbour for him, feels raw. feels like you’re tearing your heart out of your chest and offering it up to him for perusal, hands bloody and soul bare. feels like saying ‘this is all that i am and all that i have been and all i will ever be and i hope, i hope, i hope it’s enough.’

jace finally, finally speaks, sighs your name, soft and sweet and tender, and hope blooms in your chest.

“oh, my sweet lady,” he murmurs, crowding into your space as he cups your cheek, and the smell of woodsmoke and dragon and jace floods your senses. “i am falling so unbelievably in love with you. only, it does not feel so much like falling as it is like choosing it, like walking into love with you with my eyes wide open and seeing nothing but you.”

it's almost unbearable, the blazing heat of his gaze as he presses his forehead against yours, and it makes you tremble as your hands clutch as his elbows in an effort to ground yourself to this moment, to him. “our betrothal was decided for us without care or consideration for our own desires,” he says, lips brushing against your own with every whispered word. “i know that as well as you, but i need you to know that if i had the choice i would choose this. i would choose you, your stubborn heart, your fierce spirit, your gracious soul.”

his hand slides from your cheek to your hair, holds you so tenderly like you are something precious, and it steals your breath from your lungs as you revel in his unbridled affection. “i care not when we marry, if we marry, in truth, because in my heart you are already mine just as i am already yours.”

he kisses you, then, a desperate and greedy thing, as if he can no longer restrain himself from devouring you whole. and you are just as needy, hands fisting in his doublet as you press yourself against him and somehow finding yourself wishing to be closer still. the world narrows down to him and him only; his mouth, his hands, his hair. you can think of nothing else, and do not wish to, because in this moment you are wholly yourself and he is wholly himself and it’s enough, it’s wonderful and delicate and it’s enough.

and, there beneath the moonlight and amongst the winter roses, deep and enduring affection, the kind of love the bards sing songs about, takes root.

taglist; @eldrith

#jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys targaryen x reader #jace x reader #hotd fanfic #jacaerys velaryon imagine #jacaerys vaaryon fanfic #house of the dragon fanfic #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys targaryen fanfic #jacaerys targaryen imagine #my writing

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loserboysandlithium · 7 months ago

Text

18+ hoes

Just thinking about Eddie cleaning up after a game of dnd. You’re plopped down in his throne watching him collect the pieces, placing them carefully in the box.

You scoot back in the chair, lifting your skirt a little higher as you do just waiting to catch his eye.

You listen as he hums to himself, watching his brown curls bounce as he moves around the large table. He’s so pretty. He always is but especially in this dim lighting, the candlelight flickering in his brown eyes every few seconds. The whole thing an attempt to have a more theatrical atmosphere was quickly turning into setting the mood for the two of you.

You keep your eyes on him, watching his every move. Your eyes land on his hands. Metal rings adorning almost every finger. Fuck, those fingers. The thought of them inside of you makes you throb. Your mind being taken back to last night. His fingers deep in your cunt, the sounds of your slick loud as he fucked into you roughly. “Squeezin’ me so tight, sweetheart.” he groaned, curling his fingers with precision. “More, Eddie. P-please.” you had screamed making him grin as he worked in a fourth finger.

“Baby?” Eddie snaps in your face, shaking you from your little trip down memory lane. Your legs are crossed, thighs clenched together tightly as Eddie’s eyes roam your body slowly.

“Fuck, you look good in there.” he breathes, trailing his fingers down the side of the chair before hovering over you. He leans in, lips meeting your ear, his breath hot against your skin as he kisses it gently.

“My queen.” he hums, his warm lips working lower, long wet kisses down your neck. His calloused fingers work their way up your thigh, his breath hitching as he reaches your pussy.

“You little slut.” he chuckles deeply as he realizes you’ve got nothing on beneath your skirt, dropping to his knees in front of you.

“Mmm.. just for you, dungeon master.” you giggle playfully as he grins up at you.

His eyes darken suddenly as he pushes your skirt up above your hips roughly. “Such a pretty pussy.” Eddie rasps as his arms wrap around your waist, swiftly pulling you toward the edge of the seat.

He starts kissing you again, his lips coming halfway up your thigh, your skin so soft, bruising easily as he nips and sucks. Eddie loves the noises you make as he gets closer and closer to the top of your legs. One of his firm hands squeeze your upper thigh hard, pulling a moan from your lips that makes his cock strain against his jeans.

He lets out a low moan as he sees exactly how wet you are. “Always so ready for me, baby.” He smiles, deciding to tease you even more. He brings one hand up to your pussy, sliding a thick finger down your slit.

"You're so wet, princess. Gonna have to clean you up, yeah?” he teases with a smirk, his finger lightly tracing over your wet lips.

"Please.” you beg as Eddie moves his middle finger between your slick folds, just barely into your dripping hole.

He ignores your plea, removing his finger instead, sliding it up higher until it brushes your clit, making your body shudder.

"Please what, sweet girl? You don’t like the way I touch you?” Eddie taunts, his pretty lips curled into a slick smile.

"I- I do, Eds. But please… please don’t-” your brain can’t focus on the words as his finger continues teasing your sensitive little clit. Not enough to get you there, just enough to drive you crazy. You huff in frustration as you lift your hips, aiming to make contact with his fingers again.

Eddie slaps your pussy roughly making your head fall back into the hard wood of the throne as a sinful moan falls from your lips. “Words, sweetheart. You want me to stop?"

"No, fuck no. Don’t tease me, Eddie. Please. Need you.”

"What do you want me to do to you baby? Tell me."

"Just- fuck Eddie stop being a tease." you whine, looking down at him once again.

He chuckles then, sending vibrations through your core, making you even more wet. "Want me to eat that pussy, baby? Suck on your clit, while I fuck you with my fingers?"

"Yes. Fuck. Please Eddie. Need your fingers. Your mouth. Fuck me." you blurt out, not caring how pathetic you sound.

He licks his lips once, wetting them before he’s spreading your knees farther apart. He kisses your pussy. Small kisses at first. Teasing you further until you grip his chocolate curls, almost yanking them as you press him deeper into you. He picks up his tempo, sloppy wet kisses, moaning into you as he practically makes out with your pretty pussy.

"Oh fuck, j-just like that baby.” you chuckle breathlessly, keeping your eyes on him, finally getting the attention your pussy was aching for.

You bring your ankles around his shoulders, pulling him in even closer as his fingers dig into the plush skin of your ass. His long tongue dips in between your soaked folds, licking a long stripe from your hole back up to your clit. Sliding his tongue all around your pussy, tasting you, exploring every part before landing back on your entrance.

“You’re fucking leaking for me, pretty girl.” Eddie groans, his cock twitching, seeing you so wet for him only making him more feral.

He shoves his tongue in your pussy then, slowly pulling it out, making you gasp as he works it back inside, swirling it all around, coating his tongue with your sweetness.

Your eyes flutter shut uncontrollably as he continues tongue fucking you until you’re squirming around, almost slipping out of the chair causing Eddie’s fingers to cling to your hips, holding you in place. A grip so tight there were sure to be marks left behind.

“Eddie, Eddie please. Want more.” You breathe, a needy moan escaping as his tongue works back up to your clit, two fingers suddenly being pushed inside you, pumping roughly in and out of your tight pussy.

“Yes! Fuck!” you squeal as you take a tighter hold on his brown locks, bucking your hips, practically riding his fingers as he locks onto your clit, sucking roughly. You force your eyes open long enough to see Eddie’s brown ones watching you carefully, his plump lips still wrapped around your puffy clit, his free hand palming his cock through his jeans.

“Y-you look so pretty on your knees for me.” you purr, the unsuspected dominance surprising both you and Eddie, making his eyes roll into his head as his hand continues working in and out, slipping in a third finger as he fucks your drenched pussy with even more eagerness.

“You like that?” you test, your chest rising and falling rapidly as he brings you closer and closer. Eddie nods quickly, your clit still locked between his lips, his brown eyes looking up at you like a lost puppy.

“Feels so good, baby. Don’t fuckin’ stop. Wanna be a good boy and make me cum?” you push even further, Eddie loving every second of it, moaning loudly into your pussy. He pops off your clit, his lips glistening with your arousal.

“Yes. Anything for you. Fuck.” he pants breathlessly, his fingers driving into you at an insane pace, your back arching as you feel your body going higher and higher.

“Good boy. Such a good boy.” you barely manage to choke out before you lose control, your pussy clenching around his fingers, soaking his hand completely.

“Fuck yes. Cum for me, princess. Look so pretty when you cum.” Eddie praises before his face is back between your thighs, his tongue flicking over your clit again, sending even more pleasure throughout your body as you jerk against him, riding out every second of your orgasm.

Eddie slowly removes his fingers, replacing them with his tongue as he cleans you up, your body shivering with every soft lick of his warm tongue.

Your thighs squeeze around his head as he dips his tongue inside one last time, drawing out every bit of your cum that he can.

He stands up kissing you roughly, making you taste yourself all over his tongue before he brings his fingers to your lips, slipping them into your mouth. You meet his eyes as you slowly suck them clean.

“I’m fucking obsessed with you.” Eddie mumbles drunkenly as you swirl your tongue around his fingers. You push him off of you lightly, standing up from the chair before shoving him down in your place. You can see the outline of his hard cock making you bite your lip as you drop to your knees, reaching for his belt buckle.

“Let me show you how obsessed I am with you, Eddie.”

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #Eddie Munson #eddie munson x fem!reader smut #eddie munson blurb

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selineram3421 · 9 months ago

Text

*friend comes up with something*

Royally Pissed

Part 1

Prologue

Alastor X Morningstar Reader

Warnings ⚠

⚠ Italics=thoughts, implied/suggestive *cough* bedroom name ⚠

In all honesty, Alastor didn't know why he did it but it just happened.

He pulled the small blonde out of the way, holding them close to his chest as a large dust cloud came from the now broken chandelier.

Mostly everyone in the room coughed as they tried to clear the dust from themselves.

"Are you hurt?", he asked them, noticing that the top of their head barely reached his chin.

How small.

"I'm fine.", they turned away to cough. "That was a lot of dust.."

Before he could ask for their name again, they were suddenly pulled away by none other than the King, Lucifer.

"ALRIGHT THEN!", he said before pulling them towards Charlie.

Haha!

The blonde slid over to his daughter, bringing along his other child as he began.

Looks like you could use some help

From the big boss of Hell himself

He held Charlie close before pushing her to see him sitting on a throne with fire rising behind it.

Check out daddy's glowing reviews on Yelp

He sang, scrolling on his hellphone to show her the reviews.

(Five star! Flawless! Greater than great!)

Three puppets said one after the other.

Oh, with the punch of a pentagram

A wap-bam-boom! Alakazam!

Alastor rolled his eyes as he watched on, but then he was suddenly pouring wine into a glass.

Who needs a busboy, now that you've got the chef?

The deer demon was pulled by the waist and landed in a pan, ears folded back as he angrily smiled at the King who grinned evily before he was flipped onto his front.

(Wow~)

I'm going to kill him.. Alastor thought before lifting himself up.

You were pulled into song and at the moment, were now sitting at a dinner table with your sister as your father was dressed like a server, hand about to reveal a meal.

Michelin-tasting menu

He lifted up the silver cloche, revealing a a "decapitated" Alastor, then some tentacles with red eyeballs, and finally a cake with him holding Alastor's head.

Free à la catre!

Oook.. You cringed. Dad doesn't like Alastor.

I'll rig the game for you because I'm the ref!

He started focusing more on Charlie and started to make more things appear.

Champagne fountains, caviar mountains, that's just the start~!

And then Alastor jumped in with blacklight, his backgrounds looking vibrant.

Who's been here since day one?

The deer demon pushed your father away, making him spin out of song.

Who's been faithful as a nun?

He was suddenly dressed as a nun, holding his hands in a praying position.

Much like how your father changed his scenes quickly, so did Alastor. You were having some trouble keeping up with it. His appearance looking slightly different with the lighting, his irises now green.

I'm truly honored that we've built such a bond

"Aw.", Charlie smiled.

He was now at the top of the stairs with your sister.

You're like the child that I wish that had

Alastor cupped your sister's face,

"Uh, what?", your dad said shocked.

Then your sister was like a child tucked in bed, literally. Alastor sitting at the edge and patting her head.

I care for you, just like a daughter I spawned

"Hold on now!", your father lifted up a finger.

The deer demon suddenly leaned his elbow on top of your dad's head, smooshing the white top hat.

It's a little funny

He started and pulled your sister to face away from your father.

You could almost call me Dad!

Suddenly you pulled into the song and were spun into a dip, finding Alastor smiling down at you with a seductive gaze.

(You can call me Daddy~), he whisper sang to you.

Your face turned bright red as you let out a squeak.

How adorable~ His smile widened as he saw them hide their blushing red face with their hands.

Now this one was on purpose.

After seeing the immediate reaction Lucifer had with him touching them. Oh, he had to cross multiple lines to see what the man would do next.

They were practically shaking in his hands, no doubt a little overwhelmed with what he had just sang just for their ears alone.

Let's see if I can fluster them more. He thought and raised a hand towards their face.

Suddenly they were ripped out of his hold and it was just the two men on stage.

The King growled, face darkening before he began to angrily play a fiddle, walking up to him with a scowl.

Alastor just smiled, standing up straight with his hands behind his back. Taking a step back as he dropped a piano on the short King before taking a seat on the piano bench, playing it confidently and showing off his skills before cringing at a loud sound.

His piano solo interrupted by an accordion.

Looking behind him, he saw Lusifer holding the instrument above his head with a frown, playing just one long note.

Really? He thought with a raised brow.

The two glared at each other before the spotlights above the two flickered out.

*me and my friend holding back our laughter* We can't laugh! It's 2 am!

~Seline, the person.

Part 2

Taglist@

@ducky-died-inside @scary-noodlesblog @c4rved-pumpk1n @stolas-thebirb @naelys-the-aster @biromanticboba @kiraisastay @pooplyface1423 @lbcreations-blog @gallantys @117s-girl @spiderlegsling @alastorsgoldie @repentant-repeller @kcsketches @lofasofabread @kotaleee @im-coolrat @superzombiewho @speckle-meow-meow @jammcookie @dilucragnvindr-my-beloved @trashbin-nie @valenfawkes @fatherlesschild2 @mmik3yy @just-here-reading @nealeart @hudiexiaoying @crystal-multiplefandomlover @glowinggoldfish0 @tiredgamerhere @fluffy-koalala @+?

Taglist continued in the comments🔪

ML II for Alastor🎙 | RP ChL 👑

#Morningstar Reader #alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor the radio demon #x reader #the radio demon #gn reader #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel #charlotte morningstar #charlie morningstar #lucifer morningstar #reader looks like lilith #short reader #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin fanfic #Spotify

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barbieaemond · 9 months ago

Text

The King of Qarth I

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Qartheen f!reader (use of third perspective)

Warnings: angst, dubcon (but not really), handjob, fingering, p in v, hints at sexual trauma, self indulgent use of sorcery

Word count: 11k (i know...i'm sorry...)

Author’s note: The foreign words you’ll find are stolen from Greek. Second and final part coming in two weeks. English is not my first language.

taglist: @zae5 @multyfangirl @arcielee @succnfuccubus @zaldritzosrose @kckt88 @venmondiese @miraclealignertlsp369 @ilikechocolatemilkh @credulouskhaleesi @bunbunbl0gs

He had taken each one of them. Dragons, power, the Crown. Snatched them from whatever divine plan the Gods had concocted, for others, never for him, and perhaps this was their punishment.

Death would’ve been a far too kind blessing, he would come to realise in one of those endless days spent wandering, roaming to find some meal, a softer clod to lie on, an identity.

Prince, Protector of the Realm, Rider of Vhagar, Blood of Old Valyria.

They were nothing more than shrouds. Once stripped of them, what was left was merely a man.

And a son. That’s what his mother saw when they threw him on the ground of the Throne Room.

Crawling on her knees like some commoner, she begged and sobbed until her voice became raw and her throat hoarse, chanting obsessively the same plea over and over like a mad woman.

"Please...have mercy in the name of the Mother… my only son...” she had bent so much as to graze the toe of Corlys Velaryon's boots with her face. “you took them all...you took them all...”

Whether she was talking to the Sea Snake, Rhaenyra, the Gods or fate, Aemond didn’t know. He didn’t know the woman kneeling before him, if he ever truly knew her. You cannot know ghosts, only walk through them.

He could not look at her. He turned his head and watched over that crowd of traitors looking down on him, as if they themselves had not looted, slaughtered, and burned more innocent than guilty.

Trained puppets they were, obeying like green little soldiers to Cregan Stark, a northern savage who had taken upon himself the right and duty to do justice. Corlys Velaryon knew it well, having spent days and nights in the dungeons as an accomplice in the poisoning of Aegon the Elder. And there they were, taking over the reins of a kingdom shattered and embittered by war.

But with the promise of Alysanne Blackwood’s hand in marriage, the Wolf had been tamed. He had stopped howling about trials and executions. Now, caution moved and bogged down their decisions. But one thing was clear as a law written in stone: there had to be peace, no matter the cost. Hence, a marriage had been arranged, between two children who, for no reason, had been taught to see the other as the enemy, whose eyes had seen too much death; orphaned and thrown like marbles into a game that brought neither smiles nor laughter to their sepulchral mouths.

She was looking at him, Jaehaera, and in her empty eyes Aemond could see Helaena climbing up the windowsill and letting herself fall.��

“What happened to Vhagar?” The Sea Snake asked “Kinslayer! What about your dragon?”

"Dead.” He lied, although he didn’t know for how long that lie would remain so. That rope in his heart had loosened, weakened, but it still held. She must have crawled off to some remote place, perhaps beyond the Neck, to recover from the injuries to her neck and right wing.

Then the Sea Snake had turned his back, consulting with his council of leeches. Exile. He heard them say. Essos. And then that word he hadn’t heard for a long time. Dragonless. A kinder word for useless. Powerless.

“Let him go, Corlys. He’s always been a spoiled brat. He won’t survive for long in those savage lands.” Someone said outside the cell they threw him in, shackled with chains on wrists and ankles like some rabid dog.

He won’t survive for long.

How he wished they were right. How he wished to look into the beady eyes of the Stranger.

Alicent would curse him, perhaps she would slap him as she used to slap Aegon for being so blasphemous, not to the Gods, but to her. Aemond was no father, and no matter how much he could try, he’d never understood the fierce, unforgiving grip motherhood had on a woman.

When he saw her for the last time before being thrown on a ship to Braavos, he realized it was the only tether that kept her alive. Him and Jaehaera.

“Just a little longer, please…just a little…” she pleaded to his jailers. With the arranged marriage, cruelties had softened, and concessions became more frequent. The Dowager Queen was granted to see her son for the last time.

“Mother!” he screamed as they dragged him away “Keep your fucking hands off me!”

He needed to speak to her. He needed her to tell him she was lying.

“Mother, there’s a woman…”

“The Strong witch? Aemond, she’s…They captured our last allies from the Reach and…they said they found a woman in the woods but…she was in pain…and bleeding….”

The Gods’ punishment flowed through the long-cowled robe of the Stranger. And he took them all.

Aegon, Helaena, Daeron. Alys and the baby.

Alicent could not bear to see the last piece of her flesh and bones being cloaked by the cold shroud of the Stranger. And so, she crawled and begged to preserve his existence.

But that, that was no existence.

It was a limbo, a hanging life for the damned. And he was one, wasn't he? He killed kin, he killed innocent men, women and children, coming from above like a heaven banished God unleashing his wrath on the world. And even gods pay for their sins.

Only he would gladly have stuck his head in a noose or waited for the hangman's blade, a death worthy of a soldier, rather than wandering like a derelict, rootless and restless, with that rope pulling and fraying day after day. Or Weeks? Moons? He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d set foot in that limbo.

He seemed to be living in a slumber, a Milk of the Poppy hallucination. And yet, the ground was real beneath his exhausted feet, as was the heat, and at some point, the hunger.

The leeches had tried to appear civil and compassionate, lying to his mother’s face about the gold they would give him, to sustain himself once reached the East. But naturally, they didn’t keep their word. If he died of starvation, he was sure they would have lit a candle to each God in the Grand Sept. They probably prayed for that to happen.

Or maybe not. Maybe there was no greater gratification and source of amusement to know that the haughty Prince Aemond was tasting the everyday humiliation of having to steal in order not to starve, of not having clean clothes, feather pillows to lie on, the disgrace of not being able to give orders to anyone, but rather having to suffer them.

He stayed in Bravoos for a short time. It was too dangerous, too close to Westeros and too wary if anyone ever caught the color of his hair under the cloak’s hood. He remembered his history books quite well. It was the only one among the Free Cities that did not yield to the Valyrian empire; indeed, it was founded by a group of rebellious slaves fled from the tyranny of the Dragon Lords.

Volantis, on the contrary, worshipped the Old Empire. But in equal measure, they worshipped slavery. The city swarmed with mercenaries and slavers, peddling men and women like meat for slaughter, ready at every corner to steal children from the streets. And in Volantis Aemond understood that if he did not want to end up in some butcher’s hands, he had to be what he had always been: a soldier. For he realized that everywhere in the world, the most valuable currency was not gold, nor castles and titles, but blood.

This man for new fresh clothes, that woman for few gold coins and a mattress to rest his back, not to sleep. Sleep eluded him, as well as remorse. Unless his body shut his mind out of exhaustion, he lied there for hours on end, with blood drying on his hands, listening to all the ghosts floating around him, and trying to find a grip—something to hold on to. Duty had been the blacksmith who forged him and the altar to which he devoted himself. Duty to his family, his brother, the crown, the throne, even Alys, yes. For all her riddles and stumps of prophecy, he wanted her. He wanted that son.

But here, he had no high purpose to serve but himself. Stripped of all honors and many more curses, he fell into a daylong stupor, made of blood, humiliations and silent cries for revenge.

Until one day, the rope went taut.

Vhagar burned away the stupor. She had found him. For the second time, she had been his salvation. And on her back, he found a fragment of who he was, but who he was supposed to be remained a distant thing, clouded in smoke.

He flew south, over the ruins of Old Valyria, and then east, crossing all of Vaes Dothrak to the Red Waste, and by the time he realized he should've veered north or south, it was too late.

He was in the middle of the widest and driest desert on the eastern continent.

The Garden of Bones, as they called it, and with good reason. For in those few times that Aemond decided to land to allow Vhagar to rest, all his eye could see were sand, devilgrass and bones. But he didn’t care about the thirst, the dry and cracked lips, the white tow his hair had become.

Vhagar was his only concern. She was starving. She could not fly too high in the skies. And so, along with all the misery and humiliation, came the dread. For if Vhagar died, the last rope, the last tether, which had perhaps kept him alive up to that point, and perhaps kept her alive, would break.

But then, just as it happens in some book of adventures, or simply in dreams, a mirage, a true oasis in the middle of the desert, surrounded by the highest walls ever built in the history of men, guarding the greatest city that ever was and will be: Qarth.

“Hmm” she ponders, pursing her lips. “I’m not sure about this one. What do you think, Nyla?”

The young maid stops her morning chore and blushes. “I think it would match your skin wonderfully, your Highness.”

She hears giggling behind her shoulders, where two of her most trusted maids are braiding her hair after oiling them with mirrh and cinnamon. “You hear that, Nyla? They’re questioning your candor.”

“I am not, your Highness.” says Dora, one of the giggling girls. “But if you were looking for a less partial opinion, let’s say a more objective one...you should have asked me or Mysha.”

“Well, as it happens, I was looking precisely for a partial opinion. Look at her. She’s changing my chamber pot and still, she thinks that shade of purple would suit me wonderfully. Oh Nyla, I think you will soon become my favorite.”

“Is that a yes then, your Highness?” the merchant wastes no time to ask, standing in the center of the room with silk drapes of several colors resting along his arm.

“Yes, Jorio. Two yards of that purple silk.”

The merchant nods swiftly, too swiftly she notices. The man is acting awkwardly since the moment he stepped into her private rooms. Usually, he’s a big talker, a true born seller. He could make believe one could heal from Greyscale if they just wrap themselves in the soft embrace of his silks. But not today. He seems in a hurry. The exhibition of his goods too quick and excited. And then the sweat, lumped in a wet sheen around his bald head.

“Anything else, your Highness?”

Her forehead creases, acknowledging a thought, new but not quite, as if it has always been there. “Perhaps something green?” she ventures.

“Green?” inquires Misha “That’s a first.”

She shakes her head in a dismissing way. “Must be my father’s sorcery.”

The shadows, kóri, they speak to you.

“What do you have in green, Jorio?”

The merchant fumbles with his silks, a turmoil moves his hands clumsily until a few drapes of fabric flutter on the ground. He stoops to pick them up, only to drop the others still clinging onto his shoulder in a chaotic rainbow of colors on the white marble floor.

“Jorio, what is the matter with you today?”

“I—Nothing, your Highness, my apologies...”

“You know if you have problems with your trades, the Salt King and I would be more than happy to help you.”

“It’s not that—no. Must be all the fuss in town.”

“Pirates again?”

“Uhm—no, it’s the…beast outside the walls.”

“The beast? What beast?”

The man swallows, visibly. “A dragon, your Highness. A huge dragon, higher than the city walls.”

“But…that is not possible...” Misha tries.

“I’m telling what I saw with my own eyes. The Thirteen gathered outside the walls. I saw the Spice King along my way here. He said they were about to parley with the Milk man, see through his reasons.”

"Milk Men don’t ride dragons.” she corrects, standing from the soft cushions piled and spread on the ground. “This man’s hair…what color are they?”

“White as midday sun.”

"Your Highness! Come..."

The Salt Queen joins Dora on one of the brightly sunlit balconies overlooking the Route of Trade. There is indeed a great bustle in the town, a motionless bustle however, gazing with open mouths and bewildered eyes at the small procession moving up the street. The City Guard is leading, with their shields and spears to protect The Thirteen, rulers of the most important trading city in the world. They are all dressed in bright colours and precious jewels embroidered in their silk tunics, hanging from their necks, wrists and fingers.

If she narrows her eyes, The Salt Queen can swear she can see the gold ring her husband wears on his nose. What catches her eye though, is not gold or any other bright color, but black, and then white.

There is a man walking down the street with the thirteen, a tall man with plain dark clothes and a mantle of silver hair, white as midday sun.

“Wife, may I introduce you to our noble guest?”

