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say-al0e · 4 months ago

Text

Hope

Rating: M | This is smut! No one under 18, Minors DNI!

Summary: From the age of ten, your heart has belonged to Aemond Targaryen. As the factions of your family wage war, each fighting for the crown, all you want is to love the man you chose. | Ft. "You think I wanted to fall in love with you, of all people?" Requested by @niamh11 Warnings: Targcest, doubt, war, death (mentioned), dragon fire, inaccurate Targaryen marriage rites, PinV, oral (f!receiving), Harrenhal, light drugging (nothing happens while drugged, just sleep; only briefly mentioned). Aemond and Reader are 20. Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!Targaryen Reader (Daemon's Daughter, Unspecified Mother - not Rhaenyra) Word Count: 11.5k (I don't know, I blacked out) HotD Taglist

For weeks, it felt as if every breath was filled with the scent of damp earth, the smoke of dragon fire, the copper tang of blood, or the char of wood and bone. Each was heavier than the last, harder to draw and less likely to fill your lungs, but you continued to fight to catch your breath with every moment that passed.

The stench of war, now hanging heavily over the entirety of the realm, made itself at home in the fabric of your clothes, the strands of your hair, the very pores of your skin. It haunted you in your sleep, lingered just around every corner and refused to allow you a moment of peace. Despite your reluctance to fight, to watch the realm tear itself apart, it slowly consumed every piece of your life. But the stench, while maddening, meant that you were still alive.

For now, anyway.

Once, only a few short moons ago, towns and villages near the Kingsroad found themselves on the verge of prosperity. Their proximity afforded them the coin of travelers, of weary men wandering through the realm for one reason or another and sellswords looking for work - or, more often, debauchery. None were as large as Oldtown or King’s Landing, none quite as prosperous, but it was more than could be said for other villages. There was food to eat, coin to be earned, and fun to be had; just enough for the inhabitants to consider themselves lucky.

Unfortunately, their luck only extended so far.

The all-consuming threat of dragon fire often loomed over the realm. There were many who were raised to fear the ancient beasts - and rightfully so, for their not so distant ancestors perished in flames - but, for many, the threat seemed far off.

Until smoke filled the skies and the threat that once seemed so distant now swallowed them whole.

Blackened land surrounded you at every turn. Fields, once filled with crops, reduced to nothing more than a pile of ash; pastures, once teeming with livestock, a final resting place for cleaned bones; ponds, once a source of water for the bustling village, still bubbling as it boiled. Once great buildings were nothing more than rubble, mere pieces of stone marking where they once stood, and the streets were littered with bodies still smoking.

Though the sight was growing familiar, you could still feel the bile raise in the back of your throat as you stepped across cobblestone paths in search of any survivors. The beat of your heart echoed in your ears, hammering so hard inside your chest you worried it might crack a rib, and you struggled to even your breathing as you gripped your sword.

There was no need to guess who had lain waste to the lands, no need to question those who managed to flee, those who would spend the rest of their lives searching the skies in fear. It was obvious whose work this was and your father had little problem reminding you.

“I suppose your beloved did not deem this attack worth discussion upon your last meeting,” he sneered, toeing at a large piece of melted metal. “Tell me, what is it you see in him; his devotion to senseless violence or his shameless predilection for leaving nothing but death and destruction in his wake? Your devotion to him is… baffling."

For a moment, it felt as if your heart stopped. While he had not spoken of him as anything other than a nuisance, a proverbial thorn in his side, since his refusal to allow you to marry, it was of little surprise to you that your father knew your heart still belonged to him. Most turned blind eyes - some willingly, with no desire to speak aloud your transgression; others simply allowed you to go unnoticed, expecting this behavior from the eldest child of the Rogue Prince - but you should have known there was nothing you could hide from him.

“I have loved him since we were children,” you reminded him, needlessly. “I cannot simply stop. As for what I see in him, I would say that I saw you, father,” you began, voice thick with emotion, “but something like this would require you to sully your own hands.” Despite the knot in your throat and the tears stinging the backs of your eyes, you carried on, hoping he couldn’t hear the shake of your voice. “Aemond’s crimes are his own. Yours are carried out by men who have the misfortune of trusting you.”

Daemon Targaryen had always been noted for his prowess in battle, his cunning, his silver tongue, his enjoyment of Flea Bottom. Rarely was he noted for his even temper or his devotion as a father. He loved you, and your siblings - of this you were almost certain - but you considered it evident when he chose to reach for you, hand clasped in a viselike grip on your throat, rather than his sword the moment the words left your lips.

“Mind your tongue,” he ordered, voice a low rasp as his violet eyes narrowed. “This,” he hissed, gesturing to the carnage you stood amidst, “is the work of a weak, pathetic little boy throwing a fucking tantrum. He wants war, he wants blood, he wants the crown; he knows nothing of the reality. He has chosen to burn his own kingdom for a chance to play king now that his drunken, usurper cunt of a brother has disappeared and were it not for Rhaenyra, for you, I would let him.” Daemon paused, his grip tightening on your throat - earning a sharp gasp, a desperate scrabble of your fingers, nails digging into his forearm - as his gaze burned into yours. “I once saw myself in Aemond,” he confessed, voice softening, “though there is one grand distinction. I would sacrifice the world for Rhaenyra, for our children, for you. Aemond will sacrifice you the moment you no longer serve his purpose."

A single glance around the village, around the dozen other villages you’d flown through on your patrols - on your search for Aemond, for Vhagar, for any sign of an impending Green attack - confirmed that your father spoke the truth. The Aemond you loved was long gone, replaced by a man desperately clawing for the power that now seemed well within his grasp, but you were your father’s daughter.

Dragon rider since ten, skilled with a sword, intelligent, comely gifted with a mind for strategy - it was oft whispered that you were a mirror of Daemon Targaryen. The best, and some of the worst, parts of your father were passed directly to you. And, unfortunately, that included his predilection to stubbornly listen to the thrum of your heart rather than reason.

“You act as if you have the right to shame anyone, as if you have not sacrificed many and more in the name of getting what you want,” you reminded him, nails sinking into his skin and drawing blood. The rasp of your voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but it carried through the hauntingly empty ruins as you searched his face for any hint of understanding. When you found none, you pleaded, “What would you have me do, father? Tell me, please.”

“Return to Harrenhal,” he commanded, releasing his grip on your throat, gaze never once leaving yours. “I will join you on the morrow.” For a moment, you stood toe to toe - jaw working as you contemplated speaking, wondering if you could push words past the sudden dryness of your mouth - before Daemon turned. “That is a command. Go.”

Without sparing you a second glance, Daemon stalked across the field to mount Caraxes before beginning his ascent.

Rather than immediately following the harsh command, one he would almost certainly apologize for in his own way - with an embrace, most likely, or a tale of his youth - you allowed yourself a moment. With little regard for your armor, for your sword, you sank to your knees and pressed your palms into the scorched earth and reflected on how exactly you found yourself with an aching heart.

For much of your life, your heart beat for Aemond Targaryen.

As the eldest daughter of the Rogue Prince, Lords and knights from all parts of the realm - princes from Dorne and the Free Cities - all vied for your hand, once upon a time. With every tourney or feast you attended, you were inundated with glances and introductions. Each conversation included boasts of riches and land, of family titles and pedigrees. Daemon found it intoxicating, waiting for the perfect proposal to be made, while it all mattered none to you.

The idea of marriage was one you disliked, but one you knew would become reality sooner rather than later. As a Targaryen, there were but two possibilities: your marriage would serve as a political alliance, your husband chosen for the connections he could bring the crown, the resources his house could provide; or you would marry another Targaryen, a member of your own house who could ensure your name and bloodline carried on.

Neither was appealing but a political marriage always seemed the most likely option as you viewed it as the only way your father could win favor with his brother. It was an eventuality you were prepared for as your brothers were young, and betrothed, while you knew little and less of your cousins.

Visits to the Red Keep were few and far between, only possible when your father and uncle found themselves in good spirits - or at such odds that a conversation was necessary - and even less frequent upon your father’s marriage to Rhaenyra. Alicent Hightower’s children mattered little to you at first, their existence often forgotten as you followed your father from this exile to that, but everything changed the moment Aemond claimed Vhagar.

Funerals - too many of which you’d witnessed in such a short existence - never sat well with you. They served as a reminder that while House Targaryen sat high atop the Iron Throne and soared through the skies on the backs of ancient beasts, none could escape the Stranger’s eventual embrace.

Mortality felt too heavy a thought for one so young but it was the ever present reality.

On a day that felt so heavy, so sobering, you were surprised to find any joy at all. There was so much anger, so much tension, so much sadness, that you wondered how anyone would carry on at all. But somewhere, amidst the depths of despair, you stood in awe of the timid boy who once had trouble looking you in the eye as he mounted the oldest and fiercest dragon you knew.

Aemond’s joy was almost palpable that night. His relief at having claimed a dragon - the dragon - set you at ease, thrilled you almost more than claiming your own dragon, and you watched happily as he circled Driftmark. Vhagar carried him around the island and their cries, his of triumph, carried on the wind. It filled your chest with a warmth you’d never known, a joy that felt almost suffocating. The sight of him, fearless and finally free of the cruel teasing of his brother and yours, endeared him to you in a way you never bothered to examine.

Upon his return, a split second after his feet hit the sand and your eyes met, you pulled him into your arms. With one embrace, you saw a future, a life of love - of joy, of dragon rides and quiet evenings - and you hoped he might feel the same.

It was fitting, you supposed, for the love story you always wished for to be marked by fire and blood.

The first and only time you hoped that you might marry for love while fulfilling your duty to your house ended in bloodshed. Though you were both but ten years old, you learned an important lesson; hope is not meant for a Targaryen.

Driftmark, in hindsight, began it all - the start of your love story, the seeds of ruin that would someday fell it - but you were nothing, if not stubborn.

Despite the events of that night, despite your father marrying Rhaenyra and the boys becoming your brothers, Aemond knew you shouldered no blame. Though he wanted an apology, an acknowledgement of wrongdoing, he was satisfied; an eye for Vhagar, of all dragons, was a worthwhile price to pay, that much he confided in the first of many letters you shared.

The letters were flowed easily and, though most contained trivial thoughts that mattered little to anyone but the pair of you, they meant the world to you. For the first time in a long time, you felt content - happy, even.

As you grew older, you understood little and less of the rift between your family. Your relationship with Aemond was easy, almost effortless, but everything else seemed so needlessly complicated. There were apologies owed and egos too fragile to repent for past sins; a simple problem with an even simpler solution. However, it seemed as if all were too self-involved to see the simplicity.

Viserys, with his ailing health and reputation as peacetime king, wanted nothing more than for peace amongst his own family.

For all the harsh words and bitter distance, for all the sleepless nights and long fights, for all the accusations and moments of mistrust, Viserys and Daemon truly loved one another. There was nothing, in the end, that could destroy their relationship.

That was why, you supposed, when Viserys suggested it and you insisted, Daemon agreed to send you to ward in King’s Landing.

The gesture was one, both you and Viserys insisted, meant to unite your families. Your willingness to step into a proverbial viper’s den, however, did little to ease the tension that grew so thick you feared it may someday choke you.

In hindsight, you knew the damage was already done. The groundwork for the coming war, the brewing discontent and deep mistrust, was laid long before you entered the picture. Perhaps it was naivety, or a brotherly desire to make up for past mistakes, that lead Viserys to believe the decision would invoke fondness between the halves of your families - or perhaps less bloodshed when the reckoning finally arrived - but a Dreamer he was not.

Most believed disaster loomed over the Red Keep but none could have predicted just how horrifying it would be.

Upon your arrival to the Red Keep, you were reminded of how long it had been since you wandered its halls. Little of your childhood was spent there, visits grew fewer and farther between, but very little remained of image your mind conjured. There was no warmth, no cheer, no comfort. Though autumn had scarcely begun, the bitter cold of winter already enveloped the Keep and its inhabitants.

Viserys himself hailed your arrival as a cause for celebration. Helaena, too, found joy in your presence as you served as her closest friend and confidante. Aegon, now eight-and-ten, all but ignored your presence, as did his mother. And the one you missed the most seemed most outwardly indifferent to your presence.

