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just-aake · 11 months ago

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Boundless Devotion - Part XI

Pairing: princess!Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: MedievalAU. Natasha is the eldest princess of the Romanov Kingdom. As the time of her coronation approaches, she is suddenly forced to make a decision – either find herself a partner or her parents will choose one for her.

Warnings: light angst, light fluff, slight violence

Words: 4350

The distant rumble of thunder causes your horse to fidget nervously as the two of you press on along the trail from the manor.

Your gaze shifts from the darkening skies to the princess, riding slightly ahead of you.

Since leaving, a heavy silence has hung between the two of you with the both of you choosing to focus on the path ahead or, in Natasha’s case, glaring into the distance.

You can easily read the tension in her body from her stiff back, letting you know her current feelings.

Unable to stand the quiet anymore, you decide to call out to her.

“I can tell that you’re still upset, you know.”

At the sound of your voice, Natasha relaxes her posture slightly, slowing her horse to ride alongside you.

With a tired sigh and a slight bow of her head, she grumbles under her breath.

“Not at you,” she clarifies before her hands clench the reins in anger, and she grits out. “Just this situation.”

You sigh sadly at her explanation, looking down at your hands in disappointment. This is precisely what you had hoped to avoid — adding more stress to her mind.

Noticing your expression, Natasha's hand reaches out to rest on your shoulder, drawing your attention.

Her eyes soften when they meet yours with a knowing look.

“Hey, I’m serious. This is not on you,” she stresses before continuing with a pleading tone, “You’re my best friend, Y/n. I just want you to be safe.”

Her proposition from earlier reappears in your mind. The offer was kind and generous but accepting it would create too many complications, especially for Natasha.

Breaking away from her intense gaze, you look down to focus on your horse instead, finding small comfort in stroking its mane gently before quietly telling her your answer with a resigned sigh.

“I can’t stay at the castle, Natasha.”

“Why not?” she asks with a frustrated sigh.

Returning your gaze to hers, a sense of nostalgia washes over you as you look at her.

Despite growing up together, you’re still amazed at how she still manages to maintain the same determination and compassion that you’ve always seen in her since you were young.

Rather than responding directly to her, you ask a different question.

“Do you remember what you told me the first time we met?”

Natasha tilts her head in confusion, but still, she decides to go along with it anyway, curious about the point of your abrupt change in subject.

“I remember saying that you were the most stubborn person I’ve ever met," she recalls with a pointed look in her eyes.

Amused, you let out a small laugh and shake your head lightly.

“Says the one who wouldn’t stay still after she fell out of a tree.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, but a tiny smile forms at the corner of her lips at the memory of her first official meeting with you outside of royal events.

Your mind also drifts to the past, recalling the state of the kingdom at that time when you were still children.

Even after years had passed, people were still recovering from the effects and loss of the war.

After a brief moment of contemplation, you continue.

“During that time, even with the peace treaty, there was still some resentment between our people and the Stark kingdom.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Natasha sighs solemnly in recollection before giving you a small teasing smile. “Even someone as kind as you didn’t like them back then.”

That was true.

At that time, the twins had recently entered your life after the devastating loss of their parents to some Stark stragglers in the kingdom. With that incident as well as Madam B’s constant comments throughout your childhood of how the Stark kingdom should’ve lost the war, it’s understandable why your sentiments towards the other kingdom weren't exactly favorable.

However, your perspective changed on that fateful day when you stumbled upon the injured princess at the base of the tree by the lake.

Pulling yourself from the memory, you nod your head in acknowledgment of her words about you before commenting.

“You could say almost everyone in the kingdom had some animosity with the Stark kingdom.”

Your eyes then drift to Natasha, looking at her with admiration.

“But not you,” you say softly.

When Natasha tilts her head curiously, still confused at your point, your hand reaches for hers, and she gives it to you without hesitation, intertwining your fingers.

Despite the slight roughness on her skin, a result from years of training, you only feel the warmth of her palm spreading to you and the gentleness in her grasp.

For a brief bittersweet moment, you can’t help but think about how her hand fits perfectly in yours.

Shaking away the thought, your thumb instinctively caresses the back of her hand as you explain to her.

“You have a kind heart, Natasha, always wanting to protect and care for everyone.”

Pausing your movement, you remember her words from years ago.

“Back then, you told me that when you became the queen, you’re going to heal the pain that the war had caused. For everyone. For both kingdoms.”

A small smile plays on your lips as you reminisce about the memory.

“That was the moment I knew you would become a great ruler.”

Looking up into her eyes, you tell her earnestly, “I still do, which is why I decided that day to do everything I can to help you accomplish that future you envisioned.”

Giving her a small smile, you end with a soft tone, “Because I believe in you, Natasha.”

Natasha’s eyes widen, and her mouth opens in surprise, stunned speechless at your words.

After a moment, your smile fades as you glance back down at her hand in yours before releasing it with a resigned sigh.

“But that means you can’t keep trying to protect me from every bad thing. Not when you need to focus on the entire kingdom soon.”

“I can do both,” Natasha asserts with a frown.

Determined, you shake your head in refusal.

“No, you need more allies among the other nobles than just me. When you become queen, you’ll be working with the heads of the houses, not their daughters or sons who are already charmed by you.”

Natasha huffs in annoyance at the mention of the older nobles, recalling their greed for power and favor.

You shoot her a knowing look as you point out.

“You know that bringing me into the castle will show favoritism.”

Natasha huffs in disbelief before arguing, “First of all, you are my favorite, and second, everyone already thinks we’re together.”

“But we’re not going to be for much longer,” you remind her, repeating her words from this morning. “After your coronation, you and I don’t need to be in a fake relationship anymore.”

“I didn’t—that was before—,” Natasha groans, rubbing her forehead in frustration.

You are right concerning the situation with other nobles. Navigating and balancing the political scene has always been a challenging task, even for her parents.

Once she takes the throne, all of those nobles’ scrutinizing eyes will turn to her, and they will ruthlessly pick apart every action she takes.

Bringing you in will just put you in the forefront of their attention.

Natasha drags her hand down her face tiredly, giving you a conflicted look.

“That still doesn’t make what your father is doing right,” she says.

“No, but it is my problem to worry about, not yours,” you assert firmly.

Natasha starts to argue, but you interrupt, emphasizing your point.

“As queen, you will have to choose your battles, Natasha,” you stress, giving her a serious look. “Even if it means you don’t choose me.”

Her expression twists in displeasure at your last words, a sentiment she finds difficult to accept.

However, confronted by your unrelenting and expectant gaze, Natasha sighs in frustration, shaking her head in disbelief.

"You know, I feel like you got those words from one of my mother’s lectures," she says, slightly exasperated.

Her tone eases the tension in the air a little.

“Maybe,” you reply with a small laugh.

Natasha watches you with a resigned expression.

While she doesn't entirely agree with your point, she’s not going to force you into something you don’t want.

“I still don’t like the idea of you going back to him,” Natasha remarks.

You sigh, admitting, “Well, as long as I follow his orders, he usually just leaves me alone.”

Her expression twists unhappily at that information, prompting you to place a reassuring hand on her arm before continuing.

“I do have a plan so that I can leave eventually, Natasha. Until then, I can take care of myself.” You give her a reassuring smile. “And I’m not alone. I have the twins.”

“You also have me,” Natasha says earnestly, covering your hand with hers and squeezing it gently.

“Whatever you need, the castle is always open to you.”

“I know,” you say appreciatively. “Thank you, Natasha.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

After reluctantly accepting your decision, Natasha and you continue until the two of you reach a fork in the path.

Natasha slows her horse to a stop, looking to you for direction as she realizes that she doesn’t know your intended destination. In the back of her mind, she recalls Pietro mentioning something about you finding answers.

“So, where are we going?”

“The prison,” you respond to her casually, already urging your horse in its direction.

Natasha raises a brow, an unsettling feeling creeping in as she remembers Clint’s message to her on the day of the festival about the stalled interrogation of the man from the cemetery attack.

“Who are you going to see?” she asks hesitantly, catching up beside you.

“Captain James Barnes,” you reveal.

Natasha lets out a small breath of relief at your answer, her body relaxing momentarily before tensing up again as she recognizes the name.

“As in Stark’s old captain?” she questions.

At your nod, she asks in surprise, “What is he doing there?”

You pause for a moment before answering, humming a little in thought.

“My father assumes it was an assassination attempt, but when I met him, he suddenly tried to take me away,” you explain nonchalantly before noticing Natasha’s shocked expression and quickly continuing to reassure her.

“Pietro stopped him, though, and he was captured before he could do anything else.”

Natasha raises her hand in a stopping gesture as she tries to process the new information, pinching between her eyes in exasperation at you before taking a deep breath.

“So you’re telling me…you were almost kidnapped by this known criminal, and now we’re on our way to the prison to talk with him?”

You nod, confirming her words.

Natasha stares at you in disbelief for a moment in silence before quickly turning her horse around and grabbing your reins.

“That’s it, we’re going back to the castle,” she declares firmly.

“Natasha, we just talked about this,” you say, pulling your reins back from her grip.

“No, this involves a war criminal. I think I have some power over the decisions in this case,” Natasha says with a pointed look.

Despite her serious expression, you return her stare with an all-too-familiar pleading look, causing Natasha to quickly turn away, refusing to maintain eye contact with you.

It was already difficult to refuse any request from you when you look at her with that expression, but with the recent realization of her feelings, she knows she stands no chance right now.

“Natasha, please.”

She groans internally at the sound of your voice, taking a deep breath before giving you a tiny glare, which you return with a slight tilt of your head and a small pout.

Immediately, Natasha’s head falls to her chest in defeat. She can already hear Yelena’s mocking voice in her mind about how easily she gives in to you.

In a final attempt to see if you may change your mind, Natasha gives you another hard look before ultimately relenting with a sigh.

“Okay, fine, but I’m staying beside you the entire time, and you can’t get too close to him.”

When your face brightens with a satisfied smile in victory, Natasha huffs and shakes her head in disbelief.

Despite her reaction, though, a warm feeling spreads in her chest at your happy expression, reminding her of the original reason she had come to see you.

As the two of you ride side by side on the path, Natasha decides to take this opportunity to continue the conversation that was previously interrupted.

However, before delving back into that discussion, there was another topic concerning something from earlier that she wanted to ask you about first.

“Y/n, back at the manor, when I was climbing to your window…,” Natasha starts, causing you to look at her curiously.