A woman comes forward to greet him when Aemond enters a lavish hall with several windows adorned with colorful drapes of silk. He is sure he has never seen so much marble in his life, feeling even more inappropriate given the state of his clothes and his whole demeanor, shamefully far from the clean, soldierly appearance that left mouth agape.

“Prince Aemond of House Targaryen, from Westeros.” The Salt King declares as the woman stops just before him. He stands tall and imposing, no matter the misery of his shabby clothes, the state of his disheveled hair falling in silver tangles down his back. He is still a Targaryen, his chin is high and proud.

“More like from the Old Valyria.” She says raising an eyebrow, and sizing him up and down. “He seems to have just emerged from the Doom, miraculously unscathed.”

The Prince does nothing but seethe his teeth behind his dry lips, a distant shame in his eye that quickly turns into a focused and unblinking rage.

“Welcome to Qarth, my Prince. I’d trust your journey was uneventful but…I can see the Red Waste takes its toll, even on Valyrian beauty.”

Aemond takes a good, long look at her, inevitably lingering on her chest, dressed as the common Qartheen fashion dictates: one breast exposed. But a lot more of her is exposed. Her shoulders, her arms and legs, a glimpse of her hips, all crossed by swirling bundles of lilac silk.

If any married woman in Westeros dressed like that in the open, he’s sure any husband would lock her up. At least he would.

“You must excuse my wife, Prince Aemond, or rather, get used to her habit of speaking her mind.”

“Come now, Xavos. Surely Westerosi women can voice their thoughts?” she moves, walking past Aemond and her husband to reach a small table inlaid with gold to pour some greenish beverage into a cup. “I had a maid once, she was from…Rich Garden?”

“High Garden.” He sternly corrects her.

“Ah, yes. A delightful creature, always smelled so good.” She says distractedly “Anyway, she fled from your lands because she liked girls and not boys and she didn’t want to devote her life to being a brood mare sucking a flaccid cock until her hair had gone white.”

Her maids snicker somewhere past Aemond shoulders, stiffening his posture at the liberties those commoners are granted. “I should hope you Westerners listen to your women more than you do your horses.”

Aemond watches as she takes a sip and laces his hands behind, slightly tilting his head for a moment. “Where I come from, women do not possess such a sharp tongue. Furthermore, and fortunately, most of them have manners. They know how to address a Prince of the Realm.”

She turns to leave the cup on the same table and glances at Nyla. “Oh, he bites.”

“This is not Westeros, dragon prince.” She says turning to face him with a righteous smile “I don’t need to ask your permission to speak. The Salt King is my husband, that is why you will hear my maids and everyone else address me as Your Highness. So, you may lower that chin and stop waiting for me to bow down to you because technically my rank is higher than yours. You might say the only one meant to bow in this room were you.”

The silence that follows is so stark that the air the Prince quickly exhales through his nose sounds like thunder, alerting the Salt King. "Come now, wife. Don't wake the beast.” he says lightly, stiffening a smile “And I mean it quite literally. You should see the size of Prince Aemond’s dragon.”

“I heard.” she acknowledges “Jorio said he’s higher than the city walls.”

“She. And twice, than your city walls.” The Prince corrects her again, just as sternly. “She’s the largest dragon alive in the known world.” His chin remains high and haughty, simply because he can. Because she knows he could raze the entire city to the ground just by snapping his fingers. So, she looks down and says “Since you will be our guest, it is my duty as matron of this house to make you feel welcomed. If you would be so kind to follow me, your Grace.” She forces her tone to be as much as corteous, but then she smiles “Is my tongue acceptably sharp to your liking now?”

“Where are you taking me?” he asks as he follows the Salt Queen along one of the corridors, made of the finest marble with high arches of white stone and gold glittering under the midday sun.

“Down and down, to throw you in the dungeons.”

Aemond stalls for a moment and she does the same. “I was joking.”

He gives her that stern, distrustful look she starts to think he has etched on his features since his first wail and huffs. “God, have you lost your humor in the Red Waste?”

She resumes her walking, and Aemond follows, glancing around as they pass through many people, some of them are dressed like maids and servants, some others with long tunics of silk and jewels embroidered in the fabric. They speak to one another, he notices, as equals. But they stop altogether upon seeing a living Valyrian walk among them.

“God?” he asks “Which one?”

“Whichever you want. R'hollor, the Many Faced…I’m not picky. It helps me sleep better at night to know I didn’t dump all my sins on one God only.”

He is sure from his education and his mother’s faith that religion doesn’t work that way, but he has more pressing matters at heart. “Will you meet my requests?”

“About your dragon?” she asks stopping before a large wooden door closed. “Can’t she hunt on her own?”

“In the Red Waste? In these barren lands? Perhaps you should put your pretty head outside the city walls and see with your own eyes how big she is.”

The woman smirks, seizing him up and down and furrows her brows. “You seem very keen on emphasizing how big your dragon is. I should hope it’s not a compensating factor for the lack of something else.”

She pushes the door open, not bothering to wait for Aemond who just stands there for a moment, a little dumbfounded by the salt of which the Queen's tongue seems to be made. His bewilderment is only destined to worsen as he crosses the threshold and looks around.

Right in the middle of the palace, amidst all that marble and white stone, stands a wild courtyard, wild and beautiful in its unspoiled nature. Climbing plants and fruit trees grow undisturbed around a large square pool, decorated with mosaics of a thousand colors, harboring the most crystal-clear water he has ever seen; small clouds of steam rise from the surface, pinching his nostrils with the unmistakable smell of sulfur.

There are people bathing together and, obviously, much to his dismay, naked.

“Do you not take baths in Westeros?” the Salt Queen asks, faking true curiosity at the puzzlement she can read on his face, slowly turning into repugnance as he looks at her with a cutting answer.

“We have decency, in Westeros.”

She does not bother to disguise the long sigh blowing through her lips and then she turns to clap her hands vigorously, three times.

“My friends, apologies for the interruption!” she announces as everyone in the pool and outside turns to look at her “I must ask you to leave the pool for the time being. Our…prude guest demands a little bit of privacy.”

She can feel the Prince glaring but ignores him altogether to stop one of the servants.

“Priya, fetch some oils. And some silks, fitting for a prince.” She turns her head to look at him from head to toe, as if valuing a new drape of silk or a new sculpture to put in the Hall of Trade, but then she creases her forehead, as she often does when knowing. “Blue perhaps? To match the sapphire.”

The constant scowl seems to leave his features and she hears his question before he utters a single word.

“My father is a warlock. Magic runs thick in his blood, he says, as well as in the blood of his blood. Sometimes I sense things, bits of knowledge, and sometimes they happen to be right. But you don’t need to be afra—”

“I’m not afraid of sorcery.” He cuts her, his tone flat, his features stoic as ever and she looks at him, curiously, perhaps wondering what lies behind all that stone.

“Very well. Sapphire blue for Prince Aemond.” his name slips into his ears in a strange, liquorous way; vowels are more open in this part of the world.

When they’re left alone, she signals towards the pool. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

He hesitates for a moment, but it is not as if he has never undressed in front of one of his old servants. And frankly, he is too eager to get those filthy clothes off to be bothered by a foreign woman watching.

He throws everything on the ground without too much care, and she watches without too much shame, because that's not how things go there. Bodies, both male and female, they are not something to hide, but something to be displayed and worshipped.

Her eyes linger on scars, old and new, on a lithe body that once belonged to a prince and a soldier, now marked by misery, dirt and hunger.

“Everything.” she says at one point, when he’s left with only his battered cotton pants on.

Aemond thinks he heard wrong. But she only blinks, keeping her face blank.

“Is this the common way to welcome guests here?” he scorns.

“Actually, it is. At least after the incident with the scorpion.” she doesn’t bother to wait for a question or an eyebrow rising. “My husband’s great grandfather hosted a merchant from Yunkai once. He came here with gifts of all sorts among which was a poisonous scorpion, hidden in his clothes. The old Salt King died but so did the merchant. Fell face down in his chamber pot while taking a piss. Quite ironic, don’t you think? You have to be careful when handling such vicious creatures.”

He only looks at her, and she's the one to raise an eyebrow. “I could turn away if you like.”

Aemond sighs loudly, moving his cutting jaw at the umpteenth humiliation and then lowers his pants. She stares into his eye and surely, surely he thinks, she wouldn’t dare to wander down.

But a moment later her eyes sink past his snatched waist, and she smirks.

“I believe I owe you an apology.”

“What for?”

“Questioning your…natural gifts.”

Aemond blinks, running on the verge between scowling, raising his eyebrows and huffing a laugh. Certainly, it never happened to him to talk so bluntly about his cock with any highborn lady barely met, let alone a supposed queen.

“I’ll leave you to your bath, dragon prince. The Salt King and I have much to discuss.”

“Such as?” he deadpans, not really interested while he dives into the clean water.

“Well, a Targaryen Prince is not an everyday occurrence.” She says following his every move, the way water glides on his skin, silver hair floating on the surface like moonblooms. “We’ll make sure to have a feast worthy of your noble taste this evening.”

“And then talk behind my back about what to do with me?”

“Undoubtedly. And I will tell him the truth.”

“Hmm.” He hums, settling on one of the underwater steps of the pool, resting his shoulders against the rim. His mood instantly improves, so he pins her with his eye and looks her up and down. “Do you believe to know my reasons? You’re quite sure of yourself…your Highness. Unless your father’s sorcery allows you to read minds, I dare say even rather pretentious.”

“I don’t need sorcery to know that you, in the first place, do not know what you’re doing here.”

“And what makes you so sure?”

She sees that chin tilting, lifting with a hint of challenge. And she takes it. She has the truth, and indeed, she doesn’t need sorcery.

“Because Qarth is still standing.”

She gets no answer, just that diffident stern look to which she darts the faintest of smirks and then leaves the pool, under his watchful eye that stays on the door for a moment longer, before he lets his head sink underwater.

The Salt Queen gives instructions for the most sumptuous room to be given to Prince Aemond. She sees to it that he is provided with several silk suits and that food is served to him immediately when he has finished bathing. She has observed his body with pleased eyes, so scrupulously she knows the Prince has not had a decent meal in weeks.

“Did he settle?” Xavos asks when she enters his private room.

“In time, I’m sure he will. Valyrians have an impressive disposition to make their own what does not belong to them, do they not?”

She hears him murmur something in return from where he stands, on the balcony threshold that overlooks the city and its massive port. The Queen sits on a soft armchair and starts to twirl her hair around one finger, curling her mouth into a thoughtful pout. “I was thinking goose for dinner. Or salt beef? We should save goats and pigs for the beast. Apparently, poor thing is starving.”

In the silence that follows, she turns to her husband. “Xavos?”

The Salt King turns with one shoulder and a half-bitter smile. “We have a living threat who could burn us all to the crisp walking within our palace and our city, and you speak to me of geese and pigs?”

“It’s useless to cry over spilled milk. You let him in. You let greed lure you all like a piper with a flute. I’m wondering, on which tune did he make you dance?”

He walks to her with slow feet and looks at her after a long sigh. “Dragon eggs.”

“I should’ve known.”

“Cyril began talking of an opportunity of a lifetime. Of the Greatest City that ever was and will be becoming even greater. Think about it. With dragons…Qarth might become the center of the whole world. A newborn Valyria. If we play our hand right—”

“Quit the fancy words. What exactly are you asking of me, Xavos?”

She knows he is asking for something. She has known him for more than ten years, and he has asked, has demanded, a lot of her. She knows that when his voice drops a note, he wants something, as if whispered, it becomes less degrading.

He trails his index finger on her chin and lifts it. “To make him dance to your tune.”

“You overestimate me, husband. I cannot reason with a tiger when my head is in its mouth. Besides, he might be easy on the eye, but he’s as agreeable as a plant of spikes.”

She speaks smoothly—not a flinch or a blink at her husband's hand sinking between her lilac’s folds, and then between her inner ones. “Since when you are so reluctant about who’s allowed in your bed?”

“Don’t confuse me with yourself.” she says lifting her chin to look at him, unbothered by the circling his finger draws on her dry bundle. “I fuck who I want for pleasure, rarely out of boredom, but never to prove a point.”

Abruptly, he slips his finger deep inside, hurting her. “I should have taken your tongue as well.”

“And still…” she forces a smile over the painful grimace twisting her mouth “it would not have given you what you so desperately seek in every hole.”

His unwanted touch leaves her and he straightens, pacing lazily behind her seat. “He’s young. He’s had a rough time. Surely, he must’ve missed the intimate company of a woman.”

“For that kind of company, there are pleasure houses.”

“Don’t play dumb, now. You saw how proud he is. How do you think he will take it if we send a whore to his rooms?” Xavos grips the back of the chair and leans down slowly, speaking to her ear. “Listen to me. Cyril is right. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. We must make him feel…important…coddled, even.”

“Even if you shackle his feet with gold, you cannot turn a dragon into a lamb, Xavos.”

The Salt King sighs impatiently, and his tone drops just as earlier. “Do as I say.”

Young Nyla interrupts her masters as she enters the room, and the Queen turns her head. “Nyla, what is it?”

“We have escorted Prince Aemond to his rooms, your Highness.”

“Good.” Xavos says, and then looks at his wife with a pointed stare. “Make sure he has everything he needs.”

The Salt Queen barges in and halts on the door, bewildered upon seeing her trusted friend Mysha on the verge of tears, staring at the ground as if she’s waiting for an execution.

“My deepest apologies, my Prince, I meant no disrespect.”

“What happened?”

“Uh—Prince Aemond asked for some herbs, your Highness. An ointment, for his eye.”

“Aye. I did ask for that, not for you to fucking touch me.”

The Prince is snarling, his eye wide and menacing like a hound on the brink of defense yet hunting for flesh. His face is clean now, the Queen notices, shaven; his hair is damp and pulled back, leaving his chiseled features, that infuriating chin, and high, prominent cheekbones in plain sight. Stupid as it may sound, she can't help but think of one of those marble sculptures she likes to buy from art dealers.

“You may go, Mysha. I will assist the Prince.”

“I don’t need assistance.” He hisses with threatening calm. “Leave.”

He caved in the pool, but he will not suffer another humiliation in front of these foreigners. At least not with something so delicate and private as his eye. But of course, he realizes with annoyance, this woman will not falter at any of his empty orders.

“Are you dismissing me in my own Palace?”

He looks down, sighing and fuming, and she beckons Misha to leave the room.

“You must understand, servants here are treated differently. They’re granted more liberties.”

“I see. As the ones you so generously grant to slaves.” he mutters, and starts to fidget with a tray offering ginger roots, turmeric powder, and eucalyptus leaves.

“Oh, spare me. Of all people, you Valyrians are the least entitled to give a lecture on morals.” she counters, watching his long, tapered fingers hover without touching anything. Clearly, he was used to servants doing it for him.

“May I?” she offers, but doesn’t wait for his permission to make room next to him. “There are no slaves in this palace.” she tells him "How can you expect loyalty from someone you bought with something as cheap as gold?”

“Cheap as the golden ring your husband has stuck in his nose? He looks like a fucking boar.” he says as his eye trails on her profile.

“My husband is an imbecile. This city did not become the greatest that ever was and will be with gold. Trade is our currency. We call it antallagí. Exchange.”

“A true-born merchant’s wife.”

“Or a boar’s one?”

He huffs, and she turns, feigning shock at the faintest of smirks curling his lips. “So you’re not made of stone after all.”

She studies him for a few moments—more than is deemed proper for a married woman, in Westeros at least—but she can't help it. She wonders how it is possible that exile and moons of misery have not bent this man; what drives that rigid posture, whether it is too strict an education or it is all a lie, masking an effort to keep control, to impose it on others but perhaps more on himself.

“Ointment is ready, your Grace. It may burn a little, ginger is a godsend, but it’s tricky. I could help—”

“I need no help. Leave.”

The stone is in place once more. But she won’t have it.

She raises her eyebrows, biding all the time in the world.

Aemond chews thorns as he looks at her, swallows them, and tastes them again, piercing his tongue. “Please.”

“That must’ve cost you a lot. But it isn’t so hard, is it?”

His lips flatten in a thin line, and she smiles. “You are a second son, are you not? That’s the reason for that stubborn chin. You must stomp your feet to make anything yours.”

“Careful, woman. I’ve taken tongues for far less.”

“Why? Did you not see eye to eye with them?”

He moves like lightning, invading her space until he is a breath away from her face, and his mouth breathes fire. “Listen to me. I care not who the fuck you are or which title you make your slaves call you. I am not here to allow you to make a fool of me, Queen or no Queen. Mock me once more, and I’ll carve the word please on your vicious mouth.”

He waits for the fire to catch on, even though flames do not seem to touch her; she's unwavering and solid as marble.

“Get out.”

“I don’t—” she chokes on her words, on his hand seizing her jaw; cold fingers, leaving embers on her skin.

“I said, get out.”

That evening, the already lavish palace of the Salt King was polished and decked out duly to honor the foreign guest. The walls, lit by braziers of fire, stood like a beacon amidst a sea of marble and white stone roofs. The Hall of Trade was a treasury, crammed so full of gold that it looked like a pirate's dream. Pillows were piled on the floor, long tables held food of all kinds. A huge bowl of wine welcomed the guests, who were given a goblet they had to dip into the large bowl and drink, otherwise they would not be allowed inside. It was tradition, a sort of good omen.

It pinched Aemond's nostrils when he brought the cup to his mouth and, thankfully, drank it in small sips. Despite his prudence, by the second he felt his tongue on fire from how spiced it was. By comparison, Arbor Gold was wastewater.

He wears the sapphire blue silk tunic, with a silk belt cinching his narrow waist, but his hair is different. Mysha learned the lesson she asked, and when he gave his consent, she got to work and braided his silver hair. Most of them are loose, falling down his back in a curtain of white. Others are laced in one, two, three braids, softly meeting at the back of his head.

If he thought the Salt Queen’s hospitality was somewhat a little too forward and a lot more intrusive, he had to reconsider when he found himself cornered as soon as his silver head caught the eye of every guest. Men and women, old and young, flocked to him with eyes full of wonder, as if the Salt King had captured some wild and rare creature and called all his friends to make them look.

But they didn’t just look. They talked openly and freely, voicing thoughts that, in Westeros, would have stayed inside one’s head.

“Look at his hair! They seem like moon rays!”

“And the skin! Whiter than milk!”

“What happened to his eye?”

“If only my wife were here…she always wanted to see a Valyrian!”

He had just gotten there, and his teeth were baring.

“My friends, please! Let our noble guest breathe!” the Salt King chuckles as he comes forward among the bewildered audience, looking like the loot of some theft, for all the gold and diamonds and emeralds sewn on his orange silk tunic. “Come, my Prince. The first taste is yours.”

Aemond catches a movement on his right and there she is, the Salt Queen, in a crimson red sparkling like a bloodied dew given the little, tiny red stones woven in her silks. Her hair coils into an intricate bun crisscrossed by a paper-thin gold chain that crowns her forehead with small, rough rubies, like grains of salt.

For a moment, he’s so enthralled by her figure, and her eyes, even more piercing because of kohl, that he fails to notice the clay plate she’s holding, filled with fruits. Some he has never seen, except in books, but he has no time to take a guess.

“Your first taste, my Prince.” she chimes. “Sweet or tart?”

His gaze falls back to the plate, but not before stopping, again, for a blink, on that absurd fashion of one bare breast. “Tart.” He says tightly.

She smiles, as if she knew, and puts the plate down. Aemond watches her bejeweled fingers pluck off a grape and turn, her hand in midair but not quite outstretched toward him. He nothing but give her a pointed look, one that translates only into a stern and irrevocable I can eat by myself.

“My Prince. My wife means no offense.” the Salt King explains “In Qarth, it is deemed a great honor, given and taken, and an excellent omen for the guest's stay, if said guest is fed by the matron of the house.”

His throat bobs and the Salt Queen can’t quite decipher if the dragon prince is more humiliated or angered by the prospect of being fed by a woman like a baby who just teethed. At last, he sighs and leans in, but her hand withdraws a little, leaving him with his mouth slightly open, stretched forth like a beggar waiting for charity. It is not Aemond who bites the grape, but her who finally, after another straight stare into his eye, lets it drop into his mouth.

The crowd erupts in a cheerful clapping, as does The Salt King who goes to stand just between his wife and the Dragon Prince, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder “You see, Prince Aemond, this is one of the extraordinary gifts of Qartheen women. They know exactly how to hold...and when to let go.”

Aemond does not bother to look at him, he is too absorbed, annoyed and deep down, without him knowing it yet, enticed by the tranquil smile that curls her mouth and at the same time curls his pride, mocks it, strips it bare and outright laughs at it, goading everyone else to do so.

Behold, the pink dread!

“Without further ado, let the feast begin!” The Salt King announces joyfully and in the same moment, a delicate and sweet melody fills the room, while Aemond chews what’s left of that grape, tasting his own bile.

An hour later, Aemond is fuming. Fuming because ruling the most important and influential city in Essos, he should’ve known the Thirteen were aware of everything that went on and was currently going on in the West. Perhaps even more than he knew. Did they know something about his mother?

He banished that thought from his mind just as he trained himself to do in all this damned existence.

They knew about the Dance, they knew about Aegon the Usurper, they knew of Rhaenyra the Cruel, the Storming of the Dragon Pit. They knew the kingdom was dreadfully impoverished and in the hands of a young boy.

But they spoke about it as if they were discussing the weather. Qartheens cared nothing about what was going on outside their impenetrable walls; whether it was a new king on a throne far away or a war that had killed thousands and thousands, it was all tittle-tattle to kill time between one cup of wine and the next. He was asked about this battle or the previous one without thinking that he had lived through that war; he made it, he carried it and perhaps he still carried it within him.

He was fuming for this, he was fuming for how women, and even men, gawk at him, for their bizarre custom of hosting a feast without a decent place to sit and eat like normal people do. He was fuming because no matter how much he tried to ignore it, a spool of crimson would always catch his eye.

Grabbing one more cup of wine, he decides to take a breath outside, standing on one of the marbled balconies of the Palace. Air does good to extinguish his fires, but it does not clear up his mind. Perhaps he should blame the wine, perhaps his head is still smoky.

Because you, in the first place, do not know what you're doing here.

As much as he loathed to admit it, the Salt Queen was right. He tricked himself into thinking the main reason for his coming here was Vhagar. She was weak, due to the wing's injuries as well as the old ones, and most of all, she was hungry. But with the promise of goats and pigs, came the clarity and the knowledge that he had no reason, no plan. He only knew he had leverage—a dreadful leverage made of talons and fire on these merchants and their city. But what to do with it?

He hears voices somewhere near, and once more, crimson pollutes his sight. The Salt Queen and her husband are talking behind a tall white pillar. He can’t quite hear what they’re saying, but she catches his stare almost immediately. The talking ceases, and Aemond knows they were talking about him, of course they were.

Xavos comes out of his hiding place with a placid and benevolent expression, walking right past him without a word. But she stays, and she looks, and then she walks to him.

“That will go to your head.” She warns as he empties the cup “I didn’t see you touch any food.”

The spiced wine burns his throat, makes his tongue sour and impatient. “Is your husband aware of your excessive concern about your guests? Or is it a thoughtfulness he has ordered you to reserve only for me?”

“I’m just being considerate since you’re a foreigner and not well acquainted with Qartheen tastes.”

“How exactly am I supposed to eat? Standing?”

She huffs a laugh and shakes her head trimmed with gold and red as she gives him a bemused, though genuine, look. “Good God, how spoiled you are? I thought misery made men humble, but clearly not men of House Targaryen.”

His jaw moves annoyingly, and he leaves the empty cup on the marble, but he doesn’t let go, holding it by the edges in a white-knuckle grip. She notices it as she leans against the marble, with her back to the city, and gives him a long, inquisitive look. “After all the misery you suffered, I thought you would’ve liked the attention…perhaps you do…perhaps…you want more.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” he asks boringly, and just as sourly, staring at the city.

“I must say, I’ve hosted so many people, from so many different parts of the world, and yet…I’ve never found myself before a face so full of contradictions.”

His eye pins her. “Need I remind you how you left my room earlier?”

“With your hand around my neck, because you couldn’t take a joke.”

“I don’t like being mocked. And I don’t like being played like a pawn. So, unless this is another one of your absurd customs, tell your husband to stop parading you around me like a whore. It looks bad when you insist on others calling you queen.”

“We all play parts, dragon prince. Sometimes, they blend. But in the end…it takes little to know the real you.”

Aemond chokes on his breath as her hand slips between them like water, cupping his crotch with a grip of steel, and fire, burning from her fingertips through the fabric. She holds it like a weapon, and his defense is low. She sees his throat bobbing down once, and twice, rejection curls his mouth, but not strongly enough to shove her hand away, to not start to harden against the flames of her fingers, brushing all his length until she cups it once more.

“Whore or queen?” she whispers, brushing his parted lips “Someone in there doesn’t seem to care.”

His grip on the cup loosens, a tremor runs down his spine, and he dawdles in the sensation, one felt before, elicited by other hands, and yet new. It’s been so long. The surge to touch, to clutch, to taste, drains his head of blood. But she eludes him, tilting her head to the right and then to the left to avoid the vise of his lips; her grip loosens, running the back of her fingers against his cock in a feathery brush, touching without touching.

He grinds his teeth to choke a whimper, but then she’s cupping again; she feels him go completely hard for her, and the knowledge washes over her like tongues of fire prickling down her back and between her thighs. The soft, slippery silk allows her to unleash her lunges more fiercely, to easily close her hand around his cock, and that same silk helps her to glide her hand deliciously up and down.

He's breathing hard, almost panting, brushing the tip of his nose against hers; her eyes are open, basking in the sight, the little twitches of his mouth as bends to pleasure, the breathing turning heavier and heavier, his hand that starts to flex. She imagines how those slender fingers would feel between her folds, how easily they would slip inside, and why, why is he not touching her?

“Do it…” she breathes. “Do you want me to say please? I would…there’s no shame in begging, dragon prince….it only makes you free…”

“Your Highness, my apologies.” Nyla calls her Queen suddenly, and she stops her wicked ministrations, abruptly bringing Aemond back to his senses.

“The Salt King sent me after you.” The young maid says, apparently unfazed by what she clearly witnessed. “We’re playing kottabos.”

"Ah, yes, of course.” she tries to regain some control, although she was panting on the sole anticipation, and goes back inside.

Aemond stalls, taking a long sigh in the fresh air to try to stop the blood from boiling. And he follows.

