#Pray against enemies

[african-paradise-world]

https://africanparadiseworld.com/2020/10/11/powerful-prayers-against-enemies/

[streets-in-paradise]

He said it, he said it!!!!

[maiteo]

Why do I always think Manu ugarte is Portuguese 😭

because the terrorist organization that is sporting… CSM

that is an URUGOAT and luckily he’s been freed from their grasp…let him thrive as such…gracias<3😌

[your-average-gay-dork]

HI MY TUMBLR BABIES YALL PLS WISH ME LUCK TOMORROW

[thekinslayed]

Edge of Desire

summary | Your efforts in the marital bed stayed fruitless after many moons married to your uncle, and Aemond wants to change that. (based on these requests.)

pairing | aemond targaryen x niece!reader

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! unprotected sex, oral (f), lovemaking, morning sex, medieval conception practices, awkward pining, enemies to lovers kinda, cockwarming

song rec | Edge of Desire - John Mayer

wordcount | 5.5k

note | something softer with aemond this time around :)

(special chapter -> Show Me Your World)

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

“Ow! My hair!”

“Stay still, woman.”

Aemond readjusted his weight above you, grumbling as he leaned on his elbows. He huffed out a hot breath of air, which fanned your face while you lay on your back. His length softened within your walls the longer you stayed connected, preventing any seed from leaking out per the maester’s orders.

It had been nearly a whole year since you proclaimed your vows to your uncle under the eyes of the Seven. Your hand had been offered as a gesture of good faith, arguably a desperate attempt between both sides of your family to mend the rift that has been growing for years. It had worked somewhat, but as the moons passed and your relationship with your husband refused to warm, there have been growing concerns on either side of your family. Your animosity towards each other was no secret, with the vile insults Aemond had thrown against you and your brothers regarding your questionable parentage throughout your youth, which ended of course, in the incident. You had no part during that horrific night in Driftmark, but you were not saved from the consequences of that night. 

Barely a moon after you had turned eight and ten, you sailed towards King’s Landing, to your fate. Your only comfort was the sight of your dear dragon flying above you, watching over you like a guardian. After you were draped by your lord husband with the dark, dragon-embroidered cloak, you made an agreement with each other. Aemond shall have his space, and you will have your own. You shall not bother him, and neither will he. However, you are expected to keep up appearances, at court, at the feasts, and even at the dinner table where queen Alicent pestered you both endlessly with any progress on your efforts in the marital bed. With the lingering friction still driving you apart from your husband, it was no surprise your womb still bore no fruit. He would call you to his chambers to perform your duties for one night each week, sometimes twice, for extra measures. Your efforts remained futile, for his seed never took and you remained childless many moons after your wedding. This growing concern has led to an intervention by the maesters, who recommended a myriad of methods that would aid in your conception.

You were to lay together every morning. Not at night, unless you wanted a girl.

The princess must clench her fist while her husband “did nature’s work”.

Your bed must face the east while you coupled, to ensure it is a boy.

The prince must remain inside the princess for an hour after he has finished to guarantee the seed is taken.

The last measure was absolutely dreadful. It was painful enough to have your womanhood assaulted by a man you rarely saw eye-to-eye with, but to stay there for an hour? Gods be good. 

Aemond let out another grunt in your ear when his left arm grew sore from carrying his weight, shifting to lean onto the other arm instead. You turned your head to look at the hourglass on the nightstand. There was still a good amount of time left, and you silently prayed that the sand passed through the glass faster so you may escape this awful predicament. Your tailbone was starting to grow numb from the lack of movement, causing you to subtly shift your hips upwards to relieve the pressure from your backside.

“Stop it,” your husband hissed, making you huff in annoyance. Aemond rolled out his shoulder to relieve the soreness from the joint, before shifting his weight to do the same to the other. His long, silver hair enclosed you like a curtain, soft and light like the touch of a feather. You would be tempted to feel it under your fingertips if only it wasn’t tickling your face, adding to your aggravation. You moved his hair away from your face, letting out another huff. “Stop acting like this inconveniences only you, wife, I would’ve been much happier spending my mornings down in the training yard. My arms are getting too fucking tired,” Aemond grumbled.

You could feel his muscles start to tremble from the exertion of holding his weight up, unwilling to touch your skin by even a hair. You bit back a snarky response, starting to feel bad for him.

“Can’t we switch positions? Perhaps I could be on top,” you recommended, to which your husband only responded with a grunt.

“No, the maesters said we must stay this way. Any other way would make the seed fall rather than stay in. I do not want to do this any longer than we have to.” 

You snickered at his words, turning your head away to subtly roll your eyes. Despite your irritation, his subtle quivering was making you feel sorry for him. You bit your lip as you thought about what to do. 

“Here, why don’t you…” You placed a hand on his back, urging him to lay against you. Aemond had started to refuse, but you insisted, assuring him he wouldn’t crush you under his weight. With a sigh, your husband relaxed above you, finally letting his arms rest. He laid his head right beside yours, and with only a small turn you could smell the remnants of smoke in his starlit hair, coupled with the rosemary oil rubbed into his tresses every night. His lips ghosted over your shoulder; the skin exposed from when your nightgown had shifted askew. His warmth engulfed you like a warm blanket, his weight surprisingly comfortable. It was quite nice actually, despite your reluctance to admit the fact.

“Is this better?” you asked, your tone simmering down into a softer tone. Aemond hummed in response, turning his head to the side. His lips were now positioned right under your ear, and his every breath fanned the side of your face like a warm breeze on a summer’s day.

“Quite. Though this whole ‘laying for an hour’ nonsense is still quite dreadful, in my opinion,” he muttered. His voice buzzed directly into your ear, pulling a strange twinge in your chest when he did so. You trained your gaze on the embroidery on the roof of the canopy, studying the two dragons seemingly entwined against each other. It was almost like you and Aemond, funny enough.

“It is easy for you to say when men often find the act more enjoyable,” you commented almost bitterly. Aemond was silent momentarily upon your words, before seemingly snuggling even closer to you, though you assumed he was only trying to make himself comfortable.

“Is it so horrible?” your lord husband asked, a subtle hint of concern in his words that you barely caught. You turned to look at the hourglass again. Still quite a bit to go.

“Well, it hurts, more than anything.”

Another silence passed. Aemond’s mind ran a league in a minute at your words, reflecting on the pain he unknowingly inflicted upon you on the times you did your duty. As much as he harbored no love for your family, especially your bastard brothers, you were still his wife. His mother had instilled in him since he was a boy that any woman he would take as his wife should always be treated with respect, for she was an image of the Mother. Granted, Alicent was surely not picturing Rhaenyra’s only daughter beside her favored son upon the altar of the Sept when the day came, but the sentiment still extended to you all the same. 

Aemond shifted his weight back to his hands as he lifted himself once more, so he may look upon your face. It was then he granted himself to really get a good look at you. He may be half-blind, but Aemond knew you were beautiful, there was no denying it. His good eye studied your features, noting the absence of the crease between your eyebrows whenever you were displeased, which was most of the time you spent by his side.

“I have no wish to hurt you,” he whispered.

“I know, ‘tis alright. I am tougher than I look,” you replied softly, your lips turning into a downward smile. Before you could stop yourself, your hands moved to tuck a stray strand of silver behind his ear on instinct. You looked into the purple of his good eye, the other covered by a patch of leather. “Besides, Daemon always used to say men have it much worse on the battlefield, for there is far less mercy when facing your enemies than your own wife,” you added to which Aemond only scoffed in response, shaking his head. Your chest rumbled with a laugh at his reaction, especially after his lips pursed into his signature feline-like pout.

Of course, Daemon would think that way, Aemond thought. His uncle was hardly the image of chivalry for any married couple across Westeros, and it was rather gauche of him to be bestowing any words of wisdom to his stepdaughter about the matters of matrimony. 

All of a sudden, there was an odd feeling in his chest when your eyes seemed brighter than they had even before when you looked at him. He’d seen that light before, when you looked at your brothers, his half-sister, even at Helaena, but never him. You had such beautiful eyes, ones he could swim in their depths forever. Aemond faltered, unsure of what to do with this newfound flutter in his otherwise stone heart. He opted to lower himself to your warmth once more, burying his head into the junction where your neck and shoulder met. The scent of your flesh was naturally sweet, making him subtly press his nose into your skin.

“I am not your enemy,” he said, with a rather unfamiliar softness. He felt your hand come up to rest on his back, resting on the space in between his clothed shoulder blades. A small smile lifted the corners of your lips, one hidden from his view. You turned to look at the hourglass, which had already emptied. You made no move to tell Aemond to get up, but instead, you pressed the side of your face against his own, breathing in the scent of his hair.

“I know, husband.”

Walking through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, Aemond thought back to all the depraved remarks Aegon would make him listen to about his experiences in the Streets of Silk— how the whores would touch him, and how he would touch them, making them mewl and sigh in delight. He knew not whether they were doing it only for show, but perhaps in some way his brother might have learned a thing or two in the many years he frequented the stinking streets of Flea Bottom just for a taste of flesh. 

Despite better judgment, his feet led him to his brother’s door. His fist had raised to rap against the old wood, but then he faltered. Though seeking Aegon’s insight would surely be far less embarrassing than continuing to follow through with whatever the maesters have him and his wife doing in the marital bed, the endless jests and amusement the elder shall find in the matter would definitely haunt him for a long time. Your husband did not wish to humiliate you any further, not when the matter has already involved too many people. With a hair’s breadth between his fist and Aegon’s door, Aemond sighed, dropping his hand and turning on his heel to walk away.

He and his brother have had their fair share of women who have warmed their beds, Aegon more so than himself, but they have only ever fucked. It was for their pleasure, to quench the fire in their cocks. It wasn’t tender or sweet, or gods forbid… loving.  He knew he couldn’t treat his wife the same way he did a whore if he wanted your partnership to prosper; he couldn’t treat you this way.

He thought about asking his mother, though letting her know of your problems in bed, even more than what she already knew, would probably do them more harm than good. Perhaps Cole? No, that wouldn’t be a good option. Matters of the flesh are a touchy subject for Aemond’s mentor and father figure, perhaps even more so when the blood of the woman who shunned him is involved. 

It had always been like this for him. A plethora of questions would boggle his young, curious mind, yet there was no one to indulge him. It had hurt him, of course, but he had learned that some things would have to be acquired by his own volition. This is how he had become such a prolific scholar, had come to claim Vhagar, and proven himself a man worthy of praise.

A laughter through the halls snapped him out of his exasperating worries. The glimmery shrill of youth, unmistakenly that of his sister’s babes, beckoned him like a beacon towards the nursery. There he found little Jaehaerys riding his wooden pony, mimicking a horse’s bray as he rocked back and forth. Helaena watched on in amusement, little Maelor clutched in her elbow. And then there was you, tickling his niece’s belly on the floor, a joyous laughter of your own adding to the symphony. You bent to pepper kisses into the crook of Jaehaera’s neck, making the girl squeal and kick her legs in delight.

You were so good with the babes, this Aemond couldn’t deny. You would offer to help Helaena watch over them on most days when she would grow weary and Aegon was away on the council. As much as your husband would try to look the other way, he couldn’t miss the way you looked at them with fondness, how you would press your nose into the youngest’s hair to smell that sweet, milky scent of his skin. Perhaps he would like to see you with a babe of your own. Yours and his, he wondered what they would be like.

“Oh, Aemond, come!” Helaena exclaimed, beckoning him over. It was then he realized he had been standing in the doorway like a fool, and so the prince stepped into the nursery. Jaehaera, after having spotted his approach, jumped to her feet in excitement. Aemond greeted her with a fond smile and a pat on the head, kneeling to her height. You moved your skirts to let your husband settle by your side, your knees slightly pressed against each other.

His eyepatch had been knocked askew when the young princess had gleefully embraced her uncle, and you had quickly righted it in its place. Your touch was light on his scarred cheek, a foreign featherlike caress that sent a slight shiver down his spine.

“Thank you, wife,” Aemond whispered, turning to you. There it was again, that little look on your face. You regarded him with a budding warmth he hadn’t quite known, a smile that rounded out the apples of your cheeks, though he figured it was one you directed to the little girl in his arms. He returned his gaze to Jaehaera, who had handed him a dragon toy to play with, willing himself to pay little mind to your lingering gaze burning the side of his cheek.

You couldn’t quite recall when your affections towards Aemond had started to change, all you knew was your heart didn’t hold the same twinge of displeasure in his presence, nor did you dread having to keep up appearances in court. There were some instances where you even sought him out, had peeked out the Keep’s yard to watch him train some mornings, all without his knowledge of course. Your coupling was still as unpleasant as ever, but you had grown to not mind the feeling of his weight on yours once the hourglass had been turned to start the hour, the pair of you descending into a comfortable silence most times. Going through the motions had gotten easier by the day, a well-practiced dance between the two of you.

You would wake with the sun’s rise, and then make your way to your husband’s chambers. He would be already awake, always, awaiting your arrival. The bed would be quite warm from his heat, thanks to his dragon blood, and it was a pleasant comfort to have. Once the deed was done, you were off to your separate duties for the day. It was routine at this point; therefore, it was quite odd when you were summoned to your husband’s chambers late into the night.

“It is nighttime,” you said when you entered as if it wasn’t quite obvious from the darkness that enveloped his apartments. Your husband was clad in his cotton tunic and breeches, sipping on a glass of wine.

“I know,” Aemond replied, turning to you. He could chuckle at the look of confusion on your face, with your furrowed brows that creased the skin between them, if it weren’t for the odd nerves swarming in his belly.

“Was there something you need?” you asked, accepting the cup of red that was handed to you.

“No, well… perhaps,” he muttered. You gulped your wine, a droplet spilling over the corner of your lips. Before you could act, Aemond’s thumb darted out to wipe away the tear of red that was on its way to run down your chin. You stopped yourself from jerking away, though you couldn’t deny your perplexion. “I just… I figured we could try something.”

“Try what?” you asked again. He was acting odd, with the way he was looking at anywhere but you, a contrast to his usual sharp form. This was starting to grow concerning; gods, he’s not about to kill you, is he?

“Do you trust me?” Aemond asked. He had gotten closer to you, quite close enough that you could feel the warm waft of his breath on your cheeks. His large, calloused palm cupped your jaw, warming up your cheeks. You stared up at him, wide-eyed, nodding your head meekly.

You trusted him, you really did, in an inexplicable, convoluted way. The past would tell you not to, but your time as his wife had shifted your connection into something intimate. Away from the endless troubles within your kin, all the terrible infighting with burning words and stares sharp as knives, you and Aemond found little trouble with each other, especially with the arrangements you agreed upon. After you had said your vows in the great Sept, you spent your first moons as the one-eyed prince’s wife with a guarded vigilance. You blocked the entrance to Maegor’s tunnels with your vanity, had given the first bite of your food to the rats in search of poison, and had even slept with a dagger underneath your pillow in case your uncle came to you in your sleep. There was none of that. Granted, the Hightowers weren’t the warmest, most welcoming bunch, but they treated you well— some of them, at least.

You weren’t sure where you stood with Aemond. You didn’t hate him, not anymore at least, and you would like to believe he wasn’t coming for your head anymore. The pair of you were… fine. You figured this was a comfortable position to be in, and you dared not utter the wish in your heart of hearts, in fear of rejection. The budding light in your chest as he looked at you now, in the dim glow of his chambers, made known what had been growing over the days you spent in his presence. It couldn’t be helped.

And now, as you stood toe to toe with him, your face cupped in his palm, you knew the balance was about to tip over; for better or for worse, however, you didn’t know.

Your breath came out as a shudder as his face descended upon yours, the time moving all too slow in your perception. Your hands tightened into fists in anticipation, your pulse thrumming in your ears so thunderously you could only hope he didn’t feel it. Just as his lips were a mere hair's breadth away from yours, Aemond stopped, sensing the rigid tension in your spine. With a sigh, he leaned his forehead against yours.

 “Aemond, w-what has gotten into you?” you whispered, cautious to not break the solemn air in the room. Your hands came up to rest on his biceps, squeezing at them in question. He was silent for a moment, his eye closed in thought. You waited, patiently.

“I want to make you feel good,” your husband finally uttered in a whisper. You sputtered half words in shock. He did not need to do that, you expected little as a woman and were doing your duty in bed just fine. Why would he willingly want to do so? By the gods… why did he want to?

His thumb caressed your cheek ever so softly, pressing on the supple plumpness under the pad of his finger. He had leaned away, not too far, just enough to gauge your reaction.

Your throat felt dry, and you longed for the cup of wine you had set aside. Your mind ran a league in a minute, the proposition he was offering was one many women would kill their spouses for. Truthfully, you didn’t know what making you “feel good” would entail, your lack of knowledge and experience from your sheltered upbringing limiting your mind on the art of the ways of the flesh.

“Will you let me?” he asked.

You could say no and he would dismiss you, and the night would be over. You would pore on what could’ve been if you had said yes, and you would never know what would have transpired. You could say yes, and this whole thing would be a disaster, an embarrassment if it ended in proving how incompatible you truly were. Or… you would enjoy it, you both would.

You nodded your head again, still untrusting of your own words. Aemond walked you backward to the bed, urging you to lay back once the back of your knees hit the frame.

As his deft hands lifted your nightgown to your hips, you fisted the sheets tight in your hands in angst. You watched him as he watched you, or your womanhood, rather. Your husband’s tongue ran over his bottom lip, his good eye twinkling under the subtle warmth of the dimness in his chambers.  

You felt open… exposed. The urge to cross your legs shut threatened to overwhelm you, but his hands caressing the meat of your thighs prevented you from doing so. He descended upon you, planting a trail of kisses down the inside of your thigh. Gooseflesh rose all over your skin, and you gasped when he came close to your flower, making you grip his shoulder to stop him.

“Aemond…” you breathed out.

“Let me do this for you,” he whispered, taking your wrist to direct his kisses there. “Have faith in me.”

You retracted your hand from his firm shoulder, leaning your weight on your elbow to watch him. His breath was hot against your slit, making you involuntarily clench. He started with light kisses on your mound, then little licks against your slit. His good eye flickered to gauge your reaction, where you had started to bite your lip. Two fingers split your folds open, baring all of you to his hungry gaze. His tongue delved deeper into your slit, penetrating you.

“Oh,” you exhaled, tilting your head back. With a surge of confidence, your husband began to devour you in earnest, licking and sucking. Sweet sounds, ones unheard of before, had started to spill from your lips, and what a delightful song it was.

A finger soon replaced his tongue, entering your gummy walls as though it were his cock. It thrust in and out of you the same way, and when he bent to feel up a rough patch within your walls, your toes clenched as a jolt ran up your spine.

“Good?” Aemond asked, to which you could only respond with a nod and a whine.

His lips found your pearl, and then another finger had joined the other. The prince soon found a rhythm, one that had you writhing and moaning unabashedly. What an odd sensation it was, yet utterly delicious as it was depraved.

The pressure in your stomach built in a steady rise. It sparked your muscles to twitch in Aemond’s hold, growing spasmodic as you were hurled closer to your precipice. You came with a whine, your head thrown back into the feather mattress as your husband guided you to your end.

“Where did you learn how to do that?” you asked, breathless. Black spots danced around your vision of him, swarming around the otherworldly sight of his flushed, glimmering lips and the loose silver strands that framed his face. It quirked into a small smirk as he regarded you, his arms caging you in between his hold. His hair draped around you like a curtain, the wispy ends tickling your nipples through the cotton of your dress.

“I am quite diligent in seeking the knowledge I might find useful, dear wife, and it seems they have proven to be so,” Aemond responded. You dared not ask what he meant, unwilling to learn who he had sucked and licked the way he did you to be so proficient in the act, how he had learned to poke all the right places to earn such lewd sounds from you. You merely hummed, tracing the line of his jaw in a trance.

His deft fingers had grabbed a hold of the straps of your nightgown, pulling them down to bare you fully. You let him, willingly so, encouraged by the look in his good eye that promised you more. His good eye was glued onto your breasts immediately before his warm, calloused hands took them into his hold. They fit perfectly in his palms, much to both of your delight. You bit your lip as he squeezed them, massaging the supple flesh and rubbing on your sensitive bud. Aemond could do this for hours, and if it weren’t for the throbbing in between his thighs, he would’ve done so.

His cotton tunic soon followed, then his breeches, and as he stood before you, cock stood stiff in attention, you get a good look at him. He was utterly handsome like this, bare and unguarded. You beckoned him closer, pulling on the strip that held half of his hair up. Soft fingertips trailed his jaw, his scar, before circling the leather patch that masked his left eye.

“Can I?” you whispered, looking into his good eye as he studied you. Aemond paused for a moment, almost faltering. The warmth of your thighs caged onto the sides of his waist was a welcome comfort, luring him closer to wanting to nestle in your ever-loving heat.

“Tis not a good sight to gaze upon,” he mumbled. You had cupped his jaw when he started to look away, keeping him close with a small smile.

“You are my husband. I wish to have you, all of you, as you will have me.”

A promise. An agreement.

A solemn echo of your vows upon the altar.

I am his and he is mine from this day, until the end of my days.

He had pulled the patch off from the clasp on the back of his head. The sparkle of the sapphire had stunned you in awe, and as you cupped his jaw, the look of wonder on your face and the lift in your lips couldn’t be helped.

“It is beautiful, husband,” you said, beaming up at him. “You are beautiful.”

He had huffed in amusement, planting a kiss on your cheek before mumbling into your skin, “I should be telling you that.”

His stiff length was hot and heavy as it sat against your hip, a reminder of the fire that still coursed through your veins. Aemond pulled away, the look in his eye taking a warmer, softer tinge as did yours. The smile on your lips had melted away to something sincere, hopeful. With a nod, you watched him take hold of his shaft, lining it upon your entrance. His breach was much smoother this time, no stabbing pain that made you scrunch your face, all thanks to his efforts in preparing you. It was rather delightful, a delicious stretch that made you bite your lip as he grunted above you. He would have asked you about the pain, but the deep kiss you had pulled him in to let him know there was little of it.

Aemond’s hips took on a steady pace, rocking into you gently and slowly. It was nothing lewd or animalistic, but rather sensual, intimate. You had never felt closer to him the way you did now, your connection transcending that of something physical. Your husband’s face was buried into the crook of your neck, his grunts and moans traveling straight into your auricle. You fared no better, your mewls echoing into the quiet of the room. Aemond had taken hold of your fisted hand, the godsdamned instructions from the maester taking on memory in your muscles, and he had pried them open. His larger, rougher fingers intertwined with yours, holding onto you for dear life as he took you deeper, and deeper, poking a spot within your womb that made you shiver in delight.

“Aemond,” you breathed out. His aquiline nose pressed into the side of your face, breathing into the sweet scent of your dampening flesh.

“Say it again… say my name again.” His voice was growing raspier by the second, but his tone was ever so soft with you, only you. His lips closed around one of your nipples, sucking on the stiff bud in a way that made you moan.