“I overheard some parts of your conversation with the twins,” she admits.

With a desire to confirm her suspicion based on the fragments she heard, Natasha presses on with her question when she notices your surprised expression.

"When you told me that you liked someone…you didn’t mean Carol, did you?"

Natasha observes as your eyes widen and your lips part in surprise before you quickly shake your head to get out of your shocked state.

“Oh, that’s—uh, I mean, Carol’s…great. Anybody would like—um…” you wince slightly at your loss of words.

With a raised brow, Natasha waits as you stumble over your words before you finally confess under your breath with a sigh.

“...no, I wasn’t talking about her.”

A sense of relief washes over Natasha at your words before she questions you with an amused smile.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

You respond with a disbelieving huff.

“Well, why did you assume it was her?” you counter.

“The two of you seemed so close during the festival, and at the bonfire, you were blushing a lot with her,” Natasha points out accusingly.

“That’s because she was teasing me about y—” you shut your mouth, stopping yourself before you finish.

In the heat of defending yourself, you nearly revealed that all of your flustered reactions at that time were about Natasha.

Glancing over at her to see if she noticed your slip-up, you groan internally when you recognize her pleased expression.

Natasha is grinning widely at the revelation, her eyes lighting up happily as if she's finally solved a mystery.

When your hand covers your face in embarrassment, she knows you also figured out that she has already guessed what you meant to say.

At your slight blush, she can’t help but want to tease you a little bit more, tilting her head to try and catch your attention.

“You know, I think I heard you mention my name too. What were you about to say about me before I appeared?”

You purposely avoid meeting her eyes, wishing the ground would just swallow you up already.

Having Natasha suspect that your feelings for someone were actually for her was not something that you had expected to happen, especially considering how your previous discussion this morning ended.

Choosing to ignore her question, you point to the distance ahead and try to divert the conversation.

“I think we’re nearing the prison. We should probably concentrate and focus our attention on what we’ll do when we get there.”

Natasha's grin widen at your flustering and poor attempt to change the subject.

As you prepare to urge your horse forward, her hand reaches over to hold your reins again, stopping you.

Done with all the teasing, Natasha decides to reciprocate some vulnerability, understanding that you might be feeling exposed at the moment.

She nudges your arm gently to get your attention.

Once your eyes reluctantly meet hers, Natasha begins softly.

“Remember how I said I realized something? Turns out I'm facing a similar problem to what you had this morning.”

Confused, you furrow your brows, prompting Natasha to smile fondly at you. She takes a deep breath before admitting with a happy sigh.

“Apparently, there is someone I like, but I don’t know how they feel about me,” Natasha echoes your words from this morning before tilting her head meaningfully, adding, "She’s one of my closest friends too."

Your eyes widen in surprise and uncertainty as you try to come up with a response.

That warm feeling returns to your chest, but you try not to let that hope grow too fast.

At your silence, Natasha presses on, asking, "What should I do?"

Clearing your throat nervously, you finally find your voice as you repeat the response she had given you.

“Well, you said you would’ve just asked them directly about how they felt about you.”

“I did, didn't I?” Natasha says in contemplation. She pauses for a second before a small smirk forms on her face, and she focuses her intense gaze on you.

“So, Y/n, how do you feel about me?”

Your eyes search hers in disbelief at the implication of her question towards you. You try to spot any signs of her usual teasing, but there is only genuine anticipation and hope in her expression.

Caught off guard by the sudden realization, you stammer, “I—um…”

As Natasha waits for your response, the sound of rustling and footsteps from the shadows of the trees catches her attention, setting her instincts on edge.

Her body instantly straightens in alertness as she observes the surroundings.

At the faint sound of a mechanism engaging and then a quiet click, Natasha quickly grabs you, pulling you off your horse and onto the ground just as a heavy net shoots out from the trees.

Your horses whine in panic as the net soars past them, where it would have caught you and Natasha if the two of you hadn’t moved.

Instead, the complex mesh of thick ropes and weighted edges lands with a resounding thud on the ground, ensnaring nothing but air.

Natasha and you landed in a tangled heap, her hands instinctively shielding your head and body as the both of you roll to a stop.

The surrounding area seems to hold its breath for a second before the sound of hurried footsteps causes the two of you to rise quickly to your feet.

Three menacing men emerge from the trees, each brandishing a weapon as they advance toward you and Natasha, undeterred by the failure of their initial trap.

Natasha pulls her sword from its sheath and hands it to you with a smirk.

“It’s a good thing we practiced this morning, huh?” she teases lightly.

You roll your eyes exasperatedly as you take the sword.

Natasha is more than capable of taking on these ruffians, but knowing that you are not defenseless will probably help her concentrate more on them than having to also worry about you.

The attackers quickly rush at the two of you, and Natasha immediately engages in combat with two of them simultaneously while the third one dodges her attacks and goes for you.

You raise the sword in defense as it clashes against his before the two of you engage in a fight.

He was bigger than you, but luckily, that just means that you are faster than his movements.

You find yourself dodging and parrying his swings, but his experience with a sword allows him to defend from most of your attacks easily.

Seeing no way to break through his defense, you spot a large tree nearby and come up with an idea.

While dodging his attacks, you discreetly move toward its direction, leading him closer.

Right as your back hits the trunk of the tree, a particularly powerful swing knocks the sword out of your hand.

The attacker grins victoriously, thinking you are cornered, and lunges forward with a powerful thrust.

Swiftly ducking out of the way, you cause his sword to impale deep into the tree instead.

With him stunned at his stuck weapon, you knock his arm away from the sword and then swiftly hook your leg around the back of his knee, sweeping it out from under him.

Before he can recover, you quickly pick up your fallen sword and slam its hilt against the back of his head.

Catching your breath, you let out a breath of relief when you see that he is unconscious.

Next thing you know, your body is pulled away from the man, and Natasha’s hands are moving gently across your face as she examines you.

Seeing that you are okay, she glances at the man on the ground before giving you an excited smile in realization.

“You were watching me that day,” Natasha points out happily.

That last action that you just performed was almost exactly the same as her finishing move during her spar with Steve.

Based on your evasive behavior toward her at that time, Natasha had thought that you were avoiding her to the point where you didn’t even want to watch her train anymore.

You offer her sword back to her with a small roll of your eyes.

Behind her, you see the other two attackers already on the ground, subdued.

“You already know that I’ve always liked watching you train," you remind her.

Instead of taking the sword, Natasha wraps her hand around yours and pulls you a step closer to her, bringing your body and face near hers.

She playfully tilts her head at you with a teasing glint in her eyes.

“Weren't you just about to tell me about something else that you like before we were interrupted?” Natasha challenges.

You huff and shake your head in disbelief, realizing her intention.

Refusing to be the first to give in, especially with her confident and charming smirk in place, you decide to lean in even closer instead, bringing your face just a breath away from hers.

“I don’t know, Natasha, is there something you want to tell me?” you whisper challengingly, lowering your tone.

Natasha’s smirk widens in amusement as she maintains her position, seemingly unaffected, but looking closer, you notice a slight change in her eyes as they darken and briefly dart down to your lips.

Understanding dawns on you as you recall all the times you’ve seen that look on her before.

A charged tension fills the air as both of you stubbornly await the other to give in.

After a moment, Natasha finally releases a shaky breath and leans her head against yours, unable to resist anymore with you so close to her.

However, before any word can escape her parted lips, the tranquility is shattered by the sound of an arrow being released and a grunt emanating from the trees.

Turning in unison, you and Natasha witness the hidden attacker tumbling from the tree to the ground.

Your gaze then shifts to the source of the arrow, revealing a familiar figure behind the bow.

“Clint,” Natasha greets before complimenting, "Nice shot."

He puts away his bow and approaches both of you with a raised brow.

“You two are adorable, but next time, please check your surroundings again before running into each other’s arms,” he advises.

Feeling a bit embarrassed, you clear your throat awkwardly and take a step back from Natasha.

However, her hand catches your side, keeping you close.

“Where are the two of you going? And without an escort, at that,” he ask, with the last part directed pointedly in reprimand at Natasha, who responds with a slight roll of her eyes.

"To the prison," you answer him.

"What about you? What are you doing running around with your bow again?" Natasha asks curiously.

Clint gestures to the attackers, unconscious on the ground.

“These men are from the Hydra's den, which happened to be suspiciously deserted when I passed by this morning,” he reveals with a serious tone.

Natasha frowns upon hearing the information.

The central area where mercenaries usually occupy being suddenly empty is never a good sign.

“Rumlow?” Natasha asks in suspicion.

This behavior is too unusual for the noble known for his affiliations with such groups to deny any knowledge of what is happening.

Clint shrugs unsurely, grimacing, “He’s not at his manor. My informant didn’t arrive at the usual meeting time either, so I came to investigate.”

He gestures towards you and Natasha.

“If you two are also heading to the prison, then it's better if I stay with you, especially after this ambush. I’m assuming you're taking Lady Y/n to see…,” Clint trails off when he sees Natasha discreetly shaking her head, signaling him to stop talking, but it is too late.

At his words, you quickly turn to Natasha with suspicion, raising your brow.

There’s no way Clint would know about Barnes so soon, so he must be referring to someone else at the prison, and judging by Natasha’s reaction, she knows exactly who he meant.

Natasha shoots a glare at Clint, who has suddenly taken an interest in looking up at the skies. She winces slightly when she glances back at you and sees your accusatory stare.

With a resigned sigh, she reveals, “There may have been a request…by that attacker from the cemetery to speak with you before he would answer any of our questions.”

“Natasha!” you exclaim in reprimand for keeping such information concerning you a secret.

She raises her hands in defense, arguing, “He’s a threat against the kingdom, which means I can make decisions concerning him about you.”

“You can't use that excuse every time,” you tell her, poking her in the shoulder pointedly at her attempt of creating a loophole to indirectly protect you.

Natasha responds with an amused smile, catching your hands and interlocking them together. She raises her brows and remarks teasingly.

"Yes, I can. I'm still your princess, remember?"

Rolling your eyes at her usual teasing reminder, you shove her lightly in response with your clasped hands, which elicits a chuckle from her.

Clint lets out a smile as he observes the close interaction between you and Natasha, commenting with an assuring nod, “Yeah, you two really are adorable together.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Series Masterlist : Boundless Devotion

a/n: Thank you for reading! I may have been delusional saying that there would two/three more parts left of this series two parts ago, but it should be around two parts left after this one (i think).