Kottabos, he discovers, is quite a tricky game. The rules are simple: one has to throw the last drops of wine inside their cup to hit a white plate balanced atop a bronze pole. It requires a bit of dexterity, because the player must put the index finger through the handle of the drinking cup and throw the drops while sprawled on pillows, laying on their elbows.

The Salt Queen, it seems, is quite adept at this game. It takes her only two tries to hit the plate and she’s rising from the pillows, bowing her head to thank the cheerful audience. Aemond's eye bends as the crimson veils bend with her every movement; he slips between them and lets them wrap around him, even though he should not, even though he reproaches himself for letting the blood, the wine, the flesh, that has been starved of other flesh for too long, win.

“My closest friends know I’m very fond of sweets and cakes but…on such a special occasion, I choose a special reward.” She announces when the crowd has quieted down, and before she even turns around, he feels her gaze on him as if she had two more eyes on the back of her head. “A sweeter reward…or perhaps tarter.”

She moves towards him, and every step she takes barefoot on the marble is an unmasking. With every step she takes, it seems to him that she is touching him, as she did just before, and more; he feels like her fingers are slipping under the silk, setting fire to his skin.

She stops in front of him and yet, he still sees her moving, feels her moving like a sea creature and her thousand tentacles of crimson silk.

Maybe he should put the wine down.

Wine is not for you, brother mine, your mind’s too heavy. It’ll soak like a sponge and you'll fall into your own vomit.

What she does not put down is her aim, moving her hands diligently as she grabs his face and draws him close to kiss him on the lips, and tilt her head back to look at him, so close she’s breathing his breath. “This…is your first taste.”

“Good! The Queen has chosen her reward. Let us play another round, shall we?”

Again, Aemond does not bother to look at the Salt King, he looks at her and the faint twitch between her lips at her husband's words.

“Come.” She says taking his hand, and he doesn’t know what drives him to follow her, whether his mind is too soaked, or his flesh is crying out to be fed.

What is certain is that now her bare feet tread the marble of his rooms and he is closing the door.

“I hope you don’t mind if we do it here. I don’t take men into my rooms.”

“Why?”

“I’m jealous of my things.”

“Liar.”

“What?”

“So used to play parts and yet, you look down before lying. Disappointing.”

“I’m surprised you were able to look at anything above my cleavage.”

This time, he lowers his gaze, but not to lie. He knows he has looked, many times, and the excuse of not being used to such a custom starts to creak. She walks up to him and looks at him with that knowing smile that makes him want to clamp his hand on her mouth and wipe it off her face, and maybe stick his fingers inside.

“Are you a virgin, my Prince? Did you have a wife in the West? Children?”

He swallows, and her eyes fall on his throat.

“Is that guilt you just swallowed? Or sorrow?”

“Why don’t you listen to your father’s sorcery while keeping your hole shut?”

“I told you, I am no witch. Qarth is the center of the world. Do you think we don’t know what happens in the East, West, North and South?” she angles her head and whispers in his ear “We know everything… Kinslayer, Terror of the Trident.”

She speaks his war titles in that liquorose way, opening the vowels as if she is casting a spell, but he hears the mockery. It is the same that loosened the tongue at the Strong bastards, the same one perpetuated by Alys. But Alys' mockery was different. She spoke in riddles, visions and flames. This woman speaks in truths.

“Do you regret it?” she whispers, and her tentacles thread their way through the silk “All those innocents you have burned…all the ones you have lost.” lazily, she pulls at the laces of the blue tunic and he stiffens, flaring his nostrils. “See? I don’t need sorcery. The more you stiffen, the more cracks reveal.” She straightens her head to look at him with eyes darker than tar, wandering over his face and he feels branded. “I can see them around you…ghosts…why don’t you set them free?”

“What is your fucking game?” he wants to seethe, but she’s so close to him it comes out as nothing but a hiss.

She smiles again and this time the victory is full. "The game is over, your grace. I won, and you're my reward. I will admit I never had such a pretty one...care to show me that sapphire or are you still keen on playing the prude bashful prince?”

Aemond has no qualms about touching her, grabbing her face with nails digging into her cheeks as he pulls her close, turning her chin to spit anger and all his tumbled restraints into her ear “Perhaps I should shove my cock into your mouth to make you shut it, hmm? Is that what you want? What your husband wants? That I fuck you like a whore?”

She stiffens, thrashing in his hold that she may not have expected, and manages to turn her head just enough to look at him, scoffing. “Is this the only way you know to use your hands?”

A taunt, another one. It turns his eye pitch black and he leans closer to her lips, almost baring his teeth, almost as if he wants to bite the words—the mockery, the victory—off her mouth. But once more, she eludes him, tilting back and so, any reason burns and dies into his head.

“D’you want to play games, don’t you? Let’s play, then.”

Still gripping her cheeks, he roughly pushes her into the room, letting her go for only one fleeting instant of freedom, just long enough to grab her shoulders and force her to turn around. A gasp escapes her lips, but the next moment she’s bending on the table, he’s forcing her to. A thrill spills into her blood, making her insides clench with anticipation, and dread.

He traps her, planting his feet between hers to stop her from closing her legs. She tries to pull herself up with her back, but he scowls, pushing her head down to keep it firmly glued to the table. She whines as his long fingers pull at her hair, tearing the gold and red chain off, and she can hear him fumbling with the silks, the other hand hiking her crimson gowns up.

“My Prince, please—”

“Begging already?” snarling, he spits into his palm and gives a few quick tugs to his cock, hard and aching “I wonder who’s coming from. The whore or the Queen. Either way, you’ll get your reward, your Highness.”

“Wait—” she whimpers as she feels the head of his cock teasing against her folds, something coils in her belly, and something else, something cold, grips her heart. “Not like th—”

She chokes on her tongue as he slips inside her, easily but painfully, all the way in. Hissing, his hold on her hair tightens, a coarse exhale coming out of his parted lips as he adjusts to her walls, hot and wet, but tense. She’s tensing all over.

“Why are you fighting me?” he pulls her up by the hair, leaning his face close to hers “You wanted this, did you not? You have been teasing and mocking me since I set foot in here.”

“I—”

“No. I’ve had enough of your talks and taunts. Here’s what’s going to happen, whore queen. You will keep quiet and take it. And if I want to fuck you again later, I will. You are not in charge here—not you, not your husband, not all the fucking Thirteen. So don’t fucking push me, unless you want to die with fire skinning you alive.”

Without too much grace, he forces her back on the table and starts a relentless pace, fisting the crimson fabric and pulling to keep her low back flushed to his crotch. His pants mix with flesh slapping harder and faster as he tries to pour on her, and into her, the grief and rage, the misery and fire he’s made of. She writhes beneath him, arching and crumpling against the wooden with violent gasps; she feels like burning but inside, she’s torn in two.

She clamps her hand on the wood to grab onto something, just like that evening. She feels her, and his, arousal coating her thighs, just as blood did that evening.

The little girl wants to run, but the Salt Queen doesn’t want him to stop.

She’s sinking in her mind, but burning in every corner of her body and soul.

She can only moan, her mouth agape and dry, leaking saliva on the surface as her head bounces at each wild rut, hitting that inner spot over and over.

“Look at you, hmm?” he taunts her with purpose, perhaps vengeance “Fucked so good she lost her wits.”

Look at you, little whore. Bet you like it, eh?

Squeezing her eyes shut, she finds a raw voice hidden somewhere. “Harder—”

“What?” he slurs with a heavy-lidded eye, the braids are almost loose, dangling on his face at each thrust.

“Harder—” she pleads with her eyes still shut.

“Greedy wanton thing—” hips start to snap brutally, in a hurtful way, just as she wants, even if it’s hard to even breathe. Pleasure overwhelms her, drives her up towards the peak. But she finds she cannot climb; her mind is holding her down.

He grunts with each snap and curses in some foreign language she’s not aware of, and she doesn’t care; she’s too focused on letting herself burn. But it’s like sitting in front of a fire and barely feeling the flames.

And then his hips jolt faster, once, twice, and he halts, gripping her hips firmly, coming inside her with a long, satiated groan.

Completely spent, he slumps on top of her, resting his head on her shoulder blades to catch his breath. However, she is quick to slip from the scorching alcove, to slide out the door with her mind drowned but her heart pounding out of her chest.

"Your Highness!" Dora wakes from her slumber, and reaches for her Queen.

"Nothing, Dora." she says in a voice still hoarse, almost scratching. "Draw me a bath, please. And fetch mint and wormwood." Moon tea.

She starts to undo her silks and feels a distant smell of smoke sticking to her skin. Like one who has bathed in fire.

The morning after brings no clarity, because truthfully, Aemond does not need clarity. Everything is drastically simple. He is no coward. However his mind was less clear than usual, he could never blame wine for how he behaved a few hours earlier. And why would he?

Whether she was acting on her husband’s orders or not, she wanted him. And he wanted her. He could concede that he'd acted in a harsher way than usual, that he’d let rage and grief guide his purpose. It was not the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. But it all worked in his favor. A demonstration, a shift in whatever power game the Salt King and the other merchant Kings thought to play out. He only made it clear that he was not some precious pet to be coddled and ridiculed.

She had teased and mocked him at any occurrence. He’d only showed her the price of playing with fire.

His blue silks are fresh and clean when he sits down to have breakfast with Xavos; his long silver hair is tied up in a single low braid that starts from the center of his head and gathers lazily down his shoulder.

He has yet to get used to this strange Qartheen custom of sitting on pillows to eat; at least, however, he regains his appetite when he is served dishes once familiar to him, and less exotic.

"I took the liberty of having you prepare a breakfast akin to your old habits.” Xavos says chewing bread with olives “Ham, cheese, venison. And we have fresh fish every day. Blessed be the trades."

The Prince is sincerely grateful, though he would be a lot more grateful if the Salt King were able to shut his mouth when the sun is not even high in the sky. He goes on and on about the supposed trades, and then about the salt he so proudly sells to every corner of the world. He is just about to go on another monologue about the Thirteen and their hopeful wish to receive the Dragon Prince in their Palaces when he stops, frowning at the young maid clearing the place set next to the king. “What are you doing?”

“Apologies, Your Highness, but the Queen will not attend breakfast. She feels indisposed this morning.”

Immediately, Aemond glances up at her and she’s brave enough to hold it for a bunch of seconds before looking down and making her way to the door.

“Maid?”

She halts upon hearing the Prince and turns around.

“Tell your Queen I was promised something. She said she would see to it personally. And I expect her to keep her word.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“Wait.” he stops her again, his tone almost bored, and slips a hand into the folds of his blue silks, pulling out a gold and red chain. “Take this. She left it in my room last night.”

He throws the jewel on the table and resumes his knife and fork, not bothering to look at anyone, certainly not at the Salt King who is indeed looking at him, looking as pleased as ever, like the cat that caught the mouse.

The Salt Queen did not in fact forget her word. She promised him she would see to Vhagar’s condition, ordering to save goats and pigs to feed the beast, put them on carts and send someone with the Prince to reach the desert, where the dragon was resting.

However, she should've probably assumed that such an apparently simple task would've turned out to be a lot harder to carry out.

She’s just about to finish her late breakfast with Mysha and Dora, when Nyla breaks into the parlor with quick feet.

“Your Highness—uhm—Prince Aemond is at the door, he asks to be received.”

“What is it now? He doesn’t like how the sun rises here?”

Mysha and Dora giggle, but the Queen stays serious and turns to Nyla. “Tell the Prince he will have to wait. I am sure that even in Westeros, barging in during meals stands for bad manners.”

Nyla leaves, but it’s with even quicker feet that she returns to her Queen in barely a minute.

“My Queen, Prince Aemond is quite adamant on being received immediately. He…also says that…keeping guests at the door is a synonym of bad manners in Westeros, as he is sure, anywhere else in the world.”

Tapping her fingers on the table, it takes her a minute to sigh loudly and stand up, throwing the kerchief on the table.

“My Prince.” She greets him as she stops at the door.

In his usual soldierly stance, he looks past her for a moment before locking her blank gaze. “Still adamant on not letting me in?”

“You were not that drunk last night. I believe you heard me just fine when I told you I don’t take men into my rooms.”

“Hmm. But you did take me, and quite eagerly, if memory serves me right. Are we not past such formalities?”

“Gloating like some common man is not very royal of you, your Grace—"

“Tis’ not gloating. And I might say, not very royal of you either to beg me to fuck you harder, your Highness.”

“You’re right. Fucked me so good I didn’t come.”

The proud mischievous smile that kept stretching his mouth vanishes in a blink, and she has to sigh to stifle her own. “What is it, my Prince?”

“You gave me your word.”

“Indeed. And I kept it. What is your complaint now?”

“Your slaves refuse to escort me in the desert.”

“Well, I can’t blame them. Can’t you feed your dragon on your own? Or are you too humiliated by the prospect of carrying a cart of dead pigs?”

From the way he is staring at her, and having already tickled his pride when the sun is not yet high in the sky, she knows he will not yield on this matter.

“Fine. I’ll go with you.”

“My Queen, it is not safe.”

“Do not worry, Dora. I’ll take the Sorrowful Men.”

Aemond almost laughs to himself as he stands on the left edge of an enclosed inner courtyard of the palace, resembling the training yards of Westeros. There are men intent on training with spears and swords, dressed in strange uniforms made of blue drapes and a strange golden mask on their faces. The carving makes the mask weeping, with a single tear embossed on the gold.

Aemond has no idea how they can see, as there seem to be no holes in those eyes of gold. But his gaze returns at once to the Salt Queen, talking to one of those men, with a large turban on his head. Some kind of commander, he assumes.

He bows to her and then six of these mysterious men march forward and surround the woman.

The Prince glances at each one of them, standing tall and proud as ever with his hands laced behind, seeming unperturbed by these safety measures. In fact, he says “Truly there’s no need to trouble these men, your Highness. What do you expect me to do? Feed you to Vhagar as soon as we are in the desert?”

“These men are not a safety measure for me, but for you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. To prevent you from having certain…Targaryen ideas.”

“Six armed men against the largest living dragon seems like a somewhat unequal battle.”

Narrowing her eyes, she watches as the same placid arrogance bathes his features, but she thinks now it’s the right time to wipe it off, and she knows exactly how to do it. “Sorrows bring sorrows.”

All at once, the Sorrowful men move, drawing their spears with impressive speed and aiming the sharp points at the prince. His whole demeanor changes, becomes menacing, she notices, but he does not flinch. She walks among the weeping men avoiding the spears until she stands in front of the prince and snatches the mask off his face, to wear it herself.

“Listen to me. These men live to serve me. They were slaves once, bought with something far more valuable than gold: freedom. And they chose to stay by my side. If I told them to take the only eye you have left, right now, they would do it. If I told them to cut your cock and bring it to me right now, they would do it. A shame, I will grant you that. So, you’re right, you may be in charge here…but if you push me…you will be dead before you have the chance to say Dracarys.”

Whatever cutting remark the prince has in mind, he does not have time to say it, as he is suddenly distracted by a strange sound, a whistle, like the cry of a bird.

Aemond turns his head and the Queen does the same, recognizing that sound at once. The Sorrowful Men lower their spears and a man steps forward, dressed in a strange purple robe. Aemond stares at him warily, wondering why, in the name of the Seven, this man’s lips are blue, like a corpse.

“Father…” the Salt Queen greets him, taking Aemond by surprise, but sounding a little surprised herself to see the blue-lipped man.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t answer to his daughter, because he can’t. He starts to move his hands in strange signs, circles and lines. And Aemond is grateful for his strict education, for he knows what that man is doing. Sign language. He is either mute, or tongueless.

Unfortunately, he cannot understand what he’s saying, but his daughter can.

“Kóri. Will you not introduce me to your noble guest?”

The Salt Queen sighs, casting a brief look at the Prince, and then she introduces him. “Father, this is Prince Aemond, of House Targaryen.”

The blue-lipped man looks at him with wide eyes, charmed to the point of looking unsettling. And then he bends into a long bow. Not even when Aemond sat on the Iron Throne, someone had bowed so low before him.

He tilts his chin down to greet him, and sees the warlock’s hands moving. “On behalf of the Warlocks of Qarth” the Salt Queen translates “I welcome you, your Grace. It is a great privilege to see a descendant of Old Valyria in the flesh. Your blood is as ancient as our beloved great city.”

Aemond cannot stop his eyebrow from raising, nor his tongue. “It seems at least one member of your family knows good manners.”

“You must excuse us, father, we have to go.” she hastens to say, but as soon as she takes one step, her father grabs her arm.

“Don’t run from me, kori. You have been knowing, yes? More than usual.” and then his hands rise and fall once more. “Trees wail. Leaves are bleeding. The doom, kori. The doom is near.”

PART 2

thank you so so much for reading!! 💕 💕

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blakeswritingimagines · 3 months ago

Text

She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy

Summary: Going out to the country to spend the summer with your grandparents wasn't ever new to you... but the new cute ranch hand is.

Warnings: Pining, Slight use of Y/N, Blowjob, Outside sex, Protected sex, Some dirty talk, Talk of round two.

Word count: 4.2k

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire characters nor do I claim to own them.

He crossed his arms standing across from you, his muscles flexing softly under the sunlight as he looked you up and down, he smirked a little as his eyes landed on your figure again. He took his time checking you out as you arrived to stay with your grandparents for the summer, he had a pronounced southern accent, and he was handsome, not to mention his southern charm. He moved closer to you as he slowly spoke again. “ain’t seen you here before, sugar.”

You felt his gaze running over your body like a caress, sending a shiver down your spine. His southern accent was both charming and captivating, and his muscular frame seemed to radiate masculinity. You tried to keep your cool as you looked up at him, but you couldn’t help the way your heart raced in your chest. “Yeah, I’m just here for the summer, visiting my grandparents,” you replied, trying to sound nonchalant. “And how about you?” "Visiting family, huh?" Zack asked, raising an eyebrow slightly. "Well, ain't that somethin'. It's mighty fine to have some fresh blood 'round these parts." He stepped even closer, invading your personal space just a bit. The heat of his body was palpable, and you could smell the musky scent of his cologne mixed with the earthy aroma of horses and leather. "I'm Benji," he said, extending a large, calloused hand towards you. "Benjicot Blackwood. Pleased to make your acquaintance, miss…" He trailed off, waiting for you to supply your name. His eyes sparkled with mischief and something else - a primal intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.

Your heart skipped a beat as he approached, invading your personal space with his imposing presence. The scent of his cologne and the smell of the outdoors on his skin was overpoweringly masculine, and it made you feel both excited and slightly intimidated. You took his hand in yours, shivering at the texture of his calloused skin against your own smooth fingers. "It's nice to meet you, Benji," you said, your voice coming out a little breathless as if actually looking forward to the summer for the first time since you were a kid. "I'm Y/N." The corners of his mouth twitched into a grin as he shook your hand firmly, holding onto it longer than necessary. "Pleasure's all mine, Darlin," he drawled, "I hope you're planning on stickin' around for a while. This ol' town sure could use someone as pretty as you to liven things up." He winked at you playfully, the sparkle in his eye undeniable. Benji said, grinning widely as he let go of your hand. "I reckon we'll be seein' more of each other around these parts." He winked at you playfully before turning to leave, leaving you alone once again. As he walked away, he threw one last comment over his shoulder at you. "Don't forget now, Y/N, these parts aren't best known for its nightlife, so best be careful where you venture off to this summer."

You grew flustered at his compliment, and you couldn't help but feel a little flustered as he held onto your hand for longer than necessary. You tried to keep your composure as he smiled at you, but your heart was racing inside. What was it about this man that made you feel so off balance? You watched him walk away, your eyes lingering on his muscular form, before he turned to throw one last comment over his shoulder. You didn't know why, but his words only intrigued you.

Every day, that encounter with Benji played in the back of your mind. You couldn't shake the memory of his smile, his scent, his intense gaze. And now, as you walked through town, you found yourself looking for him, unconsciously hoping to run into him again. Your heart skipped a beat as you saw him walking towards you on the sidewalk. He was wearing a tight shirt that hugged his muscular torso and a pair of jeans that hugged his hips in the best way possible. As soon as he spotted you, Benji's grin widened even further. He tipped his hat in greeting and sauntered over to you, his boots clicking against the pavement. "Well, well, look what the cat dragged in," he teased lightly, his voice deep and warm. "Thought maybe I'd see ya wanderin' 'round town today." He leaned casually against the wall beside you, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "What brings you out and about? Plannin' on causin' trouble already?"

You tried to keep the grin off your face but failed miserably. You couldn't help it; there was something about this man that made you smile. "Just enjoying the summer breeze," you said, trying to sound nonchalant. "And no, I don't plan on causing trouble. At least, not too much trouble." You glanced over at him, taking in the way his shirt hugged his muscular body. It was hard to ignore how attractive he was. "Oh, I wouldn't be too sure about that," Benji drawled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. He pushed himself off the wall and stood towering over you, making you acutely aware of your own smaller stature. "Trouble has a way of findin' people who don't expect it." He tilted his head slightly, studying your face with interest. "So, tell me, Darlin, what do you enjoy doin' when you're not causin' trouble?" You swallowed hard as he stepped closer to you, his tall frame towering over you and making you feel small. You tried to keep your cool, but your heart was beating faster than normal. "Well," you began, trying to sound as casual as possible, "I like to read, hike, that sort of thing." You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. "And you? When you're not busy ranching or chasing trouble, that is."

"Ranchin', ridin' bulls, fixin' things," Benji listed off, shrugging his shoulders. "The usual stuff. Nothin' too excitin'." He paused for a moment, his gaze drifting over your face. "But I gotta say, spendin' time with pretty ladies like yourself is always a nice change of pace." He flashed you another wink before pushing himself off the wall completely and straightening up to his full height. "Anyway, I best get goin'. Got some chores waitin' for me back home. But I hope to see you 'round these parts again real soon, Y/N." With that, he touched the brim of his hat in farewell and strode off down the street, leaving you watching after him with a fluttering stomach and a racing pulse. You watched as he walked off, his tall, muscular frame striding away with ease. Your heart was racing in your chest, and you found yourself staring after him long after he had disappeared from sight. You tried to shake off the feeling, reminding yourself that he was just a charming cowboy who probably said those kinds of things to a lot of girls. But still, you couldn't deny the effect he had on you. You knew you'd be seeing more of him soon, and that thought both thrilled and unnerved you.

As the days went by, you found yourself thinking about Benji more and more. You kept your guard up, trying to convince yourself that it was just a simple crush, nothing serious. But with each passing day, you found yourself growing more and more infatuated with him. You tried to push him out of your mind, but he was like a stubborn weed, refusing to be uprooted from your thoughts. The more you tried to avoid him, the more you found yourself in places where you might run into him. It was as if your own subconscious was betraying you. As the days passed, Benji couldn't help but notice the way you would glance his way whenever you happened to cross paths. There was something different about you, something more than just a simple crush. He wondered if you felt the same pull towards him as he did towards you. One afternoon, while he was working in the barn, he caught sight of you strolling past, your hair blowing gently in the wind. He watched you for a moment, admiring the sway of your hips and the curve of your waist. Then, without thinking, he called out to you.

You were walking past the barn, lost in your own thoughts when the sound of your name being called broke you out of your reverie. You looked up to see Benji standing outside the barn, his lean, muscular form illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the doors. Your heart skipped a beat. You quickly composed yourself and walked over to where he was standing. "Hey," you said breathlessly. Benji grinned as you approached, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Afternoon, Darlin'," he drawled, tipping his hat to you. "Been thinkin' about you lately." He leaned against the barn doorframe, his biceps flexing beneath the sleeves of his shirt. "Wonderin' if you might wanna take a ride with me sometime. Out to the river, maybe. It's a mighty fine spot for picnics and such." He winked at you suggestively, his meaning clear. "Whaddya say? Wanna spend some time with me this weekend?" Your heart skipped a beat at his words, and you tried to maintain your composure. Spending time alone with Benji, out in the wilderness, just the two of you? The idea was both thrilling and terrifying at the same time. But you couldn't deny that you were attracted to him, and the thought of spending a day in his company was very tempting. "Umm, yeah, sure," you said, trying to sound casual. "I mean, that sounds nice."

Benji's grin widened at your acceptance, and he clapped you on the shoulder, his touch firm and reassuring. "That's the spirit, Darlin'," he said, his voice low and encouraging. "Saturday mornin', meet me at the stable by nine. We'll saddle up and head on out." He gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze before stepping back, his eyes never leaving yours. "Looking forward to it," he added, before turning and disappearing back into the barn, leaving you standing there, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness wash over you. You stood there for a moment, the warmth of his hand still lingering on your shoulder, as you watched him disappear into the barn. Your heart was racing in your chest as you replayed his words in your head. A day alone with him, out by the river… It sounded both exciting and nerve-wracking at the same time. You smiled to yourself, your mind already imagining what the day might hold. You'd have to prepare, and make sure you had everything ready for the ride. And most importantly, try to calm down your nerves before the big day.

The next few days passed quickly, filled with preparations and anticipation. You packed a small picnic basket with sandwiches, fruit, and a couple of bottles of water, and made sure you had everything you needed for a day out in the sun. The night before the ride, you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, your mind racing with thoughts of what the next day might bring. You tried to calm yourself, to remind yourself that it was just a casual outing with a handsome cowboy, nothing more. But despite your best efforts, you couldn't shake the anxious flutter in your stomach. Saturday morning dawned bright and clear, the sun shining down on the ranch with its usual vigor. Benji was already waiting for you at the stables when you arrived, his horse saddled and ready to go. He greeted you with a wide smile and a tip of his hat, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Mornin', Darlin'," he drawled, his voice warm and inviting. "Ready for our little adventure?" He held out a hand to help you mount your horse, his fingers brushing against yours and sending a shiver down your spine. Once you were settled in the saddle, he swung himself up onto his own horse with practiced ease, and together, you set off across the open plains, the wind whipping through your hair and the sun warming your skin.

You felt a thrill of excitement and nerves as Benji helped you mount your horse, the brush of his fingers against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. The ride through the open plains was a thrill, the wind whipping through your hair and the sun warming your skin. You chanced a glance at Benji as you rode, taking in his lean, muscular frame, the way his hips moved with the rhythm of the horse's gait. You tried to ignore the fluttering in your stomach and focus on the beauty of the landscape, but it was hard not to feel the pull of his presence beside you. As you rode, Benji pointed out various landmarks and shared stories about the land and its history. His deep, resonant voice washed over you, and you found yourself hanging on his every word. The miles seemed to melt away under the horses' hooves, and before long, you reached the riverbank. Benji dismounted first, then turned to help you down from your horse. He led you to a shaded spot near the water's edge, where a large oak tree provided welcome relief from the sun. "Here we are," he said, spreading out the blanket he'd brought along. "Ain't she a beaut?" The river sparkled in the sunlight, its waters crystal clear and inviting. Benji gestured for you to sit down, and you graciously accepted, settling in for a relaxing afternoon by the river.

