#aemond Targaryen

[barbieaemond]

EWAN MITCHELL as AEMOND TARGARYEN House of the Dragon 2.01

[aemondtargaryens]

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON 2.05 — Regent

[spicyboelives]

Aemond Sketches

[mylittlepimp]

I said what I said

(honestly I feel like I'm wrong on Harwin and Aemond. Maybe it's both? I don't know)

[barbieaemond]

EWAN MITCHELL as AEMOND TARGARYEN in every episode → 2.01 "A son for a son"

[hotdaemondtargaryen]

i miss them.

[romanteacism]

Knight Aemond x Princess Reader How Did it End?

Synopsis: We hereby conduct this post-mortem on how you and Ser Aemond had end. Warnings: None (yet), Angst, Princess and Aemond's (not so) Secret Relationship, Not proofread (like srsly...pls bear with me, i'm dyslexic) PREVIOUS PART A/N: Bear with me here-- istg this will pay off 🥹

How did it end? Even you yourself did not know how or why; it just did. All of it ended without a clear explanation. One did not know that the last kiss shared would truly be the last. Or did they know that the last lingering touch would no longer remain and burn the fire of longing. All of it just ended. Abrupt and unforseen. And all of it ended with the blandest of goodbyes. 

Two years had passed, and you still had no clear explanation as to why he had left. Why did he leave with no warning or reason? Why did he leave his post— his duty— his oath that he would forever be by your side until his dying breath? Ser Aemond did not give an excuse as to why he had left you. You only garnered minuscule information here and there that Ser Aemond had to rush back to his family’s seat as his brother, Lord Aegon Targaryen, had fled as he had no wish for duty. Leaving the post to his brother, who quickly left his station, his princess, and his heart in the capitol.

It could be considered treason to be a deserter, but Aemond had enough forethought to tell the King of his situation but not enough as he had made no explanation to the princess. Leaving her in anguish as she could not understand why the man she loved, the man who promised her devotion and security, just left without a word. You were in a state of denial the first few weeks. Blaming yourself as you thought your ungratefulness and want of space made your knight leave. You wrote letter after letter, prayed prayer after prayer, hoping you would be heard and have Ser Aemond back. But after two moons of ignorance and neglect, you began to realize that you had lost him. You began to accept that he was never coming back. That he would never return to you. That the space you had foolishly wished for was given in full. 

It did not go unnoticed by the court as to how their lively and cheery princess had grown somber and desolate the moons following her knight’s departure. Your eldest brother was the first to notice. He watched as you tried to appear unbothered in the eyes of the court but quickly be overcome with tears and sadness when you were left alone. The king was next to notice, feeling guilty as he did not hinder your knight from leaving as he thought it was best after what he had seen in the north. 

He thought the two of you were just a passing fancy, and he thought it better to dissolve whatever the two of you had now before it progressed because he would hate to see his daughter be placed in the shoes of his grandmother, who had fallen for her knight. But as the king saw the grave sadness in his daughter’s eyes, how whatever they did to cheer her up— new shoes, dresses, pieces of jewelry, parties, balls, or even the freedom and independence she craved did nothing to lessen the sadness in her. 

That was when the king asked for the aid of your eldest brother. Confiding in him what he had seen. There he found out the whole truth of it and how his eldest already knew of the situation at hand. You had fallen deeply and madly for your knight, and your father was only consumed in further guilt as he had been one of the reasons why your heart was now in pain. 

The King tried earnestly to reverse what was done. He tried to summon Ser Aemond, who now held the title of Lord Targaryen, but he was never given a direct answer from his daughter’s knight. Only his courtiers stated the lord’s regrets as he could not leave his new post to return to his old one. 

It did not take too long for rumors to spread that the reason for the departure of the princess’ knight, who was rarely seen not by her side, was because he had taken the title of his older brother and, along with the title, came the responsibilities of a lord and the duty to find a suitable wife. Aemond was made to leave his princess to take responsibility for what his brother had left when he fled, and he needed to marry the girl who was escaped by her betrothed. 

When the news began to spread, your father dreaded for you to hear it and went to great lengths for it not to reach ears. Going as far as sending you to a neighboring kingdom along with your older brother and mother. Leaving your father and eldest brother to wait until the story dies and went to great measures so that it would not be revived when you come back home. 

There, in the neighboring kingdom, you met the crowned prince. A prince your mother had pushed upon you as she was overzealous with the idea of you marrying someone with the same station as you but more passionate with the thought that you would live an ocean away. It did not take long before your mother and Prince Andrew’s father to betrothed the two of you. You could not even find the strength to rebel, to hinder the betrothal placed as the fire and life within you died when your love had left. 

Word was quick to spread that the princess had found herself a prince. Even went as far as to say that you were already married off in the neighboring kingdom as your father quickly sailed there to oversee the plans your mother had made. 

The news that their beloved princess was married reached everyone, and all was joyous of the news. All but one. As Aemond heard about the betrothal, the fire that had died in his veins burned hot with rage. He had the urge to run to you— to finally respond to the multitudes of letters you sent— to sail to the neighboring kingdom and take you. Leave all of it behind, just as his brother had done. But as he remembered what he did, how he left you with no further explanation. How he ignored your calls and pleas, and how he had a betrothed himself, he knew he had no leg to stand on. He knew that you were truly far gone. That his heart— the only girl he ever loved, found another while he had to settle and be at peace with the duty he chose over her. 

As much as the news of your betrothal became prolific, and as much as your mother had wanted the marriage, it did not happen. Your supposed betrothed was in love with someone else, as were you. Leaving whatever plans your parents had made futile, and you sailed back home unburdened by a betrothal or marriage. Though no one made any word to dispute what your citizens came to know, so in their eyes, you were as good as married. 

You spent your days in solitude. You rarely left the halls of your castle and only attended balls when you had no choice but to. It took a year for your older brother, the prince, to learn of the true relationship between you and your knight. And he only came to know because he had overheard your father and brother speaking of what to do. The prince could not believe what he had heard, but at the same time, it finally gave him the answers for your sudden change. None spoke of it, of course. They tried earnestly to reverse your melancholia, but none addressed the reason for it. 

You let the days pass you. Tried hard not to think of Aemond and what the two of you were but, at the same time, did so because, by some paradox, it was the only thing that brought you a sense of happiness. You cursed the gods and fates because how could you be so cruel to let you have a glimpse— a taste of what love felt like harshly snatch it away from your grasp. Leaving you bereft and reeling off what you could have had. 

You wanted to hate him— to curse him for how he had left you broken, but you could not have the heart to do so. You tried to rest easy in the thought that even though you were left broken, at least your love was happy in his choice. That you two were simply not fated for one another, and no matter how hard you stubbornly try to make it so, it wouldn’t work. 

So, instead, you tried to distract yourself. To go back to your customs before you met Aemond. You plunged yourself into distraction after distraction. From attending court to asking for duties to even taking care of the litter of kittens your cats had. Anything and everything just so your mind would not wander back to your knight and wonder what could have been. 

It seemed to work for a while, with you preoccupied with your duties and the matters of the court. However, when you caught word that Aemond was betrothed to a noblewoman and both of them and their kin were on their way to the capitol to finally ask the blessing of your father, all your progress had undone itself.

Your brothers fretted as they realized that the news had reached your ears. They stood outside the door of your chambers and tried to speak of a plan on what to do, but as they heard your faint cries, they realized that whatever they tried to cheer you up would be moot as you once again needed to grieve the loss of your life.

As Aemond arrived in the capitol and began to walk the halls of your home with his future bride by his side, myriads of emotions swirled within him, but what was most prominent was fear. In his years, Aemond had grown unacquainted with fear. As a knight, he was taught to no longer feel such emotions, but all the teachings instilled in him were forgotten as he dreaded to face you. 

He was filled with unease to see the consequences of his actions— to see you once more after he had broken your trust and heart. But what he probably dreaded most was seeing you with the man that the kingdom had speculated to be your husband. He could not stomach thinking that you were already bound to someone else. That your skin had touched another, that your lips had tasted another than his. He could not phantom the thought that you, his princess, were no longer his. 

Hypocritical as it is, Aemond believed that you would not let someone else take your hand. That you would wait for him because you had always promised that. You made an oath to him that you would never love anyone else nor let another take your hand but him. But it would seem like the both of you had broken your oaths, and Aemond could utter no complaint as he broke his first. 

Aemond mindlessly nodded as his betrothed gushed in excitement about their presence in the great palace. Marveling at the keep and the lavishness it held. Naught a thing changed since he had left. Aemond caught the curious gazes of passersby as he returned. Shamelessly eyeing and whispering about him as he passed, he could no longer bring himself to frown at their actions because his body was filled with anticipation of catching a glimpse of you. 

“Oh, my darling… just think of it! Our wedding ceremonies could be made here!” Lady Cassandra, Aemond’s betrothed, exclaimed as she tilted her head above to marvel at the concaved ceiling that held a great chandelier. Aemond was quick to frown at her words. “No.” He said abruptly and felt the urge to cringe as Lady Cassandra linked her arm with his. He wanted to push her away, fearing you might appear from one hallway and see their proximity. 

“Why not? Other lords and ladies were married here under the king’s blessing. And you were once his favored knight! Having been the youngest to receive a Medal of Valor. Surely they would approve.” Lady Cassandra further tried to convince, and Aemond felt his patience running thin. “No. We have decided to have a simple ceremony at home.” He gritted and found reluctance to utter the words. 

“You have decided that. I wished for a grand wedding! Hundreds of guests in attendance and witnessing our union! Just imagine… their cheers and celebration for us.” Lady Cassandra sighed dreamily, and Aemond rolled his eye as he turned to his head to glance back at a portrait of you that was hung in the great halls. 

It was of you on your sixteenth name day, a year before you two had met. You were fashioning a scarlet dress with gold lace trimmings and one of your multitudes of tiaras atop your pretty head. There was a small smile on your lips and a flower in your hands. Aemond could not help but stare; the portrait was the first glimpse he had of you in two years, and all the emotions he had repressed threatened to spill out. 

As Lady Cassandra noticed her betrothed’s attention was caught by the princess’ portrait, she too gazed upon the work of art. “Do you think I, too, could wear a tiara during our ceremonies?” She then asked, and Aemond was brought out of his reverie and felt annoyance course through him at the girl’s question. “Your station does not warrant it.” He said simply and saw as his betrothed’s face morphed into something unpleasant to view. “But I am a lady of a noble house,” She huffed. “But you are not the princess.” Aemond bit, effectively shutting his betrothed up. 

By the east wing of the castle, you locked yourself in your chambers as you did not dare to leave for fear you might run into Aemond and his soon-to-be lady wife. You lay desolate on your feathered bed with your five cats. Theodore and Sapphira had sired you three kittens to care for and distract yourself with. You mindlessly brushed the fur of one of the kittens as you stared at the canopy above your bed. 

