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verbenaa · 7 months

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opus 4 (nothing compares to the sighs that fall from your lips)

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦:

“Have I mentioned how absolutely divine you look, darling?”

“Well, you did make the gown.” Your hand tangles in his hair, pressing him closer as you arch into him. He buries his face into your chest, kissing and licking at the skin bared to him above the low neckline.

“It’s quite easy when you have such a lovely muse.”

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𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: Astarion/Reader

𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: smut, 18+

𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 6.9k

𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: exhibitionism, frottage/thigh riding, clothed sex, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, vampire bites, blood, soft dom astarion, tailor astarion strikes again

𝑎/𝑛: if larian can't give us a masquerade, then i will! welcome to my current fixation which has been this masquerade ball fic. idk there is no rhyme or reason to this, its just fun and indulgent and glittery. i hope you enjoy and please like/comment/reblog etc ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

MDNI, 18+ CONTENT

ao3 here

masterlist

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The chandeliers twinkle brightly from the cavernous ceiling above as you float across the polished ballroom floor, slippered feet moving swiftly as your dance partner twirls you around, an arm wrapped tight around your waist while the other grasps your hand as he leads you through the elegant steps of a waltz.

Wine burns through your veins as it sings a siren’s song, the sanguine liquid slipping down your throat with ease this evening, the vintage aged to perfection. Melted wax drips from the tapers decorating the room, their flames no more than whirls of shining light as you spin around and around, gown fluttering with every elegant movement.

It wasn’t often you attended these sorts of events, despite the amount of invitations you’ve received over the years. Being the most recent hero of Baldur’s Gate had its occasional perks it would seem, and this ball was certainly one of them.

It was the same routine every time. You would open the frequently ostentation envelopes, perfect calligraphy written with expensive pots of colored ink on the front and oversized wax seals in golds and reds and blues on the back. Inevitably, after a passing glance at whatever solicitation lay inside you would feed it to your hearth, letting the fire gobble it up as it burns to black.

This particular invitation, however, had caught your eye. The envelope itself was nothing of particular elegance, though the black of the envelope and silver lettering did stand out among the others in your post box that day. The matching silver wax seal on the back opened easily with a quick flick of your letter opener, and a singular word on the thick vellum piqued your interest in a way that few ever did on these inane things.

Masquerade.

You can easily recall the way the word made your heart jump, mind moving to the imagined scenarios of your younger years, the adventures of storybook heroines always featuring stories of flowing gowns and glittering masks.

Your own gown flows around your form as you dance the steps, soft fabric laying perfectly against your curves as braided straps of silk rest over your shoulders. The skirt flows down around a high slit up the thigh, velvet the color of the deepest ivy brushing against the marbled floors with every movement.

The metallic threads glow in the candlelight, embroidered designs of liquid silver cascade in small clusters down the bodice and onto the skirt like little groups of stars falling from the sky. The low back of the dress leaves you uncharacteristically bare, almost everything above the line of your waist exposed, though the air is warm against your skin with all the bodies present this evening.

Your dance partner cuts a dashing figure, a vision of velvet and quicksilver in his own right. He looked made for the part—like some dark hero from a storybook come to life in front of your eyes.

Gods, he looked so handsome.

Your cheeks flush as you watch him, following his lead as his hands tighten around you, that familiar knowing smirk decorating his elegant features even with the dark mask he wears obscuring the top half of his features, claret eyes framed with black and silver.

You pull yourself closer to Astarion, filling your senses with his familiar and comforting scent as he continues to lead you through the steps with sleek perfection, footsteps confident and head held high under his disguise.

The dance ends, orchestra moving on from the dreamy waltz you had just turned about to on the floor, a lilting concerto taking its place after a brief respite. Astarion leads you to the side of the dance floor, a hand poised on your waist as you walk to the fringes of the room.

You touch his velvet-covered shoulder, the intricately embroidered doublet matching the color of your own gown to perfection, down the same argent threads. The two of you were certainly coordinated this evening, if nothing else.

It had taken little to convince Astarion to agree to join you, his own love for overdramatic and lavish debauchery too much to deny something like a masquerade ball. He had certainly wasted no time designing outfits for the two of you, spending extra moments throughout his evenings constructing and embroidering them until every detail was as perfect as he had envisioned.

“Astarion!” You whisper into a delicately pointed ear, an emerald earring glinting in the candlelight as you rest your hand on his bicep, leaning your weight into him. “Go get us more wine!”

“You absolute lush.” His smile is fond as he leans over to press a kiss to your forehead, careful not to disturb the delicate lace mask resting over your eyes, satiny ribbon tied behind your head in a pretty, perfect bow.

It was hard to deny his comment, especially when there was that delightful fuzziness that occupied your every sense, clouding everything in a wonderfully warm haze. You had easily lost track of the number of glasses you had imbibed over the evening, though you are fairly certain you simply misplaced some still half full goblets on the random trays of servers who wandered through the space.

Your thoughts swirl as he walks away from you in search of more spirits, his retreating figure a vision. He really was too handsome, dressed in his finery like this. Maybe you were wrong all these years to give your regrets to so many an occasion, if seeing Astarion dressed in the rich velvets and silks he deserved to wear was to be your prize.

A hand on your shoulder draws your attention, and you turn a moment later, reactions slowed by the alcohol still dancing in your veins. Behind you is a man, handsome enough—if only in a rather ordinary way—his warm brown eyes looking out at you from behind a mask of bright crimson as he gives you a friendly smile.

“I must ask how such a lovely gem such as yourself is simply wandering around alone on a night like this?” The words are meant to be suave and charming, though you ignore them, as uninterested in the man now standing before as you are in his words or the meaning behind them. Your eyes draw instead to a overflowing vase of flowers on a table behind him, a downright gaudy display of cultivated blooms bursting from an equally ostentatious vase.

“Do you happen to know what type of flowers those are behind you?” You point at them, not addressing the man’s prior words to you. He turns to look behind him with befuddlement, taking in the large arrangement with barely a blink of his eyes before he turns back, scanning up and down your velvet-clad figure.

“I’m afraid flowers aren’t my specialty.” His answer is short and no-nonsense, he was clearly a man uninspired and uncreative if that was the best he could come up with, the roll of your eyes mostly obscured by the lace covering your face.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting you before, may I ask your name?” He sidles ever a bit closer, and you take a measured step back in response as you cross your arms casually in front of you, head tilting to the side as you observe him.

“How could you know? We are masked, after all.”

“It would be my honor, my dear mysterious Lady, to have your next dance?” His words are polite, even with such blunt forwardness.

You are saved from having to answer by an arm wrapping around your waist from behind, that wonderfully delicious scent of bergamot and brandy filling your senses with his presence.

The man across from you looks affronted at Astarion’s arrival, eyes falling to the arm wrapped tightly around your body and the angular face pressing against the crown of your head.

“Darling, won’t you introduce me to your new friend?”

“Oh! My love, you’ve returned!” Your smile is beatific as you turn towards him, eyes meeting his own you look for your promised goblet of wine.

“You never mentioned you were…partnered.” The man—what was his name again?—says before you two, a frown etched onto his features.

“Well, you never asked. This is my—” Astarion cuts you off before you can finish.

“Husband.” There’s a prideful possessiveness to his words that strike your interest, though you fight the urge to roll your eyes all the same. You and Astarion may be life partners, but married you were not.

“Here you are, my sweet.” He holds the full goblet towards you as it dangles between his elegant fingers, wine threatening to spill from its silvered edges. “Now, let us continue our fête elsewhere, hm?”

You give the man a bored look before turning away, downing your wine quickly before moving to place the empty silver on the table behind him, the overlarge bouquet towering over you. Without a second glance, Astarion takes your hand in his, pressing a kiss to the back before stepping away with you into the crowd beyond.

He leads you to a secluded corner, the area obscured by the shadows of the lofty space. Astarion’s footsteps finally slow as you near the wall and he notices your raised brow, an expectant expression on your face.

“Married, Astarion? When exactly was our wedding day, just so I don’t forget the anniversary.” You speak wryly, an amused smile on your lips. “I’d hate to not get you a gift.”

“Well, we may as well be married. Don’t you agree?”

“I certainly don’t see a ring on my finger.” You make to look at your hand, a playful smile old your lips as you tease him. Astarion’s frown deepens, a look of childish petulance crosses his features, obvious even with the mask hiding his expressive eyebrows.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous that another man was simply talking to me?”

“Darling, I think he would have done more than simply talk to you if you’d let him,” He rolls his eyes, exhaling a huff as his hands come to rest above the swell of your hips, bracketing your waist with those talented, nimble fingers.

“Besides, he wasn’t talking, he was flirting with you.” You could swear he was pouting, amusement building with every passing minute as you bite your lip to hide your growing smile.

“I hadn’t noticed, honestly.” Your shrug is a touch too put on, the casualness of the action at odds with the finery you wear as the smile you try to hide escapes, painting your features with a certain cunning that Astarion knows all too well.