You felt a sense of peace wash over you as you took in the beauty of the river, its waters sparkling in the sunlight. You sat down on the blanket, your skin prickling with anticipation at the thought of spending the afternoon alone with Benji. He settled down beside you, his body close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off of him. The two of you ate your picnic lunch, chatting and laughing, sharing stories and jokes. The hours seemed to fly by in a blur, and before you knew it, the sun was beginning to sink low in the sky. Benji became increasingly attentive, making sure you were comfortable and had everything you needed. His presence was comforting, and you found yourself drawn to him even more. As the afternoon wore on, the heat of the day began to wane, replaced by a cool breeze that carried the scent of wildflowers and grass. Benji stretched out beside you on the blanket, propping himself up on an elbow to watch you. "You're doin' real good, Darlin'," he said, his voice low and appreciative. "Real good." He reached out, tracing a finger lightly down the side of your arm, sending another jolt of electricity through your system. You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how close you were sitting to him, how easily he could reach out and touch you.

You felt your breath catch in your chest as his finger traced down your arm, sending a shock of electricity crackling through your body. His words washed over you, leaving you feeling both vulnerable and exposed. You tried to keep your cool, but it was hard not to notice the way he was looking at you, his gaze intense and full of desire. You swallowed hard, trying to keep your thoughts from spiraling out of control. The tension between you was palpable, and it was getting harder and harder to ignore. Benji watched you closely, his eyes reflecting a smoldering intensity. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, "You know, I've been wantin' to get my hands on you since the moment I laid eyes on ya." His voice was low and husky, sending a ripple of desire coursing through your veins. He placed a hand on your thigh, his grip firm yet gentle, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just above your knee. "How 'bout we make the most of this beautiful day?"

Your heart fluttered in your chest as he leaned in close, his voice sending shivers down your spine. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, the strength of his hand on your thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your skin. Your mind was racing, torn between the thrill of his touch and the knowledge of what might happen if you let yourself go. You took a shaky breath, trying to find your voice. "What did you have in mind?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. Benji's lips curved into a wicked smile, his eyes darkening with lustful intent. "Well, for starters," he murmured, his voice dropping even lower, "how 'bout we lose these clothes?" He tugged gently at the hem of your shirt, his fingers deftly working their way up to your shoulders. "Seems like a shame to waste such a lovely day all covered up." His touch was light, teasing, promising more than just a simple undressing. The sensation of his fingers on your skin was intoxicating, making you forget everything else except the desire burning within you. You nodded slowly, unable to resist the urge to give in to his touch. "Okay," you breathed out, your voice laced with longing. You lifted your arms, allowing him to peel your shirt off, exposing your bare torso to the warm afternoon air. The sight of his hands on you, the look in his eyes, it was all too much, and you found yourself leaning in closer, craving the contact.

Benji's hands moved with purpose, peeling off your shirt and tossing it aside. His eyes roamed over your exposed flesh, drinking in the sight of the curves of your body. He let out a low growl of approval, his hands moving to the waistband of your pants, unfastening them with a swift motion. "You're gorgeous," he whispered, his voice thick with desire. He pushed your pants down, along with your underwear, revealing the rest of your body to his hungry gaze. You felt a rush of heat flood through you as he stripped you bare, his eyes raking over your naked form with undisguised hunger. The cool air kissed your skin, making you shiver with anticipation. You reached out tentatively, running your hands over the broad expanse of his chest, feeling the firm muscles beneath his shirt. "Your turn," you murmured, tugging at the hem of his shirt. You wanted to see him, to feel his skin against yours, to lose yourself in the heat of his body.

Benji stood up, shedding his shirt with a fluid motion, revealing his muscular torso to your eager gaze. He looked down at you, his expression filled with raw desire. "Like what you see?" he teased, his voice rough with arousal. He kicked off his boots and stepped out of his pants, standing before you completely nude. His member stood erect, throbbing with need, a clear indication of his desire for you. The sight of him, so powerful and virile, sent a wave of desire crashing over you. You reached out, tracing a finger down the length of his cock, feeling it twitch under your touch. "I can't deny it," you admitted your voice a mix of awe and lust. You leaned forward, pressing your lips against his chest, tasting the salt of his skin. Your tongue darted out, flicking over a hardened nipple, savoring the sharp intake of his breath. Benji groaned softly, his hands finding their way to your head, threading through your hair. "That feels damn good," he breathed out, his voice strained with pleasure. He guided your head, urging you to take more of him into your mouth, to taste the essence of his manhood. His hips bucked slightly, pushing his cock deeper into your warm, wet mouth.

The sound of his pleasure fueled your own, driving you to take him deeper, to explore every inch of him with your mouth. You sucked gently, swirling your tongue around the tip of his cock, savoring the salty tang of his pre-cum. Your hands wandered down his body, gripping his ass firmly, pulling him closer to your eager mouth. Benji's grip on your hair tightened as he lost himself in the sensations of your skilled mouth. "Fuck, yeah…just like that," he ground out, his hips rolling in rhythm with your movements. He could feel the heat building, his climax approaching rapidly. With a guttural moan, he pulled back, his cock glistening with your saliva. "Gonna flip you over now," he rasped, his eyes blazing with lust. "Want to be inside you when I come." The thought of him taking you from behind, filling you completely, sent a surge of excitement through your body. You nodded eagerly, turning onto your stomach, and presenting yourself to him. You glanced back over your shoulder, watching as he positioned himself behind you, his cock brushing against your slick entrance.

Benji's eyes met yours, a flash of false concern crossing his face before a sly grin spread across his lips. "Don't worry, darlin'," he purred, reaching over to grab a condom from his discarded jeans. He tore open the packet with his teeth and rolled the latex over his throbbing erection. "Now, where were we?" He gripped your hips, guiding his cock to your entrance, teasing you with the tip before finally thrusting deep inside you in one smooth motion. The sensation of being filled so completely made you gasp, your body arching back against him. You could feel every ridge and vein of his cock stretching you, claiming you as his own. You clenched around him instinctively, your inner walls clamping down on him, desperate for more. "Oh god…" you moaned, the pleasure almost too intense to bear. Benji began to move, setting a steady pace, each thrust driving deeper into your welcoming warmth. His hands explored your body, squeezing your ass cheeks, digging into your flesh as he fucked you relentlessly. "Damn, you're tight," he grunted, his strokes becoming more forceful, more urgent. He leaned over you, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your neck.

You could feel his heartbeat pounding against your back, syncopated with the rhythm of his thrusts. The sensation of his hard body against yours, the way he filled you so perfectly, was overwhelming. You pushed back against him, meeting his strokes, increasing the intensity of the encounter. "Harder," you begged, your voice a needy whimper. "Please, fuck me harder." A feral growl escaped Benji's throat at your plea, his hips snapping forward with renewed vigor. He pounded into you mercilessly, the sounds of skin slapping against skin echoing through the room. One hand slid up your body, cupping your breast, kneading the soft flesh roughly. "You want it harder, baby? Want me to fuck this sweet little cunt until you scream my name?" His words were filthy, his tone commanding, demanding. He pinched your nipple, twisting the sensitive bud, sending jolts of pain-pleasure straight to your core. The combination of pain and pleasure was too much, pushing you closer to the edge. You cried out, your voice ringing with both agony and ecstasy. "Yes! Fuck yes!" You rocked back against him, desperate for more, for everything he had to offer. Your orgasm built rapidly, coiling tightly within you, ready to explode at any moment.

Benji could feel your body tensing, and hear the desperation in your cries. He knew you were close, teetering on the brink of release. He redoubled his efforts, slamming into you with abandon, chasing his own impending climax. "Come for me, baby," he urged, his voice strained with exertion. "Let go, I've got you." His thumb found your clit, rubbing the swollen nub in tight circles, pushing you over the precipice. "That's it, fucking come on my cock." His words were punctuated by a particularly deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt inside you. The sensation of your walls clamping down on him, milking his cock, was enough to send him careening over the edge. He came with a roar, his hips jerking erratically as he spilled himself inside you. The sensation of his cum filling you, marking you as his, was all it took to push you into oblivion. You screamed his name, your entire body convulsing as waves of pleasure crashed over you. You could barely stand, your legs trembling uncontrollably, but he held you up, keeping you anchored to reality even as you spiraled into bliss.

Benji collapsed atop you, his heavy breathing mingling with your own ragged gasps. He remained buried inside you, his cock throbbing with aftershocks of pleasure. Slowly, he withdrew, his spent member sliding free with a slick pop. He turned you to face him, his eyes searching yours, seeking confirmation of what had just happened between them. "Was that okay?" he asked, his voice husky with satisfaction. You smiled weakly, still reeling from the intensity of your orgasm. "It was incredible," you murmured, your voice a whisper. You reached up, running your fingers through his sweat-drenched hair, pulling him down for a gentle kiss. The taste of him on your lips, the memory of his touch, was enough to make your heart flutter. Benji kissed you back tenderly, his lips moving against yours with a rare gentleness. He pulled away slowly, his gaze lingering on your flushed features. "I'd say we're even now," he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He stood, offering you a hand to help you up. "But I'm thinking we might need another round to really settle things."

#benjicot blackwood #benjicot x reader #benjicot smut #benjicot blackwood x reader #benjicot blackwood x you #benjicot blackwood x yn #benjicot blackwood imagine #benjicot blackwood fanfic #benjicot blackwood smut #bloody ben

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jolalibrary · 9 months ago

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him. he. joel.

joel miller x f!reader | joel miller masterlist

summary: you don't know his name. he doesn't know yours. yet.

wordcount: 1.5k warnings: PRE OUTBREAK. a suggestion of alcohol as they're in a bar, but never consumed. smut. unprotected sex with a stranger (at first). oral sex (m!receiving + f!receiving). no use of y/n. no age gap is specified (use your imagination, honey). jo spelling too, cause wrote this on my phone read on ao3

Your eyes land on his across the room.

Throat drying at first contact, feet glueing more to the insoles of your shoes as you focus on keeping your back straight—poised, unwilling to crack or bend.

Especially when he seeks you out over random heads and remains there even when you pretend to look away.

You only see him here occasionally.

No routine, no plan—no arrangement in place, just a chance and encounter.

As soon as you do, the two of you perform the same dance as the time before, circling and circling until the inevitable collision.

He doesn’t know your name; you don’t know his.

But, you do know how his cock feels in your throat. You do know the way his stubble feels on the inside of your thighs—and the grunt he makes when he spills inside of you.

Just like how you know the way his lips feel when he’s zipping himself back up, giving you one last parting kiss before he’s through the door of the bathroom, supply closet or exiting out of the back of your car.

Tonight, it’s another person's birthday.

Ericsson’s maybe? Or a person called Monty—you’re not sure.

You’re just wondering how long it’ll take before the usual routine comes into play.

Will he find you outside, head turned away under the twinkling, milky stars and a cloudless sky before he snaps your attention to him? Or, will his fingers, deft and thick, find your wrist—pull you into a dark corner and slant his mouth across yours to smother your gasp?

Except tonight feels different, something in the air—it is all heavy, layering thick. Some part of you wondering if there are new rules to the game, ones not shared, not handed to you—more so when he breaks away from the rowdy celebrations and leans on the bar next to you.

“Alone?”

“Aren’t I always?”

He chews his tongue, the sleeves of his brown t-shirt clinging to his biceps—parts of the seam unthreaded, likely over-worn.

“You taking me away from here or will we see if my lipstick is still on the mirror from last time?”

All set to move, to slide from your usual bar stool, when he rests his palm on the back of it, caging you, keeping you there. All broad, wide, arms long, as you stare at him, enamoured, suddenly unsure why you don't just press your mouth to his here and now.

“You not like where y’sat?” he asks.

Doing so as though he can’t see the twinkle in your eyes or see the play-by-play movie you hope will happen tonight flicking in your pupils. As though he can't see how he'd struggle to slide a finger between your pressed-together thighs, never mind his hand.

Moving your hand, you bring your glass closer, taking a sip of your Coke, ice clinking, straw remaining on your lip a second longer as his brown eyes dig a little deeper.

“Maybe, I just think your face is worth sitting on.”

You hadn’t banked on going home with him.

A shift, a noticeable change to the way things were. But, it thrilled you. Made the entire ride over an excited, uncomfortable mess as your underwear grew more ruined with every mile.

He’d made it worth it.

Gave you a fucking throne to sit on as he worked his tongue inside you like he was as starved as you. He drew you to the edge, hanging you over it as he paused, cool breaths blown before his tongue did a circle, a square, and a letter on your clit that made your ears ring, vision blur and your thighs ache from trembling.

Made you feel relief.

“All fours for me.”

It's followed by a demand, an order. One you follow with a scramble. A bend of your back that has him calling you a good girl as he inches his cock in—making your fingers clench around his bedsheets.

Your body welcomes him.

A blend of feeling good and too much all at once as you stretch around him. Feeling his palm on your spine, sliding down before moving over your hip. Words spoken, grunted into your skin that you’re barely able to discern as your breathing comes back to you, as you relax around him and let him bury himself to the hilt inside of you.

“Y’can move.”

And he does.

Making your body illuminate, a full-on tremble as you course with electricity. Each drag making you see those same spots in your vision. Making you moan, whine, groan.

That is, until you hiss—a different one than when he pinches your ear lobe between his teeth or when he sucks on the skin of your neck a little more intensely than normal.

You apologise. Tapping to move, finding he releases you, before you explain—Cramp. That’s all you offer. Fearful of crossing another boundary when you move, positioning yourself on your back and letting the low light from his bedside lamp shimmer over him.

And fuck, is he handsome. Beautiful.

The sheen of sweat makes him glow, makes every inch of him quickly committed to memory. Doing so for as long as you let yourself give before you're yanking his mouth back to yours, panted against it when he slides his cock back, pushing all the way, feeling the fullness you crave in the weeks between seeing him.

Because it’s a feeling you’d wait for.

Practically growing parched before you see him again, salivating at the sight of his eyes and hardened stare.

It's a thing you suspect he feels too, virtually confessing it with each thrust, punctuating it, practically marking it on your walls as his arm rests in the space above your head, caging you, allowing him to watch everything that flicks across your face.

It’s why when you wake up in an unfamiliar bed, in sheets that don’t smell like yours—a wish for his name begins burning there on the tip of your tongue now. All acidic—making a mark.

It does so as you find your clothes—as you slip your legs inside your jeans and manage to throw on your blouse.

It’s then you see the photos—stitch together the life your mystery man leads. Seeing that he has a kid, one with a beautiful smile—a child that looks half his and half someone you hope you don’t know.

A sickness churning, flipping inside of you as you slide out of the bedroom, sneak down the staircase and spot the door you can escape through.

It’s just, you know nothing about him.

You don’t know that he likes his coffee black and that he barely eats breakfast. In the same way, you don’t know that he rises early, and he’s already waiting for you because he’d heard the sound of the wobbly floorboards.

“Sneakin’ out?”

“Sneaking implies I’m embarrassed.”

Hand wrapped around a mug—making it look small, insignificant, he takes a sip. “You’re not?”

“Should I be?”

Shrugging, he takes another sip.

You say goodbye. Let the place his name should be linger.

Then you close his door behind you.

Fuck.

You learn his name is Joel.

Each of the four letters practically burnt into you when he handed them to you. Yet, you'd wished he'd seared them into your skin while his fingers held your chin.

Because then you could call it an accident.

But, he doesn't hand it to you that way. He gives it to you. Willingly.

Just like he does with slithers of his past, his work, that he comes here with his brother, and then his kid’s name—Sarah. Explains it in as few words as possible. Better than sitting at home alone. Better company here.

The latter almost makes your lips twitch into a smile.

Joel gives you all of this on a different kind of night than you normally see him. You're working, for one. Pencil tapping against the book, the numbers make sense—the maths finding their rhythm.

But, even if that all makes sense, he doesn’t.

Nothing about him adds up. An enigma, a confusion on two legs. Yet, you’re hooked—knew you were when you took him in the bathroom of the bar your friends own and got on your knees for him. When you unbuckled his belt and let it clang, tasting salt and pent-up frustration on your tongue as he filled your mouth with his release. He didn’t ask to see it, but you showed it to him anyway, earning an arrogant smirk before he’s helping you off the ground.

You tell him yours, exchange him for it as you look down at the books—nudging receipts with the eraser end of your pencil before he leans his forearms on the edge of the bar next to you.

“Already knew that.”

Your head turns before your neck catches up. Eyes narrowed, lips parting in a question—except it never leaves your throat.

“I asked about you.”

Dropping your pencil, you fight the smile. The one desperate to carve on your face. “Why?”

“Right thing to do.”

Brow arching, you smirk—letting that free, allow it to spread up to your eyes as your body twists.

“Y’think you’d wanna get outta here?”

“With you?”

He runs his tongue over the front of his teeth, thumb circling his finger. “Think I owe you dinner.”

Nodding, you close the book—pencil keeping your place, sliding it up, nodding to the person behind the bar before turning back to him.

“You did have dessert the last time we saw each other, Joel.”

“I did. Should know better—I’m a dad.”

Resting your cheek on your palm, you roll your lips, and watch red rise up his neck as he waits for your answer. “Your shirt is inside out.”

“Goddamn it.”

You go with him anyway.

an: I HAVE NEVER WRITTEN PRE-OUTBREAK JOEL. so thank my circle friends because this all began with them, and a faceless man. and now here we are.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x female reader #hbo joel miller x reader

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galebrainrot2024 · 9 months ago

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Oh boy this one is a little salacious and indulgent. Anyway, we're back!

Summary: Inspired by the image below, gender neutral and unnamed Tav and Gale get a moment alone without their companions. Sexually explicit, denial, mutual masturbation, restraint, voyeurism, oral sex

Read on Ao3 | Master List | NSFW18+

Gale strides to the throne, running his fingers over the spines of the books, admiring the unique craftsmanship. “A bit self serving, if you ask me. Anyone who’s well read wouldn’t require such a gaudy display for their supposed knowledge.” You can’t help to roll your eyes in response and he gives a cheek grin. “Am I wrong?”

The rest of your companions returned to camp while you and Gale scourged the wizards tower, looting what you were able and taking the moment to yourselves. It wasn’t often you had time privately and away from the others. Now, here you were - isolated and contained together.

You watch as the sunlight whispers through the large paneled windows, kissing Gale’s skin and feel yourself spark to life, the tendrils of need licking up your spine. Your cheeks flush, tempted as you watch his fingers continue to run over the books, admiring their skill… you swallow hard.

As he drapes himself into the chair and leans back cooly, you feel gripped with the desire to please him, to get down on your knees in front of him and bring him to the zenith of pleasure. To worship him. He reads the lust on your face and slouches a bit cockily, raising a brow and flicks his wrist to conjures a mage hand in a flash of purple hue. He studies the hand for a moment before tossing a wicked grin your way, his pupils blown wide. When Gale speaks, his voice is low - “Are you alright, my love? Your cheeks are looking rather… flushed.” Gale rests an elbow on the arm of the chair and looks at you as if you were his prey, leaning back in the chair languidly and brushes his bottom lip with his thumb. His legs spread as if in invitation, the familiar mischievous glint evident in his gaze. You feel the tingle of your shared arousal course through your veins and your breath hitches. “It’s not often we find ourselves with such privacy. Might I suggest we take advantage of this gift of serendipitity?”

“What did you have in mind?” You breathe, though your body already seems to know the answer. The voracious urge consumes you, the need to entwine your limbs, the carnal ache for the delirium of bliss by his hands.

“Ah,” he chuckles darkly, raising a brow and leans forward. “Quite a few things, and none of them require this…” he gestures to your body, “extensive armor.” He clicks his tongue and the mage hand extends towards you, brushing through your hair. The movement sends a shudder down your spine. Your lips part as the fingers brush the hollow of your neck and skims your hems, begging to unlace and unbutton the fabric that stands between your naked form and Gale.

The erogenous heat fills your center and he watches you come undone, feeding off your desperation as the mage hand deliberately undresses you. The fingers work unhurried, the throbbing between your thighs growing with every light caress and brush. You shudder and try to shoo the hand away when it then grips your wrists together, Gale’s darker appetites seeping through. You gasp, surprised by the firm, sudden moment. He clicks his tongue again, “it’s unlike you to be uncooperative, my love…” the hand tightens around your wrist and he conjures another to begin to undo the rest. You feel your knees buckle and your lips part, wanting.

Whenever Gale was in this mood, you couldn’t resist pushing back against his hubris and the fixation with making you squirm. To deny you pleasure and inch you closer to the edge without quite giving into you. It is a game, and you will not be the first to yield. You feel your heart thrum wildly, this the first time you’ve been alone since the night in the astral plane. Your eyes drink Gale in, the way his robes cling to his form, highlighting the half formed arousal beneath the robes. It makes your mouth water, wanting to taste every inch of him. You again try to work against the hand and are met with resistance. Another manifests in front of you, tracing idle patterns between your thighs before it continues disrobing you. The air is cold against your bare skin as your armor falls away, leaving you standing stark in only your undergarments.

Gale rests back, his head tilted against the chair and you see him stir to life, his eyes frenzied with insatiable need. Gale licks his lips and a smirk dances at the corners of his mouth as he manipulates the hand with deft twists, and you stand dumbfounded - goosebumps rise across your body from the cold and your nipples stand alert. The hand brushes up your torso and up your chest, barely tracing your neck. You shudder and Gale leans forward hungrily. “Is something the matter?” His voice is thick with lust and he bites the tip of his finger as he uses the mage hand to caress your body. You feel the fire bloom within and your core pools with frenzied longing, squirming as the hand finds its way between your thighs. You hear yourself whimper and a plea falls from your lips. Gale leans forward more, his legs spread wide as he rests on his knees.

Your eyes lock on one another, profound craving and an almost punishing thrill of what was to come charging the air between you. Your underwear betray your sweet arousal and the hand barely brushes over your clothed sex. You inhale through your teeth, “Gale please…”

Gale leans back again, one of his hands snaking between his thighs to hold the evident bulge under his robes. “Please what?” He asks, his eyes flicking to the arousal between your thighs and you hear him groan. The wait is exquisite. “Use your words, darling.”

You try and as you do, the mage had around your wrists tightens and begins to push you forward and you oblige. Gale’s legs seem to spread wider as you approach and he leans back, beckoning you. As you approach, your body undulates with torturous need, the arousal between your thighs severe. He flashes his brows and flicks his gaze to the floor before him. You fall to your knees, and he leans forward, taking your chin in his hands and brings his lips to yours. The kiss is lecherous, his tongue forcibly parting your lips to roll over yours. You whimper and moan, squeezing your thighs together and another hand materializes. The hands spread your legs and work one thigh each, your hands still restrained by the first.

When Gale pulls out of the kiss you are both breathing deliriously, his black pupils revealing his craving for more. He stands in front of you and disrobes, the thick bulge in his briefs begging to be freed. Your body responds, lips parted and mouth watering. You lean forward and lick across where his briefs meet his lower torso. His hand holds the back of your head as you do this and a guttural moan escapes him.

Your carnivorous excitement takes over and you grip his briefs with your teeth, pulling them down his body. He laughs darkly, “Very good…” he purrs and you look up at him, eyes wide and eager. Gale sits back in the chair and you are entranced - he releases your wrists and the hands caress your lower body. With your hands freed they find their way to Gale’s thighs and you grip them tightly as your lips graze along in tandem. You can sense the hands massaging your butt, the source of your arousal as if to encourage you to please him.

His pulsating erection demands to be sated and you eye him, your tongue flicking higher and closer to the source of his pleasure. You hear him moan, his hand still lithely guiding your head between his thighs. The saliva in your mouth pools yet before you are able to take him, he pushes your head away. You whimper and feel the hands beginning to massage and pleasure you, your eyes flutter and you hear Gale sigh as he watches you.

Gale’s hand guides you forward now, succumbing to you and you meet him eagerly, your grip firm on the arms of the throne. Your lips wrap around the tip of his erection and saliva pools downward onto his shaft. He grunts and you roll your tongue over the sensitive tip and he squirms as you take him deeper into your mouth. Gale rewards you with a groan and thrust, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat deliciously. You suck as if famished, your voracious thirst for him fueling the skill of your mouth and tongue. The grip on the back of your head tightens and he begins to push harder into your mouth and you feel the hands between your thighs increase their tempo and firmness. You moan against his cock and the vibration makes him twitch, his body slick with sweat as you take him and indulge. You lick across his shaft and fondle the bridge between his ass and penis which causes him to writhe beautifully. You smirk and use your hand to grip the base of him, bringing your lips to meet your hand as you work him.

Gale comes undone, the grip in your hair sending you reeling and the hands torment you, bringing you closer and closer to bliss. Each time you feel yourself close to release, the hands pull back and you cry out desperately, your mouth full of Gale as he retreats. You suck harder, frantic, seeking the full flavor of Gale’s arousal. He is salty, warm in your wet mouth and his movements begin to grow more urgent, volatile. Your jaw aches and tears form at the corners of your eyes and your saliva covers his throbbing erection as he bucks into your mouth. You relax your throat, allowing him to plunge deeper into you and he moans louder, the sound anguishing music as he continues his retreat from your pleasure.

You pull back and you feel Gale’s hand resist and he groans, almost in frustration. He tries to press you back to him and you resist, you grip him tightly with your hand and you gaze up at him as you lick across his shaft. His lips fall open and his head tilts back. Suddenly, you feel a hand manipulate you aggressively, so close to allowing you release that you fold your entire mouth over Gale and he cries out in animalistic pleasure, plunging into your mouth as the hands work you. “Oh fuck…” he grips the back of your head almost too hard, his cock slipping deep into your throat and you moan as the warm, sticky cascade of his climax shoots into your mouth and you suck violently, tasting every part of his pleasure as he allows the hands to bring you to your own rapture while you taste the fruit of your labor.

He collapses into the chair and you onto his lap, resting your head on his thigh - both of your breathing is ragged and shallow, the calm settling between as your breath comes back to you. He brushes his fingers through your hair and across your cheeks and you look up at him. He is flushed and grins, almost sheepishly as you say: “You are full of surprises,” you murmur and kiss thigh before pulling yourself up to kiss him.

It is slow, tender, and you see him thrum to life again. You raise a brow and he shrugs before murmuring, “Well… we have time for a bit more, wouldn’t you agree?”