Aemond spoke less than he did as a child, his words carefully measured, though his confidence had grown with him. He carried himself in a manner befitting a prince, with set shoulders and a keen violet eye scanning his surroundings at every turn. And while his brother spent his days deep in his cups or between the thighs of paid women, Aemond’s days were spent honing his abilities. He trained with Cole in the yard, studied with the maesters in the library, and listened intently to every conversation he could catch regarding matters of the realm.

Though you spoke often through raven, the comfort did not quickly or easily extend to face-to-face interactions.

Despite the initial tension that arrived with you from Dragonstone, Aemond graced you with his presence more often than not. He sat with you in the library, body occupying the seat beside yours despite a handful of empty chairs scattered about the room, and went flying with you as often as you wished. At mealtimes, he sat at your side - his violet eye trained on you, observing but rarely speaking more than a handful of words - and walked the gardens with you after breaking your fast.

There were moments of bitterness, bouts of anger where your tempers flared - particularly in the beginning, and often because of one sibling or another - and more moments spent hurling cruel words at one another.

But with every moon that passed, you settled into a life far different than any you could’ve imagined. And with every moment spent by Aemond’s side, you knew it was love - real and true - you’d found all those years ago. Love lightened your spirit, brought you a warmth and a comfort you never knew existed, and joy found you despite the chill of the Red Keep. Aemond was the one you wanted and, delighted, you learned he felt the same.

Yet, neither of you forgot that hope was more dangerous a beast than any dragon.

Hope abandoned you both as you sought permission to marry. Though Viserys was overjoyed, thrilled by the prospect of uniting the family through the joining of your hands, there were few others who shared his enthusiasm. The factions of your family agreed on little as of late but Alicent and Daemon found themselves in agreement at long last; both would sooner see their children miserable, alone or trapped in loveless marriages, than allow them to marry.

It seemed as if everyone, save Viserys, shared the sentiment. And, as you gathered for what would - unbeknownst to you all - become the last supper, none were shy about sharing it.

Piece by piece, the future you foolishly allowed yourself to imagine shattered into shards that pierced your heart deeper and deeper. With every argument against your betrothal, with every sharp word uttered and eventual punch thrown, you felt the fate you desperately hoped to avoid closing in on you. And as your family disappeared from the Red Keep, eager to return to Dragonstone - with a parting command that you begin preparing to join them - you took to the skies to ruminate.

Naively, perhaps, you imagined you could have won them over.

There were a thousand arguments to be made in support of your marriage to Aemond, the least of which was the love you shared. Though Daemon mistrusted his nephew, he would’ve seen reason - someday, perhaps - that Aemond loved you, that he would never cause you harm. Though your brothers disliked Aemond, the result of childhood animosity fed to you all by adults, you could have shown them how happy Aemond made you. And though Rhaenyra found herself wary, she knew your marriage would provide stability and comfort to Alicent upon her ascension.

If only Viserys had lived just a while longer.

Viserys’ death had long been a matter of when. In the immediate aftermath, you found yourself wondering how things might have changed had Rhaenyra remained at the Keep - if he’d died sooner rather than later, if she’d been the one to share his final moments. But there was little time to dwell when you suddenly found yourself considered an enemy to the crown.

One moment, you were lingering in the Dragonpit - Aemond’s hand on your cheek, his forehead pressed to yours as he assured you there was nothing that could keep you apart - and the next, members of the Kingsguard were dragging you through the Keep to lock you in your room.

For several long hours, there was no explanation. Aemond was kept from you, sent from the Keep in search of his brother, and you were kept under strict guard. Despite the silence, you knew with great certainty that Viserys was dead and your stomach churned with fear of what was to come. And despite yourself, you held desperately to the hope that the great houses would remember their oaths to uphold Rhaenyra as the rightful heir.

Abandon all hope, should you wish to survive.

None knew what Otto Hightower intended to do with you - for it was, most certainly, he who masterminded Aegon’s ascension and he who planted the seeds of mistrust in you as a suitable match for his grandson - but you considered yourself blessed to escape that fate, nonetheless.

A knight of the Kingsguard facilitated your escape, granted you and Rhaenys the freedom necessary to flee King’s Landing. Rhaenys herself facilitated the liberation of your dragons, neither of whom you intended to leave without. And in the blink of an eye, every aspect of your life changed. War was nigh, closer than ever before, and though you escaped the Red Keep, hope held you prisoner.

For a blissful moment, little of your relationship with Aemond changed.

There were ravens - messages written in High Valyrian, now of greater significance than ever before - and meetings arranged in secluded woods. There were longing glances exchanged, fleeting touches and soft kisses, embraces you once refused out of some sense of propriety. Words of love were whispered and promises, bound to be broken, were made. There was even a dream, only spoken under cover of darkness, of finding a septon to marry you in a desperate bid to end the war before it began in earnest. But the storm itself had only just begun.

The question was never when, nor if, blood would be drawn; it was always who would draw it. Most feared it would be Daemon, or perhaps Aegon - both quick to anger, to act, desperate to prove themselves. But it was of little surprise to anyone, save you, that it was Aemond who began the Dance.

Whispers filled the land and the halls of Dragonstone echoed with the title that chipped at the already shattered pieces of your heart; Aemond One-Eye became Aemond the Kinslayer.

Most believed it was a deliberate act, retribution for the eye Lucerys stole as a boy. Others, an act of provocation to draw Rhaenyra out of hiding. Regardless of motive, nearly all found themselves in agreement that Aemond committed the most grievous sin. Though it was a compelling argument, one you found yourself struggling to deny when Jacaerys confronted you, you hoped it was not true.

Aemond longed for an apology, an acknowledgement that he was wronged. That much you knew to be true. But he was not a murderer, not one to cut down a child in cold blood.

Three long months of piecemeal battles followed Lucerys death - Visenya’s death - and, despite the damage done and the fear beginning to grip the realm, there was little to be done to keep you away from Aemond. You continuously found one another, seeking solace where you knew it was guaranteed, and he swore Lucerys’ death was a tragic mistake. He apologized, sincerely, and you believed him.

Love, perhaps, was more dangerous than hope for it could make even the sharpest eye blind.

As you glanced around the village, reduced to nothing - to ash, to rubble, to ruin - you wondered if it was love that blinded you involuntarily or a choice made to protect what remained of your fragile heart.

Every sign that Aemond had changed, that he was no longer the boy you fell in love with but a man grown into a stranger, was there. And as you stood, limbs trembling as you realized an inn had become a graveyard, you wondered if he’d ever been the man you believed him to be.

Perhaps it was hope, a desperate desire for a fairytale you long ago accepted you would never have, or perhaps it was naivety that blinded you. While others saw a waking nightmare, a terror to behold, you saw a man in desperate need of comfort. While others saw a threat, you saw a man who needed a gentle hand to guide him to the light. While others saw a raging storm, threatening to spring forth and destroy everything in its path, you found yourself trapped directly in the ruinous calm of the eye.

Aemond was, you truly believed, good. Somewhere beneath the facade he wore, the bravado that kept his shoulders straight and his lips narrowed into a thin line, was a delicate countenance you’d witnessed. But as you gathered yourself, scrubbed at your cheeks with the hem of your sleeve and swiped ash from your gloved hands on the fabric of your coat, you wondered just how deeply it was buried.

Village after village had been burned, thousands of innocents killed in cold blood, and to what end? There was no question who torched the villages, not pretending the offense was committed at Rhaenyra’s command.

All knew it was Aemond Targaryen, the One-Eyed Prince - Kinslayer, attempted Kingslayer - who singlehandedly destroyed them all.

Death and destruction marked his path, nothing left for you to find other than rubble and ash. It made you sick, turned your stomach and left an acidic burn in the back of your throat, but you couldn’t help wondering why.

As you mounted your dragon to return to Harrenhal, body present but mind far away, little made sense to you. Aegon was gone, still missing after weeks of searching; Alicent and Otto, for all their determination, would never see the realm reduced to ash; and Criston Cole would rather fight, march on with a host of men and a strategy rather than torch villages with little rhyme or reason. There was no plausible explanation for the campaign, no reasonable excuse for the destruction you found awaiting you at every turn.

All that remained was the truth; each and every village burned was a choice Aemond made.

The realization that every heinous act you’d stumbled across in your search for Aemond and Vhagar - for Aegon, for Criston Cole, for a Green army you began to imagine would never materialize - was his froze the very blood in your veins. It made each beat of your heart more painful than the last, each a little too fast and hard enough you feared your ribs might crack, and you fought bitter tears as you flew toward Harrenhal.

Only weeks ago, Aemond pleaded with you. He urged you to abandon your family and give yourself to him - your hand, your body, your dragon - and join his cause, not his brother’s. It was heartfelt, soft, emotional, convincing. He promised that you would rule as his queen, that your family would be forgiven and peace would return to the realm, if you would simply give in to him. And for a long moment, you considered his plea. So strongly did you consider accepting, you gathered your things and crossed through the dilapidated corridors of Harrenhal with every intention of taking flight and joining him.

In fact, you made it to the gate before the little voice in your head gave you pause.

Alys found you in the courtyard, bag tossed to the ground and shoulders shaking with quiet sobs, sat before the Weirwood tree. With a few soft words, she reminded you of your place - of your family, of your fight - and lead you to bed before Daemon could find you.

Briefly, as you soared through the cool, late afternoon air, you wondered if the destruction was your fault. Perhaps your rejection ignited the flame of his temper and sent him on a rampage. But you believed you knew him too well to entertain that train of thought for longer than a moment. Aemond had proven himself to be volatile, dangerous, but there had to be a reason for the destruction he rained.

Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with you and much and more to do with his own campaign for the crown - a campaign none knew existed until the power he so desired fell straight into his hands.

There was little time to dwell on Aemond’s aspirations, however, as the great ruins of Harrenhal entered your sight.

Resting in a field, not far from the charred remnants of the castle, was Vhagar. She slept, unbothered, by the beating wings of your own dragon - a scent she recognized, a scent she knew offered no threat - and you felt your pulse jump as you grounded your own dragon just outside the walls of the once great castle.

Where Vhagar went, Aemond went - a fact all knew. And what Aemond wanted, he got. It was only a matter of time before he came for you, you realized, just as you realized the choice to join him was little more than an illusion. The decision to be his was made long ago, by a lovestruck fool who believed in hope and happy endings. The consequences would be felt by a woman whose sight had been restored.

There was no use in attempting to flee. He’d seen you arrive and would doubtlessly follow, so you steeled yourself and made the short trek to the ruins of the castle courtyard.

With your blade drawn and your ears ringing, heart hammering so loud you feared he might hear over the wind howling around you, you stepped through the gate. Despite the persistent chill in the air, the bile rising in the back of your throat, you felt impossibly warm - burning from within, fear lapping at your skin like the hottest flames of dragon fire.

Aemond didn’t bother turning from the Weirwood, hands remaining folded behind his back as dead earth crunched beneath your boots. “I wondered if Daemon would dare face me himself,” he began, voice soft and carrying on the cold wind, “of if he would be craven and allow his beloved daughter to return to me.”

It was apparent he thought you knew - that Daemon knew - he’d arrived at Harrenhal. And you had no intention of correcting him as you tightened your grip on your sword. Instead, you laughed; a brittle, hollow sound you knew he would see through.

“My father is not afraid of you.” Every step you took, sword clasped in your hands - clutched like a lifeline, as if you had any chance against him in battle - the harder it became to catch your breath. “He does not consider you at all. You are nothing more than a pest to be swatted in his eyes; that is why I am here.” A lie, something you both knew, as Daemon understood exactly who his nephew had become, what kind of man he’d grown to be.

The understanding was one he attempted to share with you, one he begged you to see, but the three of you shared a common weakness; love.

Daemon, for all his gestures and his promises, would never love anyone more than himself as only he could protect his own heart. You would never love anyone more than Aemond, despite his flaws and his mistakes, as he’d captured your heart and refused to set it free. And Aemond? He would never love anyone more than he loved the image of himself wearing a crown.