Taglist: @lightwhoranoutoflight, @taliiiaasteria, @romanoffprentiss, @canvascoloredin, @silentwolfsstuff, @blacklightsposts, @arcturusseer, @presser24, @dvrkhcld, @jujuu23, @screechcat, @vivs46, @cd-4848, @youneversawmehereooooooo, @pancakefan7529, @confusedspaceotter, @natbelovasblog, @izzy-b09, @iamheartless, @mrsrushman, @fxckmiup, @natty-taffy, @2silverchain, @traveler-at-heart, @autorasexy, @natsxwife, @mviswidow, @slut4johansson

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff x you #black widow x reader #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff

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sachaa-ff · 23 days ago

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Aemond Targaryen x Lyra Velaryon (niece)

Aemond saw for the first time since Luc death, his niece the princess Lyra Velaryon on the battle of rook rest.

What if there might be another ending for the Targaryen?

My request are open.. I need ideas pls🫶🏼

“A Love Amidst the Flames”

The skies above Rook’s Rest were heavy with the scent of smoke and the promise of impending battle. Aemond Targaryen, perched atop Vhagar, scanned the horizon, his heart racing with a mix of anticipation and dread. His thoughts, however, were not on the strategy or the clash of armies. Instead, they were drawn to a figure soaring through the clouds on Silverwing, Jace twin sister the fierce and determined Lyra Velaryon.

As she approached, her long curly hair with a mix of white and black streamed behind her like a banner of defiance, her armor gleaming under the sun. Aemond felt a familiar ache in his chest. He had fought hard to bury his feelings for her, but the sight of her, clad in battle-ready gear, reignited a fire within him. She was a warrior, brave and resolute, unlike anyone else he had ever known.

Lyra had always understood him in ways that others did not. Their encounters in the shadows of the Keep had been filled with whispered dreams and shared laughter—a fleeting taste of a connection he had long desired. She had pushed him to embrace the strength of his lineage rather than hide from it, igniting a passion in him that he couldn’t ignore.

As she drew closer, Aemond’s resolve wavered. He had come to Rook’s Rest with the intent to defeat Rhaenyra’s forces, to reclaim his family’s honor, but seeing Lyra atop Silver Wing made his heart race for a different reason. The conflict within him grew—he had sworn to uphold his family’s name, yet the bond he felt with her made him hesitate.

“Stay back!” Lyra called out, her voice strong and unwavering. “This is my fight!”

Aemond tightened his grip on Vhagar’s reins, his heart torn. “You shouldn’t be here, Lyra!” he shouted, the words spilling from his lips before he could stop them. “You’re putting yourself in danger!”

Her fierce gaze met his, filled with determination and defiance. “And you think I would stand aside while my family fights? I will not be a pawn in this game any longer.”

Vhagar growled lowly, sensing Aemond’s turmoil, yet he could not bring himself to give the command to attack. The dragon’s instincts told him to defend his rider, but the sight of Lyra fueled a different instinct entirely—one of love and longing. Aemond knew that any attack would mean hurting her, or worst, and that was something he could never do.

As their dragons hovered in the air, the battle below raged on. Aemond could see his allies readying themselves for a confrontation, and the weight of duty pressed heavily on his shoulders. “This isn’t just about us,” he said, desperation creeping into his voice. “It’s about our families, our kingdoms.”

Lyra’s expression softened, her resolve faltering for just a moment. “I know what’s at stake, Aemond. But I won’t back down. I can’t. Not when everything is on the line.”

For a heartbeat, the world around them faded—the sounds of battle, the cries of warriors, the clash of steel—all became distant echoes as they locked eyes. In that moment, Aemond saw not just his opponent, but the girl he had fallen for, the fierce spirit that captivated him from the start.

“You’re too important to me,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t let you get hurt.”

“I can take care of myself,” she replied, but there was a flicker of understanding in her gaze. “Just as you can. We can face this together, Aemond.”

With the weight of their destinies hanging in the balance, Aemond felt the decision settle within him. He would not betray her; he could not let their families’ feud dictate the course of their hearts. “Then let’s find a way to end this without further bloodshed,” he suggested, his voice steadier now.

Lyra nodded, a spark of hope igniting in her eyes. “Together, we can convince them to listen. There has to be another way.”

As they turned their dragons away from the battlefield, Aemond felt a rush of exhilaration mixed with fear. They soared high above the chaos, gliding through the skies that had once seemed so foreboding. The winds whipped around them, but in that moment, Aemond felt free, their shared resolve propelling them forward.

“Where do we go?” Lyra asked, her brow furrowed in thought.

“Let’s find a place to land where we can speak without the prying eyes of the court,” Aemond suggested, recalling a secluded glen not far from the battlefield. It was a place he and Lyra had once played as children, a sanctuary far removed from the politics of the court.

They landed in the clearing, dismounting as their dragons settled nearby. The sound of battle was muted here, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the chirping of distant birds. Aemond turned to Lyra, his heart pounding. “We can’t let them destroy each other,” he began, urgency in his voice. “Our families are caught in a cycle of hatred, and we’re the only ones who can break it.”

Lyra’s expression was fierce. “But how? They see us as enemies. We need to show them that unity is stronger than division.”

Aemond stepped closer, the space between them charged with tension. “What if we propose a truce? A meeting where both sides can discuss their grievances without swords drawn?”

“Do you really think they’ll listen?” she asked, doubt creeping into her voice.

“If we stand together, they will have no choice but to pay attention,” he replied, his voice steady. “You and I have always been stronger together. We can be the bridge they need.”

Lyra studied him for a moment, the weight of their families’ legacies hanging between them. “It’s a risk. But if we don’t try, we’ll lose everything. Not just our families, but ourselves.”

Aemond reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers. “Then let’s do this together. For us, for our families, for a future where we’re not defined by bloodshed.”

She squeezed his hand, her gaze steady. “Together.”

As they crafted their plan, Aemond felt a sense of purpose solidifying within him. They shared stories of their childhood, recalling moments of laughter that felt like lifetimes ago. The more they spoke, the more the tension between them shifted into something deeper—a bond forged not just by duty, but by shared dreams and desires.

But their moment of peace was short-lived. The sounds of battle began to intensify again, echoing in the distance. Aemond and Lyra exchanged worried glances. They needed to act quickly.

“We must return,” Aemond urged, his heart racing. “We need to gather support for our proposal.”

They mounted their dragons once more, the urgency of their mission fueling their flight. As they soared back toward the battlefield, Aemond’s mind raced with thoughts of how to present their plan. Would their families be willing to listen? Would the hatred that had festered for so long be able to be quelled by the simple words of two determined hearts?

As they descended, they spotted the assembled forces—both Rhaenyra’s and Aemond’s—poised for conflict. The tension was palpable, swords drawn and dragons roaring in the sky above.

Aemond took a deep breath, the weight of the moment settling on his shoulders. “We’ll announce our intentions together,” he said, his heart pounding. “If they see us united, they may reconsider.”

Lyra nodded, her expression fierce. “For all the families we love, we have to try.”

They landed amidst their respective armies, the eyes of warriors upon them. Aemond stepped forward, Lyra at his side, and raised his voice above the clamor. “Brothers and sisters of House Targaryen, we come not as enemies, but as advocates for peace.”

The crowd fell silent, confusion rippling through the ranks. Aemond’s heart raced as he continued, “Our families are locked in a cycle of violence that threatens to consume us all. We propose a truce—a chance to lay down our swords and listen to one another.”

Gasps erupted from the soldiers, and whispers spread like wildfire. Lyra stepped forward, her voice ringing clear. “We cannot let our legacy be defined by bloodshed and hatred. We have the power to change our fate. Together, we can build a future where love and unity prevail.”

Aemond watched as the soldiers shifted, uncertainty painted on their faces. But then, a voice rose from the crowd—one of Rhaenyra’s loyalists. “You expect us to believe that you two can end this war? You’re merely children playing at peace!”

The words struck like a dagger, and Aemond felt a surge of fear. “We may be young, but we understand the cost of this war better than anyone. We’ve lost too much already—family, friends, hope.”

Another voice chimed in, this time from Aemond’s side. “What do you suggest instead? Another battle? More bloodshed?”

Aemond seized the moment, stepping further into the crowd. “We must choose to unite rather than divide. We owe it to our ancestors, to the legacy of House Targaryen. Let us sit down, listen to one another, and forge a new path.”

Lyra stood beside him, radiating strength. “This is our chance to redefine what it means to be Targaryens. To show that we can be united in purpose, even if our paths have diverged.”

The murmurs intensified, and Aemond could feel the weight of their words settling in the hearts of those around them. Slowly, he saw heads nodding, expressions shifting from hostility to contemplation.

But as hope flickered, Aemond’s heart sank when he spotted a familiar figure in the crowd—an ally turned foe, ready to disrupt their fragile peace. He stepped forward, his face twisted in disdain. “You dare suggest peace after all this? You are traitors!”

Aemond felt Lyra’s hand tighten around his. “We’re not traitors; we’re dreamers seeking a better future. This war will only lead to more suffering!”

The figure laughed, a cruel sound that echoed through the air. “You think you can change centuries of bloodshed with pretty words? You’re fools!”

Aemond felt the anger surge within him, but he forced himself to remain calm. “Perhaps we are fools. But we are fools willing to try.”

The air crackled with tension, and just as it seemed the moment might shatter, a voice broke through the din. It was one of Rhaenyra’s most trusted advisors. “What if we hear them out? What do we have to lose by listening?”

A shift occurred, and the crowd began to murmur. Aemond’s heart raced as he exchanged a glance with Lyra. Could it be that their message was taking root?

“Let us have a council,” the advisor continued. “A meeting to discuss terms, grievances, and hopes for our families. We owe it to ourselves to explore this possibility.”

Aemond felt the tide of sentiment shifting, hope blooming like a flower in the harshest of winters. As the murmurs of agreement spread, he turned to Lyra, their eyes locking in shared determination.

With the warriors now engaged in a dialogue rather than drawing swords, Aemond stepped closer to her. “We did it,” he said, breathless. “We opened a door.”

Lyra smiled, a mixture of relief and exhilaration washing over her. “This is just the beginning, Aemond. We must keep fighting for peace, together.”

As the council was convened, Aemond and Lyra stood side by side, united in purpose. They listened intently to the discussions, advocating for their vision of a united Targaryen legacy. With each word spoken, they felt the walls of animosity beginning to crumble, brick by brick.