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emeritusemeritus · 1 year ago

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Squirm, Hellfire Queen [Eddie Munson X Reader]

Title: Squirm, Hellfire Queen.

Pairing: Eddie Munson X Reader {Established Relationship}

Timeline: S4, No mention of Vecna.

Summary: You’re a little uncomfortable at Hellfire Club and Eddie investigates.

Warnings: Mentions of smut, creampies, cum, cumplay, secret relationships. Swearing (it’s Eddie after all). Dustin being my favourite character to write once again. I don’t think ‘Freak’ is mentioned but it’s my own HC that he’s called Richard, in case that comes up. Not beta read nor spellchecked, we die like Chrissy.

"Dude, you okay?" Dustin asks, leaning over the table towards you, earning an immediate glare from the dungeon master from interrupting the game. Dustin holds up his hands in surrender sarcastically, falling back into his seat and focusing his attention back on the game, all under the watchful eye of the seemingly omniscient dungeon master.

A few minutes pass before you move again, adjusting your hips in your seat as you wince subconsciously, earning you another confused glance from Gareth, sitting directly across from you.

"You saw it too? Right!" Dustin speaks out again, clicking his fingers mid air as he turns to you with a questioning gaze.

Heat rushes to your cheeks as you feel a blush bloom over your face at the attention you were unwittingly receiving. You shake your head, trying not to meet anyone's gaze, pretending to focus all of your attention at the game, analysing your character sheet to study your hit points.

You attempt to keep yourself under control, not to draw any more attention to yourself then you have already but only a few moments later your eyes close and you suck in a silent breath, fighting every instinct you have not to squirm in your seat.

Your writhing and obvious discomfort had caught the attention of the dungeon master sat at the head of the table, his gaze focusing in on you as he watches your curious movements. You can feel his gaze blazing on you and so you finally find the courage to look up at him, meeting his gaze.

You thought initially that he would be angry with you, for drawing away attention from his, frankly brilliant, campaign but as you gazed in his eyes, it was clear that not a single ounce of anger was present. Instead, he looked upon with intense curiosity and intrigue, eyes wide and orientated upon your figure. The table blocked the majority of his view of you, but he watched with interest as you readjusted your hips in your seat, pulling down on your skirt, full lips parted in a small 'o' shape, eyes fixed on nothing in the distance.

When you met his eyes again, your blush deepened, eyes widening like a deer in headlights as you tried to avert your gaze immediately. A smirk tugged at the side of his mouth as he realised exactly what was happening. He took a brief look around at his little sheep around him, each of them blissfully ignorant of what was happening just a few seats down.

"Eddie?" Mike asks gently, trying to get his attention.

"Huh?" Eddie asks, not realising that he had zoned out, lost in his own thoughts.

"We decide to flee," Mike says slowly, gesturing with his eyes to look at the game board below, seeing that there was so way out of the trap Eddie had created.

"Oh yeah man, course," Eddie says, earning a mixture of questioning and confused glances from the boys, and girl, around the table, each of them expecting him to make a bigger deal of it.

"Tell you what, we hang it up right here, next week we begin from this point exactly and you give me your intelligent decision then," Eddie says, clasping his hands together as he sits back on his throne, eyes squinting as he smirks.

"Princess, a word?" Eddie says, using your nickname as he looks directly at you. You nod, silently, laughing gently as the rest of the boys 'ooo' at you, assuming you are in trouble.

They quickly gather their belongings, saying bye to the dungeon master and the princess as they head out the door, leaving the rest of the cleanup to Eddie as usual.

Once he is confident that everyone has dispersed, the dungeon master leaps up from his throne and strides over to the door, locking it from the inside. He turns and fixes his dangerous gaze upon you, a smug smirk pulling at his lips as he begins to saunter over to you.

"It appears you caused a scene Princess," he says threateningly, running his hands along the back of your chair. You open your mouth to apologise but think better of it, no longer feeling embarrassed by your 'issue' now you were alone with the perpetrator.

"I'm not really the one to blame here am I, master?" You snark back, your voice breathy and deep, exactly how you knew he liked it. He cursed under his breath, especially at hearing his title, something he always enjoyed hearing fall from your lips.

"Pray tell, what is causing the fair maidens troubles?" He asks dramatically, leaning down to tower over you, his lips ghosting you neck as he speaks. You were about to open your mouth with another sarcastic reply but instead, decided to show him. You scooted your chain back every so slightly, the chair grinding on the linoleum floor the only sound that could be heard in the silent room.

His gaze immediately fixes on the skin of your thighs, your skirt riding up as you took your seat.

With a dangerously flirty smirk, you open your legs wide enough for him to see exactly what has been causing your discomfort during the hellfire session, your skirt riding even further up with your movement, blocking any obstruction.

He breaths in a sharp breath, curses falling from his lips as his eyes bulge, his gaze fixated on the space between your thighs, showing him exactly what your problem was.

Between your thighs, your panties were completely soaked, melded to your puffy pussy lips, with extra wetness leaking out onto the seat below you, pooling under your butt.

He's frozen to the spot, fixated on the sight before him, unable move, unable to speak.

"Seems like it's more of an 'us' problem to me, dungeon master," you tease, lifting your hand to run one finger over your panties and into the little pool below, feeling the mixture of your arousal and his cum beneath your finger.

"Jesus Christ," is all he manages to spit out, his eyes following your finger diligently as it trails gently over your panties, still sensitive from your activities earlier.

One of the most wonderful things about Eddie is just how much he cums. It's like he's hoarding it, right up until the last second where he unleashes everything he has, flooding you and leaving no doubt to where he's been.

"No wonder you were squirming sweetheart," he says, finally breaking his gaze to look up into your eyes, seeing a smile on your lips that completely knocks him for six. The mixture of your sweet smile, deliciously used body and evidence of his defilement was enough to render him completely useless, brain turning to mush as he looks at you with all the love and adoration he can. His tone is gentle again, using the pet name he favoured for sweet moments, if that was what you would call this. "To think I was going to ask you to stand and address the class," he smirks, shaking his head slightly.

"Yeah something tells me that would have been a disaster, I could barely keep your load in sitting down!" You reply, giggling. His lips part and his eyebrows shoot up as he lets out a strangled groan at your words, your beautiful, dirty mouth always affecting him. "You think the guys noticed?" You asked suddenly, worrying that someone would have caught on to your discomfort.

No one knew what was happening, what had been happening, between you and Eddie for quite some time. You'd been best friends from your first encounter, though the friendship was laced with innuendos, teasing, flirtation and downright mutual pining right from the very beginning. Your relationship had bloomed organically, never having felt so right, but it was locked away as both of your dirty little secrets. You'd become close with all the hellfire club and the bigger friendship group around it and were concerned about the implication it could have on your friendships if you just became 'Eddie's girl'.

You'd been successfully hiding your relationship for nearly 7 months and so far, not a single person had caught on.

"Sweetheart, I say this with all the love and devotion in the world, those guys wouldn't have a single clue about this sort'a thing," he smirks, leaning in to kiss you.

"Two of them have girlfriends!" You reply, breaking away, trying to argue the point. He snorts, shaking his head, leaning in for another kiss.

"Trust me baby, they're clueless nerds," he says with a sarcastic smile.

"As opposed to you... dungeon master," you reply sarcastically. He immediately reaches out to grab you, tickling your sides but he stops when you let out a strangled gasp, thinking he'd hurt you.

"What, baby, wh-?" He panics, causing you to laugh.

"Lets just say, I'm pretty sure I'm empty now," you blush, gesturing down to the chair below you where even more of Eddie's cum has leaked out in your frantic movements. He bites back a groan again at the scene before him and immediately looks up at you with a smirk.

"Can't have that can we sweetheart? Just gonna have to fill you up aaaall over again."

"Promises, promises," you smirk, pulling him down for one last kiss, before attempting to stand up, your face twisting into a grimace as you do. Eddie offers his hand out for you and helps you up onto the seat, his eyes flicking to your now unoccupied chair and he tries to fix the image to his memory for later use.

"We really need to start using condoms," you mutter, feeling the sticky residue clinging to your lower half, frowning at the state of the chair. You were on the pill, so no risk there, but situations like this were growing ever more frequent... and uncomfortable.

"Blasphemy!" Eddie mutters, pulling you in to him arms as his ringed hand comes to play with your hair and your jaw. You laugh sweetly at his outburst and he chuckles deeply to himself as his eyes wonder over your face.

You both pull away and immediately set to packing away all the game pieces, books and sheets that litter the table, both ready to be out of this room.

You grimace as you walk over to a cabinet at the side of the room, the wet clothes becoming increasingly uncomfortable as you bend down to reach for a pack of antibacterial wipes which are stored in the little cleaning cupboard. You make quick work of cleaning up the chair you'd defiled and can't help but laugh with Eddie as he sees just how many wipes it takes to clean it up.

Throwing the used wipes in the trash, you look over to Eddie who has packed everything into his cardboard box and is waiting for you.

You pause, weighing up your options before bending down and peeling off the wet panties, feeling an immediately chill as your bare pussy hides underneath your skirt. Eddie doesn't bother to hide his groan as he sees you take off your panties, before stuffing them inside your lunch bag so that they wouldn't ruin any of your notes.

"You're telling me, I've got to walk these halls, get across the car park and drive us all the way home, knowing that there's nothing under your little skirt?" He groans, pulling you towards him as you walk closer. You immediately feel the telling bulge pressed against you as he holds you tightly to him, causing you to smirk.

"That depends," you tease, running your fingers over his neck, making his breathing deeper and shaky with arousal.

"On what, Princess?" He asks, eyes blazing.

"We could wait... tease each other slowly and let it simmer until we get back to your trailer where you can have me however and wherever you want," you tease, your mouth pressing kisses to his throat as you speak, smiling as you feel his bulge jumping and throbbing at your hip. "Or, I could offer you some relief right now..." you say, pouting your lips in such a way that he knows exactly what you mean. "Though, if you can't wait, I can't promise that I can wait till we get home to play with my little pussy myself."

"Fuck," he curses, followed by a near painful groan as he takes in your words, his entire body shaking to try and calm himself. He reaches down to adjust himself completely without subtlety and groans again at the slightest touch. "Van. Now."

#emeritusemeritus #emeritusemerituswrites #eddie munson #Eddie Munson x reader #eddie munson smut #stranger things #Hellfire club #Eddie Munson masterlist

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feyascorner · 11 months ago

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as the snow falls

summary. years after becoming the vampire ascendant and harnessing the endless power he’s always wanted, the loneliness of his throne brings him to reminisce about the only person who’d ever cracked the surface of his frozen heart.

so why not visit them disguised as someone else?

warnings. angst, little to no comfort, bittersweet, this is kinda long

pairing. astarion x GN!reader

a/n. happy holidays everyone! I thought about making a fluffier fic but what’s better than holiday angst!! this takes place years after the game where Tav/reader breaks up with astarion once he becomes ascendant btw!

He hated fresh snow. At this time of year, he left the palace more often, leaving deep footprints that ruin its perfect evenness. He preferred when it was stained with blood, but then again, he preferred anything over untouched snow.

So when he sits up from his bed, which is far too big for one person, he sighs irritably at the snow falling softly on the other side of the window. His voice awakens the woman beside him, who rubs at her eyes, her other fingers grazing at the two identical puncture wounds at her neck.

To be quite honest, he'd forgotten she was there. He only notices her when she revels at what he's staring at, letting out a shrilling gasp. “My Lord, it’s snowing! How beautiful.”

Judging from the way she oh so comfortably addresses him, he figures she’s one of the newer servants in the palace. Any other half witted person would know to keep their head down and leave quietly, but not her. While it would bother him on any other occasion, he doesn't bother reprimanding her as his mind fails to supply him the words. He doesn't even know her name.

“Get out,” is all he says, voice an octave deeper than usual. There's a slight pause before she scrambles to climb out of the bed, finally having had some sense knocked into her. He only glances at her right as she shuts the door, eyes only noticing how her hair is the same shade as his late lover.

When he turns back to his window, he remembers how your hair had looked softer than hers. He remembers the way it had felt when he ran his fingers through your strands, and the way you'd smile in that enchanting way of yours. The way he'd let you run your own hands through white curls in return, immersed in a world where only the two of you existed in that cruddy tent while the very real problems of the outside world didn’t weigh as heavy as they usually did.

He pulls the curtains closed.

By the time he gets to his throne room, the palace is already wide awake. While Cazador’s operations had run themselves mainly during the night, Astarion was different. He could bathe in the sun all he wanted and would only come out glowing, and he'd abuse that to his full advantage. He was not afraid of the sun, because they were not the same.

They were not the same at all.

As he paces by the servants, they all hush down, quietly returning to their busy schedules as they prepare whatever housework they'd been assigned to. When he perches on his throne, he looks down at all of them, eyes narrowed at each of their movements. He’s not truly paying any of them any attention, except for the occasional ones who have the same shade of hair as the servant this morning. Those ones have puncture wounds on their necks.

Even if their blood tastes vile in comparison to yours, it’s the closest he can get.

Finally, something truly catches his attention. If he didn't have such keen ears, he wouldn't have heard the few in the corner, whispering.

“The heroes are celebrating the restoration of the city at Elfsong tavern tonight!” one says excitedly. “Do you think Master will go see them?”

“No, certainly not,” another responds. “He rarely meets them anymore, does he? Shame. I would love to see them in person before they leave. I heard a few of them won’t be coming back for a while.”

“Surely we could go ourselves?”

“Well,” one ponders. “If we hurry with all our assignments perhaps we can make it in time…”

Astarion snaps back into attention when a male servant approaches him, admittedly with a swallow of his throat. “My Lord.”

“What is it?” he snaps, thought it surprises even himself how harshly it came out. Not that he cares.

“T-the entire first floor has been scraped clean, my Lord. The second floor, twice,” he stammers, eyes looking anywhere but at Astarion’s face. While it first boosted his ego seeing others cower in fear, now it just irritates him. “Of course, we haven't touched the left wing, as you instructed, but there were some worries regarding the dust collecting in the main bedroom there, and-”

“The left wing will remain the way it is until I orderwise,” Astarion responds immediately, then pauses. “Tell the others to rid the yards of snow.”

The servant’s eyes go wide. “But my Lord, it’s still snowing…and there's already a few inches—to clean it would just result in the snow piling again-”

“I won't repeat myself, child.”

He is not like Cazador. Not at all.

As the servant stumbles away with a frantic nod, Astarion’s gaze drifts towards the windows again. He’d had them installed the second he took possession of the palace, refusing to keep its walls in darkness any longer. He'd torn off the curtains, wallpaper, decorations, and replaced them all with new ones—ones that were more to his liking. It was an entirely new Palace, and yet…

The only place he'd left untouched was the left wing. He knew the servant’s words came from reason. The left wing was surely to rot away at this rate, being left unoccupied for so long. He hated the way it had no windows, the way the curtains were the same blood red shade Cazador had favored, and how the hallway was only dimly lit with a few candles.

He closes his eyes.

He remembers your voice so clearly, he might’ve mistaken you for standing right before him. “Once we kill Cazador, isn't this place yours?”

He had raised a brow. “Perhaps. Why do you ask?”

“Maybe you can make this place more pleasing to the eye, I don't like how dark it is now.”

“Really? I am curious as to what you would deem admirable interior design. Perhaps I’ll give you a portion of the palace to yourself, my dear.”

He snaps his eyes open.

He truly hated when it snowed.

He looks down at all his subjects once more. And this time, he found the isolation of the throne eating at a heart that he no longer had.

——

The snow doesn't stop, even as the sun sets.

And while he detests himself for doing so, he finds himself entering Elfsong tavern, where the night’s just begun. After hours of contemplation, convincing himself he had no reason to join the celebrations of common folk, he thinks of course you of all people would celebrate at a mere tavern over a lavish party with the rich. Of course you'd prefer to listen to a less than pathetic excuse for a bard than a musician with years of experience.

He curses that humble streak of yours as he steps into the building with a disguise spell. He’s still an elf, handsome but not as much as his ordinary self. His hair is a shade of chestnut brown, eyes in a different color than his usual as well. It’s enough to pass as a different person.

He doesn't have to look around long, because someone bumps into his shoulder, yelping an obnoxious ‘ow!’ before turning to him. And while Astarion contemplates a more violent outcome for daring to cross a vampire, he quickly stops when he sees a familiar wizard.

“Sorry about that. Have a lot on my hands right now,” Gale apologizes with that annoying smile of his before rushing back to his table with the two drinks in his hands. It’s crowded in the tavern, but none of it stops Astarion from spotting you in an instant.

Gods above.

That same shade of hair framing your laughing expression is all he can see. Gale sets the drinks in front of you and Shadowheart, and the vampire makes out your thanks from the way you mouth the words before taking a chug from it.

You’ve matured. Your hair is styled differently than he remembers from a few years ago. The way you carry yourself is different too. And you seem more comfortable under so many gazes—all of which he wishes it were only his.

You look happy.

A part of himself hates you for it.

But when he dwells on the feeling a moment too long, he realizes it’s more directed to himself. Because while you sit there with that beautiful smile on your face, surrounded by your companions and the admiration of the city, all he has is the cold grips of his throne, where all he seems to think about is blood, and more importantly, you.

Enough, he thinks. He's making a fool of himself. He's sure you'd rather not see him anyway, after the poor falling out the two of you had. And he's not sure what he'd do if you came too close to him, which is also something he'd rather not test.

But then, you stand up. You wave something at the others before pacing across the tavern toward the back door. Astarion doesn't even have to will his legs to move before they're halfway across the door, trailing after you.

When he finds you again, you're ankle deep in the fresh layer of snow behind the loud tavern, in the otherwise quiet city of the night. You're staring at the sky as a snowflake lands on your nose, and you make no moves to wipe it off, instead you breathe in, and then out, leaving Astarion to stare blankly from the shadows.

“You can come out, you know. I promise I don't bite,” you hum, and a lump grows in his throat. Still, he does.

“It’s cold,” he says.

“It is,” you smile, oblivious to who you're speaking to through the disguise. He simultaneously wants to reveal himself and hide in the shadows. “It’s nice though. I've always loved snow, and this might be my last chance to see it in Baldur’s Gate for a while.”

He stares at the way your breath steams against the freezing air. “Have plans of travel? Surely a hero like you would prefer to stay in a city of people in your debt.”

“Adventuring, probably,” you shrug, turning your gaze back down to the snow. “I’ve done what I can here. No reason for me to stay.”

The selfish part of him flares, though it seems to be most of him nowadays. Him. He should be the reason.

His brows furrow. “You won't be coming back?”

“Probably not for a while. This city holds a lot of memories, and not all of them are ones I'm rather fond of,” you sigh. “I just wish I could've helped more people, but I suppose life just doesn't work out the way you want it to.”

He raises a brow. “How ambitious. I would think saving an entire city is enough for at least a few lifetimes.”

“Well,” your voice drops. “There was one more person I really wanted to help. One that I lost.”

He remains quiet, eyes glued to the way you kick at the snow.

“I should have guided him better. Should have let him know that he was enough. Not because he was some all powerful being, but just because he was him. I thought—” your nose crinkles. “—I thought I'd been helping him, by encouraging him any way I could. But that tore us apart, and I'd do anything to go back and fix it.”

To be in that tent again, to hold you close again, to love you again.

“Sounds like a lucky man to receive such endearing words from you,” is all he manages.

You snort, laughing a bit. “I was the lucky one to have ever met him. I just wish our time together hadn't been so short.”

And as you hold out cupped hands to the sky, gathering the snow, Astarion feels his chest go impossibly tight when you finally meet his eyes. Gods, had he missed them. “I wish we could've seen the snow together. The first snow in the morning, when nothing’s touched it and it’s just a perfect even layer. I think he would have liked it.”

“I’m sure,” he says. “I’m sure he would've enjoyed watching the snow with you.”

You smile again, and he forces down the urge to pull you closer right then and there. To remind you that you can have all that, and more. He could give you everything, the world be damned. He could have you sit on his lap in the throne of his palace, and fill your head with hushed promises of love and praises, holding you tight to his side with one hand and wine in the other.

He could forget about how cold the throne feels.

Instead, he only watches you step out of the snow and pace towards the door leading back to the tavern. And as you open the door, you glance back at him. “Aren’t you coming in?”

“I ought to return home. I have quite the night ahead of me.”

You tilt your head. “Shame, I was hoping to buy you a drink for listening to a complete stranger for five minutes.”

Astarion offers a slight nod. “Perhaps next time, I’ll take you up on that offer.”

He hates the churning inside of him as he realizes this is your final farewell. This is the last time you’ll give him your full attention, and he detests the way all he wants to do is to convince you to stay. To realize he can offer so much more than the rest of the world. That he’d ruin the world for you.

But when your smile softens, he stops himself again. He curses the effect you have on him. “Next time, then.”

And then the door shuts closed.

He stares at it for a long time, waging an internal battle where he struggles to gather his composure relentlessly until he looks away and turns his attention back to the snow.

He breathes. Not because he has to—because he doesn't—but because it finally allows his shoulders to relax.

The air is cold in his throat.

Somehow, from here rather than the view from his bedroom, the snow doesn't look so bad.

#astarion ancunin #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion #bg3 x reader #fluff #angst #bg3 #bg3 tav

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rosemaryblossomworld · 5 months ago

Text

Reaction. That throne belongs to me!

The characters' reactions to Y/n's phrase, during the hearing, "Go to hell! That throne belongs to me! Not some drunken half-blood! I am the purest blood of the Targaryen line!" (The reader is the daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon, but she is introduced as Laenor's daughter).

✧.* Y/n: She's tired of being treated like a bastard. And they forget that she is the pureblood heir to the throne. She knew Laenor wasn't her father, and the whole court knew it. The older she gets, the more she resembles her own father. Now it's her turn to defend herself and her family!

✧.* Rhaenyra: She didn't expect the argument over Driftmark to turn into an insult to her children. The princess thought it foolish of Vaemond to draw the court's attention to her children's appearance. Her boys might not have taken on her features, but here was her eldest daughter! Rhaenyra was happier than ever, rejoicing that she had slept with her uncle that night and that they had a beautiful child. She stood behind her daughter and felt protected.

✧.* Daemon: He smiled. He had seen his daughter lose her temper for the first time, but the way her eyebrows furrowed and her jaw clenched, her posture and her clenched fists reminded him of himself as a teenager. His little princess had become a warrior, ready to repel any attack. The prince gripped the hilt of his sword tighter, preparing to cut off the head of anyone who dared to harm his child.

✧.* Alicent: She squirmed and tried to hide her excitement, but she chewed her lips and discreetly peeled the skin off her fingers. She looked at Aegon and realized that she could only brag about the fact that he had white hair and light eyes, the same as Y/N. She closed her eyes, trying to escape the situation.

✧.* Otto: gritted his teeth. For long months he had planned Y/n's death; she was a true heiress, just like Rhaenyra, and she had interfered greatly with his plans. The man was just glad that both heiresses were women! No one would choose them! But when he looked into the eyes of the young princess, glowing with dragon fire, his courage slowly faded.

✧.* Vaemond: He remained silent, realizing that he had said a foolish thing, directed at all of Rhaenyra's heirs, forgetting the young white-haired beast!

✧.* Rhaenys: She just nodded and smiled in agreement. She knew that Y/n wasn't Laenor's child, but he had raised her and she saw his words afterwards as 'her granddaughter'.

✧.* Jace: grinned contentedly. He watched the faces of the nobles change, and it made him want to laugh! He panicked as he noticed Vaemond looming menacingly over his sister. He looked over to see Daemon clutching his sword, so he followed suit, ready. He wouldn't let anyone hurt his sister!

✧.* Luca: pressed his lips together, he didn't like this 'event' from the beginning. He was unsure of many things. The boy feared for his older sister who had moved away from them and was already in the middle of the throne room.

✧.* Baela: clenched her fists and was ready to come out and stand next to Y/n, but Rhaena grabbed her under the arm at such a bad time.

✧.* Rhaena: She just held her sister back and looked at Y/N to make sure she was okay.

✧.* Aemond: Only a blind man would not notice his smile. He was looking at this doting figure standing opposite the great, angry Vaemond, ready to attack the old man. In all the years he has known this storm, she has never ceased to amaze him. Maybe that's why she's his favorite.

✧.* Aegon: He was only smiling drunkenly and wanted to end this "game" quickly. A jug of good Dornish wine awaits him in his chambers, and perhaps a meeting on Silk Street. If Y/n became the heir, he would be doubly happy, since he had no interest in the throne. He had talked to his mother about it and was ready to give the throne to his younger brother, but for some reason he refused.

✧.* Helena: She felt uncomfortable. There were too many people and too many emotions, so she blinked a lot and made a face. And the situation itself didn't bother her much, she had lost the point of this meeting long ago and was somewhere far away in her thoughts. She often dreamed about Y/n, but until now she couldn't understand the meaning of her dreams.

୨⎯ ୨⎯ 𝒷𝑜𝓃𝓊𝓈 ⎯୧ ⎯୧

"Or is the problem that I am a woman? Or the fact that your significant other, Otto Hightower, will not be on the throne?" Y/n glared defiantly at the man sitting on the throne.

"I would ask... "The man pursed his lips unhappily.

"What if I told you something that could close those two points?" the princess smiled.

"What could it be, silly girl?"

"Let's see... I spent the night with Prince Aemond Targaryen!"

The court erupted in shouts of indignation and surprise.

As Y/N stood next to her mother, she looked into eyes full of surprise and fear.

"What are you..." Rhaenyra couldn't get her thoughts together.

"What? You're the one who said we should team up with the Greens, I found a quick way" Y/N hummed and shrugged.

Daemon couldn't help himself and laughed all over the hall.

#hotd #house of the dragon #x reader #aemond x reader #daemon targeryen x reader #daemon x reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond fic #jacaerys x you #rhaenyra x reader #alicent hightower #reaction x reader

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yesimwriting · 5 months ago

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Noble Only in Blood

A/n house of the dragon rewatch era <3

Summary: There are very few things you wouldn't do in order to save your brother.

Warnings: me writing for a character for the first time, targaryen incest (reader is rhaenyra's daughter), reader is described as not looking like her brothers and having valyrian features, forced marriage, slight miscommunication trope (i know,, bare with me😭)

----

In times of crisis, it is instinctual to hold onto what is dear. If one has reason to believe that a thief has crossed their path, it is logical for them to reach into their purses and pockets, to make sure that what they care for most is still safe. That same impulse is what guides your hand forward, your fingers curling around Lucerys's shoulder.