“Oh, I think you knew exactly what you were doing, darling, letting that man flirt with you.” Astarion’s hands on your velvet covered waist tighten as he walks you backward, not stopping until your back meets the intricately wainscoted wall, the two of you partially obscured by the heavy drapery of a nearby balcony.

“You’re far too smart, my sweet, to be so unaware.” The rest of ball swirls on obliviously around you both, dizzying in its opulence as music from the orchestra begins its climb to a rousing crescendo.

A coy smirk is the only answer you give him, the incline of your head daring him to continue as the lace covering your eyes only adds to your mystique tonight. The wine running through your veins turns your body hot, your confidence brimming with the help of the alcohol.

“And so what if I did, Astarion?” His ornate mask does little to hide the spark flaring to life in his crimson irises, thumbs tracing circles dangerously high on your ribcage as he steps closer into your space, the flowing skirt of your gown brushing against his own finery as he pushes close.

“Then I suppose you leave me no choice but to give you a little lesson, dearest.”

One of the hands at your waist skates up, passing over your breast before brushing up the column of your neck, hand wrapping lightly around your throat as you lean your head up to look at him. His fingers brush over leftover scars from feedings past, and the sudden pressure on your throat has your body on high alert, heat licking at the bottom of your belly as you inhale a shaky breath.

Astarion’s mouth crashes down onto yours, stealing your breath as he kisses you with abandon. You answer his kiss with your own hunger, opening your lips to welcome his tongue. Your free hand comes up to brush against his chest, fingers tightening in the fabric to pull his body closer as your lips and tongue move against his own.

Your back is pressed hard against the wall behind you, the molded wood cool as Astarion crowds you, his chest pushed tight against your breasts. You widen your legs slightly and he quickly fills the space, a covered thigh coming to rest in between the slight spread of your own.

Astarion’s lips move to your jaw, your head tilting for him as the hand on your neck gives one last squeeze before brushing down your side until it finds your hip. The thigh between your legs presses in harder, and you thank the Gods that Astarion had the wherewithal to design a gown with such a high slit as you feel the fabric of his pants against your bare skin of your upper thigh.

The hand on your hip pushes you slightly forward and your covered center makes contact, the hard muscles of his leg rubbing deliciously against your core. You choke on a moan, and you can feel his smirk against your skin as his lips caress that spot behind your ear you love so much.

“Do you think you can do it? Ride my thigh with all these people milling about?” His words are spoken low into your ear as your eyes fall shut at the tone of his voice, the devious lust that permeates every word sending a shiver through your body.

You bite your lip as you tug him closer, burying your face into his neck. You move your hips, starting with a slow movement, barely enough to provide any relief. But you feel it, all the same, cheeks flaming as you focus on Astarion and his leg, the alcohol drowning out the noise of the rest of the ball around you.

What must you look like, you wonder, to anyone who happens to look on? You hope that the image of you together is only that of a pair of lovers embracing closely, too lost in their own world to care about anything else.

You can feel your wetness growing with every pass over his thigh as your hips undulate in soft motions, Astarion’s body pressed as close as possible to your own, shielding you with his form as much as he can from your place in the shadows.

The feeling is wonderful, enticing in such a public arena, but it is far from enough. Your arousal grows, the dampness seeping through your underwear and onto the dark velvet of his pants as his cock twitches against you, his length hard as it strains against the fabric.

You feel his hand come down from your waist to brush against the slit where it falls against your thigh, his fingers tracing up and down your skin in teasing passes.

Those fingers slide inside the skirt of your gown, grazing the outside of your thigh as they make their way towards your ass. Your skin is hot where his cool fingers touch, a blazing line of heat marking every movement they make as he caresses the flesh barely hidden by your underwear.

“How wet are you, darling?” His words are sinful as he whispers them in your ear, hand easing under the line of your panties to rub against your bottom, his fingers creeping ever closer to the place where your aching cunt connects with his leg.

“Astarion,” You whine in his ear, hand gripping the collar of his doublet. “Please.”

You don’t even know what you are begging for, but as Astarion’s fingers finally find your wetness you are unable to conceal the moan that falls from your lips. His fingers move, just enough to gather evidence of your arousal on his fingertips.

“Oh, you sweet thing. You like this, don’t you?” You can hear the smirk in his voice as his hand trails away from the center of you, brushing back past your underwear and out of your gown. He brings the fingertips up to press against his lips, tongue sneaking out to lick at the slight sheen that coats them.

Your mouth goes dry at the sight, your breathing hard as your eyes trace his features.

Astarion’s hand covers your own where it grips at his collar as his other adjusts himself in his pants, hiding his erection as best he can from sight. He pulls away from you, helping you adjust your dress with quick fingers. Your eyes catch upon the sight of your arousal on his pants, catching the light as he turns. You cheeks burn at the sight, your swallow audible.

“Follow me, love.” You don’t question him on where he is heading as he makes a line for the closest set of ballroom doors, pace quick as he weaves the both of you through the sea of bodies that make up the cities’ finest members of society.

“Are we going home?” You whisper quietly as you follow, unsure if you were ready to commit the incandescent aura of the evening to memory alone quite yet.

It had taken hours to get ready, time spent bathing together before pampering each other—applying scented oils on skin and through hair, Astarion helping you pin your hair into its complicated updo this evening taking almost an hour alone, his fingers applying the rouge to your cheeks and lips with care as he admired your features with the utmost affection. No, you certainly weren’t ready to leave quite yet.

“It would be a shame to end the evening so early, don’t you think?” Relief and joy spills through you in equal measure at his words, eager to continue tonight’s festivities, whatever they may be.

You walk through the main hall, hand in hand with Astarion, the wine still buzzing in your head as he draws you up the large, elegant staircase of swirling marble. Your presence goes unnoticed as you pass others dressed in their own finery, shimmers of glitters and gems, silks and tulles flowing past as you climb step after step.

You make it up the rise of the large staircase, skirt twirling as you spin around momentarily to take in the scene of the party now beneath you. Its a world of luster that takes your breath away, everything filtered with the heady glow from the candelabras and wine flowing aplenty.

With a tug on your hand, Astarion leads you away from the center of the room, breaking off to go down a smaller corridor to the side before cutting aside on one or two more until you are isolated, the noise of the orchestra below now faraway and faint.

The hallway feels hushed and hidden away, safe from the prying eyes of society as the candlelight sconces adorning the walls flicker, dancing fragment of light illuminating the narrow corridor. Astarion walks you back with hands on your waist until you feel the half-paneled wall against your uncovered back, the wallpaper ornate with scrolling vines and berries, vibrant reds and greens contrasting against the darkness of your gown.

Astarion’s head bends to your chest, pressing a tender kiss onto the swell of your breast, over the place your heart beats in three-quarter time.

“Have I mentioned how absolutely divine you look, darling?”

“Well, you did make the gown.” Your hand tangles in his hair, pressing him closer to your breasts as you arch into him. He buries his face into your chest, kissing and licking at the skin bared to him above the low neckline.

“It’s quite easy when you have such a lovely muse.” His nose nuzzles at the flesh of your breast, breathing in your scent as he groans against you, pressing his hips against your own so you can feel the evidence of his prominent erection.

Astarion bites down into the flesh of your breast that rises above your gown without warning, fangs piercing the tender skin that heaves with your breath as he drinks in the sweetness of your blood. It flows thick in brightly colored streams, a surprised moan ripping from your lips at the sudden action.

He sucks from the swell above your gown, blood dripping to stain the bodice as he licks and tastes the rich claret of you made all the sweeter from the wine, his hand drawing down your belly before dipping lower.

He finds that slit on your thigh, hand working its way underneath before moving to cup around your wetness as you cover your mouth with your hand, hiding your moans behind a palm as your eyes flutter shut.

Astarion moans at the dampness he finds there, fingers quick to push aside the gusset of your underwear to run his fingers through your slick folds, collecting your arousal on his fingertips, spreading your wetness up and down the expanse of your center. You can feel his erection pressing against you, still hidden by his pants as he relishes your body’s reaction to his actions, lips still licking and sucking at the skin of your breast.

The fingers at your core move to rub your clit, the light pressure a relief as you bite your bottom lip to keep quiet, eyes glancing to the side quickly before closing once more to indulge in the feeling, his mouth not letting up as he savors your lifeblood.

“Astarion, what if someone sees us?” Nerves make their way into your soft voice, barely a whisper as your body tenses slightly with unease at the prospect of being seen by another. Astarion’s head lifts away from your breast, fangs leaving twin pinpricks on your chest, blood pulsing from the wounds in time with your heart as his eyes draw up to your own.

“No one will recognize us, my dear.” A finger circles your entrance, and your knees threaten to buckle under the pleasure. “Though we can stop if you want to.”

You hesitate and Astarion’s fingers pause to give you time to think, his mouth still drinking from the blood leaking from your breast, tongue licking at any stray drops.

“No,” You shake your head, needing little time to ruminate on the decision. “Please, don’t stop.” You let the desperation you feel run into your hushed voice as you give him your consent to continue, your hands in his hair brushing through the strands as you buck your hips into his hand.