Time passed slowly in the clearing, the sun dipping low in the sky. Aemond felt a weight lift as the Targaryens began to voice their hopes rather than their grievances. Ideas flowed—suggestions for alliances, reparations, and new terms for a lasting peace. Lyra spoke passionately, her voice cutting through the tension, her conviction palpable.

But as the discussions progressed, Aemond could sense that some were still hesitant. Old grudges and bitter feelings lingered like shadows, ready to pounce. He knew that one wrong word could send everything spiraling back into chaos.

Aemond leaned closer to Lyra, their shoulders brushing together. “We need a decisive moment,” he whispered. “Something to rally everyone behind our cause.”

Lyra nodded thoughtfully, her brow furrowed in concentration. “What if we proposed a joint celebration? A feast to mark this truce and symbolize our unity? It would show that we can come together, despite our differences.”

Aemond’s eyes lit up. “That’s brilliant! A festival of sorts, where we can celebrate our shared heritage and remind everyone of our bonds.”

As they discussed the details, Aemond felt a surge of hope. He had always admired Lyra’s intelligence and spirit, but now, as they brainstormed together, he saw how deeply their connection had grown. This was more than just a shared mission; it was a partnership forged in the fires of conflict and tempered by a shared vision for a brighter future.

Hours passed, and finally, the council reached a consensus. Aemond and Lyra stood before the gathered Targaryens, their hearts racing. “We propose a feast at Dragonstone,” Aemond declared, his voice echoing through the clearing. “A celebration of our unity, where we will honor our ancestors and the bond that ties us as Targaryens.”

The response was immediate—cheers erupted from the crowd, voices lifting in agreement. The momentum had shifted, and Aemond felt the weight of their collective hope.

Lyra stepped forward, her voice strong. “This feast will be our declaration of peace. It is a chance to heal old wounds and build new alliances.”

As the council wrapped up, Aemond felt a sense of relief wash over him. They had done it—they had sparked a glimmer of hope in a time of darkness. But as they walked away from the clearing, hand in hand, Aemond could not shake the feeling that their journey was far from over.

Days passed in a blur of preparation for the feast. As Dragonstone transformed into a vibrant setting filled with laughter, music, and food, Aemond found himself consumed by the weight of expectation. This was their moment, but the stakes were high.

Lyra was a whirlwind of energy, rallying support and encouraging those who still harbored doubts. Aemond admired her tenacity, watching her as she moved through the crowd, her presence magnetic. It reminded him of their childhood—how she had always been a beacon of light, guiding him through his darkest moments.

On the night of the feast, the grand hall of Dragonstone was adorned with banners and flowers, the air thick with anticipation. Aemond stood at the head of the table, looking out at the faces of his family and their allies. He felt a mix of pride and anxiety.

Lyra took her place beside him, her presence calming. “We can do this,” she whispered, squeezing his hand reassuringly.

As the feast began, laughter and music filled the air. Aemond watched as old rivals shared drinks, and the atmosphere shifted from one of tension to camaraderie. It was a sight he had never thought possible. He felt a swell of hope—a tangible promise of change.

When the time came for speeches, Aemond stood, his heart pounding in his chest. “Tonight, we gather not as enemies, but as kin. We are Targaryens, bound by blood and destiny. Let us honor our ancestors and forge a new path together.” His voice rang out with conviction.

The applause that followed was thunderous, echoing off the stone walls. Aemond felt a rush of warmth and relief. But as he glanced at Lyra, he saw a shadow of concern in her eyes.

“What is it?” he asked quietly, stepping closer.

“It’s just… some are still uncertain. They’re waiting for a sign,” she replied, her voice low.

Aemond furrowed his brow, his mind racing. “We need to give them that sign. Something powerful.”

As the night wore on, Aemond and Lyra shared knowing glances, the unspoken bond between them strengthening with each passing moment. They moved through the crowd, laughing and engaging with their guests, but the pressure to prove their commitment to peace hung over them like a storm cloud.

Finally, as the stars began to twinkle overhead, Aemond felt a sudden surge of inspiration. “Let’s have a toast,” he announced, raising his goblet high. “To our families, to our past, and to a future filled with hope and unity.”

Lyra joined him, her eyes sparkling. “And to the bonds we share, stronger than any feud.”

As they raised their goblets, the hall fell silent. Aemond felt the weight of the moment settle upon him. “May we be guided by love, not hatred, and may this night mark the beginning of a new era for House Targaryen.”

As they drank, the tension in the room began to dissolve, replaced by an air of camaraderie. The guests began to join in, raising their own goblets in agreement. Aemond caught sight of the hesitant faces softening, the shadows of doubt lifting.

Suddenly, the doors of the hall burst open, and a figure strode in—a familiar warrior, one of Rhaenyra’s most loyal knights. Aemond’s heart raced as he recognized him, unsure of what to expect.

“Forgive my interruption,” the knight announced, his voice loud enough to be heard over the music. “But I have come to express my support for the truce.”

Aemond’s breath caught in his throat. “You… you wish to support our cause?”

The knight nodded, his expression resolute. “I have fought for Rhaenyra for years, but I see the truth now. The cycle of bloodshed must end. If you are willing to unite, so am I.”

The hall erupted into cheers, the atmosphere electric with renewed hope. Aemond turned to Lyra, a smile breaking across his face. This was the sign they had been waiting for.

As the celebration continued, the atmosphere shifted, and old grudges began to fade away, replaced by shared laughter and stories of the past. Aemond and Lyra moved through the crowd, soaking in the warmth of their families coming together. With every clink of goblets, every shared laugh, they felt their bond solidifying.

But just as the night seemed to reach its peak, a familiar voice cut through the revelry—a voice filled with anger and disdain. It was one of Aemond’s former allies, a bitter rival who had long resisted any notion of peace.

“This is madness!” he shouted, glaring at Aemond and Lyra. “You think this will last? We are Targaryens! We were born to rule, not to cower before our enemies!”

Aemond felt a surge of anger rising within him, but Lyra stepped forward, her presence commanding attention. “We are not cowering; we are choosing a different path. A path that values unity over division. You can choose to join us, or continue down a road that leads to destruction.”

The hall fell silent, all eyes on the rival. Aemond’s heart raced, the tension palpable. Would he dismiss their plea for peace?

Slowly, the rival’s expression shifted, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “And what if you fail? What if you’re betrayed?”

Lyra met his gaze, her voice unwavering. “We will face those challenges together. We are stronger united, and we will not give up.”

Aemond stepped forward, his voice steady. “This is our chance to prove that Targaryens can be more than warriors—we can be builders of a new legacy. Will you stand with us?”

The rival hesitated, glancing around at the faces of their kin, many of whom wore expressions of hope. Finally, he nodded, albeit reluctantly. “Very well. I will give this truce a chance.”

The hall erupted into cheers again, the spirit of unity filling the air. Aemond looked at Lyra, their hearts racing in sync. They had forged a path toward peace, but they knew that their journey was only beginning.

As the night wore on, they danced together under the stars, their laughter blending with the music, a reflection of the bond they had forged. Aemond held her close, feeling the warmth of her body against his. “No matter what challenges we face, we’ll face them together,” he promised.

Lyra smiled, her eyes bright with determination. “Always.”

As the festivities continued, Aemond felt a profound sense of purpose. He had once been caught in the shadows of his family’s legacy, but now, standing beside Lyra, he felt empowered to carve out a new destiny—one built on love, hope, and the promise of a brighter future.

In that moment, Aemond knew that together, they would rise above the flames of conflict and pave the way for a new era—one where their love could flourish amidst the ashes of war.

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adarkandmagicalforest · 11 months ago

Text

An Irritation p. 2

pairing: Otto Hightower/Targaryen Reader (twin to Daemon)

tags: explicit sexual content, hate fucking, mentions of incest, otto hightower talking about sin

Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight, Part Nine, Epilogue

She had not thought to do it again.

But then, Daemon had been expelled from his short term as Master of Laws and had been in an especially instigative mood since then. He'd dragged her from her bath, complaining all the while, demanding they fly together.

When she refused, as it was Winter and a storm was pouring rain over Kings Landing outside, he prodded her, viciously trying to get her to rise up to his fire. But Daemon was poor company when in such a mood, so his pushing only served to make her furious. She'd bit out some response and dressed in a mere robe before leaving through one of Maegor's tunnels, her brother glaring after her as she left.

She ended up at the Tower of the Hand soon enough.

But to her utter disappointment, Otto Hightower was nowhere to be found in his chambers.

But never one to suffer disappointment for long, the Princess began to help herself. He had not been here to stop her after all, and what did it matter if she wished to ruffle around in his things? He was their servant after all, it should have pleased him that his possessions could entertain her for a time, she mused as she explored the chest of drawers against the wall, the nightstand that held a pair of gloves and the desk with his papers. She even exchanged her robe for a pair of his trousers, loose and far too long for her much shorter legs, but an interesting sight nonetheless. She wished she could have found his pin, but the blasted man seemed to never take it off.

She had begun humming when she went through the rest of his clothes, the stale mass of dark grey, black and emerald green uninspiring until she found a pair of thick, woven ties inside.

They were clearly meant for holding, perhaps to fasten against his belt or some other mundane purpose, but she as a dragonrider thought them to be rather similar to reins .

And so the Princess took them, laying herself back on the Hand's neat belt, hoping dearly she would not need to wait long.

She counted near a half hour before her ears caught the sound of doors opening beyond the bedroom.

Pleased, her pale hand rose up and pushed her half-dry, ivory curls up in an artful array and arranged herself into a more comfortable position on her stomach, though the mix of his trousers, her long hair and the dark green ties that were idly wrapped around her wrists like bracelets was an odd one, but she liked the way it felt.

Minutes were all it took then for the door to creak open - it halted of course, halfway upon opening. The Princess ignored it, instead twirling the fabric about as her heart thudded in her chest, curious to see if Otto would play.

More heartbeats followed, but words were not uttered.

She could only hear his footsteps, stepping over the floor and to the rug beneath his large bed.

"I did not think I would receive a visit from you, Princess. I did not receive a missive nor warning of it." Otto finally said, not as negative as he could have been. For the past week, the Lord Hand had been thoroughly avoiding her, which was an interesting development, especially with Daemon's horrible attitude of late. Normally the old man would've started lashing criticisms of her and Daemon both, no matter which twin had earned his ire, always lumping the two together. But even with her brother wrecking havoc, she hadn't heard Viserys grousing once about hearing of her from his Hand.