You felt the urge to cry, but your tears had dried out three days ago, and you had transgressed to a state of numbness. You could only hope and pray that the days would be quick and for Aemond and his betrothed to leave hastily because you could not stomach seeing the man that you had loved— that you thought would be the one to be in the arms of another. 

You let out a shaky breath as you hear a faint knock upon your door and your brothers cautiously making their way in. “Sister…” Your eldest brother called, but you made no movement to acknowledge their presence. “We brought you custard tarts; please eat. At least just one.” The prince muttered in concern, a rather grave request at the tip of their tongues. 

Your mother wished for you to attend the welcoming feast for the lords and ladies seeking marital blessing from your lord father. The queen is unaware of what had transpired two years ago, and even if she was, none of them believed she would care and would still subject her daughter to the same room with the man she had once loved and the woman who he would marry. 

When your brothers revealed the order of your mother, you faintly shook your head. “Tell her I am ill,” You said quietly. “Or ask Father to intervene,” You added, as you truly had no wish to face Aemond. “We have tried… but she truly is insistent. Even father cannot change her mind.” The prince informed her. “I do not want to.” You said once more. Feeling as your two eldest cats left the comfort of your bed and wandered into the halls. 

“We know, sister. And we’re sorry, but it would seem as if you have naught but a choice,” Your eldest brother said in sorrow as he caught a glimpse of Lord Aemond with his future bride walking the halls arm in arm. He would hate for you to see such a scene, but your mother would not be denied as she insisted you attend the welcoming feast. 

You pursed your lips and sat up, witnessing the grave faces of your brothers through your somber eyes. You knew that you truly had naught a choice, and that pained you even more. “We shall be by your side, we promise.” The prince muttered and held your hand. “If you wish, we could place them at the end of the hall so you do not need to catch a glimpse of them— or better yet, I shall sit in front of you, blocking your view.” Your eldest brother jested, and as much as you wished to crack a smile at his joke as you had always done before, you could not do so. 

“Tell Mother I shall attend,” You finally sighed. Conceding as you tried to make peace with the fact that you must see the man you once loved with all your heart be in the presence of another that he had chosen over you.  

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[mylittlepimp]

I'm going to take a risk on this one

[hisfavegirl]

Consume By You - Tom Glynn-Carney x Girlfriend!Reader

Summary : Tom never intended to fall this deep. He never intended to need you like this, to crave you like an addiction he couldn’t shake. You were his, from the moment he first touched you, from the moment he first heard you moan his name. But love like this—it was never meant to be gentle. It was fire and obsession, teeth and nails, whispered words in the dark and hands gripping too tight. You ruined him. And now, Tom would make sure you never left. Because you belonged to him and he was never letting you go.

Warning : Smut +18 (MDNI), Degradation Kink, Praise Kink, Spitting, Obsession, Possessiveness, Rough Sexs, P in V, Unprotected Sexs. Dirty Talk, Mirror Sexs, Oral Sexs (F and M Receiving), Tits Playing, Choking, Dom!Tom.

Tom Glynn-Carney Masterlist.

House Of The Dragon Masterlist.

Aegon II Targaryen Masterlist.

The moment Tom shut the door behind him, he didn’t even give you a second to breathe. His hands were on you instantly, gripping your waist, pressing you back against the door as his mouth crashed into yours.

It wasn’t a soft kiss. It was desperate, feverish—like he had been holding back all night and simply couldn’t anymore. His lips moved against yours with hunger, with frustration, with need.

You gasped against his mouth, your fingers immediately tangling into his soft, messy hair, tugging just enough to make him groan into the kiss. The sound sent a shiver down your spine, and you felt the way his grip on you tightened, as if he was trying to mold your body against his, trying to press himself into you completely.

“Fuck,” he growled against your lips. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Your breath hitched as he pulled away just enough to look at you, his blue eyes dark and burning with something intense—something devouring.

Before you could answer, he scooped you up effortlessly, making you giggle into his kiss as he carried you through the house, his lips never leaving yours.

“You think this is funny?” he murmured against your mouth, smirking as he felt your laughter.

“A little,” you admitted, breathless.

His lips found your jaw, trailing heated kisses down the delicate skin, making your laughter die in a soft gasp. “You won’t be laughing for long, love,” he promised darkly.

Your stomach tightened at his words, anticipation thrumming in your veins.

When he reached the bedroom, he kicked the door open and carried you straight to the bed, the moment your back hit the bed, he didn’t waste a second.

The hunger in his eyes made your stomach flutter, made your breath catch in your throat. His hands skimmed down your sides, rough, desperate, tracing over your waist before gripping the hem of your dress. His fingers curled into the fabric—and then—rip.

A gasp left your lips, heat rushing to your cheeks as the torn fabric fell away.

“Tom!” you breathed, your hands instinctively flying up to cover yourself, but he caught your wrists, pinning them to the mattress as his eyes burned into yours.

“Don’t,” he murmured, his voice dark, thick with desire. “Let me see you.”

Your heart pounded as his gaze raked over you, drinking in every inch like you were something sacred, something he had craved for far too long. His hands moved slowly at first, skimming over the swell of your breasts, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

A soft cry escaped your lips as your body arched, pressing into his hands, your head spinning at the sensation. The way he touched you was unlike anything you had ever felt before—possessive, worshipful, yet so utterly desperate.

“Perfect,” Tom murmured, his thumbs grazing over your sensitive nipple, making you whimper. “So fucking perfect.”

Your fingers tangled into his hair, tugging slightly, and he groaned at the sensation, his lips trailing heated kisses down your neck, over your collarbone, lower

Then his mouth found your nipple.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat as his lips wrapped around your harden nipple, hot and wet and hungry. He wasn’t gentle. He devoured you, his tongue flicking, his teeth grazing just enough to make your back arch again, a breathless moan spilling from your lips.

“Tom,” you gasped, your fingers gripping his hair, pulling him closer, silently begging for more.

He groaned against your skin, the vibrations sending another shiver through you. His hands slid down, rough palms skimming over your waist, your hips, before—Rip.

Another piece of fabric torn away.

“Tom!” you gasped again, but this time, he just chuckled darkly, his fingers hooking around the remains of your panties, tossing them aside.

“You don’t need them,” he murmured, his voice deep, almost hypnotic.

Your breath hitched at the possessiveness in his voice, at the intensity in his gaze as he looked down at you—bare beneath him, completely vulnerable.

A soft whimper escaped your lips as he dipped his fingers between your thighs, teasing, exploring, learning exactly what made you tremble. He groaned when he felt how ready you were, his breathing ragged as his fingers finally pushed inside your cunt, stretching, filling, making your head spin.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his forehead pressing against yours as he felt you clench around him. “You’re so tight.”

You whimpered, your nails digging into his shoulders, your breath shaky as he moved, slow at first, deliberate, curling his fingers just right— Your back arched, your breath catching as he found it.

Tom chuckled, his lips brushing against your jaw. “There it is,” he murmured.

You could barely think, barely breathe as he worked you open, his lips never leaving your skin, whispering soft, sinful words against your ear.

“You’re so sweet like this,” he groaned, his pace picking up, making you whimper. “All sweet and perfect… but when you’re with me, you turn into this.”

Your body trembled beneath him, his words sending a wave of heat through you.

“My perfect little doll,” he whispered, his voice both adoring and utterly possessive and the way he said it made you melt for him completely.

Your body trembled beneath him, every inch of your skin burning as Tom’s mouth left your chest, trailing lower, his lips and tongue setting fire to every place they touched. His breath was hot against your skin, his fingers still inside you, slow, teasing, curling just enough to make your back arch against the bed.

He groaned at the sight of you, spread out beneath him, your hair a mess against his pillows, your eyes glassy with pleasure. He loved seeing you like this—his sweet, beautiful girlfriend completely undone for him. And the way you looked at him, the way you whispered his name like a prayer, made his chest tighten with something deeper, something far beyond lust.

“Look at you,” Tom murmured, his voice thick, reverent. “So pretty like this.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, but before you could even respond, you felt it—his lips brushing against the inside of your thigh, slow, teasing, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses as he worked his way toward your cunt where his fingers still moved inside you.

Your breath hitched, fingers gripping the sheets as anticipation coiled in your stomach.

A broken gasp left your lips the moment he flicked his tongue against your clit, sending a sharp wave of pleasure through you. Your hips jerked, your fingers flying to his hair, gripping it desperately as his mouth sealed over you, his tongue moving with slow, devastating precision.

“Tom,” you whimpered, your voice breathless, shaky.

He groaned against you, the vibrations making your head spin. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he devoured you, his mouth working in tandem with his fingers still moving inside you. The combination made you tremble beneath him, your breath coming in ragged gasps as he pulled you deeper into the pleasure.

“That’s it,” he murmured between strokes of his tongue, his voice dark, full of satisfaction. “Let me hear you.”

You didn’t even realize how loud you were until he said it, but you couldn’t help it. His mouth, his fingers, the way he was speaking to you—it was all too much. Every flick of his tongue, every curl of his fingers sent you spiraling further, and you could feel the coil tightening in your stomach, the pleasure building higher, higher—

“Tom, I—” You couldn’t even finish the sentence, your body shaking, completely at his mercy.

He pulled back just enough to look up at you, his lips glistening, his eyes dark with something possessive, something hungry.

“You love this, don’t you?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh.

You nodded frantically, your fingers still tangled in his hair. “Yes,” you breathed, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He smirked, and then—without warning—he pushed his fingers deeper, his tongue flicking against you with more intensity, making you cry out, your body arching into him.

“That’s my girl,” Tom groaned against your cunt, his words sending another wave of heat through you. “My perfect little doll… my sweet little slut.”

You whimpered at his words, your body tightening around his fingers in response. He chuckled at your reaction, his breath warm against your skin.

“You like when I talk to you like that, hmm?” he murmured, his voice teasing, amused.

You nodded, your cheeks burning, your breathing ragged.

“Say it,” he demanded, his fingers slowing inside you, making you whine at the loss of rhythm.

“I…” Your voice was barely a whisper, but when he stopped moving entirely, you let out a desperate whimper. “I like it.”

His smirk deepened. “Yeah?” His fingers curled again, sending another shock of pleasure through you. “You like being my perfect little slut?”

You clenched around him at the words, your entire body on fire, your mind hazy with nothing but him.

“Yes,” you breathed, your fingers tightening in his hair. “God! Yes, Tom.”

That was all he needed to hear.

With a low groan, he dove back down, his tongue working against you with more urgency, more desperation, his fingers moving faster, deeper, coaxing you to the edge. The pleasure built impossibly high, your body trembling, your thighs clenching around his head as you gasped his name over and over.

And when he felt you begin to fall apart, he didn’t stop.

“Come for me,” he murmured against your skin, his voice dark, commanding. “Be good for me, baby.”

Your entire body trembled, a raw, overwhelming heat coursing through you as the pleasure crested, pushing you past the edge. Your thighs clenched around Tom’s head, your fingers tangling deeper into his hair as wave after wave crashed through you, leaving you gasping, shaking—completely undone.