“Thank the Gods.” His finger pushes in, working its way into you with sinfully slow movements, your head hitting the wall behind you as you let out a hiss at the feeling. You can hear your wetness as his finger dives deep, the sound of it obscene in the otherwise silent hallway.

“Gods, you’re so wet,” He kisses against your collar bone, nuzzling into the skin there as he breathes in your scent. “Who knew you were such an exhibitionist? Absolutely filthy of you, sweetheart.”

You whine at his words, Astarion coaxing more quiet moans from your lips as his finger pumps deep inside you. His free hand trails up to your shoulder, pushing off the delicate strap of your gown before moving down to pull at your bodice.

Taking care not to rip the velvet, Astarion succeeds in freeing the breast he had fed on, hand coming up to weigh it in a palm as his mouth licks at the exposed nipple.

He sucks on the hardened peak as his finger pulls out of you only to be joined by a second a moment later, the stretch barely noticeable with your wetness aiding his smooth thrusts in and out of your cunt.

His fingers curl against your walls as his tongue licks at your nipple, laving the peak as he finds that special place, deep inside your body and presses into it.

He’s relentless as his mouth works your breast and his beautiful fingers fuck you, his other hand squeezing the breast still covered, fingers working underneath the fabric to brush at the nipple.

It would be so easy to come like this, a fact Astarion does not miss as he can feel your body’s reaction, the telltale tension building inside you. Slowly his fingers leave your heat, brushing up against your clit with slippery motions as you whimper at the loss of them. He presses one last kiss to the tip of your breast, still wet with his lingering saliva, before he lowers to his knees in front of you.

“Astarion, what are you doing?” Your words are breathless as your hands run through his hair, the mask on his face slightly askew.

“I still seem to be a bit peckish still, though for a slightly different taste.” Warmth rushes to your cheeks as they flush, the alcohol still floating through your body painting everything in that same warm haze that has surrounded you through the night.

Astarion’s hands glide up your legs, brushing over soft thighs as he grabs at either side of the underwear where it rests low across your hips. His eyes flick up to yours as he pulls it down, guiding the thin, lacy fabric down your legs. He’s unhurried, clearly not worried about being caught or seen as he takes his time while his eyes never leave yours. He steadies you as you step out of the panties, pocketing the damp lace with a roguish smirk and raise of his brows.

His hand wraps around your thigh, pushing it up and pinning it against the wallpaper as he holds you open to his gaze. Your pussy is absolutely dripping for him, the sight of his otherworldly beauty as he stares at the center of you, open for him, takes the breath from your lungs.

There would be no mistaking what was happening if someone were to come upon you now—Astarion kneeling before you, supplicant, as he bares you to himself—unmistakable to anyone gifted with eyesight.

Astarion leans in to press a kiss to the thigh he has pinned, lips moving across the smooth skin with the lightest of touches before skipping over your weeping core to kiss the opposite thigh. You whine at the blatant misdirection of his mouth, hips bucking in indignation with as much motion as you can manage.

“Oh, I’m sorry—did you want something, darling?” He moves his face away from your body to shoot a look upwards, his features smug as he sees the abject desire in your gaze tempering the glare you shoot down at him.

“I thought you were still hungry, dearest.” You keep your words sweet, not letting the aching want you feel bleed into your voice as your eyes narrow.

“Patience, sweet thing. I’m sure I’ve taught you about it once or twice before, have I not?” His head dips forward once more, breathing in the scent of your essence with a performative sigh. “Now, ask nicely. And do use your words and tell me what you want.”

“Astarion!” You start, exasperation building as you contemplate the words to say to appease him. He could be so demanding at times like this, a trait you found yourself caught between loving and hating in equal measure, though ‘loving’ did usually win out in the end.

You briefly debate making him wait for your words, watching his own impatience grow as you play coy, but this certainly isn’t the time or place for what could be a long, drawn out battle of wills on who would break first.

“Fine. Pretty please, Astarion, will you do me the honor of licking my cunt until I come? Preferably before we get caught?” Your frustration mounts as you say the words though you find the strength to keep your tone as breezy and unaffected as his own, despite the slight embarrassment beginning to creep in as the elusive power of the wine fades ever so slowly with every minute that passes.

Astarion grants you your wish with a wide, feline smile, licking a stripe up the center of you, his tongue running through your folds before brushing lightly against your clit as he savors the taste of you.

“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

His tongue laps at your folds, taking his time to move up and down in languid strokes, never focusing on any one place. It’s a maddening feeling, a whine slipping from your throat as your hips roll, asking for more.

His tongue dips into your entrance, whorling around the opening as he tastes you, his moan against your cunt matching the one that leaves your mouth. Your hands tighten in his hair, hips writhing as his tongue thrusts inside you.

Astarion is eager to taste your essence, tongue flicking deep in your waiting wetness as hushed cries fall from your lips with every brush against your walls. You could sob from the feeling of the lightning hot pleasure that works through your body in time with every push of his tongue. He eats you out like a man starved, his mouth moving against your entrance as he works to plunge you closer towards ecstasy.

His motions are fast-paced, quicker than normal as he works to bring you to your peak, and you whine once more when he tongue leaves to lave at your folds instead. Two fingers are quick to replace his tongue inside you as he circles your clit instead, flicking the pearl simultaneously with perfectly timed thrusts of his fingers, curling up into that special spot.

“You really are so good when you set your mind to it, love.”

Your pleasure ratchets higher, a tremor running through your body as the leg supporting you grows weak with your impending orgasm, muscles in your thigh shaking slightly.

“Astarion, please don’t stop,” Your begging only serves to spur him on, tongue moving faster and his fingers curling faster with a repetitive motion that has your body tightening around him.

“That’s it, darling, come for me.” Astarion’s words are reverent, and you embrace them as you hurtle over the edge, euphoria rushing through your body, the feeling enhanced by the leftover wine as your fingers grip tight in his hair.

You come on his fingers and tongue, Astarion working you through the waves of your completion as they flow through your body, your cunt spasming tight as his tongue doesn’t stop licking at your clit. You bite the flesh of your lip, the delicate skin splitting under your teeth as you keep the sounds of your orgasm at bay, tiny dots of red spilling over your lips.

You uncurl your fingers from his hair, smoothing out the curls as your breathing evens out and your orgasm leaves you in a sense of pleasant euphoria. Astarion presses soft kisses against the skin of your inner thigh as his fingers finally slow inside of you before pulling out. He places one last kiss to your entrance, licking up the remnants of your come before he leans back and places your leg back down onto the ground.

He rises from the floor with a graceful motion, hands skating up your curves as his mouth crashes against your own. You can taste yourself on his lips and tongue as he kisses you, the flavor of your own blood and come dizzying.

Astarion licks at the blood on your lip, sucking on the mark as it bleeds. You open your mouth to him, his tongue tangling with your own as he deepens the kiss. Your hands work in a frenzy with his own to loosen his pants, the button finally coming free in your rush to free his cock from the confines of his clothing.

Astarion pulls his hardness from his underwear and you pump him, the velvety feel of his shaft warmer than normal as your blood courses through his veins. He moans into your mouth, hips pressing closer to you as you work his cock up and down, his precome shining in the light of the sconces as you spread the fluid on the heat of him.

His hands move down from your hips, brushing over your bottom as he grasps under the curve of your rear, squeezing.

“Up.” You are quick to obey, eager to feel him inside you as you jump up, Astarion catching you as his hips pin you in place against the wall, his hands supporting your weight in a tight hold against your ass.

The half paneling of the wall presses into your back as you push your dress out of the way, the skirt easily parting around the slit as you guide his cock to your waiting cunt, still wet with your come. Astarion stares at your mouth as you lick at the precome that coats your fingers, pupils blown wide as you take a finger into your mouth and suck.

“Like the taste, darling?” Astarion’s erection finds your entrance, your wetness coating the crown of his cock as he bucks in shallowly, the head barely pressing inside you.

“Always. I think I’d like to have a little more.” Your arms wrap around his neck as you roll your hips against his cock, taking him slightly deeper inside your waiting warmth as you lick at his lips.

Astarion lets out a low growl as he pushes inside you in a single thrust, gliding home as hips meet your own. You both moan at the feeling of him inside you, the satisfaction of Astarion finally filling you euphoric as you wrap your legs around his waist.

“Did you design this dress thinking about how you would fuck me in it?” Astarion sets a steady pace as he moves his hips, your own meeting his thrusts as best as you can with such a limited range of motion.

“Of course I did,” He licks at the blood drying on your lip. “I thought about how beautiful you would look coming on my cock wearing it, too.”

He pumps his cock harder, hips rutting against your own as your arms around his neck tighten, bringing him ever closer to you. Your lips meet once more, pressing against one another’s to silence the noises of pleasure breaking from your throats with every thrust.

“No one can make you come like I can, can they?.” His words come on an quiet exhale of exertion, tinged with the smallest bit os what sounds like possession, his lips brushing against your own with each syllable that leaves his mouth.