So the dragon turned onto her back, her pale hair covering her breasts but hardly as a fine act of modesty, what with the curve of her small breasts and her soft pink nipples being well on display.

The movement caused the Hand's breath to hitch, just slightly, which made her lips turn up into a pleased grin. That would surely bother Otto, who's immediate twitch of his brow told her that his action had been an accidental one. "I thought you were a servant of my House, Otto - I did not think a servant required prior warning before I had need of him." She replied, lifting herself up onto her arms, peering up at him expectantly.

"Of course. Yet it would only be polite. Then, I should have expected that to be something that was beyond your worries, Princess." He said then, drifting closer now and placing his hands on the sturdy wooden footboard of his bed. He always kept such neat hands, she noticed blithely. Clean hands with clean fingers and clean fingernails. Only days ago, those fingers had been rubbing at her cunt til she came. Daemon would have taken this man apart piece by piece, slowly feeding each limb to Caraxes if he ever found out.

"Mmm. The worries of a Princess are more important than such things." She agreed. She squirmed slightly then, rubbing her thighs together. The texture of the trousers that she was wearing was rubbing against her, heat looming within her at the motion.

This action caught the Hand's attention instantly. "It seems though, you've been here for sometime." He said darkly, finally approaching her properly, now looking down at her as if he could frighten her.

"I have."

Finally, Otto reached for her, looking rather frustrated but also aroused in her opinion, especially as his hand smoothed over her pale stomach. His fingers pushed her loose hair out of the way of his path as his touch traversed her torso, moving carefully along her delicate ribcage and then up the curve of her pale breast, the warmth of his hand pleasant, especially as his thumb moved over her nipple. The Princess moved slightly, pressing herself up against this touch, encouraging him to stroke and pet her. Cannibal liked the same.

"You've been going through my possessions." He stated, disgruntled and yet still touching her. He was still roaming over her flesh, but now his hand was touching the trousers she'd stolen, perhaps noting after ducking them down an inch, that she wore nothing beneath them.

"I was bored."

This, he didn't like, because then his fingers began digging into her, his nails raking over her until she gasped and red marks raised up through her soft skin. She was soaking through his trousers, she knew, and was tempted to grab at his wrist and escort it down between her legs - but she was fascinated where he was going with this. How odd it was to think him an interesting lover.

"To think, a woman of your privileges, to be blessed by the Gods to rule - and yet to be damned by such sin." Otto finally said, an edge to him that made her ache. So this is how he wanted to play? Very well, she thought, ecstatic.

"Oh yes, I forgot how pious you are, Otto. It must have slipped my mind the last time you were wetting your cock with my whorish little cunt." The Princess almost purred back.

That flash of pissed off and starving came over his face, and then he climbed over her in the bed. His hand gruffly moved underneath her hair, grasping at her nape with force as he kissed her. She kissed him back hungrily, her hands reaching for him and yanking at his clothes, fantasizing for a moment about putting on his doublet with the gilded hand of the King pin, perhaps with him putting his mouth to good use at her cunt while she wore it.

But Otto had another thought, it seemed.

Because her hands, having been making work of the ties on his doublet, were suddenly seized with an iron grip and roughly pinned above her head. And those ties, which she had been wearing as bracelets, were now her reins - as they were now being tied against the headboard with such swift action that by the time she thought to struggle and wriggle and fight, it was already done.

She shouted her frustration, wriggling against the ties, but to no avail.

"So much fire and yet two little straps can keep you bound so tightly..." The Hand said, looking down at how she struggled.

If it wasn't for the fact that he was still touching her, his fingers rubbing over her sides and then up to her breasts, massaging at them near worshipfully, she might have made a stronger effort of it. She could escape, if she so wished.

Otto lowered his head then, kissing at her rib cage slowly. "If you were not born a Targaryen, a girl with your appetites would have been punished by the Seven already." He said, his wiry beard tickling her as he mouthed along her sternum and then up the curve of her breast. His mouth was warm, but the tantalizing thought that he was visiting her body as he might a Sept while also murmuring of punishment could dazzle her mind. "A girl with such a mind - " The Hand continued, kissing one pink nipple while his hand plucked at the other. " - one no better than a slut... If you were named anything else, even just a bastard perhaps, you would have been stripped down and paraded through the streets to atone for the whorish desires within you."

Hot arousal bloomed in her, needy and aching at his words. House Hightower had always been tied to the Faith, but she'd never believed religion to be anything more than lies told to shame children to behave. Now, devilishly, she wondered if she should have learned more of it - if just so she could combat old Otto more properly.

"And what does that make you, Otto? Touching your slut Princess like this, as I'm sure your dirty old Septons fantasize about too. Some faithful man you are... I wonder, what would your wife think if she could look upon you now, hm?" She mused back, glad to not be so breathless when his fingers began roughly unlacing her from her trousers. The laces rubbed against her flesh so quickly as he pulled them away, as he'd done so with such harshness that they left tiny rope burns on her stomach. The trousers were ripped away just as quickly, and her legs were pushed up, bending them against her chest.

The look on his face was dark and outraged, just as he usually looked whenever her or Daemon's lips ever quirked a smile or pushed the Hand to his limit.

This she was fine with, pleased to see some fire, but instead of receiving a cock, she got a rough hit. Otto's hand spanded over the softest part of her arse, just where her thigh met it, and even over her cunt. The smack stung unbelievably, and the sensation actually made her yelp in pain.

But that didn't stop the Hand's hand, who smacked her again. And again. Smack. Smack. Smack. Smack.

Seven times, she realized once her arse was burning hot and stinging painfully. He'd hit her once for each of his stupid gods. Her core was weeping, the contact from his smacks not enough to satisfy, just to torture her. Perhaps he hadn't meant these to arouse her, but the evidence was surely hard to ignore.

"You really are no better than a common whore, aren't you, Princess? Look at you - " Otto opened her cunt lips with his thumb, a wet sound joining it. "Pink, pulsing and soaking wet after I've just struck you. I should bring you to the King and have him look upon you. You would bring shame to him, no matter white hair graces your head or dragon you straddle between your legs that make you believe you are outside of the will of the Gods."

"Oh is that what you desire, Lord Hand? If you wished for an early - well, earlier, death, I could introduce you to my Cannibal. It would be my pleasure." She assured, feeling indeed to her pleasure when the older man took his time stroking her.

The petting she liked, but when he did not add to her neddling, she immediately began to push at him, needing so badly to be ridden.

"Gūrogon aōha jēda sir, Otto? Tolī uēpa naejot qogralbar nyke rhinka?" Taking your time today, Otto? Too old now to fuck me roughly? She murmured coyly, knowing just how to annoy him with her tone and use of High Valyrian, which had never failed her before.

His thumb pressed punishingly upon her clit then, making her hiss and raise her legs up high as if that would make him relent.

"You will cease to speak your foreign language at once if you expect a response." Otto commanded, his voice strict and heady even as his free hand snatched at her leg, placing it high over his shoulder while he forced his fingers inside of her - they slipped inside of her easily, wetly, before beginning to thrust them within her, his speed not enough - she needed him angrier.

"Kostilus istia gūrēñagon ziry pār, ser." Perhaps you should learn it then, ser. She replied, mirth in her voice. And that was enough, she saw, with just a sharp twitch of the Hand's brow.

Her cunt received another sharp smack of his hand, the strike over her clit now, making her yelp. A second came over her wet lips. And then, with no warning, Otto took her by her hips and flipped her onto her belly. His body followed, straddling the back of her thighs as he forced his lips along her back, moving her pale hair out of the way so he might kiss along her neck, even grazing his teeth over her shoulders and then down her spine while his hands roamed her lithe body with a worshipping touch. He was so unlike Daemon or her other past lovers - the dragon princess never quite knew what he would do next, especially as she was under his mercy. What did a would-be jumped-cut second born son want to do with his Princess? He had yet to suckle at her as he did their influence, this she was disappointed she had yet to experience to it's heights. But then, Otto grasped at her rear, spreading her arse so he might run his knuckle along her cunt and even her arsehole. Every part of her came alive as he did, awareness and thrill raising her blood with excitement.

A knock came.

To any other, this would have been the moment they stopped - almost getting caught the tipping of the glass that would have shattered the moment.

But not to a dragon.

She was Cannibal in a woman's form - and above all, she hungered. Wantonly, selfishly.

"If you do not fuck me right now, Otto Hightower, I will scream for all to hear." She threatened, turning her head to witness his face.

He did not disappoint. Fury crackled through the air, and he very nearly looked to scowl before reaching for the front of his breeches and taking out his cock. "What is it?" He called out coldly to whomever dared to interrupt.

The head of his manhood slipped inside of her, lingering for only a moment before being removed - and then roughly thrust back within her until he was fully sheathed in her, almost making her yelp if not for his hand slapping over her mouth to keep her quiet.

"The Small Council has been called, my Lord Hand, and are awaiting your arrival." A servant replied from behind the door.

Otto slammed his hips against her, his cockhead hitting that place within her cunt that she knew with enough attention would make her peak if he fucked her hard enough. She thrust backwards against him, needing more, but his fingers had dug into her soft hips tightly, forcing her still while he controlled the pace.

"What topic has the meeting been called for?" He questioned gruffly. The Hand pulled out of her again, lingering with just the head rubbing through her folds, before thrusting within her again.

"I believe it is - Prince Daemon, my Lord." Pain came through her hips then - Otto's fingernails had dug so hard into her flesh that he'd surely drawn up her blood. "He has landed the Blood Wyrm over a tavern in Fleabottom - with the storm this eve, there was much damage to the area, including the death of a local tavern owner."

There was no more teasing to be had now.

Her brother's Hand had finally begun doing as she wanted most - he'd roughly slammed his cock inside her, as deep as it could go, nearly taking her breath away at the force.

"I - will be along - shortly." He growled, punctuating each word with a thrust, not even waiting to hear a response for the poor fellow who had given along the message before beginning to fuck her with true earnest.

If she had a mind to, she might've wondered if he would not worry of throwing his back out with this action - but there were no thoughts to be had, let alone a mind left to her as she lowered herself onto her elbows as Otto rammed himself inside her, fury ruling his body as well as his lust as he fucked her. There was a loud, wet noise echoing throughout the room, with their shared grunts and her muffled whimpers joining it. Over and over again, he drove into her body, until she felt him bruising her hips and his cock repeatedly hit upon her cervix.