Seated amidst the ruins of a small village, lingering with the ghosts of lives lost in an awful game, you found that understanding for yourself. Though Aemond professed his love for you - and felt it, of that you were certain, even if it was not the love you dreamt of, not the love you wanted - you knew that a piece of him saw you as a little more than a pawn. The war that raged around you was bigger than you, both pawns to be knocked around a board at the mercy of the gods, but he still fancied himself a player rather than a piece.

Love clouded your judgement, cast a rosy hue over the deep gray of your world, and you almost hated to see it go.

Without it, you saw the blackened hull of Harrenhal and the jaded, empty husk of a man Aemond had become. The man you loved was gone, the heart that beat in time with yours was no more. Instead, stood before you was a man who sent a thrill of fear shooting down the base of your spine.

If Daemon had known the fate that awaited you at Harrenhal, he would’ve sent you to Dragonstone, to the Keep, to the Reach, the Vale, the North - somewhere, anywhere other than into the hands of the man who would destroy you.

Daemon hadn’t known and neither had you. But if you had, you knew you still would’ve flown straight into his trap.

Silence, thick and tense with an energy you’d never before felt, enveloped you both, broken only by the call of your dragon - cries that sank into your heart like knives, plunging deeper and deeper with every beat - before, at long last, Aemond turned to face you.

That searching violet eye fell to your sword, amusement clear in the raise of his brow and the way his mouth twisted into something resembling a smirk. “Look at you,” he declared, gaze sweeping across your armor of red and black. “My beautiful Fierce Princess.” He took a single step forward, huffing a breath that could pass for laughter when you rocked back onto your heel, and hummed. “I always knew that you would be mine."

“I belong to no man.” The declaration escaped as little more than a whisper, leagues away from the confidence you hoped to project, but there was little use in denying him.

Aemond was the one person who knew each and every inch of you. Every detail - no matter how small - had been committed to memory somewhere in the years you’d loved one another. Though you had not yet given yourself to him, he was more familiar with your skin, your mind, your heart than any other could ever hope to be. If anyone were to see through a false act of bravado, it would be him.

“Mm.” He held his laughter, an act to spare your feelings, though his violet eye shimmered with a mirth that seemed rare these days - a mirth you once considered yourself lucky to witness - as he stepped closer. “Sheath your blade,” he commanded, voice soft but firm as he easily brushed past you. “I would not harm you, my love.”

Disregarding the command, you kept your sword in hand as you followed him through the dark, damp corridors. There was little light and less company, something you had yet to grow used to.

Though you knew you would find nothing before you began to search, you could not stop yourself from glancing around. Desperately, you hoped for a glimpse of a familiar face - Simon, his men, Alys - but the pit in your stomach only sank deeper as you entered the empty shell of the dining room.

“If you are searching for the witch, she’s gone. Ser Strong, as well. They all seemed… content to die,” he reveled, tone almost pitying as he reached for the carafe on the table. “Has my uncle treated them so poorly?”

“They’re dead,” you repeated, whisper echoing through the empty halls as he began to fill two glasses.

“Mm. Regretful business,” he sighed, turning to offer you a glass - one you took without thought, the action so natural you might’ve forgotten the setting had it not felt so stifling even amidst the cool breeze floating through the halls. “It is a shame they had to die,” he lamented, lips twisting into a rueful pout, “but between this… dwelling and what is to come, I consider it a merciful alternative.”

“What’s to come?” The question escaped before you could stop it, before you could convince yourself to swing - to end the battle before it began - but Aemond was unsurprised.

“Harrenhal can hold a great host. Whoever controls that host, controls the realm,” he reminded you, pausing only to sip his wine. “My brother was weak,” he continued, a soft hum of disappointment punctuating his words. “He was impulsive and undisciplined, unsuited for the crown. He would not have lasted as king. Perhaps dragon fire was a blessing, a suitable end to his reign.”

“Aemond…” For just a moment, you caught a glimpse of the man you loved as you faltered - as your feet carried you closer, as you sheathed your sword and reached for his cheek. “The villages,” you whispered, “the small folk, Simon, Alys; why?”

Aemond leaned into your touch, warmth of his cheek bleeding into your palm as your thumb brushed the ride of his scar. His violet eye fluttered shut, just for a moment, before he sighed. “I intended only to occupy Daemon, to keep him far from Rhaenyra as she attempted to take the Keep. He has long wanted battle; I chose to give it to him. He now has a cause worth fighting for.”

With a hand on your waist, fingers pressing into the heavy material of your coat, Aemond drew to his full height. “Why go to these lengths for the crown?” A large hand lifted to your cup, nudged it to your mouth, and you took a sip without thought before lamenting, “You could have done much and more without it.”

“You know nothing of being denied,” he whispered, voice as soft as it was cutting. “You have been given everything you could have ever wanted. Princes fought for your hand, lords tripped over themselves to wed you; the word ‘no’ means little and less to you.” He urged you to take another sip of your wine, the bitter taste lingering on your tongue as he tipped his head to meet your eyes. “I suppose I am also to blame as I have never refused you anything, nor will I ever. But the crown has always been meant for me, just as you have."

Another insistent press of his fingers saw you drain your cup, casting it aside the moment the liquid disappeared, and you flinched as it clattered to the ground. “You’re wrong,” you whispered, swallowing a gasp as his thumb brushed a drop of wine from your bottom lip. “The only thing I’ve ever wanted, really and truly, I was denied. I’ve only ever asked for your hand, for your love, for you. But I did not set fire to the realm, to the innocents whose paths the gods deemed unfortunate enough to set in my way. I did not betray my brother, my father, my queen. I tried reason, again and again, and held steadfast to hope that our families might see what we have always known.”

“And what did hope earn you, my love? Your father’s ire, your siblings disappointment, your realm’s division. Hope is for the foolish. You must take what you want and offer no apology,” he insisted, forehead dipping to press to yours. His hair, a cascade of white, curtained you - hid the blurring reality that surrounded you from view - as his nose brushed yours. “Everything I have done, it has been for us.”

The words, a soft declaration that should have filled your frozen limbs with an overwhelming warmth, made little sense as your thoughts began to muddle together. The ground beneath your feet trembled, your limbs suddenly felt boneless, and your tongue began to feel too large for your mouth.

Focus grew more and more difficult, a monumental feat with every breath you inhaled through wind-chapped lips, as you attempted to blink away the haze beginning to cloud your vision.

“I wanted love,” you whispered, voice distorted in your own ears. “But do you think I wanted to fall in love with you, of all people? Hope has earned me nothing, yet I continue to cling to it and hope that the boy I fell in love with will someday return to me.”

“I have never left,” Aemond assured you, though his voice sounded far away. “And I never will. We shall spend the rest of our lives together.”

As the world began to crumble around you, as your vision blurred and your ears rang, as your heart slowed and your breathing grew labored, your legs gave out. Despite Aemond’s grip, your body connected with the floor - your knees pressed hard against the broken concrete, your cheek caught the blunt edge of the table - and in an instant, everything ceased to exist.

For a blissful few moments, there was nothing.

There was no war, no death, no fire or blood or ash. There was no king, no crown, no throne. In the softness of your dreams, in the depths of your mind, there was little more than love. Aemond’s touch against your skin was soft, eager, as he committed your body to memory. His gaze was loving, reverent. The vision was dark but you felt it all so immensely.

When you awoke, you realized that it was no dream at all. Aemond sat at the side of your bed, one calloused hand stroking your skin - fingers careful as they avoided the tender skin of your cheek, the dried blood at your temple, the bruise you knew was beginning to form. “Rest well, my love?”

The dark of the room made it difficult to see and the fog still clouding your mind held tight. Your tongue still felt too large for your mouth, too dry, but you persisted. Hoarsely, you whispered, “This was a trap.”

Aemond shifted, his weight dipping the bed but leaving you undisturbed as he brushed hair from your forehead. He was clad in a shirt and pants - missing his sword, his coat, his eyepatch - and his hair fell across his shoulders. He was beautiful, as ethereal as you’d ever seen him, but the warmth you once felt was now replaced with a feeling of dread as he hummed. “It was,” he admitted, no longer bothering to pretend as his thumb swiped at your bottom lip.

“You… you poisoned me.” There was no venom in your accusation, only confusion as your mind struggled to catch up to the moment at hand. “The wine…”

“I did.” Another easy admission of guilt, this one accompanied by a flicker of his eye to meet yours. “I needed to make arrangements,” he reasoned. “I thought it kinder than locking you in a cell.”

There was no emotion in his eye, no inflection in his tone. He simply stated a fact, but you felt your heart begin to race once more as you struggled to sit upright. “I thought you loved me,” you continued, body aching as you moved.

“I do, more than you shall ever know.” Despite everything, despite yourself, you truly believed him. Of every answer he could have given you, of every explanation - every sharp glance or sharper word - you felt inclined to believe that whatever he’d done could be traced to his love for you. It was untraditional, but as someone who had never felt love, perhaps he did not know better.

Still, you asked, “Then why?”

“Because you are mine.” The answer was simple, easy. It was the same answer he had repeated a dozen times over.

When asked why he agreed to duel a Dornish prince who wanted your hand? You were his, not a prize to be won. When asked why he apologized to his cousins for his ‘Strong’ remarks? You were his; your family was important to you, therefore, they were important to him. When asked why he refused to offer his hand to a Baratheon, despite the crown’s need for their alliance? You were his and he was yours; his hand was already bound.

“Come,” he urged, standing from your bed and offering you a hand.

Slowly, you stood - your limbs weak and your head throbbing, mouth dry and stomach churning - as he reached to steady you. “Where are we going?”

“It is past time we were wed,” he declared, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you upright.

With muddled thoughts and an overwhelming bout of nausea, you inhaled sharply. “There is no septon,” you reminded him, blinking hard against the sudden warm glow of a torch as you stepped into the hallway. “No one to perform a ceremony.”

“We shall marry as our ancestors did,” he reasoned, waving away the notion as he guided you with ease. “They had no need of a septon; the Old Gods witnessed their union as they shall ours.”

“My father,” you began, blinking desperately to clear the haze from your eyes, “my family.”

“In a period of war, tradition means little,” he reasoned, voice low in the silence of the ruins. “There will be another ceremony later, in view of the entire realm, if you wish. For now, we will join hands and take our place as the rightful king and queen.”

“Aemond…”

The pleading edge to your tone, the shake of your voice, was enough to finally give Aemond pause.

A large hand lifted, cradled your jaw and tipped your head. You met his violet eye with your own and searched for answers to the thousands of questions that rushed at you from every angle. Though you’d longed for nothing more than to marry him, to become one, you now wondered if you had any choice at all. Would he allow you to refuse, to escape Harrenhal and return to your family? If you gave him your hand, would he truly spare your father, your siblings, Rhaenyra? If you ran, would he allow you to survive?

Aemond posed a question before you could. “Have you changed your mind, my love? Do you no longer wish to be my wife?” There was little indication how he meant the question - little indication of his true feelings; whether he was angry or heartbroken at the thought - and you found yourself uncertain which would be worse.

But for a long moment, you considered his question.

The man stood before you was no longer one you recognized, not fully. There was a darkness now ever present, clinging to him in a way it never had before. There was no longer a levity to him, no longer a spark of joy. But for as long as you could remember, Aemond was all you’d ever wanted. And, when you truly stopped to consider, the pieces you missed the most were pieces only you had ever seen.

Vulnerability was given only under cover of darkness, whispered in the depths of the Dragonpit or hidden deep in the godswood. Joy was only shown in fleeting flashes, with red cheeks and swollen lips in stolen moments you dared spend wrapped together. Love was shown in flashes of protection, in moments of compassion. Honesty was only ever granted to you, answers given freely to all questions asked where others received scathing looks and half-truths.

Perhaps your Aemond was just that; yours and yours alone, unsuited for the eyes of outsiders.

Thoughts rushed at you, moving simultaneously too quickly and syrup slow. Everything muddled in the depths of your mind, a confusing mass of emotion and rationality - heart versus head. For the first time, Aemond truly terrified you, though there was a certainty in the back of your mind that there was no safer place for you in the realm than by his side.