“Don’t tell me you’re still jealous, Astarion?” You can still feel the leftover fog from your orgasm, hands playing the hair at the nape of his neck, the strands soft against your fingers as you try catch your breath in vain, every thrust of his cock making it harder and harder to breathe.

“I want to hear you to say it.” The hands on your ass squeeze, cock hammering harder into your center. “Say: ‘No one can fuck me like you’.”

There’s a familiarity to the veiled desperation in voice, though its been years since you’ve heard it. You would know the sound of it anywhere, the cadence of his longing to be wanted and loved and cared for burned into your mind for eternity, settling there like a haze over your vision.

Your heart grows tender at his words, and you hold onto him tighter, pressing a kiss to his lips before giving him the words you know he needs to hear from your rouged lips.

“No one can make me come like you,” A kiss to the tip of his nose where his face rests close to your own.

“No one can fuck me like you,” A kiss to one cheek, then the other.

“There is no one for me but you, Astarion. Only you.” Finally, his lips—your love and passion pouring out onto him with the simple press of your lips against his, a hand coming to brush his cheek.

“Gods, I love you.” His thrusts grow sloppy as he grips your hips harder, mouth falling open against your own as his pleasure builds.

“I love you too.” You lips part with the tilt of your head backwards as Astarion hits a particularly deep place inside you, fingers curling hard into the fabric covering his shoulders. He thrusts faster, making sure to hit against the same spot on every push forward.

Astarion’s hand sneaks from behind you to press against your clit, rubbing quick circles as his thrusts grow frenzied, losing their rhythm as he chases his impending high, intent to bring you with him over the edge.

“Will you come inside me? I want to feel you.” You press a kiss onto the shell of his ears as you whisper the words, your tongue darting out to tease at the sensitive skin of the elegant point.

“Is that what you want, darling? My come?” His hips stutter at your words spoken so intimately as you clutch at him, the warmth of your cunt drawing him closer and closer to his peak.

“Gods, yes. Please!” You aren’t afraid to beg as his fingers strum fast on your clit as his thrusts hit deep, your vision clouding over as another orgasm nears.

“Then take it, love.” Astarion buries his face into your neck as he comes, hot spurts of his spend spilling deep inside your body as you ride him through his completion. The feeling of him coming is exhilarating, and his fingers don’t stop until you crest over with him, the contractions of your cunt drawing him in tight as you take all you can of him as he hides his moans into your skin.

You roll your hips on his still hard cock as you work yourself through your orgasm, Astarion still pumping his own shallowly inside you as he comes down, breath hot against your neck.

Slowly, the world settles back down, both you coming back to yourselves from where you stand against the wall, breathing slowing.

Astarion’s cock is soft as he pulls from you, his come sliding out with it to make a mess onto your thighs. Astarion watches as his come collects at your entrance, the fingers on your clit moving downwards to push it back inside you with a gentle motion.

“Waste not, want not, my love.” Astarion’s finger curls one last time to press against your walls as you squirm, your body overly sensitive in the aftermath of your orgasm.

He presses a kiss to your forehead before removing his finger, moving his hands to help you stand back on the floor with steady feet.

He pulls your panties out of his pocket, bending down onto a knee as he helps you back into them, gently lifting one ankle after the other as you still catch your breath, before he raises the ruined lace back up your legs.

He adjusts the skirt of your gown, making sure the velvet falls perfectly before he presses a soft kiss to your covered stomach. He rises, fingers tracing your form as he does, dragging the long forgotten silk shoulder strap back where it belongs as you work your breast back into the bodice.

“Astarion.” You touch at his cheek, capturing his attention as he looks back at you. His gaze is clear as his eyes meet your own, the beautiful crimson red of them soft as he searches your face.

“You really are the only one, Astarion. You are the only one I will ever love, until my dying breath. There will never be anyone else.” You watch as your words settle over him like a balm, the love you feel radiating into him as he accepts them into his own heart.

His features soften even as he scoffs at your words, his hand coming up to cover your own on his face despite himself.

“Oh, I know. Maybe I just wanted to hear you say it.” You let him lie, willing to let him keep this facade in tact.

“I’ll say it as many times as you wish.” Astarion’s hand takes your own where it rests on his face, pressing a kiss into the palm before lowering your joined hands.

“I’ll be sure to let you know, darling.” Astarion adjusts his own finery, settling the velvet back to rights as his eyes draw to the bodice of your ruined gown.

“Did you account for potential bloodshed when you designed the dress too?” You remark as you eyes follow his own line of sight, looking down at the blood staining the velvet dark with wet, sticky blotches.

“Let’s just be thankful that blood and wine look similar.”

“Nothing we can do about that bite mark though.” You sigh as you attempt to pull up the neckline slightly higher to no avail.

“Everyone will simply have to be left to wonder, then, won’t they?” Astarion bends down to press a fluttering kiss over the marks decorating your chest, squeezing your hand.

“Think you have another dance in you?” You squeeze at his hand back in response.

“I suppose we still have a few more hours before sunrise to wile away.” Astarion walks, gently pulling you after him as the pair of you make your way back to the glittering ballroom below. “Let’s go have some more fun.”

#astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion x f!reader #astarion x f!tav #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion x female tav #my writing #love u all thanks for reading kisses

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fanficapologist · 2 months

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Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Ninety-Three

The chamber doors burst open with a forceful shove, the wood crashing against the stone walls as Maera stormed in, her heart heavy with dread. The sudden noise shattered the stillness of the room, the echoes reverberating like thunder. Inside, the space was dimly lit, with only a few candles flickering in the corners and the hearth roaring with tall flames, casting a warm but ominous glow.

Aemond was immediately visible, seated at his desk near the fire. His long, straight silver hair gleamed in the firelight, the pale strands catching the amber hues and reflecting them like polished metal. He had disrobed from his formal green and black doublet, now dressed in only a loose white nightshirt that hung open at the collar, a belt on his hips and simple black trousers. The sight of him, usually so composed and impenetrable, made Maera’s breath hitch, but she pressed forward, driven by the letter clutched tightly in her hand.

At the sound of the doors crashing open, Aemond looked up sharply, his reflexes honed by years of practice and vigilance. His single violet eye, clear and piercing, instantly assessed the situation. His face, which had tensed in a moment of defensive readiness, softened into concern as he recognized Maera’s distressed expression. Without a second’s hesitation, he put down his quill, the ink still wet on the parchment he had been working on, and rose swiftly from his seat.

He crossed the room in long, purposeful strides, his worry for his wife evident in the way he reached out for her as he approached. When he finally stood before Maera, he placed his hands on her shoulders, his grip firm but gentle. His eye searched her face, which was red and tear-stained from crying, trying to understand what had caused her to enter so suddenly and with such force.

“What is wrong? Are you ok? Is Aemara?”

Maera managed a sad, fleeting smile. “We’re fine,” she reassured him, though her voice trembled slightly. She took a shaky breath, her eyes flicking down to the letter clutched tightly in her hand. “But… I need to show you this.”

Aemond looked at her questioningly, his gaze moving from her face to the letter she held out to him. His eye immediately caught the broken wax seal, stamped with the familiar three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

“It is from Helaena,” Maera declared, her voice soft but heavy with emotion. Without waiting for a response, she pushed past him, her hand trembling slightly as she reached for the jug of wine and a goblet resting on Aemond’s desk.

Aemond watched her in silence, his expression unreadable as he slowly opened the letter. Meanwhile, Maera sank down onto the black fur rug in front of the fire. The flames crackled and hissed, casting flickering shadows across the room. Her hands were unsteady as she poured the wine into the goblet, the deep red liquid sloshing slightly over the rim before she set the jug down.

Bringing the goblet to her lips, she took a deep, desperate drink, hoping the warmth of the wine would calm her frayed nerves. The rich, bitter taste filled her mouth, but it did little to ease the tightness in her chest. She stared into the fire, the flames dancing before her eyes, as she tried to steady her breathing, hearing his footsteps approaching.

She kept her gaze fixed downward, nervously fiddling with the loose material of her black nightgown. Her fingers twisted the fabric as she spoke, her voice wavering slightly. "I know most of it is nonsense," she began, "but I thought... maybe you could make sense of it. See if the words mean anything to you."

Aemond lowered himself beside her onto the rug, his movements graceful and controlled. The glow from the hearth accentuated his sharp features, casting deep shadows across his face. His single violet eye moved swiftly across the page, taking in every one of Helaena’s chaotic scribblings. His expression was tense, his lips pressed into a thin line as he read.

After what felt like an eternity, Aemond looked up, his gaze softer now, though still troubled. "Maera," he said quietly, "the person who understood Helaena best was you." He gestured for her to take the letter, holding it out to her. Maera hesitated before reaching for the parchment, her fingers brushing against his as she took it back. Her green eyes dropped to her goblet, and she took another swig of wine, feeling a pang of disappointment that the words hadn’t revealed anything more significant.