“Aemond, oh, Aemond! My lord husband,” you whined, holding onto the planes of his back as his pace hastened. His pubic bone rubbed on your pearl, sending shoots of fiery pleasure up your spine. Your grip on him was tight, almost numbing, but he relished in it. He wanted to feel you everywhere, kiss on every ounce of flesh he could, you were his after all.

“My wife, my dearest darling. Will you come for me again? Spill around my cock, hm?” You nodded fervently at his dirty whisper, wanting nothing else to do exactly as he asked. His forehead was prickled with salty sweat when he had pressed it against yours, his lips barely an inch away from yours. The silver-haired prince’s breath mingled with yours, and you had chased him when his tongue darted to lick a swipe across your bottom lip. Your release washed over you the moment he kissed you again, your moans swallowed by his hungry mouth. His length drove into you still, chasing his own release, and your spasming walls massaged him to guide him to his end. Aemond pulled away to look at where you were connected, committing the sight of his cock, painted with a white ring around its base, disappearing into your sweet cunny. His pace grew rhythmless as his hips began to sputter. He was close, evident from the way his eyebrows scrunched together. With a hand on your breast, the other on your jaw, your husband came with an open-mouthed groan, spilling his hot seed into your womb.

Aemond had moved to collapse by your side, but you had pulled him close to your chest, letting him lay on you with his softening length still nestled in your walls.

“Stay.”

You lay there together in silence, breathless, boneless. His hand rubbed on your waist, as did yours on his muscled back, comfortable in the silence you were in.

“I am sorry,” your husband had whispered, before shifting to lean on his elbow to look at you. “For…”

He need not say everything, or anything at all. You knew what he meant. That was all too long ago, almost a lifetime that scarcely felt yours. It was different now between you and him. The world could descend into flames and tear itself inside out, but you and Aemond would not lose each other.

You nodded, tucking a loose strand of silver behind his ear. “I am sorry too, deeply so.”

Slumber had found you while you were wrapped in your husband’s embrace, the heat emanating from his bare body pressed against yours a comforting blanket. In the morn, he had taken you again, slipping into your welcoming walls as you both stayed laid on your side. Aemond had left Cole a waiting fool in the courtyard while he missed his training, a curious deviation from his otherwise strict routine.

You were both learning how addicting this could be, though it seemed neither of you wanted to complain. You could hardly separate from your husband’s hold to dress to break your fast, and the pleasant glow on both your faces at the dining table with the rest of the family was a dead giveaway of the progression in your relationship. With the frequency of how much you latched onto each other every moment you found yourselves alone, it came as no surprise that by the end of the moon, the realm celebrated the growing babe in your womb.

A life forged by your own hand. Yours and his.

[vulpine111]

[cl-0v3r]

Mel is alive, but at what cost

Mel was nearly killed TWICE, her mother began being a struggle, she'd been thrown aside and trying her best to stop her, her boyfriend is not doing well, neither is anyone else (can't blame them) and the fact that she hadn't cried or spoke much about this situation to anyone a single time?? She IS upset about every single thing, yet she stays strong and enduring every bit of torture. The most she did was tell Jayce that Ambessa put her palm on the table, and let him know that she is going to push for hextech. That's it, nothing remotely related to her feelings.

The fact that she was constantly looking at Caitlyn, being able to understand her grief and knew she was in pain?? Mel knows this feeling. She'd went through it.

And in the end SHE has to pay the price of her mothers incompetence.

The intro is very much foreshadowing, we know the hands represent black rose/LeBlanc.

This is what happens in act one, she gets kidnapped by them. The lyrics do correspond to the characters as well (not just Mel, everyone.)

"Tell you you're the greatest" plays as a petal of the black rose floats down the screen, I think it adds significance to the power this organization holds, possibly the Medardas greatest foe.

"But once you turn, they hate us" both Ambessa and Mel were present in this line, I think its foreshadowing for when Ambessa switches up for whatever reason and goes against both Piltover AND Zaun. And Mel WILL go through change as well, a change that could hurt her relationship with others, and receive interest from others too.

"They hate us" could be read individually too, I feel like its a sort of "realization" ?? Perhaps Ambessa WASN'T the one that switched up, maybe Piltover switched up on them, and maybe Mel JUST got out of wherever she's taken to, and saw the mess Ambessa had done to her city??

I think this represents ACT TWO.

The hands pull away and it sort of looks like Mel is fighting back, a "get away from me" type of scream. you know what this reminds me of??

Don't mind me just pushing my Jinx/powder-Mel parallel agenda

Here is when i think Mel truly learns about LeBlanc/BR, she curiously and slowly goes to grab the rose, she learns about the history between her Mother and them, Kinos death, and most of all, learns about HERSELF. The lyrics speak otherwise.

"Pray away, I swear

I'll never be a saint, no way"

This feels like a parallel to caitlyn of sorts if that makes sense. Caitlyn had done everything to try and stop the council from attacking the Undercity, she kept her mouth shut when Jayce asked about Jinxs grenade, she was willing to protect Vi and the undercity, but how many times has she been tossed around? She'd been burned, exploded, kidnapped (god knows what happened during that time) and hit in the face by the same person, her MOTHER died because of the same person. She has every right to go insane. And she is hunting ONE person, which is Jinx. Although she is harming the people around her along the way.

What if Mel goes through a similar situation? Her mother pushed for war in her city, she dragged the enemy along with her even if she didn't mean to, she manipulated everyone around her INCLUDING Jayce, she LITERALLY got Mel hurt from the chembarons attack and killed so many people during a MEMORIAL to get her hextech weapons, Elora is most likely DEAD, not to mention whatever happened in the past between them. And the thing is, this will NEVER end throughout the entire season.

And what if she learns what she is? That she's 'blessed' by Kindred? The fact that the wolf is quite literally in her blood?

I feel like the "ill never be a saint, no way" also sort of indicates Mel will realize she'll never be able to push for peace and mercy like she always hoped for no matter what, and she comes to accept that as much as it hurts. But not like how ambessa accepted the wolf, but she sort of realizes she needs to push a little violence, towards nobody but the one and only, Ambessa "fine, if you want me to be like you, I guess I'll be like you towards YOU." Type of acceptance.

I think its also related to Mels new outfit too, she's dressed like her mother, in red and all of that. I will still stand by the idea that she has plans to decieve, but she will do something she doesn't want to do.

Mel was left with no choice, that lyric sounds like realization, acceptance, but also like a plea at the same time, an "I'll never be who I wanted to be" because in the end, she's still a Medarda, she's still her mothers daughter, she still has violence in her veins, she will never not suffer from the weight her name holds, and she will never escape it either, its like a shadow.

The Characters won't be themselves at their core this season. And those vital parts of their characters that represent them are no longer there in the intro, they all have given up what makes them, THEM design wise. (e.g.) Vi without her tattoo, Viktor hiding his identity with the mask. And the thing is, they did that to themselves because they do self-harm, they're changing themselves because THEY want to, they're forcing themselves to do that, they think they're undeserving and they're erasing their past selves.

But Mel? Mel doesn't have her gold accessories, Jewelry, or her Armor, she'd been stripped bare and hidden away because of the brutality of her name. She pays the price her mother brought to HER city. She's forced to change herself against her will, because nobody is giving her a chance to push for her ideals.

This entire theory never ends, and with all of this? I kinda do see Mel actually committing Matricide, it lifts the "Ambessa will die" theory further.

[shotmrmiller]

ik its hyper unrealistic but like imagine being in las almas during the 'alone' mission as just a civilian who's hiding in their home with the lights off, praying no one finds you.

then in sneaks a skull face man who's too light on his feet for his burly size, but you remain silent, pressing yourself flatter into the dark corner you're tucked in.

his boots come to an abrupt stop in your living room, and you're biting down on your tongue painfully to keep from whimpering, but you think he hears you anyway- how could he not? each quivering exhale that escapes you sounds deafening even to you.

"hide better."

you start when he speaks, a gruff baritone that reverberates in your very chest.

"now."

his unyielding tone has your body moving before you can even acknowledge the fact, scrambling away on all fours to your bedroom in a panic, when he's suddenly behind you.

a strong arm lifts you like you're but the size of a child and shoves you into a small closet, pushing you behind him and swiftly closing the door, holding the knob so it doesn't click as it shuts.

the space is too tight, your nose aching as it's forcibly pressed into his broad back. you're pinned between a solid wall and the back of the closet- a noise of protest about to fall from your lips when you hear glass shattering.

you flinch, your fingers digging into the sides of the man's jacket in reflex. voices begin to flood your quaint, little home, american by the sound of it.

it all muffles after that, a thunderous roar inside your ears, heart slamming against your chest, dread sinking into your stomach.

god don't let them find you, don't let them find you don't-

the skull man shifts imperceptibly, and a large hand curls around your thigh that's firmly pressed against his own, and tightens-

grounding.

slowly, you let out a calming breath, the rough hold he has on you soothing your frayed nerves. he wouldn't have done any of this if he was an enemy.

the moments after that feel like an eternity as the sound of footsteps that fill your home slowly dissipate. the wait feels endless, until your savior finally emerges from the closet, freeing you from confinement as well.

he walks forward a little, then turns his head your direction.

"hidin' in plain sight works only on the amateurs. these men aren't. i won't be here t'save ya next time."

he unsheathes a blade from his waistband, metal gleaming under the dim light, and silently pads toward your back door.

"thank you," you whisper.

the only sign you get that he heard you at all was a subtle pause of his movements before exiting, effortlessly melting into the shadows.

hours later, when johnny finally stumbles in through the church doors, simon notices a very recognizable fabric tied around johnny's arm in a makeshift bandage.

hm.

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

✧ Fantasies in the dark - I

�� Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader ✦ Summary: In which Arthur catches a glimpse of your intimacy, the vision driving him into madness until he finally decides to give in to his urges. ✦ Warnings: SMUT 18+, MDNI! Masturbation, nudity, voyeurism (reader not aware he's staring), self-depreciation, and lots of shame from this poor man. Arthur's pov. ✦ Words: 2,7k Arthur's pic is mine, others are from Pinterest. And as always, as English isn't my first language, prepare for some possible misspellings. Read on AO3

Part I - Part II

Lately, Arthur had a problem. An incessant, disturbing, haunting problem.

He couldn’t sleep at night.

This could have been related to the gang’s precarious situation, being hunted down by the Pinkertons and surrounded by enemy gangs, O’Driscolls and Lemoyne raiders everywhere. Or even because of some older wounds, the loss of Eliza and Isaac amongst others, reminded almost every day by the complicated family portrait John painted with Abigail and Jack. Or the hurtful thought of the life he never had with Mary that was always following him since he had seen her again near Valentine. Life doomed from the start by his inherent violence and the mountain of corpses he was responsible for.

Arthur had plenty of reasons not to sleep at night. But this wasn’t because of any of that.

He couldn’t sleep because of you. 

Not that it was your fault. In fact, you didn’t even know about any of that and Lord have mercy, he was praying that you’ll never find out; because he would never be able to look at you in the eyes then.

A few weeks ago, the gang had settled at Clemen’s Point. A rather pretty spot just near the lake, and not so far from town. But it wasn’t exactly the place that was causing him trouble. It was the unexpected view he was having from his tent.

For some unknown, mystical reasons, Miss Grimshaw while deciding the camp’s ajancement had decided to place your tent right next to his. Not so big of a problem at first sight, right?

Except that you were a night owl combined with the suffocating warmth of the place. Making you get to bed naked.

Oh, Arthur knew you do, because every night, every single one, you let a candle lit to read, or write, or God knows what before sleeping. The light casts your shadow against the tent’s canvas. The shadow of your very much nude body.

The first night Arthur had noticed, he had come back exhausted from a job in the middle of the night and laid on his cot without even taking the time to remove his boots or hat. A very usual and typical slice of his life, which lately felt more and more like a terribly used one. As if all these slices were repeating again and again. An accumulation of jobs and missions and robberies and fights; deceiving, lying, stealing, killing. Over and over again, going round and round. At night, he was reduced to a slumbered mind in a spent body, that was definitely becoming old and rusty. Already half asleep, mud and twigs surrounding his tired limbs, his thoughts all tangled up like a ball of wool, he had turned his head to his left, reaching from instinct for his pack of cigarettes on the little table next to his bed. Another slice of bad habits from a bad life.

That’s how his eyes had met with this quite erotic shape displayed on your tent.

Said eyes had grown so big that it had fully woken him up all of a sudden, as quickly as if someone had dumped a bucket of iced water on his shocked face. After half of a second of pure stabbing surprise and incomprehension with his hand hanged in the air, his breath stuck in his throat as if really being punched in the gut, he instantly turned his eyes back to the ceiling of his own tent. Cheeks burning red, heart pounding, as if someone had caught him in the act of doing a terribly shameful thing. Exactly as if he had really seen you naked.

He had feverishly grabbed the cigarette pack without looking at it, gaze refusing to turn again, these two blue diamonds locked on the ceiling of his tent, and had messily pulled one out of it, his shaky fingers fumbling, almost spilling everything on the ground.

He must have looked so damn ridiculous.

The smoke helped him to calm down, its soothing and comforting feeling spreading and burning through his lungs. He had fallen asleep, turned to the other side facing the wagon, trying not to think too much about the peek of your intimacy he had witnessed, telling himself it probably was going to be an isolated incident. 

But of course, of course the Lord had to torment him even in the rare moments of peace he could have enjoyed.

Turns out this was apparently a habit of yours. 

To be honest, he probably deserved to be tormented. But this was years from what he had in mind when it came to the Lord's punishment for his life of crimes.

And Arthur, even though a hardened man in many ways, able to lock lips during torture, kill men with bare hands, and stay emotionally strong in any kind of situation, was still only, after all, a man. A man with needs.

Filthy, disgusting needs.

He had tried to resist. Had tried not to let his eyes slip in your direction like that first night. Sometimes he would allow himself a quick glance, just to check if you were wearing any clothes for once, like a normal person. And maybe the night after would be different? Every evening spent at camp, his pupils would end up brushing the sinful silhouette in just a soft, slight sight, as if not to scare you, as if not to feel too bad about it.

But it was getting harder and harder not to stare. The easy lies about just checking on you or looking at anything else in the same area as your tent to have the chance of winning a glimpse of you would soon not be enough.

Just the mere fact that he knew you were completely bare, only a few meters away from him, singly the thin and superficial fabric of the tent between the both of you, was getting him hard and sweaty, and making his blood boil as a virgin teenage boy would. He could almost physically feel it, like a burning presence in his back when he was sleeping head against the wagon's wall.

The Human mind may be well designed for a lot of things; it forgets an event too hard to carry or can trick you into thinking you're not experiencing any physical pain in extreme situations. But Arthur had learned that it was extremely poorly made when it came to ignoring something. The more he was trying to not think about his unholy urges, the more he ended up being plagued with them. As sure as the seasons always turned in circles, you would come back to his effusive psyche.

And Oh, he was ashamed. Ashamed and revolted by himself. This was absolutely not in his habits, all the contrary. Yes, he was an old miserable bastard who had killed and plundered. But for God's sake, he had never acted obscene towards a lady before.

But the shame wasn't enough for him to stop. On the nights when the guilt was at its lowest —when the tediousness of his days was nibbling at his patience, he had let his eyes wander to your sinful figure, telling himself that maybe if he did, he could just go on with his night and finally rest. Just a quick taste, not too long.

But it only made things worse. It made him dream of you. 

Dream of you stripped, his imagination taking the lead of what the tent’s fabric was preventing him from seeing. Dream of you moaning, taking him so tightly, welcoming him in your warm body and into your arms. Dream of the feeling of your skin under his fingertips, of the sight of your naked body squirming with pleasure. He would now often wake up frustrated and angry, if he had succeeded in sleeping at all, his member hard and throbbing on its own, his heart beating powerfully in his chest as if it had been real. His pants and blanket had even been damped one or two times. 

What was he, a fifteen-year-old boy again? He was so angry and mortified by the physical obsession his body was having with you that he was constantly in a foul and fiery mood;  bitter with everyone, his tension leaking into every movement and every word he spoke. He started missing targets when shooting, getting even more reckless and hot-headed during jobs, jobs often ending up missed or taken care of negligently, yelling at people when they weren’t fast enough, or clever enough, or silent enough, breaking things, breaking rules. The lack of sleep was making his deadly efficiency fade away, replaced by sloppy and messy gestures, stopping enemies from falling dead at his feet like his lethal skills always did, castrating the only thing that was left of his masculinity.

And yet, he couldn’t stop watching you from afar during the time he was at camp, telling himself he knew, or at least had an idea, of what you looked like without these clothes on; feeling a twisted sensation of pride imagining he was the only one who did. On top of that, your sweet personality and beautiful face weren’t helping him at all with his addiction. Filthy old bastard, stop it- he had to mentally slap himself to prevent staring at you for too long, especially staring at your chest that this goddamn dress you had chosen to wear wasn’t covering at all; or your ass these goddamn pants were fitting way too well.

Tonight, Arthur is avoiding going to bed too early. He knows he would just lay in it waiting for you anyway. Instead, he goes for a walk along Flat Iron Lake’s shores, bringing his journal with him. Two entire pages are already dedicated to your shadow. He had no idea a picture exclusively made of black and white flats on a sheet could have such a powerful erotic effect. Or maybe he is a complete degenerate —which, he is sure, is more and more true.

He has to be honest with himself, he could just go to a hotel, or out of camp for a few days to sleep under the stars, and the matter would be settled.

But he doesn’t want to. Because deep down inside, his urges are winning, making him feel like the most foolish and weakest man alive. He enjoys watching you. He enjoys seeing those forbidden plumped curves cast on this canvas. He feels like you're not leaving him any mercy, pitiless, his days dictated by the wait for his taboo rendez-vous, his nights by your sensual apparitions in his dreams.

He is trapped, you have completely tamed him, and irony of it all, have absolutely no idea you are making him feel like this.

This woman is drivin' me insane.

After a few hours on the cold shore's sand, his fingers only capable of creating quick little sketches and scribbles, his feet lead him back to camp. What a surprise. He finds most of the gang's members already asleep, apart from the ones on guard duty and some late campfire enjoyers talking about life, about love, grief, the future, the past. He briefly nods at them without a word and walks to his private space. He already knows what’s waiting for him there, your tent looking like it’s still illuminated, his thoughts and body avid for it.

No, don’t be a fool, Morgan.

He sits down on his cot. Mumbles to himself orders and curses to try and stay reasonable. Takes off his hat, runs a hand through his hair, sticky with sweat and dirt from his busy day, as all the other ones, as always. Scratches his beard and his ears with a sniff, tells himself he needs to take a swim into that lake. That he’s as dirty on the inside as he’s on the outside. Pulls down his suspenders before stretching his shoulders, a pained groan escaping him. A cigarette joins his lips, a match lights it, and he breathes in slowly. He tries to calm down, focusing once again on this homey feeling it brings him. 

But his brows furrows. His lips tighten. He knows he won’t be able to hold on much longer. He needs to sleep properly. Even being the all-mighty Titan he is, he still needs a good night of sleep from time to time to keep the engine of his body turning, and you have kept it from him for days.

He lies to himself promising this is only for his health.

That this is the only way for him to stay focused during the day; the only way to rest properly and be at his best again tomorrow.

That this will be the only time he’ll do that.

His only moment of weakness. 

The still-lit cigarette and his good conscience fall to the ground as he lies on his cot, settled on his left side, his right hand already roaming on his lower belly. 

His eyes drop on the scene he had fantasized about for what seems like years to him at this point.

Lord have mercy…

Your shadow looks so perfect. He takes his sweet time to notice every detail of it, enjoying to the maximum his sinful behavior, now that he had succumbed to it. How you’re laying on your back, reading your book with your legs crossed. The curvaceous shape of your body looks divine to his insatiable gaze. Your hair messily tangled around your head. The silhouette of your chin and throat making him hungrier than any feast he could have attended. Your belly, rising and falling with your chest and breasts, gives the shadow an organic appearance. Your delicate legs, from the base of your thighs to your calves, to your feet, your toes mindlessly curling as you get lost in your story. And of course, the blurry outline of what was between them…

Damn it.

His hand quickly reaches his belt, unbuckles it,  fiddles with his pants, opens them carelessly in an urgent grip. He spits in his palm, lashes out at himself when the desire of it being your wetness instead crosses his mind, and slips it between the buttons of his union suit. It finally wraps around his desperate shaft, gorged with blood, and he wonders if he already had been this hard before.

The moment he feels the pressure of his own fingers around it, he can’t help but sigh deeply through his nose, and has to physically block the groan he was about to let out.

Make no noise, moron.

He bites his lips to stop any other immoral sound from crossing through his mouth. Last thing he needs right now is to get caught. He slowly rubs one languorous time from up to down, then up again, his fingers brushing his swollen head right where he needs to. He instantly knows he won’t last. He had dreamed about this, about you, both during days and nights. His eyes are locked on your tantalizing silhouette, this deiform delicious flesh. Goddess of the night, Queen of his desires.

His hand rubs once again and his muscles tighten. He starts to stroke in a rhythmic pace, his moves are efficient, messy, careless. He masturbates the same way he takes care of himself —quickly, roughly, as if matching his disgust towards his own self. The exact opposite of what he would do to you if he could. This is pure physical relief.

Yes, God, yes…

Your name turns in his mind between blasphemous curses as he pleasures himself, stroking faster and faster, delightful warm sensations spreading through him. Finally. The burning is no longer in his back or mind; it's right there around his erection, flames licking all around it.

He wants to be able to join you there, so badly. He wants to discover the tone of your bare skin in those places you never show to anyone. He wants to whisper sweet things in your ear and you to sigh back, your voice high and softly shaking from pleasure. He wants the lewd intimacy, the shared tension and the electric, exciting touch of two foreign skins discovering each other for the first time. He wants to see your hardening nipples he can only have a glimpse of through the fabric. 

He wants to have you, to take you, consume you, all to himself. He wants you to think about him the same way he is now, wants you to come while thinking of him, only him, your mouth to moan, whimper, scream even, all thanks to him. 

He wants your hand instead of his, around his cock right now, pressing harder, moving faster.

Yes, yes, jus’ a bit more darlin’… -

A movement from you, a real one, makes his pace slow down and his heart stops, afraid you might have by some sort of divine knowledge understood what was happening. But you’re just shifting in your bed, positioning yourself on your belly with your book open against your pillow, and Arthur’s balls spasm; he now has the most perfect view of your ass, its gorgeous, decadent round and plumped contour making his member twitch in his fist.

Ahh, shit… So god damn perfect… 

Pearls of sweat leak from his forehead to his neck. His ears shut close to the outside world, his surroundings completely disappearing. Now, there’s only you and your perfect back beautifully arched ending with your perfect bottom and him, and no one else’s on Earth. His breath is jerky, his entire face completely crimson, his fingers pumping so hard and fast he’s basically fucking his hand —your hand, with those wet and unmistakable noises filling the air.