A rush of release that was entirely new, overwhelming, spilling onto Tom’s fingers, his lips, making you let out a sharp, breathless whimper as shock and embarrassment flooded your senses.

Your hands flew to your face, heat burning through you as reality crashed down, but Tom—Tom only groaned in satisfaction, his hands gripping your thighs tighter as he took in the sight of you, a complete, ruined mess beneath him.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his voice thick with something dark, something dangerously pleased. “Look at you.”

Your breath was still coming in frantic little gasps, your body too weak to even move as he sat back on his heels, his fingers still glistening, his lips still wet with the evidence of what you had done. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth before grinning down at you, eyes heavy with something utterly possessive.

“That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmured, his voice thick with approval.

You let out a small, embarrassed whimper, turning your face away from him, but Tom only chuckled, reaching out to gently grasp your jaw, turning your gaze back to him.

“Hey,” he murmured, thumb brushing your lower lip, his touch soft despite the wicked gleam in his eye. “Don’t you dare be embarrassed, baby.”

“I-I didn’t mean to,” you whispered, your voice still shaky, your chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

Tom only smirked, shaking his head as he leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to your flushed cheek. “Oh, love,” he murmured, voice dripping with amusement. “You think I didn’t want you to do that?”

Your stomach flipped at his words, your body still overly sensitive, still burning from the aftermath of what he had just done to you.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he murmured, his lips trailing down to your jaw, his breath warm, teasing. “So good for me.”

You shivered as he pressed more soft kisses down the column of your throat, one of his hands slipping down between your legs again, fingers brushing over your overly sensitive cunt. You gasped, instinctively trying to close your thighs, but Tom only clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“Uh-uh,” he murmured, sliding his fingers back through the mess you had made. “You did this, sweetheart,” he teased, watching as you whimpered beneath him. “You made such a pretty mess for me.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, your entire body tensing when you felt him dip his fingers back inside.

“Tom—”

He groaned at the sound of your voice, at the way you trembled beneath him, your hands gripping onto his arms as he worked his fingers deeper, slower, taking his time just to feel you.

“God, I love this,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “I love how you react to me. Love how you fall apart for me.”

You whimpered when he pulled his fingers out again, his eyes darkening as he slowly, deliberately brought them to his lips, sucking them clean.

A breathless little gasp left you, your stomach flipping violently at the sight of him, at the way his tongue flicked over his fingers like he was savoring every last drop of you.

“T-Tom—”

“Shh,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction as he pressed another kiss to your forehead. “Just let me take care of you, sweetheart.”

And before you could even catch your breath—before you could even process the intensity of what had just happened—Tom was already shifting.

Your breath hitched as your gaze fixated on him—on the way his fingers wrapped around his cock, the slow, lazy strokes sending a deep flush through his already heated skin. Tom’s eyes were locked onto yours, a knowing smirk curving his lips as he watched the way your body trembled, how your thighs instinctively tried to press together, desperate for some kind of friction.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice thick, teasing, filled with something dark and possessive. “Drooling over me already, sweetheart?”

You swallowed hard, unable to form a response, your entire body burning under his gaze. Your skin was still sensitive, every nerve alight with anticipation, and Tom knew it.

He let out a low chuckle, reaching out to gently pat your cheek, the affectionate touch contrasting the way his eyes darkened. “You’re my pretty little slut, aren’t you?” he murmured, watching the way you shivered at his words, at the way heat bloomed deep in your core. “So needy for me. So desperate.”

You let out a shaky breath, lips parting, but before you could speak, Tom shifted, guiding himself to where you ached for him most. The blunt head of his cock nudged against your sensitive cunt, teasing, sliding against the mess he had already created from you.

Your body arched in response, your breath catching as a sharp wave of sensation shot through you.

“T-Tom—”

He groaned, his grip tightening around your hips, holding you still as he continued to drag himself against you, slow and deliberate. “So warm,” he muttered under his breath, his voice thick, almost pained. “So wet for me.”

You whimpered at the sensation, at the way he was teasing you, dragging it out, making you ache for him. Your fingers clutched at his arms, your chest rising and falling in unsteady, frantic little breaths.

“P-Please,” you finally whispered, the word barely audible, but Tom heard it. His jaw clenched, his entire body tense, as if he was holding himself back.

And then, without another word, he pushed in.

Your back arched sharply, a breathless cry leaving your lips as he stretched you, filled you completely, the sudden fullness overwhelming. Tom let out a deep, guttural groan, his hands gripping your waist tighter, as if grounding himself.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath, his head dropping to your shoulder as he tried to catch his breath. “You feel—Jesus Christ—so tight—”

Your fingers scrambled against his back, nails digging into his skin as you tried to adjust no matter how often he is inside you, your body trembling, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of him.

Tom sucked in a breath, his forehead pressing against yours as he stilled inside you, his hands roaming over your waist, your thighs, as if trying to soothe you.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice softer now, gentler, even as his body was taut with restraint.

You could only nod, your breath still shaky, your body adjusting to him, wrapping around him in a way that felt almost perfect.

He exhaled deeply, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead. “Good girl,” he whispered, voice thick with pride, with affection.

A slow, deliberate pull, before thrusting back in again, filling you, stretching you, making your body shudder with pleasure. Tom groaned, his grip tightening, his lips brushing against your ear as he muttered, “You’re mine, sweetheart. All mine.”

Your mind was hazy, lost in the overwhelming sensation of him—of the way he stretched you, filled you, claimed you with every slow, deliberate movement. Tom’s warmth surrounded you, his strong hands gripping your waist, grounding you, then his pace turned to rough — relentless, making you trembling, utterly at his mercy.

You didn’t even realize the sounds leaving your lips—soft, desperate whimpers, moans that barely sounded like your own. You were completely gone, consumed by the way he felt, the way he held you so effortlessly as if you weighed nothing at all.

Tom let out a breathless laugh, his grip tightening as he watched you, completely entranced by the way your body reacted to him. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice thick with amusement and something darker, something possessive. “Going all dumb on me, huh?”

Your breath hitched as he thrust a little deeper, hitting the spot that made your entire body arch, made your fingers claw at his arms. Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut, lips parting as another soft, helpless sound spilled from you.

Tom chuckled, shaking his head, his gaze locked onto you, watching every little reaction. He reached up, cupping your cheek, forcing you to look at him. “You like this, don’t you?” His voice was a low drawl, teasing, but firm. “Like being used like this? Getting all dumb and desperate for my cock?”

Your entire body shivered, the words sinking deep into your bones, making your stomach tighten, making you clench around him without even thinking.

“Fuck,” Tom groaned, his head tilting back for a moment as his fingers dug into your hips. Then his gaze was back on you, his smirk returning as he let out a breathless laugh. “God, you love it.”

You whimpered, your hands fisting the sheets beneath you, your thighs trembling where they were wrapped around his waist.

“You’re drunk on it, aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice like silk, dangerous and teasing all at once. His fingers traced slow, lazy circles on your thigh before gripping it roughly, pulling you even closer, making you take all of him. “Completely wasted on my cock.”

A helpless little moan fell from your lips at his words, your body trembling at the sheer intensity of how deeply he filled you. You couldn’t think—couldn’t form a single coherent thought beyond Tom, Tom, Tom.

You barely even realized you were nodding, your lips parted, breath coming in shaky little gasps.

Tom’s laughter was warm, teasing, sending shivers down your spine. “That’s right,” he murmured, his voice filled with satisfaction, filled with pride. “You’re my desperate little thing, aren’t you?”

You whimpered again, your hands reaching for him, desperate to feel him closer, to ground yourself in him.

He hummed in approval, leaning down until his lips brushed against your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “Say it,” he ordered, his voice soft but commanding. “Say you’re mine.”

Your fingers curled against his back, clinging to him like he was the only thing anchoring you to reality. “I-I’m yours,” you breathed, your voice trembling, your entire body melting into him.

Tom groaned, his hand tangling into your hair as he tilted your head back, claiming your lips in a deep, heated kiss. “Good girl,” he muttered against your mouth, his voice filled with something raw, something real. “You’re mine, sweetheart. All mine.”

And as he moved again, fast and rough, dragging you back into that blissful haze, you knew there was nowhere else you’d rather be.

Tom swore under his breath, his jaw tightening as he watched you—watched the way you arched beneath him, the way your hands cupped your own breasts, squeezing, teasing, putting on a show just for him. Your eyes, hooded and full of longing, never left his, your tongue slipping out between your lips in a silent invitation, a plea for more.

“Fuck,” he rasped, his grip tightening on your waist, his movements becoming sharper, more urgent. He couldn’t help it—not when you looked like this, like something out of his most desperate fantasies. His control, already threadbare, snapped entirely.

Your moan filled the space between you as he drove deeper, pushing you further into that dizzying haze of pleasure. Your body trembled, completely open for him, completely his.

“Look at you,” Tom murmured, his voice thick with desire, reverence, possession. His fingers brushed against your cheek before trailing down, wrapping gently around your throat, not to restrict, but to claim. “So fucking beautiful like this.” His thumb brushed over your lips, his voice dropping into a rough whisper. “My beautiful little slut.”

The words sent a full-body shiver through you, your lips parting, a breathless moan slipping free as you instinctively clenched around him.

Tom groaned, his hand tightening just slightly, enough to make you focus on him, only him. His gaze burned into yours, dark and full of something deep, something consuming.

“You like that, don’t you?” he murmured, tilting his head as he studied your every reaction, every little tremble, every hitched breath. “Like hearing what you do to me? Like knowing how fucking crazy you make me?”

You could only nod, the intensity of his presence making it impossible to form words.

Tom chuckled, his grip loosening, his fingers trailing down to cup your jaw instead, tilting your face up so he could kiss you—claim you. His lips moved over yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs, leaving you dizzy, lightheaded, completely lost in him.

Tom’s breath came in ragged pants, his body tense with restraint as he watched you unravel beneath him. His sharp eyes were locked onto your face, taking in every little reaction—the way your brows knitted together, the way your lips parted in breathless moans, the way your fingers clutched desperately at his arms, as if holding onto him was the only thing keeping you grounded.

He groaned, his hands roaming over your body, possessive and reverent at the same time. His palms cupped your breasts, squeezing, his thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples before he gave one a sharp smack. The sting made you jolt, a choked-out moan tumbling from your lips.

“There she is,” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction, his smirk deepening as he felt you tighten around him in response. “My beautiful little slut—always so fucking good for me.”

The words sent a shudder down your spine, heat pooling even deeper in your stomach. You could barely breathe, barely think—your entire world was narrowing down to him, to the way he moved, the way he filled you so perfectly, the way his body pressed against yours like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Tom felt it—felt how close you were, felt the way your walls fluttered around him, pulling him deeper, making his own control slip. He let out a low, rough chuckle, his hand slipping between your bodies, his fingers finding your swollen clit. He didn’t hesitate—he knew you, knew exactly how to push you over the edge.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he ordered, his voice low, rough, almost desperate. “Let me see you lose it—let me see how pretty you look when you fall apart for me.”