Aemond watched her closely before speaking again, his tone measured. "The words on the page mean nothing," he said, his voice edged with frustration. "That's likely why the Blacks allowed her to send it." Maera glanced up at him, noticing the way his jaw clenched, the tension radiating from him.

"They knew," Aemond continued, his voice thick with anger, "that they could use this letter to provoke an emotional reaction from us. To make us worry, to make us weak." His eye flared with barely contained fury as he stared into the flames, the firelight dancing in his violet iris.

The Queen scoffed, her emotions roiling beneath the surface, a volatile mix of anger and sadness. “Well,” she spat, her voice laced with bitter sarcasm, “their master plan worked.” She dropped her head into her hands, rubbing her face as if she could wipe away the frustration and pain that had settled there. When she finally looked up at Aemond, her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. “I want to go to her, Aemond. To ease her suffering. That’s why I was sent to King’s Landing as a girl in the first place, to be with Helaena. To protect her.”

As the tears began to fall, she let out a shaky breath, her voice breaking as she continued. “Is there any way we can get her out?” Her desperation was palpable, a plea that hung in the air between them.

Aemond watched her closely, his own emotions simmering just beneath the surface. He listened quietly, letting her vent her frustration before sighing deeply, his gaze turning to the fire. The flames flickered and danced, casting a warm glow over his face, but his expression remained dark.

“Lord Larys has spies in the Keep,” Aemond began, his voice low, almost growling. “But none of them can get close to my mother or sister.” Maera noticed the way his fist clenched, the tension in his body apparent in the way his broad chest heaved beneath the open collar of his nightshirt, his breath quick and shallow.

Aemond finally turned his gaze back to his wife, his expression softening as he tried to offer her some comfort. “The people love Helaena and Alicent,” he said, his tone reassuring. “And whilst hostages, they are no threat to the Blacks. If the old whore is smart, she will keep them alive.”

Maera slumped her shoulders, a sad acceptance settling over her. She knew he was right—Rhaenyra would keep them alive whilst she sat the iron throne, but that didn’t mean their lives would be worth living. She nodded slowly, acknowledging the harsh reality of their situation. For a moment, silence fell over the room, broken only by the crackling of the hearth and the distant crashing of waves against the cliffs outside. It was reminiscent of her room in Kings Landing that faced Blackwater Bay.

At the sound of sea, Maera’s thoughts drifted back to her childhood with Helaena. She remembered the shy, quiet girl who had once hidden away from the world, finding comfort only in the presence of her bugs and the intricate needlepoint she loved so dearly. But Maera had brought her out of that shell, coaxing her into laughter with silly games and stories, and teaching her to see the beauty in the world beyond her own quiet corners.

Swirling the wine around in her goblet, Maera broke the silence, her voice quiet but thoughtful. "I think a lot of people thought she was slow,” she murmured, her gaze fixed on the wine. She turned slightly to see Aemond’s brow raise in response. She offered him a sad smile before continuing, "But I don’t think she was. I think she saw a world that none of us could see."

Aemond listened intently, his expression softening as he gazed silently at his wife.

"The words she spoke," Maera muttered, her voice laced with both admiration and sorrow, "no matter how vague, always seemed to resonate with what was going on around us. It was as if she could see into the very fabric of things, even when no one else could."

The memories were bittersweet, but in them, Maera found a flicker of comfort. Helaena’s mind, though often misunderstood, had always been sharp in its own peculiar way. There was a wisdom in her that others had overlooked, and Maera had always felt privileged to see it, to be the one who could understand Helaena’s world, even if only a little.

Maera picked up the letter once more, her hands trembling slightly as she attempted to make sense of the chaotic scribbles. Now that the initial shock had worn off, she felt a desperate need to understand Helaena’s words. Holding the letter up to the flames, she turned it this way and that, searching for any hidden marks or shadows on the paper that might reveal a secret message unseen by the naked eye. But the parchment remained stubbornly blank, offering her nothing but the jumbled text scrawled across its surface. Her eyes fell on a particular phrase that seemed to call out to her:

The river was indeed harsh and nearly drowned you.

She read it over and over again, her brow furrowing deeper with each repetition. Rivers had rarely, if ever, featured in Helaena’s cryptic musings. The only time Maera could recall her friend mentioning a river was many moons ago, during a conversation that had seemed irrelevant at the time.

Two dragon eggs are laid. One in the rivers, one in the maelstrom

Taking a deep breath, Maera looked at her husband, the firelight casting sharp shadows across his contoured features. “I think she knew. About Alys,” she said slowly, the words heavy on her tongue, as if voicing them made the nightmare real again. “And her child.” She paused, her breath catching as the traumatic memories flooded her mind. She forced herself to continue, though her voice wavered. “I think she was trying to warn me.”

Aemond shifted uncomfortably beside her, his gaze fixed on the flames that danced in the hearth. The tension in his body was palpable; she could see the way his shoulders tightened, his jaw clenching as he processed what she had just said. His usually impassive face betrayed nothing, yet the way his hand curled into a fist at his side spoke volumes.

The Queen chuckled to herself, the sound bitter and low, as she took another sip of her wine. “I still can’t fucking stand the smell of lavender,” she muttered, the words slipping out as she remembered the scent mingling with smoke and charred flesh—the final remnants of Alys Rivers, burning after Ēbrion’s fire had consumed her. The memory was sharp, vivid, and the bitterness in her voice reflected the lingering resentment that clung to her.

She glanced at Aemond, whose gaze remained fixed on the glowing hearth, his face illuminated by the flickering flames. Though his expression was stoic, Maera could see the pain in his single violet eye, a subtle yet unmistakable cast of shame shadowing it. She sighed softly, her breath catching in her throat. What had transpired between them—Alys's manipulations, Aemond’s betrayal, the violence—had left deep wounds on them both. And though Maera had endured the brunt of Alys’s cruelty, both physically and emotionally, she knew that Aemond was haunted by his own failings, by the choices he had made that had led them to this point.

Silently, Maera scooted closer to him, the fur beneath them shifting slightly as her leg brushed against his. She felt the warmth of his body through the fabric of her nightgown as she stared into the hearth alongside him, the flames dancing in her vision as she collected her thoughts. This was not a moment for anger, nor for reopening old wounds. She did not wish to argue with him, nor to cause him more pain. What she wanted, more than anything, was to find a way forward—to move on, not by forgiving or forgetting, but by learning to live with what had happened.

After a long moment, she turned to him, and he instinctively turned to face her, their eyes meeting. They studied each other in the dim light, their expressions mirroring the weariness and sorrow that had taken root in their hearts. Maera’s voice was soft, almost a whisper, as she murmured, “A shadow has been cast over our marriage.”

She paused, her hand lightly touching his arm, her gaze steady despite the emotions swirling within her. “I no longer wish to breathe life into it. Into her ghost. Into your betrayals. I want to lay it to rest.”

Her words hung in the air between them, laden with the weight of their shared history. Maera searched Aemond's face, hoping to find in his eye the same resolve she felt—the desire to move beyond the darkness that had plagued them for so long.

The King’s voice was low, almost a murmur, as he asked, “Tell me what to do.” His words were tinged with a desperation that cut through the silence, and Maera could hear the raw edge of his guilt and uncertainty. She paused, thinking to herself—what could he do? The scars of their past had already been carved into the fabric of their lives, etched deep into Maera's skin and heart. The past could not be undone, no matter how fervently either of them wished it so.

She reached for the jug of wine and poured it into the goblet in her hand, the dark liquid swirling as it filled the cup to the brim. Then, without a word, she outstretched her arm, offering the goblet to her husband. Aemond looked at her, his expression puzzled, as if uncertain what to make of the gesture.

"Talk," she said softly, her tone gentle but firm. It was not a command, but an invitation—a plea for honesty, for him to open the door that had long been closed between them.

For a moment, Aemond hesitated, his gaze lingering on the goblet before slowly reaching out to take it from her hand. He brought it to his lips, gulping the contents in one swift motion, the bitterness of the wine matching the turmoil in his heart. When he had drained the cup, he set it aside, the empty goblet clinking softly as it met the stone floor.

He then turned his attention to the hearth, his gaze fixed on the flames that roared within. It was as if he were searching those flames for the right words, his thoughts tangled in the light and heat. His fist clenched and unclenched, his jaw working as he chewed the inside of his lip.

Maera also looked into the flames, waiting in silence for his response. The fire’s crackle filled the room, each pop and hiss echoing the tension between them. She could feel the weight of his struggle, the battle between what he wanted to say and what he feared revealing. Finally, the one-eyed King began to speak, his voice low and measured.

“The second son is no more than a spare,” he muttered, his tone bitter. “With high expectations placed upon his shoulders, and yet he stands to inherit nothing.”

Maera knew this well, how deeply Aemond detested the order in which he had come into the world. He had always been everything Aegon was not—disciplined, intelligent, driven—and yet it was Aegon’s birthright that had placed the crown upon his head. Despite her familiarity with his grievances, Maera remained silent, listening quietly as she continued to gaze into the hearth.