His hand suddenly removed itself from her mouth. It reached for her ties and undid them deftly before grasping at her throat. Her body was pulled up until she was pressed solidly against his chest, his cock still deep within her even as his lips brushed along her ear.

"Did you come here as a distraction then, Princess?" Otto inquired dangerously, the rumble of his voice making her shiver with delight. "So your brother might do as he wish through the city?"

She moaned softly, especially as his fingers wracked up her side, the pain whirling with the pleasure. She wanted to finish so badly, she could feel his cock throb within her - the talk of Daemon though had made him violent.

"Daemon does as he pleases whether or not if his twin sister knows or cares." The Princess replied restlessly. She rolled her hips back against him, but his grip was like iron.

"Does he?" He countered, accusation in his voice.

She shoved herself against his back, enough to free herself. Otto was still in a fury over Daemon's recklessness, and once her feet hit the floor, her hair was captured - and then her lips.

The kiss was fierce and mean, teeth clashing and his tongue demanding the submissiveness of hers, which he would never receive. She kissed him back hotly, gasping when he pulled her back onto the bed, her scalp stinging as he threw her onto her back.

When he finally did leave her, he did so with his cock still wet, and the dragon wondered idly if her brothers would be able to smell it on him.

#otto hightower x reader #otto hightower smut #otto hightower fanfiction #otto hightower #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #game of thrones #smut #fanfiction #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #an irritation #aella Targaryen

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daycourtofficial · 4 days ago

Note

Hazelnut Latte pweaseies 🥺 need me some cute baby princess hestia 🥺 (mayhaps a smidgen of pumpkin spice will weave its way through in the most girl dad of girl dad flavours)

Furthering the horse girl Eris agenda 🫡 it’s canon to me that Hestia enjoys horseback riding the most and goes out with Eris riding frequently

Order a coffee for Gingerfucker week here

Also shoutout to @lady-of-tearshed for her horse knowledge 🫡

“I can’t do it - she hates me.” Her red hair glistened in the sun as she turned away from Eris, his daughter unhappy with being forced to do anything.

Hestia was a sweet girl, a mischievous glint in her eye that was damn near permanent. As sweet as she was, she was also both hardheaded and stubborn, traits she was now using to get out of horseback riding lessons.

“The horse does not hate you, Hestia. You haven’t even touched her.”

“I see it in her eyes. I can feel her hatred. She wants to eat me.”

His youngest sized up the mare, a fell pony with a coat so black it would blend in with the hair of Hestia’s twin.

Hestia was about to turn nine, a fact Eris detested every day they inched closer to her birthday. He missed having tiny toddlers running around, but he found endless purpose being able to watch them grow up and away from him, into their own lives. He enjoyed watching them become less of an extension of himself and more of their own person.

It was a part of parenting he didn’t expect to enjoy nearly as much as he did. As they grew older, he prioritized nurturing their own interests with a healthy mix of other knowledge he deemed necessary. For instance, Aster was much more inclined to tolerate math lessons if allowed to spend time pouring over history lessons.

The only person around Hestia who could say no to her was her own mother.

Hestia was the last of his children to learn how to mount a horse, something she had refused to do for the past two years. Eris had finally put his foot down, insistent she learn before she turned nine. Her brothers had already been riding for several years, but Hestia had been too afraid to try. It was a topic of endless argument between Eris and the two females he lived with - one determined not to partake in lessons, the other determined to for Eris’s hand.

He had planned it for no room for discussion, the end of breakfast seeing him practically dragging Hestia out to the back stables to grab the pony.

The pair had to bypass Eris’s own favored steed, Cameron, to find the pony, a fact not forgotten by him as Cameron was dramatically whinnying from the other side of the field. He had brought out Emma, a sweet pony who loved when his sons rode her around the field. After grooming her, Eris had checked her hooves, content at not finding any rocks stuck.

Hestia’s violet eyes looked up at him, the twinkle of fear in them tugging on his heart strings.

“Hestia, we’re not leaving until you get on the horse. You won’t be hurt, I promise.”

“Promise?”

Eris sighed. “I promise if this pony tries to hurt you, she’ll become dinner.”

“Daddy! You can’t kill the pony.”

“I certainly can if the pony hurts you.”

“Can I kill things that hurt you?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Hestia was a physical illusion, a trick of the eye. She looked just like Eris until she wanted something, her pouty lips turning her into her mother.

“How about we wait until you’re older before we begin discussing murder, hm? For now, get on the pony.” She looked at him, Eris quickly rushing to add, “please.”

Somehow his words worked, Hestia moving beside the horse until Eris held his hands out, helping her get her footing to reach the stirrup.

“One hand on the reins.” Hestia followed his instruction, her hand clutched tight to the reins, waiting for more. “Other on the pommel.” She listened, her hands holding the leather tight.

“Now, relax your legs. You want them firm, but you don’t want to confuse her.” She gave him a confused face, causing him to take a breath and simplify.

“Look forward. Keep your heels down.”

“You’re telling me too much.” Her voice came out like a whine, like she was much younger.

“Okay.” Eris held his hands up, taking his place in front of the pony. “Just look at me, Tia. Daddy’s got you.”

Hestia nodded, still unsure, but Eris grabbed the reins and the horse moved forward slowly, her steps mirroring Eris’s as he moved backward. Hestia kept her eyes on Eris, not looking away from him for one second.

Eris guided Emma in a full circle following the fence, her walk slow but comforting to Hestia.

“You’re doing it.”

Hestia kept repeating what she was told to do: eyes forward, heels down, relaxed legs. Over and over the words tossed and turned in her mind.

“I’m doing it, daddy.”

The two beamed at each other, pride pouring from every inch of their matching faces.

#ask #gingerfucker #gf blurbs #gingerfucker week #eris x y/n #eris x reader #eris x you

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anamazingangie · 11 months ago

Text

Ménage | Rhaenyra x Aegon x Aemond

🕯️ Rated E 🕯️4.2k words 🕯️ Complete 🕯️ by AmazingAngie🕯️

Tags: Historical AU, Sibling Incest, Manipulation, Underage Kissing, First Kiss, First Times, Anal Sex, Double Penetration, Come Eating, Cunnilingus, Dom!Rhaenyra, Coming of Age, Consent Issues, Rhaenyra-Centric, Threesome - F/M/M

Warning: sex between minors [fifteen and seventeen when it begins]. Summary:

Rhaenyra despised her siblings, a pair of twin boys two year her junior - at least until she realized they would do things for her. Anything for her. The realm of such things changed as they matured, and in time Rhaenyra's hormones left her feeling rather fond of the pair she had previously merely tolerated. His pale chest was flushed along with his cheeks as she watched him stroke his soft length to something a different shape and size entirely. It was like magic. He spilled over his hand, making a mess of himself with his own seed. She wanted to touch. She wanted to taste. She did neither, she simply demanded for him to, “Do it again.” or: rhaenyra is either a very good, or very bad sister, depending on who you ask.

One

At first, Rhaenyra had hated her brothers.

She lacked any and all maternal instincts towards infants, and so she lacked any and all patience for their screams and stench and all other annoyances that came with their mere existence. It was only made worse by the fact there were two of them. Two boys.

Truly, if looks could kill, they would have been found dead in their cradles just hours after she met them. Nevermind that she herself was only two at the time, she was old enough to hold enough to know her dislikes, old enough to hold a grudge and certainly old enough to hate them on first impression alone.

And first impressions mattered a great deal.

And so, her feelings towards them did not change, not for years.

By the age of seven, Rhaenyra had earned the title of Realm’s Delight. She was known on the small island of Dragonstone and among their people for her beauty, boisterous spirit, and impeccable—slightly frightening—skills on horseback.

And it wasn’t just the people who were awed by the princess—but rather her brother’s, too. The pair had been five then, old enough to care what other people thought of them.

Old enough to know their sister did not care for them.

Old enough that they wanted her too.

And Rhaenyra…she was old enough to see this.

Smart enough to use this for her benefit.

And really really, it was a kindness when she gave them such opportunities to improve her opinion of them.

And so, she would have them fetch her lemonade or tea or servants.

She would have them steal cakes and pastries from the kitchens on her behalf.

Sometimes she would tell the groom she wanted to brush down Syrax and that they were excused.

It wasn’t a lie, and she would brush down Syrax. But the other tasks that were expected to go along with this—such as beating dust from the saddle blanket, conditioning the leather of her reins, and polishing bits—were ones she’d give to her brothers.

And they would fight for the tasks. Competitive over the mere opportunity to impress her.

She liked that.

She took advantage of it.

But who could blame her, when they liked it too?

Fondness for them grew very slowly. She still treated them more like her servants than her siblings, truly, but by the time she was ten she could acknowledge she would be sad if something happened to them.

When they were ten, they were mourning the fact they would have to leave Dragonstone to attend the Crownlands College that all Targaryen men claimed as their alumni, at least since its founding in the 300s. After all, their family—then ‘the crown’ for all of Westeros—had founded the institution.

She was jealous that they were getting a proper schooling, simply because they were boys. Why shouldn’t she have such an opportunity? She was much smarter. Er, at least smarter than Aegon. Aemond was rather annoying bookish, she knew that from their shared lessons. He could beat her at sums despite her being years older.

It was true her lessons from a septa and maester’s who taught her just as much as the private college would, if not more, it didn’t seem fair.

And on top of that, though she didn’t admit to them—or to herself, really—that she might miss them too.

They had only been gone for three moons when word came—Aemond had been injured rather horribly in a fight. He and his brother were being returned to Dragonstone by the fastest ship their father’s coin could buy, to be attended by the maester’s their own keep had in residence.

Even then, it wasn’t enough to save the eye.

They worried infection would spread and he might lose all his sight. If not his life from fever that could poison his blood.

Rhaenyra didn’t cry. She didn’t. But her voice might have wavered when she spoke to Aemond after hearing this—unwilling to let the horrors of what had happened to him change her treatment of him.

On the matter of his potential blindness, all she had to say was, “Just think—you have been blessed to see a face as pretty as mine for a decade—that is more beauty than most men get to see in their lifetime.”

His face was bandaged, and the sliver of eye she could see was cloudy from the high dose of the milk of poppy he was being given for the pain. But he still managed a tiny smile. Tiny for him, even, which was impressive given how he tended to hide them. So different from Aegon, whose face was often dressed in a wide grin.