His breath speeds up as Arthur feels his deliverance coming, blood rushing in his veins. He sees himself behind you grabbing fistfuls of your cheeks, he sees his erection diving deep between them. And it's the last straw. His brows are crunched in an exquisite expression of pure sexual delight, jaws so tensed he’s about to break his teeth, your pleasure-filled voice screaming his name in his head, dragging every sensation out of him. His orgasm hit him with the strength and speed of a thunderstorm, lightning bolts of satisfaction striking every fiber of his body.

 Yes! Yesss  —Damnit! 

He comes hard with a low and throaty growl he forgot to —or couldn't repress, silently repeating your name again and again, his lower lip almost cut open from how hard he had bit himself, an enormous vein on his forehead where sweat covers his skin. His thick, hot cum spills messily in an indecently large amount, the aftermath of having held himself back for so long, leaking on his pants and fingers and staining his cot; a dash of white contrasting with the darkness of what he just did.

He’s praying to the Lord and the Devil, any mystical forces known to man, that nobody had heard his final relief sound, especially not you. It was louder than what he would like to admit.

Shit, so damn good…

Using his black bandana, he roughly cleans himself then tosses it somewhere on the floor, his cock finally softening as he shoves it back under his clothes, balls empty. And it feels good. So good a wave of shame and guilt crashes onto him once more. What a pig he was for jerking off while ogling you. What an old bastard he was to mingle you and his filth. But at the same time, he feels like his muscles are thanking him, his restless flesh satisfied, even though he almost hurt himself with how fast he had stroked, lost in his haze.

His bittersweet and contradictory feelings accompanied him as he took a last glance at your tent before drifting off to sleep, his breathing still a bit raspy as if he had run for hours. You had closed your book and taken the candle between your hands to blow on it, the little flame flickering before fading. And then, darkness.

The curtains falling on the stage at the end of this private decadent act.

Eyelids heavy, Arthur knows he will finally sleep tonight.

But he also knows this isn’t the end of his torments at all; the conflicting thoughts paint his mind just as the sun pierces through the dark ebony clouds of a thunderstorm, creating those abruptly dazing shapes and color, pitch black laced with blinding light.

Never in this life or the Other he will forget the form of your naked body, no matter how wicked he feels. Because when it comes to you and only you, Arthur Morgan is, indeed, a very weak man.

Part II

tagging : @a-court-of-valkyries and @zae-heeyyy

[yieldtotemptation]

ALWAYS ft. Hanni

hanni x male reader smut

9k words

This used to be your least favourite part of the day.

Waking up alone, to nothing but an alarm that’s far too loud, a bed that’s way too firm, a dorm room that mocks your financial instability with its harsh coldness. 

And that somehow, was the best-case scenario.

Beating getting kicked out of a library after passing out face first in a textbook, or booted off your best friend’s mouldy couch when his girlfriend wanted some alone time.

Or even, in your worst moment, getting yelled at by some stranger when you’re discovered on their bathroom floor in a pool of what you prayed to God was your own vomit.

All things of the past, since her.

Since Hanni—waking up was everything.

-

It starts, like it always does, in a tangle of limbs.

Most mornings, with Hanni’s face buried in your chest, cradled in your embrace, small puffs of breath tickling your neck. Others, with her back to you; pulling your arms around her, using the heat of your body like her coziest blanket.

One time on top of you; an exhausted smile plastered on her face, still basking in the afterglow of the night before.

She wrapped herself around you, refused to let go. Like there was a possibility that if she held you tight enough, she could bring you into her dreams.

That was the first day you truly saw her.

You talked about your pasts, your futures, shared your deepest vulnerabilities, made a million quiet confessions.

And when Hanni whispered: “I never want to go back.”

You pulled her closer, kissed her, and answered: “You’ll never have to.”

Since then, every morning always started with you holding her. Feeling her softness, her warmth, the calm rise and fall of her chest, as her exhales became your inhales and your breaths mixed together and synchronised.

This is how it had to be—how you both needed it to be.

So—now:

Nights and mornings since that promise; the sound of a guitar slipping into your ears.

It’s a recording she made for you, setting it as your alarm to make waking up a little more pleasant, to make sure the first thing you thought of when you opened your eyes was her.

Unnecessary, ultimately, seeing as the first thing you see when you wake up is her. Or, to be precise, her arm poking out from under the blankets, flailing about blindly.

“Off,” Hanni mumbles, fumbling around the bed, the nightstand, your face, seeking the offending device.

You stretch over her, a blanket on top of her blanket, and hunt down the invisible enemy that dared to interrupt your girlfriend’s peaceful slumber.

A muffled “thanks”, and she takes the opportunity to snuggle even closer.

There’s the smile quirking at the corner of her lips. Her nose, nuzzling closer into your chest, searching for your heartbeat. That pleased hum she’s making, letting you know there’s no place she’d rather be, like she’s completely content to stay all cozied up and warm for as long as you’ll let her (forever, if possible, please).

It’s hardly a tough sell—face the cold shower, the crowded buses and trains, the boring lectures that the rest of the day holds.

Or, stay wrapped up in the sanctuary of your (Hanni’s) bed. In fitted silk sheets, weighted duvets, plush pillows. Wrapped up in Hanni; in her very soft, very warm, very naked body.

It’s a no-brainer, really.

The rest of you, the more honest part of you that’s resting somewhere between her belly button and her thighs, seems to agree. It’s got a mind of its own, stirring to life, responding to the heat of her skin and the gentle pressure of her body; the familiar lines of her curves and the lavender scent of her hair.

She notices, of course.

It’s hard not to feel it, nudging against her, steadily growing with each passing beat, saying, ‘Hey, remember me?’

A kiss over your heart, a giggle into your sternum, and she’s up—sort of. She rolls onto her side, still in your embrace, but enough so that you can see the wry smile gracing her face, her sleepy eyes fluttering open to meet yours.

Chalk it up to whatever you want—relationship goggles, the honeymoon phase, or just the sheer joy of finding someone who actually cares about you—but when Hanni's looking like this, it's hard to believe you’re not dreaming.

The morning light kissing her rosy cheeks. The gentle pink of her full lips. Midnight silk hair curtaining her face. Her eyes.

A sweet, completely innocent question: “Having a good morning?”

She shifts, slightly.

An oh-so-incidental move that has the blanket sliding off her shoulder, down to her waist. It’s an invitation that you take, a proper wake-up call, from her collarbone to the curve of her hip. Softness and warmth, a stark contrast to the cold that whispers from the edges of the bed.

Hanni—your Hanni—leaving you with the implication: ‘Can I make it better?’

“Classes,” is all you say, because you have to at least acknowledge the responsibility, play the farce that you would actually abandon your (again—very warm, very naked) girlfriend for the sake of academia.

“It’s cold outside,” is her astute observation.

“Mhm.”

“It’s warm in here.”

“Right,” you nod.

“So,” she starts, bringing her hand up to your cheek, walking you through the incredibly simple, blatantly obvious logic. “Do you need any other reason?”

“Are you offering me one?”

Lips purse then pouts in that endearingly cute, Hanni way. “Does it help that I’m naked?”

“One would think that more clothes would be appropriate, considering the weather,” you posit, like you weren't already convinced long before she even opened her mouth. But, it’s still fun to pretend that her persistence doesn’t melt you every time. 

“One would be wrong.” Hanni edges closer, her bare skin gliding over yours, so you can properly assess the merits of her argument. The tip of her nose brushing against your own, the softness of her breasts passing along your chest, and her hand at your cheek, then your neck, your stomach, and moving lower, and lower. “Body heat, you know?”

Her hand gets lower still. You swallow. “Yeah.”

“Like when it’s freezing and people get lost in a snowstorm.” She finds you, reaches into the waistband of your sweatpants, wraps her fingers around you, wakes you up.

“Or when girlfriends are trying to convince their boyfriends to stay in bed all day long,” you groan out. “Again.”

“Exactly,” Hanni says, a breezy air of finality, proud of herself for making you see reason—or rather, feel it.

You kiss her forehead, conceding the victory to her, and she scrunches her nose; preens. It’s a subtle movement, the kind that you’ve come to recognise as her victory dance. She squeezes your body closer to hers, her cheek squishing into your chest, her other hand wrapping around your neck, her legs curling up around your calves. It’s like she’s absorbing your affection, turning it into warmth she’ll keep with her for the rest of the day.

Her hand winds up and down, these long, lazy motions. Smooth and tender, stroking the length of you, her thumb tracing the vein that pulses along the side. She’s not in a hurry; not anymore anyway. Just, enjoying the moment, enjoying being with you, enjoying how obvious you are with your sighs and shivers.

“‘sides,” Hanni adds, taking a break to kiss around your jawline, your neck, your shoulder. “You deserve it. A perfect day of nothing.” She sounds so hopeful, so earnest, and there’s a warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the friction of her hand on your skin. “We can order junk food, watch awful horror movies, and…”

“Just us.” A finger under her chin to tilt her head up, to capture those half-moon eyes with yours, to kiss her sweetly, deeply, remind her that she’s all you need to make a perfect day. “I wonder what I’ve done to earn this.”

“Not what you’ve done,” Hanni says in the breaths between your kisses. “What you’re going to do.” 

With that, she uses all her weight to push you, rolling you onto your back, climbing over you with a grace that leaves you breathless.

She straddles you, legs draped over your hips, small breasts bouncing just a little with the motion. There’s mischief lighting up her eyes, that playful glint that precedes all good things. The blankets fall completely off her with a dramatic flourish, leaving her bare and exposed for your eyes to drink in.

A pause to appreciate her—to really look at her. From her flushed cheeks to the tips of her toes. Every curve, every darkened freckle, every soft, sweet inch of her—yours to adore, to touch, to explore.

And then, she winks.

You can’t help but laugh.

Hanni joins you, giggling in uncontrollable fits.

It’s the ridiculousness of it all, of Hanni—the girl who blushes when you hold her hand in public—straddling you with a wink and a promise of a day of pure carnal indulgence.

You both laugh until your cheeks hurt, until the tension breaks and you’re just two people in the cozy bubble of her bed, sharing a stupid, silly moment.

It takes a beat, but you both somehow recover, gasping for air between giggles. She settles herself, placing her hands on either side of your face, looking down at you with all the adoration in the world. Her touch grounds you, brings you back to the present.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” You ask, when you’re finally able to speak. “This is what you really want to do all day?”

“Well…” Hanni muses, sinking down to your waist, running her fingers over your t-shirt, stopping when she has the hem in her clutches. “A bit of this.”

She starts rolling your shirt up, sliding the cotton over your stomach. The cold air of the room kisses your skin before the warmth of her mouth replaces it. Her soft, plump lips meet your body, the small indent of your belly button.

Simple, innocent, playful. Hanni.

“A bit of that,” she continues, her hands keep moving, lifting the shirt higher, tugging it up and up, exposing your chest to her eyes, her lips.

She finds her target, a tongue over your nipple, paying you back for what you’re no doubt going to be doing to her later; flicking over your chest to make you hiss.

“A bit of me,” she adds, words vibrating against your chest, leaving goosebumps as she rises higher.

You lift your arms, allowing her to pull your shirt off your body, trapping you for a moment so she can suck at your neck, mark you as hers, and hers only. As if you didn’t already wear it on your face whenever she’s around.

“Doing a lot of you.”

Her eyes rake over you—your chest, your stomach, your abs. Lingering a touch too long, making her cheeks warm; colouring them with a soft blush that spreads from her neck up to her ears, hinting at the thoughts racing through her mind.

And then you're kissing her.

It’s gentle (your kisses always are) but that doesn’t make it any less passionate, any less intense.

She kisses you back, lips sliding over yours, the softness of her tongue tracing the line of your teeth, moaning your name in short stutters into your mouth.

It feels so right, so natural. The way she fits against you, feels on top of you, the perfect puzzle piece you’ve been desperate to find in a world full of mismatches.

It’s far too early to say it, but you know it—have known it.

You love her. Love how she lives in the moment; how even when you’re worried about the future, about deadlines and tomorrows, she can bring you back to the present and make things simple. In the least selfish way possible, she makes it about her.

(And that’s all you need).

It builds and builds; these slow, dragging kisses, these admissions of things that you’re not quite ready to say. Until you’re both well and truly needy for a touch more heat, as much of each other as you can possibly get.

You can’t hold it anymore, so you don’t bother trying.

With a firm grasp, you take Hanni’s hips in your hands, your thumbs pressing into vanilla skin as you pull her upward. It’s strategic, pull the best parts of her (which could be any part, really) closer, prove her earlier guess right by introducing her breast to your lips, her nipple to your tongue.

A million times you’ve repeated it and it won’t be enough—she’s so soft. Melting at your touch already, so responsive, letting you know she’s feeling it with every hushed gasp and shiver of her tight body.

One hand is filled by her other breast, a supple handful, spilling between your fingers, carelessly massaging as your mouth latches onto its twin. Her heart races, hammers against your palm, quickening with every passing flick, with each chaste suck between your lips.

Your other hand snakes lower, caressing the smooth plane of her stomach. You drag your fingertips over the ridges and valleys of her abs, down towards the juncture of her thighs.

She squirms.

Moans a little louder.

Scrapes the back of your scalp and pulls you in.

You’re insistent, your touch feather light as it grazes over the whispers of hair; trailing all the way down, down, where you ghost over her mound, tease her clit to make her gasp.

“Like that,” Hanni moans her approval, answers you with hips rocking against your hand. “So, so… nice.”

Your hand dips down further, parting her folds, sliding through her slick, greeted with the warmth and wetness of her opening. Soaking your hand, inviting you to delve deeper.

“Hanni,” you mouth around her nipple, “you’re so wet.”

“O-of course,” she manages, shuddering as you dare to ease a finger inside, pushing into her and pushing out a cry that fills the room. “It’s you.”

“It definitely is,” you confirm, stroking her walls with slow, deliberate care, feeling her tense around you with each movement. “And I’m just getting started.”

Her body arches, curves into you, tilting her head back and feeding you more of her; her breast into your mouth, her pussy on your fingers. You look up at her, feel her, memorise every little noise she makes, every twitch of her body as you touch her. Her breath skips as you start to move your finger in and out, a quiet pace to make her hips dance.

“This is a good idea.“ You’re pushing in deeper, adding a second digit to the mix, stretching her just so. She’s tight around you, always so tight, enveloping you in her heat, and there’s the urge to go even slower, to savour every moment. “Staying in all day. Making you feel good.”

Her legs tense, toned thighs flex as you curl your fingers up, pulling towards you just right to hit that spot that makes her mouth hang open, that makes her whine. There’s a plea in there, a silent request for more, for everything.

And you give it to her, because it’s what she deserves, because it’s what she’s asking for, because she’s yours.

She’s getting tighter around you, walls squeezing in. A prelude to something beautiful, something only you know how to give her, a skill you’ve picked up in this very same bed.

“God,” Hanni’s breaths are turning into short gasps, she’s so needy for it, for you. A slight tug of your hair, pulling you off her breast, forcing her nipple to ‘pop’ from your lips. She sinks down, further down onto your hand, her breasts dragging against your chest, her skin sticking to yours. “You’re such a tease.”

Her lips hang in front of yours, pillowy cushions begging for its partner—needing you to kiss her, now. You claim her mouth, let her be as loud as she wants on your lips; these delightful sounds when your hand moves faster, more insistent.

Arms hold you, wrap around your back, hugging you tighter, needing you to be as close as humanly possible. Hands everywhere—massaging your back, gripping in your shoulders, tangled in your hair, grabbing at your biceps—no matter how much of you she has, it’s just not enough.

Pliant is the other word to describe Hanni; so easy in your hands, like clay waiting for your touch. Waiting for you to mould her into whatever you want, even though you prefer her as she just is—all her perfect imperfections, beautifully flawed, wonderfully Hanni.

Another finger pushes into her; three now, moving in a steady rhythm, that slow, cautious manoeuvre that’s become so familiar. Sure, you could do it with your eyes closed, bring her to the brink and back with touch alone, but you’d miss the way she looks at you—the tears at the corners of her eyes, the tremble in her lips; like you’re her saviour, her everything.

“Hanni, you’re so—” you can’t put it into exact words—gorgeous, pretty, lovely—you test them out, but they all fall short, leaving you hanging until—

“Yours,” Hanni finishes, and that’s all you need, all you need to hear to make a vow to do everything in your power to keep her happy, to keep her here, to keep her—��always yours.”

She’s rocking on your fingers now, taking charge of her own pleasure, setting the pace that you so willingly match. It’s a give and take, and you take the chance to kiss at her neck, to nibble on the shell of her ear, to whisper to her all the things that create these little tremors in her thighs, that make her grip you tighter and tighter with each stroke.

She feels so good, so warm, so wet. Your hand is soaked, knuckles coated in her, making these noises. The muffled pop of skin on skin; the soft, sticky sound of wetness being parted; that satisfying squelch as you go in deep.

Hanni’s so close. So, so close.

Unwinding, melting in your palm; and that look. The way she smiles when she’s on that edge, because she’s so happy to be there, so happy that it's you that has her to be feeling this good.

But then—it’s the suddenness that gets you—she goes rigid, stops moving, begs, “Wait, wait, wait.”

It’s so unexpected, but you still do stop, fingers lodged inside her, pulsating with the urgency of her orgasm that’s just a heartbeat away.

She needs to hang onto you, to hold onto something as the world starts to spin again. Her pupils are blown wide, cheeks flushed a rosy pink; there's sweat glistening across her face, bathing her in this glow.

You look up at her, a soothing kiss on her cheek. “Problem?”

“No,” Hanni manages a gasp, reassuring you with a shaky smile, still doing her best to catch her breath. “I mean yes. I mean… It feels too good.”

You tilt your head. You smirk. “That’s a problem?”

“You always do this, you know?” Hanni chooses her words carefully, trying to break out of the haze of having almost been there, so she can properly articulate. “Make it about me when it’s supposed to be about you.”

You stifle your laughter against her neck, letting it vibrate through her skin. It’s her earnestness, really, that gets you sometimes; her concern for you, even now is too much, almost comical.

“I’m serious!” Hanni protests, though she’s betrayed by the wobble in her voice, that part of her begging to just let you do your thing and push her past the precipice. Her eyes flutter shut and she breathes in deep. Trying, nearly failing, to compose herself. “I want to make you feel as good as you always make me feel.”

Logic that you can’t argue with, not when it’s wrapped up in that sweet, sweet smile. You still attempt, though, “Hanni, making you feel good—”

“Makes me feel good—yeah, I know how it goes,” she finishes the line for you. “But, just. We have all day, so—"

There’s a point that’s finished by her kiss, specific in its tenderness, stealing whatever witty reply you had ready from your mouth.

“Let me start by taking care of you.”

It’s like you said—Hanni Pham, making it all about her, in the least selfish way possible.

You relent, bowing out to her whims.

“So, what do you want me to do?”

“Nothing,” Hanni nods, satisfied with your compliance. She takes your wrists into her hands, guides them away from her body to keep them at your sides. “Just relax.”

It’s a strange feeling, letting go, letting her be the one to dictate the pace, the rhythm of your morning. You watch her, watch the way her eyes wander over you. She’s fascinated, like she can’t make up her mind of where to start.

But she does, eventually.

Her gaze settles on your arousal, standing proud and waiting underneath your sweatpants.

“How about I start—” a light kiss on your lips, and she’s slinking down to your waist, tugging at the string of your pants, “right here?”

A kiss on your stomach, just above your navel, her fingers slipping between your waistband and your skin. They pull at the fabric, dragging it down with care until it’s pooled around your thighs. Your cock springs free, and there’s this gasp she makes—like she hasn’t seen it a hundred times before.

“You’re so big.” Hanni’s in awe, her voice hushed, reverent almost. It’s always been something she says, something that makes you blush—swells the ego that you like to pretend you don’t have. “I still have no idea how this fits inside me.”

“It fits perfectly, remember?”

“Mm, I know, but—" she can’t find the words, so she settles for the next best thing, “damn.”

She’s smiling—always smiling—and you can feel her breath on you, light and sugary, these little pulses of anticipation tingling through your skin.

You hold your breath, waiting for her touch, waiting for her lips, waiting for her to finally take you in.

But she doesn’t. She’s just looking.

“Hanni,” you say, giving your cock a teasing flex, brushing it against her cheek. It’s a light prod to break the spell, to remind her of the task at hand.

“Oh!”

It’s getting unbearable, your cock just inches from her mouth, straining to reach her lips. “You’re driving me crazy.”

“Good.“ She presses another kiss to your skin, a little nibble to your inner thigh that makes you jolt. Her hands skim over your legs, pushing your sweatpants down further and further, down your thighs, over your knees right until it’s stuck at your ankles, thwarting her attempted sensual seduction.

She makes this frustrated 'argh!’ at the minor struggle. Very cute. Also a little ridiculous.

"Help, please?” She looks up at you, expectantly.

You acquiesce.

“Aha!” Hanni cheers, slightly louder than she may have intended, having won her battle against your pants. She catches herself, blushing, flashing a cheeky smile.

God, you’re going to fall in love with her all over again.

“Oh right. I mean, are you ready?”

So casual in how she says it, covering for her fumble. It makes you want to laugh—except you can’t, because before you can even open your mouth, she’s already leaned in, pressing her plush lips against the tip of your cock.

Lightly, so light it makes your hairs stand on end. A calculated tease, right hand around your cock, stroking your length. Her left reaches up, laces her fingers with yours. A squeeze, a preview of what’s to come.

You can’t help but twitch under her.

It's her lips, mapping a trail of kisses down your shaft, leaving a warm, sticky mess of pre-cum that she’s quick to lick away. It’s how she’s looking at you—so focused, like she’s been learning, been studying you, creating a personal database of everything that makes you tick.

But above all else it’s just the simple fact that she’s doing this for you, because she cares about you. Because she wants to make you feel good.

It’s all of it and it’s working.

“This is much nicer, isn’t it?” She asks, not really expecting an answer, because she knows it’ll be a resounding yes.

She’s playing with you, not giving you exactly what you want, but just enough. Her hand wrapped around the base of your cock, stroking you from root to tip, thumb circling your head with enough pressure to drive you insane.

It’s pain and pleasure wrapped up into one perfect package, and you’re not sure which one you prefer.

You let her know as such: “Actually quite torturous, to be honest.”

“But it’s the good kind of torture, right?”

“There’s a good kind?”

“We’ve got all day to find out,” Hanni teases, taking a fistful of her own hair in her hand, looping it into a tight, messy bun; preparing herself—giving you a final chance to do the same.

Hanni takes you into her mouth.

It’s not a sudden plunge, not a surprise attack bringing you straight to the back of her throat—it’s a slow, slow descent that has you gritting your teeth and biting back a groan.

It’s hot. Wet. Heavenly. You can feel every inch of your cock being coated in her saliva, her tongue dancing around your shaft, her cheeks hollowing out, her lips creating the most exquisite suction.

When she reaches as far as she can go, fills her mouth with as much of you as she can take, she starts to move back up. Slowly, so you can feel every little bump of her tongue, every little drag of her teeth.