Aemond’s voice grew softer as he continued, almost as if speaking to himself. “The witch and her prophecy gave me purpose. She promised me everything I wanted since I was a boy.” His words were heavy with a longing that Maera could feel deep in her bones. “Alys demonstrated she could follow through, unlike those around me who failed me as a child.”

She contemplated this silently, her mind turning over the truth in his words. When Aemond’s eye was carved out, he had been promised justice—promises made by those who were supposed to protect him, to uphold his honor. But no one had delivered. No one had made it right. It was a terrible burden for a young boy to bear, an injustice that had festered within him and ultimately changed him.

The King scoffed, the sound sharp and self-deprecating, acknowledging the bitter truth. “I should have been wiser,” he admitted, his voice tinged with regret. “There’s always a greater price to be paid.” He turned to look at Maera, a deep sadness pooling in his violet eye. For a moment, the hardness that usually defined him softened, and in that vulnerable space, he quietly confessed, “If she had told me what would become of us—of our marriage—if I followed the path she laid before me… I would never have dared to tread it.”

Maera felt a lump forming in her throat at his words, the weight of them pressing against her chest. She thought back to the beginning of their marriage, a time that, though not perfect, had been a happy one. But everything that happened with Alys had shattered that bond, tearing down everything they had painstakingly built. As Aemond continued to speak, she kept her gaze averted, unable to meet his eye for fear that her own emotions might overflow.

“The King of Kings born directly from my blood,” he recited, the words almost mechanical, as if they had been etched into his memory. “I would ascend the throne, and you would be my Queen.” Maera shook her head silently, her heart aching at the words. The prophecy had promised him so much, yet had delivered nothing but pain and ruin.

Aemond paused, his gaze flickering around the dimly lit room, taking in the stone walls and the roaring hearth. “A part of me always doubted Alys,” he confessed, his voice almost a whisper. “And after she attacked you… I concluded it was all a lie. Mere pretty words from a whore trying to save her own skin,” He glanced around once more, as if searching for some anchor in the chaos of his thoughts. “And yet, here we are.”

The Queen followed his gaze, looking around the room that had become their new home. Dragonstone, the ancient seat of their ancestors, loomed around them—a symbol of Targaryen power and legacy. Her eyes caught sight of the Conqueror’s Crown resting on a nearby table, its steel and rubies glinting in the firelight, a stark reminder of the price they had paid to be here.

She felt Aemond's fingers brush against hers, a tentative touch as if he were testing the waters of an unknown sea. His hand lingered there, his fingers curling slightly around hers that rested in her lap. She looked up at him, her gaze meeting his as he spoke words that sent a shiver down her spine.

"I ordered the murder of your aunt and her family," he declared, his voice low and steady. To anyone else, the statement might have sounded cold, emotionless. But Maera heard the deeper undertones—a clear admission, an acceptance of the weight of what he had done. It was as if he were finally owning the darkness of his actions, taking accountability in a way that he had not done before.

"And I allowed the witch to…touch me," he continued, the words almost catching in his throat. "I let her take my seed for her own gain."

She felt his nails dig into her fingers, the pressure sharp yet grounding. She didn't pull away. Instead, she turned her head to study his face, the familiar contours of his sharp jawline and high cheekbones illuminated by the flickering light of the hearth. His eye was wide, his expression one of pure horror.

For so long, Maera had pictured Aemond's liaison with Alys as a passionate affair-a moment of desire, perhaps even of ambition, driven by a shared goal. But now, as she looked into her husband's face, she saw something far more tragic. The horror etched into his features, the shame that clouded his eye, revealed a different story.

She recalled the few snippets she knew of his previous sexual escapades, how Aegon had dragged him to brothels, forcing him into situations that filled him with disgust and self-loathing. The look on Aemond's face now, aglow with the orange light of the fire, struck her with a deep pang of empathy.

Without hesitation, Maera carefully placed her other hand on top of his, enclosing his hand in both of hers. It was a gentle, deliberate gesture-one meant to convey that she was here, that she was receptive to his pain, and that she was listening. She didn't press him to say more, didn't push him to relive the torment that haunted him.

Aemond’s voice was barely above a whisper as he muttered, “My seed took root, giving her more influence that I did not stifle.” His violet eye locked with Maera’s green ones, the air thick with the unspoken pain between them. Aemond’s voice trembled as he continued, “And I abandoned you, and our child, leaving you in the same dwellings as that witch, without any protection. It nearly cost you both your lives.”

The words pierced through Maera’s heart like a dagger. The tears that she had held back for so long began to flow freely, streaming down her cheeks in hot, unrelenting trails. It wasn’t just the pain of Aemond’s absence that broke her—it was the crushing realization that he had left her, vulnerable and defenseless, in Harrenhal, under the same roof as the woman who would ultimately try to end her life. Alys had plunged the knife into her, had left the deep, jagged scars that marred her arm and leg. But it was Aemond, the man she had once trusted with all her heart, who had failed to protect her from such a fate.

Through her teary green eyes, Maera saw Aemond reach up to her face, his hand trembling as it cupped her cheek. His thumb gently wiped away her tears, the touch tender and full of regret. She leaned into his palm, craving the warmth and comfort he offered, despite the deep wounds that still lingered between them.

“I will not insult you by saying I have changed,” Aemond whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. “But my beliefs have. And it is not just because I now wear the crown.”

His words resonated within her, cutting through the haze of sorrow and anger that had clouded her mind. Aemond leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers, the silver strands of his hair cascading over his shoulder like a moonlit curtain, glowing softly in the firelight. The intimate gesture, so small yet so profound, seemed to bridge the chasm that had formed between them.

Aemond's voice was firm yet tender as he proclaimed, “You and Aemara—you are my higher purpose, Maera. My true calling. The Gods’ divine plan for me.” His words hung in the air, filling the room with a profound silence as they held each other close, the crackling of the hearth the only sound breaking the stillness.

Maera raised her hand to cover his, pressing her head against his, her heart pounding in her chest. In that moment, they shared a fragile understanding—a tentative step toward healing the deep wounds that had festered for so long.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, lost in the quiet comfort of the embrace. Then, with a voice heavy with emotion, Aemond muttered, “I’m sorry, Maera. Truly sorry, for all of it.” The sincerity in his tone, the raw vulnerability, broke through the final barrier Maera had held within herself. She nodded against him, letting out a sob that she had kept buried for far too long, feeling as if a weight had finally been lifted off her shoulders.

Aemond pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her tear-stained face, his thumb tracing small, soothing circles on her cheek. He gazed at her with an intensity that was both heartbreaking and beautiful. “And you need not stay if you do not wish to,” he assured her, his voice tinged with sadness. “I only wish for you to be happy.”

The Queen furrowed her brow at his words, studying his face with a mixture of disbelief and tenderness. His expression, usually so controlled and composed, now betrayed his fear—fear of what her answer might be. It was plain to see in the way his violet eye searched hers, desperate for reassurance yet ready to accept whatever decision she made. He was willing to let her go if that was what she needed, if it would bring her happiness.

It was love, in the only way he knew how. It wasn’t perfect, far from it, but it was Aemond. And she loved him for it, for everything he was and everything he was not. They sat there, holding onto each other as if they were both afraid to let go, knowing that while the scars would never fully fade, they could at least try to move forward together.

“I am bound to you, Aemond. Because I choose to be,” she whispered tearfully, her voice, though soft, carried the strength of her resolve. She took a deep breath, steadying herself before speaking, her voice firm yet filled with warmth. “I am your wife. I will stand by your side and support you in your duties as a husband, as a father, as a king.”

She watched as Aemond’s usually stoic expression softened into a small, genuine smile. In that moment, she swore she could see an unshed tear glistening in his single violet eye, a sign of the deep emotions he often kept hidden.

For a moment, all felt right between them, but a lingering unease remained in Maera’s heart. She needed more—an assurance that nothing like this would ever happen again. Sniffling slightly, she continued, her voice trembling with the weight of her request. “But I need to see commitment from you, Aemond. Not just to your duties as a king, but to our marriage, to us.”

Aemond nodded slowly, understanding the gravity of her words. He looked around the dimly lit chamber, his gaze searching for something. Maera furrowed her brow in confusion, watching him intently as he seemed to be seeking something specific.

She saw his eye widen slightly when he spotted it. Without a word, he stood from the rug and strode over to his desk. He opened a drawer, rummaging for a moment before retrieving something small. Returning to sit beside his wife, he opened his hand, revealing the item nestled in his palm.

“Do you know what this is?” Aemond asked quietly, his voice tinged with a solemnity that caught her off guard.

Maera looked down at his hand, her eyes focusing on the sharp, pointed rock he held. It was almost black, but as the firelight played across its surface, she could see the sheen of deep green that marked it. Recognition flickered in her mind, and she met Aemond’s gaze with a knowing look. “It’s Dragonglass,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded in agreement before looking back at the flames of the hearth. After a moment he spoke, his voice soft, his words filled with quiet intensity. “I married you before the Seven, in the Grand Sept,” he said, his gaze unwavering as he looked into Maera’s eyes. “In front of a crowd of a thousand onlookers, most of whom I did not know. Most of whom were unimportant.”