After a breath, you realize that Luke has allowed himself to shuffle back, a subtle acceptance of your attempt to comfort him. That startles you more than the sudden appearance of a familiar face. Luke's distaste for what he considers 'sisterly coddling' has grown steadily over these last few years, the threat of war only amplifying his desire to shed the last few layers of protection you're able to offer him.

"It's alright." The response borders on hollow, your voice ringing flat in your own ears. You press your lips together. So Aemond beat your family to Lord Borros. That's...That means very little in the grand scheme of things. You and your brother came here to present an offer, not to begin a war. "You are here as a messenger, not a warrior."

He nods once, eyes still trained on your uncle. Even though Luke's in front of you, his stiffness is reminiscent of a time in which a conflict with Aemond meant running to you, meant attempting to hide behind you until you could either tell him off or call for your mother.

Aemond takes a measured step forward. "Really? Is that what you're calling your attempts to steal my brother's throne?"

There's a muted sharpness in Aemond's voice that feels distinct to anything you've seen from him before. This is not a burst of fury fueled by petulant indignation, this is a flash of a rage sustained by an all engulfing flame.

Your fingers press into Luke's shoulder. The sooner he's returned to the sky, the better. "I was only offering an explanation."

"The ever honest princess." Another step. "I have had enough of your brand of honesty."

Your lips briefly part before pressing together again. There is no worthy response, not with the way Aemond's watching you, expression too unforgiving to be about today. Something small and familiar attempts to dislodge itself from your throat, an echo of the apology that failed to salvage any friendship between the two of you years ago.

There's a beat of nothingness that serves as a form of recognition. Aemond straightens. "While I am accustomed to your self righteousness and defense of Lord Strong, even you cannot think you'll get to walk away after what you both attempted."

At that, Luke straightens, shoulders lifting in a way that encourages you to release him. "Leave my sister out of this." He steps forward, planting himself firmly between you and Aemond.

"Luke."

He doesn't look back at you, but your tone does seem to remind him of the importance of deescalation. "I am not going to fight you."

"No. That would be no challenge." Your fingers curl into your palm with such tension you can already feel your nails imprinting your skin. Aemond raises an arm, hand moving to pull off the patch that covers his lost eye. "I want you to pluck out your eye as payment for mine."

Luke shuffles back, head snapping in your direction. His eyes only find yours for a brief moment before he's straightening to face Aemond again, but it's enough for you to see the dread tinging his put together demeanor. His lips parted, his brows furrowed. That same little boy that always trusted you to know how to stop a game from going too far.

You squeeze Luke's arm, a silent promise, a guarantee that you'll--that you'll what? That you'll return him to Arrax unscathed? That you'll find a way to save him? This isn't the same as the faults that were dismissed as an unfortunate yet dismissible consequence of childhood roughhousing.

Blood has been divided, the rightful succession questioned. The children of rightful heirs have faced worse than what Aemond is attempting. Political divide changes things. Standing on the brink of war, you have no defense. There is no predetermined safe territory for you to rush Luke to, and yet...

"You are not taking my brother's eye." The authority bleeding into your voice provides a lifeline. You have nothing to stand on, not here, and yet the firmness of your statement manages to pulse through you.

Aemond presses his lips together, a sharp smile that's too cruel to be reduced to something as simple as sarcastic briefly taking over his expression. "Sister. Brother." He lets out a breath, radiating an assurance that turns your stomach. Aemond turns his head, his full attention falling onto you. "Surely you've seen your own reflection."

The jab should fall flat. As the only one of your mother's children to be born with features that reflect a more traditionally valyrian appearance, snide comments implying that your brothers aren't truly your brothers are far from new. Even if they're right, it wouldn't matter. Your brothers came from your mother, same as you, and even that isn't the only reason you care for them. They're your family. However, Aemond's smugness makes the comment hard to bear. He's indulging in the power he has over the two of you.

"Call him what you'd like," you say, "You're not going to touch him."

Aemond tilts his chin downwards to make it easier to watch Luke. "Do you always need your sister to defend you?"

Luke lifts his chin slightly, shifting his body forward. "There is nothing to defend. We're leaving."

The excuse to end this interaction offers you a wary sense of relief. You're not convinced that Aemond will be willing to let the two of you pass so easily, but Luke's presented an excuse to allow everyone to walk away before tensions can rise further.

Luke steps away from you, making a point to walks towards the left. Once he's a few paces away from you, you start to walk away as well. You keep your eyes trained on the back of Luke's head, as if that will keep the window from closing.

"I am owed a debt."

You turn on your heels. Luke's farther away from Aemond now, a fact you're grateful for, but now you're practically directly in front of him. The proximity throws you more than it should. The last time you were next to Aemond, the two of you were still friends. He's--you're not sure you've ever noted how tall he's gotten.

You press your lips together, dismissing the feeling. If anything, his height is just another reminder that no part of the boy that used to read with you in the library remains in him. "It will not be paid with my brother's blood."

The silence between the three of you is heavy. A part of you thinks the safest course of action might be grabbing Luke and making a run for it. An escape attempt that hasty comes with its own risks. Aemond is more determined than you've ever seen him. And you can't even truly blame him for his anger, for his hatred.

Aemond has to bear the consequences of a moment's mistake for the rest of his life. Luke took his eye, and when you defended him, you stole his trust. But allowing him to hurt Luke is the kind of cruel justice that resolves nothing.

"Aemond, I'm sorry," the genuineness of the statement knots your stomach, "About what happened." You pause, not completely sure where you're going with this. "You didn't deserve it, but that doesn't change the fact that you're taking advantage of a situation. This isn't justice it is...abuse."

He's quiet, and for a long moment you start to think that you've tugged at the wrong thread and now everything's going to unravel.

Aemond steps forward. You force yourself to stay in place. Luke's a few steps away from Aemond, and if things change that might--that might mean something. "How virtuous." His focus weighs on you enough to force the air out of your lungs. "Then tell me, my princess, how do you suggest the debt be paid?" Aemond takes another step towards you. He's so close now that you have to tilt your chin upwards to hold his gaze. "I wonder how noble you'd be if you yourself were on the line."

The meaning of his words take their time to sink in. Something hard lodges itself in your throat. You swallow in an attempt to dislodge the feeling. "My-My eye?"

"No, little good would come from it." He studies your features with such an openness you have to resist the urge to shrink in on yourself. All you have is your ability to stand firm. "You're worth more unscared." Aemond lets out a breath. "Maybe a wedding is what this family needs."

"What?"

If Aemond thinks anything of your shock, he gives no indication of it. "Marrying Rhaenyra's daughter will only strengthen my family's claim to the throne." The accuracy of the statement turns your stomach.

Noble women are regularly married off as solutions for these kinds of conflicts. It's a way of unifying dividing lines. You do not desire war, nor do you think a hypothetical marriage between you and Aemond would truly fix anything. However, the thought of being used as a political pawn to aid your mother's usurper, makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

Aemond also detests you. Marriage is more often than not about duty. Your mother has never kept that from you. The only thing she's ever assured you of is that when the time came for you to be wed, your match would be compatible. A happy marriage does not begin with love, it begins with respect and an understanding of your duty.

Anything Aemond's trying to force you into wouldn't be that. This is about vengeance, about hurting you and your family even if he has to bind himself to you to do so.

The two of you are trapped. You have no allies, no significant weapons unless you count the two dragons that stand no chance against Vhagar, and you are standing in front of someone demanding to hurt your brother. If this is the only way to guarantee your brother's safe passage back to your mother...

"If I--if I agree...you'll forgive my brother of any debt owed?" The question makes something in your chest ache. "You'll let him go?"

There's a beat in which Aemond's eyebrows seem to draw together, but he returns to neutrality so quickly you're not sure if you've imagined it or not. "You have my word."

"No," Luke's voice is right in your ear. It's his turn to grab your arm. "You can't have her."

"Luke..." His fingers wrap around your forearm, his hold on you growing more desperate. "Luke--listen to me."

He shakes his head. "No." Luke straightens his shoulders, something determined flashing behind his eyes. "No, I can't let you do this."

You turn, placing your free hand over his arm. "I will not risk your safety." He begins to protest again, but you stop him, "Go home and explain the situation to Mother." Luke places a hand over yours, a final attempt at convincing you to try anything else.

"Yes," Aemond echoes, "Go and tell your mother that the girl you consider a sister has to pay for your debts."

Luke turns his head. Despite no longer being able to see his expression, you can feel his anger. "Luke." His stillness is not enough to distract from the fight behind his eyes. "Do you trust me?" It takes him a moment to look away from Aemond, but once he does he nods. "Then I need you to go."

He doesn't exactly relax, but he does let out a breath. You pull your hands away from his before enveloping him in a hug. "It's going to be alright." It takes him a moment to think to place his arms against your back. Luke squeezes you in a way he hasn't in years, holding onto you like you're his entire world. "I will see you again."

You carefully shift back. Luke follows your lead, letting his arms fall to his side. "Yes," he says, eyes briefly shifting back to Aemond, "I will."

"Okay." The word feels fragile. "Go back, be safe."

Luke's eyes are glossy as he nods. If things were normal, he'd playfully scoff at your warnings. "I will see you again."

You nod, and Luke finally turns. He walks away, towards Arrax, towards safety. Whatever was keeping you steady seems to leave with him.

You're allowed a brief moment of silence, of grief, before Aemond speaks. "We'll ride back before the storm begins." In your panic, you had not noticed the clouds overtaking the sky. You think of Luke, riding back alone in the rain. Aemond sighs. "Your sacrifice has not been in vain, it will be some time before the skies make a turn for the worse."

Aemond's ability to read you digs at the back of your mind. It'd bother you more if his reassurance was less needed. You're not sure you can trust your voice, so you nod blankly.

He begins to walk forward. You cannot will yourself to move until Aemond's already ahead of you.

The sight of your dragon quells the loneliness hollowing your chest. Your family is far from you, but Starfyre is still by your side.

Not only are you glad for Starfyre's comfort, you're also thankful for the control of being able to ride on your own. A small part of you is also relieved for the excuse to avoid Vhagar.

You've loved dragons for as long as you can remember, and you've been wary of the larger ones for just as long. It's not exactly a fear, you've just always felt the need to admire them from afar. Even as a child, before Aemond had been able to claim Vhagar, you only wanted to observe her from a safe distance.

No one's comments have ever been able to make you wish that Starfyre was different. Her smaller frame makes you feel more in control when you fly, the two of you melding into one as you approach the skies. She's swift, too, her size allowing her soar through the sky like an arrow that never misses its target.

"I'm sure you'll find a way to keep up on that...runt of yours."

How dare he? He knows what Starfyre is capable of more than most. As a child, her speed fascinated him. A knee-jerk reaction is forced past your lips, "The last thing about this arrangement that should concern you is wether or not Starfyre can keep up."

Aemond pauses, turning to face you. Instead of attempting to insult Starfyre again, he asks, "And what should concern me?"

His words are tinged with a cruel sharpness, a silent warning to watch yourself, to not make threats you cannot follow through on. "You should be concerned that you are full of such spite, that you are willingly entering a union with someone that you have detested since--"

Aemond takes a step forward. You shift towards Starfyre, placing a hand against her side. "Since the day I lost my eye?" Another step. "Since the moment you lied to my father to protect Lucerys after what he did?"

The reality of what happened that day hits you in the chest with enough force to knock the air out of your lungs. Your vision begins to blur. "He's my brother, Aemond."

"And I was your friend." The words come out hard and fast, his voice nearly breaking on the final syllable.

The honesty cracks something in your chest. Helaena, who you loved, often left you in favor of a world that you couldn't always follow her to. The other boys, who had once let you run around with them, outgrew you. But Aemond--Aemond was always yours.

Aemond scoffs. "You cannot pretend that what you did was enough to make me loathe you. I wrote to you." The letter, one detailing his new reality and desire to speak with you, has been a secret of yours for years. You've kept it tucked between the pages of your favorite book, only taking it out to reread in the middle of the night, with the rest of your family fast asleep. "And you never wrote back."

You blink in an attempt to clear your vision. "I did." The confession burns as it crawls up your throat. "But I couldn't bring myself to send you a raven."

"Because this--" Aemond moves forward in long strides. He's directly in front of you before you can think to move. He turns his head, making it impossible for you to not see his scar in its entirety. "I repulse you."

Is that what he thinks? You remain unflinching, allowing yourself to take in his scar and the appearance of his sapphire eye openly. "No." There has to be some way to put it into words. "I-I couldn't bring myself to speak to you. After the way we left things--After what I had done--I was repulsed by myself." You cut yourself off with a shaky breath. "Accepting your friendship after what I had done felt--cruel."

Aemond straightens. For a brief moment, there is only you, him, and the wound that lies between you. Then his expression's fiery edge morphs into something made of stone. "Ever the martyr."

The insult lacks any significant bite. You let your thumb brush against Starfyre's side, relishing in the comfort of her presence. "Better a martyr than someone so desperate for gratification, they are willing to hurt themselves in the process of earning it."

Ranting at him feels hollow, a motion you're going through for the sake of doing something. Aemond seems to sense some lack of fight in your phrasing, or maybe he's growing tired of this. "We should go," Aemond turns away from you, "The weather's changing."

Even though he's no longer watching you, you nod before returning your attention to Starfyre.

----

a/n this was really fun to write, but it was getting long so i decided to break it up, if you're interested in a part 2/would like to be tagged pls lmk :)

also!! if u have any hotd thoughts in general pls feel free to send me them <3

#aemond targaren x you #aeond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd aemond #aemond x reader #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd imagine #hotd x you #house of the dragon fic #x reader #aemond targaryen x targaryen! reader #x targaryen! reader

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azrielsdove · 11 months ago

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Til Death Do Us Part: Rhysand x Reader

Warnings: Longgg, angst, smut, 18+

***

The glittering lights above shown like stars down onto you. You spun in a slow circle, taking in the dangerously beautiful ballroom. This was the first time you were allowed to attend one of the High Lords parties. You had always longed to come, but your highly old fashioned father did not think it appropriate for you to attend. You were not sure what changed his mind this time, but you certainly weren’t going to argue with him.

You smoothed your hands over the blue velvet of your dress, admiring the way it looked under the lights. For the first time you felt beautiful, ethereal, desirable. You had heard about the deadly handsome High Lord, fingers tingling with excitement at finally getting to see him. Not that you expected him to pay any attention to you.

Yet there was no harm in daydreams.

The large doors to the room burst open, commanding attention. You turned to see everyone drop to a bow, dutifully bending to your knee as well. You kept your head politely pointed at the ground, listening as the High Lord and his closest warriors crossed the great room. You waited patiently until you heard; “Rise.” The cold, indifferent voice sent a shiver through you as you stood. You looked up to the dias where the High Lord sat, lightning shooting through your spine when your eyes connected with his.

You froze in shock, unable to tear your gaze from his. The cruel violet eyes bore into your own, a mixture of fear and excitement running through you. The High Lord was looking at you.

He finally moved his gaze away, beckoning Keir up to his throne. You lowered your head and walked to the edges of the room, grabbing a delicate glass of wine on your way. You stood near the wall, observing the others dance and drink around you. You were so engrossed in your watching that you didn’t notice the large shape press in next to you.

“Hello there.”

You whipped around so quickly you nearly spilled your wine, rendered speechless by the male standing next to you. He was gorgeous. You regained enough sense to politely bow your head, a soft murmur of “My Lord,” falling from your lips.

“How beautiful that sounds coming from your mouth.” He mused, enjoying the way a blush spread through your cheeks. What is happening? you thought to yourself, unsure of how to continue. The High Lord gave a dark chuckle, continuing; “Oh, darling. What is happening, you ask?” Your eyes shot up at him in surprise. He could read your mind? He laughed again. “Loveliest thing, what all have they kept from you? Hiding you away all these years?” His words were dripping in honey, deadly sweet.

You regained some composure, taking a small sip of your wine. “Forgive me, My Lord. I am not so used to the customs of Court.” You spoke politely, hoping you would say the right thing. His eyes twinkled at your response, a smirk on his face.

“Then I shall teach you.” He said, holding his arm out for you to take. You bowed your head to him again, setting your glass on a nearby table before sliding your hand into the crook of his elbow. It was dangerous to play this game with the High Lord, especially when someone knew as little as you.

He lead you to the center of the ballroom, ensuring all eyes would be on the pair of you. His hand came to circle your waist, the other sliding into yours. You placed your remaining hand on his shoulder, heart racing. You knew how to dance, having been primed to be a perfect, delicate high fae wife. That was not what made you nervous. What made you nervous was the look on your High Lords face as he gazed down at you.

He looked like he wanted to devour you.

The music began, a dark, sensual tune. The High Lord led you around the floor in an elegant dance, body pressed tight to yours. “Why have you never attended before?” He asked, cocking his head slightly. You gave a demure smile, playing the role you were trained to.

“My father did not think it appropriate for a female to attend such an event.” You answered, voice light.

The High Lord looked at you curiously. “Plenty of females come, it’s a prime event to find the best male to be married off to. I am simply surprised your father would not want such a delicious thing as you to find an advantageous match.”

Your cheeks colored again under his words, not used to hearing such things. “I am sure he knew what was best for me.” You replied softly, allowing the High Lord to twirl you out and back.

“Mmm.” He mused, looking down at you. “Perhaps so.”

The music ended with a sharp note, the High Lord keeping a tight hold on you. He took a step back, offering you his hand. You took it with a respectful nod of your head, following him as he led you up to his throne. He sat, motioning for you to place yourself on his lap.

You let out a politely embarrassed laugh, telling him; “My Lord, I do not think it would be appropriate.”

There was a brightness to his eyes, something that was peaking out from the cold exterior he presented. “Nonsense. I am the High Lord, no one would dare say something. If you are worried that you may not seem like a well-bred match anymore, do not. I can personally match you to anyone of your choosing.” He spoke, gesturing to the room full of fae. “Now sit.”

Heat rose in you at his tone, placing yourself delicately on his lap. His arm wrapped around your waist, hand settling on your hip. His other hand came up to slip just an inch under your dress, tracing the high strap of your heel on your ankle. You took a calming breath, not wanting him to see how his touch affected you.

“What is your name?” He asked, smiling when you spoke it. “Beautiful.” He murmured, leaning closer to trace his nose against your neck. Fire flared through your body, your hand gripping onto his shirt. You knew that you should not be acting like this, that you should have politely declined the High Lords offer to sit up here.

His teeth grazed your neck, all thoughts vanishing from your mind.

You felt the hand on your ankle move up ever so slightly, a smile against the skin of your neck. “My Lord,” you breathed out, trying to regain some sense of self. “This is highly inappropriate.”

He answered by biting down where your shoulder and neck met, eliciting a loud gasp from you. Your mind went blank, the only thought in there was of him doing that again, again. “Do you think I care?” He drawled out, sinking another bite into your skin. The hand on your leg moved steadily up, passing over your knee. You were going to burst into flame.

“ENOUGH!” A voice bellowed through the room, ripping you out of the haze of lust the High Lord had created. You turned to see your father striding up the steps to the throne, anger visible on every inch of his body. You moved to jump away from the High Lord, mortified. His grip tightened on your waist, keeping you there.

“Why do you think it’s acceptable to barge up here and raise your voice at your High Lord?” His voice was cold, flat. He was annoyed with your father. You felt a shiver of fear run through you at what he would do, at what they both may do.

Your father scoffed. “When he is defiling my daughter in front of any match she may make. Who do you think will take her now, after watching her whore herself out for you?” He spat his words, fists clenched tight.

“Hmm.” The High Lord mused, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. “She didn’t seem to have any argument.”

“She wasn’t raised to argue, she was raised to wed an acceptable match! If you have no intention of being her betrothed, High Lord, then you can get your hands off her!” You wanted to shrink at your fathers words, embarrassment coursing through you.

“And who’s to say I don’t plan to wed her?” The High Lord spoke, voice commanding the attention of everyone in the room. You stiffened on his lap, digesting the words he just said.

“What are you saying?” Your father demanded, his voice inquisitive.

The High Lords hand gripped onto your thigh under your skirts, pressing kisses to your neck. “Who’s to say I don’t plan to wed your daughter? You say you want an acceptable match, am I not acceptable?” The words were cocky, teasing. He knew your father would not deny an offer like this. To marry his only daughter off to the most powerful High Lord of all time? It did not matter that everyone knew he was a cruel man, your father didn’t care about you. He cared about what it would bring to the family, what a match like this could do for him.

“Very well then, High Lord. If you are serious about wedding my daughter, let’s plan a wedding. Soon. Very soon.” Your father said, wanting to ensure a marriage before the High Lord could lose interest in you.

“Yes,” he said, waving your father off. “Now leave us, so I can celebrate this news with my bride-to-be.”

***

The wedding was set for three days time. You couldn’t deny that you scared, terrified even. Yes, the High Lord was a beautifully handsome man. You could certainly do worse in that regard. But he was cruel. Now that you were due to marry, your mother set to teaching you all there was to know about him. A large part of which included dreadful tales of the horrific acts he has done.

Your father had promised you to this?

You shouldn’t be so surprised. You knew he would marry you off to the first respectable male to look your way. You supposed any of the other males of the Hewn City wouldn’t be much better, and certainly wouldn’t come with the prestige of being the High Lords wife. You hoped that secretly he was kind, that maybe he would be a good husband.

You sighed, gazing at yourself in the mirror as the seamstresses worked around you. They were pinning delicate white fabric over your body, creating a dress that your mother decided was good enough for the High Lord. The dress was very modest, long sleeves and a high neckline. You weren’t sure this is what he would have picked, but you were not going to get into it with your mother.

A knock on the doorframe diverted your attention from the reflection in the mirror, turning to see violet eyes looking back at you. “Hello, Darling.” He drawled, stepping into the room. Your mother tittered, upset that he was seeing your dress before the wedding. The High Lord walked a slow circle around you, observing the fabric thrown over your body. “No.” He finally said, looking to your mother. “This won’t do.” She looked taken aback that he would even have an opinion, but nodded politely.

“Of course, My Lord. What would you prefer her to wear?” She asked, failing to hide her displeasure in the situation.

“Let me show you.” The High Lord replied, a teasing smile on his face. You watched as your mothers face paled at the image he broadcasted into her mind. You had learned of his Daemati powers in the onslaught of information your mother threw at you, understanding now how he was able to be inside your mind. You tried to clear your mind of the fears you were having at the thought, hoping he wouldn’t notice them.

Your mother nodded, saying; “Whatever you wish, High Lord.” She gestured for him to show the seamstresses, so they could work on the new design. In the next second the fabric was off of you, replaced with a shimmering silver. The seamstresses started pinning the dress together, turning you into an object of desire. You stared at your reflection in shock, fingers trailing over the thigh-high slits and deep v the High Lord had decided on. Your eyes shot up to find his in the mirror, the violet bright.

“Now that is what I expect the bride of the Night Court in.” His tone was teasing, the almost permanent smirk back on his face. You couldn’t tell if the shiver that ran through you was from dread or lust. Is this what your future was going to be?

***

The wedding day came much too quickly. There was a flurry of activity around you, everyone moving in a blur. You sat at the vanity, countless fae making you over. Your hair was done up, sensual makeup covered your face, and delicate silver jewelry decorated your skin. You looked in the mirror, almost not recognizing the stunning high fae looking back. This was who you should be now. Perfectly made up, as the High Lord says.

Was one evening of dark seduction worth the rest of your life?

After the deal had been made, your father had left the two of you. The High Lord had not made any further moves on you, instead whispering sweet nothings into your ears, plying you with more wine. You had felt thrilled that night, running on the feelings he was giving you and the wine you had drunk. Sober, and away from him, you were aware that you could be heading into a terrible and dangerous future.

A knock on the door tore you from your thoughts, standing as your mother entered the room. Her gaze rolled over you, taking in the delicately sexy gown on your body, the way you had been remade into a deadly beautiful queen. A perfect match for the Lord of Night. “It is time.” She finally said, lips pressed tight together. “Let us go.”

You trailed after your mother, no love shared between the two of you. To her you had fulfilled your purpose, marrying very well for the family. She did not care how deadly the High Lord was, she did not care about the horrible things he had done. He was the High Lord, and her daughter was marrying him. She had succeeded. There was no further time to be wasted on training you.

She paused before the great iron doors, turning to look you over. “If he prefers his wife to look like a whore, you’ve certainly succeeded.” She sneered, eyes judging. “Do not mess this up for us.” She looked you over one last time, scoffing at your appearance. Then she was gone.

You were alone.

Standing before the doors, about to walk through and pledge yourself to the High Lord of the Night Court for eternity. You half thought about turning and running, but where would you go? He would undoubtedly find you anywhere you went, and what would he do to you then? You felt suddenly sick, willing the thoughts away. You could do this. You held on to the little bit of hope that a kinder male lay underneath, and the doors opened before you.

You walked to the elegant march, taking in the massive crowd in front of you. All of the Hewn City was here, at least. You kept your head up, finding the High Lord at the end of the aisle. Your heart sped up at the sight of him. Damn it all, no matter what he had done he was beautiful. The most striking male you had ever seen. Your eyes moved to the side, taking in his large warriors. The General, and the Shadowsinger. They were just as dangerous as the High Lord himself.

It wasn’t like the Hewn City wasn’t full of its own dangers, however. You knew this place was a pit of Hell to others, a place where evil thrives. Perhaps a life with the High Lord would not be any worse than a life with any other male. You had been prepared for this, made to be a dutiful wife. You lifted your head higher, a demure smile appearing across your face. The right amount of excitement for a lady to show on her wedding day.

You reached the bottom of the steps, leading up to your High Lord. The General was waiting, an arm extended to assist you up. You gave him a grateful smile, noticing a secret light in his eyes. You held tight to his arm, hoping you could ground yourself before you stood in front of your soon-to-be husband. All too soon you reached the top of the stairs, the General depositing you in front of the High Lord.

“Hello, Darling.” He spoke, hand reaching out for yours. You smiled politely at him, placing your hand in his. “You look exquisite.” His eyes were smiling, different than the cunning one on his face. He held you in front of him, turning to the High Priestess next to him.

“Let us begin.”

At his command the Priestess launched into the marriage ceremony, countless prayers and vows repeated. The High Lord wrapped his fingers around yours, eyes locking to you. “I vow to be yours, and only yours, from now until forever. I vow to give you the best life, a life you have dreamed of. I vow to love you until the end of eternity, as long as the stars shine in the sky you will be mine.” You were shocked by the sincerity in his voice, the hope in his eyes.