The words shattered whatever was left of your restraint. A sharp gasp tore from your throat as the tension inside you snapped, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your body arched into him, trembling, your nails digging into his skin as you clung to him, crying out his name like it was the only thing you knew.

“Fuck,” Tom gritted out, his jaw clenching as he watched you come undone, his own release right on the edge. His hands tightened on your waist, his movements becoming rougher, more erratic as he chased his high, letting himself fall completely.

With a deep, guttural groan, he buried his face against your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he finally let go, his entire body tensing before melting against you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sounds in the room were your heavy, uneven breaths, the erratic beats of your hearts pounding in sync.

Then, after a moment, Tom let out a soft, breathless chuckle, his lips brushing against your shoulder. “You’re fucking perfect,” he murmured, his voice still thick with satisfaction, his arms wrapping around you, holding you close. “And you’re all mine.”

Your body was still trembling from the overwhelming pleasure, your skin flushed, breath ragged as you lay against the bed. But before you could even begin to recover, Tom’s hands were on you again—strong, insistent, filled with an unspoken hunger that hadn’t yet been satisfied.

“Not done with you yet,” he murmured, his voice thick with need.

Before you could respond, you felt yourself being moved—his hands gripping your hips as he flipped you effortlessly onto your stomach. A gasp left your lips, your cheek pressing into the soft pillow as he adjusted you, guiding your hips up, tilting them just the way he wanted.

“Tom…” Your voice was a breathy whisper, anticipation curling through you like a slow-burning fire.

He only chuckled, a deep, knowing sound that sent shivers down your spine. His large hands smoothed over the curve of your back, trailing down to your waist before squeezing possessively. Then—smack—a sharp sting bloomed across your skin as his palm met your ass, making you jolt forward, a whimper escaping your lips.

“That’s my girl,” he rasped, massaging the spot he’d just smacked, his touch both soothing and teasing. “Always so fucking perfect for me.”

And then he moved—slowly, deliberately, sliding back into you with an unrelenting hunger that made your breath hitch, your fingers curling into the sheets. A deep, satisfied groan rumbled from his chest, his grip on your hips tightening as he held you steady beneath him.

“Fuck—” His voice was strained, filled with pure, unfiltered desire. “You feel so good, sweetheart. Always so tight—like you were made for me.”

Your only response was a soft, broken moan, your body arching instinctively into him, completely surrendering to the sensation. The heat, the intensity, the way he filled every part of you—it was overwhelming in the best way possible.

“Say my name,” Tom demanded, his pace quickening, his hands sliding up your back, his fingers tangling in your hair, tilting your head just enough for him to hear you. “Let me hear how much you love this—how much you love me.”

“Tom— oh my God—Tom!” you gasped, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, like the only thing that mattered in that moment.

His deep, rough chuckle sent another wave of heat through you. “That’s my good girl,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your shoulder, his hands never stopping their possessive exploration of your body.

Your body trembled beneath him, every nerve ignited as Tom held you in place, his grip firm, possessive. His fingers dug into your hips, his touch commanding in a way that left you breathless, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity between you.

“Say it,” his voice was low, dark, laced with something almost dangerous. “You know what I want to hear.”

Your breath hitched, shaking your head instinctively, the word stuck in your throat.

But Tom only chuckled, a deep, knowing sound that sent shivers through you. His hand slid down your back before—smack—another sharp sting bloomed across your skin, making you jolt forward with a gasp.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he coaxed, his voice deceptively soft as he kneaded the tender spot. “Don’t be shy now. You know I’ll get what I want.”

You bit your lip, your entire body melting into his touch, but still, you hesitated.

Tom groaned in frustration before gripping your hips even tighter. And then—he moved. A Rough, deep thrust that stole the air from your lungs, leaving you nothing but a moaning mess beneath him.

“Say it,” he growled, his control slipping, his movements rougher, more desperate.

“T-Tom—” your voice was barely a whisper, your hands clutching the sheets, trying to ground yourself in the whirlwind of sensation.

“Wrong name, sweetheart,” he warned, his palm meeting your skin again with a firm, deliberate smack. “Try again.”

You whimpered, every inch of you surrendering to him, to the way he consumed you entirely.

“D-Daddy—” The word finally left your lips in a broken moan, and Tom groaned in satisfaction, his hand sliding up your spine before tangling in your hair, tugging just enough to make you arch for him.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, his voice dripping with approval, his lips brushing against your ear, sending another wave of heat through you. “Knew you could do it.”

His grip tightened as he leaned closer, his breath warm against your skin. “And what are you, sweetheart?” he taunted, his tone mocking, teasing, filled with amusement at how easily you unraveled for him.

You swallowed hard, your body burning with both humiliation and pleasure, the combination intoxicating.

“Y-Yours,” you whispered. “Your—your little slut…”

Tom chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through you, sending another shudder down your spine. “That’s right,” he murmured. “And don’t you ever forget it.”

Tom’s chuckle was low, dark, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine. His hands traced along your waist before resting on your lower belly, his fingers pressing lightly, feeling the faint bulge beneath his touch. His breath hitched, his control slipping for just a moment as he groaned, his grip tightening possessively.

“Would you look at that,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, his palm splayed across your stomach. “You feel that, sweetheart? Feel how deep I am inside you?”

Your breath caught in your throat, the sensation overwhelming, dizzying. You whimpered in response, your fingers clutching at the sheets beneath you, desperate for something to hold onto.

Tom only chuckled at your helplessness, his touch turning teasing, pressing down just enough to make you gasp. “So full of me… my pretty little doll, letting me ruin you like this.” His voice was nothing but pure satisfaction, admiration laced with something darker—something possessive.

You could barely form words, your body trembling under the weight of his presence. “T-Tom…” you whispered, voice barely audible, your mind lost in the haze of him.

“No,” he corrected, his fingers tightening their grip on your waist before a sharp smack landed on your skin, making you jolt forward with a gasp. “Try again, sweetheart.”

You whimpered at the sting, your body melting even further beneath his hold.

“D-Daddy…” The word left your lips in a broken moan, barely a whisper, but it was enough.

Tom groaned in approval, his lips curving into a smug grin. “That’s my good girl,” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction

His fingers trailed up your back before tangling in your hair, pulling just enough to tilt your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes burned into yours, filled with something raw, something possessive. “You love this, don’t you?” he mused, his thumb brushing over your lips. “Love being my perfect little thing?”

You nodded, too lost in him to feel anything but need. “yes…” you whispered. “God! yes…”

Tom groaned again, burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, as if he wanted to consume every part of you. “Mine,” he echoed, his voice a promise, a claim, a vow.

Tom’s breath was ragged against the back of your neck, his grip unrelenting as he held you in place, his fingers pressing into your hips with a possessiveness that sent shivers through you. Every thrust of his cock against your cunt sent waves of heat curling in your stomach, the tension between you building higher, sharper, until you were lost in it—lost in him.

“You’re trembling, sweetheart,” Tom murmured, his voice thick with amusement, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. His hand trailed down your stomach, his fingertips featherlight against your overheated skin. “You close for me?”

You could only whimper in response, your fingers clutching desperately at the sheets, your body tightening around him, pulling him deeper, clinging to him in every possible way.

Tom let out a low groan, his other hand splaying across your back, pressing you further into the mattress as he slowed his movements—deliberate now, teasing, as if he wanted to savor the way you fell apart beneath him. “That’s it, baby… Let me feel you. Let me have all of you.”

You gasped as his fingers found your clit, drawing slow, torturous circles that sent your body spiraling into a haze of pleasure. The heat coiled tighter, your breath catching, your mind slipping into nothing but him, him, him.

“D-Daddy—!” The sound left your lips in a broken cry, your body arching as you finally reached the edge, shattering beneath his touch, your release crashing over you like a tidal wave.

“That’s my girl,” Tom groaned, his voice rough as he buried his face against your shoulder, his movements growing erratic as he chased his own release, his grip on you tightening as if he never wanted to let go.

And then, with a low curse, he followed, his body shuddering against yours, his hold never loosening, never wavering.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, tangled in each other, breaths heavy, bodies entwined. Then, slowly, Tom pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering, soft, reverent.

Tom’s grip was firm but careful as he shifted your limp, spent body, pulling you onto his lap as he lay back against the pillows. Your skin was still flushed, still tingling from the overwhelming pleasure he had wrung from you, and yet, the moment you felt him slide inside you again, a gasp left your lips.

“Oh, sweetheart…” Tom’s voice was thick with satisfaction as he watched your reaction, his eyes dark, predatory. “Look at you—still so sensitive, still trembling, and yet…” He dragged his hand up your spine, fingers threading into your hair before giving it a slight, possessive tug. “You’re taking me so well.”

A whimper escaped you as he guided your hips, his own lifting just enough to slide inside, filling you slowly, deliberately. The stretch, the fullness, made your breath hitch, your nails digging into his thighs for balance. Tom groaned at the feeling of you, his hands gripping your waist tightly as if he were trying to restrain himself.

“God, you’re squeezing me so tight…” He exhaled sharply, his head falling back for a moment before he looked at you again, his expression dark with hunger. “You act so sweet, so innocent around everyone else. Convincing everyone that you're my innocent girlfriend… but with me?” His lips curled into a smirk as he pulled you down, bringing his mouth close to your ear. “With me, you’re nothing but my pretty little slut, aren’t you?”

Your breath hitched, a wave of heat rushing through you at his words. He chuckled, clearly noticing the way your body responded, the way you clenched around him. “Oh? You like that” His grip tightened, forcing your hips to move, to roll against him in slow, deep circles.

“Tom…” You whimpered, your fingers twisting into the fabric of the sheets as your body moved instinctively, drawn to the pleasure only he could give you.

“That’s it…” He groaned, his hands guiding your every movement. “Come on, baby—let me see you fall apart for me again. Let me see how desperate you get when you’re on top of me.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up, chasing the friction, the sensation, the intoxicating warmth of his touch. His name left your lips over and over like a whispered prayer, the connection between you pulling tighter with every slow, deliberate movement.

Tom’s breathing turned ragged, his grip bruising as he pulled you down harder, deeper, as if he couldn’t get close enough. “You’re mine,” he murmured, voice rough, possessive, filled with something deeper than lust, something that made your heart stutter in your chest.

Tom’s grip on your waist tightened as he thrust upward, his movements meeting the slow, rolling motion of your hips. A breathless moan escaped you as he hit that spot again, the sensation making your body tremble in his hands. He chuckled at your reaction, his fingers pressing deeper into your skin as he forced your pace to slow, drawing out every sensation, making you feel every inch of him.

“Look at you…” His voice was thick with hunger, his tone laced with something darker, something possessive. With a sharp tug on your hair, he gestured toward the mirror in front of you, the reflection capturing everything—the way your body arched, the way your back curved, the way your thighs trembled as you moved above him.