Despite the fear that left your hands trembling, you swallowed your doubt. “I have only ever wanted you,” you whispered, not bothering to hide your tears. “I am yours.”

“As I am yours,” he reiterated, dipping his head to press his forehead to yours.

As water dripped around you, as rain fell over the ruins of Harrenhal, you stood in the corridor together. Uncertainty lingered in the pit of your stomach, the question of how you found yourself here plagued you, but the warmth of Aemond’s body pressed to yours did much and more to settle the wild beat of your heart.

Hope, as dangerous as it was, again found you in the ruins as you resumed your journey to the Weirwood tree.

In the courtyard, beneath the bright, full moon and freezing rain, Aemond slipped the Conqueror’s dagger from its sheath. With a steady hand, he nicked your bottom lip and your palm before carefully gathering a bead of blood on his thumb. He then offered the blade to you and though your own hand shook, you reciprocated without sparing it a second thought.

Aemond clasped your hand in his own, your palm stinging, before he leaned in to press his lips to yours. The dagger, forgotten, clattered to the ground as you pressed impossibly closer.

Weeks apart, separated by death and destruction; confusion, desperation, desire, all clouding your ability to think rationally; overwhelming, all-consuming love - the perfect storm of circumstances saw you desperate to give yourself over the flames that certainly awaited you.

There was no longer any way out, no longer any escape. Aemond was your destiny, your lives bound together years ago. The tinge of fear that pricked at your skin each time you imagined the future - each time you questioned whether you had one, whether anyone would - remained, but your fate was sealed. Rather than fight it, rather than run, you gave in.

The moment you parted, crimson staining your lips and chin, Aemond sighed. “Ābrazyrys,” he whispered, violet eye blinking against the harsh rain.

“Valzȳrys,” you replied, grateful the rain masked your tears as Aemond smiled.

“We are one,” he declared, “united as we’ve always wished.” Your hand remained clasped in his, combined blood dripping into the scorched earth as he squeezed gently. “Nothing can part us.”

“Only the gods,” you whispered, though you remained fearful that speaking it aloud might make it so.

As he always had, Aemond dared scoff at the idea. “Even the gods could not part us,” he promised, silver hair clinging to his skin as he leaned closer.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the courtyard - the ghostly ruins of the castle torched by your ancestors, the halls Daemon had begun rebuilding - but your gaze remained fixed on Aemond. Rain drenched you both, chilled you to the bone, but neither of your cared as he began to guide you back to the castle.

There was little inside that remained dry, even less that offered some semblance of comfort, but that was of little consequence to either of you as Aemond closed the door to your room. Every emotion you felt, every ounce of fear and shame and desire and desperation, gnawed at the fraying edges of your nerves and there was nothing that could be done to alleviate your suffering. The choice was made, a pact sealed in blood, and it was clear Aemond intended to further lay his claim to you - as if he did not already own you, body and heart alike.

“I had hoped it would not rain,” he sighed, taking great care to remove your coat, “but this damn place has never been dry, it seems.”

“A curse,” you whispered, reaching on instinct to untie his breeches. “Punishment from the gods.”

“There is no such thing,” he asserted, hand tipping your chin to meet your gaze. “We are Targaryens,” he declared, “we are the gods.”

Dread settled deep in the pit of your stomach, then - a feeling so strong, you feared you might lose the little nerve that remained. Aemond was beyond reasoning, beyond rationality, and you knew there was nothing you could say to remind him of his own mortality, of yours. So, instead, you pulled him into a kiss.

The future grew dimmer, less and less likely to belong to you with every moment that passed, so you resigned yourself to enjoy the moment at hand. It was one you’d dreamt of, one you’d longed for with each rendezvous you shared, and Aemond seemed as eager as you. Now married, he had no qualms about touching you - calloused fingers skating across your damp skin, brushing across your shoulders, knocking the straps of your gown out of his path.

Aemond’s breath fanned across your cheek, a source of warmth in the chill of the ruins, and you leaned into it. Your nose brushed his, your lips ghosted over his cheek, his chin, his jaw as he nudged wet fabric out of his path.

“My beautiful wife,” he whispered, soft voice little more than a rasp in your ear. “I’ve oft dreamt of this moment. In only the sweetest of those dreams, you were mine to do with as I pleased. I believe this will be even sweeter.”

Heavy fabric fell from your shoulders, away from your body with every button Aemond found. A pool of red rested at your feet, the color of your house abandoned for the love of your husband. But you were not allowed long to dwell on the matter as deft fingers fell to your rain slick skin.

With steady hands, Aemond peeled your small clothes from your body - violet eye remaining on your face the entire time - before he reached for his own. Your hands, meanwhile, tangled in the dripping strands of his hair.

“You are so beautiful,” you whispered, gaze roving the sharp lines of his face. “A true sight to behold.”

Aemond came alive with your praise, a light flickering behind his eye that reminded you of the man you loved so dearly, and you were glad for it as you stood bare before him. The weight of his searching stare felt lighter, more bearable, as he finally allowed himself a moment to savor the sight of you. It felt as if he meant to commit the sight to memory, to savor the chance he was afforded, and you chose to do the same as you traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips.

Slowly, Aemond pressed you back, pausing only when you reached the foot of the bed. It was low, easy to settle upon, and he seized the opportunity to press you into the mattress. “Lie back for me,” he commanded as he began to sink to his knees, “my queen.”

Warm, calloused hands found your calves, touch so light you couldn’t be certain you hadn’t imagined it as he leaned into you.

Before you, the vision of Aemond clad in the translucent white of his shirt and unlaced breeches, his hair falling free and his sapphire eye uncovered chipped at the fragile remains of your heart. Hope reared its ugly head, gave you reason to believe this would be your forever - the sight of your husband, gazing at you with a reverence you’d never before known - when you knew that forever was far from guaranteed. The moments you shared were stolen, unearned, and if the Stranger did not separate you, your father surely would.

But every thought, every worry, every doubt - each ceased to exist the moment Aemond’s lips pressed to your skin.

Every ounce of tension, of fear, of trepidation, of doubt left your body in a soft sigh as his warm mouth pressed to your ankle. He began softly, slowly, and blazed a path across your skin. Fire burned in his wake, the impression of his mouth seared into your skin, and your breath caught in your throat the higher he inched.

“Tell me,” he urged, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thigh, “is this what you wanted, what you hoped for all those nights we spent in the Dragonpit, in the library?”

The request was not one meant to stroke his ego, not one meant to serve as an admission of desire. It was not an idle thought, whispered in the heat of the moment. Aemond desired reassurance, acknowledgement that you thought of him as often as he thought of you, that you longed for him the way he’d always longed for you. It was a request for your love, for your commitment, for your comfort. And you long ago lost the ability to deny him much of anything.

“Yes,” you whispered, hand reaching for his - fingers twining together, grip stronger than you intended as you tethered yourself to him. “I always wished you would take me, make me wholly yours. I dreamt of sharing your bed, of seeing you like this. You always wanted to honor me, refusing to steal my maidenhead, but you cannot steal that which belongs to you.”

“Perhaps, if I had taken you then, we might’ve wed years ago,” he ruminated. “But I intend to make up for lost time.”

Aemond repeated his path, his lips pressing to your skin as he used his grip on your thigh to pull you closer to the edge of the bed. You could feel his breath fan across your skin, warming you from within, and you clasped his hand tighter as he nosed as the juncture of your thigh.

Part of you imagined he would make you beg, eager for proof of your desire - of your need - but before your lips could part to utter his name, he surged forward.

Between your thighs, it was as if he was a man starved. Your immediate gasp, your fingers tangling in his hair, earned a soft groan from him as he lapped at your folds with the flat of his tongue. His shoulders kept your thighs parted as his hand slipped between them, calloused fingers gathering the combination of your slick and his saliva before pressing to the bundle of nerves hidden there.

With every jolt of your body, eager for something - to run from the pleasure or sink into it, you remained uncertain - Aemond shifted closer. He alternated between broad licks, the flat of his tongue savoring the taste of you, and kitten licks, reveling in the way your hips chased each flick of his tongue. Every noise you made was met with a hum of satisfaction, a palpable relief that he could please you in a way no one had ever been allowed, and you all but gasped his name as his fingers began to explore your slick folds.

The swipe of his fingers was foreign, the brush of his thumb over your clit caused you to jolt in his grasp, and you could feel Aemond’s lips curve into a smirk as he pressed his mouth to your mound.

“Ābrazyrys,” he whispered, breath fanning across your skin as he rested his chin on your thigh, “tell me how it feels.”

Words failed you as his lips wrapped around your clit and his fingers pressed into you - slowly, carefully, tenderly - and your breathing grew labored as he worked to prepare you. The only word your mind could recall was his name. “Aemond,” you gasped, fingers tugging at the silver locks drying in the curls he hid. “Gods, Aemond.”

Warmth filled your veins, your chest, the pit of your stomach, as he pressed himself closer. That violet gaze weighed heavy on your skin, able to see through the most carefully crafted facade, and each swipe of his fingers through your slick, each press of his tongue, chipped away at another piece of you. Bit by bit, Aemond worked to break you apart, to dismantle you completely, and you knew it was only a matter of time before you shattered.

And as his fingers pressed, filling you in a way you’d never experienced, you could only hope that he would piece you together again.

“Let go,” he whispered, voice a rasp in the dim light of the room. “Take your pleasure.”

Each sensation felt like too much, too fast, but you gave in to him. You melted into the uncomfortable bedding and focused solely on his attention. The warmth of his skin pressed to yours, the silk of his hair between your fingers, the soft noises he made as he devoured you; it all overwhelmed you in the most beautiful way.

The fire in the pit of your stomach grew hotter, lapping at your skin from within, and with each breath you attempted to draw, the more eager Aemond became to hear you cry his name. And as the edges of your vision began to white, as your fingers held too tightly to him, you gave him what he wanted.

With a cry of his name, loud enough to echo through the abandoned corridors, you came.

Fire, passionate and all-consuming, flickered in Aemond’s eye as he lifted himself. He stood tall, proud, and reveled in the lust openly displayed in your gaze as he finally shucked his own wet clothing. His tunic and breeches joined your own garments; green leather and red velvet, discarded for a union that neither side would consider sacred, but you knew the time to repent had passed.

Rather than dwell, you openly gazed upon the man you’d wanted for so long.

Aemond was perfect - beautiful, ethereal in a way that made your chest ache. There was an allure to him that called to you, a draw that pulled you in and refused to grant you leave. The angle of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the slope of his nose; he bared himself fully, no ounce of his soul hidden, and you swallowed harshly as you hoped the gods would forgive you for accepting it all.

“Make me yours,” you whispered, no longer able to remember why you’d ever considered resisting. “There is nothing left but us.”

One of the most feared men in the realm, quick with a blade and quicker with dragon fire, bent to your will. With an even stride and steady hands, he pressed you further up the bed before climbing in to join you. He settled above you, his hair falling - a curtain to shield you both from the world around you - and studied your face for a long moment.

There were tears lining your lashes, a product of the storm of emotion raging in the back of your mind, and Aemond was quick to bring a thumb to your cheek. “This is not the life you hoped for,” he declared, certain, “but I shall spend the rest of mine devoted to you.”

Little remained certain in your mind but you knew Aemond meant every word.

“I know,” you assured him, lifting your own hand to carefully brush at the jagged edge of his scar. “Hope is foolish,” you whispered, urging him closer, “it has caused heartache at every turn, but it lead me to you and for that, I am grateful.”

Without allowing him a moment to speak, you pressed your lips to his. The sting of the nick reminded you of where you were, of what had taken place, but you cared little for anything other than the weight of Aemond’s body pressed to yours. His warm hands held tight to the plush of your hip, fingers pressing into the skin so deeply you feared there might be bruises come morning, as he kissed you.

Emotion - fear, doubt, anger, resentment, longing, love - filled the kiss, a clash of lips and teeth and tongue that tasted of copper, but it was all you could do to keep yourself tethered to reality as Aemond traced the leaking tip of cock through the slick of your folds.

The first time hurt - so the few friends you’d made at court declared, giggled about when your father’s back was turned and your siblings wandered away - but you emerge beyond caring. And as he pressed forward, sheathing himself inside you, you found that the slight pinch, the sting of him, cleared the fog of your thoughts and brought the world around you back into focus.