“Isn’t it all the more tragic, if i’ve seen such beauty and now have to go without?” He said, his voice sounding small and dry and not like him at all. She wanted to cover his lips with her palm, tell him not to talk until he sounded as he should again. Until he sounded strong.

“I suppose, then, you must fight—insist to your body and self that you require sight. Perhaps it will permit you to keep it.” She told him.

“I’m not as stubborn as you, sister, I’m not sure I can.” He admitted.

She huffed, “Consider it a command then—and I know you wish not to disappoint me.”

He swallowed, and his eyelid fluttered shut. She wondered if she even heard her, but then he nodded slightly and said, “Okay.”

His recovery was surprisingly swift, and infection never came.

Aegon said it was because Rhaenyra visited so often she scared it away. That earned him a glare.

“I’m the scary one? Your delusions do you no justice, brother, clearly you forget your twin is a bloodied cyclops!” She screeched.

“See!” He had claimed, nearly victorious, “Now you shriek like a banshee!”

“Banshees herald the dead, brother, if I sound like one, perhaps you should be concerned for yourself.” She said, primly.

He paled and scurried from the room.

Rhaenyra thought if Aegon was the one who had been injured, she would not have been so attentive.

He was certainly the most objectionable of her siblings, at least, in all but looks. He had a sweet boyish face that promised to turn into something handsome. Aemond’s features, however, were longer and his expression rather solemn. They were very different—and no matter what she told herself, she would be unable to choose between them if forced to.

When her courses came, they came to her.

They had questions. They had badgered a poor serving girl into admitting Rhaenyra was bed bound for her monthlies.

Of course, they had come running to ask Rhaenyra what monthlies were. The end result was their expressions—a mixture of horror and intrigue.

“You’re bleeding?” Aemond said, rather stunned. “Does it hurt?” He wondered.

She shifted her hips and nodded, “Mhm, but not…not like a wound, rather a great deal of pressure in my abdomen.

“Does it bleed from there?” Aegon wondered, with a vague gesture to her stomach and a far off expression on his face.

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, “My navel is not a facet you imbecile, no, it’s—” she flushed, looking down at her lap but carrying on, “It’s between my legs.” She admitted.

Their eyes widened. “Can we see?” Aegon asked.

Rhaenyra sputtered, finding herself at a loss for words.

She settled on a classic response to Aegon’s questions: throwing a book at him.

She had always been rather tactile with her brother’s, in a way she wasn’t—and wasn’t permitted to be—with others. She hadn’t thought much of it, they were siblings, and in a way they were her…well, it would be bad form to call them her serfs for she did not own them, but as their older sister she felt rather entitled to them in every way, and they had little protest to this.

So they touched.

She did not ask before grabbing their arm, or sitting next to them, close enough that they knew the feeling of the other’s thigh against their own. She’d crawled into bed with them on stormy nights, tackled them to the ground during games of tag, and shoved them off the cliffs on warm summer days when they were too fearful to dive from them without help.

It had never meant anything at all. It was just the way of things, the way she treated them.

It didn’t change as they grew older.

Maybe it should have.

Aegon was, in her opinion, being an insufferable little jit. He refused to mount his mare, Sunfyre, even though they had agreed over breakfast to ride at this hour.

“I can’t.” He moaned, shifting awkwardly with his hands awkwardly at his crotch.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Why can’t you?” She asked.

He flushed, before admitting he was hard and when that was hard it was like his whole body was stiff.

“I don’t believe you.” She said, and then, “You’ll have to show me it.”

His cheeks were flaming but he obeyed, unlacing his breeches and freeing the tunic that was cut long enough to cover his loins. Sure enough, the dangly bit she’d seen between her brother’s legs in childhood—when they were young enough it was not inappropriate, mind you—had managed to grow and harden into something rather…well…she was blushing now.

“Ugh. Put it away.” She said, turning to Syrax and hiding her rosy cheeks. “I shall take her to the meadow while that…you…whatever.” She said, mounting her saddle and leaving before he could respond.

She thought about it. More than she probably should. She was a curious girl, she wanted to know how it worked.

It was night time, a few days after that incident, and she slipped into her brothers’ rooms, pulled the covers from Aegon’s nearly nude form, and demanded to see it.

His pale chest was flushed along with his cheeks as she watched him stroke his soft length to something a different shape and size entirely. It was like magic.

He spilled over his hand, making a mess of himself with his own seed.

She wanted to touch.

She wanted to taste.

She did neither, she simply demanded for him to, “Do it again.”

Aemond’s was different from his brother’s—longer, leaner, not unlike the rest of their forms. Disappointedly, he was too shy to touch himself in front of her, saying he was too embarrassed to stay hard.

Well. Then she would have to make him get hard.

He flinched when she stroked the soft skin, wrinkled and deflated as it lay against his thigh instead of in the stiff erection it had formed a moment ago.

She wanted her brothers to reach their full potential, always. And wasn’t their full length part of that?

He told her no.

She reminded him that he never told her that. She was his older sister.

He had to obey her. He liked obeying her.

“Please?” She finally said, and he nodded.

He grew harder in her hand, and she kept stroking, fascinated by the difference in feel and weight in her palm, it seemed to throb where it had once been so very soft. It was as if the appendage pounded with its need for release, the sound nonexistent but almost like a tune in her head, the beat of which drowned out Aemond’s pleas, his sounds of pleasure, and even the sound of his release.

She did taste it this time, a curious lick on the white goo that had spilled across his penis and her palm.

She’d always had a sweet tooth, but no matter how this resembled the drizzle on iced buns, it had no such flavor.

It was salty.

Gross.

A week later, Aegon kissed a maid. Their father’s hand, Ser Otto Hightower, who was also Aegon’s grandfather, caught them in the halls. This led them to all getting lectures on the matters of intimacy outside of marriage. On the matter of it being a dire sin.

Rhaenyra hardly heard the septas' words on this matter. She was vibrating with…rage? Jealousy? She wasn’t sure. She just knew the reason for this lecture on the horrors that were intimate interludes out of wedlock were prompted by Aegon’s actions. His intimate interlude. One that did not involve her.

She was Aegon’s older sister and yet she did not know what it was to kiss. But still, surely it should be her duty to teach him such a thing.

Surely she should be his first kiss.

Surely he should suffer for depriving her of this.

She ignored him for the rest of the day. He hated being ignored.

Then, after changing for bed, she slipped into their shared chambers. Both boys were awake, and on this occasion she slunk past Aegon in pursuit of Aemond.

She would have his first kiss.

He would never know it was her first kiss, too.

And Aegon would simply have to watch.

Eventually he begged and whined to the point where his eyes were red and his nose was snotty. So spoiled. Even though he deserved this for his crime—of seeking a girl other than his sister—she thought he’d been punished enough.

When she kissed him that night, his lips were just as soft as Aemond’s, but they were different, too. He was more forward, more confident—that didn’t come from practice, she didn’t think, but rather his enthusiasm and recklessness that his brother lacked.

And, of course, his lips tasted of his tears. Salty, though in a way far more pleasant than the taste of seed.

Or perhaps the taste was not so different.

Perhaps she just enjoyed the flavor more when it came from sorrow.

And Aegon was so pretty when he cried.

Both of them grew to expect her kisses—not only when they were in close proximity, but as a reward for bringing her something or completing a favor.

She thought they were like hounds, expecting a bit of jerky as a treat for being good.

She played with them as if they were hounds, finding great amusement in promising her lips to whichever sat with the best posture or heeled with the greatest obedience.

Sometimes she insisted on their nudity in this, for how else could she examine the straightness of their spine and set of their shoulders?

It had nothing to do with her curiosity of the male form. Of course not.

Though, she would admit to being curious over how their forms changed, their height and structure seeming to grow as they slept if not right before her eyes.

It seemed just as she had come to terms with having siblings—having brothers—she would have to come to terms with her brothers becoming men.

Aegon found the book. Of course he did.

While Aemond was studious in his lessons, Aegon searched the library for hidden treasure, an indiscretion he’d practiced for years. Despite this, there were still shelves that had not suffered his scrutiny, for the room and its contents were rather vast.

Of course, some of the cases he had looked over with careful eyes long ago needed to be examined once more, now that he was older. For as a boy he was rather blind—or rather, had a different definition—to what treasure truly was.

It was a small book, but not shamefully so. It was bound in bright red leather, stamped in gold, and though it lacked an author's name on the title page, the title itself was too distracting for any of them to care;

A Collection of Erotic Postures

They were all varying shades of pink as each page was turned, the black and white engravings lacking color but bringing to light so many things. It was fascinating how the forms fit together.

Man and woman.

Nymph and satyr.

Woman and woman.

Man and man.

At first they spoke over their examination of the engravings—sharing their shock with each page that passed. But soon their shock was implied by mere gasps, and no words were shared until the end was reached and the book was closed.

It was inevitable that they would eventually grow curious enough to try one.

With the light now so very bright, how could they not wish to bring some of the acts to life?

Rhaenyra pointed to the sketch on page eight, captioned with;

Cunnilingue.

[stimulation to the cunnus via leikhein]

Aegon obliged.

She was slightly surprised, but not displeased by any means, to find that she felt little embarrassment or feelings of self consciousness in front of her brother’s—even with her skirts bundled in her lap, her legs spread, and Aegon’s face buried in the seam that led to her core.

She felt other things though. Good things. Things that had her fingers digging into Aegon’s curled locks and desperately trying to stifle gasps because gods be good this was—

When it was over, Aegon trailed his fingers through the mess, “You’re leaking, still, sister.”

She said nothing. If she was capable of speech at all, it didn’t matter, for she did not have the ability to find words to respond with, not in that moment.

She should have tried, though, for Aegon was rather smug and took charge while her wits were absent—“You should clean her up, Aemond.” He suggested.

She wasn’t worried, he was much too shy to follow his brother's suggestion.

Or so she thought.

He wasn’t as enthusiastic as Aegon, not as messy, either. He nuzzled her with his nose first—seeming to inhale her scent before he set about cleaning all that had spilled from her. It was rather ineffective, though, with how she peaked again in the process.

After that, speech was not the only thing that left her. She also found it rather difficult to walk.

…that did not stop her from demanding this act again the next day.

One day, the boys fought over who could have the pleasure of tasting her.