His gaze darkened as he watched, his jaw clenching. “God, look at that…” he murmured, his hand sliding down to grip your ass, spreading you just enough to see himself disappearing inside you. A deep growl rumbled in his chest as he saw the way you took him, the way your body responded so perfectly to his every touch.

“Tom…” You whimpered, the sight almost too much, your hands gripping his wrists as he guided your movements.

“Mm, you like seeing yourself like this?” he teased, his fingers trailing up your spine before curling into your hair, giving it a slow, deliberate tug. “You like seeing what a mess you make when you’re with me?”

A shiver ran through you at his words, your body tightening in response. He chuckled at your reaction before smacking your ass, the sound echoing through the room. A gasp left your lips, your body jolting forward, but his strong grip pulled you right back. “Oh, you love that,” he mused, his voice thick with amusement. “Look at how you’re clenching around me, baby. God, you’re so desperate for me, aren’t you?”

You turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze in the mirror, your eyes hazy, your lips parted as you struggled to find your voice.

“Y-yes…” you finally breathed, your cheeks burning at the confession.

Tom groaned, his hands gripping you tighter, his control slipping as he thrust up into you again, harder this time, watching the way your body moved, the way you melted for him. “That’s my girl…” he murmured, his lips brushing against your shoulder, his eyes never leaving the reflection of you completely undone beneath his touch.

Tom let out a low curse under his breath before flipping you onto the mattress in one swift motion, his body caging you beneath him. Before you could even catch your breath, he grabbed one of your legs, hooking it over his shoulder, opening you up to him completely. His gaze darkened as he took in the sight of you—flushed, trembling, a beautiful mess beneath him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice rough with hunger. “So pretty like this… spread out for me, taking me so well.”

Before you could respond, he thrust forward with a sudden urgency, the force of it knocking the air from your lungs. A choked moan escaped your lips as your fingers clawed at the sheets, barely able to keep up with the way he was moving—desperate, relentless, chasing the pleasure that had been building between you both all night.

Tom just chuckled at your reaction, his grip tightening as he tilted your face toward him, forcing your eyes to meet his. His expression was unreadable—something between amusement and possessiveness, something dark and all-consuming.

“What? Can’t even speak now?” he teased, his thumb tracing over your lower lip before he suddenly spit into your mouth, watching with satisfaction as your lips parted on instinct, your body reacting before your mind could even process it.

“Swallow, baby,” he murmured, his voice dripping with control, with ownership. And you did—your throat working as you obeyed, the act itself making your body tighten around him in response.

“Fuck…” Tom groaned, his head falling back for a moment before his eyes locked onto you again, his smirk returning. “God, you love this, don’t you? My sweet little girlfriend, my desperate little slut.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, a moan spilling from your lips before you could stop it. His hand slid down your body, rough fingertips trailing over sweat-slicked skin before finding the sensitive bundle of nerves between your thighs. The moment he pressed down, your entire body jolted, your back arching as you teetered on the edge of something devastating.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Tom murmured, voice thick with control, watching the way you unraveled beneath him. “Let go for me. I want to feel you.”

And then it happened—the coil inside you snapped, your body shattering as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Your vision blurred, your voice breaking on a cry of his name as your release tore through you, leaving you trembling in his arms.

Tom cursed at the feeling of you tightening around him, his pace growing erratic, desperate as he chased his own high. “That’s it,” he gritted out, his grip bruising, “such a good girl… mine.”

And when he finally followed, his body tensing above you, his breath ragged against your skin, there was no mistaking it—this wasn’t just lust. It was something far more consuming, something neither of you could ever escape.

Your body lay completely spent in Tom’s arms, your breath still uneven as the aftershocks of pleasure left you trembling. He let out a low chuckle, the sound warm, almost affectionate, as he held you close. His lips found your temple in a lingering kiss, his grip firm yet gentle as he ran his hand down your spine, grounding you in the aftermath of what had just unraveled between you.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice filled with a quiet satisfaction as he brushed damp strands of hair from your face. His fingers traced over your cheek with surprising tenderness, his gaze drinking in the sight of you—flushed, dazed, completely wrecked in his arms. “So sweet and innocent to everyone else… but with me?” His smirk deepened as he watched your heavy eyes flutter shut. “My desperate little thing.”

You let out a soft whimper, barely conscious, pressing your face against his chest in response. Tom’s smile only grew at the sight of you melting into him so easily, so completely his. He shifted slightly, adjusting your body against his own, making sure you were comfortable before pulling the blankets over both of you.

With a final brush of his lips against your forehead, Tom let out a content sigh, pulling you impossibly closer. “Mine,” he murmured softly, almost to himself. And as he felt the steady rise and fall of your breath against his skin, he let himself drift into sleep, knowing that you weren’t going anywhere.

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a golden glow over the room as you stirred awake. The warmth of Tom’s body was still wrapped around you, his steady breaths fanning against your skin as he remained lost in sleep.

A slow smile curled at your lips as you turned your head slightly, watching him in the quiet of the morning. His face, so often marked by teasing smirks and knowing glances, was peaceful now, completely relaxed in the comfort of slumber.

But then, as your gaze drifted lower, amusement flickered through you. Even in sleep, his body had its own routine, his arousal evident beneath the sheets. You bit your lip, watching the way his chest rose and fell steadily, completely unaware of the situation. A quiet chuckle escaped you as you shifted carefully, moving from where his arm rested over your waist to settle between his legs instead.

Your fingers brushed over the evidence of his need, the warmth of him searing against your palm. Even in rest, he was impossibly hard, a quiet tension woven into his sleeping form. Slowly, you wrapped your fingers around him, giving a gentle stroke, watching for any reaction. A low groan rumbled from his chest, his brow furrowing slightly, though he remained asleep.

Encouraged, you leaned in, pressing a featherlight kiss along his length before parting your lips and taking him in. The weight of him, the warmth, the way he twitched slightly at the contact—it sent a thrill through you. You started slow, savoring the feeling, the intimacy of the moment. Your tongue flicked against him as you hollowed your cheeks, sinking down further, your hands smoothing over his thighs as you worked him with deliberate tenderness.

A deeper groan escaped him this time, his body tensing slightly beneath you. “Mmm… what are you doing, love?” His voice was rough with sleep, thick and laced with amusement as his hand lazily drifted to your hair, his fingers tangling there.

He blinked down at you, still heavy-lidded, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips when he registered the sight before him. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

You only hummed in response, sending a shiver through him as you took him deeper, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t. His grip in your hair tightened slightly, his breathing turning uneven as he muttered a curse under his breath.

“That’s my girl…” he rasped, his voice still thick with sleep, though now tinged with something darker, something filled with quiet possession.

The way he responded to you only made you more eager, more determined. Your fingers dug into his thighs, your pace unwavering as you brought him closer to that edge. He cursed again, his head tipping back against the pillow, his chest rising and falling in uneven gasps.

“Fuck, sweetheart… just like that—” His voice broke off into a groan, his body tensing as his release finally hit him.

You swallowed every last bit of it, letting him ride out the moment before pulling away slowly, pressing a final kiss against his hip as you wiped at the corner of your mouth. When you looked up, you found Tom watching you, eyes dark, lips parted as he exhaled slowly.

Then, without a word, he reached for you, pulling you up and flipping you onto your back in one swift motion. A lazy grin stretched across his lips as he hovered over you, brushing his fingers along your jaw before tilting your chin up.

“You really are something else, you know that?” he murmured, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips, his hand already slipping beneath the sheets. “Now, I think it’s time I return the favor.”

Tom’s grip on your thighs was firm yet gentle as he spread them open, settling himself between them with an easy confidence. The morning light kissed his skin, highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw, the warmth in his gaze as he looked up at you from his place between your legs. His smirk was teasing, knowing, full of unspoken promises.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his fingers brushing over the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. “Already so desperate for me, aren’t you?”

You bit your lip, feeling heat bloom in your chest, your fingers twitching against the sheets. His words, the weight of his gaze—it was enough to send a shiver down your spine. But before you could respond, Tom lowered his head, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh, his breath warm against your skin.

A soft gasp escaped you as his lips trailed higher, inching closer to where you ached for him most. Your body tensed in anticipation, your chest rising and falling unevenly as you watched him, completely enraptured. He took his time, savoring the moment, watching every little reaction you gave him.

Then, without warning, his tongue flicked against your clit, the sensation sending a sharp jolt through your body. Your back arched instinctively, a whimper slipping past your lips as your hands moved to grip the sheets. Tom only chuckled, the sound vibrating against you as he licked into you again, slow and deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world.

“Tom—” His name fell from your lips in a breathless plea, your body trembling beneath him.

“Mmm, that’s it, sweetheart,” he hummed against you, his voice rich with satisfaction. “Say my name again.”

Before you could, he slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, drawing a strangled moan from your lips. Your hands instinctively moved to your chest, squeezing your own breasts as pleasure rolled through you in waves. The sight made Tom groan, his pace quickening, his tongue and fingers working in perfect rhythm, dragging you closer and closer to the edge.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured against you, his voice laced with something deeper, something reverent. “Falling apart just for me…”

The tension in your stomach coiled tighter, your body arching into his touch, chasing that final push over the edge. Tom felt it, sensed it in the way your breath hitched, the way your thighs trembled around him. His grip tightened as he doubled down, his tongue relentless, his fingers pressing into that perfect spot until—

“Tom!” You shattered beneath him, pleasure washing over you in waves, leaving you breathless and trembling. He didn’t stop, working you through your high, his tongue moving in slow, languid strokes as he let you come down in his arms.

When he finally pulled away, he pressed a lingering kiss to your thigh before looking up at you with that same teasing smirk, his lips glistening.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice thick with amusement and something else—something softer.

Still catching your breath, you let out a breathless laugh, reaching for him, pulling him up into a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips.

“Best morning ever,” you whispered against his mouth, making him chuckle before he kissed you again, deeper this time, as if the morning was only just beginning.

Tag List : @danytar @julessworldd @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @giirlinblack @searatarg @vaelry @callsignwidow @hayleythecannibal @ceoofglytchell l @ashblooddragons @laedeviour @venusbyline

[xxnymeriatargaryenxx]

one of my nsfw headcanons is that aemond loves to make his wife watch herself in the mirror while he is touching her !!!! 🌶️🌶️😫😫😫 imagine him standing directly behind her, her back pressed to his chest…. one hand wrapping around her waist and the other hand in between her thighs 😋🔥he whispers in her ear how beautiful she looks and how good she feels around his fingers, urging her to cum 🤰

[dedicatednotobsessed]

No post, just Ewan weirdly holding medieval cups.

{The Last Kingdom picture taken from Pinterest. Credit to owner 💚}.

[tanyariarey]

Beautiful Aemond 💙

[hotdaemondtargaryen]

the way olivia is looking directly at ewan while mentioning about alys and fabien is smirking.