Her hand joins in, moving in tandem with her mouth, stroking the parts of you she can’t reach. She’s trying to find the perfect balance, trying to find that sweet spot between too much and not enough.

Hanni’s no pro at this, her technique is in no way perfect—but she’s so willing, so keen to please. Taking her time, getting used to the feel of you in her mouth, eyes peeking up at you every so often to gauge your reaction. Studying your face for any sign that she’s doing it right, that she’s doing it well.

It’s adorable, really.

And oh, so hot.

You give it to her again, reassure her, “So good, baby,” because it is—your hips buck involuntarily, pushing deeper into her mouth.

It takes her off guard, but she does her best to adapt; she’s trying not to gag, trying to take it all in. She’s a fast learner, your Hanni.

Your compliment serves its purpose—she’s getting more confident now, tongue gliding along the underside of your cock. Tentative, exploratory. It’s clumsy, yes, but it’s cute, and most importantly—it feels good.

She’s concentrating, her attention entirely on your cock; her lips sealed tight. Each time her head bobs down, she takes you in deeper, millimetres, but still, deeper and deeper.

And it’s the sound of her sucking you in, getting sloppier, filling the room with those noises, the soundtrack to your morning. She’s getting bolder, finding her rhythm, building her pace. It’s not precise in any way, shape or form—sometimes she’s a little too rough, sometimes she misses the beat—but the effort.

A harsh suck has your cock popping out of Hanni’s lips, strings of her saliva still connecting her mouth to you. She looks up at you, wanting to check in, still needing that hit of validation, “Is this—is this good?"

You stroke her hair, let her lean into your touch. "Unbelievably. You’re doing great.”

“But I can make it even better, can’t I?” She asks, the determination setting in her features, and she’s staring straight into your eyes, hopeful, “Tell me. Tell me how you want it.”

It’s not a demand—it’s a question, a plea for guidance; she’ll do whatever it takes (whatever you want) to get you there. And it’s the sight of her, straddling your thighs, kneeling before you; those full lips hovering just about your cock, her hand lazily pumping away, keeping you there.

Somehow, you manage to get the words out, a rough whisper, “Take me deep, Hanni. As far as you can go. Take me all in. Show me how much you want it.”

It’s the instruction she’s been waiting for; she’s nodding before you’ve finished, so willing to oblige. It’s that part of her that you’ve discovered, the part she might not even know herself. But it explains so much.

(Hanni: the teacher’s pet, always needing to excel. Competitive, desperate for the highest grades in school, the top evaluations in training; desperate for you to tell her that it’s her and only her.

That’s what makes her successful. That’s what makes her eager.

And now that you’ve put the challenge before her, she can’t wait to prove herself.)

She takes a deep breath, swirls her tongue around the tip of your cock, dipping her toe into the water before she dives right in. Like she’s playing it out in her head, memorising the taste of you, the smell of you, the feel of you. Mapping out the best way to take you all the way in right before she does her best to break you.

“Ready?”

“Always.”

And she goes for it.

Her mouth opens wide, eyes locked on yours, and she takes you in again.

Deeper, throat tighter.

Her eyes water a little, and she coughs, retreating. But she’s unfazed—still smiling, still eager.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s okay.”

You stroke her cheek, act like it’s not already far more than you can handle. “Take your time, baby. No need to rush.”

A deep inhale, and she's trying again.

It’s a process, her getting used to you, your size, your taste, the way you make her throat bulge. She’s slow, tentative, but with every stroke, with every gulp, she’s getting closer. Her cheeks hollow out more, her eyes water a little less, and she moans.

You can feel the anticipation building in your chest, your balls, the sweet ache of your orgasm just around the corner. And she can feel it too, your body tensing under hers, your breaths turning shorter, sharper.

The fifth time, she hits the back of her throat, and she stops—holds herself there, panting. It’s a moment of victory, a declaration that she’s got it right, that she can take all of you, just like you asked. Your cock is nestled at the back of her throat, there’s more tears now, but she’s smiling with her eyes, looking up at you through her lashes.

It’s so intense. You groan. Your hips jerk. “Good, baby, so good—don’t move.”

The look on her face, the satisfaction, the pride.  

She swallows around you, working the muscles in her throat, pressing her tongue flat against the underside of your cock; it’s too much.

“Ha-Hanni—keep doing that—keep swallowing—it’s perfect—so perfect—”

It’s a struggle, but she does it, takes it all in, holds it there—just for you.

Her hands are at your thighs, grasping—not enough to hurt, but enough to let you know she’s there, that she’s with you. She coughs, gags, sputters bits of drool down your cock, but she keeps going.

And then, she pulls herself up, needing the air, pulling back with a long gasp; leaving a mess. Your cock slides out of her mouth, springing from her lips; her cheeks a vivid shade of red, glistening with lines of tears—beautiful, just indescribably beautiful.

“Was I good?” She’s asking out of courtesy, really. You’re sure whatever dumb look you’re wearing on your face is more than enough to confirm it.

But you nod and choke a ’Yes’ anyway, because you’re a gentleman, and words of affirmation are just as sweet as the act itself.

“I can do better.”

And before your mind can even catch up to what she’s saying, she’s sucking you back into her mouth. Now that she’s proven herself, she just has to push it even further, show you just what she’s capable of.

This time, she’s more assured, more confident. Her hands are at your hips now, holding you still, like she’s worried you’ll get away.

You won’t, of course. You couldn’t even if you tried.

Hanni’s bobbing her head; these long, deep sucks that have your fingers tangling in her hair, have you urging your hips to meet her mouth. Her eyes are watering more, she’s gagging more often than not, but she doesn’t stop, she just keeps moaning around you, keeps going and going.

She takes her hands off your hips, sliding one down to the base of your cock, holding it steady as she works you over and over. The other finds your balls, balancing them on her fingertips, rolling them around her palm. She’s figuring it out, figuring you out far too quickly, and it nearly has you coming undone.

And through it all, she’s grinning.

It’s a twisted, slightly pained grin, but it’s a grin nonetheless. She’s found her new favourite hobby, and she’s determined to show you just how much she enjoys it.

“I love this,” Hanni slurs against your cock, not really to you, not really to herself, just saying it out loud because it’s true. “I love being able to do this to you, making you feel so good.”

She’s saying these things, these simple words like they’re not dangerous at all, like whispering them against your cock is so harmless, like they don’t have the power to completely destroy your resolve.

“I love that it’s me,” Hanni keeps going, even when her tongue is occupied with licking you, lapping up your balls, the underside of your shaft. “I love that I’m the one who makes you feel this way.”

Gone is the shyness—she’s so smug now, so proud of herself, so in love with the fact that she has you exactly where she wants you: in her mouth, at her mercy.

It’s in the way she’s sucking you, her eyes closing, her hums of pleasure every time she takes you in—as deep as she can. She’s getting hotter on top of you, just from having you in her mouth, from taking you into her lips again and again.

Grinding herself into the mattress, needing a bit of friction, needing more. And that’s when she pulls away, panting for breath.

“Hanni?” You ask, finding your voice, letting go of a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.

“It’s too much,” she admits, breathless, her hand still wrapped around your cock, stroking you gently, almost apologetically. “I’m sorry, it’s just—it’s too much.”

There’s a shift in the air—in Hanni. Usually, typically, soft. Now wild, desperate.

She’s climbing up you, back on your hips, her wetness smearing onto your skin, her thighs trembling on either side of yours.

"I need it, I can’t wait anymore. I just can’t.”

The suddenness, the urgency in her voice (in her body). Hanni, flushed, practically shaking with need.

“I need you—now.”

It’s so tempting—you could give in easily. And yet, there’s something in how she’s asking you, how she’s using innuendo in place of propriety, dancing around saying what she really wants in plain, explicit terms.

It’s not enough.

She’s already got you on the edge, so close you can almost taste it. But you need to hear it from her. Your sweet, adorable girlfriend, saying something so dirty it’ll make your knees buckle.

So, you sit up, shifting slightly so she’s still straddling you, face to face. Cradling her cheek with one hand, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes; so you can look at her—take in all the tiny beautiful inflections that make her your Hanni.

“What do you need?”

Always with the blushes, but she holds your gaze, not breaking it even when you run your hand back down south, reaching to slip a finger through her folds, finding her still so wet and swollen. She gasps, but she doesn’t look away.

“Tell me, Hanni,” you coax, your finger moving in gentle circles, watching her face, watching the way her pupils dilate, the way her breath catches.

Hanni stutters, “You—I want you—need you—". But you just chuckle, slow down the pace of your finger, giving her a taste of the frustration she’s unintentionally been dishing out.

“Not quite specific enough. What part of me do you want?”

She’s biting her lip, squirming under your touch—she’s not used to this. Not used to anything outside of the usual playfulness, the sweetness; the gentle strokes and soft whispers. But something has you feeling different today.

Maybe it’s the excitement of trying something new. Maybe it’s how unusually forward she’s being. Or maybe, just maybe, part of you has always wanted to hear her beg.

She blurts it out: “Your—your cock!”

“And what do you want me to do with it?” You press, stroking her clit now; her chest heaving, these tiny whines escaping her, and the way she’s looking at you. Like she’s getting ready to pounce.

“Please—just—please, I need—”

“Need me to slide it in slow?” You suggest, kissing her neck, her perfect, porcelain skin. “Give it to you nice and deep?“

Hanni’s rolling her hips on you, grinding herself against your hand, trying to get through to your cock, trying to will it to enter her.

“Go ahead, be honest.”

She’s bothered. Annoyed—almost angry, if that’s even possible for her. Like how could you? How could her kind, loving boyfriend go out of his way to put her in such agony.

“Tell me, baby. What does Hanni want?”

“I—I need your cock inside me—I want you to—” Hanni swallows takes a deep breath.

A final push: “Say it.”

“Fuck me, hold me and fuck me. Deep, hard, slow—however you want just fuck me now.”

The words come out in a rush, spilling out of her lips. Even she’s surprised as she’s saying them, in disbelief that she’s even capable of saying something so filthy out loud.

But she’s not taking it back, she’s not apologising.

No, she’s taking hold of your hand, moving it out from between her legs, and replacing it with your cock, daring you to stop her.

Like you could ever.

You push in, inch by delicious inch, watching her face contort, features twist, feeling her stretch around you.

It’s the same every time—it feels like the first time all over again.

Her eyes squeeze shut, mouth parted in a wordless plea, and you’re moving so slow. So slow that she’s whimpering, begging, hips trying to push you deeper. But you keep it steady, setting the tempo, let her get used to the feeling of being made whole by you again.

“Oh, oh, oh—” Hanni pants, trying to keep her voice down, but it’s pointless. She’s failing already, loosening a strained 'fuck' when you bottom out, when your cock is finally, completely inside her.

You hold her like that; your arms around her, hugging her tight, her breasts squished against your chest. She’s so small in your arms, so soft, so warm; her pulse racing against your own, lapping it twice over.

“You okay?” You ask, placing a kiss on her shoulder.

“More than okay,” she sighs, holding onto you, moulding her body onto yours. “More than okay—just need a minute to adjust. Don’t worry about me—you can—you can make me feel good.”

So, you do.

Lifting her body off you, unsheathing your cock from her warm embrace, until only the tip is trapped in her wetness. Then: guiding her back down, a touch quicker, harder, deeper. And there’s that gasp as she takes you back in, as you fill her.

You’re moving with purpose now, her walls tight and wet and hot around you, clenching and releasing in time with your slow, deliberate thrusts.

Hanni’s breasts bounce in front of you, up and down with every pump, small peaks begging for attention. You’re kissing them again, sucking one into your mouth, suckling on the pink tips.

“So beautiful,” you’re repeating it, speaking it into her skin, because it’s all that’s on your mind as she takes you in. “You’re so beautiful, baby.”

And she looks it too, even though she’s not even trying; with her hair falling out of her bun, sticking to her face with sweat and saliva, her mouth hanging open, swollen and red from your kisses, her body writhing and jerking with every thrust.

Yet she remains focused, eyes glued to yours, like she’s afraid if she looks away she’ll miss something. Like if she doesn’t keep watching, she’ll wake up and find out it’s all been a dream.

But it’s not.

It’s you and her, in this bed, the sun peeking through the curtains, her naked body riding yours, hotter and hotter with each pass.

It’s you and her, together, wrapped up in each other making love like the world outside doesn’t exist.

It’s you and her, and it’s—

“So perfect—you feel so perfect,” Hanni finishes your thought for you, finishes each of your thrusts with her own hips; opening her body up to you, welcoming you in deeper with each stroke. “I think I’m gonna cry it feels so good.”

Her legs lock around your back, heels digging into your spine, until you’re fully seated inside her; so deep it feels like you’re a part of her. With a whine that’s half pleasure, half need, Hanni braces herself on you, rolling her hips on your cock, grinding down, taking as much of you as she can.

You grip her tight, one hand around her back, the other under her ass, fingers squeezing into the soft, tender flesh. Bouncing her up and down, watching her face as she takes you, as she keeps repeating ‘so perfect’.

And you know, you know she’s not just talking about the physical—that’s definitely there. It’s how you’re making her feel, it’s the connection. The way you’re looking at her, the way you’re holding her, the way you’re loving her that has her floating.

“I-I think I’m ready,” Hanni whimpers, “I can take it—you don’t need to—don’t hold back anymore.”

With a grunt, a nod, and a choked ‘Hanni’, you’re sweeping her up, keeping your cock buried deep inside her as you lift her. Your hand cushions the back of her head as you lay her down on the bed beneath you, her legs spreading wide on their own to accept you.

A moment to steady herself, to prepare.

A smile. A kiss on her forehead.

And then you’re in, all the way, again. Completing her pussy with your cock; one swift motion that knocks the wind out of her in the sound of your name.

“God—Hanni—”

It shouldn’t be like this—it should be impossible to be this much hotter, this much wetter, this tight.

But she is.

She’s squeezing herself around you, muscles, thighs flexing. Eyes shut, mouth wide open because there’s no way to stop from crying out; and her body, her lovely, perfect body, arching up to meet your every thrust.

You give it to her.

You’re building up speed, stretching her wide, hips moving in that perfect rhythm you’ve discovered together—the one that makes your name echo off the bedroom walls.

Hanni’s whimpering, mewling, whining, “Tell me—tell me how good it feels.”

You tell her everything—how tight, how wet, how perfect she is. You praise her, shower her with very compliment that comes to mind. She eats them up; her lips leaving marks on your neck, your shoulder, her fingers on your back, her hips swallowing you whole.

But Hanni still needs more, needs to hear more. Not just that she’s good, not even that she’s perfect. She needs to hear that she’s only yours.

“Like heaven, Hanni,” you manage, your voice hoarse, strained. “So perfect for me. Only me.”

“Really?” Hopeful. Ecstatic. So turned on.

“Always,” you repeat, the truth echoing in your voice and across her skin. “Always so perfect.”

“Mmm,” Hanni moans, nodding along, soaking in every word that flows freely from your lips.

“You’re so beautiful, Hanni. Your pussy is so perfect.” You kiss her again, a little harder this time, a little more possessive. “I love how you fit around me.”

Her breath catches in her throat, there’s that spark in her eyes, and she’s taking you deeper, urging you on. “Oh-oh. Keep talking—please—keep talking.”

“Made for me, aren’t you Hanni?” You continue, the steady stream of praise and admiration, caressing her as surely as your cock in her pussy. You can’t get enough, can’t get over how perfect she feels, how right it is to be inside her. “Like a perfect glove around me.”

Her eyes meet yours, her smile shy as she whispers your name. Whispers it like it’s a prayer, like it’s the only word she knows (like it’s the only thing that can give her peace).

She’s so close, getting there, it’s in how she’s pulling you closer; with her arms and her pussy. How she’s saying please, with a little quiver in her voice, alternating it with your name when you hit that spot just right.

“This feels so good, but-but-I think—” Hanni’s voice cracks, even now, still so shy, so adorable. She’s gasping, out of breath, trying her best to string the words together. “C-can I? Can I please cum?”

It’s all you need to hear. You kiss her, hard and deep, push into her. “Of course, baby,” you say, “Do it. Do it for me. I want you to cum for me.”

The effect it has on her—how it ripples across her face. She’s so thankful. So, so thankful for your permission, for what you’re doing to her. “Then please—please don’t stop.”

Harder, faster, deeper now—making her unravel beneath you. Hands holding her in place, feeling her, feeling her tense, quake around you.

Keep going, because she’s almost there, because she’s repeating it, that desperate ‘please’, over and over again.

‘Please-please-please’—with every thrust, saying it without saying it, with every clench of her walls, with every little gasp she lets slip.

Because that’s what she is—who she is—at her most honest, her most vulnerable. Pleases and thank yous on her lips, a constant stream of gratitude for you, for being here with her, for making her feel so much.

“Thank you,” Hanni manages, words almost a moan. “Thank you for making me feel like this, for making me feel so—”

But she can’t finish the sentence, can’t find the words to explain the storm that’s building inside her. So she just says it again, rising in pitch each time as the pressure builds. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you—’

Her nails dig into your shoulders, the first time she’s ever inflicted anything close to pain on you; begging you to stay in place, to not move, to not pull out. You feel her need, feel it in your bones, feel it from the heat of her pussy.

“Feels so—” Hanni’s crying, sobbing now, trembling uncontrollably. You’re holding onto her, deep inside her, giving all the time she needs to let it out. “—so good, so deep, so, so much—”

She gasps. She tightens. She screams.

Hanni’s voice breaks off into a keening wail as it all comes crashing over her; and you don’t stop, can’t stop, can’t do anything but keep her tethered to you as she loses herself to her climax.

“Please—don’t pull out—please—don’t stop—please—please—please—”

She shudders, clenches around you, pussy tightening in the sweetest way possible. It’s that look on her face, saying everything she can’t manage to say, everything she can’t put into words—how much she loves you, how much you complete her, how much she needs this.

It’s a wave, pulling you under, and you let it take you, let it sweep you away until you’re drowning in the feeling of her coming apart around you, under the heat of her eyes and the grip of her body.

Her juices all over your cock, her pussy spasming around you, that blissful agony on her face. Hanni’s so sweet when she cums, so damn gorgeous, it just takes your breath away. She’s perfect, so perfect it hurts.

And as she comes down, as she rides out her orgasm and kisses your name into your lips, she begs of you, once last time: “Your turn.”

With strength you didn’t know she still had, her legs pull you in, anchoring you to her. Her walls pulse, her body begs for you to follow.

And you do.

“Give it to me, please, cum for me, love—”

You let go. Let the tension in your body melt away as you thrust into her one, two, three more times. Until you’re releasing, until you’re cumming, until everything’s white-hot pleasure and Hanni on your tongue.

Load after load inside her, a hot, deep stream that leaves you groaning, that leaves her sighing, panting, joyful. Filling her up until she’s complete, until she’s overflowing.

You cum hard and fast, and Hanni tries her best to keep up, tries to take it all, and she’s smiling—laughing even, the joy of making you feel this good lighting up her features.

“H-Hanni—” you try, your cock twitching inside her, your cum spilling out of her and onto the bed, onto your thighs.

She’s kissing you, kissing your neck, letting you make your mess; your glorious mess of cum and sweat and saliva and her.

It feels so good, everything feels so good about her, everything she’s doing. She’s holding you so tight, so greedily, shivering with every throb of your cock inside her, savouring every moment of your release.

There’s a moment of silence, where you just lay there, bodies entangled, hearts racing, breaths mingling. Just looking at each other, basking in the thickness of sex and satisfaction.

And Hanni smiles, so wide it could split her face in two, a smile that says she’s never been happier.

Then, with a sigh, she relaxes, her legs loosening, ankles unlocking behind you. You roll onto your side, pulling her with you, keeping her close. She’s still with you, still keeping your cock inside her, and you can’t help but feel like this is it.

This is home.

“Best. Morning. Ever.”

She laughs. “I don’t want to get up. Don’t ever want to leave this bed.”

“I don’t think I can get up,” you admit somewhere into her hair.

And then it hits you. Something in the air, something in the light hitting her naked body, something in that blissful expression on her face.

It spills out of you before you can stop it: “I think I’m in love with you.”

Her eyes widen a fraction, and she pulls back just enough to look at you, to read your face. “Careful, we’ve got all day for that kind of talk.”

But she doesn’t protest as you hold her tighter, feel the warmth of her body, the smell of the skin, the way she nests into your side. Fitting perfectly—like she’s always been there.

So yeah, you may have said it too early, but whatever.

Today’s the day for breaking normal rules and codes of conduct.

For breaking routines. For her.

For the promise of a long day filled with nothing but lazy kisses, whispered secrets, the sweet taste of her skin.

For staying in bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, forgetting the outside world.

For more of this. Of Hanni. Of this perfect, perfect feeling.

So, you stay there. Not moving, not speaking. Just holding onto the moment, as the sun rises higher and higher in the sky.

And as your eyes start to drift close, as you sink into the comfort of the mattress, with her in your arms and on your mind, and you’re thinking this day couldn’t get any better, Hanni whispers:

“Idiot. I’ve always been in love with you.”

[dolicekiss]

From Friend To Foe

PAIRING: Dark!Aemond Targaryen X Strong!fem!Reader

CONTENT WARNING: smut (18+, mdni), noncon, virgin!reader, possessive aemond, friends to enemies, childhood friends, reader is from house strong, dragon riding (also riding Aemond), unprotected sex (p in v), forced kissing, breeding, angst, threats, humiliation, reader has dark hair, hair pulling, slapping, cunnilingus, mention of forced marriage, attempted murder.

SYNOPSIS: Aemond and you were childhood friends, you being the daughter of a lord and him being the Targayen prince. When the Greens and Blacks went against each other, your father’s sworn fealty to the blacks became an obstacle in your friendship and when your father was defeated, army overthrown — you were taken prisoner, kneeled before the Targaryen prince who was once your closest friend.

Swords clashed, dragon roared and knights fell after fighting bravely.

All you could do was sit idle in your room and await the promise of a better future. Only it did not come and when silence haunted the grounds of Harrenhal and everything came to a halt, you were certain your family had lost the fight.

You were mere humans, with no possession of such an almighty being.

Dragons were Gods. To be worshiped and prayed — and one was prominently flying over the remains of Harrenhal.

Belonging to none other than Aemond Targaryen, who was once your beloved friend with whom you dreamt of riding on a dragon.

Aemond had promised you when you were younglings. A promise that once he has claimed himself a dragon, you would be the first person he'd take for a flight.

The irony of the situation broke your heart.

The same dragon had left your castle and people in ruins — Vhagar’s loud wails filling up the sky with terror. You knew very well that now your army had fallen, your father definitely slain, you were going to face the same fate as many women during war did.

A prisoner, meat for Aemond’s men.

The door was slammed open and you turned around in a swift motion, finding your servant standing there. A look of horror adorning her once serene features. “It is done. The Targaryen prince has won and we are the only ones left.”