Maera couldn’t help but laugh softly, the sound filled with a mix of nostalgia and warmth. She thought back to their wedding day, nearly a year and a half ago. The extravagance of the event still made her smile—a grand spectacle, meant to uplift the spirits of those in attendance during a time of war. It had been a day of splendor and joy, but also one steeped in tradition and expectation.

Aemond’s lips twitched in response to her laughter, but his expression remained serious as he continued. “We had a wedding in line with the values of Westeros, yes. But we are also Targaryens. The blood of Old Valyria.”

Maera’s laughter faded, replaced by a puzzled expression as she looked at her husband. What was he getting at? She watched as he raised the Dragonglass in his hand, the dark stone catching the firelight, its green sheen glimmering ominously.

Aemond’s voice was firm, almost reverent, as he explained, “I re-commit myself to you, with only the fire as our witness, as our ancestors committed to one another.”

Maera’s breath caught in her throat, a gasp escaping her lips as she began to underhand is intention. Her late mother had often spoken of Valyrian traditions, recounting tales of the ancient ways with a wistful tone. The matrimony of Old Valyria was something she had heard of but never expected to experience herself. It was a bond forged in fire and blood, one that transcended the rituals of Westeros—a true, unbreakable connection.

Aemond’s gaze softened as he saw the surprise and emotion in her eyes. “If you will allow me to?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper, filled with a vulnerability she rarely saw in him.

Tears welled in Maera’s green eyes as she nodded, her voice catching as she whispered, “Yes.”

In that moment, the world around them seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of them, bound by their shared history, their pain, and their love. This was no grand ceremony with lords and ladies in attendance, no vows spoken before the Seven. This was something far more intimate, far more sacred, far more profound.

He looked into Maera’s eyes, his voice steady as he asked, “Do you know the words?”

Maera nodded eagerly, unable to contain the nervous giggle that bubbled up from within her. She quickly wiped the tears from her face, her heart pounding with anticipation. This was something sacred, something shared only between them. A bond that went beyond the grand displays of Westerosi tradition, reaching back to the ancient roots of their Valyrian heritage.

With a reverence that sent a shiver down Maera’s spine, Aemond lifted the shard of Dragonglass to his lip. The sharp edge glinted in the firelight for a brief moment before he pressed it against the soft flesh, slicing through until a line of blood welled up. The crimson liquid stood out starkly against his pale skin, and his voice, deep and resonant, filled the room as he began the ancient vows

“Hen lantoti anogar. Va syndroti vãedroma. Mēro perzot gihoti,” Blood of two. Joined as one. Ghostly flame, he intoned, each word weighted with the gravity of their shared history.

He then dipped his thumb into the blood on his lip, the gesture both deliberate and intimate, before gently swiping it across Maera’s forehead. The warmth of his touch was in stark contrast to the dampness of the blood, and she felt the thick liquid marking her skin, binding them together in this moment of sacred commitment.

Aemond handed the Dragonglass to her, and she took it with trembling hands. With the same reverence, Maera repeated his action, drawing the stone across her lip until she felt the sting of the cut, the warm blood spilling forth. Her voice, though soft, was filled with determination as she echoed the ancient words.

“Elēdroma iãrza sir. Izuli ampã perzi. Prumi lanti seteksi,” And song of shadows. Two hearts as embers. Forged in fourteen fires, she declared, her voice growing stronger with each phrase.

With her thumb now stained in her own blood, Maera reached up to Aemond’s forehead, swiping the crimson mark across his skin. Their eyes met, and in that moment, the words of their vows seemed to resonate through the very air around them. The room seemed to pulse with the energy of their commitment, the fire in the hearth crackling as if in approval of the ancient rite being performed.

She offered the Dragonglass back to him, her hand still trembling as he took the sharp stone from her, his expression solemn and unwavering as he affirmed, “Hen jeny mäzilarion. Qēlossa ozundesi.” A future promised in glass. The stars stand witness.

With the same deliberate movement, he pressed the jagged edge against the center of his palm, cutting deep enough for blood to rush to the surface, pouring from the wound in dark, steady streams. The firelight cast a glow over the crimson droplets as they pooled in his hand, the room filled with the scent of iron and flame.

Maera watched, her breath hitching as she took the Dragonglass from him once more. Without hesitation, she drew the sharp edge across her own palm, biting back a hiss of pain as the skin split open. She held the wound out towards him, their gazes locked as she replied to his vow, her voice a mix of fervor and reverence. “Syndroro oño jedo. Ry kivia mazvestraksi.” The vow spoken through time. Of darkness and light.

With a sudden, decisive motion, she threw the Dragonglass to the floor, the shard clattering against the stone before settling in the fur. She reached out, her hand slick with blood, and grasped Aemond’s wounded palm. Their blood mixed, warm and thick, binding them together in a way that no words alone ever could. The heat of the fire seemed to intensify, casting their entwined hands in a golden glow as if the flames themselves recognized the power of their union.

Without warning, Maera yanked him forward, her grip firm and unyielding, and pulled him into a bruising kiss. There was nothing gentle about it— all teeth and tongue and filled with hunger. It was born of raw emotion, of passion and pain, of love and regret.

He responded with equal fervour, lips meeting hers with a force that spoke of everything they had been through, every trial they had faced, and every vow they had just made. She cupped his face with her bloodied hands, the warmth of his skin under her fingertips mingling with the slickness of the blood, leaving crimson streaks across his sharp features.

His large hands grasped her hips, fingers pressing harshly against her skin, pulling her against him with an intensity that made her gasp against his lips. Deciding she was not close enough, he splayed his hands on her thighs and scooped her onto his lap. She straddled him as her black nightdress was hitched up, his hands caressing her scarred, rounded leg with a gentle touch.

Her heart raced as she felt the solid muscle of his chest against her breasts, her fingers tangling in his long, silver hair, now stained with streaks of their mingled blood. She moaned against his mouth as she felt the unmistakable hardened bulge in his trousers, straining against the fabric as her bare core pressed against him. The taste of blood lingered on their lips as they pressed together, Aemond breaking away as his mouth began to roam her neck, kissing, licking, biting down her throat, marking her as his. Only his.

Maera whined as he bit her skin harshly, finding herself subconsciously grinding against him, a slick forming between her legs as she attempted to find some relief. He hissed against her neck, his hands landing on her rounded ass as he pressed her down against him, bucking his hips up to meet hers.

Rocking against each other, find solace in each others touch, Maera’s hands found their way to the expanse of his chest, just beneath his thin cotton nightshirt. Mapping out his body after so long, her fingers moved with a feather-light touch, tracing the hard lines of his torso, feeling is broad chest. She slid her hands down, listening to the soft subtle breaths he took, her fingers skating across his stomach before she reached the bottom of the fabric. As she tugged on it, he lifted his arms and she slid the shirt up his body before slipping it off him, discarding it on the floor.

His own hands had begun to wander, snaking up to land on her breasts, thumbs brushing over where he knew her perked nipples to be through the dark fabric. She could feel the dampness of her milk beginning to seep through the fabric at the contact, gasping as he squeezed the flesh of her chest harshly.

She looked down at him, her jaw slack as she continued to grind against his confined length. Her bloodied hand shook as she reached out to touch his scarred cheek, her thumb catching on the leather eyepatch as she searched his violet eye for any sense of hesitation or unease. She could not find any. Reaching for the strap behind his head, she unclasped it, removing the patch and staring lovingly at the shimmering sapphire in place of his eye, the gemstone glowing ominously as it caught the light of the hearth.

Maera pressed a kiss to his scarred cheek before she felt his hand in her hair, pulled her down to his lips in another searing kiss. She felt his other hand on her thigh climb even higher, brushing against her mound. She gasped at the contact, allowing him to invade her mouth with his tongue, licking into it as if savouring the taste of the evening wine and the blood spilled as they said their vows.

When she whined at the feeling of the coil beginning to wind in her belly as she rocked against him, Aemond suddenly pulled away, his breath ragged, his violet eye intense as he looked up at her. His face was flushed from exertion, streaks of blood smeared across his sharp features, and his shallow breaths caused his bare chest to rise and fall rapidly. Maera couldn't help but smile down at him, knowing her appearance likely mirrored his— disheveled, bloodstained, and utterly consumed by the heat of the moment.

Aemond held her gaze, his voice low and gravelly, “We needn’t go any further,” he told her, his concern clear despite the fire in his eye. But Maera only pressed his face back to hers, her lips capturing his in a fierce kiss as she whispered against his mouth, "I want to."

He groaned at her words, a sound deep and primal, his hands tightening their hold on her. "Thank the Gods," he murmured, before claiming her lips once more in a kiss that was even deeper, more intense than before. The hunger between them was palpable, an all-consuming need that had been building for far too long.