[lady-ye]

The green siblings

🟢👑 The Green Siblings 👑🟢

(daeron is so tan bc he actually goes outside in Oldtown ahshdjfk the other three, we cannot say for sure.✋😔)

PRINTS AVAILABLE

[scentedpepper]

The Cockcrow of Dalliance

AEGON II TARGARYEN X SERVANT! GN READER

Part 1: Guilty Pleasures

Summary: Aegon II Targaryen's servant finds that dancing in the fire of the dragon's is but a natural state in which they exist.

Content Warnings: Violence (may be reminiscent of DV, see below), Implied and Explicit Sexual Speech/Themes, Implied Mention of SA, Aegon II Targaryen, Verbal Abuse (Mother to Child), Threatening, Toxic Household Dynamics, Aemond Targaryen, Toxic Power Dynamics, Violence Against Objects During Argument (?)

Other Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x Servant! GN Reader

AUTHOR NOTE(S):

Yes, yes it's finally here guys

Edited this mid dissociation so if you see any mistakes no you didn't

Told my bsf I was gonna have this out last night (I lied)

Aegons crying again

Debated splitting this into two parts but decided to save that torture for another day

For those of you who haven't read part 1: Guilty Pleasures

Regrading the DV content warning above, given that reader lives and has lived and grew up with Aegon + the weird relationship they have goin' on I thought their interaction in this fic might feel like something similar to DV,, just a moment of consideration

That's all, have fun guys

------------------------------------

"You broke the plates?"

The Prince Aemond is neither impressed nor pleased when the serene violet of his eye pops over the pages of a book he clutches to look at you. His sober drawl has hardly faltered from neutral, in fact, you think he may even be disappointed or rather– expecting.

He has always known, you think, of you and Aegon.

Your steps in the room pause and white pages with ancient scroll on them turn upside down as your hand falls. "My Prince, was that truly your takeaway?"

"It was one of many, " he says and folds the pages, a sign you know is to show his patience –which usually runs thin when it comes to anything, but especially his brother. "Now tell me."

"Would you like a report or an apology?"

You look at him with something that's grown familiar and yet, at times, feels gnawing. Even in his youth his parents indulged his mind and, thus, his tongue was sharp, capable, and used, to the great benefit of others and perhaps his own. And one such end happened to be your position. Though as to how that is of the most benefit is only debatable.

"Whichever you find necessary," he sighs, tucking away a page marker between his fingertips, "but you often mutter apologies by rote so perhaps, dare I ask, would you start the report instead?”

Your chest squeezes in defiance though, you know it is true. Your heart pounds harshly as you recall the way you've trained yourself to begrudgingly bend in reverence in the direction of royalty such as the man before you. The castle walls creak loudly each time, ringing in the back of your ears like a tired, pained groan.

You open your mouth to speak but you feel it close all over again as the prince moves, shifts and your eyes watch him oh so very carefully.

He unfolds his left leg from his right and suddenly becomes more pristine than his previous lax position. He sets the book down with a thud, the ancient leather-bound pages now bent.

“Start at the beginning.” He says, eye peeling away from the book heavy table beside him to look at you, he leans forward, forearms resting on each side of the creaky, old chair that almost scorns the perfect black leather of his clothing. “Tell me exactly what transpired. Don't leave out any details.”

You find that this nature often becomes of the prince when he discovers an encounter you've had with his brother. Restless, antsy, though feigning a lack of care at the start. Much like Aegon, he is a creature of habit. Cycles. Gratingly so.

You tilt your head at him, a curious glaze in your eyes that he does not like but knows you cannot help.

He returns the gesture with a placid face.

Unmoving and unmotivated, unenviable to the nature of your being.

He knows you know what he does not want you to know.

Your knowledge is ever expansive in his eyes, crossing the vast walls of the Keep, simultaneously surveying the walls of the North. You are but a pigeon, fulfilling the duties of your master and yet, you view everything from all different directions.

And when you cast your keen eye upon him, oh, he knows, you only see the jealous boy you grew alongside. The same one who came running to you after his eye was taken, removed. The same one who was undeniably fitful at any one of your moves that did not include him, especially after the tragedy. The same one who grew cold, distant, like ice in which you could stab your prickly little pigeon claws in and deepen the cracks of his resolve.

His foot shifts.

It catches your attention.

He clears his throat.

“Prince Aegon was drunk when he found me. Stumbling from the dark and speaking of aid I was not privy to, at the start.”

The Prince Aemond leans back in his chair, one eyebrow arched slightly as he listens to your report. His violet eye glints in the candlelight, the other socket a shadowed hollow. His steepled fingers press into each other as he regards you thoughtfully.

“The wine had clearly become of him, My Prince, you are much aware of how he succumbs.”

He hums in agreement, eye blinking softly.

His foot taps lightly, almost imperceptibly, against the floor. The sound is a gentle reminder of his growing impatience, despite his otherwise calm demeanor. "Go on." Aemond prompts, his voice a low rumble. "What aid did he require of you, exactly?"

You hesitate, your gaze flickering to the closed door of the library. The castle seems to hold its breath around you, the usual bustle of servants and courtiers hushed. It's as if the very stones are straining to hear your next words.

"It was not– clear, at first, what he desired. He begged mostly, for a time, and slung his body about my own."

There is a tightening around his eye, a pain in his chest as his next breath is trapped there.

“Did he attempt to, force himself upon you, in any way?" He speaks, the words rough, restrained, like they're being dragged up from a dark, hidden, knowing place.

You pause, eyes exchanging a shared sentiment with the prince. "I did not need to defend myself, if that is what you are asking.”

Aemond studies you carefully, searching your face for any hint of falsehood. He finds none. But there is something about your words, the way you phrase them, that pricks at him like a thorn buried too deep to remove.

His lips press into a thin line. "That is not what I asked."

Your jaw tenses, but you hold his gaze. There’s an understanding, unspoken yet suffocating in its presence. Aegon, for all his drunken indulgences, is a creature of impulse. Aemond, for all his calculated discipline, is a creature of control. And you, caught between them, are something else entirely.

"He was pitiful," you say finally. "Swaying like a ship battered by storm winds, clutching at me as though I could anchor him." Your voice does not waver, but your fingers flex at your sides. "I let him cling for a time, as one does with a child who has not yet learned how to stand on his own."

Aemond exhales sharply through his nose. There is something bitter in his amusement, something dry and humorless. "How generous of you."

You tilt your head, watching him with eyes that see too much. He knows you and he knows you won’t stop here.

“Do you resent me for it, My Prince?”

The tension in the room is a live thing, writhing between you. Aemond's fingers tighten around each other before he releases them slowly, deliberately.

"I resent him," he says, and there’s a raw edge to his words, a crack in the ice. "For making himself something to be pitied."

You do not flinch at this admission.

Aemond wears self-sufficiency like armor, a shield against the vulnerabilities he despises most. The childhood incident that robbed him of an eye has also stripped him of any patience for frailty, in others and especially in himself. He scorns what he perceives as weakness with the same intensity that he yearns for strength, and in his mind, the two cannot coexist. To him, there is no grandeur in being pitiable, no honor in being at the mercy of one's own impulses. He has worked tirelessly to purge such blemishes from his own character, to become a perfect, unyielding sculpture of control and discipline, no matter the cost.

You know how he looks upon the spectacle his brother makes of himself, how it irks and gnaws and hangs upon his mind like a rusted, old chain that is loud enough to cause a ruckus but not strong enough to do anything at all. To be pitied in the eyes of others was of his greatest fears; to be sympathized by someone like you, who had seen him through so many phases, was tantamount to humiliation. When you speak of Aegon's antics, when you use words like child, he knows you haven't just seen one Targaryen prince crumble, but two.

And so, he masks his shame beneath pointed accusations.

“Perhaps, we shall cease this conversation, My Prince.” You suggest and when you do it is gentle, unwavering in consideration.

It makes Aemond sick.

“No.” He demands it. “Not yet.”

The severity in his voice is a tightrope, stretched thin. He shifts in his seat, eye narrowing as he searches for the words that will bring this to closure on his terms.

"Did he say anything?" Aemond presses. "Anything of use or consequence?"

You consider this, the weight of your answer hanging heavily between you like the pendulum of a clock, swinging down upon him with each delayed breath.

The answer is yes.

Yes, Aegon said many things. Yes, they would bear heavily on Aemond's mind no matter the use or the consequence and yes, you think they are better left unsaid.

Aemond is not above needing protection, not as much as he claims to be.

“Nothing that would—”

You hesitate, an uncommon occurrence. Your eyes are knowing and unreadable in equal measure, a contradictory nature he has never reconciled. “Nothing that I cared to remember.”

He studies you sharply for a moment, and you feel the force of his gaze like the glare of the sun. You cannot help but wonder if this is when you will burn.

But then he exhales, his foot finally stilling. You see him decide to accept your answer, for now.

“I see.” There’s a clipped edge to his words, a finality that rings through the room like the closing of a heavy door.

He pushes himself to standing abruptly, and you feel a twinge of unease. There's an urgency to his movement, a restlessness that crackles in the air like the precursor to a violent storm.

"Then let us leave off this conversation."

Your eyes flick up to his as he strides around the desk, to return his book to the shelf it belongs to.

“I was not aware our time here was subject to your command-”

"That will be all."

…

Aegon's quarters are neither comforting nor welcoming in the light. What the night hides ceases the moment you step over the threshold and cast your hurried eyes across the room. The floor is cluttered with emptied cups and you wonder, briefly, how neither of you tripped or sent one scurrying across the floor like a squeaking mouse last night; amongst the shadows that were cast away by the intruding moonlight, pressing a blue silk against his pale skin, making him appear nearly see-through. A weeping ghost.

It was not this though, not him, not necessarily, that drew you near again. Not his god-like skin or his small plump lips, or the way he pleads and cries and begs. Not the clouds covering his violet eyes, or the way they release tears of gold from the waterline. Not the supposed way he billows an exciting pit inside your stomach. Not your childhood bond, not your aversion to other domestic duties in which he gives you careless release to. Not the allure of his affections, not the ebb and flow of his deflections.

It is his mother–and perhaps the loud crashing–that causes you, and several other servants lingering about the halls of the royal apartments, to break ritual.

You freeze just beyond the entrance, feeling more like an intruder than a participant. Queen Alicent stands in the center of the room, a hurricane’s eye, breath heaving in her chest, lips pressed into a ferocious line. She does not notice you, not immediately.

Aegon sees you though.

He stands there, a disheveled mess of a prince with his wavy hair falling across his face. His eyes, once squeezed shut as if to ward off her words, snap open to find you. Recognition dawn's first with surprise, then with relief, and finally with a bitter, self-conscious waver.

His mouth hangs slightly open, unsure whether to greet you or to call out in an attempt to save himself from his mother’s onslaught. He does neither. Instead, his eyes lock onto yours, communicating volumes that are left silent amidst the rupturing tension. There is shame in them but also a desperate need for you to see beyond it, to perceive some deeper version of himself that escapes everyone else’s understanding. You can almost see him gearing up for an expression of bravado, an affected nonchalance he wears like a second skin, before the mirror of your presence reminds him of last night’s vulnerability. The skin cracks.