Tears blurred your vision. You did not remember reaching for the sharp blade which you had placed on your side table, an escape from all the atrocities you would eventually be forced to face by the hands of your own closest friend.

War was war.

And with the stories of Aemond’s cruelty circulating about, you knew very well than to beg for mercy or even expect it. Long gone was the sweet prince who made you promises of protection, a dragon and long lasting friendship.

He was your foe now.

An enemy who had slayed the men of your house, your own blood.

As you attempted to cut your own throat, a hand prevented you from doing so. Guards, of house Targaryen. Your face paled and your tears finally rushed down your face in glossy streaks, your one chance of escape taken from you.

The men restrained you but you screamed, struggled even. To break free and somehow draw the blade closer to your throat, only a small cut and you would disappear. You did not care if this was considered weak, you were willing to do just about anything to keep your dignity and honor.

To not be some slave for a man to put his cock in.

“Stay still, woman!” One of the guards berated you but you didn't listen, worming in their grasp.

“Let me go! Release me, right now.” Your screams echoed in the expanse of your chamber as well as the castle and Aemond heard them too.

He had ordered the demise of everyone, everyone besides you. There was this ache, this need to lay his eye upon you for the first time in awhile. Last time he saw you when you were nine, a beautiful little girl who often came to the red keep with her father — member of the council.

Aemond and your friendship flourished when you defended him against Aegon, comforting him to not lose all hope for a dragon. It was you who encouraged him, who provided him with the mental strength to claim Vhagar.

Your words of strength lingered in the back of his mind when he took claim of the largest dragon.

And now he had caused destruction with the same dragon.

Fate had brought you both to this. Ruined every good thing which was left in his life and he knew that you would never, ever forgive him for destroying your home.

You were kind, loving, sweet. Rebellious too but always stood your ground and believed in achieving justice, by any means. Aemond wondered how you'd grown, how you appeared as an adult now.

Did you braid your dark hair the same way as his Targaryen sister did, since you'd grown so fond of their silver hair? Were your eyes still the same onyx dark as your hair, a stark contrast to his own purple ones and was your choice in clothes still so dreadful? Curiosity pinched at his abdomen.

Your screams boomed through Harrenhal and Aemond felt proud of your resistance, only he had no knowledge of what you were resisting for so prominently.

He had no idea all your desperation and fight was to end your life.

The guards pulled you apart, their blood stained hands managing to rip off the side of your dress which concealed your shoulder during all the commotion to get you to release the blade. You somehow managed to free yourself from one of the guard’s unbearable grip and slashed his face with the blade.

“Ah, you fucking bitch.” He screamed, holding his face with one hand while the other tried to reach for you.

Another guard extracted his revenge, striking you across your face and tugging at the already torn fabric, exposing more of your back.

Your face contorted in pain, wishing to rid yourself off this world. “Don't fucking touch me. Unhand me and I will slaughter you lot like pigs.”

Your threats were larger than your size and some guards found you amusing while some knew you were capable of what you had promised them. A hand reached for your wrist, to tame it but not being able to pry open your clingy fingers around the dagger with all their strength.

Your fingers had paled, losing all their pink hue and the blood had stopped pumping through the small veins. That was how strong your grip around the weapon was.

Being carried down the stairs, your gaze took in the sight of the place that was once your home. Broken and hopeless, you were dragged along to the main hall. Rain pattered over the stones, causing a nauseating feeling in your stomach as you took in the situation of your castle.

Thankfully, your blurry vision did not allow you to take more of the destruction. All you noticed was the daunting figure of your enemy, standing pridefully at the center of the hall, awaiting your arrival.

You were pushed towards someone, forced on your knees and the silky silver strands gave away at the person's identity. Prince Aemond Targaryen stood before you, with his back turned to you and hands clasped behind his back.

You attempted to gather the pieces of your torn dress, holding it over your chest since it was ripped evidently in the back. Aemond upon turning around, did not expect you to be in such ruins. Dress torn apart, dark hair all but a mess and he caught glimpse of the silver rings encircled around your strands.

Now in a complete frenzy.

The same silver you always wore in your hair, around your little braids.

Aemond glanced up at his guards and then back at you, watching you. Demeanor phlegmatic, lips sitting tediously on his face.

You didn't dare to lift up your eyes. It wasn't about possessing enough courage to look him in the eye but having no self control. You knew deep down if you looked at him, you'd lose all control and attack him.

“I don't recall ordering you lot to bring her in such a..” Aemond tilted his head, analyzing the state you were in. “disheveled state.”

“She fought back a lot, my Prince. Intended to cut her throat with that little blade of hers in her hand.” Aemond was slightly taken aback from the revelation but you were right to choose that as an option. Everyone in this room knew what happened to women during war, especially the beautiful ones such as yourself.

The highborns were craved more as they carried noble blood within them.

His one eye fell upon the blade you still held with great vigor in your hand and Aemond nearly snickered. You had not let go of that adamant personality of yours, carrying it with you in adulthood.

Aemond did not like how your beautiful skin was exposed to the lecherous eyes of his guards. This abrupt jealousy even left him bemused for a moment, nonetheless he diverted his attention back to you.

He stepped closer — frame towering over yours and you saw the perfect moment to attack him. A feeble and thoughtless action but it was either succumbing to horrors or extracting revenge. In a fraction of mere seconds, you had risen up from your knees and headed for him with the pointy end of the dagger in his direction.

The guards reached for you and before you could possibly injure the Prince regent, his fingers enveloped your wrist. With potent strength and fast reflexes, Aemond held you in place. A mischievous glint flashed in his one good eye, lips curving up in a malicious smirk.

He saw the raw hatred and hunger for revenge in your eyes — your hand unwavering and stable. You meant the attack. Nowhere was it under the sad emotions of losing your family.

“Bold of you to assume this would work on me, Dōna.” Aemond whispered, face only a few inches apart from yours. Only the dagger separating you. You acknowledged the name he'd called you, from when you were children and the anger inside you was fuelled more. (Sweet)

“Have I not trained in front of you, hm? Did you not see me wield a sword whenever you stayed in the red keep?”

You glared at him. “I will kill you, either with poison or with a dagger. It is my promise to you, tyrant.”

“From raqiros to tyrant? You truly have grown, my Dōna.” He whispered malevolently, his warm breath with its own mind caressing the bridge of your nose, nearly with affectionate. (Friend)

Having spent most of your childhood in the red keep with the targaryens, especially Aemond, he was bound to teach you some high valyrian. You knew what raqiros meant, but he had never unveiled the meaning behind the nickname he gave you. Promising you he would once you two are grown enough.

Aemond looked up from your face to his men who stood on guard. Three of them, big and broad. His eyes raked over their hands and as he imagined those same hands mishandling you, ripping away at your clothes and prying open the corset which held your dress together, his jaw clenched.

“Ser Criston Cole,” he called out and the commander responded, head held high.

Aemond’s hand still prevented you from moving an inch, the pointy end of the dagger only a few inches away from his glistening, pale cheek.

“Behead them.” It was a simple command but it instilled fear in everyone in the room, including you. Even the commander was surprised by such a gruesome order and dared to ask. “Forgive me, my Prince but why?”

Aemond locked gaze with you. “They dared to lay hands on my prize, unveiled her dignity.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion as the Commander nodded, passing the order to his other guards. You heard the sounds of constant struggle, similar to yours as their pleas to live fell upon deaf ears.

“My Prince, please! Spare us, we were only acting upon your order!”

They were ignored, as Aemond continued to stare at you. His purple eye dropping to your lips for a second. He released you and you, on instinct, stepped back with the dagger still in your hand. It was proven that combat was definitely not how you could take down the prince.

Aemond had forced you to come along to the premises of Harrenhal, where his dragon rested. Strained and tired from the war she had indulged in. You had never seen Vhagar up close but knew that she was the second largest dragon, her first rider being Visenya Targaryen.

Your lips shuddered the more closer you were pulled next to the sleeping dragon.

“She can smell fear.” Aemond reminded you, staring ahead. “Conceal it unless you wish to burn to ashes.”

You inhaled a deep breath, closing your eyes and hoping to put an end to the growing fear in the presence of Vhagar.

When you opened your eyes, you were more calm now and in the right state of mind to admire the beast’s beauty. She was gorgeous, a shade of bronze mixed with green and blue highlights. Green, fierce eyes staring ahead and you would have congratulated Aemond on claiming a dragon if only the circumstances were different.

“You will ride with me to King’s Landing.”

“I will not.” You spat, taking a step back from him. That didn't seem to please Aemond as he closed the distance between you and grasped your arm, holding you in place. “Yes, you will.”

“I would rather be fed to your hounds than ride with you upon the back of the dragon which destroyed my home.” Your tone was venomous, full of anger and spite. Aemond knew there was no way calming you down or ridding you of your anger, so he did the next best thing that came to mind.

His slim hands slithered across your waist as he picked you up, settling you down on the dragon’s back. Vhagar released a roar and Aemond whispered something to her in high valyrian, causing her to calm down. Her head settling down, to rest.

He moved in front of you, taking a seat as well. “Hold on tight.”

You glued your hands to your sides, completely ignoring him. Aemond released a frustrated growl at your adamant behavior and lack of pliancy. He reached behind to grab your arms with his gloved hands, forcefully circling them around his small waist.

“Let go of me.” You struggled and Aemond looked back at you with irritation all over his beautiful face. “Do you wish to succumb to your death by falling? If so, feel free to let go.”

That was a lie as Aemond had already tied you to him with the brown belt — locking you with him. Even if you were to let go of him, his body weight restricted on his dragon would prevent you from falling and eventually meeting your demise. This was merely to get you to touch him.

To feel you against him, with little to no distance.

Your lips settled in a frown as you tightened your hold around him causing Aemond to grin. He patted his dragon’s back and then spoke. “Sōvēs, Vhagar.” (Fly)

The dragon shifted on its legs, preparing for the flight and you gasped when you felt it move more beneath you. Subconsciously, your fingers gripped the leather tunic of Aemond, chest pressing tightly over his broad back. Terror filled you as the dragon finally took flight, its huge wings flapping and the force of it made you realize how easy it must have been for Aemond to ruin your house.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, closing your lids shut and burying your face in Aemond’s shoulders.

This is exactly how he had anticipated your first ride on a dragon with him all these years, how you'd react to the beast moving and roaring. Your subtle touches, adorable reactions and soft sounds were just as Aemond had pictured them in his mind.

And he was fulfilling his promise to you.

Until now, Aemond never allowed anyone to ride with him. Only you were the exception and as gruesome the enmity between the two of you was, he could not simply suppress the overwhelming feelings he'd always harbored.

“Aemond..” You whispered, as the dragon took flight and it left you screaming. “Aemond! I'm fucking terrified.”

One hand holding onto his seat, the other reached over and settled on your hand around his chest. In an attempt to comfort you as Vhagar flew into the depths of the sky, Harrenhal nothing but a small scenery when you opened your eyes to look down at it.

A lone tear slid down your face.

This was not how you wished to ride with Aemond.

You hated him, disgust all over your face when you noticed how little and inferior everything appeared from up here. No wonder the Targaryens burned people and houses, as they felt superior being this close to Gods than the rest of you.

“Calm down, Dōna.” He said to you when his dragon had finally flew for King’s Landing.

You didn't say anything, only loosened your hold around him after realizing how awfully close were you to him.

Aemond noticed that and didn't like it.

“Vēzot, Vhagar. Vēzot.” Upon hearing Aemond’s command, the dragon changed route and flew high up in the air, going up tearing through the grey clouds. In fear of falling, your arms once again found themselves around the dragon rider’s small waist. (Up)

You had no idea what Aemond had said but it made his dragon fly up, defying gravity and leaving you gasping for air.

With a satisfied smile on his face, Aemond relished in the feeling of power he had over you and the power he'll soon have over others too. It was painfully evident his brother was incompetent and if something were to befall him, it would be Aemond next in line to inherit the throne.

Never did you ever think or expect that you would be brought back to the red keep as a prize, a symbol of victory — a slave most definitely for Aemond after how he behaved last time with the guards last time. He did not allow anyone to look at you, to touch you, besides your maidens who helped you doll up for the Prince.

His possessiveness was very well known to you when you both were children but you had expected him to grow out of it. How foolish of you to assume that.

Aemond was a possessive child. You recalled the time where he had forbade his siblings from playing with you — or when he did not let anyone touch his sword or even wield it. You remembered how the future lord of Casterly Rock was treated only because he had dared to pass a compliment to Aemond’s sword.

You could hear the cheers of the smallfolk and it disgusted you. He only won against you and your family, not the Blacks. It repulsed you how he was supporting a usurper and not the rightful heir. Your father died for the cause of Rhaenyra Targaryen, you would do too in a heartbeat.

You were lead inside the Red keep after the notorious flight with Aemond. The Prince’s orders were to his servants were to lead you to his own chambers and clean you up. You had no idea why, but you were not going to comply easily.

“I am not your mistress.” Your voice boomed loudly in the main hall, causing Aemond’s footsteps to come to a halt. “Neither am I your whore. Kill me because I too support Rhaenyra Targaryen’s claim to the throne. I shall die a honorable death as my father and kin did.”

You had dared to speak to him, like that, in the presence of not only the Queen but even the other council members.

Aemond’s hands balled up into fits. “Take her.”

You were forcefully dragged somewhere while you struggled, piercing screams enough to damage one's ears. Before you were pulled in a corridor, you made a promise. “I will get my revenge, Aemond Targaryen. You shall answer for the blood of my family that stains your hands. I will never forgive you!”

Alicent followed her son, your threats still lingering in her mind. You had screamed them with tremendous agony and will. She worried, for the kingdom.

“Do you believe you would be doing the realm anything good by bringing a blood thirsty enemy here?” Alicent questioned as she followed Aemond into the room where the council took place.

His fists shook, with poorly tamed rage. “She is anything but a weak girl.”

Alicent scoffed. “She is openly screaming threats. Either a fool would do that or a person who has got absolutely nothing to lose, Aemond.”

“Her screams will quiet down once I have managed to put a child in her.” Aemond spat at his mother, placing his sword down on the table.

She was appalled at what her son had evolved into. The monster he'd become and somewhere she doubted her own motherly skills.

You were forced into a beautiful, pale dress – the fabric as thin as a sheer curtain – after your bath. The maids obviously did not provide you with anything which could conceal your body in the see through white dress. It had embroidery done on the front, so it somewhat worked to cover your breasts.

But the longer it extended, the more it revealed everything underneath.

Pieces of your wavy dark hair were pinned behind, some braided with silver rings clipped around.

The maids soon excused themselves, leaving you to your solitude. Your body felt cold from the lack of clothes so you moved over to stand before the fireplace. Arms sliding up and down your frame to warm up yourself.

Truth to be told, you were suffering with trepidation. Were you prepared to sleep, to head to bed? But why in Aemond’s chambers? All sorts of vile and impure thoughts came rushing in your mind as you tried to keep them at bay.

The doors were soon opened and there stood Aemond, in a different set of clothes. You immediately stepped back, albeit him standing far away from you. He noticed that but no matter how many walls you tried to build between you two, Aemond was determined to break and crush each and every one of those.

He appeared enamored with you.

You were nothing less than an angel, standing underneath the moonlight illuminating your frame.

“Is this what you brought me here for, Prince Regent? To dress me up and warm your bed late at night?” You questioned with disgust and Aemond stepped froward.

You immediately retreated. “Do not dare to come any closer. I will not be one of your whores.”

“What makes you think I would let you become one of my whores?” Aemond asked with a soft tone. Your beauty had soothed all his irritation but it also ignited a fire within his core.

“You're a monster.” You whispered. “You have become a tyrant, a beast worse than those dragons of yours. It is a pity.”

Aemond was losing his patience with you. He didn't waste time, snapping and running towards you. The man pinned you against the wall, knocking over a vase resting on a table besides you. Pain bloomed in your back from the hardness of the wall — and being slammed into it.

The targaryen man locked eyes with you and let out a smile of satisfaction, witnessing the fear swimming in your innocent gaze. “Pity? You dare pity me when you are left with nothing of your house, nothing.”

The cruel reminder caused tears to well up in your eyes but your gaze stayed locked with Aemond’s. It did not waver and with all your strength, you pushed him away from you.

“I hate you.” You confessed, tears sliding down your face, a testament to the pain you were battling. “You were my friend, my fucking friend. How could you do this to me, to me? Your fucking Dōna, Aemond.”

When he heard the high valyrian word escape your lips, he growled. You saw him take a step further and this time decided to make a run for the door, trying to crawl over the bed hastily but Aemond was fast, vigilant as he grabbed you.

You fought back, slapping and punching him but it didn't work at all. He shoved his lips against yours and he did not care that you didn't want this. He wanted it, that was all that mattered. Aemond’s tongue forcefully entered your mouth as your hands continuously punched his chest.

He pushed you down on the both whilst staying locked to you, tasting your plump lips with vigor.

Head tilted, he pushed open your thighs and buried his knee between them. Rutting it against your cunt and you released a muffled cry in the liplock, hoping he would show some mercy but Aemond was too far gone.

The pressure on your clit – sheer fabric the cause of you and Aemond’s separation – was intense. A burgeoning need lighting up in your core as you struggled. There was no way you would give in, no matter how much you had admired him when you both were children. You knew better. You were only the daughter of some lord, meanwhile he was the Prince.

The fight for dominance was already won by Aemond as his tongue explored the inside of your sweet flesh. He broke apart from you to gaze upon you, a mess he'd turned you into. Face flushed, lips swollen and bloodied from how harshly he had sunk his canines into them.

Your dark hair with glinting silver in pure disarray, spread about everywhere on the bed. Aemond was fucking drunk and there was no stopping him.

“You said I'm a monster, right?” His voice was eerily low, causing you to panic. “I shall show you what monstrosity I am capable of.”

He tore the dress in a single tug, discarding the two pieces somewhere on the ground. Fear evident in your enlarged eyes as you struggled to conceal yourself with your arms but Aemond held them above your head, his fingers roughly pressing into your skin leaving marks.

“Aemond, please.” Tears fell and Aemond nearly softened.

If you'd been kind to him like how you were in the past, this compromising situation wouldn't have fallen you. He would've let you live, be a maid in the red keep but now, he had to prove it to you.

Just what he was capable of.

“Aemond,” you sweetly called out, hoping it would work. “My prince, don't do this. You do not wish to do this.”

“Too late for that sweet tone, my lady. If you do not wish for worse, I suggest you shut your goddamn mouth and take it.” His voice was so soft, so low but his words were as repulsive and cruel. It was what Aemond had become. A broken boy who sought out solace but was too afraid to ask for it, fearful of seeming weak — yet again becoming a target of his brother’s constant bullying.

In the process of becoming what he hated, Aemond lost you too.

One eye raked over your exposed breasts, full and round. You were no longer the little girl who used to chase him around the red keep, in her long dresses. You had flourished, flowered with grown tits and when his eye fell lower, he inhaled sharply. Plush, meaty thighs greeted them. He recalled how at one point you were as skinny as a boy, with no fat to your lean frame.

Now you had blossomed in a beautiful woman.

Your skin glowed neath the moonlight, your presence basking in its light. It showcased all the little minorities your features carried, what you had become, the delicate beauty that you were.

“You are certainly no little girl no more.” He reminded you, words no less than salt over your sounds.

Tears pearled on your waterline. “And you've grown into a fine man yourself.”

Your words were carried on obvious pain and Aemond pretended he did not catch a whiff of that. You continued, with a wavering voice, drained from all your rebellion and fight. “Fine but cruel, Aemond. I thought you were different, ought to be different. You proved me wrong.”

“Keep your lips sealed.” Aemond commanded, as your words nearly made his will to defile you falter. Being the daughter of a high lord, he was certain your maidenhead was still intact. You were never the type to engage in lecherous actions before the pure promise of a marriage.

Aemond’s rough hands took a handful of your breasts, fondling the fat. Thumbs swiping over your peebles, sending them upright. Undeniable pleasure shot through your body in the form of swarming heat as it settled in your lower stomach. A prominent gasp tore from your parted, swollen lips as Aemond stared at you in adoration.

“They are so full.” His comment about your body your pleasure-clad face form into one of grimace. “I wonder how your cunt looks now that you are older. You were always too innocent to consider our friendship anything more than what it was.”

Your back arched off the bed, the writhing of your hips increasing whenever Aemond rubbed his knee over your tiny pearl. You felt it swell up with need and wanton, a dull ache growing, begging to be burned out. The silver haired male pried your thighs open to lay eye on your pink cunt.

Aemond licked a wet tongue over his lips, his hunger to taste your seemingly delicious core pressing at him. He never once got overwhelmed with the urge to put his mouth on a woman's cunt — as the woman he got involved with whores. He had no interest in tasting something where most men found solace in.

But you were a virgin.

He knew that.

Yet he asked, surely to rile you up. “Has anyone been inside of you yet?”

Your eyes widened at the repulsive question of his. Brows scrunching in disgust and the rosette on your cheeks transcending into beetroot. Before you could control your imminent action, a strike echoed in the chambers. Tears had stalled, replaced with a hateful searing look and when Aemond recovered from the slap and faced you, chills enveloped you. Despite the impact, he was still poised. Eyes sheened with darkness and pure rage, his hand moved to reciprocate the harsh movement.

Only his slap hurt more — a scorching sensation awakening below your skin. A hint of red in the form of a hand imprinted on your face.

“Answer my question.”

You shook your head. Not only had the slap worked wonders to make you more pliant, it also made you realize that what Aemond was capable of.

His fingers ran along the line of your plumped up lips. “Use this pretty mouth of yours.”

“I'm not a low born.” You said through gritted teeth. “I'm chaste. Check for yourself if you are disbelieving of me.”

Aemond let out a scoff, fingers dimpling into your cheeks. The angry pout on your lips along with his hand print left behind on your cheek made you look ten times more endearing to him. “That I plan on doing, my lady.”

Hands lowering to your thighs, fingers dipping in the thickness. Aemond nestled his head between them, eyes gliding over your glistening cunt. It was true that you were still chaste and he was sure of it, there was no need to check it. He softly ran his tongue over your pearl, a sharp breath from you entering his ears.

“I don't want this.” Your tone had a hint of plea in it. “Please, Aemond. It is too repulsive, I cannot—”

Aemond growled. “Cannot, what? You cannot allow my cock inside you? Cannot allow me to put a babe in you? Or won't allow me to simply because I'm Aemond.”

“Targaryen with the largest dragon who put an end to my family line.” You finished, vision blurring. Aemond knew this conversation was pointless to carry and he instead closed his lips around your swollen bud, suckling like it would produce the sweetest of nectars in existence.

You tried to fight him off, pushing at his shoulders with the little strength left in your small fingers to no avail. He sucked with great vigor and your demeanor fell — back rising up from the ruined mattress and hips pushing your mound further into his cage. He pulled back, lapping at your swollen clit over and over again, like a dog in heat. Tears furiously caressed down your face as Aemond’s fingers came to collect your arousal from the center of your folds.