You took a breath, beginning your end of the ceremony. “I vow to to love and serve you-“ the High Lord cut you off.

“Not the ones you were groomed to say. Speak from the heart, my darling.” His voice was soft, only able to be heard by you. You swallowed thickly, beginning again.

“I vow to do what I can to keep you happy, to keep you loved. I vow to care for you until the end of the universe, until you and I are little more than dust in the wind. I vow to be dutifully yours, for now and for always.” You were surprised by the truth behind the words, the way you felt you could do those things. The High Lord may be a male you hardly knew, but something inside was telling you it would all be okay. Call it naivety, it was all you had.

You felt a slight burn on your arm, looking down in time to see black swirls swim up to your elbow. You watched as the same swirls went up the High Lords connecting arm, bonding the two of you together. It was done. There was no going back now.

The High Priestess led a final prayer, completing the union. “High Lord, you may take your bride.”

Your cheeks colored at the wording, realizing what was in store for you. The High Lord seemed to notice the panic in your eyes, squeezing your hands reassuringly as he leaned close. “Nothing you don’t want.”, he whispered into your ear, “May I kiss you?” You nodded, one of his hands coming up to cup your face while the other settled on your waist. His lips pressed gently to yours, lightning flowing through your body. He was delicious. He was everything.

All too quickly he pulled away, turning you to face the court. “You shall kneel,” he commanded, a mischievous look on his face. He looked at you one last time, smiling as big as can be.

“Kneel, in front of your High Lady.”

***

High Lady. High Lady. High Lady. The title circled around your mind again and again, the stunned silence of the Court after he announced it deafening. Yet they had kneeled, all of them. They had bowed down to you.

You sipped your wine, wanting this celebration to be over. You did not know where you would go after this, but you were tired of the looks being shot your way. Judgement, anger, shock, fear. The High Lord had declared you as his equal, as deadly and dangerous as he. You turned to him, your husband, beginning; “My Lord-“ He stopped you.

“Rhysand, darling. Please.” He said, his hand laying gently over yours. You nodded, still not sure how to approach him.

“Rhysand,” you tested the name on your tongue, “how much longer must we stay?” You hoped the question didn’t come off as rude, you were just exhausted from the day.

He laughed.

“We can leave whenever you would like. Just say the word.” He squeezed your hand. You weren’t used to choice being given to you.

“May we leave now?” You bit your lip, awaiting his answer.

“As you wish.” He whispered, before dark wind enveloped the two of you.

You stumbled at the landing, looking around. Your eyes shot to Rhsyands, confusion visible in every inch of your face. He smiled, leading you to the balcony overlooking the glittering city below.

“Welcome to Velaris.”

***

He gave you your own room, leaving you alone that night. There was too much new information to decipher. Velaris. Rhysand. He wasn’t the cruel, dark thing that prowled the Hewn City. He had his real court up here, this magical place. You felt betrayed, you felt embarrassed, and you were in awe. Your mind and your heart were arguing, caught in a war between sense and emotion. How could he have such a perfect existence up here, leaving you to suffer in the Hewn City? You knew a wide majority of the citizens down there were cunning and evil, sure to destroy this place. But not all. You had met a few friends down there, a few kind souls. Not everyone who was raised in that Hell was a part of it.

You sat in front of the vanity, burying your face in your hands. Rhysand had done everything to protect the citizens of Velaris, while at the same time cursing those in the Hewn City. You knew if you had grown up here, this whole marriage would have never been. No parent in Velaris would force their child into an eternal union, certainly not one with a male all believed was evil and cruel.

You pulled your face out of your hands, looking at your reflection. You looked identical to the way you had before the ceremony, and like you had lived a thousand lives since. You sighed, beginning to remove the countless pins in your hair.

What had you done?

***

Rhysand sent for you bright and early the next day. If you were being honest, you had no interest in seeing him. Unfortunately, the obedient part of you made you go. You rose, dressing in the silky pants and top he has set out for you. Was he to dress you for all eternity?

You rubbed sleep from your eyes as you headed into the dining room, thankful to see it was just him. He gave you a cautious smile, reading your emotions all too well. “Hungry?” he asked, patting the seat next to him. You said nothing, but sat as he wished. He started piling food on your plate, decedent breads and fruits. You were the furthest thing from hungry, but in the nature of submission you began to bite at a strawberry.

Rhysand sighed from next to you, sorrow filling his face. “You do not understand the choices I have to make.” He said, his voice tired. You hummed in agreement, not yet willing to speak to him. He allowed the silence to grow, waiting for you to break it.

After a bit of terribly awkward breakfast, you stood from the table. “I am done. Thank you.”, you finally said, turning to walk from the room.

“Wait!” He called out, grabbing your wrist. “Please let me explain.” His voice was a whisper, a plea.

As hurt as you were, the soft part of your heart won. “Fine. Explain.” You said, trying to ignore the way your skin felt on fire under his touch.

“Come.” He said, pulling you behind him. He took you back to the balcony you had arrived on last night, standing proud over its city.

You wanted to cry at how peaceful it was.

Rhysand saw this, his grip on your wrist loosening. “I understand why you may be upset with me,” he began, your eyes snapping to his. “The Hewn City is a dark place. It is a place no good heart should ever be. When I saw you at the ball, I knew you didn’t belong there. I felt-“ he stopped himself, shaking his head. “Never mind. I know not all of the Hewn City is evil, though it is not easy to find those truly good in there. My cousin, Mor, you know she came from there.” You nodded, knowing well of The Morrigan. You were not yet born when she left the city, but the tales of what happened to her were used to scare young ladies into submission.

“I wish you had never suffered down there. I wish I had found you sooner.” His hand rose as of to cup your face, dropping to his side as he thought better of it. He looked at you expectantly, pleading for you to speak.

“I was not raised to care for what is fair or not,” you started, turning to look back over Velaris. “I was raised to behave, to respect everyone around me. I gave up on hoping for a better life many years ago, understanding this was the way fate had meant it.” Your hands gripped on to the balcony in front of you.

“And yet, I stand here now and overlook this paradise of yours.” You spat out, decades of anger rising. “This home you have had this whole time, knowing what it is like down there.” You turned to look at him, shame visible on his face. “What kind of a High Lord are you, then? Are you the kind and gracious one the people of Velaris believe you to be, or are you the cruel one the people of the Hewn City know you to be?” You watched your words stab into him, his eyes flaring with anger at them.

“You have no idea what I have done to keep them safe.” Rhysand said, his voice deadly.

You scoffed. “And what have you done to keep the innocents of the Hewn City safe?”

“I have rescued you! You could thank me, you should thank me!” He roared, looking like he wished to take the words back immediately.

You stood in front of him, cold and strong. “You may have taken me from there now,” you said, voice calm. “But you did not save me. I needed to be saved fifty years ago, Rhysand. Do you not see how they have broken me? How they have primed me into their perfect little servant? I was raised to be a dutiful wife. If that is what you want, I can fulfill you. Do not ask any more of me than that, for I fear I will only disappoint.” The emotion began to choke you, coming out of nowhere.

You didn’t know who you were. You had nothing, the only thing you knew was to be an obedient slave, catering to the will of everyone else.

You turned and ran, leaving your husband standing on the balcony.

***

You were embarrassed by your outburst. It has gone against everything you were taught, a lady should never argue with her husband. You couldn’t explain where the confidence to speak to him like that came from, the anger that shook your body. You stayed in your room the rest of the day, hiding away until it was late at night.

You crept out of your room once you were sure everyone was asleep, heading to your best guess of where the kitchen may be. You stilled as you hear voices the further you got down the hall, Rhysands and an unknown female. You knew it was wrong to spy on him, that he could easily catch you.

That didn’t stop you from sneaking closer to the room you heard the voices coming from.

“You know it is a dark place, Rhys. I do not understand why you are so shocked.” The female said, annoyance lacing her tone. You reached the room they were in, peering through the crack in the door. Your breath caught as you realized it was his cousin, The Morrigan. The one from all those stories. She stood strong, beautiful blonde hair cascading down her back. A power radiated from her, a sign of what she had overcome. You tore you gaze from her to observe your husband. He looked tired, a sense of sadness coming from him.

“I didn’t expect her to be so angry here. I saw her there, that night, and it clicked. I didn’t think that I wasn’t saving her,” he scoffed at his own words, “but condemning her to a life knowing she hadn’t needed to suffer. That I allowed her to suffer down there. Who else have I forsaken?” His hand rubbed over his eyes, exhausting evident.

His cousin walked closer to him, setting a hand on his arm. “It is a big adjustment,” she spoke softly, “coming from there to here. The realization that evil isn’t all the world has to offer you. She will come around. Your heart may be foolish, but not without a good cause.” She gave a soft laugh, turning to the door. You jumped, knocking into the wall. They both turned to look, not that you saw. You were already running the rest of the way to the kitchen, hoping you could whip up something quick enough they wouldn’t suspect you.

You were watching the pot boil when a sound came from being you. You whipped around, holding the ladle like a weapon in front of you.

Rhysand laughed.

You turned back to the stove, not wanting to get into it with him. You stiffened when you felt his presence at your back, his breath fanning over your neck. You were beginning to despise the way your body reacted to him.

“What are you making?” He asked, looking over your shoulder.

“Soup.” You answered, not wanting to open the way for more conversation. You felt the way he shrunk against your back, his typically cocky attitude gone. You sighed, speaking without turning to him. “Would you like some?”

You didn’t miss the way he tensed against you, a hand coming to rest lightly on your waist. “Oh, no. No, you should eat up. I know you haven’t had food since breakfast.”

You hated the way you wanted to sink into his touch. You nodded, resuming your stirring. A soft silence settled between the two of you, not quite uncomfortable. You turned the stove off, reaching up to grab a bowl. Your shirt rose with you, exposing the skin Rhysands hand laid on. You pushed the feeling rising in you down, refusing to submit to its greedy need.

“I’m so sorry.” He whispered suddenly, lips brushing your shoulder as he spoke. “I saw you that night, and any rational thought left me. When your father approached to yell about marriage, I latched onto it. I never took your feelings into account. I never thought how hard this may be for you. I will never force you to stay here, please know.” His grip tightened on your waist, like his body didn’t agree with his words.

“I’m sorry too.” You said after a few moments, breathing unsteady at his proximity. “I do not understand why you made the choice to keep these courts separate, yet. I am sure I will as time goes on. I would like to help get the others out, the good ones. If you would allow me.” You were about to turn to take your bowl to the table when his lips connected to the bare skin at the bottom of your neck. He was gentle in his kisses, each one placed almost lovingly.

“You are the High Lady. What you say goes.” He whispered against your skin, the hand on your waist sliding to your stomach, pressing you close to him. You gave a breathy sigh as he lightly sucked a sensitive spot on your neck, your body hot. “I can’t control myself around you.” His words were heated, the hand on your stomach drifting to play with your waistband. His other hand came up to to cup your face, turning your head towards his. “Say something.” He whispered, desperation in his tone.

You sucked in a deep breath, mind clouded with desire. “Kiss me.” you breathed out, wanting the taste of him. He wasted no time in pressing his lips to yours, starting out slow. Your bowl of soup was left on the stove, forgotten as his mouth attacked yours. His tongue slid between your lips, the sensation sending fire through you. You had never been kissed, never been touched, aside from some lonely nights alone. His hand slid under your waistband, tracing the lace detailing on your underwear. You groaned, leaning into him. “Please don’t stop.” You gasped out, shocking yourself.

He smiled against your lips, his fingers sliding the fabric to the side to swipe through your wetness. “Darling girl, all for me?” Rhysand teased, a finger coming to deftly swirl your clit. You moaned loudly, the feeling so much better than anything you’ve ever done. He sucked in a sharp breath at the noise, quickening his movements ever so slightly. “I need to hear that again.” He said, pressing a bruising kiss to your lips. He slid his finger down, dipping it inside of you. You arched against him, another moan falling from your lips. Rhysand pulled away from you, watching the way your eyes were fluttered closed in desire. “That’s it,” he urged, pressing kisses to your jaw. “Moan for me.” His words were unraveling you just as quick as his fingers, pushing two deep inside you. He moved his hand so his thumb could come up and swirl around your clit, orgasm building inside you. He bit down on your neck as he thrusted his fingers hard, reaching exactly where you needed him. You cried out, hand gripping onto his arm. You forgot where you were, your name, everything expect for him.

“Rhysand, please,” You moaned, him smiling against your neck as he sped up his movements. You were seconds away from finishing, moan after moan falling from your lips. With one final bite to your neck and a particularly harsh swipe across your clit, you came with a scream. His fingers rode you through it, prolonging your pleasure until you were a shaking mess in his arms. He held you as you cooled down, sliding his hand out of your pants.

“Are you okay, my darling?” He asked softly, turning you to face him. You nodded, mind still hazy. He pressed soft kisses to your cheeks, leading you over to sit at the table. He brought you your slightly cooled down soup, feeding you the first bite himself. “You need to eat.” He commanded, handing you the spoon. You ate as he said, body doing whatever he wanted. Rhysand watched as you ate the whole bowl, smiling with satisfaction when you were done. “Good girl.” He cooed, his words reigniting the heat in your stomach. He helped you up, leading you to your room. He tucked you into bed, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips.

“Rest, my love. We have much to discuss tomorrow.”

***

You dreamed of him that night. Of his kisses, his touches. You dreamed of what else that mouth could do, of what it would feel like to fully have him. You woke up hot and aroused, bones aching with need. Embarrassment rushed over you, how had he undone you so completely with just one night?

You dressed quickly, rushing out of your room before you lost your nerve. You went down to the dining room, knowing it was likely the others would be there. You couldn’t hide from them forever, you had decided. You had to make the most of the situation you found yourself in.

You entered the dining room, conversation halting at the sight of you. Five pairs of eyes looked back at you, the attention making you want to turn and run. Instead you held your head high, sitting down next to Rhysand. You cocked your head at him as you took in his amused smile, self consciously touching your face. Howling laughter broke the silence, your head whipping to see the General. “Rhys! You dirty dog!” he laughed, slamming his fist onto the table. You looked back to Rhysand, eyes questioning him.

His fingers came up to your neck, tracing the bite marks he had left last night. Oh. You had completely forgotten about them as your face flushed, tears threatening to spill with your embarrassment. Rhysand tucked his hand under your chin, pulling you to look at him. “Do not shy away, darling. Cassian here has shown up to breakfast far worse than this.” He shot a warning glance to the general, telling him to back off. You were still new to this kind of world.

Cassians laughter drifted off, turning to tease the Shadowsinger about something that had happened in training that morning. Rhysand brought his head close to yours, pressing a light kiss to your lips. “Ignore him. He’s just a great big brute.” You let out a small giggle at his words, not used to anyone speaking so freely. You turned to the food in front of you, gathering what you thought may taste good. You were ravenous, the soup from last night hardly lasting.

As breakfast began to wind to a close, Rhysand turned to you. “These are my friends,” he began, gesturing to the table. “Cassian, Azriel, Amren, and Mor.” He nodded to each as he said their name, your eyes stopping on The Morrigan. She took in your wide eyed gaze, a soft sigh falling from her lips.

“They still tell you what happened to me? Try to scare you from standing up to them?” She rolled her eyes. “Pointless, if you ask me. As you can clearly see, i’m doing better than ever.” She sent you a wicked smile, a promise of what life can be like outside the Hewn City.

With breakfast finished, the others departed to their daily tasks. Rhysand stayed with you, taking in the light color on your cheeks. “Sleep well?” he teased, a hand coming to rest on your thigh. You cleared your throat, jumping a little at the contact.

“Slept great.” You said, standing abruptly from the table. His eyes followed you, full of amusement.

“It is okay to feel desire.” He said, voice quiet. You felt like you would be eternally embarrassed here. You nodded, moving to leave the room. He caught you, turning you to him.

“Hey,” he spoke softly, hand holding the side of your face. “Do not be embarrassed. We won’t speak of it anymore if you wish.” He pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, your body ready to melt into his touch. “Come,” he said, pulling you to the balcony. “I’m going to show you Velaris.”

***

You failed to hide your shock when your husband produced great big wings from his back. He smiled at your face, watching as you stuck out a hand to touch them. Your fingers brushed against the soft leather, a groan escaping Rhysand. He gently grabbed your hand, pulling it away from his wing before picking you up in his strong arms. “Later.” He promised, shooting off into the sky.

You prepared for the fear to rush over you, but awe took instead. You threw your head back, relishing in the feeling of the wind in your hair. You laughed, Rhysands hold tightening against you. He smiled at your joy, pleased at seeing you happy. The flight took a little longer than normal, not that you knew that. He was enjoying your happiness too much, not wanting it to end quite yet.

When you touched down in Velaris, you were stunned into silence. The city was even more beautiful down here. “Rhysand,” you spoke, “it’s beautiful.” He smiled down at you, placing your arm in his elbow.

“Yes, you are.” He said, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. “You can call me Rhys, you know. Thats what I go by to those closest to me.” You gave him a matching smile, squeezing his arm.

“Okay, Rhys. Where to?”

***

You spent the day walking through Velaris, Rhys showing you his favorite spots. You stopped for lunch at a divine little café, a moan escaping you when you bit into the chocolate croissant. The food here was all so delicious.

After a long day of walking around, Rhys flew you back up the house on the mountain. He showed you around there too, ending the tour in his study. He watched as you made yourself comfortable on his sofa, contentment on your face.

“Are you happy here?” He asked, pulling you from the sleep that was threatening to overtake you. You sat up, turning to him.

“I can see myself being happy here, yes. I think I am happy now.” You mused, reflecting over the day you had.

His next question was softer. “Can you be happy with me?” There was a vulnerability in his eyes, something you hadn’t seen before.

You stood, walking over to him and sitting on his lap. “Yes, Rhys. I can be very happy with you.” You kissed him, a hand coming to rest on his neck. His arms circled your waist, holding you tight. You felt this insatiable pull to be with him, to be around him. You felt like you were almost a part of him.

You stayed like that for a while longer, kissing and talking. You stayed with him until you laid your head on his chest, sleep finally taking over. You felt safe, cared for, and protected. You felt like you belonged.

***

You were a little dismayed when you opened your eyes, finding yourself back in your bed. Alone. You pushed off the feeling, certain Rhys didn’t want to assume. You jumped out of bed, excitement taking over. You had planned to do something special for the High Lord today, as a thank you for the day he gave you yesterday. You pulled on a dress, rushing from your room.

You headed to the kitchen, hoping the house had the ingredients you needed. You were pleased when you opened the cupboard to just what you were looking for, pausing for a second to remember the magic coursing through the building. You baked all morning, perfecting the chocolate croissant from yesterday. This was what you had been raised for, to cook and please your husband. Maybe not everything you were taught was useless.

***

You bagged up the finished croissants just like they did at the café, hurrying off to find Rhys. You found him in his study, just like yesterday. “I have something for you.” You said, trying not to let the excitement spill out. He looked up, greeting you with a smile.

“And what is that?” He asked, eyes bright. You pulled the little parcel out from behind your back, setting them down in front of him. He looked at you curiously, opening the bag and inhaling the rich chocolate scent.

“The croissants we had yesterday.” You explained, suddenly feeling a bit foolish. He probably had had those a million times, a typical snack to the High Lord. His smile grew as he pulled one out, taking a bite.

“These are my favorite in Velaris.” He said, taking another bite. “Who flew you down there to get them?” He asked, distracted by the dessert in his hands.

You smiled broadly, thrilled that you pulled it off so well. You watched as he finished the first one, reaching for the second. “No one,” you said teasingly, “I made them.”

Rhysands hand stopped, croissant halfway to his mouth. “What did you say?” He asked, voice deadly serious. You were confused at his reaction, not expecting him to be so upset.

“I made them? Is that okay, I-“ You stopped as stood up abruptly, his hands digging into the desk in front of him.

“Darling,” he said, voice shaking, “have you noticed anything between us?” You looked at him in confusion, not sure what he was talking about.

“What do you mean?” You asked, crossing your arms in front of you.

“I mean, have you felt any sort of pull towards me. One that feels like an outside force is tying you to me, making you need me.” His voice was restrained, his pupils blown wide. You couldn’t help the heat rising in you at his look.

“Oh, well, yea. I thought it was just how you felt with your husband, a constant tug from my heart to yours. It began at our wedding.” Your cheeks heated under his gaze.

“Darling,” he spoke slowly, “That’s the mating bond.”

Your mind was blank.

“That’s why I was drawn to you that night at the ball. It snapped for me the second I saw your face. I took your fathers demand of marriage easily, knowing you were the one made for me. I had only known you an hour, and was already willing to do anything to be with you.” The passion in his voice had your thighs clenching together, lust beginning to overtake your body.

“I wasn’t sure if you had felt it too, waiting until you did. Then, you show up here, feeding me a dessert you made.” He gave a dark chuckle. “Do you realize what you have done?”

You stared at him in shock, understanding written on your face. You had accepted the mating bond, the bond you hadn’t even realized. Rhys walked around his desk, turning you to lean against it. “You need to tell me to stop now if you don’t want this.” He whispered against your lips, hands gripping your hips.

Your breathing was fast, but your mind had finally cleared. “I don’t want you to stop.”

His lips crashed against yours, setting a bruising pace. He picked you up, sitting you on the desk as he stepped between your legs. He groaned into the kiss, your hands tangling in his hair. “Fuck, darling,” he growled against you, kissing down your neck. “I need to taste you.”

Rhys dropped to his knees in front of you, lifting the skirts of your dress. He reached up, ripping the underwear in half as he pulled it off you. You gave a cry of protest, a cry that quickly changed to pleasure as he licked up you. “I’ll buy you new ones.” he growled against you, tongue circling your clit. He raised your legs to rest on his shoulders, his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave bruises. You moaned as his tongue explored you, grabbing onto his hair as he worked you. “You’re delicious.” He spoke against you, tongue thrusting in and out. You moaned his name in response, begging for more. One hand came to slide his fingers into you, his lips attaching to your clit. He sucked harshly, his fingers curling inside of you. You threw your head back in a silent scream, already on the brink of release. “My perfect girl.” Rhys murmured against you, the words tipping you over. You came with a scream, thighs tightening around his head. He licked you through it, your body beginning to shake with overstimulation before he pulled away.

You grabbed his face, pulling it up to you so you could kiss him. You tasted yourself on his lips, moaning into his mouth. “I need you, Rhys.” you gasped out, hand trailing to undo his pants. His head fell to your shoulder, a groan coming from him as you slid him out. You traced your hand up and down him, amazed at his size.

“No teasing, darling. Not tonight.” He growled, biting your shoulder. He brought his face up to yours, pulling you closer to the edge of the desk. “Ready?” He asked, lining himself up with you. You nodded, hand on his shoulder to brace yourself. He started pushing in, inch by brutal inch. You bit your lip, adjusting to his size.

“Rhys,” you moaned as he bottomed out, letting you adjust around him. “I need you to move.” He didn’t give a second to think, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back into you. Hard. You cried out, kissing him again. “Fuck, my love.” you said, arching into him as he hit that perfect spot inside you. He brought a hand down to circle your clit again, heightening your pleasure. You knew you wouldn’t last long, not with the feel of him inside of you. Your second orgasm was approaching far too quickly, crying out as the pleasure overtook your body.

“That’s it, that’s it.” Rhys murmured, kissing you to silence the cries falling from your lips. You were shaking from the two back to back orgasms, certain you were going to rip into two. Rhys didn’t stop his fingers, bringing your pleasure up again. “I know you can take one more, darling. I want you to finish with me.” You whined against him, body exhausted. His thrusts were still hitting you deliciously, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. “So close, my darling. So close.” Rhys breathed against you, his thrusts becoming messy. His fingers worked you hard as he came, spilling deep inside you. You followed him, screaming his name as you clamped down upon him. He brought you back up to kiss him, working the two of you through your orgasms.

After what felt like an endless wave of pleasure, Rhys slowly stilled his movements. You were breathing hard against him, the room spinning around you. He slowly pulled out, resting his forehead against yours. He scooped your tired body into his arms, carrying you across the hall to his room. You were tucked into the bed, Rhys sidled up next to you. You fell asleep against his chest, feeling whole for the first time in your life.

***

You were awoken by a loud banging at the door early the next morning, rubbing sleep from your eyes. Rhys groaned from next to you, grumbling as he slid out of bed and pulled his pants on. He opened the door to reveal Cassian, a smirk on his face. “As happy as I am for the two of you, am I subjected to listening to you fuck for the next week?” He asked, eyes roving over your body. Rhys took note of his gaze, grabbing onto the neck of his friend.

“Look at her like that again, and you have to listen to me fuck her for the next year.” He growled, shoving his friend out of the room. You heard Cassians laughter as he walked down the hallway, Rhys coming back to you. He crawled on top of you, kissing you slowly.

“Shall we give him a show?”

***

Thank you for your patience on this!!!! It diverted from a true “forced marriage” trope, so I will probably use that again for a different character. I really like how this one turned out though!!

As always, please give me all your feedback. I appreciate you all SOOO MUCH <3

#acotar #acotar x reader #rhysand #rhysand x reader #rhys x reader #rhysand smut #til death do us part

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catholicdaredevil · 10 months ago

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disarming || tormund giantsbane x gn! reader

hello all! i haven't posted anything i've written in a while (over a year) but when prompted by my daughter grack i searched back through my google docs and found this fic that i don't think i ever posted so here we go! (also this hasn't been edited lol)

summary: gn! reader kills a thenn and tormund is bricked over it

words: 2k

warnings: violence!!!!!! use of knives, punching, kicking, stabbing, and killing!!!! to be fair it's all canon typical violence for game of thrones but still there's your warning! also short references to nsfw but no detailed action

ao3 link

Warm callused hands framed your face and he leaned in to kiss you.

Except Tormund didn’t kiss you, kiss was too gentle a word for it, he consumed you. Every time he pressed his mouth to yours it was like he was trying to drink you down, overwhelming sensations of nothing but him causing your brain to go haywire. He didn’t give pecks, no small chaste kisses, that was your thing. When you’d walk past him and pause just to creep up on your tiptoes and press a soft kiss to his cheek then carry on with whatever you were previously doing. Sometimes he let you, he knew you liked those gentle kisses, wanted to give you whatever you wanted when he could.

However most times he’d slip his hands into your hair, or around your waist and pull you into him with strength you couldn’t get out of if you tried, tip your head back and deepen the kiss. And if when you finally pulled away you looked dizzy, hair a mess and breathing ragged, then that was just a bonus.