He is too exposed, too aware of you as you linger by the door, and it leaves him frayed.

"Did he call you here?" She finally turns, cutting into the words Aegon begins to form, eyes glancing at you briefly. "Is he incapable of facing me alone?” Her eyes, shifting on him, brim with palpable disdain. Her hands shake as she moves with a furious energy, upsetting the room’s chaotic order even further as she sweeps an arm across the small table beside him. More cups clatter onto the floor, a cascade of empty porcelain that makes Aegon flinch.

He does not answer. Instead, his gaze travels back to you, and for a moment, he’s like a child again. Like last night. Helpless and plaintive, caught between sobs. Caught between breaths, caught between two versions of himself. And then, finally, caught between you, who looks on from the shadows, and his mother, who storms forth with the final blow.

"Do you have any notion,” Alicent demands, “of the disgrace you bring upon yourself? Upon this family?"

You say nothing. Not to Aegon, not to the Queen, not to the situation in which you find yourself in. Again.

"Do you have any notion of what your brother tells me?" Her voice is piercing, a sharp blade of accusation that cuts the air. "You are unfit for succession! Unfit to rule over even a household servant," she spits, and her eyes flick towards you as if you were an object, a thing, another empty cup on the floor.

Aegon staggers slightly, as though each word strikes him with physical force. "Is that it then? You'd rather see Aemond crowned?" He is aghast and teary eyed.

She doesn't relent, doesn't pause, doesn't soften. "Yes. Yes, rather him than this," she gestures wildly at the room, at the mess, at him, the tangled-up prince.

He sways on his feet, her words unmooring him entirely. There is a moment, a brief flash, where you think he might collapse under the weight of it all. And then his eyes find yours again.

There is no relief in them now. Just rawness. Just bloodied pride.

“Go on then!” Aegon’s voice breaks, high and thin, like a snapped string. "Tell him to his face. Tell him you choose him. See how well he takes it."

Alicent’s eyes blaze as she turns on him once more, her fury mounting like a storm at sea. "Do you think he wants it?" Her words are a tempest, crashing down with unrestrained malice. "He knows he is not the rightful heir. He knows he is second. He knows his place."

Aegon flinches, and you feel the sting as well, the viciousness of her scorn sinking deep.

"And you?" She advances upon him, relentless. "What do you know?" Her words are knives, flung with a fury that dares him to bleed. "What have you ever known but indulgence and disgrace? You hold on to your birthright like a drunken sailor clutches an empty bottle. Pathetic and useless." Her voice is a searing brand, meant to scorch and burn away any remnants of his resolve. He stands frozen under the impact, absorbing each blow.

"You hold on to your birthright like a coward—you care for it only when it suits you, only when it eases your own suffering."

He is felled and shattered.

You see him crumble as she hurls insults with calculated precision.

"You are unworthy of it, and you know it.” A title. An inheritance.

Queen Alicent’s words rush forth like a dam unleashed, washing him—washing you—away in the flood of her contempt. Her disdain fills the air, choking it, suffocating it.

"Is this all you are made of, Aegon? Are you as hollow as your ambition? As shallow as your need for attention?" Her voice drops, lethal and low. "What are you, a shadow of a man, a shadow of a son?" There is nothing but her voice and the sting as it cleaves through him.

"Unworthy." She repeats, taking a step back, but her presence is still suffocating. She is the very storm itself, consuming everything in her wake, and you wonder how much longer he can endure it.

His breath hitches, and he stares at her with wounded bewilderment, like a kicked dog unsure of why he’s been struck.

You step forward.

“Your Grace,” you say quietly, gently, “perhaps it would be best to leave Prince Aegon to collect himself.”

The suggestion hangs in the air, soft and unassuming but somehow undeniable. Alicent looks at you, really seeing you for the first time. Her anger falters just slightly, enough for reflection to creep in through the cracks.

She draws herself up, her chest, taking in a deep inhale to suffocate the glaze in her eyes.

She looks back at Aegon, the weight of her own words settling in like an unwelcome guest.

"Very well." she says, her voice suddenly hoarse, as if worn out from the effort of sustaining such grand frustration.

She turns sharply and strides towards the door, leaving in a storm-tossed flurry of skirts. Her departure pulls the air with her, and the room feels emptier for it, less like a battlefield and more like the aftermath of one.

You stand rooted for a moment, unsure if you’re allowed to move, to speak, to breathe. Aegon remains where he is, crumpled and small, his defiance collapsed around him like a broken shield. His eyes shine too brightly as he stares at the ground where she stood moments ago.

“Did you enjoy it?”

The voice is hoarse, reeling, trembling.

Broken glass over an empty road.

You open your mouth, to say what, you don't know.

It's that dark feeling, the one that weighs on your heart and pushes a cool, wet sleeve down your throat until the words can't come out and they aren't spoken in the first place. It's a familiar suffocation, like a thick fog that clouds your vision.

So instead, your fingers twitch and bend at your sides as you watch the fire begin to form at the back of the dragon's throat.

Aegon exhales sharply through his nose, a bitter smile twisting his lips. "I asked you a question."

Your throat tightens. There it is. This moment, this tension, this awful in-between where he is neither kind nor cruel, where he asks for something you cannot give.

"My place is neither to enjoy nor suffer, My Prince."

At those words, Aegon flinches, and his control slips slightly, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. He looks at you, unfathomably sad, as if the very sight of you hurts him.

And yet, it is he who burns your skin thin, until it drips from your bones.

"Did you? Did you enjoy it?" He sounds frantic, if there was ever a word for the state he is left in.

Your ears are ringing, a familiar, disorienting sound.

Why, you think, why does everything always circle back to me?

You shift your weight, an uncomfortable, unsettled sensation growing within you.

Aegon has never made it easy. He has spent his whole life vacillating between kindness and cruelty, between moments of unguarded warmth and the kind of thoughtless indulgence that turns everything sour. And you—whatever it is you feel for him—have never been allowed to name it. In a lifetime of service, you have been powerless and forgotten, dismissed and degraded. But not now. Not here.

"Did you?" He asks, his voice barely audible.

Your tongue feels heavy. Your words die at its tip, still unformed.

For a moment, Aegon looks completely exposed, every thought and feeling laid bare before you. The usual façade, the mask of affected insouciance, has fallen away, and he is left raw and aching. There is no wine to blame this time, no easy explanation.

His expression flickers, something dark passing over it. "You won't even grant me the honesty I require of you?"

Your silence cuts into him deeper.

He grits his teeth and steels himself against it. Against you. Against everything.

You can see it clearly, how close he is to shattered.

You have seen it before.

A visage so similar to Aemonds.

And just as Aemond, he grows furious before he musters the ability to wall himself up again.

For Aemond, it will often be a curt and disinterested attitude, of a cold and numb exterior where his thoughts and feelings lie; encased and concealed, guarded lest they escape to come at you.

His was a defensive tactic.

Aegon's is an offensive one.

His eyes narrow, his mouth tenses and his nostrils flare. "Is the loyal servant too good to gratify me?" His tone drips with condescension. "So quick you are to obey my orders in the day, so willing you are to let your master take whatever he wishes by night. Was not my brother enough then, or did you find it funny to share a royal laugh at my expense? As you are used to?"

Your brows pull together but you cast your eyes to the side, away, hoping, perhaps, that your quiet may dim his light, if only for a moment.

It does not.

"Look at me!" He demands, his eyes cold and hard, his voice cracking under the strain of emotion.

A loud crash, louder than what becomes of him when he is beaten with words, startles you upright and you stare, wide eyed, at the mess he's created. He kicks against a near trunk, knocking the drawers shut and spilling across the floor the same as it once did so many years ago when he was a moody, grumpy, child, fresh to the world.

Now his emotions –his wants– consume him like a wildfire. Spitting hot embers that char and set aflame your heart and cause you to squirm and step back.

This was different.

"Must I order you once more, dear servant?"

He speaks through his teeth, mocking and cruel.

They grind and clink together, a fury all his own.

It is now that he begins to laugh. Your cheeks flame with shame and anger and disbelief and those eyes, wide open, look upon you with disgust.

“My Prince, please–”

“Please? Please what? Please stop? Please listen? Please pretend like you care?”

“I have always–”

“Always what? Always obeyed? Always served? Always stood there and let me–” He cuts himself off, breath shuddering.

You watch him carefully, watch the way his seams fall apart, brittle and begrudging. His eyes have an insanity to them, like his fingers are losing grip and he is forced to surrender to the soil that lays far below him.

“This is not the time–” You try again, voice soft, unchanging despite the nicks in your skin, within your joints. You ignore it all, pacing yourself as you take careful steps to him, drawing your warmth closer.

"And such a useless, incompetent little thing you are that all it seems you are good for is lifting my cock and licking it clean."

You stiffen. Your pride bristles at his words and you come to an abrupt halt, teeth clamping down on each other.

You suppose it is some twisted metaphor –or his dreams– meant to leave you coiled in on yourself, remind you of where you stand. Below him.

“Not the time?” He repeats, harsh and mocking, bewildered at your control, your delicately placed self. “When is the time then? When I am drunk off my arse, so you can pat me on the fur and tuck me away like a dog? When I am far too gone to know the difference between your pity and your loyalty?

“I do not pity you—”

Lies.

And Aegon knows it.

“A kind word? A brush on the head? Does it feel good? Does it make you feel safe?” He spits out the last word as if it is such a disgraceful proposition that even puts you, a servant, to shame. “Does he touch you the way I do? Do you like it best when a prince pretends you are worth something?”

Your eyes light with something akin to his own flames and the walls begin to crack around you two.

“You mistake me for one of your whores, My Prince.” You start, you voice even, calm and uneventful despite the words that so unnerve Aegon. “Do not whimper at my feet and expect me to soothe you.”

Something shatters in the violet, the facade of cruelty, cold control fractured at the edges, and you know you've hit him where he was weakest. Where the pain was most raw and uncured, where no princely title could cover his scars.

There's a split second where your chest aches and lurches for a younger version of Aegon, the one who's mother loved him yet never was able to see the boy for all his woes and inadequacies, his sadness and self loathing, his broken heart, his shame. The one who must feel a million memories of the throne room playing alongside your anger to stop you from turning your heel and saying nothing.

Instead though, you have not the time to react before you feel the collar of your shirt pulled forward with a violent tug and your body lurches forward in a stumble, mere inches from your noses touching, and then all at once, you are being pushed across the room.

Your back crackles against the wall like a brutish whip and you grunt, arms up, attempting to break the hands that hold you before you're against the wall again.

He shakes you, the anger and bitterness pouring from him like a torrent. “You think I am weak?” He sneers, his grip tightening as if trying to force an answer from your very bones. “You think me pathetic?”

Your defiance only seems to goad him further. It unleashes something feral in him, something unhinged. His words come fast and sharp, cutting into your skin. “Perhaps you have forgotten,” he snarls, inches from your face, “that my goodwill is all that stands between you and ruin.”