By the Gods, you were a waterfall.

“Never did I think I would grow this addicted to the taste of a woman's cunt.” Aemond whispered, his warm breath shooting jolts of pleasure through you. Your hand on its own accord pressed onto his head, palm flaccid and fingers twisting his Targaryen strands around. “The more I taste you, the more famished I become.”

“G-Get off me.” You somehow managed to utter. You were mortified. How your body ached for him to continue, hand forcing his mouth against your hot heat whilst the heavy fists of your morals thudded on the door of your hazed mind.

All but a futile endeavor to fight back.

Aemond pulled back and reached for his slacks, undoing them. You watched with a dazed out look as he released his cock from the confines of his breeches. His fingers moving to curve under the hem of his shirt, ridding himself of the leather as well as his small clothes.

Left bare and naked before you, your gaze caught Aemond’s searing red cock. Head swollen and shining with leaking cum, veins traced up and down. You closed your eyes, in hopes that the nightmare before you would be over but that was only you losing last remnants of your hope.

“I-It won't fit.” You whispered to yourself, more tears sliding down your temples.

Aemond heard it, despite your voice being a low whisper. He reached over to grab your face between his large hand, fingers sinking into your cheeks. That caused you to flutter your weak lids open, staring back at him with a sheen in your pupils. “It will fit. Your maidenhead is still intact, so it might be painful. But who cares?”

Your bottom lip quivered as Aemond let go, holding his cock. He guided it across your wet slit, pushing its thick head past your folds and pressing into your pearl. Your breath was bated, perspiration dancing on your forehead. Your body had grown completely warm and you wished for someone, anyone to burn down the fire which was ignited in the fireplace.

Aemond gathered your arousal, in soft circulation around your pebble. You whined out, hands slapping at his broad shoulders to put an end to his obscenities. Yet he did not falter, will growing more profound and strengthened to a point of no return.

He soon aligned his cock along your hole with the disgusting intention to defile it and slipped in. Your walls squeezing around his cock head tightly, endeavoring to grow used to the size but Aemond did not wait. He pushed and your tears of sadness had now transformed into tears of pain.

Hot searing pain.

“It hurts, it hurts. Let me go, please let me go.” You cried, screamed even, nails scratching rapidly at his chest. You left evidence of your firmness, of your distaste for such degeneration. Long lacerations formed on a pale canvas as Aemond held you down with one hand circled around your throat while the other had pushed your leg up for more easy and open access.

You were crying relentlessly and it was beginning to annoy the young Prince. “Quiet now, or I will have your tongue.”

“I-It is too p-painful.” You sobbed and this time Aemond landed a tight slap to your other cheek, watching it imitate the shade of the other one. “I said, fucking quiet. If I hear anything other than sounds of pleasure out of these lips of yours, I will toss you to my guards.”

It was an empty threat.

Aemond would never, ever do that. You were for him, only him. Insignificant your view was about him.

You were his prize, a sign of victory.

Still Aemond stalled, not having the heart to pummel his cock fully into you. All he managed was to breach your maidenhead and you were already wailing like you'd been shot with an arrow. He waited it out, letting you grow accustomed to his length and thickness.

Once your agony-clad face recovered and softened, Aemond took it as a sign to move further. Your gummy walls sucking his cock in, caressing the rigid veins. Deeper, and deeper. He went slowly and carefully, which you didn't overlook. You felt him sheath his cock fully into you, arms extended out for him, in complete submission.

Aemond, silently surprised by such vulnerability and submission, took your hands into his and brought them to his nape. “Hold me, brace yourself, Dōna.”

That sweet tone of his.

It nearly warmed your heart but the constant reminder which took at Harrenhal haunted you like a ghost. A cursed bestowed upon you, no escape at all. Aemond melted within you, nestling against your spongey spot of nerves. Your lips fell when he found that sensitive spot of yours.

He didn't waste time pummeling his cock into your weeping cunt, growls of a beast escaping him. You could not bring yourself to look at him. Pulling him closer, you concealed your face within the crook of his neck as your hold clasped around his slender nape — fingers intertwining with silver roots. Aemond had only tried Sylvie, his first and last so when he felt you draw him closer, it ignited a fire impossible to end.

“Gods,” Aemond groaned in your ear, his sharp nose running along your cheek, both hands gripping your flesh. “If I had known laying with you would be this pleasurable, I would have done it when we were younglings.”

Disgust would have made path on yout face it it was not for the pleasure Aemond bestowed upon you. His thick cock head repeatedly bruised your cervix and all you could do was wail, your hold for dear life tightening around him. Aemond found delight on your innocent moans, your sweet little hiccups and sounds of pleasure. He pulled from you, to glance down and felt immense satisfaction at the ring of blood around his length. He had officially taken you, not exactly under the circumstances he wanted but pondering about that was futile now.

His one eye stayed focused on you. Examining the lines donning your forehead, dark brows furrowed and a sheen of sweat sitting on your forehead. Pale cheeks flustered and saccharine sweet lips parted, birthing little sounds.

An epitome of nobility and charm you were.

Aemond pulled out of you, just as you were beginning to reach your pounding climax.

He leaned on the head board of the bed, chest glistening with droplets of sweat. The fire crackling was not helping neither of you to find some cold. “Get on top of me.”

You weakly shook your head.

Aemond’s glare obliged you and you shifted on the bed, crawling on top of him. In the process, you caught the blood of your purity staining the pale bed sheets, as well as your thighs. A burning sensation prodded and you finally did what Aemond asked you to do. The evil man grinned, leaning forward to press a kiss to your temple.

“I'm sure you know your job here.”

Your lips trembled. “I-I am supposed to sit on it?”

Innocently you had voiced that question and Aemond almost cooed. He gave you a simple nod and watched as your cheeks burned with newfound embarrassment. You still did what you were told to, aware that fighting him back on this would only make him revoke the small kindness he'd shown you.

You grabbed a hold of his erect cock — pressing it over your soaked hole. As you slipped down on it, Aemond and you groaned in unison.

Your small hands found support on his bleeding chest, fingers swiping over his nipples accidentally and Aemond let out a choked gasp. The feeling of your walls clamping his cock mixed with the way your fingers brushed over his nipples was enough to send him fucking into you. Thrusting upwards into you while his large hand stayed locked on your hip.

Both of you moved simultaneously, greedily chasing after your own pleasure. Aemond saw a goddess in front of him — a weeping goddess who possessed the cunt of a hungry whore. Your small waist and bare tits bouncing with each move had him obsessed like a dog.

“Fuck, fuck, Dōna.”

He panted like his dragon, matching your pace with his, hand fondling your breasts. He was close but ripping an orgasm through you first was his priority and he was dedicated to it. Aemond felt your cunt squeeze him, watching as your tears fell in little pearls. “I am going to put a babe in you, Dōna. Can you believe it? Your childhood friend putting a babe in you.”

You couldn't even voice out your disagreement, Aemond was bound to do what he promised you. An intense feeling surged in your stomach, your pace slowing down and your sobbing growing more and more. Your orgasm tore through you in the form of essence, as your eyes disappeared behind your lids.

“Aemond, Aemond! Aemond.” You chanted his name out like a mantra and he slapped his cock deeper into you.

He fucking loved how submissive you were being now — entirely at his mercy and neath him. His own climax followed thoroughly, filling your walls with his spend. Spurting our rope after rope of white to fill up your expanded womb. Growls of need and ache echoed in the room and you couldn't stay still anymore, losing all your balance and colliding right in his chest.

Your little body was spent, fatigue and tiredness weakening you. Aemond was quick to wrap his arms around you, shushing you gently while you cried in his chest.

“It's over now.” He reassured but you knew very well that it was not. It was only for tonight that it was over.

Aemond comforted you, holding you against him with his cock still inside you.

“I hate you.” You cried, tears coating his chest as your forehead rested on his muscular chest. Aemond could only sigh, loathing the situation that bad befallen them. He did not resent you as you were the only one who had shown him true kindness.

But the war and throne were far more important.

“Rest, you need it.” He said, an order it was and you felt forced to comply. “Things will be very different from now on, Dōna. I will have the high sept marry us tomorrow, our child will not be a bastard.”

All you could do was weakly stir in his arms at that. There was no way you were willing but it was better than being a slave for Aemond’s guards. Being one man's whore was better than being a thousand’s.

[a-hermit-pining]

LADS Men If You Turn Evil

AN: istg I keep getting all these ideas while working out 💗

Pairing: Lads boys x gn reader

Genre: DRAMA

Summary: after eons of nurturing the world with fragments of your heart, you learn the truth. Every death, every rebirth, burns in your heart. And now you want to burn the world.

(I do not own these characters)

Rafayel:

He looks at the destruction around him, the fragments of a broken city, the wrath in your eyes.

You pace the room, your steps unyielding to the passage of time.

He has been awake with you for countless nights, his ears filled with the cries of his kin, burning, drowning in the boiling seas.

He tugs at your arm, pulling you into his embrace, his fingers threading through your hair.

"Why can I not be at peace?" you whisper, cupping his cheek. "All our enemies have fallen, but why is there no relief? Who else must I seek to bring us justice?"

"It is my fault... I should have prevented this," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "I should have never allowed it to come to be."

To watch you fall was his fall. To witness beauty drain from you was his failure. He has you back, but at what cost?

"But I will make things right," he whispers, pulling you closer.

"No more pain."

A gasp tears from your lips as his dagger pierces your back.

Your fingers clutch at his shirt, your blood soaking into his hand. "How dare you…" you seethe, your rage flickering even as your strength wanes. "I should have—"

Blood gurgles in your throat as he pulls your head against his chest, his shoulders trembling.

He would rather bear your hatred than lose your soul.

The cries of the world fade as a new one begins to take shape.

But all he can hear now are his own ragged sobs as he holds your cooling body.

Xavier:

"You have lost your mind!" Xavier’s voice is sharp, his fury barely masking the horror in his eyes.

He looks down from the castle walls, your castle now. Below, corpses rot on pikes, writhing with maggots.

Philos will never come to be. The world has already shifted on its axis.

You pin him to the wall, leaning him over the edge. "You will not talk to me like that, Xavier." Your voice is quiet, but the weight behind it is absolute. "This is my world. I may do as I please. It would do you good to listen, to stay as my consort, not the crown prince of Philos."

His breath hitches as he stares at you, searching for something, hesitation, remorse, restraint.

But you are resolute.

Your eyes soften at his distraught expression. Gently, you pull him back from the edge and release your grip. "Do not let this drive a wedge between us. I do not wish to lose you...I’ve only just remembered you." You press a kiss to his lips, warm, fleeting, achingly tender.

"This is merely a necessary cleansing," you murmur, as if explaining the weather. "A precaution, so the world understands the new order. So all who bled me for ages finally know what it means to bleed."

And so, bound by love, Xavier became a puppet to your wishes.

He waited for the new world you promised, sought desperately for the salve to soothe the wounds your changing forms left in him.

With time, he learned to ignore the mangled bodies outside the capital. The sunken faces beyond the castle walls.

He learned to be happy.

Zayne:

He never stands idle.

Not even at the first signs of your fall. Not even when the shadows lengthen, and the world begins to crumble at your feet.

He does everything he can to undo the damage.

He is a doctor, ridding people of pain is his purpose.

He funds revolutions, smuggles food and medicine, seeks to turn your heart away from vengeance.

But he does not leave you.

Not when you’re hurting. Not when the weight of the world fractures your soul. He stays, doing all he can to hold the world together before it collapses entirely.

For the first time in years, he prays to Astra.

He begs his god to aid the world.

Until you find his secrets. Until you strip him of the power you once gave him.

You lock him away in a tower, bound to you. And then...then, true helplessness sets in.

He watches his betrayal fuel your madness. Watches as your fury, once directed at tyrants, turns upon the innocent.

In the frozen chamber, you loom over him, his knees pinned to the ground by the weight of your power.

"Do you wish to leave me, Zayne?" Your fingers tilt his chin upward, forcing him to meet your crazed gaze. "Tell me, do you wish to escape?"

He does not flinch. His neck is littered with the climbing scars of his evol, of his futile resistance. It is all a proof of the turmoil within you, that settles upon his skin. He knows it better than any.

"No." His voice is steady. Resolute. "I wish to stay next to you."

He means it. Earnestly.

Even if your presence comes at this cost, he is willing to pay.

He has never wished to abandon you.

Not even at the cost of himself.

Sylus:

You are his moral compass.

So when you fall, he falls with you.

There is nothing to stop you both.

His days are spent treasuring the reality of having you back, of having your love.

And if the cost is the world, then let it burn.

The core in his eye revels in the doom. It rejoices in the love that blooms within you, in the hunger that consumes you both.

It is fulfilled.

He is fulfilled.

He does not make you ruler of just the Earth, he crowns you sovereign of the universe.

After all, he has always been willing to kill and die for you.

Devoured by your bloodlust, he kneels.

Your consort. Your ruin.

He is content in this fall.

Caleb:

He is your sword.

The day you pledge destruction, he is the hand that pulls the trigger. No questions asked.

He is content, more than content, being the only one to receive your love.

The world had it coming. To condemn you to such pain was their undoing.

He bleeds millions to warm the world that once sought to devour you. He has no mercy for those who cower beneath your gaze.

He has your love.

But why, then, does his heart fall at the sound of your hollow laughter?

Why can he not bring himself to burn the memories of the past?

Why has he kept your hunter’s gear, carefully stored away in his rooms?

He so dearly wishes to keep you pleased. But he knows, this destruction is not born of greed. It is the consequence of centuries of pain.

And no matter how much blood he spills, it will never ease that pain.

No matter how many bodies pile beneath your feet, he cannot bring back your joy.

That was stolen, broken, snatched by those who now rot in unmarked graves.

[abbyfmc]

Yandere Story Idea #16:

Yandere Yandere (Fatherly) Emperor and Empress (Maternal) x Daughter! Reader:

Think about it.

I imagine that after a long line of princes, the yandere empress finally has a princess, and both parents are delighted with her, since she was the first daughter after many years of trying. Your father, the emperor, agrees that you be raised under the care of the empress (your mother).

From the moment you were born, you were never left alone for a single minute. When the Empress wasn't with you, the Emperor himself was. Your mother always made you follow her everywhere she went, as well as sharing her tastes and hobbies, since having only had princes prevented her from doing that. You had a close mother-daughter relationship, and with your father it was something more or less similar.

As you grow up, your parents become more overprotective of you, so much so that they even limit your contact with your older brothers, the princes. Not only would they give you nice gifts, but the best teachers, doctors and servants would be at your disposal (even better than those of your older brothers), although your brothers would probably be jealous of you.

They wouldn't let you walk alone for even a second.

If your father has a harem of consorts and concubines (like other emperors), then the empress will be more paranoid about you, since even though princesses do not inherit the throne, she knows that her enemies can harm you.

Once, when you were five years old, a maid broke a porcelain doll that your father had given you after returning from one of his trips. Unfortunately for that maid, the emperor was returning with you just when the doll broke, so he saw it and got SO angry that he asked his butler to take you out to the garden for a walk, so that you wouldn't see your father the emperor whip the poor maid to death. All this because he considered that maid to be reckless in daring to do that to your things, even if it had been an accident.

Even if more princesses were born, you were the object of your parents' overprotection and adoration.

Even your older brothers didn't dare to do anything bad to you. Once a new maid spoke ill of you (even though you hadn't done anything), and the empress herself slapped her in the face.

They hired servants who document your EVERY move.

The Emperor adores you so much that he will delay any kind of engagement or marriage alliance. He will reject any proposal, and silence anyone who mentions the subject. He does not want you away from him.

If it were up to them, you would stay locked in your room all the time so that nothing would hurt you, and they would tell you that they do everything for your own good.

You were punished by being locked up for an indefinite period of time, followed by the classic punishment of writing the same sentence repeatedly for a long time.

No trying to escape from the palace. The emperor would have experienced guards and servants around you to prevent that.

And if you do get married, then your parents will make sure that you have no choice but to live near the palace, no matter what.

They would be capable of killing if something happens to you.

If you fall ill, they will make sure you rest and eat well, even if it is against your will. If you were to die, they would both go mad with grief, especially the empress.

If you were to die, they would use your chambers as a sanctuary to you, where they would go to pray for you, and in the process force EVERYONE to mourn you.

Your emperor father would not let you have any contact with his family, as there is a power struggle going on where even his own brothers, cousins ​​and uncles could be his enemies and would do ANYTHING to get the throne; even if that includes kidnapping or killing you just because you are the emperor's daughter. Your mother would know this, and every time her brothers-in-law come, she will make you stay with her in the central palace.

With the Empress's family it's a different story, since there are no problems of inheritance of the throne, things are easier unless there is someone who tries to hurt you or pressure you like they do with your mother.

-The End.

What do you think?

[youraverageaemondsimp]

A chance for salvation. // WitchHunter!Aemond Targaryen x Witch!Reader

Halloween Special 🎃

DD:DNE ; DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT.

Summary: being a witch, there was someone who you've avoided after the rise of witch hunts, Aemond Targaryen who was the leader of the hunt, you thought you had avoided him successfully until— well, he catches you.

WARNINGS: NONCON/DUBCON, dark fic, mdni, smut, dark romance, enemies to lovers(?), highly religious themes (faith of the seven), slight misogyny, hexing kinda, description of witch hunts and trials, tiddy sucking, unprotected p in v sex, dacryphilia(?), body betrayal, mind betrayal, breeding kink, oral (m receiving), cum swallowing, reader is helpless, aemond is narcissistic as fuck, asshole aemond, hatred against witches. + not proofread.

WC: 3.3k

A/N: this fic contains dark themes and content, if you find it uncomfortable please just scroll away instead of dwelling on this, please do not take the warnings lightly if you cannot stomach it, do not read it, do not interact. With that said, it's been a while since I properly sat down to write and finish a fic so it's a little rusty, don't mind it <3 // divider credits @cafekitsune

The smell of burning flesh penetrated your nose as you scrunched up your face in disgust watching the woman before you burn at stake, her agonising screams echoing throughout the town centre.

“THE WITCH SHALL BURN, THE WITCH SHALL BURN” They all chanted while you stood on the sidelines watching the entire scene take place.

You stared at the man that stood by the burning woman, his posture tall and calm, he didn't react nor did he attempt to put out the fire. Why would he? He was the one that set her ablaze in the first place.

You swallowed a lump in your throat as you watched him, he had gotten another witch, he was very good at hunting them down. A skilled witch hunter one might say.

You knew who he was, why wouldn't you? The witches had to be on the lookout from him, not wishing to cross paths. He might be blind in one eye but he has a very sharp eye, catching witches with just one look.

He was none other than the King's second son, Aemond Targaryen.

For some odd reason, he was out on a mission to hunt down all the witches as they had been spreading very fast, causing havoc and chaos, but he failed to understand one thing.

There were both good witches and bad ones.

It didn't matter to him who were who, you just had to be under the suspicion that you were a witch, you'd be put on trial immediately and once proven guilty, you'd be burnt at the stake.

The once human form began to fall apart on the stake like a melted wax figure, Aemond stood there with a stoic expression before he came down.

“Poor woman,” You heard a woman standing beside you say and you look at her, she was the daughter of a local baker “But she deserved it, she was a witch after all.” She snickered cruelly and you felt nothing but intense disgust towards the woman.

Maybe you'll hex her later onwards, you hated scums like this, the ones who thought they were doing better for the human race, while doing quite the opposite.

You left the scene immediately, travelling back to your cabin that was located deep in the woods before shutting the door tightly and going to the shrine you've set up in your house, praying to the forsaken god to give you power and to protect you from these creatures.

You placed the fabric of the dress torn from the woman who encouraged and celebrated the death of a witch onto a doll before closing your eyes and placing a curse upon her. You pick up a candle.

“Ye will not be able to consume food without consequences. Ye will suffer sickness for a month until you are cured.” You whisper into the ears of the doll circling the doll in the wax that was dripping from the candle before blowing the candle out.

It was the next day, your daily routine consisted of casting spells and creating healing potions for your sickly younger brother that lived in the village, you woke up and grabbed the potion in the vial, putting it in your bag before venturing out into the woods and out to where the civilians lived.

You decided to visit the bakery, to see how the woman is doing, it was surprising to find it closed as you probably knew the reason. The family must be worried sick for their daughter. You shrugged it off before going to the house your brother lived in, you knocked on the door to be greeted by your mother who gave you a hug before she invited you in.

You saw your younger brother, still laying in bed but looking more alive than before. “It's been weeks since you visited us ya know? But your brother has been recovering slowly.” Your mother speaks out and you nod, “The work at the castle is tough, tending to all the sick ones is tiring that I merely have time to visit, they don't give me any time for myself.” You lie. The reason why you hadn't been visiting them was because you were trying to hide from Aemond Targaryen's eye. To avoid it so you don't have the same fate as the other witches.

Your family doesn't know you practise witchcraft either, they believe that you study medicine and make healing nectars which work really well. You give the vial to your mother before sitting down alongside with her, she immediately dilutes it with water before feeding your brother.

“Have you heard? About the witch hunts lately?” You stiffen at the mention of the hunt, “I have heard, Aemond Targaryen, The prince is going around eradicating all the accused.” You reply and your mother shakes her head, “He's humiliating them by burning them alive at the centre of the town each week, I'm surprised at how many women he's catching.” She continues to talk about the hunt which makes you anxious, but just nod along.

You spend some time at your mother's before saying your goodbyes and leaving home, you've decided to stop by a small shop on the way to grab something to eat, you smile at the woman after you've purchased bread and some jam. You carefully hold them in your arms before you continue on your way towards your house.

It seemed as though fate had other plans for you when you reach your house and see a horse waiting outside with a man with platinum blonde hair standing outside. Your eyes widen at realisation.

Aemond Targaryen.

Before you could hide, he looked in your direction, his face stoic and blank. “Do you live here?” He asks, his voice monotone but underlace with malice. You gulp before nodding and making your way near him. “Y-yes my prince, why?” you reply, he just hums looking at you with furrowed eyebrows.

“There seems to be activity of a witch here, may I look inside?” He questions raising an eyebrow, you gulp knowing that if you refuse he'd force himself in anyway, but you can't comply either for there is a shrine of the forsaken inside.

“I-i'm afraid it's a little dirty, I can't allow a prince like you to step inside such a dirty place, shall I clean it up?” You ask, you know how stupid you sound but you'd be willing to try before you are sent to your own death.

He scoffs, “So you can clean your evidence of witchcraft? Do not anger me further woman, open the door now before I have to commit to violence.” He grits his teeth and you nod immediately going over to the door and opening it. He steps inside.

You close your eyes, accepting the end of your life, knowing now he'd just apprehend you and take you to the town centre to burn you. He smirks as the evidence of your activity is revealed, your house is donned in herbs and potions with a big shrine of the forsaken god in between.

“Will you burn me now?” You ask him, looking down at your feet not having the courage to look up at him but he remains silent. Your life is literally at stake right now.