She rolled her eyes, they were closer to men now yet still acting like children and she was tired of it. She had just come to tolerate them as brother’s but she had no desire to mother them.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m now longer in the mood.” She said, dropping her skirts and crossing her arms.

Aegon sputtered, whereas Aemond just looked sad.

“I mean it, too. If you want to taste lips of any sort today your only option is each other’s.”

She hadn’t really expected them to take this as a command—or perhaps they didn’t, they were just waiting for any mention of such a thing so they could have this opportunity.

Regardless, the outcome was the same, and they wasted little time in joining their lips.

They didn’t part their lips until after they had rut together and spilled in their breeches.

Rhaenyra was…not jealous, exactly, but rather awed by the site of them together. For as annoying as her brothers could be, she had always known they were good looking. But this was somehow intensified several times over when they were together like this.

No, if anything, her frustration stemmed from the fact they had so much clothing on, rather than jealousy.

Perhaps, though, she was a little aroused.

That night, she told Aegon to feast on her folds until she came—then to share her flavor with his brother, using the vessel of his tongue.

They became hard during—of course they did, everything made them hard.

Boys.

Men.

Brothers.

She told them to take care of the unsightly stiffened lengths, and despite the flush that spread across Aemond’s cheeks she knew from the show that morning that he was not opposed.

But first, she demanded they remove their sleep clothes. She wanted to see it. See the pulse of their cocks when they came. The ropes of white seed across their pale skin, shining in the moonlight.

She wanted to see them lick it up with their greedy tongues, pink muscle lapping at light skin until the essence was gone and only saliva remained.

They did.

After—well, her arousal had bloomed to the point where she demanded Aemond’s mouth, too.

They fucked each other long before her. Fears of pregnancy making her weary of having their lengths in her cunt.

But it was not as if that was the only entry she had…in fact, this was detailed in the red book that they studied with more faithfulness than they ever had to the Seven.

The engravings showed the act, which involved what they called the,

‘Quim of every human—man and woman, tucked between the cheeks of one's arse.

This hole does not weep the way of a woman’s sheath, it must be greased or oiled — when adequately done,

the receptacle will still squeak, but they will not suffer.’

It spoke the truth. Aegon did squeak as his brother tentatively worked his long fingers into his parted cheeks.

He had to stifle screams when fingers were replaced by Aemond’s cock.

And so, this became a new game they played.

She watched them for weeks before deciding to partake. Aegon was enthusiastic in getting her ready, where Aemond was tentative about pressing into her. But in the end they were all breathless—well, except for Aegon, who wasted no time in taking his brother’s place inside her, his path lubricated by his siblings' seed.

It was good, the feeling of being stretched. Of being filled.

She wanted such a sensation somewhere else.

She had them—one after the other—in her cunt on her seventeenth name day. It was dangerous, she knew, but she had found notes in a midwifery book that spoke to safe times of the month, calculated by the days following a woman’s courses. And so she had tracked them dutifully for months until there was enough consistency she felt confident.

Even still, she told them they had to pull out. Her cunt would not taste their seed until she was married.

They obeyed, just as they always did.

Aegon went first, licking her until she came before pressing inside of her—the intrusion one that made them both groan with pleasure. His thrusts were uneven and it was over fast but she could see how one could find pleasure in this act, given enough practice.

He spilled across her stomach, before Aemond took his place.

He was longer.

The differences in their cocks was obvious when you looked at them, or felt them with your palm. She’d forced their lengths together as they stood, stroking and admiring the width of Aegon’s next to the length of Aemond’s. As if they had the same mass but were formed into different shapes, the same while not being even remotely similar. Quite like the men the appendages belonged to.

What she knew of their lengths before this was that Aegon’s was more of a challenge to get in, given the width of it. But once deep enough to slide with ease, she thought any intrusion in her rear felt rather the same.

But this.

She understood now, why women were meant to be penetrated here. Every drag of his cock lit up pathways of nerves inside her that made her clench and shiver. She felt the precise shape of him inside of her, the length, the curve, and it all culminated in her peaking—a moment before he pulled from her and spilled across her folds.

Both of them were prompt in how they licked up their seed, lilac eyes looking at her heaving bosom as she attempted to catch her breath, all while they continued to dine upon the masculine syrup coating her creamy flesh.

For their sixteenth birthday, she had them both.

Gods.

She did not believe in any faith, really, but this almost made her think some higher power existed. Why else would they bestow men and women with such parts that fit together like this? That felt so good?

She had never felt more powerful in that moment, when she was pressed between them, speared on both of them….and yet she had never felt more vulnerable, either, for she realized how small she now was compared to their forms. They had grown to a point where they could defy her commands, but they didn’t, and she trusted them, even with her body and something like this.

And for that reason, at that moment, she had never felt closer to them—and not just because she was full of their cocks, with lips pressing kisses to either side of her neck. Though she rather liked that part of this, too.

It was difficult enough to orchestrate that they were only able to have each other this way a handful of times in the following few months. But they hardly went unsatisfied, not with the engravings to guide them and their mouths and fingers eager to thrust when time or locale did not allow for a cock.

It was shaping up to be a rather blissful year, she thought.

And then, their father died.

story notes:

the "book" was inspired by later takes on the I Modi, a very erm, inspired, renaissance work with detailed engravings of numerous positions.

this was supposed to have a chapter two in which daemon returned to dragonstone and claimed the title for himself...along with his. brother's children. but due to lack of interest i've scrapped it for now.

#hotd #fanfic #ao3 #house of the dragon #Rhaenyra Targaryen #fic #a03 #HOTD #Angie writes #rhaegon #rhaemond #rhaenyra x aegon #rhaenyra x aemond #rhaenyra x aemond x aegon #greencest #twins #siblings #f/m/m #aegon/aemond

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geddy-leesbian · 5 months ago

Text

since June 1st is the birthday I've had picked out for the twins in my rockstar/actor!Luis AU, here's a quick lil drabble of their fourth birthday 💖

The second he opens the door to the playroom, Luis is bombarded by the twins. Both of them are wearing their poofy, sparkly, fancy princess dresses; Juliana's is purple, and Belén's is pink. He takes it like a champ, immediately grinning and kneeling down to hug them and kiss the tops of their heads.

“Birthday girls!” Luis ruffles their hair and notices something. “Where did your tiaras you had this morning go?!”

“Up there,” Leon says, pointing to the top of their adorable, on-theme castle shaped bookshelf. “Had to take them away because they kept taking them off and trying to beat each other with them.”

“Slander. My sweet princesses would never do such a thing.” Luis says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Leon rolls his eyes. The twins were good kids, never had any problems with other kids at preschool, but they did like to rough house with each other. It was perfectly normal for their age so they didn't punish them for it and mostly let it play out, but Leon or Luis always had to watch closely to make sure they didn't accidentally get too rough and actually hurt each other. Which usually just meant taking away whatever objects they decided were makeshift weapons.

“Papi! Papi!” Juliana suddenly shouts right into Luis's ear, making him wince. She was definitely Luis's daughter. With each passing day, she looked more and more like him. Her sister retained her pale complexion and light red hair, but Juliana's had darkened as she aged. Now she has dark brown hair and warm tanned skin only a little bit lighter than her father's. She took after him in personality too, always talking, usually obnoxiously loudly too. “Can we ride horses now? Please? We wanted to before but Daddy said we had to wait for you.”

“No, no!” Belén jumps in. “Sing for us?”

“No! Horses!”

Leon gets a little misty eyed watching the scene unfold. They know it's their birthday. The special occasion is why they've got their full princess costumes on, and Leon kept hyping them up all day, reminding them that Papi had a surprise work thing, but as soon as he got home there would be birthday presents and cake. Now he's home, and the twins just want the same things he does with most normal days.

“It's okay, princesses, no fighting! We do both! Horses in a few minutes, music when we're done. Then cake and presents! I see Daddy already braided your hair, so go to your room and get changed, then get your helmets and boots on,” The twins run off, giving Luis space to greet Leon with a kiss on the cheek. Leon isn't even showing yet, but that doesn't stop Luis from rubbing his belly to greet their third that's now on the way. “Hey, mi amor, I love you. I got the living room decorated before coming back here, but seems like they really want out there for a bit, before we get going on birthday festivities. I know you feel too anxious to ride now, but are you up for going out and walking with us?”

“Yeah,” While he didn't let it show, Leon was just as eager as the twins to get out there. Though he didn't grow up with access to a horse like Luis did, he'd quickly come around and really enjoyed the family time they had doing trail rides. They had two horses, so Leon would ride with one twin in front of him, and Luis would ride with the other twin. He wasn't going to just give that up, he was happy to walk beside holding the reins to lead one horse, since the twins weren't ready to ride on their own. “I can definitely handle that. And I'm sorry you have to come home from work and immediately have to do a bunch of shit for them with no break. Would've gotten the decorations up myself and taken them outside to run around and get some energy out before you got home, but this damn first trimester fatigue is kicking my ass. I'll be fine walking, just didn't have the energy for chasing them around.”

“You're so stupid sometimes. You should know by now that doing things for and with them is a break for me. I'm sorry, that I had to spend the first half of their birthday on the movie set instead of here celebrating, giving you a break to nap…”

“It's okay, your movie is important too. I'm excited to see it. I'm tired, but I'll live. How's your voice going to be though? Don't want you wearing it out, they'll be okay if they go right from horses to presents with no singing.”

“It's their birthday, they want me to sing, I'm going to sing. My voice is okay. Today was just last minute reshoots of something the director randomly decided he didn't like. There was no singing, soundtrack was done weeks ago.”

When the twins come back into the room, Luis fusses over their helmets, making sure they're on properly. Then Leon heads for the living room with them. He grins when he sees the living room. Luis, of course, went all out, filling the room with so much glittery pink shit. Balloons, streamers, banners with their names, a small piñata… Leon half expects the girls to get distracted by it all and not want to go outside anymore, but they appear to be hell bent on getting horse time and go right to the front door without hesitation.

While Luis changes into his boots, Leon grabs the twins’ hands and starts walking out, knowing Luis is a fast enough walker to catch up easily. They inherited Luis's tendency to wander and run off outside, so Leon always insisted on holding their hands for even the shortest of walks outside. (Luis was less strict about it, believing a little bit of childhood wandering was healthy, but accepting of Leon's desire to be more cautious.)

#woo okay time to shift gears back into my RE Gaiden au. which also has girl dad luis so.#luis serra #leon kennedy #serennedy #serrennedy

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