His grip on you fortifies. His eyes burn hotter, hotter than those of the dragon emblazoned on his tunic, than any flickering flame.

You breathe hard. A stare-off and neither of you budge.

"Perhaps," you grit through your teeth, "perhaps it is my goodwill that has made you think that."

"You dare," he spits, his voice straining with disbelief. "You dare presume to lecture me, to speak to me like—" He breaks off, his breathing ragged with the effort of controlling himself and failing. His hands tremble against your shirt, and for a moment, you see the desperation beneath the anger, the fear that drives his cruelty. He is like a caged animal, lashing out at everything and everyone, especially at you.

"You think yourself untouchable, do you?" The sheer contempt in his voice is like a physical blow. "You think yourself indispensable?" His grip loosens, just slightly, his doubt giving you the smallest advantage, the tiniest edge. But the moment is brief, and his resolve hardens again. He grips you with renewed vigor, his determination to break you more than matched by yours to withstand him.

“I could have you banished.” He says it like a promise, his voice vicious and raw and you jolt forward only to be pushed back down. “I could have you—”

“—ruined, forgotten.” You throw the words back at him, cutting him off before he can utter them himself. There is a new, dangerous edge in your voice, a fearlessness that defies his threats and mocks his power. “It is what you always say, Aegon, but there is no truth behind it.” Your chest rises deeply, falling just as hard, your talons digging.

His threats, so often wielded as weapons, seem pitiful in the face of your truth. You glare with unyielding intensity, daring him to make good on his words, daring him to follow through on promises you know he cannot keep. It is you who now has him up against the wall, pinned by the plain force of your refusal to cower. He is stunned into conflicted silence, wavering under the weight of your unflinching gaze. You see the cracks deepen and spread, his assurance buckling under the knowledge that you, more than anyone, can see through him. You watch as it undermines every defense he thought himself capable of.

Perhaps this once he will understand. Perhaps this once he will not spiral and fester. Perhaps this once he will learn.

Perhaps, you think, perhaps this once he will not come to you in an empty hall, in a vacant corridor, marching like the very soldiers you thought he was, asking if you feel proud, if you are finally happy.

“Go on, punish me for my insolence. The Crown will thank you. Your mother will kiss you on the head and call you a good boy. Your brother will tell you how wise you are, how brave. You can pretend I never was here at all, and maybe then it will be enough.”

Aegon stares at you as though he has been struck. The color drains from his face, leaving him pale and ghost-like. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

"Stop," he chokes out, but there is no strength in it, no authority. It is more plea than command. His grip weakens again and this time does not recover.

“Go ahead.” You press on, relentless now that the cracks have widened into chasms. “Forget me like your family forgets you.”

He is staggered by the force of your words, eyes wide with disbelief and pain so deep it steals his breath away.

He doesn't let go as the tears began to well in his eyes. “Damn you,” he cries out, his voice breaking, uncaring if anyone hears him now. He is wild with the knowledge that you see through him, past the anger to the fear beneath. It shatters what little control he has left. “Damn you to the Seven Hells—”

In an instant, Aegon’s fury crumbles away, leaving something wrecked and desperate in its place.

“My Prince–"

Something hot and wet stains the corner of your shirt. You inhale softly, sharply, taken aback and perhaps a little repulsed but all the more so worried, for him, of how he lurches into you with both knees against your sides.

You nearly choke in reply but you suck your windpipe back into position and breathe again with enough control to not swallow your tongue.

When he speaks his voice is consumed by his own tears but you make it out clearly, recognizing the patterns of his words.

Oh, how his clutch so soon turns to a grasp.

He does not look at you but rather keeps his face buried into your neck, body weight falling loosely atop you and pinning you to the wall. You are left only to wrap your arms slowly around his trembling figure.

He is drunk on his own emotions and perhaps, you think, that is often why he does not face them sober.

"Y/N," your name comes as a slur. "I am sorry." He chokes on his own hiccups as he begs to release the words. "Sorry- I'm sorry. So sorry."

You are forced against your better judgment to cradle him against you, turning your head softly to press your cheek against his temple.

"Okay." You soothe, your hand coming up to his head as you let out a shaky breath, eyes closing briefly as if to regain whatever part of yourself you've just lost. Your fingers twine like cotton into the soft, white threads of his hair. "Okay, My Prince. Okay."

"Forgive me."

He is a mess and quite unlike his brother who was put together the last time you held him in your arms, with a slightly sound mind to match.

His grip tightens and your shirt rides up the slightest.

"I only meant to protect us," you coo against him softly as to not cause his guilt. A half-truth, the words tug the base of your heart but you force yourself not to stray. Not now, you think, not as such fragile things.

"Do not dismiss me." His voice cracks and it rings loud in your ears, as if though a screech. "Please, I will keep you beside me if I must. My brother, too." His tone wavers with uncertainty but his hold increases.

You allow him, to keep his hands where they lay; however, he wishes. They are familiar there after all, comfortable.

He does not quiet in his sobs, in his muffled cries into your neck and you must only listen to every word.

"I wish only for your comfort, for your safety. Your loyalty."

You squeeze him harder against you and still, the other servants flit and look and keep, away from the quarters.

He goes on. "My mother is blind to the wrong of it. How would she know of...how could she understand, of that sort of..."

He cannot finish his thoughts. Or perhaps, he cannot bring himself to say them, however he knows, however he feels. However she neglected to see.

His grip slips up, thumbs pressed against the curve of your ribs.

It makes your skin ignite and yet he is like ice, so much so, there is a mist that shrouds the two of you in dewy wetness.

How foolish. Aemond's warning repeats in your mind like a hammer hits the nail.

But your nails glide over his back anyway.

He tries, once more, to speak. To piece the uncharacteristic cracks and repair his voice, the only thing keeping him standing and in a role of power. "The wine dulls it, drowns it, even, my whims."

Perhaps. Or maybe, once released, he does not stop the spiral from its descent.

A whine escapes him and he exhales roughly against you, trying to stop the tears and failing.

He seems only to grow sadder as the two of you stand there, your backs straight and your thighs, beginning to ache.

His grip shifts to become ever more desperate, pleading, asking that of you when the liquor does not.

"Please."

It hits you hard, the plea, an old battle he has within and a new one you bear witness to.

Aegon seems smaller now, slacked of his fire, that same fire that licks and snaps at the ends of yours. You wonder for a moment, what his flames would even taste like.

Ash? The bitter drink, that will only make his tears wetter.

And, they are. He tastes, salt, from his own misery, spilling from the corners of his eyes and staining the neck of your shirt.

You have not the chance to respond, not a moment between his shaky breath and his hands once more, holding you tightly to his own body.

There is no ounce of space between the two of you when the door bursts open and you meet the eye of the Targaryen you have not embraced in so long.

Instead, all those thoughts, and fantasies, and ideas burn before your eyes and you are reduced to only black and grey, sweeping away with the wind.

Aemond is tall enough that he is overbearing, overshadowing, you, until all you can look at is that void filled, violet abyss that has never been shown such warmth and affection.

He closes the door swiftly at the sight, eye blown wide, wordless for a moment as he searches your expression which is a mix of pleading and acceptance.

His focus then flickers to your chests, tangled, hearts, entwined as close as possible.

Aegon has pushed himself entirely flat to you now, your back embedded into the wall behind you. It creaks loudly under your weight and leaves a scarred ring in the wood as your foot steps back from the pressure.

He does not release you either, does not flinch. Not now, not at the sight of his brother, not at the thoughts within him, rushing, filling his mind up with words and sentences together.

You watch Aemonds throat bob.

He grows more unnerved by the performance the longer he stands there and watches and does not a thing to cease such condemnable theatrics.

You shake your head at him, feeling the way Aegon's tears spread over your bare skin, your arms jolting up and down with each cry.

But Aemond does not listen to you.

When has he ever?

Your palms are sweaty by the time he finally takes action, grabbing the back of his brother's shirt harder than any strong knight ever could.

"Enough."

One tug is all it takes to begin to peel Aegon off of you, first, it is the thick, splayed head of hair, then the buttons, his fingers, the silk belt around his waist. When he has managed that, his next actions seem to please you no more, so quickly and easily the other half of his soul is discarded.

Aegon cries out as though he is a blind pup being taken from his mother's breast and he attempts to return but Aemond pulls him back so quickly by his collar, he coughs, instead.

"That is enough." Aemond repeats and his voice sounds so like yours moments ago, trying to quell the anger.

You look upon the brothers as you push yourself slowly from the wall, clearing your throat and straightening your clothing.

Aegon is red in the face, particularly his nose and his skin is wet, eyelashes dripping. Again, he carries that look of a small pet who's been scolded for the first time.

You are unable to look at him long before your bewildered brow pinches at Aemond next.

His eye is steely, face taught and lips pressed thin.

There is a hesitation in him, it is hardly noticeable and it is replaced by the very clenching of his teeth and his jaw working furiously to keep up his composure as he throws his brother onto his bed in a heap of tangled sheets.

He immediately struggles and you step away as you can only watch him, fists taut in the blanket, face planted to hide his shame.

Aemond keeps his teeth clenched down, as if to stop himself from speaking all that he wishes to.

"You are behaving like a child."

Aegon is muffled by his pillow. "Y/N understands."

You do.

But you don't speak the fact into existence.

Instead, you just step forward, deliberately quiet until you stand at Aemonds side and the both of you stare down at the crown prince for a time.

"Stay." Aemond commands and you know this much, know by his tone and expression, what he will wish of you next.

And just as dutifully, you obey him and give a curt nod.

You are the only reason his brother does not tear the room apart in a bout of rage, and as you lay a tender hand upon his shoulder, the younger Targaryen prince resigns.

"When he calms you may go." He looks down at you with a tight visage that conveys to you a silent knowledge of where he stands on the matter.

He does not want you here. In this room. With his sob ridden brother.

But he knows, with no other means, with how no other servants keep their head nor the desire or capability, you are truly the only one suitable.

It isn't in a good way either, you think.

And you can not look at the way Aemond stares at you. For only a moment but in it, the tension shatters.

"I will be outside the door should he lay a finger on you." And it is just as sharp and sour and you are quick to cast your gaze away and keep it upon the curve of Aegon's back instead. "Do you hear me, you drunk whelp?”

It is his final demand as he casts his gaze to his brothers backside again.

Aegon offers nothing in response. He simply melts and weeps and blubbers.

“Y/N leaves on my terms, the wrong touch and I shall know."

You swallow, daring not to roll your eyes, for you've grown tired of his promises to defend you and his threats to take retribution should you be put out of line or fault.

But he looks at you, sees you, and understands the funny crookedness of your lip.

"I am serious." He takes long steps across the room, eye still on you. "If it comes to the point I wish to think you foolish enough as not to realize I will remove my brother myself, so help me." And even in the same breath, he tugs the door open and brings it slamming shut to silence the echoes of his words.

Then it is just as quiet as the crowing of the day's start and the library aches for your return.