As fearsome as he’d become, Aemond’s heart beat for you. The heavy thunder of it beneath your palm, the thrum of it beneath your lips as you pressed them to the pale skin of his throat, was a reminder that there was no other choice - there never had been.

With every press of Aemond’s hips, with every breath of pleasure, every whispered Valyrian praise, the truth grew clearer.

Hope was a mirage, affording you a fantasy that never existed. The life you lead was always destined to be one of fire and blood. The blood of the dragon coursed through your veins, dripped from the slit in your lip and your palm and spilled from between your thighs as Aemond claimed the last piece of you - a piece you knew had never been yours at all.

Every bit of you, every moment of your life, belonged to someone else; your father, your uncle, your siblings, Aemond. Now, there was nothing left.

A sob escaped your lips, a broken noise that saw Aemond pause. His head lifted, violet eye immediately meeting your own, as his hand lifted to your cheek. “Did I hurt you?” His concern was evident, proven as he stilled and searched for any hint of pain.

To lie would have been easy, as mindless a breathing, but the truth weighed heavy on your chest. “No,” you whispered, swallowing hard, “but I… you were right, this isn’t the life I hoped for. I do not want to continue fighting, to see more good people die. I’ve lost one brother, I cannot bear the thought of losing another. But I know that this, lying here with you, will drive them away. And you, Aemond.” Tears clouded your vision, hiding him from your view, as you admitted, “I just want you. I do not want to be queen, nor do I want to share my husband with the realm. All I want is to be happy, to be loved. I want to be free.”

Aemond frowned, eye rapidly blinking as he attempted to make sense of the words spilling from your lips, but you shook your head. “I’ve given my family my loyalty, my father my devotion, you my heart. I have nothing left to offer,” you whispered.

“Then let me fight,” he countered, tipping his head to meet your eye. “Let me end this war and give you peace. No more will die and when I claim the throne, I will never leave your side again.”

“A beautiful thought,” you nodded, “to be sure. But you can’t promise that, no more than I can promise we shall see morning. I do not want false promises or grand fantasies. I do not want a king or a warrior. All I want, all I have ever wanted, was you.”

Silence settled then, thick and suffocating, but you could see the emotion flickering in the depth of his violet eye.

Neither of you imagined this would be your reality, neither of you ever could have dreamed you would find yourselves fighting your own kin for a crown - a throne. Neither of you imagined a life outside of one another and now, faced with the realization that loving one another was not enough, you were at a loss.

“I cannot surrender,” Aemond finally whispered, gaze fierce - pleading - as he searched for an understanding. “And you are right, I cannot promise a long future. But I can promise that I will do much and more to return to you all that you have given me. You will be my queen and you will be beloved, kind and fierce in equal measure. And your family, your father, will not perish at my hand. There is no other path to be trod.”

“Our lives are bound,” you whispered, though a fresh wave of tears tracked down your cheeks. “Your path is mine.”

Aemond leaned in, then, and pressed his mouth to yours once more. This kiss was desperate, the kiss of a man seeking reassurance, and you offered it to him. There was nothing left for you to give; no more fire, no more blood. Now, you simply took the brunt of his desperation as he pressed closer to you.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice rough in your ear as his hips began to move once more. “I can promise that I will love you for the rest of my life.”

“And I you,” you reassured him, your own hand lifting to his cheek as his eye fluttered shut.

As Aemond’s end approached, his hips snapping quicker and his breath growing heavier, he repeated promises in High Valyrian; a promise to spend the rest of his life loving you, a promise to do whatever it took to make you happy, a promise to make right the wrongs that drove you so far apart. And though they were all grand, you knew he took each word to heart.

At his peak, he cried your name - a declaration of love following - before he collapsed into you. His head pressed to your chest, his thigh draped over yours, he held you tight and you allowed him. Your fingers combed through the curling strands of his hair, over the line of his jaw, as you stared up at the crumbling ceiling.

“This war will end,” he finally whispered, voice carrying on the cool night wind, “and we shall begin anew.”

Though hope abandoned you at Harrenhal, finally freeing you of its cruel embrace, Aemond found it. In the rubble and ash, surrounded by the ruins created by your ancestors, he vowed to give you what no other ever had; the love you’d always dreamt of, the life you’d always hoped for.

Hope was a dangerous thing, but nothing was more dangerous than Aemond Targaryen.

____________________________________________________

Author's Note: Started. Blacked out. Here we are. Bone apple teeth.

Taglist: @anaya-rhys, @holypeacecrown, @marvelously-flawed, @travelingmypassion, @letsgotothehop, @reynacrawford, @liannafae, @ffsg0jo

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nfkjasfas · 2 years ago

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myramillan · 10 days ago

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shaftesburywyq · 2 years ago

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Brown finally broke through halfway into the 2011 season

Bengals manager Mike Brown, who created his perpetually failing machine with financial prudence and Madden 23 coins nepotism, refused to accept draft picks that were free from a quarterback-deficient league. "Carson signed a contract. He made a promise. He gave his word," Brown said. "We were relying on his word. We relied on his commitment. We had hoped that he would perform here. He's going to withdraw of his commitment. We're not going him for doing what he did."

Brown finally broke through halfway into the 2011 season, sending Palmer to Oakland to receive a first-round selection and a second-rounder with a conditional selection, one of the reasons that the Raiders have managed to stay more unsuccessful as the Bengals during the last two decades.

There's a reason that Oakland's fans who love the game shout through the Black Hole: because the collapsed star physics apply to Raiders. When quarterbacks reach the Event Horizon of being an Oakland Raider, their photons are reduced to zero, meaning that we can't observe them disappear. We just end up looking away.

Palmer was able to escape velocity during a trade with the Cardinals in spring 2013. He helped lead the Cardinals to a 10-6 record, becoming the first player in Madden NFL 23 history to throw for more than 4000 yards on the three teams. He was even more successful this year, winning each of his six starts as the Cardinals took on first place in the NFC. With 11 touchdown passes and three interceptions was the highest ratio of his career.

Then, in Week 10 , this season when he tripped on the ground in the face of the Rams without touching and his ACL was torn yet again. He needed Carson Palmer a decade to recover his career and his comeback was short-lived until he was struck by the same injury that destroyed his potential initially. But even if he never plays again, he'll finish his career as the top professional quarterback from USC.

For a sport that is as unapologetically and stereotypically meatheaded as football, I can't help but admire Mark Sanchez's dedication to not giving a damn about what anyone thinks about his style of play. The issue with the quote mentioned above is that Sanchez's handor his use of it at a minimum- has been far less reliable than any Broadway player. In his four years as a starter for the Jets his record was not a great quarterback, however, that didn't stop them from Jets of signing the quarterback up to a multi-million-dollar extension. And madden 23 coins cheap , let's not forget: the butt fumble.

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creswellda · 1 year ago

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That was frustrating as hell to observe

In the majority of cases Madden nfl 24 Coins, Harold would just kind of get into the left tackle, and then get stuck on his block during passing plays. He might as well have completed a 4.9 as far as I'm concerned given how seldom the team he played with the speed rush. What's the benefit of being a super athlete if you aren't going to make use of your skills as a pass rushing ace occasionally?

That was frustrating as hell to observe.

I'm not a fan of the fact that I was able to see Harold perform a few good moves in the past, and I was left wondering why he didn't employ them all the time. If he'd used them, he'd have been able to have a lot more sacks. But he didn't, which is why it is possible that it was "only" got around 7.5 sacks on the season. That's not really a bad figure, though it isn't an excellent one.

Maybe it could have helped had he not missed so many tackles, including a few sacks. On the Louisville game alone, in a game that he scored two sacks, the dude flat out missed three other tackles, one of which resulted in another sack. In addition, the dude was supposed to be a skilled athlete , but what happens when he comes scot-free he doesn't perform the task?

I haven't even gotten around to talking about Harold's less than stellar performance with the ball. I'll admit that every occasion, he came off the ball very well, jacked up the blocker and played the ball. Most of the time but he would either get blocked or was manhandled.

Harold also gave up the edge to running backs on running plays wayyyyy too often in those five games. That isn't going to work. I'm sure he's thin in the a$$ but his blocking is going to be better at subsequent levels. He is going to have to find a way fix that shit quick. A little more weight, some squats , and better technique would be my prescription, but for this moment, imagining Harold trying to get the edge over Madden NFL 24 level offensive tackles and Buy Madden nfl 24 Coins tight end isn't a pleasant sight.

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dinhvand123 · 1 year ago

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Madden NFL 24 Combine 2014

They had little trouble putting aside the Miami Dolphins in the Wild Card round.Even though they not scoring a score against the Mut 24 coins Kansas City Chiefs,the defense did a great job winning 18-16 to advance into the Divisional round. Le'Veon Bell is carrying the offense with his back,rushing for an impressive 337 yards during the playoffs.RoethliMadden 24erger hasn't been totally sharp due to Bell as well as Antonio Brown terrorizing opposing defenses the team hasn't been forced to be at his best. The Patriots triumphed again to win an AFC East title and are in the conference championship game for the sixth year in consecutive years.That's the standard of excellence we've become accustomed to from Brady and Bill Belichick,who are looking for their seventh Super Bowl appearance together. Brady suffered a rough time in the game against the Houston Texans on the field in the Divisional round.But three touchdowns by Dion Lewis was more than enough to send Houston home. In this Watch Madden NFL 24 playoffs 2017.Highlights,scores,and more from Sunday's AFC,NFC Championship games Arthur Blank danced like it was 1999 when Falcons made it to Super Bowl Complete schedule for AFC,NFC championship games Here's the reason why Falcons did not get an advantage on Packers fumble View all 58 stories from Madden NFL 24 Combine 2014:Schedule and preview for the Friday The 2014 Madden NFL 24 Draft is still three months off,but there will be plenty of impressions to be made in the Madden NFL 24 Combine which is set to begin on Wednesday,February.19 and run until Tuesday,Feb.25. There's no way that the 335 athletes that will be present at this year's Madden NFL 24 Combine will improve their draft prospects There's no doubt they'll get the chance to be noticed by many of the league's leading decision makers.Wanting to stand out from the crowd will be a record 85 juniors scheduled to be at this year's Combine on the mut 24 madden coins Lucas Oil Stadium in Indianapolis.

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sorceresssundries · 6 months ago

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Thunder and Lace

Pairing: Rolan x Fem reader

Summary: The very busy and important master of Ramazith's tower is instructed to spend the day wearing your delicate, lacy underwear.

Warnings: Tail play, Smut

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: So, the brain worm evolved. This is a treato for my pal @orangekittyenergy! (Not completely selfless, I have very much being enjoying the thought of Rolan in lacy underwear.)

You watch him from your comfortable position in bed, still dozing. The space next to you, where Rolan had been just minutes ago, is now cool and empty. Your leg feels forlorn without his tail hugged round it, as is his habit while he rests - mooring himself to you even in the dreamy tides of sleep.

“Come back to bed,” you murmur, your voice thick with leftover tiredness.

“Can’t. Cal organised the scrolls completely inadequately yesterday, he has muddled up all the abjuration and conjuration sections like a dolt.” he mutters something else as he moves around the room, but it is infernal and too low for you to make out. His tail swishes with annoyance, and all you can think about is the squeezing heat of it.

You slip out from beneath the covers, still in the underwear you slept in, and press yourself against his back as he ties up his hair. Your lips, swollen from the night’s fervent kisses and playful bites, brush softly against the freckles adorning the strong, defined planes of his shoulders. The early morning light filters stubbornly through the closed curtains.

“I’ll make it worth your while” you hum against the warmth of his skin.

“I…” He begins to protest, but his words flicker out with his resolve. You trace a finger down his spine, drawing slow, gentle lines around the base of his tail, bumping down and over the ridges that just hours ago you were grinding against in a maddening heat. Reaching around, you stroke his erection as intently you did then. His breathing hitches, caught off guard by the same memory. He turns to press his forehead against yours, a growl rumbling deep in his chest. “Seductress,” he purrs.