With a sudden burst of strength, Aemond roughly pushed her back onto the black fur rug where they had been sitting, her body hitting the ground with a soft thud. The fur beneath her was warm and welcoming, but it was nothing compared to the heat of Aemond's body hovering above hers. He looked down at her with a dark, lust-filled gaze, his eye alight with desire and something else-something deeper, more primal.

"It was torture to be without you," he growled, his voice thick with longing.

Maera chuckled, her own voice breathless as she replied, "I think you deserved it, my King." There was a playful gleam in her eye, but the truth of her words hung in the air between them, a reminder of the pain they had both endured.

“I cannot argue with that.” Aemond's lips twisted into a wry smile at her remark, but the intensity in his gaze only deepened. Without breaking eye contact, he reached for the belt at his waist, his movements slow and deliberate as he unbuckled it. Maera watched with hooded eyes, her breath catching in her throat as he slipped the leather from his trousers, the sound of it sliding free echoing in the silence of the room.

Her heart pounded in her chest as he leaned over her, his hands firm as he gathered her wrists together above her head. The leather of his belt was cool against her skin as he wound it around her wrists, binding her securely to the spot. His touch was slow yet rough, as if he was savoring every moment of their closeness.

Once she was bound, Aemond leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered, “But allow me torture you this night, my Queen.”

His words sent a shiver down her spine, a delicious anticipation that made her body tremble beneath him. Maera's breath hitched as she felt his mouth press against her ear, his lips tracing the delicate shell before moving down to her neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. She was at his mercy now, her hands bound, her body pinned beneath his, and yet there was nowhere else she wanted to be.

Aemond's lips continued their descent, teasing and tormenting her with every touch, his hands roaming her body as if he was rediscovering her all over again. His calloused hands found her large breasts once more, cupping them through the fabric, and starting to knead them gently. Maera bit her lip trying to stifle a moan. His touch felt amazing, especially since they had not been touched like this in so long.

He skilfully undid the ribbon at the front, unfolding her nightgown, and exposing her full breasts to the chill air. She gasped at the sudden chill in the air but her gaze found her husband who was towering above her between her legs, his gaze focused on her large chest. Looking down, she noticed what had him so enthralled. Droplets of her milk, used to feed her daughter, were seeping out of her nipples, trickling down the swell of her breast.

“Fuck.”

Maera felt her cheeks redden, starting to feel embarrassed, until she watched the one-eyed King lick his lips. He tipped his head forwards and engulfed one of the breasts in his mouth, causing her to gasp. His tongue swirled around the hardened bud, whilst the other hand grabbed and squeezed at the neglected breast. As he suckled like a starving babe, she felt a rush of excitement go straight to her core, the pleasure and relief that his mouth brought her too much to bear.

Aemond bit down slightly, making her arch her back and buck her hips upwards to meet his. She wanted so badly to hold the back of his head, to bury her fingers in his silver locks, writhing against the leather of the belt. This is what he must have meant by ‘torture.’ As he swapped to the other breast, he grinded against her, his hardened length pressing firmly against her bare core, the fabric of his trousers the only thing keeping them apart. She couldnt take it any more, whining as he rolled his hips against her.

“Aemond, pl-please.”

She heard him chuckle darkly as released her nipple with a lewd pop, pressing a kiss against her mouth, licking her bottom lip so she could taste her own milk. The king then slid down her body like a serpent, planting kisses of her softened belly, acknowledging every stretch mark, blue and purple, before pressing a kiss to the coarse hair above her mound.

When he was face to face with her cunt, he gave her no time, licking a long stripe up her slit. He then began to eat her out like a man starved, moaning as he tasted her essence, fucking her with his tongue as his nose pressed against her clit. She was crying out, so loud she was sure everyone in the castle would hear her. But she didn’t care, not when the knot in her stomach was beginning to form, winding tighter and tighter and she bucked against her husband’s face. When he suddenly stopped, she whined in displeasure, only to gasp when he plunged two fingers deep inside of her.

Once again running his tongue teasingly up her wet slit, relishing in the sweet sounds she was making for him, Aemond then began to lap at her clit as she pulled against her restraints, her nails digging into her palm as the coil within her lower stomach was on the verge of snapping. Her body jolted as he placed open-mouthed, sloppy kisses on the bundle of nerves, curling his finger upwards and finding that oh-so-sensitive spot within her.

“Gods!” She cried out, arching up off of the black fur rug, her orgasm washing over her as her entire body convulsed, her cunt pulsing around his fingers as he fucked her through her peak, her clit throbbing as his tongue continued to lick at it greedily. He watched in satisfaction from between her thighs as she came down from her high, her body trembling, a sheen of sweat forming all over her. He drew back with a wolfish grin, his chin glistening with her slick.

Pulling his fingers out of her, he brought them up between them, seemingly admiring the way they gleamed in the firelight, completely covered in her essence. Keeping his gaze in hers, Aemond presses his soaked digits against his bloodied bottom lip, his skilful tongue darting out to taste her, sucking and licking until her juices were gone.

Maera whined, bucking her hips up, writhing against the belt that bound her, the leather digging into her skin. It was as if all the months of longing for him, his touch, his skin on hers, bubbled to the surface all at once. He smirked down at her, as if he could read her thoughts, and she scowled at him playfully.

The one-eyed King, growing impatient himself, quickly pulled off his breeches, his cock slapping against his stomach, the tip glistening with arousal, showing that, despite his control, he desired her as much as she desired him. He wasted no time as he once again settled between her thighs. Aemond furrowed his brow as he eased himself into her, the pair of them breathing shallowly as he sank deeper into her heat, not stopping until he was full buried within her.

Placing one hand beside her bound hands, Maera’s heart pounded with anticipation as he thought he would free her. Instead, he used the hand to hold himself up, the other gripping harshly against her hip as he began to move slowly, simply allowing himself to enjoy the feeling of her, not wanting to hurt her after being apart for so long. The sting was like that of losing her maidenhead, as was to expected after childbirth, but she breathed deeply, whimpering as the pain began to slowly morph into pleasure.

A silver curtain of straight hair fell onto the King’s face as he quickened his thrusts, looking down as he watched her cunt take him so well, cock twitching as it slipped in and out of her, a wet noise echoing around the room. She felt so full of him, like he was always meant to be inside her, fucking her. As if they were made for one another.

“Avy jorrāelan, issa dārys,” I love you, my king, she whispered to him, causing him to growl as he thrusted particularly hard, hitting that spot within her once again. As she gasped, the sound was swallowed by a heated kiss that sent another jolt to her core.

“Sepār avy jorrāelan, issa dāria,” And I love you, my Queen, he uttered like a prayer, his hips beginning to thrust erratically as he lost his grip on any control he has left. She screamed as his cock slammed into her, hitting that spongey spot over and over again, her peak creeping upon her once more. Aemond reached down to wrap one of his hands around her throat, squeezing lightly as he stared intensely at her.

“Don’t stop, Aemond. Please don’t stop!”

It was exhilarating to see his jaw go slack, his single eye roll into the back of his head as he groaned at her words, clearly enjoying himself as much as she was. He thrusts grew sloppy as he chased his own high, his fingers pressing even harder into her throat that there would surely be bruises left behind. Without warning, his head dipped down to her chest, suckling at one of her milk-filled breasts once more, the feeling pushing her completely over the edge.

“Fuck!”

Her entire body tensed as a second wave of blinding pleasure, so intense it made her eyes water, crashed over her. Aemond groaned at the feeling of her walls fluttering around him, slamming into her repeatedly until he came apart with a loud groan, his hips stuttering as he emptied his seed into her, completely and utterly spent.

Aemond stayed buried inside her long after his cock had softened, peppering soft and lazy kisses on her face. He undid the belt that bound her hands and she swiftly wrapped her arms around him, squeezing him close to her, burying her head in his neck as she breathed him in. With a hiss, he slowly pulled out of her, and she could feel him the warmth of his cum leaking out of her onto the plush fur rug below, which was already covered in a mix of her own arousal, blood, wine and her milk.

He collapsed beside her onto his back, the flames from the hearth warming their already flushed skin. The air was thick with the scent of fire and the remnants of their passion, both of them panting, still trying to catch their breaths.

Maera slowly turned her head to look at Aemond, and he did the same, their gazes locking in the soft glow of the firelight. The intensity of what had just transpired lingered between them, but there was also a sense of peace, a quiet understanding that had settled over them like a blanket. She reached out, her hand trembling slightly as she slowly traced the scar on his cheek with her finger, the mark that had become as much a part of him as his silver hair or his violet eye. A soft smile played on her lips, tender and full of affection.

Aemond grabbed her hand, holding it gently as he brought her fingers to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to each one. The simple gesture caused Maera’s heart to swell with emotion, a deep warmth spreading through her chest. In that moment, she felt like nothing else mattered—no past mistakes, no lingering doubts, just the two of them, together, as it was always meant to be.

Notes: they’re back 🖤 this may or may not be based on real events 👀 in the words of my husband “You’re welcome, sluts.”

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

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