“You prefer to be burned alive or stabbed to death?” He asks, drawing his sword out and you visibly flinch, “Or rather, beg for mercy?” He finishes his question staring down at your form and you close your eyes.

“You won't spare me even if I did, will you?” You didn't know where your boldness came from, asking him such a question.

You yelp when you feel him grab your hair and tilt your head to make you look at him, you look directly into his eye with a slight expression of defiance and he just smiles cruelly. “You're right, I won't.” He chuckles, his grip on your hair becoming tighter; making you wince, his nails digging into your scalp.

“I've had my eye on you for a while, you've been avoiding me.” He reveals and you stare at him wide eyed, “You thought I would not notice? That's how you witches give yourselves away, by avoiding me. If you weren't guilty of a crime, you'd not be afraid to face me.” He mutters. “I've only spared you this long because I knew of your family, a younger brother who is bedridden, a mother who relies on you, you've got responsibilities.” He reveals everything he's learned of you leaving you trembling and terrified, wondering how exactly he found all of this out.

“I have my ways, I indeed have a keen eye.” He answers, noticing your surprised expression. His breath fans your face as he pulls you closer, his grip further tightening in your hair which makes you reflexively reach out your hands towards his, trying to pry his hands off. Tears well up in your eyes knowing that you'd die soon.

“You're an odd witch.” He raises an eyebrow, “Not pleading me for mercy, ready to accept your death? I do not like it.” He tuts. “I do think you have a chance for salvation though, you're not as bad as the other witches or too deep in the craft.” He suddenly lets go of your hair causing you to stumble back.

He puts his sword back in the sheath, his eye takes in your features trailing down your body stopping at the cleavage that was slightly exposed before he swallows a lump in his throat.

“Pretty young too.” He comes nearer, kicking the door shut, like a predator stalking its prey, you try to run but he's quick— grabbing you by your waist and pushing you backwards, causing you to fall down. He gets on top of you, pinning your hands with his hand above your head as he straddles your waist.

“I told you, you can be saved, yet it seems like you want to die.” He speaks annoyed by your attempt at escaping. “Confess your faults and beg for forgiveness, you'll be saved. I won't hurt you.” He lies through his teeth. “P-please let me go—” You beg, your body shaking with the amount of adrenaline surging through your body.

He rolls his eye, using his other hand to grab your throat, choking you harshly, cutting off your air supply. You struggle beneath him, writhing your body as you try to escape his grip.

“Beg for forgiveness woman, I never give any witch a chance to live, you should consider yourself of utmost luck.” He tightens his grip on your throat further making you gasp for air.

With your survival instincts kicking in you gasp before choking out a sentence of forgiveness which makes him immediately let go of your throat. “What did you say?” He asks and you take a gasp for air before uttering the same words again. “F-forgive me, I am sorry.” You plead, making his lips contort into a winning smile.

You watch as he breathes heavily, enjoying the power he holds over you, “Beg, beg harder, plead to me, tell me that you're sorry, maybe then the Gods will forgive you.” He leans down whispering in your ear. You shiver in fear before you do as he says. “I- I am sorry, forgive me, I deeply regret my actions—.”

“Take my name.” He interrupts and you furrow your brows “My prince i—” you begin, “No, no, no. My name.” He cuts you off once again staring at you with a wild eye. You take a deep breath. “I am sorry Aemond, forgive me, I repent my actions.” You go on again and his expression changes to that of a pleased one.

Things fall silent between you both after you begged for forgiveness until he let goes of your hands before getting off your body. You sit up right as he stands up, towering over your body.

“On your knees.” He commands and you look at him confused before you notice the visible bulge in his breeches. You stare up at him wide eyed, knowing where this is going.

“You don't think that you'd be forgiven this easily? I'd have to cleanse your body, your mouth that has chanted prayers to your God, get on your knees and close your eyes. Now.” He threatens you, grabbing his sword which makes you immediately obey. You do as he says, getting on your knees and closing your eyes.

You could hear the shuffle of his clothes before a thud of clothes falling down, then you felt it, something pressed up against your lips, it was wet. “Open your mouth,” He grumbles but you hesitate which makes him forcefully open your mouth by himself. Before you could react; he shoves his cock inside your mouth.

You open your eyes, staring at him in terror as he looks at you with a sadistic expression, “Bite and I'll cut your head off.” He grits his teeth before he grabs your hand and shoves his cock further into your mouth, the tip hitting the back of your throat.

Drool leaks from your mouth, dripping down your chin and neck as he thrusts inside your mouth, using your hair as leverage as he continues his assault in your mouth. Tears stream down your cheek, as you blink them away hoping not to upset him.

He closes his eyes enjoying the pleasure of fucking your mouth, ramming his dick into your mouth at a brutal pace— his balls slapping against your chin. You hold onto his thighs for balance, gripping them tightly, trying to resist his motion but it only further motivates him to gain control.

“Fuck— I'm gonna finish. Keep your mouth wide open.” He pulls out his cock, using his fist to finish himself off. His seed spills on your face and some of it goes into your mouth. “Swallow, it will cleanse you.” He utters expecting you to swallow, and you do; not wanting to anger him.

You hoped that this was the end, that he'd be done with this alone. “Lay on the ground, legs spread.” The command shatters your hope and you stare up at him, shaking your head no.

This angers him, and he forces you down, pushing you hard against the floor, laying you down while grabbing your legs and spreading your legs after hiking your skirt up.

“P-please my prince! Anything but this!” You cry out, pushing against him as he settles himself between your legs. “I need to cleanse you from the inside out, woman. This is very much required.” He grunts, keeping your legs forced open as he lines up his cock against your entrance.

Your eyes widen as you feel him prodding your entrance, before he gently pushes himself, he marvels at the sight of your blood leaking onto his dick “Your maidenhead is still intact? Do you witches take a vow for chastity like Septa's do too?” He mocks before pushing further in.

Your hands shoot up to his shoulders, gripping him tightly while you put in an effort to push him away, yet all of it is deemed futile when he doesn't budge an inch. He lets go of your leg before balancing himself on his arms placed on your sides as he just as quickly moves them to rip off your bodice, revealing your mounds of flesh.

He wastes no time before groping them with his hands, you shriek as he twists and plays with your nipple, leaning in to take your teat into his mouth; all while simultaneously pushing himself gently inside your cunt.

He suckles on your nipple, grazing it with his teeth and swirling his tongue around it, you couldn't help but feel ashamed as you looked at the sight.

The prince of the realm suckling away on your tits.

This sent a shot of thunder down your spine making heat pool between your legs, were you seriously getting aroused by this? You felt guilty as your own body betrayed you, welcoming the intruder into your body by providing the necessary needs.

Aemond pulls away from your breast before focusing on the other one, giving it the same attention as he did to the one before, one of his hands slowly trails down the outline of your waist to your belly before it finds itselfs cupping your heat before he further reaches down to where you both were attached.

He lets out a soft moan of approval when he finds that you're wet; pulling the slick up to where you clitoris is before he rubs small circles upon it. “Mhm, you're so fucking wet down there.” He mutters against your nipple, making you feel even more embarrassed.

Aemond lets out an audible moan when he feels you clench around him, he's now settled in cosily inside you, he lifts himself up and positions himself upright, grabbing your legs and throwing them over his shoulders before he begins to move inward and outward, slowly thrusting into you.

Your body adjusts to his size quickly, coating his cock with the essence of its approval which makes him chuckle. He accelerates the pace, driving himself into you like an animal, rutting against you like a beast in heat.

You find yourself a moaning mess amongst all of this unwillingly, the way his cock penetrating your cunt felt way more pleasing than it should have, and his hand was working its magic on your clit.

“Fuck— you feel so fucking good, darling, I'm lucky to have spared you.” He growls as he increases his speed even more, the stretch of his cock felt so euphoric that you couldn't help but enjoy it. You knew your body has already betrayed you, now even your mind has become its accomplice.

“Oh- I'm gonna finish inside you, my witch, with it you'll be cleansed of your wrongdoings.” He groans, feeling himself near the edge, his hand rubs faster against your clit, determined to make you cum before he does, all the while he's ramming into your sweet spot.

“Aemond—!” Both the stimulation cause a sudden burst of pleasure to explode in your body, its impact being so heavy that you moaned out his name involuntarily which ended up further pleasing him.

He comes to a sudden halt as he moans loudly, spurting his seed inside you; painting your walls white. He rides his orgasm out before completely pulling out and admiring the scene before him.

You were a panting mess with his seed leaking out of you, dripping down onto the wooden floor as you look dishevelled, your clothes are torn up and hair all messed up. You breathe heavily, processing what just happened.

“Do not waste my seed witch, it will cleanse you from in and out after it takes root in your womb.” Those words make your eyes widen at the implication and you slowly gaze upon him in shock as he puts on his pants back before lifting you off the ground.

He grabs your cloak from the nearby hanger and covers your body with it and soon he lifts you up, throwing you over his shoulders. “W-what are you doing?!” You yell at him as he takes you out of your house before throwing you onto his horse, forcing you to sit on it.

“Oh my sweet witch, you didn't think I was done with you did you? I'm taking you back to the castle, you're going to carry my children and give me heirs.” He says nonchalantly before he gets on the horse himself, holding the reins before taking off.

He had taken quite the liking to you more than he wanted to admit, he had no reason to spare you but he did anyway, perhaps witches weren't bad after all?

You survived but at what cost?

That's all you could think about as you leaned against his chest, the air hitting your face and blowing through your hair as he was taking you to the castle.

— !  ݈݇- thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed it <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated greatly ♡

[imaginedisish]

See You Again (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader)

A/N: This took so long, and it's because it is ABSOLUTELY FILTHY. This one is inspired by "See You Again" by Tyler, The Creator and Kali Uchis. This isn't a request...just a *thot* I had. Heavy on enemies to lovers and forced proximity. And cocky Logan...Enjoy :)

Summary: You're convinced Logan hates you. But when you're forced to run a drill in the danger room, alone, everything changes.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ MINORS DNI!!!! Oral (f!receiving), fingering, Unprotected PIV (wrap it up!), afab!reader/f!reader, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, cursing, some angst, cocky!Logan/teasing!Logan, praise kink, softdom!Logan, mutant!reader, canon typical violence, probably grammatical errors, I think that's it!

Word Count: 5,325 I am disgusting

You could not believe your eyes. It had to be a glitch—your names together on the touch screen built into the wall. You tap the glass firmly with your index finger, but the words don’t budge. This is it. This is the last straw. 

There is no way you are going into the training room—the danger room—with Logan Howlett. 

“Oh, absolutely not!” You shout, turning to face Charles and Storm. “I am not going in there with him!”

Storm shakes her head. “That is the assignment we are giving you.”

Charles nods in agreement, pointing between you and Logan. “You two need to learn to work together.”

“This is insane,” you stammer. “Does nobody see how crazy this is? I’m not doing this.”

“Why?” Logan asks, arms tucked into his chest, back against the wall. He smiles, cocky and self-assured. “You afraid you might like it?” You try not to think about the deepness of his voice or the way his smile makes your breath catch in your throat. 

“N-no!” You stutter, stumbling over your words as you finally process just what Logan meant. “You hate me! I’m afraid you might kill me in there!” 

Logan’s smile falls from his lips. He looks almost shocked, but you ignore the sudden change in his expression. You’ve only been a member of the team for a few months now, but you know Logan well enough. You know he doesn’t really care. He’s always short with you. He teases you; he calls you princesscondescendingly. He’s overly protective, incessantly running to your side on missions as if you can’t handle yourself. It is so incredibly annoying. And yet…

You can’t help but harbor a small—maybe massive—crush on him.  

And so, being in the simulated danger room, alone, with Logan, is quite possibly your biggest fear. 

“Mr. Howlett certainly does not hate you,” Charles assures. “And he will not be killing you, either.” 

You roll your eyes, and Charles smiles softly. Storm walks over to the screen, pressing a few buttons. Suddenly the doors to the room open, and she extends her hand, inviting you and Logan inside. 

Logan pushes himself off the wall, side-eying you as he steps inside with no hesitation. You look to Storm, exasperation and stress painted across your face. You swallow nervously. “Don’t make me do this,” you plead, pressing your palms together as if praying to Storm. 

She tuts, pushing your shoulders softly, but strongly enough to make you fall past the doors and into the room. “Good luck!” She says, smiling widely and pressing a button. The doors quickly slide shut. 

“No!” You shout, banging your fists into the doors once before letting your forehead fall against the cold metal. You groan, turning around so that your back is pressed against the doors instead. 

“Simulation, starting,” a robotic, automated voice calls out. A blue grid scans the room, and a battle scene appears. You’re in a winter forest, snow covering the ground and falling from the white clouds above. The room even grows a bit colder, a slight chill hanging in the air. It’s surprisingly peaceful. 

Too peaceful. 

There’s a crash somewhere nearby in the forest, and then an explosion. You jump, turning around. Logan is at your side in a heartbeat, claws extending out. A few feet away, a massive metal sentinel stomps, shaking the ground. 

“Die, mutant scum!” The robot’s voice echoes against the trees as if the forest were real. It points its arm at you and Logan, loading its laser gun and shooting. Before you can react, Logan is shoving you to the ground and rolling on top of you to shield you. 

There’s a scorching sear—a patch of melted snow and burnt grass where you and Logan had just been standing. The simulation is fake, but it suddenly feels incredibly real. Logan is still on top of you, wide eyes searching yours. Your chests press together. He’s so close that it’s distracting, dizzying, overwhelming. You need him off you. Now. 

“I can handle myself,” you spit, but he doesn’t move. 

He smirks. “Sure looks like you can, princess.” 

You groan, shoving him off and standing up. You dig your heels into the ground, looking up as the sentinel approaches. It aims again, and shoots. This time, you’re prepared, controlling the laser with your mind. The beam stutters in the air as you concentrate on changing its trajectory. It takes so much strength—so much power—but it works. You let go of the beam and it slings back into the sentinel’s face, the metal melting in a fiery explosion. 

You turn your head to Logan, the corner of your mouth twitching up. “See! Told you I can—” 

Another blast echoes across the forest, and Logan’s arms are around you again, pulling you back down to the ground with him. “You can what? Risk your life unnecessarily to prove yourself to me?” 

“Oh, you are so full of shit!” You shout, punching at his chest, but he doesn’t flinch. “You think I’m weak!” 

He furrows his brows. “Who the hell said that?” He pushes himself up, jumping onto the sentinel in front of you. His claws slice at the robot’s head, swiping it clean off. 

“It’s just the way you treat me!” You call out as you extend your hand and push another sentinel into a tree. You concentrate, bending its arm towards itself. With the flick of your wrist, you pull its trigger, forcing the robot to shoot itself. 

You don’t see the sentinel that’s behind you, but Logan does. He grabs your hand, yanking you behind a nearby tree. “And how do I treat you?” He asks, caging you in, his hands pressed firmly on either side of your head. 

His eyes are trained on yours, watching your every move. You look away, unable to keep his stare. “L-like you hate me,” you stutter, looking down at the ground and then back up at him. 

He tilts his head to the side. There’s that shocked expression again—the same one he had made outside the danger room. He shakes his head, smirking. “I don’t hate you,” he starts. You can see the shift in his face, the softness in his eyes, the playfulness in his smile. He’s close again. So fucking close. “I don’t think I could ever hate you.” 

“But you always—”

You’re abruptly interrupted as a sentinel blasts the top of the tree you and Logan are leaning against. The trunk cracks, and you look up, watching as the branches begin to fall. 

“Let’s move!” Logan shouts, grabbing your hand again, and leading you to the other side of the forest. “How many of these fuckers are there?”

You can see three coming in, surrounding you and Logan. You instinctively stand back-to-back, readying yourselves for the fight. When you had started this training session, you didn’t think you’d be here, pressed against Logan, guarding his back as he guards yours. You’re working as a team, a unit, equals, partners. 

You can hear Logan’s claws shing against the metal of the sentinel he’s fighting. You take on the one straight ahead, while the other stalks close behind. You shut your eyes, listening to its steps as it approaches. You breathe deeply, opening your eyes and extending your hand out. You swallow, concentrating hard as the metal of the sentinel’s head begins to bend. Slowly but surely, you crush it like it’s an aluminum can in the palm of your hand. It caves in on itself, crashing down to the ground. 

“Atta girl,” Logan praises over your shoulder, his lips inches away from your ear. He finishes off his sentinel, too, his claws swiping cleanly as the robot crashes to the ground. You try to ignore the way your stomach somersaults, the way your heart beats out of your chest. You’re sure Logan can hear it given his heightened senses.  

You’re so distracted by him that you’ve forgotten about the other sentinel. It’s suddenly closing in quickly. Too quickly. It aims, and you shut your eyes, trying to muster up enough energy to stop it before it shoots. But you can’t. You’ve used so much of your energy already, bending metal and stopping the sentinels’ beams. You’re tired, out of breath. 

“L-Logan,” you stutter, your head piercing with pain as you try to concentrate, pushing yourself harder than you should. “C-can’t…” You trail off, unable to finish your sentence as the pain worsens, your head throbbing. 

Logan steps out in front of you, sweeping his claws at the sentinel’s guns, disarming it. He slashes its legs next, and the robot comes crashing down. But he miscalculates ever so slightly, the sentinel tipping over, threatening to fall on the two of you. 

“Fuck!” He shouts, pushing you down to the ground. You don’t fight him this time, allowing his arms to wrap around you as he shields you, his body warm against yours. 

The sentinel’s head smashes into a nearby tree, slowing its fall. It scratches against the bark, the sound of screeching metal rattling in the air. You wince, and Logan quickly moves to cover your ears, protecting you from the noise. You’ve long forgotten this is just a drill, a simple training session. The panic has set in, and you squeeze your eyes shut. It all feels too real.

Logan’s hands lift from your ears. His full weight is still on you. He lifts himself up slightly so that he’s hunched over you instead. “Hey,” he soothes, his fingers gently brushing up and down your arms. His touch is electric against your skin. “I think it’s over.” 

You finally open your eyes. Logan is still hovering over you. The sentinel precariously leans against the tree, frozen just above the two of you. You’re trembling, shaken, unconvinced that this is all just a simulation.

“A-are you sure?” You stammer, frantically looking around the forest. 

“Yeah,” he whispers. He can see the fear on your face, the single tear that runs down your cheek. You’re in shock—literally. He slips his hands under your back, hoisting you up so that he’s holding you in his arms. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, pulling you to his chest. “I’ve got you. None of that was real.” He strokes up and down your back. “It wasn’t real,” he repeats, his voice steady and reassuring. 

“I forgot,” you confess, letting your head fall into the crook of his neck. It dawns on you how soft he’s being, how kind he truly is. “I couldn’t use my powers. I was so drained, and I was so worried that you’d…” You trail off, too nervous to finish your sentence. 

“That I’d what?” Logan presses, holding you tighter. 

You’re trembling for an entirely different reason, now. You take a deep breath, and the words fall from your lips. “That you’d get hurt, or worse, and I wouldn’t be able to save you.”

He pulls away from you for a moment, looking down at you. Tender—that’s how he looks. Soft, gentle—so much different from the beast he normally is. A chuckle rumbles through Logan’s chest. “Sounds like you don’t mind me so much after all, princess.” 

“I never said I didn’t like you,” you say back, a small smile playing on your lips. You poke your index finger into his chest. “You’re the one who hates me.” 

Logan shakes his head, his expression turning somewhat serious. “I said it before, and I’ll say it again: nothing could ever make me hate you.”

You look into his eyes, searching for something—you’re not quite sure what. The truth? He just gave it to you. He laid it bare. “So, w-what do you think about me?” You ask, tentative, anxious. 

He’s smirking again. “You really don’t know, do you?” He brings his face closer to yours, his lips just centimeters away. Your breaths meld together. He pulls you in again, tighter this time. Your throat bobs and your heart beats out of your chest. Your noses brush, the proximity driving you wild. He slips his hands down your back and under your shirt—bare skin on bare skin. 

Your lips are practically touching—the ghost of a kiss. Logan breathes you in, swallowing harshly as he parts his lips and—

The room suddenly changes, the forest disappearing and the doors opening with a swoosh. The walls are metal and gray; the ground is hard and cold. You and Logan quickly separate, standing up, shoulders awkwardly bumping as you regain your bearings. 

“That was…” Charles trails off, entering the room with Storm at his side. “A very excellent execution of that simulation,” he summarizes, perhaps intentionally leaving out the more embarrassing details. 

“You two certainly learned how to work as a team,” Storm says, her arms crossing tight against her chest. She raises her eyebrows and smirks knowingly.  

“Yeah, well, she’s strong,” Logan says, looking over at you. “And talented.” The compliment makes your chest feel hot and tight. You can see the look in his eyes, the one that screams: We aren’t finished yet. 

Charles nods toward the doors, motioning for you to walk with him, and so you do. Logan moves to follow you, but Storm stops him. She’s keeping him busy, telling him where he could have improved during the simulation. You turn around, your eyes trained on him, not paying attention to a word that Charles says. 

Later. Logan mouths. Your breath hitches in your throat. You nod once, smiling widely. His eyes don’t leave yours as you walk through the doors of the room and into the hallway. 

“Are you listening, my dear?” Charles’s question snaps you back to reality. 

“To be honest, Professor, no,” you say, embarrassed. 

But Charles smiles. “That’s just fine. I was simply saying that you must be careful. You’re incredibly strong, as Logan said, but you faltered,” he pauses. You’re still barely listening, your mind racing with thoughts of Logan. “When you exert yourself too much too soon you…”

Charles continues talking, but you can’t hear him. You’re thinking about how close Logan was to you, his hands under your shirt, his lips ghosting yours. So close, but not quite close enough. 

He made you a promise. Later. 

Later later later—it’s a perfect word. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later comes, and Logan is nowhere to be seen. The grandfather clock in the study reads 9:55 PM. You’ve been keeping an eye out for him, searching for him all day. But it’s like he disappeared. 

You’re at the old oak desk in the study, reading a book, scribbling notes in the margins. You’re writing nonsense, really. You haven’t been able to think straight all day, not with Logan on your mind. You close your eyes, dropping your head to the center of the book. You feel like a child, impatiently waiting for the thing they were promised if they behaved well enough. 

You groan audibly, bumping your head against the book once, twice, three times. 

“Well, somebody’s happy to see me.” You shoot up straight at the familiar, bassy voice. Across the room—leaning in the doorway—is Logan. He’s still in his beater and his jeans, still wearing that shit-eating grin, too. His arms are crossed against his chest.

“H-hi,” you stutter, suddenly nervous. He pushes himself from the doorway with his hip, shutting the door behind him. His thumb brushes over the lock and it clicks into place. He stalks over to the desk. You can already feel the fire building between your legs. 

“Didn’t think I forgot about you, did you?” He leans over the desk, his hands covering yours. He’s hovering over you, holding you in place. “Thought I wanted to be away from you that long?”

You can’t think of what to say—can’t think of anything except him. You’re frazzled, caught off guard, wrapped up in Logan. 