“Me?!” You bat your eyes at him innocently and move your fingers until you are raking through his coarse, dark pubic hair. His erection bumps against your abdomen. You lean forward, pushing your nose against the soft skin below his ear, catching his musky scent as you gently suck on his earlobe before whispering, “I could be much, much worse.”

There is a moment of heavy hunger where you think you have won, and Rolan will drop his duties like coins down a well and spend the entire day chasing pleasure with you in streaks of sunlight and stretched out hours.

The moment passes.

“Shit,” he mutters, noticing the time. “I’m going to be late.” You love seeing him like this—all his sharp thoughts blunted. He’s the wickedly clever archmage, the gifted master of one of the most prominent Wizard’s Towers on the Sword Coast, yet you’ve reduced him to a word-wrecked mess of a man more times than you can count. Around you, his sentences slip and his concentration crumbles into dust. It makes you giddy.

“I can’t find my underwear,” he says, rummaging through his drawers. You smirk. It’s tricky to be empathetic when you’re very much enjoying watching him storm around the room naked. His face bears that indignant little frown he wears so well, and his lithe tail flicks around in annoyance. A dishonourable person would probably have hidden his things on purpose just to elicit this kind of delicious reaction… or as part of a wicked plan.

“Here,” you say, sliding your delicate, lacy underwear down your legs with a shimmy. “You can wear these.” You throw them to him nonchalantly, and he is so taken aback he doesn’t even try to catch them. They land on his shoulder, draping in wait—a black web of flimsy lace against his claret skin.

You act as casually as if you’ve just handed him a hairbrush or a towel. You move around the room, tidying up clutter and beginning your morning routine, all the while relishing his stunned reaction.

“Are you kidding?” He thinks you are teasing him.

You move back to him and rake your nails gently along his erection, burning your gaze into his. "Do I look like I'm kidding?" you murmur.

He hisses and tilts his head back in pleasure. You take the underwear off his shoulder and kiss down his body—slowly, reverently. His hands clench and unclench at his sides. You know he desperately wants to run his nails over your skin and ball them in your hair, but he won’t. Not unless you tell him to.

You lower yourself until you are kneeling on the ground in front of him, and you notice that even his toes are curled.

“Step into them.” You say as you press a heavy kiss to his calf. He does as he is told, placing a foot carefully into each gap. Pretty impressive given his legs are shaking. You pull them slowly up his legs, letting the lace chase your licks and kisses up his skin. You pause as you get to his erection, and give it a long, indulgent stroke with your tongue before finishing your task and stepping back to admire your work.

The black lace of your underwear looks sinful against his crimson skin. It is tight against his muscle, and he is straining against it - desperate to get to you. Luckily, your curves mean the fit isn’t too tight. He looks delicious, perhaps you would let him wear your silken negligee next.

“How do they feel?”

“Restrictive.” he says running his finger around the waistband “And, erm.. Damp” His golden eyes were molten.

“Well, I awoke from a very vivid dream about you, my love.” You curve your body into him, and move close enough to let your breath dance with his. “Well, less of a dream and more of a memory” He makes a whiny little noise which makes your stomach twist. “I hope the busy and important Master of the tower doesn't get too distracted thinking about how tight, and wet they are all day long.”

It proves too much. His lips crash against yours, starving. You smile and allow him a few moments to taste the heat of your tongue before pulling away.

“You’re very late.”

“Fuck.” He says, prising himself away from you pulling on the rest of his robes in a clumsy rush. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, flushed and unkempt.

“Fuck. Ok” He kisses you once, chastely, and then again. And once more… “Ok, i’m going now.” You giggle as he doesn’t move and presses another kiss to your cheek, your nose, and then one final one to your mouth. “Fuck” He tears himself away, practically falling out the door to get to work.

After a long and luxurious shower you drag yourself through the portal to help out around the shop. It’s so crowded with people asking repetitive, inane questions that you barely have any time to flirt with Rolan. It makes you feel pouty, especially thinking about how grumpy and uncomfortable he must be in your restrictive underwear. You just want to play with him.

After a while, you finally seize a brief respite and saunter over to where he is engrossed in paperwork and mundane administrative tasks behind the front desk. He wears his best surly look, the one you adore stealing away with a few well-placed kisses across the freckles that dapple his stern features. His frown used to be stone-carved, his demeanour so clouded and thunderous you worried the sun might never reach him. But you slipped through, like sunrise and sea breeze, slowly and gently wearing down his defences. It took gentle hands and even gentler words, but now, the moments when he reverts to his familiar frowns are a sweet reminder of how easily they can pass.

“Are you alright, my love?” you ask with sparkling innocence as you perch next to him on the counter. “You look a little out of sorts.”

He looks at you as though you are a fire he wishes to extinguish.

"I am perfectly fine, thank you." He kisses you on the cheek in a perfunctory, reflexive manner that makes you grin. You are a part of his routine, and the idea that he reaches for you instinctively, as if pulled by gravity, makes your heart flutter. He is your sun. A grumpy sun, but yours nonetheless.

“What a relief! For a second, I thought you looked little… Distracted.”

He brushes past you to grab a book, and as he does his fingers graze across your thigh. Too briefly, too gently.

“I wouldn’t be much of an archmage if I let myself get distracted, now would I?” He gives a sultry smile, but his eyes deliberately avoid yours. You know it’s because if he met your gaze, you’d see the barely contained fluster in them.

You let your hand brush against his, and hear the quickening of his breath. "Good to know. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for keeping the great Rolan from his important duties."

He finally looks at you, his eyes back to molten gold ."You are a menace," he says, but there’s no real bite to his words.

You answer with a wink, a wicked grin spreading across your face.

You start to work away next to him, flicking through various notes and business accounts at the desk, and you feel a pressure against your ankle that makes you gasp, until you look down and see Rolan’s tail starting to twist its way around your ankle, slow as a creeping vine.

You turn to glare at him, but he doesn't acknowledge you at all, just carries on making a list of inventory.

Sometimes, in moments of concentration, his tail reaches for you involuntarily. As natural and instinctive as a plant reaching for sunlight. Is this one of those times? The purposeful creep of the tail under your robes and up your calf makes it feel as though there's definite intention in its journey.

You don’t have time to play your next move.

“‘Scuse me,” comes a voice at the counter. “I bought a potion recipe from you, but I can’t seem to get it right. Could you talk me through it?”

Rolan, usually standoffish and curt towards 'idiots who wouldn’t know a hill giant’s finger from a dried sausage,' is surprisingly cheerful towards the customer.

“Why, of course. My delightful and highly knowledgeable associate here would be happy to go over every detail with you, wouldn’t you, Tav?” His eyes glint, and his tail squeezes you slightly.

“Erm, yes. Of course.” The man, a dwarf, barely taller than the counter, luckily cannot see Rolan’s tail disappearing under your robes.

He asks you to go through each step of the potion in detail, hoping to pinpoint his mistake. You lean over the desk, arms folded tightly, trying to focus on the instructions. You dare not look at Rolan, who stands next to you, still writing a list on that infernal piece of paper. How is he multitasking so well? You think about how uncomfortable he must be in your underwear now; His scent would have mingled with yours, the two of you blending into the delicate gusset of the skimpy, thin piece of material. Later, when you were alone, you would tear it from him with your teeth and...

“Excuse me? Miss…”

The man is frowning at you; you had drifted off to a whole other plane. One where Rolan’s cock sits stiff and heavy in your mouth. You swear you could hear him stifle a laugh next to you.

“Erm, yes, sorry… Right… so…” you begin to explain exactly the temperature needed to create the concoction just as the tip of Rolan’s tail reaches the soft flesh of your upper thigh. It is still sensitive and stained with the purple bites he had lavished upon you the night before, and you have to stifle a gasp as he grazes over them, the blooms of past conquests mapping his way forward.

Suddenly the tail halts, and Rolan’s posture stiffens next to you in realisation. You aren’t wearing underwear. Of course you aren’t. After slipping him into your lust-soaked lingerie, you had decided not to put on any more, determined that at some point in the day you would corner him in some private cupboard and get your underwear back from him. Stretched and well-worn.

For a second, you think he might abandon his intent, worried about his professionalism or reputation as the highly respected wizard of Baldur’s Gate. But lust must have won over sanity, as it doesn’t take long for his tail to push upwards, the length of it coiling and gently squeezing around the full length of your leg, the spade tip lightly stroking around your vulva.

How does he have so much control over it now? When it seemed so often it would wave, sway, or even vibrate without him having any say in the matter. Bloody mysterious, frustrating, sexy Tiefling.

You continue with your explanation to the now quite unimpressed customer, who is infuriatingly slow to catch on to your instructions. You refuse to let Rolan win; you would never hear the end of it.

You gasp audibly as you feel a light stroke against your clit.

The customer frowns and raises an eyebrow at you.

“Sorry, erm, I was just shocked at how much rogue’s morsel you were using… AH…” The end of the tail has begun to vibrate softly, and Rolan is making a low, subtle purring sound next to you. Bastard.

“I’m so sorry…” you say as professionally as you can to the customer through gritted teeth. “I just need to… ah… get to the store cupboard to see if we have…” You can feel the clenching building and building in that low point of your abdomen. You absolutely cannot fall apart leaning against the counter where you work. “...have the ingredients you need, if you’d excuse me I’ll just be two minutes, illberightbackimsosorry” you manage to stutter before hastily moving away from the counter and grabbing Rolan tightly by the back of his robes, dragging him into the first supply closet you come across.

“What the hell are you thinking?!” you say as you immediately push yourself against him, licking and suckling at his exposed throat, feeling it pulse with the hot blood coursing through him - giving him away.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he gasps as you give a firm bite, not caring if you mark him. Let every citizen of Baldur’s Gate see the Master of Ramzith’s tower covered in marks like some kind of horny teenager. It was his own fault.

“You and that fucking tail,” you purr as you wind your fingers into his soft hair.

“Oh?” you feel the rumble of his chuckle vibrate against your lips on his throat. “Silly thing must have been acting of its own accord again.”

As if to punctuate his point, his tail coils around your waist, holding you firmly against him.

“Ah, I see,” you pull your face back to gaze at him fully. His eyes are lidded, his skin flushed from pink to deep scarlet. He's so beautiful. “We’ll have to do something about that.”

With a mischievous glint in your eyes, you release his hair and trail your fingers down his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breath. His tail tightens around you,

You press your lips against his, fierce and hungry, and his response is immediate, his hands finding their way to your hips, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. The heat of his body seeps into yours, and it feels like you are lit from the same fire.

You break the kiss, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along his jawline and down his neck. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his fingers digging into your skin as he tries to hold onto control.

You move your hand to stroke up along his tail, grazing slow and purposeful against each raised ridge as you do.

“Tav, wait..”

“Oh no, my love.” You voice is more breath than words. “Is this not what the damn thing wanted? All this attention?”

Without giving him any kind of warning, you grip the base of his tail and give a sharp tug.

The effect is immediate and his gasp choked.

You kiss him softly and keep him gripped to you as he catches his breath and regains his burnt-out composure. His forehead rests against your shoulder.

“Oh dear, Master… did I just make you come in your pants?” your voice is smug and light.

He groans sheepishly, not looking at you. “No darling... You just made me come in yours.”

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art-by-jas · 3 months ago

Text

𝑈𝑛𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝐶𝑜𝑛𝑛𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 (AO3)

𝘋𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘚𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘺 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘪 𝘑𝘳 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

Word Count: 5k

Rating: M

Summary: As the new addition to the Manhattan SVU, Detective Sonny Carisi found it challenging to fit in without causing a stir. He had a chance encounter with you while doing laundry late one night in the new apartment he moved into. The following day, after a long shift working a case, he happens to run into you again at the coffee shop where you work.

As the clock strikes midnight, the old laundry room in the apartment building is illuminated by the dim, flickering overhead lights. The air is thick with the scent of damp fabric and the rhythmic hum of the aging washing machines.

The sound of rain pounding against the glass can be heard through the small, grimy window. There is a sense of calm doing laundry at this hour.

The door to the room creaks open, the sound barely registering in your consciousness as you sit hunched over your phone, thumb mindlessly scrolling through an endless feed.