“I swear on–on– on all of the southern gods, every single one of them, that if you ever come near me again I’ll fuckin’ kill you,” your finger jabbed into the Thenn’s chest, loud voice carrying throughout the camp. You can hear the mutters of people gathering around, the syncopated overlapped voices of the other free folk watching, waiting.

“If you didn’t have Tormund to back you up I bet you’d be so much quieter. Maybe you need someone to teach you to be quiet, little one.” He leaned in, voice low and predatory with a grin stretching out the scars that covered his face. Those white lines marking a Thenn that always made a chill run down your spine.

“I need no one to back me up, I don't want Tormund’s help and he couldn’t stop me if he wanted to. You think I would be Tormund’s if I couldn’t handle my own?”

As if he could sense his name spoken from across the way, you hear Tormund walk up, his loud voice familiar enough to pick out of the crowd circled around you and the Thenn.

“What’s going on?” Tormund’s words end in a growl as he finally breaks through the masses to see you.

Your mouth twisted down into an angry frown and the hand not currently inches from the other man’s chest is clenched into a fist and trembling just slightly at your side. He takes the final few steps to get to your side, a glare pinning the man in front of you in place. He had joked before but only a fool didn’t hesitate going up against Tormund Giantsbane. There was a reason he was Tall-Talker, Horn-Blower and Breaker of Ice. Tormund was less a man and more a force, a storm that roved over lands destroying anything stupid enough to get in his way.

Tormund’s hand rests on your shoulder, his body tense in anticipation, always seconds away from swinging a blade at anyone who so much as dares to glare at you and this is no different. You speak one last time before turning to walk off, “I won’t warn you again.”

“And how do you plan to kill me little one? By whinging? Yelling? You couldn’t kill me if Tormund trained you for years.”

His cocky words are enough to break your last shred of patience left and you spin before Tormund can react, stomping across the frozen dirt, fist clenched and ready to throw a punch. Luckily Tormund recovers fast enough to grab your elbow mid-swing and you round on him, ready to yell that you’d had enough of that shit eating grin and he could try to eat his next kill with less teeth.

“You’ll break your sweet little hand on that ugly fucker, here.” Tormund lifts your hand to kiss across your knuckles and pushes a knife into it and nods approvingly, twisting you around to face the Thenn again. You get to watch the smirk melt off the man’s face. This is no longer a game, not even an argument. He has two options now; let you kill him or fight you and have Tormund kill him. There’s no scenario where he lays a hand on you and lives to talk about it.

“I’ll make you a deal. You disarm me fair and square and you win, Tormund’ll let you live. If not, I carve that smirk from your face.” Your head tilts expectantly and the Thenn’s eyes shift from you to Tormund, watching the small nod Tormund gives in agreement before looking back to you.

He grins. “Deal.”

He moves faster than you expected, quick for such a large man, but it doesn’t matter. He swings his hand out to hit you and you duck, adrenaline surging through you as your instincts take over. He’s a fool and a cocky one at that and you’re going to show him. You drop your breathing to slow and controlled, crouching slightly to study him, eyes scanning over his tall form to pick out the best places to strike.

His leg shoots out and slams into your side. Pain blossoms across your stomach and you bite your cheek to muffle your cry, wrapping your arm around his ankle to keep him on one foot. He’s stronger than you and you know you won’t be able to hold him there for long, but you don’t need long. Your blade sinks into his leg right above his knee, twisting before you yank it back out and he tugs his leg from you with a scream. He expects you to attempt to hold onto it, so when you drop it the force of his pull twists him off balance and he has to stumble to catch himself, grunting through the shooting pain the steps cause.

“You’re a fool. You’re a fool and I warned you.” You spit blood at his feet. He looks up to meet your eyes again and there’s a split second where you’re concerned about the rage so clearly shown on his every feature. Taking a deep breath, you force your body to relax, shaking out the tension in your joints and twisting your head until your neck cracks loudly.

The sounds of the crowd have risen, voices overlapping and in the back of your mind you register a familiar voice shushing them all. The man in front of you is too focused on kicks, anything to keep you as far from him as possible thinking his strength lies in his reach spanning farther than your own. He swings a hand and his fist connects with your temple, your entire head rings, vision going blurry and black around the edges and you gasp.

It takes you a moment to catch your bearings, a few stumbled steps and ragged intakes of breath, and that’s all it takes. The bottom of his foot lands solidly on your chest and he pushes with a force that likely cracked several ribs, knocking you to the ground. His own chest heaves with exertion, walking forward to stand over you and you can see the way he struggles with restraint, unused to leaving an enemy alive after a fight.

He opens his mouth to speak and hesitates at the last second. Blood trails down your chin, shadowing a grin that gives him pause in his victory, but not long enough to stop the words from falling out of his mouth. “Fair and square.”

“I said disarm me,”

He puts the pieces together too late.

The knife still clutched tightly in your hand that wrapped around where he stood slices through the back of his ankles on both feet and he drops with a scream. Crumpling to the ground, the Thenn grabs at his bleeding feet, attempting to staunch the blood that flows around his fingers and pours onto the ground below him. You’ve risen to your feet in his panic, swaying slightly as your head gets caught up in the dizzy waves of a concussion. Luckily your adrenaline still pumping through your veins is enough to keep you standing long enough for him to look up at you and lock eyes one last time.

Your knife finds its home in the small space between the side of his collarbone and neck, right where it’s still soft and relatively easy to drive it as far in as it will go. You push until the heel of the knife clinks into bone and he finally collapses below you, ripping the hilt from your hand in his fall. He lets out one final choked off gurgle, eyes rolling back and lids closing and he’s dead. His and your blood stains your hands and clothes, a messy watercolor of death.

Now that the fight is over your body threatens to collapse, hands on your locked-up knees to keep from hitting the ground. Eyes slammed shut in an attempt to limit the way the world spins on his axis like a top and warm large arms wrap around your middle to vault you into the air.

The earth shakes below you, but maybe that’s just Tormund in his raucous laughter and shouted words. “I told you all! Mine doesn’t need anyone for anything! Only needs me around to fuck them ‘til they cry!”

Heat blooms in your face at his exclamation to the surrounding crowd, your hand smacking into his shoulder feebly. You doubt that even with all your strength you could do much to the man beyond a bee sting, but he grunts in fake pain at your strike just to indulge you. “I don’t think I need you for even that, I did a pretty good job at doing it myself before you came along.”

“But I do it better.”

His almost crystal blue eyes meet yours and he’s wearing that shit-eating, Tormund Giantsbane, wolfish grin. The one that probably earned him the name Tall Talker if you had to guess. The look is more familiar than even your family and you can’t help but mirror it back at him in your own way, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

“Aye, you uncivilized great behemoth of a man. You do it better.”

Tormund connects his lips with yours, quickly licking into your mouth to deepen the kiss, drinking you down. He gets the satisfaction of the taste of you and the bitter clash of your blood that only spurs him on until his hands are fisted in your shirt and you’re whining into his mouth, almost grinding onto him from your place in his arms.

His hold on you only tightens until he pushes on your cracked ribs and you jerk away from his touch with a broken gasp. You drop your head to his shoulder, breathing slowly through the sharp pain until it passes, slipping back into the gentle throb it sits at as a baseline. Tormund presses a kiss to your forehead, one hand softly running up the line of your spine in comfort, already walking towards your shared home.

“Let’s get those clothes off and I can see just how hurt you are.” He says, pushing aside the door and kicking it shut behind the two of you. He sets you down on the bed delicately, not wanting to cause you anymore pain and you smile up at him standing above you.

“I’m fine really. Well– I might have a concussion.”

“I’ll get you taken care of my pretty little crow. Then I’ll make you cum on my tongue so many times you cry. Seeing you kill a Thenn has me harder than I think I’ve ever been in my life.” Tormund speaks the words like they’re normal, a casual conversation and mention of murder being sexy. Of course you’re sure a big part of the whole sexy-murder thing has to do with his hatred for Thenn’s and the specificity of your victim. Not that you’ll complain, or turn down the offer.

#game of thrones #tormund giantsbane #game of thrones x reader #tormund giantsbane x reader #tormund x reader #tormund giantsbane fic #tormund giantsbane fanfic #game of thrones fic #ezra writes

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necromelli · 11 months ago

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prologue

— tw include but are not limited to: typical hunger games violence, depictions of death & killing, references to alcohol. read at your own risk.

wc: 1k words

you're crowned the victor of the 69th games, the most ruthless tribute in panem history.

In.

Out.

Hold.

That's what Enobaria had taught you. Inhale until it stung. Exhale and let your lungs deflate all the way. Hold until you thought you'd pass out and do it all again.

You opened your eyes to the rewind of the tiny throwing knife getting lodged in the stomach of a girl from six — no, eight. She was from eight, you reminded yourself.

Thirteen out of twenty-four tributes in the 69th Hunger Games died at your hand. The most kills recorded in Panmen’s history. You could feel the thick, sticky blood still burning your hands. Hell, half the time you could see the blood coating your fingers dripping, dripping, dripping onto your marble countertops.

The loud ring of a cannon fire rang in your ears, pleading eyes from the girl slowly dimmed and slacked, her hands that had been in your hair dropped, and she slid from the throwing knife and crumpled to the ground. Lifeless.

The worst part was that you still didn't know her name, even after being out of the arena for weeks. You hadn't bothered enough to know the girl you selfishly killed and laughed about with your allies.

Bile rose in your throat and you sat up a little straighter. You swallowed it down and brushed non-existent wrinkles from your clothes. You pretended not to be affected by the scene. By any of the scenes, with each one leaving you more hollow than the last. You had only gone through six, you still had seven left to go.

In.

Out.

Hold.

Caesar Flickerman sat next to your throne, watching the recaps intently, curiously as if he hadn't watched them live. When he noticed your struggle, his brows sew together in worry, and he taps your arm. When you turn to look at him, he’s offering you his barely touched glass of champagne.

You can barely hear him when he leans in. “It’ll help. You trust me, right?”

You wanted to scream that you didn't trust him. That he found the Games just as amusing as any other Capitol vulture. But, you didn't. You bit your tongue and took the glass of champagne, offering a pretty smile as you downed it in one go.

The Capitol wasn't all bad. They had kept you fed, clothed, and happy for your whole life. Protected. They looked the other way when you were trained at the academy, which allowed you to win. They gave you a gorgeous house for free, enough riches to last a lifetime, the promise to never be reaped again. The Capitol wasn't all bad.

The champagne made you feel warm, staticay like the sound of your TV when the foil was moved the wrong way and the program went out. Caesar was right. It did help.

You had sobered back up by the last death. A district twelve boy that should have won, instead of you. He didn't plead for his life, not even when you started screaming at him too. You wanted — needed — something to lurch you towards him. Your hands clutched the throwing knife, your last one, eyes trained on his face. He just stared, breathing ragged, as he waited. Scoped you out.

You didn't expect him to throw the knife you had embedded from the girl in six. Even now, you could recall the cold shock hitting you as if it was happening all over again. You pulled the knife from your shoulder, screaming and groaning. You caught the number three scratched into the handle. You looked at him, realizing you killed his ally.

That you had the chance to kill him too but you failed. You didn't do what you were trained to do.

You ran towards him, knife number three sinking deep into his leg. His scream of pain hurt your ears, haunted your dreams. Twelve pulled you down with him, knocking the air from your lungs. He tried prying your other knife from your hand, but you threw it away from you. Instead, you headbutted him, rolling on top of him.

Twelve threw punches, skinny hands doing enough damage to fracture your nose. Wanting it to be over, your hands wrapped around his throat. You squeezed, and squeezed, and squeezed so hard you heard a crack and then the boom of the cannon.

Your hands slowly unfurled from the boy's neck, already bruised. Already tainted forever with your touch. You screamed, hot tears spilling past your lashes. You sobbed into the boy’s chest for a solid ten seconds before you heard the announcement made.

“Relishing in the glory of winning?” Caesar Flickerman mused cheekily, snapping you back to attention.

You stared at him for several seconds, before an arrogant smile twitched your lips. Caesar was right. You fought to win the Games. There was no reason to be ashamed or feel guilty. If the districts had listened in the first place, no one would've had to die. “Oh, well, you know,” you shrugged confidently. “I did work very hard to win.”

“How many was it in all?”

A frown tugged your lips, but instead chose a tight lipped smile instead. “Thirteen.”

You could name them all. You had killed the entire Career pack slowly through the entirety of the games. Besides you, there were six others. Then, you killed the girl from district six, the boy from three, girl from five, both district eleven tributes, the boy from nine, and finally, the boy from twelve.

“That's a record, I believe! That is just fantastic.” Caesar exclaimed, the Capitol elite and last victors scattered throughout began to clap. “See? Even they think it's fantastic.”

You looked out to the crowd, scanning the first few faces. You gave Caesar another tight-lipped smile, letting him continue.

“We learned you were smarter than you let on when you managed to kill all six careers. District one, two, four, and the girl from seven. Would you care to explain your thought process?”

“Of course.” You nodded, beginning to explain.

You started killing the careers sporadically through the games, always when a tribute was near that you could blame it on. None of them ever thought wiser. All too arrogant to assume one of their own allies were lying about killing them. It had to be the jealous and weak tributes. Not some career.

“Impressive, darling. I can see why you have the highest kill count in all of Panmen's history.” Caesar paused, holding a hand to his ear piece. A wide grin broke out on his face as he grabbed your hand, pulling you up. “I've just been told the crowing of the victor for the 69th annual hunger games will take place momentarily.”

You felt Caesar stepped away, leaving you standing in the middle of the stage alone. You felt goosebumps form on your exposed skin as you felt President Snow walk towards you. He smelt like roses and metal. He wore the smell of blood and death like a perfume.

He stands next to you, microphone in hand. He talks so slowly it starts to eat you from the inside out. It's like he did it on purpose, because he knew how uncomfortable being on that stage made you.

“In honor and celebration of the new, official game record set of Most Killed, there are thirteen connecting chains, each chain sitting below a jewel representing the district the fallen tribute came from.”

That was a joke. That had to have been a joke. The fact you killed thirteen children was being applauded and celebrated. Like it was something to cherish and remember when all you wanted to do was forget.

The crown was heavy when Snow placed it on your head. The chains fell in a swoop around your head, accentuating your new nose and blazing eyes. The freckles that dotted your cheeks and nose.

When Snow opened his mouth, you held your breath. “I'm expecting great things from you.”

With that, he held his hand out for you to shake. You did, listening to the crowd cheer for you when he finally stepped away.

You, with the gorgeous crown, bruised knuckles from hitting one two many walls. You with the surgically fixed nose. You who had done one too many sinful acts to ever be considered good again.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Caesar Flickerman’s voice rang in your ears; loud and grating. “The victor of the 69th annual Hunger Games!”

#catching fire #fanfic #mockingjay #the hunger games #finnick odair #thg fanfiction #thg finnick #annie cresta #finnick x reader #finnick x you #finnick odair x reader #finnick imagine

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sinisterexaggerator · 5 months ago

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Little Red Dress

Hancock x Fem! Reader | AO3

Summary: You're wearing a little red dress, one that teases and tantalizes Hancock. You're the Mayor of Goodneighbor's prized possession, and it does not bode well for you to tempt him so, especially in public.

Warnings: NSFW, 18+ for KNIFE PLAY, Penis in Vagina Sex, Exhibitionism/Public Sex. Kissing, tit sucking, finger sucking, explicit language, PDA, and self-indulgent smut. Basically, I wanted to write something quick and dirty. >D

*Hancock is a little bit rough with you this time, but he would never hurt you.

Word count: 2.2k+

Notes: I've got it bad for Hancock. This is my second time writing for him! Sort of came out of nowhere. Ultimately, it could be interpreted as Hancock x female Sole. It's up to you to decide! Enjoy!

Hancock—he is decidedly more comfortable with public displays of affection than you would have imagined him to be, your throne expressly atop his lap, legs crossed for the sake of modesty in the presence of proper company. Your nights out are spent dolled up, clutched like a trophy by the Mayor of Goodneighbor—his prized possession over caps or chems—and what a lucky girl you are to be his favorite.

Hancock, with eager, explorative hands, hugging you from behind with his chin on your shoulder. His touch is firm, yet gentle, roving over every inch of your smooth skin left bare and assailable, the ghoul fondling your thighs, working higher, higher, skirting your lap to squeeze your waist with often unpredictable, gratifying tenderness.

The man is anything but a mystery; you could read him like an open book if such things still existed, his lustful looks starting a fire between your legs that could just as soon be doused by how wet he can make you with a single glance, a single caress beneath the hem of your little red dress.

It drives him crazy, that dress, John desperate enough to pinch your ass in public—worse than that—whispering dirty little nothings in your ear, forcing you to suppress your giggling as the man himself pretends all is well, conversing with the good people of the Commonwealth.

It's a game. He doesn’t care—he’s into that sort of thing— not above making another man green with envy when it comes to you. Hancock has no trouble in reminding everyone just who you belong to, his favorite pastime sneaking you off to shadowy, secluded corners to fuck you with his eyes while withered fingers glide over tight curves and refined angles, just vague outlines in the dark, though his pupils glow like dwindling embers among black, charred logs, captivating you like a moth toward a flame.

“You wanna get out of here?” he asks in a gravelly, self-assured tone, pulling you close, diggin’ your scent, and he knows you sure as fuck taste damn delicious.

It’s been too long, like chems that wore off; he needs another fix, and he’s willing to take it where he can get it. In fact, railing you in the back room of the Third Rail ain’t soundin’ too shabby right about now—you’re wearin’ a dress, after all—just hike it up.

“No,” you whisper, egging him on, desiring to get a rise out of Hancock in more ways than one. It works, the man leering down at you from beneath the short brim of his tricornered hat. His eyes are glistening, shining like polished marbles, staring into the depths of your soul. It can’t be helped, John’s hard-on riding against your thigh without shame, causing your breath to hitch.

“No?” he presses, his negation laced with arrogance and disbelief. A hidden blade whisks out from decadent, stained sleeves, teasing you with nothing more than a good time. The cool texture of sleek metal grazes your skin, skimming your pulse point. Hancock’s knife trails down the swell of a breast to take a dilatory, lackadaisical dive between your cleavage; it threatens to slice shimmering red fabric in twain.

“I’m going to fuck you either way, sunshine,” he rasps, skinny lips, still so kissable, hovering tantalizingly over your own.

The knife end of his blade drifts along your belly, an expert flick of the ghoul’s wrist twirling it to catch betwixt two dexterous fingers. The hilt disappears up under your skirt; he knows you’re not wearing panties, that bit of cold steel broaching your entrance, sliding into slick, taut confines to penetrate you with ease.

“I-I know,” you offer demurely, a tremor to your voice, Hancock sliding the hilt in and out with delicate, precise strokes. His weapon of choice is carefully wielded, knowing what damage he could cause. He leans in close to your ear, reveling in the awestruck expression you’re sporting; he would stop in a heartbeat should you wish him to, yet you make no move to protest, nor do you plan to.

“Did you take your Rad-X like a good girl?” he asks dissolutely; his breath is warm, the combat knife’s handle slipping out once more to brush against your clit on its way up. The action causes you to dip forward even as you try to keep yourself steady, hands flat to the wall as he holds you in place.

“Yes,” you answer bravely, your tongue moving to kiss your lover with all the passion currently welling up inside your chest; he skirts your attempt, his forefinger pinning your tongue, slithering its way past lips and teeth to delve into the moist cavity of your mouth.

“Of course you did,” he replies, sliding that digit in and out as you hold on, cheeks hollowing to the concave depths of a ghoul’s. You suck his index like it’s his cock; Hancock watches every nuanced movement with a tilt of his head, eventually pinching your cheeks closed with his thumb and middle, pulling his finger loose with a rousing pop.

“I’d say you’re good and ready,” he comments silkily, voice darkening as he holds the knife aloft for your inspection. It’s saturated in your own excess, Hancock licking the handle clean with the flat of his tongue. You watch, enthralled, though you’re sure you’re not the only one seeing this event unfold—the people of Goodneighbor talk—you’re not above being a source of gossip.

“Come on, sister,” he coaxes, pallid fingers curling around the shoulder strap of your gown to tug you forward, still withholding that kiss you so sorely crave.

He drags you by this single strip of fabric, avoiding all other eyes but yours; you see people nudging, whispering, sharing glances, but it only adds fuel to the fire, Hancock ushering you to a lesser used area of the bar.

“But, Hancock, there’s peo—” you begin, the ghoul concealing his knife once more for later use, perhaps, clicking his tongue disrespectfully as he interrupts you mid-sentence.

“—Let ‘em watch,” the mayor of this seedy settlement snaps, escorting you past its nosy denizens to the farthest room, splaying his open palm across the small of your back as he gently drives you forward, directing you toward one particular chair in the process.

“Don’t play coy with me…” he grates, positioning you before a plush red high-back that rests against worn, chipped tile. He prods you with his skinny ribs, prompting you to rest your knee against its seat. You oblige, taking hold of sturdy wood to balance yourself as you feel a sudden draft—Hancock wastes no time in slinking your dress up past the round shape of your ass.

You feel like a cheap whore while at the same time exhilarated beyond measure, bending forward for a more pleasing angle as you glance over your shoulder at the ghoul whose cock is withdrawn, John trailing his mushroom tip along the moist line of your slit.

“But I can’t kiss you like this,” you beg, faced with rock and not Hancock, his idle hand slipping up the front of your risqué little number for his thumb to part pillowy lips, nestling its way in.

“Good girls know patience,” he slyly replies, rubbing soft circles against your already swollen clit. An indecent moan accompanies the insertion of his cock into your tepid core, Hancock beginning to roll forward, thrusting his hips against the meat of your ass as he fucks your pretty cunt from behind.

“Just admit you planned for this,” he hisses, one hand still working you as the other squeezes the fullness of a breast. You are hardly able to contain an audible expression of lust, breaths deep and slow as you attempt to curtail your mounting orgasm.

“You can’t resist me,” you brazenly claim, causing the man to rail against you harder, faster, the small flare of his temper only serving to please you; two fingers tweak a raised nipple as a form of punishment.

“Ought to make you suck me off instead; shut that smart mouth of yours,” he whispers bitingly, though he doesn’t mean a word. His favorite place is buried between your loins, so glossy and warm, like an inviting hug—one he wishes would never end.

“Do it,” you bait, although thoroughly enjoying yourself, John’s ribbed flesh hitting just the right spot, only to be ripped away just as suddenly. He slides out and whirls you around abruptly, causing a momentary sensation of vertigo, afraid you might lose your balance, though his grip is strong and secure.

You’re met with piercing black pupils amidst a sea of the deepest crimson, rivaling the color of dried blood. The mayor is testing you; you don’t back down, holding his gaze with the same intense, quiet ferocity.

“I have a better idea.” A shuffle down below, and he hoists you up with the use of with both sinewy arms, kicking that damned chair out of his way as he slams you back against the wall. You tighten your legs about him with his aid, enclosing his slim waist to lock him in; the ghoul fumbles to reinsert his aching prick inside you before you have time to say another word.

His tongue is in your mouth only briefly; you moan around it, muscles contracting and roiling like the waves of a once vast, unpolluted ocean as he plows you like there’s no tomorrow—and there very well may not be.

His hands are grasping, clawing, hungry, desiring to touch every part of you at the same time, though impossible— it is an infuriating truth he condemns. Hancock’s dick hounds your G-spot; you are no longer able to withhold the lewd noises you wish to make, the ghoul rudely clamping a palm over your mouth to temporarily deaden all sound.

“You’re lucky I don’t just rip this off you,” he grumbles, sucking the salt off your skin, buried in your throat for the purpose—he’s referring to that damnable dress that gets his irradiated blood pumping like nothing else. You manage a smile once he dislodges his hand, cloyingly sweet and meant as mockery, squeezing your thighs tighter to draw him in close.

Your own hands find the flesh of his belly, groping and molesting scar tissue and lean muscle, your pelvic floor flexing unfairly around him. You almost laugh at the visceral reaction that follows, Hancock having bitten down on his own ruined lip.

“You wouldn’t dare,” you insist, knowing just how much John loves you in that dress, loves how good you look in it, your actions pulling a moan from your lover that is like the most heavenly music to your ears.

“Wouldn’t I?” he asks defiantly, a series of quick movements causing you to gasp as he rips clean through the right strap; that pesky blade had reemerged to do his dirty work.

“Hancock!” you protest. The ghoul’s not listening, having loosed your tit for anyone who dare try and interrupt you; John kneads its doughy flesh in the crook of his palm.

“What’s that, sunshine?” he asks derisively, jerking his hips, his neck craning downward as he lifts your breast toward his mouth. He sucks your hardened nipple while pinching the other that has inevitably joined its twin, the single strap left intact not enough to hold it up, or in.

The bastard knows all your erogenous zones, this being but one of them, his patient suckling and the steady pump of his prick sending you over the edge.

You cum, coating his dick in your secretions, this time the ghoul allowing your voice to soar—it’s a pretty song, one he likes to listen to on repeat, and for the moment you don’t care who hears you.

“That’s my girl,” Hancock purrs, having released your breast from his puckered lips to watch the gesticulations of your face mid-throe. Your pleasurable spasming only causes his girth to convulse inside you, filling you full up with his infertile sperm.

Truth be told, it’s one of the benefits, being with a ghoul—no risk of an unwanted pregnancy at the end of the World. Only now, you are left half naked in the middle of a public space, Hancock’s ejaculate beginning to run down your leg.

Like coming down off a spectacular high, Hancock pulls out, stuffs his junk back in his pants, and looks you over.

“What a mess I’ve made,” he teases. You frown outright, though he thinks it’s cute, like you’re pouting or being petulant like a spoiled child—it’s one of the things that tugs on his heartstrings, though you never intend to abuse it.

“What am I supposed to do now?” you whine, “I can’t go out there like—”

“—Hey, here,” Hancock proffers, taking a moment to remove his red frock coat. He gently shifts to stand behind you and slips it over your bare shoulders, assisting in the lift of your arms until you are comfortably sequestered in its warmth.

It fits, covering your naughty bits well enough that you will be able to make it back home to the State House. Hancock seems unable to help himself, a smirk tugging impishly at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” you ask with a hint of attitude, pushing lightly against his chest with the palm of your hand. It’s as if he has a secret not worth keeping, his expression devolving into something a bit more playful.

“Looks good on you,” he affirms, taking up that offending hand to kiss. “But maybe next time you’ll listen to your mayor.”

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