“You like when I tease you, pretty girl?” His voice is honeyed and dark. He lets go of your hands and slips behind the desk. You turn around to face him. 

“Y-yes,” you confess, leaning against the desk as Logan towers over you. 

He hums, his hands finding your hips, holding you tightly. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

“I’m not flustered,” you protest, but it’s no use. You can feel the heat rising to your chest, the way your clothes uncomfortably scratch against your skin. His words are tripping you up and driving you wild. 

“Yeah?” Logan asks, taking a step closer, his hips pressing into yours, his hands tugging at the hem of your shirt. He slips inside, his nails trailing gently up your stomach. You shiver underneath his touch, goosebumps rising in its wake. He smirks, knowing full well what he’s doing to you. “Then tell me how I’m making you feel.” 

Fuck, you think to yourself. You swallow harshly, racking your brain for the words. “G-good…” you trail off as Logan’s fingers travel up to your ribs, hiking your shirt up in the process. 

“Just good?” He murmurs, massaging your breasts over your bra. He squeezes, thumbs brushing your nipples. 

“B-better than good,” you force out, leaning into his touch, searching for more of him. “Wanna touch you too.” Your hand falls to his lower half, riding up his inner thigh until you find his erection. He’s so much bigger than you expected him to be.

He can’t help but lean into your hand as you slide up and down his shaft. He grunts, losing his composure, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. You can feel him straining against his jeans, the denim tight and uncomfortable. You trail up to his belt, but Logan suddenly grabs your hands and pins them to the desk below. 

All you can think about is how he isn’t touching you anymore, how his lips are centimeters away from yours, how he’s holding you down as his erection pushes against your leg. He shakes his head. “Wanna make you come first, pretty girl,” he husks, closing in on you. His forehead presses to yours. “Lay back for me, sweetheart.” You listen as he guides you down to the desk, hurriedly shoving papers and books away and onto the floor. 

You sit up on your forearms, watching as he strips his beater away. He’s beautiful—every dip and every curve beyond perfect. He steps toward you again—one hand on the desk for support while the other explores your body. He’s quick, his hand slipping under your shirt and tugging it up and over your head.

He’s squeezing your breasts again, playing with the hem of your bra, fingers sliding underneath teasingly. You arch your back into his touch. “Please,” you whine. 

Logan smirks, his nails brushing the underside of your breasts before traveling to your back—to your bra clasp. In the blink of an eye, the clasp is undone, and Logan is sliding the straps down your arms, throwing the bra to the floor. 

He drinks you in, his eyes slowly trailing up and down your body. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers, shaking his head. He settles in between your legs as he lowers over you again—one hand pins your wrists above your head, keeping you from reaching out and touching him, while he traces and strokes your stomach with the other. 

He’s so close—so impossibly close—but he hasn’t kissed you yet. You want to feel the warmth of his lips, the curve of his smile against you. “How could you ever think I hated you?” His hand slides up your body, finally cupping your right breast and brushing over your nipple. You shudder underneath him. 

You curse under your breath. “I-I just thought you did. N-never seemed like you liked me,” you say, smiling at how different things are now. 

Logan shakes his head, pinching your nipple before moving to the other breast. His forehead rests against yours as he toys with you. “I wanted you this whole time, darlin’.” His confession washes over you, and he finally presses his lips to yours. 

It’s all-consuming, the way he moves against you, the way he fits into you perfectly. His lips are smooth and addicting, like a drug you can’t get enough of. The kiss is slow and hard, but you can feel the need behind it—the intention. 

“Want you,” you say against his lips, squirming underneath him, trying to break your hands free from his pin. But he doesn’t budge—he simply smiles against you—his mouth still on yours. You try again, more honest this time. “N-need you.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he breathes, kissing your pulse point, and then the hollow of your throat. “But I’m gonna take my time with you.” 

He nips at your collarbone, his lips trailing down the center of your chest. He licks a long stripe across your breast, his mouth latching on to your nipple, sucking softly. You moan his name as he travels to the other side, repeating his actions, his tongue teasing you. He continues his course down your body, taking in every inch of you, savoring you. 

Logan kisses your belly button and stops at the hem of your shorts. He looks up at you, his eyes dark and filled with lust. He slowly yanks at the waistband, pulling your shorts down your legs, revealing the lacey lavender panties you’re wearing underneath. 

“Pretty,” he murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss right above your clit. You want him to rip the lace from your legs, but he doesn’t. He sits there, staring as his fingers climb up your inner thigh. It’s achingly slow, but his fingers finally brush over your folds, your arousal soaking through your panties. “Been hiding this the whole time?” He asks, his head cocking to the side, stroking your clit through the fabric. 

“I-I...” You can’t find the words, his touch numbing your mind, stopping all coherent thoughts. 

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties. “So fucking wet,” he grunts, pulling them down your legs. “No more hiding, princess.”

You’re laid bare for him, your legs hanging over the edge of the desk. He kneels before you like he’s at an altar, praying to you, worshiping you. You swallow at the sight of him as he brings his face closer to your heat. You can feel his breath fan against your folds, your clit. 

“Logan, please. Need you so—” 

And then his face is buried in your cunt, his tongue licking a long stripe through your folds and up to your clit. His hands slip under your legs, grabbing your thighs tightly, pulling you closer to him, and forcing you in place.  “Tastes so good,” he mumbles against you, his lips wrapping around your clit and sucking roughly. One of his hands slips out from under your thigh, finding your folds and sweeping through them gently. 

Logan’s beard scratches deliciously against you as his tongue laps relentlessly. His fingers prod your entrance, spreading your slick. You’re ready to beg again, to whimper and whine, but he’s shoving two of his long fingers deep inside—down to the knuckles—before you can complain. 

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he huffs between laps, his fingers still inside you. He slides out and thrusts back in—deeper this time. 

“Logan,” you whimper, as he hits that sweet spot inside you. “Feels so good.” He smiles against you, his tongue circling around your clit. “You f-feel so good.”

“Oh yeah?” His teeth graze your core ever so slightly, and you jolt at the sudden feeling. Your walls tighten around him, squeezing him. He notices immediately. “You like that?” He chides, pumping his fingers in and out, quickening his pace. 

“Y-yes,” you choke out. Logan’s working you through it, gentle praises flowing from his lips as he laps at you. You can feel yourself getting closer—the pleasure reaching its peak. He adds more pressure with his tongue, sucking harder. “Logan I—”

“I know,” he mumbles, plunging deep inside you, his tongue lapping at you like he hasn’t eaten in months. “Can feel the way you’re squeezing my fingers.” 

His thumb strokes your thigh comfortingly—his grip still strong, holding you in place. His eyes are locked on yours, watching your every move, like a predator watching its prey. You know he loves the way you’re squirming under his touch, the way you throw your head back when his teeth graze over your clit.

There’s lust in his eyes, and desire too. But you can see the adoration, the need to have you close, to bury himself inside you. If he could climb under your skin, he would. If he could worship at your throne, he would. You can feel it in the way he pushes into you, the way he swallows you like he’ll never get to eat again—never get to have you again. 

And that’s when the tension breaks—snaps in half so easily. Your muscles contract, walls fluttering around him, taking him deeper. “Logan I’m…” 

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he husks, “Let go for me. Wanna taste you on my tongue.” His words, his smell, his touch—he’s everywhere—filling your senses. He rides out your orgasm, pumping in and out as you come undone underneath him. It’s pure bliss, perfect release—more perfect than anything you’ve ever felt before. 

And it’s because it’s Logan. It has always been Logan. 

His fingers rub against your walls, his pace slowing. He laps gently at your clit as he carefully pulls out. He lifts his face from your cunt, your arousal dripping down his chin. Logan stands, taking the two fingers that were plunged deep inside you and bringing them to his lips. His mouth wraps around the digits and he sucks softly. Your breath hitches in your throat at the sight of him savoring the taste of you. His fingers slip out with a pop, and he smiles.

That fucking smile. So goddamn cocky.

Logan grabs his belt, undoing his buckle and slipping the belt away. He’s unbuttoning his jeans, pulling down the zipper, hooking his thumbs into his waistband, and slipping off the denim and his boxers in one quick move. His cock springs up to his stomach, and your jaw drops at the sight of him. 

You sit up as Logan steps in between your legs, his erection pressing against your stomach as he slots into you. He brings his hands to your hips, gripping tightly, and you wrap your legs around his waist. 

He lays you down on the desk, hovering over you, balancing on his forearm as his free hand guides his cock to your entrance. He captures your lips in a kiss as he slides through your folds, notching against your clit. 

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he whispers between kisses, his tip slipping in your entrance teasingly, and then slipping back out. “You’re so perfect.” He slips in again just a bit but doesn’t move. “Can’t believe you thought I hated you…”  

And then he’s plunging into you, sinking down to the hilt. “…When I wanted you this entire fucking time, pretty girl.”

His hand leaves his cock and finds your clit, stroking lightly. You’re already close, still overstimulated from your first orgasm. Logan hasn’t moved, his cock still deep inside from his first thrust. “Logan,” you mumble, helpless underneath him. He finally pulls out and pushes back in again—somehow deeper this time—bottoming out. You moan at the feeling. 

“That what you needed?” He growls, building his pace, his hips rutting into yours. “Needed me to fuck you?” His words alone could make you come. 

“Fuck, yes,” you answer as he pounds into you, his fingers drawing rough circles into your core. Logan isn’t restrained anymore—he isn’t taking his time like he said he would. He’s letting go, slamming into you, flicking your clit, taking what he wants. 

And fuck does it feel good. 

“You feel so fucking perfect,” Logan praises, biting your lower lip and kissing away the pain. “Doing so good for me, beautiful.” You can feel him rubbing against your walls, stretching you out, fitting inside you like he was always meant to be there. He’s right: it is perfect. 

Nothing will ever compare to this. 

Logan’s hips snap into yours, his cock hitting that sweet spot deep inside you with every single thrust. He’s still working your clit, chasing your orgasm, making you feel good. That adoration is still vibrant in his eyes, still rocking you to your core. 

You clench down around him, squeezing him, taking him in deeper. “Fuck,” he mutters, his pace faltering. He’s close, and so are you. He’s letting go, pumping harder, faster. “So tight, so warm,” he groans. “Such a good girl, letting me fuck you into this desk.” 

Your chests heave together—skin against skin. He’s so warm, so solid, so constant. You can feel yourself melting, sinking, slipping. “Lo…” You trail off, wrapping your legs tighter around him. 

He moans into your mouth. “Love it when you call me that, sweetheart.” He pinches your clit, lighting your skin ablaze. 

“I’m s-so close,” you stutter, stumbling over your words. 

Logan’s throat bobs as he fucks into you, fingers swirling your clit. “Gonna get you there, princess,” he pants. “Wanna feel you come on my cock.” You curse under your breath and Logan swallows the words with a kiss. You’re squeezing him tighter now—inches from the edge, and he knows. “That’s it, pretty girl,” he coos, stroking harder, pounding into you. “Come for me. Know you can do it.” 

You listen, your orgasm crashing into you. It’s uncontrollable—wave after wave of pleasure surging through your body. You’re a mess underneath him, arching your back as you let go. You’re seeing stars, heat flooding your vision. There aren’t words to describe the way you feel—the way that only Logan can make you feel. 

He’s close behind, rocking into you. His hand reaches under your back, lifting you so that he’s standing and you’re sitting up on the desk. The angle is brutal—giving him more room, more depth to fuck up and into you. It’s too much, but it’s just what he needs. 

“Wanna…” you trail off, struggling to get the words out. “Wanna f-feel you come too.”

“Fuck,” Logan curses, pressing his forehead to yours. “Gonna give you what you want. Always gonna give it to you.” And then he’s coming deep inside you. You can feel him filling you up, painting your walls. 

His thrusts slow as he finishes. He pumps in and out a few more times before slipping out of you, but he doesn’t pull away. He wraps his arms around you, keeping you pressed tightly to his chest. The contact is comforting—stabilizing—as you come down from your high. 

Silence fills the room as you melt into him. All those months spent thinking Logan hated you…how could you be such a fool? He was yours the whole time. 

He presses a chaste kiss to your temple. “I meant what I said, you know. About wanting you.” 

You smile softly, your head falling into the crook of his neck. “I never knew.” 

He shakes his head. “Still want you now.” 

“You have me,” you say, lifting your head to look up at him. He’s got that look—that glimmer—in his eyes again. It dawns on you that it isn’t just adoration.  It’s love. You know it’s love. Your breath hitches in your throat at the thought. 

“Good,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours again. “Because I’m not done with you yet.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” he teases, his voice raspy and deep. “When can I see you again?” 

You laugh. “What are you doing after this?” 

He pauses, as if thinking through his mental calendar. And then he smirks that shit-eating, cocksure smirk. “You.” 

Well fuck. 

[imaginesig]

You Would've Done It Too

Ollie Bearman x Verstappen!Reader

SMAU

We all know Mad Max, but what if his younger sister is worse? And what if her on track enemy isn’t always that?

HEAVILY inspired by: Enemies or Lovers by @claypgeon and DR creators on tik Tok for radio ideas

f2updates

liked by user3, user91, user93, and 917,828 others

f2updates: Y/n Verstappen and Ollie Bearman made contact at todays GP. Both drivers are well, but forced to retire their cars

tagged: no one

user1 now this is real racing

user2 im glad that Ollie is finally giving Y/n's aggression back

user3 right?? Verstappens gone too long without someone humbling her

user4 I hope she can be tamed like Max and really put her drive to good use

user5 you know they’re both pissed

User6 these post race interviews are about to be HEATED

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f2updates

liked by user4, user2, user7, and 719,822 others

f2updates: Y/n Verstappen and Ollie Bearman's comments on the incident today

tagged: no one

user1 lmao Y/n and HITECH can whine all they want, all Ollie did was exactly what they've been doing to the grid all year

user2 the jabs at each other give me life

user3 I live for this rivalry

user4 yes Ollie 👏👏 humble her

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f1

liked by: carlossainz55, user5, Olliebearman, and 927,828 others

f1: Prima driver, Ollie Bearman, will replace Carlos Sainz this weekend

tagged: prema_team, olliebearman, scuderiaferrari

user1 I wonder how y/n is feeling about this

user2 why bring her up, this ain’t about her

user1 because she's been negotiating with different teams to get a contract and try to drive in a free practice but now Ollie gets to race for Ferarri before she gets any of that

user4 and he gets to race against her brother, something Y/n has publicly said she misses and prays to do again

user3 Y/n isn't any better at racing than him, id argue they're equals, nor should she get special treatment because of Max so she can wait her turn

user5 ahhh I can’t wait!!!

User6 I’m gonna miss Carlos this weekend 😭😭

user7 please please please Ferrari have a good strategy for him🙏🙏

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f2updates

liked by user82, user5, user89, and 718,828 others

f2updates: Y/n Verstappen commenting on Ollie Bearman's temporary move to F1: "It's truly an amazing experience (to drive F1). Ferrari sees something in him, so best of luck. I've defiantly noticed a lack of headaches this weekend."

tagged no one

user1 the was she still has to make a snarky comment

user2 I mean they are rivals 🤷‍♂️

user3 most civil I've ever seen an interaction between them

user4 I don’t understand why someone went out of their way to get a comment from her, let Y/n race and comment on herself and let Ollie shine without dragging the mood down by asking his rival for a statement

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Pre-Race

Post-Race

ynverstappen

liked by: pauladon_, hitechgp, user5, and 817,929 others

ynverstappen: That's how you do it the HITECH way

tagged: paularon_

user1 ig we don't need to ask how she's celebrated the win

hitechgp perfect 1-2 weekend!!

maxverstappen why the last slide

ynverstappen I had to inform the people of my opinions

Maxverstappen anyway, I’m so proud!!

ynverstappen 🫶🫶

Carlossainz55 congrats on p1 little-stapppen

Redbullracing performance so good we were left speechless 👏👏

user2 as much as I love a good rivalry it was nice to have a gp where Y/n and Ollie weren’t fighting and making digs at each other

User3 I agree

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olliebearman

liked by prema_team, user87, kimi.antonelli, and 728,928 others

olliebearman: P3 for my little buddy 🧸

tagged: no one

user1 awww the bear

user2 always a good day when we get a Y/n and Ollie podium

user3 its the only time they're ever civil when near each other

Prema_team very proud of your performance 🤝

user3 help im jealous of a stuffed bear

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f1

liked by ynverstappen, maxverstappen1, user4, and 828,928 others

f1: Y/n Verstappen has been called up to replace Williams's Alex Albon this GP! She's already been seen in the garage looking right at home

tagged: hitechgp, ynverstappen, williamsracing

williamsracing we can't wait

Alex_albon she's gonna smash it!!

user1 please bring Williams back to the glory days

user2 Verstappen? Nice try, welcome back Nico Rosberg

user3 she looks so good in blue

user4 Y/n lead Logan to the podium

user5 yes ma'am 👏

user6 give Max a run for his money

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f2updates

liked by user4, user83, user93, and 293,939 others

f2updates: for her free practice session, Y/n Verstappen has run into issues with her car

tagged no one

user1 her radio killed me: "Um guys somethings wrong I don't think the car likes me very much"

user2 looks like she's causing as many problems there as she does here

user3 please please please I NEED Williams to sort this out so she can still race

user4 she handled the situation very calmly and professionally, very impressive

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f2updates

liked by user53, user9, user93, and 928,894 others

f2updates: Ollie Bearman comments on Y/n's absence after his race: "Very unfortunate to have troubles so early on. I guess the car could tell she was a hot head haha. I know all of us drivers are hoping the problem clears up"

tagged: no one

user1 I wish they would stop bothering the other for comments, if the situation doesn't involve both Y/n and Ollie then they shouldn't make a statment

user2 exactly it feels like the media is trying to get them to lash out at each other

user3 exactly they aren't friends, but they don't go out of their way to cause problems and people need to realize that

user4 yk he felt so pleased with the hot head joke

user5 "I know all of us drivers are hoping the problem clears up" he's trying so hard not to get into it with pr

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ynverstappen

liked by logansargent, paularon_, williamsracing, and 928,829 others

ynverstappen: Williams, what an honor it was to be chosen to drive for you this past weekend! I hope I've shown my appreciation through my performance and actions. Alex, sorry for almost ruining your car, get well and kick ass next weekend mate!

tagged: williamsracing

maxverstappen1 you were amazing! I'm so proud

ynvserstappen ❤️❤️

landonorris very impressive battle we had!! still pissed I lost to someone who overheated the car her first lap but yk

ynverstappen thank you for putting up a fight! so happy to beat you Mr. Nowins user8 I need more public Y/n and Lando interactions

user1 the purple helmet ate

user3 its so funny to me that she just happened to get called up the weekend she had a special helmet

user2 lmao she saw the Nico jokes

ynverstappen had bestie hunt the jacket down for the bit (its now my favorite piece and I will live in it forever, thank you Britney)

user4 someone tell her she showed her appration and more

user5 right- she gave Williams their highest qualifying and ending positions

user6 since Logan is leaving can we get her on the grid next year

user7 if you want to rush her and have her burn out like Logan then sure, but I say just give her a contract and get comfy in F2

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ynverstappen posted a story!

caption: to quote the note left, "they're crochet so you'll remember this weekend forever"

replies:

paularon_

seems like he knows his stuff

I cried

maybe its time to put these ruse behind mmh

don't take my fun away from me

and he really does piss me off

oh I know

I just don't know how he still puts up with you, mini max

hey max was worse

are we sure??

bff_username

ugh what I wouldnt do to have what you do!!

it really is the best

I mean he puts up with your shit better than I do

ok now first Paul and now you

you know im working on it, getting all the Jose out of my veins takes time

and im so proud of you for it

maxverstappen

who.

bff/n

thats a lie

you wouldve tagged her

who.

overprotective much 🙄

im your older brother its my job, now spill

I will at dinner in a few days

f2updates

liked by user5, user39, usrr93, and 829,839 others

f2updates: in what felt like a rendition of the Norris-Verstappen insident, Y/n Verstappen and Ollie Bearman had a collision in their battled for 2nd, behind Paul Aron in first. The collision caused both to lose significant places in this race, but both were able to return

tagged: no one

landonorris wannabe @/ynverstappen

ynverstappen fuck off Norris

user1 welp cannot wait for the media digs from this

user2 there goes our time of peace

user3 at least this time it was clearly Ollie's fault, I mean he pushed Y/n off

user4 bffr it was a defenive move, maybe she should have stayed straight rather than turn into him? user5 turn into him?? Ollie kept changing his path in turns before and did it again here, all Y/n did was stay on the track rather than turn off

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f2updates

liked by user4, user93, user3, and 839,094 others

f2updates: Y/n Verstappen and Ollie Bearman's comments on their collision today

tagged no one

user1 praying for every f2 driver tonight that they dont run into each other in the hotel or else I fear it may end in a screaming match

user2 just once I need these two to be able to swing on eachother

user3 it'll settle everything once and for all

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ynverstappen

liked by maxverstappen1, paularon_, kimi.antonelli, and 928,845 others

ynverstappen: he's hot, you would do it to

tagged: olliebearman

olliebearman I love you schat

ynverstappen I love you too!! Best (almost) year ever, love

user1 im sorry its almost been a YEAR

paularon_ finally im free from this torture

kimi.antonelli you can say that again

ynverstappen nah he's still my #1 opp

olliebearman no one pisses me off quicker 🫶

maxverstappen1 I dont like you. you're not good enough for her. you never will be. I'll personally carve out another appendix so I can't drive you into the barrier if you ever hurt her. y/n you're learning to back flip right now.

ynverstappen a bit much?

olliebearman nope perfect amount, I understand very clearly

landonorris max almost passed out

landonorris please post more im enjoying myself

user2 LMAO LANDO

user3 this was not on my 2024 bingo card

user4 kinda upset we'll never see them swing on each other

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olliebearman

liked by ynverstappen, kimi.antonelli, user1, and 844,294 others

olliebearman: only person id wear red bull for ❤️

tagged: ynverstappen

ynverstappen only person id wear Ferrari for 💙

olliebearman forever grateful 🫶

carlossainz55 im hurt

Charles_leclerc me too

maxverstappen1 Y/n take that off and burn it now.

ynverstappen no 🫶

user1 im crying they work out together 😭

user2 I just wanna know when that second picture was taken

olliebearman before she got caught leaving the Ferrari garage

ynverstappen and y'all believed the outfit change 🤣🫵

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hitechgp and prema_team

liked by ynverstappen, user45, kimi.antonelli, and 834,253 others

hitechgp: I guess we're related now or something??

tagged: ynverstappen, olliebearman, paularon_, kimi.antonelli

prema_team family karting day??

user1 not neither team knowing what to say

ynverstappen so fun!!

kimi.antonelli no not "so fun" so scary you almost killed us for the win

ynverstappen and I looked good doing it

olliebearman yeah you did 😍

paularon_ bring back the Ollie that would've cussed her out over that

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