“Hey, Ummm… I’m sorry to bother you, but do you have a few quarters? The machine decided to munch on mine! I just need a few for the dryer." A cheerful voice interrupted your dissociated episode of staring at your phone screen.

As you lift your gaze from the flickering screen, the unexpected sight of another person in the dimly lit room greets you.

"Yeah, sure," you say, reluctantly setting down your phone to retrieve a few quarters from your pocket. "Here you go," you say, passing the coins to the newcomer. "I have had that happen before; it is annoying as hell."

With a chuckle, the man reaches out his hand and accepts the quarters. "Thank you so much," he says, his warm smile brightening his face. An easy grace and a playful glint in his eyes gave him an endearing quality.

He glances at the whirring machines, watching the damp clothes spin inside. "Doing laundry at this hour? Couldn't sleep?" He opens the washer, transfers the wet clothes to the dryer, and feeds quarters into the slot. His strong, steady fingers move with precision, confidently guiding the process.

"Yeah," you reply. "Insomnia's been keeping me company lately. You?"

The man echoes, "Same here," as he closes the panel on the machine and presses the start button. The machine instantly springs back to life, its hum resuming with renewed vigor.

Turning back to you, the man's warm smile remains. "It’s my first day at a new location for my job soon," he explains, leaning against the machine.

"Sometimes I have late nights at the office, so my sleep schedule's all over the place."

"I noticed the room across from mine was being cleared out. Did you just move in? You don’t look familiar," you ask.

The man's soft, low chuckle sends a strange flutter through your chest. "Yeah, you caught me," he admits, smiling at you. "I just moved in last week, and I'm still unpacking, trying to figure out where to put everything." He pauses, meeting your gaze. "I'm Sonny, by the way."

"Nice to meet you, Sonny. Welcome to the building. I know it's not much, but it's a nice little spot to call home." You introduce yourself to him as you move to shake his outstretched hand.

Sonny tips his head in acknowledgment, his gaze holding yours for a moment. "Thanks; I appreciate it," he replies, his voice low and soft. "I've lived in worse places, so this is a definite upgrade." Sonny runs his hand through his silvery hair. He glances at the machines, then turns to you with a casual curiosity. "So, I take it you've been here for a while?" he asks.

You nod, "Yeah, a few years now." The realization you’ve lived here long enough to be considered a "long-term resident" is faintly disturbing. You run a hand through your hair, feeling slightly disheveled. "It's a fairly quiet building, for the most part."

Sonny’s voice took on a thoughtful tone. "That's good. I've lived in places where the noise was constant. You could never get a moment's peace. It was maddening, to say the least." He turns his gaze toward the window, his eyes taking in the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the rain.

"If you don't mind me asking, where did you live previously?" You inquire.

"I used to live in Queens," he replies, "but it didn't work out, and my job ended up transferring me here instead," Sonny speaks, his fingers tracing an idle pattern on the cool metal surface of the washing machines. "But it's not all bad," he adds, a hint of optimism resurfacing in his voice. "New places can be good. Fresh starts, you know? Sometimes we need those."

A moment of silent understanding passes between the both of you before he speaks again, a half-smile playing at the corners of his lips. "And hey, at least I’ve got neighbors like you to keep the company."

You manage a small chuckle, the compliment sending a subtle flush of warmth through you.

Sonny's smile widens, his eyes holding yours for a moment. The silence returns, but it feels different this time—more comfortable, less isolating. The rhythmic hum of the machines continued to fill the room, like a shared heartbeat between two strangers in the night. The rain continues pattering softly against the window, creating an intimate atmosphere in the old laundry room.

The washing machine beeped, signaling that your laundry was finished and ready to be transferred to the dryer. He observes, watching as you transfer your wet clothes to the dryer. As you make small talk, time idles by while you wait for your clothes to finish.

"So," he finally says, "what do you do when you're not doing laundry at ungodly hours?"

The unexpected question momentarily catches you off guard, prompting you to pause and carefully formulate a response. "Well," you begin, a faint smile tugging at your lips. "When I'm not tackling the laundry, I'd like to think of myself as a fairly interesting person. I'm an avid reader, enjoy experimenting in the kitchen, and may or may not have been known to binge-watch an inordinate number of TV shows."

Sonny's smile reveals his rapt attention as he casually studies you, his eyes brimming with curiosity. "An avid reader, a connoisseur of the kitchen, and a TV aficionado," he muses, his voice laced with amused approval. "Quite the impressive trifecta you've assembled there."

Leaning in slightly, his eyes alight with curiosity, he asks, "So, what shows do you binge-watch? Because the answer will either make us friends for life or enemies for eternity.”

The playful challenge in his tone was unmistakable, and you can’t help but feel a flutter of excitement. "Hmm," you think about, pretending to ponder the question. "Well, I enjoy science fiction, thrillers, and the occasional drama. But if you must know..." You lean in. "My guilty pleasure is baking competition shows. There's something about the dough, sprinkled with the tears of defeated contestants, that really appeals to me."

Sonny's rich, hearty laughter echoed through the room. "Baking competition shows, huh? I enjoy those myself, but 'Cake Boss' is a bit much. I appreciate the artistry, but those cakes are just towering, frosting-laden monstrosities that make my teeth hurt. I'd much rather stick to perfecting my nonna's classic cannoli recipe."

You both exchange a knowing glance. "Ah, cannoli," I reply, my mouth nearly watering. "A classic Italian dessert. Do you come from a large, close-knit family that gathers for lively Sunday dinners?”

Sonny's broad, guilty smile confirms my suspicion. "I come from an Italian family, full of the loud, opinionated, and emotional dynamics you'd expect," he confesses. "And yes, our Sunday dinners are quite the spectacle—a lively blend of mouthwatering food, family gossip, and heated debates on everything from politics to the proper way to season a ragu."

Seeing Sonny's smile, you couldn't help but mirror it, the warmth and vibrancy of his family gatherings stirring a touch of envy within me.

"It sounds like a lot of fun," you say. "I'm a bit envious. My family is more... subdued, I suppose—less colorful." You chuckle as you watch him, for it’s his turn to retrieve his clothes and begin folding them. A few minutes pass, and you follow his movements of folding your own.

"Shall we head back upstairs then?"

Sonny agrees with a nod. "Yeah, we should probably call it a night—or morning, rather."

He passes your neatly folded clothes over to you, and his fingertips graze yours, sending a subtle shiver through you.

Your conversation flows effortlessly as you make your way back to your apartment. The dimly lit hallway cast a faint yellow glow, broken only by the soft patter of our footsteps and the occasional creak of the building's aged floorboards. Reaching your doors, you both pause. The silence between you grew comfortable, a lingering sense of familiarity and connection palpable. Sonny's gaze met yours, his eyes conveying a mix of reluctance and resignation.

“It was nice meeting you, Sonny,” you say with a smile.

Sonny's boyish smile returns, his warm gaze stirring an unexpected flutter in your chest. "Likewise," he replies, his pleasant, rumbling voice lingering in the air. "I'll catch ya around, alright? Have a good night."

“Night.”

He vanishes inside, the soft click of the door closing behind him echoing in the otherwise silent corridor.

------------✧♡✧------👮🧺💓🧑-----✧♡✧-------------

Rushing to the precinct, Sonny carries a coffee and takeout bag in one hand and his gym bag in the other, determined to be on time. Realizing the sergeant was not present, he saw no need to rush once he made it inside the bullpen. With a few minutes of free time, he decides to explore and familiarize himself with the layout. Several other detectives sit at their desks, filing paperwork as he looks around.

Two women's voices filtered into the bullpen. The first had dark hair flowing freely, slightly older than the other. The second woman's blonde hair was tied back, with a few stray bangs falling across her face.

As Sonny interrupts their conversation, he exclaims, "They shot at cops right outside the police station? So, they want us to know they're crazy."

"You must be my new detective," the brunette says.

Dominick Carisi, Jr. ” He introduces himself, "Call me Sonny. I brought Zeppoli," as he shakes their hand.

"I asked for an experienced, empathic detective, and they sent you," she says.

"I'm way experienced. Sensitive and moody, too, and I can do that whole empathy thing," he assures.

"Where are you from?" the blonde woman asks.

"Staten Island SVU for two months, Brooklyn for almost a month, and then Queens last week," he rattles on.

“So, they love you wherever you go, Carisi?" The brunette says he later finds out that this is his new boss, Sergeant Benson.

"Call me Sonny. I know I was supposed to start tomorrow, but I heard about the shooting over my scanner, so I came in. What's our read?"

Benson and the blonde, who introduced herself as Detective Amanda Rollins, brought him up to speed on the current case, explaining how it connected to a previous case from a few months ago involving Ellie Porter. Ellie had been the victim of human trafficking and gang-raped before being set on fire—a horrible crime.

Sonny also learned that the young woman they arrested that morning while 'serving’ a john appears to be associated with the same crew. Benson teams up with Sonny to go pick up the girl and instructs Sonny to follow her lead, warning that failure to do so would result in him being sent to the SVU in the Bronx.

Sonny nods, his expression conveying understanding. "Understood, boss," he replies firmly and resolutely. "You have my word. I'll follow your lead."

Benson drives Sonny and herself to Luna Garcia's house. The peaceful journey was accompanied by a pleasant, cloudless day. Sonny savors the warm sunshine and gentle breeze as they drive. His mind wanders briefly, but he refocuses when Benson speaks up.

"So," Benson begins, "you've worked with the Special Victims Unit before; how was that?"

Sonny gazes out at the passing cityscape. As Benson inquires about his past SVU background, he shifts his attention to her, offering a faint smile. "It was intense, no doubt," he replies. "But also immensely rewarding. Dealing with victims of such heinous crimes is grueling work, yet being able to provide even a small measure of comfort and justice makes it all worthwhile."

His expression softens, his eyes reflecting a glimmer of empathy and understanding. The memory of those past experiences still weighs heavily on him. "It can take a toll, though. The trauma those victims endure... it stays with you, you know?"

A brief sigh crosses Sonny's face, the weight of his memories momentarily visible. After a contemplative pause, his gaze returns to Benson, his tone shifting to a more conversational manner. "My time with the SVU has taught me a lot," he remarks. "How to handle sensitive cases, how to approach victims and witnesses, you know the drill."

Benson's gaze flickers to Sonny before returning to the road. “You seem to have the right mindset and approach,” she observes, 'but I need to ensure you play by the rules,” she says, offering him a kind smile. The drive to the girl's house was filled with pleasant conversation as they got to know each other better.

After bringing Luna back to the precinct, the detectives interview her, showing her a photo of Ellie. At first, Luna was uncooperative, insisting she would rather go to jail than provide any information. Benson tried coaxing her with a gentle tone, but this approach went nowhere fast.

Sonny then intervened, speaking to Luna in a manner he thought might appeal to her, before switching tactics and offering to help her obtain T-Nonimmigrant Status, but only if she helped and gave them a statement.

After Garcia's sudden change of heart, Serg pulled him to the side, outside of the interrogation room, and told him that what he had just done in there was not how they do things here in Manhattan. Sonny apologized and continued working Luna over.

As the day progresses, Sonny is introduced to his new colleagues, Odafin Tutola, and beat cop Nick Amaro, who originally was in the SVU but due to recent events was demoted.

Together, they planned for Nick to go undercover as a dirty cop looking for a handout with the information he has and a raid for later that evening. Sonny rubs his tired eyes, surprised by the eventful nature of his first day on the job. He stops at a nearby coffee shop to refuel before the eventful night, while Nick prepares to pull over Joaquin Menendez and warn him of the impending raid, a gesture of good faith to maintain their cover.

˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖

Sonny's fatigued senses were beckoned by the rich aroma of the corner coffee shop as he walked in the door. As he waits, his mind drifts—a mix of energizing adrenaline and overwhelming exhaustion swirls inside him.

Sonny's eyes widen in surprise as he recognizes you standing behind the counter.

“Hello, thanks for stopping by. What can I help- Sonny?”

Surprise flickers across his face, his blue eyes widening as they meet yours. "Hey," he says, a smile spreading across his face. "I didn't expect to see you here." Joy stirs in his eyes, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. He steps up to the counter, leaning against it lazily. A hint of weariness still clung to his features, but the sight of you brightened his mood considerably.

With a grin, you say, "What can I get for you? It's on the house."

Sonny's eyes widen in disbelief as he protests, "You can't be serious." A grin tugs at the corners of his lips as he shakes his head. "I can't let you do that. Let me pay."

Chuckling at the memory, you reply, "Nonsense, it's not every day you bond over doing laundry at midnight."

He laughs, Alright, alright," he concedes, "if you insist."

Sonny's eyes scan the menu, weighing his options. "I'll have a strong espresso," he declares. "Caffeine is all I've had today."

You frown. "That's it? Sonny, let me get you something from the bake rack. You can't survive on just coffee."

He chuckles faintly at your concern. "Alright," he surrenders again, a sheepish grin on his face. There's something about squabbling with you that feels oddly familiar, comfortable even. "Surprise me, then."

Sonny waits for his drink and glances around the cozy coffee shop. The walls are adorned with eclectic artwork, and soft music plays in the background, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere. Leaning against the counter, Sonny's gaze occasionally flits to you moving efficiently behind the bar. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the lingering scent of sugar and pastries filled the air. After a few minutes, you place a steaming espresso and a blueberry muffin on the counter.

Sonny smiles appreciatively as he sips the rich, robust espresso, then bites into the warm, fluffy blueberry muffin. He moans. "This is exactly what I needed," he says, savoring the perfect balance of bitterness from the dark roast and sweetness from the muffin. He settles into a chair near the counter, continuing to sip and nibble on his delightful breakfast.

The espresso's caffeine gradually revives Sonny as he leans back. Every so often, you'd enter the lobby with a rag to clean the tables and restock the napkins, making sure to chat with him whenever you could between helping other customers. As he watches you navigate the coffee shop, skillfully attending to other customers, Sonny couldn't help but admire the seamless way you worked.

However, he also noticed the subtle signs of tiredness in your eyes; he could empathize. Despite your exhaustion, you continue serving customers with a genuine smile. Sonny's admiration for you grew, not just because of your coffee-making skills but also for your resilience and warm personality.

Sonny gathers his belongings; his thoughts linger on his enjoyable coffee break. He makes his way to the counter.

"Hey," he begins, his voice slightly rough from the potent espresso. "I have to get back, but I just wanted to thank you again for the coffee and muffin. You didn't have to do that."

You dismiss his concern with a casual wave of your hand. "It's no big deal," you say with a warm smile. "I know you've had a long day, and I'm not letting you leave without something in your stomach besides caffeine."

Sonny chuckles softly, knowing that arguing with you is futile. He rubs the back of his neck, still marveling at your kindness. “I owe you one, you know?"

"I'll keep that in mind," you reply with a mischievous grin.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

During a nighttime raid, the SVU team discovers several undocumented girls as well as a 14-year-old named Missy Brooks. They also apprehend Joaquin, but Detective Tutola allows him to leave after he mentions Amaro's name, to make him think the whole Amaro undercover story was real.

At the precinct, Rollins notices Missy's cell phone background is a photo of an infant. She tells Missy that the police raided a house in May and found children inside. Rollins then asks Missy where her baby is.

Meanwhile, the TARU team examines the phones of the trafficked girls and discovers they all have the QuickRide app installed. However, Missy remains tight-lipped and refuses to provide any information.

As dawn approaches, Sergeant Benson instructs Sonny to go home and rest for the night, assuring him that the team has the situation under control. She promises to call Sonny once they gather more information and leads.

Sonny nods, visibly tired after a long day and an intense raid. Although he wanted to stay and help the case along, he knew Benson was right. He needed rest if he was going to be of any use.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Sonny trudges into his small apartment, shuts the door behind him, and leans against it for a moment, letting out a long, weary sigh. The quiet embrace of his apartment envelopes him, and the realization that he was finally alone after such a hectic day washes over him with a sense of relief.

The apartment fell into a peaceful hush, save for the whisper of Sonny's gentle breaths. Occasional murmurs from the air conditioner and distant city noises punctuated the silence. Sonny finally surrenders to a well-deserved sleep.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

When it rains, it bleeds. In Attica, Little Tino was viciously stabbed by three fellow prisoners and required emergency surgery, narrowly escaping death.

Meanwhile, in the Bellevue prison ward, someone fatally injects a lethal dose into Diego's neck.

Across town in Queens, Missy and a client are discovered shot to death inside a car.

Concerned for her son Noah's safety, Detective Benson calls his nanny Lucy, only to learn she has taken him to the DeWitt Clinton Playground. Suddenly, Benson hears the chilling sound of gunfire over the phone. Racing to the playground, she finds that, mercifully, no one has been harmed.

At the precinct, the squad regroups, and Sonny is introduced to Rafael Barba, an eccentric Assistant District Attorney. Benson then proposes a plan for Nick to meet with Joaquin again, leading to the arrest of both Nick and Menendez.

Time ticks by, and the squad tirelessly works to piece together the complex puzzle. Sonny can feel the exhaustion of the relentless investigation gnawing at his mind. He glances at the clock on the wall, surprised to realize hours had passed. Rising from his chair, he stretches his limbs, his muscles protesting the prolonged sitting.

Benson and Fin visited a now conscious Tino at the hospital, where they ran into his mother, who told them so information to further the investigation to arrange a meeting with a woman named Carmen on Craigslist to locate Selena.

In the seedy hotel room, Sonny prepares to play his part, pretending to be a disgruntled "John" seeking a rougher, more aggressive sex worker. As the knock on the door signals her arrival, Sonny puts on his creepy charm, complimenting the woman and touching her hair, though he feels conflicted about the situation. When she offers only a massage, Sonny becomes aggressive, prompting the woman to flee to the bathroom and call Selena. Moments later, Selena and her driver arrive and confront Sonny at gunpoint. However, Detectives Fin and Rollins intervene and apprehend Selena and her driver.

After escorting the group back to the precinct, the two detectives left Sonny to take a few minutes for himself. Needing time to refocus and regain his composure, Sonny stepped outside the motel and sat down, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves. Knowing a visit to his favorite coffee shop would lift his spirits, Sonny soon headed that way, eager for the comfort of a familiar routine.

The familiar and comforting scent of freshly brewed coffee fills his senses. He notices you behind the counter, your smile effortlessly radiant as you greet him.

Taking a deep breath, he approaches the counter, his nerves and the events of the day already making him tense.

He returns your smile, attempting to appear composed despite the nervous energy coursing through him. "Hey," he began, his voice slightly strained. Sonny made his way into the shop, the familiar and comforting scent of freshly brewed coffee filling his senses. He notices you behind the counter; your smile is effortlessly radiant as you greet him.

"Hey there, can I get a repeat of yesterday?" Sonny steps closer.

"Of course, coming right up," you say with a grin.

Sonny leans against the counter, his eyes on you as you pour the black coffee into the cup.

You place the cup and this time a banana muffin in front of him. Sonny couldn't help but feel a sense of comfort. "Thanks," he says, his voice slightly rough. "You don't know how much I needed this today."

He accepts the cup and muffin, his fingers subtly touching yours for a brief moment, sending a jolt through him. The contact felt natural but also electrifying as if his body was hyper-aware of your touch.

He glances up from his cup and muffin, his eyes flickering over to the counter and you. The thought of asking for your number comes to him. He goes to the same chair next to the counter and begins to eat and sip.

After cashing out a customer, he notices you approaching him and takes a seat on the opposite side of his table.

"Hey," Sonny replies, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He studies you, noticing the little details he hadn't observed before—the subtle sparkle in your eyes.

"I hope I'm not interrupting your lunch," you say, your voice casually light. "But I wanted to check in on how you're doing. You look tired."

Sonny chuckles softly, surprised by your observation. "I am tired," he admits. "It's been a long day." The weariness has settled into his eyes, and his slumped shoulders probably betray his exhaustion. He takes another sip of his coffee. "But I appreciate you checking on me," he adds, his eyes meeting yours.

"How did your first day go? You mentioned in the laundry room that it was coming up soon." You ask.

"It was..." Sonny starts. Where to even begin summing up the events of the two days he’s had? It had been a whirlwind of chaos and danger. He takes a moment to collect his thoughts, then replies. "It was intense, to say the least. Long hours, lots of work,” Sonny smiled slightly, touched that you remembered their brief conversation from a few days ago.

You let out a lighthearted laugh as you remarked, "Well, that's not at all mysterious and cryptic."

Sonny chuckles at your remark, feeling the tension in his shoulders lighten a little. "Can't give away all the secrets," he replies, his voice just slightly teasing.

Sonny appreciated that you didn't pry further, even if he could see the curiosity and maybe a bit of concern in your gaze. It was refreshing to be with someone who respected his boundaries and understood not to press for details. He takes another sip of his coffee, the conversation settling into a comfortable rhythm between you two.

"How was your day?" he asks, genuinely interested to hear about your life and experiences. Alone with you in the quiet coffee shop, he hoped to continue the conversation, savoring the chance to linger in your company.

“A customer ordered a drink with sparkling water. I handed it to her, but she immediately frowned and asked if it contained sparkling water. I reminded her that the menu clearly listed the ingredients. Ugh, it frustrates me when people don't read.” Your cheeks redden as you realize you are ranting. "Sorry," you say.

Sonny's exhaustion was momentarily forgotten as a soft smile tugged at his lips. Listening to your little story, he finds himself amused by your rant. He could see the frustration in your expression and the way your cheeks flushed just a bit. It was endearing.

"No apologies necessary," he says, his voice gentle. "I get it. Some people just can't be bothered to pay attention, even when it's spelled out right in front of them." He chuckles softly, enjoying the glimpse into your world. He wonders how many other little annoyances you deal with on a daily basis. He finds himself wanting to know more about your life—the things that made you laugh, the things that made you angry. And he couldn't help but realize that he found your rants quite charming.

"Besides the sparkling water incident," he teases, "was the rest of your day uneventful?" He leans back in his chair, his eyes fixed on you, enjoying the lighthearted moment amidst the day's chaos.

"Yeah, it's pretty dead today, which I'm thankful for; last week we were so swamped."

"Well, here's to a quiet day then," Sonny replies, his tone earnest. He takes another sip of his coffee, his eyes still lingering on you. He was grateful for the brief reprieve the calm atmosphere of the coffee shop provided—a chance to reset before diving back into the chaos of his day.

He glances at his watch, realizing he should probably get back to the precinct soon. But the thought of leaving the quiet comfort of the coffee shop and the easy conversation with you made him hesitate for a moment. He wants more time to talk to you and to know more about you. Taking a deep breath, he pushed his chair back, signaling he was getting ready to leave.

"Hey, Sonny..." You begin calling out to him before he leaves. "Can I have your number?"

Sonny stops in his tracks, his heart skipping a beat at your unexpected question. He turns back to you, surprised but pleasantly so.

"Uh...yeah, sure. I'd like that," he replies, a genuine smile spreading across his face. He quickly grabs a nearby napkin from the counter and fishes a pen out of his pocket. Writing his number onto the napkin, he can't help but feel a mix of nervousness and excitement. Handing the napkin over to you, he watches you closely.

"I'll text you later; you go save the city." You giggle as you hold onto the napkin.

Sonny can't help but smile at your words. There's something about the way you say it—so casual yet sincere—that makes his heart skip a beat. Your carefree attitude is a refreshing contrast to the seriousness of his job.

"And you save me a coffee for tomorrow," he replies with a wink before heading out the door.

He can't help but feel a little lighter than he did before—a subtle boost of energy and anticipation. He knows he has an exhausting day ahead of him, but the knowledge that he'll see you and talk to you again soon makes the idea of returning to work much more bearable.

Sonny enters the precinct, and the familiar sights and sounds immediately bring him back to reality. He put on his game face. He makes his way towards the squad room; a small smile still lingering on his lips, evidence that the thought of you had brought a glimmer of joy to his day.

Chapter 2

#law and order special victims unit #law and order svu #sonny carisi #dominick sonny carisi #sonny carisi x reader #sonny carisi x you #reader insert #svu fanfiction #fanfiction #Dominick Carisi Jr.

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