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e1dritchjackal0pe · 4 months ago

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𝔗𝔬 𝔗𝔬𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔉𝔦𝔯𝔢

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Isolated and weary of your solitary marriage with the prince, you gather enough courage to approach him one night with the declaration that the both of you try to become better acquainted. When you had proposed the idea, you never could have imagined how it would forever alter the dynamic of your union.

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: 18+ content. Minor's scram. AFAB descriptions, some female implying terms used such as "wife." Fingering, Oral (F!Receiving), naked female and clothed male, some hints of sub Aemond, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink. Not proofread. Probably very poorly translated High Valyrian, blame the internet, not me. Aemond being a little shit, but also a little soft, just to balance it out. Aemond speaking in High Valyrian because it does unspeakable things to me.

𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰: 24.8k words. Another unnecessarily long fic because I have no self-control. Reader is a Baratheon. This was honestly just an excuse to write about dragon riding with Aemond. A little bit of Vhagar appreciation because she receives far too much hate.

Life has not been easy as of late. With the threat of war ever-present, looming over the entirety of Westeros like a great storm cloud, thick and heavy with the promise of shrieking winds and a downpour violent enough to rip the foundations of the Seven Kingdoms from the earth and sweep them away in tides of blood. This war could be the end of it all. With dragonflame so readily at the disposal of both opposing sides, there is the possibility of no victors in this battle. All could very well wind up as a victim. Charred corpses to litter the burned lands, scorched black and red from fire and blood like forgotten toys carelessly left discarded and damaged by the children (or the gods) that played with them.

It is becoming increasingly difficult to nudge it all - the paranoia and worry - back to the distant recesses of your mind. But it clings to you like a stubborn sickness. Making a home in the pit of your stomach like some vile, nauseating thing. It has you hopelessly adrift with no source of salvation to cling to. Especially now that you are in a place that brings you no comfort. Confined within the cold, labyrinthian walls of a castle that you do not truly know beyond the whispers of its name and the faint, watery memory of once dining in the Great Hall as a child while people jovially chattered and feasted on banquet.

It's all so lost. Being forced to show a polite expression and nod and entertain lords and ladys that hold no true familiarity or warmth to you. Strangers with faces that would smile and stare as though they have known you for years. It is all so restricting. Binding and tight and clinging to your person like the new garments that you have been gifted with upon your arrival to the Red Keep; forced and expected to sport the customary garb and accessories of the Targaryen culture and trends. All wrapped up and pinned up in fine jewelry and embroidered fabrics like a prized broodmare.

But perhaps then, even "prize mare" is giving yourself far too much praise. Prized pawn is far more fitting of a term. Just some plain, ordinary piece meant to be moved about the board at the whims of the player. Plucked to jump from square to checkered square with little care. You are a simple instrument on a much bigger board; the scope of which, you know is entirely beyond you and your imaginations.

It makes it all so difficult to not be cross. To push down the anger that prickles at your flesh like hot coals and burns within the chasm of your ribcage. You feel cheated somewhat. Used and played with despite having prepared for this possibility since the moment you had been delivered from the safety of your mother's womb and into the chill of the world. It should be no shock that you have found no comfort. Not in your daily duties and the nugatory responsibilities and diversions you must fill your time with; all of the needlework, entertaining and book reading. It is tedious. Dull. Weak distractions against your harsh reality. That here, so far from home, you are well and truly at your lonesome. Wed to a man who wants little to do with you beyond your expected obligations. Though you might truly have only yourself to blame for that. Your husband had worn his intentions on his sleeve when he had arrived Storm's End that one tempestuous evening, bearing his true colors to your father and your sisters when he had traded for the Baratheon House's allegiance and loyalty in the exchange for accepting your hand in marriage. He propositioned such terms swiftly. Shockingly so. Sheading little thought to the requirement - it was as easy as breathing for him. All while you stood alongside your sisters, being mindful to keep your spine rigid and head held high while your future was bartered away so easily; swallowing down the unease that stirred in your gut.

And even with your reservations on the matter, and the buried urge to rush forward and object, you could not help but to study him from your place beside your siblings. You had heard stories of the Targaryen family your entire life. And although you had seen them once before as a young girl, the memories had done little properly illustrate the nearly ethereal grace with which he carried himself with. The first word that had crossed your mind when you first watched him prowl into your family's ancestorial home was simply just:

Stunning.

For most men you would have used handsome, or dashing. And perhaps those words could be used for the likes of Prince Aemond Targaryen, but there's something about them that does not quite do him the proper justice. He was imposing as soon as he entered the space. Footsteps softly echoing along the stone floors as he approached your father's throne with nothing but pure confidence in his stride. As though you were the guests and not he. And like a moth drawn to a steady open flame your vision had immediately been caught and fastened onto him as though you were placed under spell.

A simple, harmless fascination, you like to tell yourself. After all, it is not so strange to be captivated by a man who is said to be closer to a god than man; one who rides on the back of a great dragon. And when you first saw him, even with all your uncertainty of his arrival, it was impossible to look away. To try and not to study the countenance of a man you have heard so much about. Tracing the pronounced ridge of his aquiline nose, the keen cut of his jaw, the curved shape of his lips that were set with a slight purse. His features were decidedly sharp, but it suited him well with the assured way he held himself. The scar that marred the left side of his face could do nothing to damage his beauty. A beauty that is so inherently Valyrian. Attributes that mark someone who has blood of the dragon rushing through their veins, smoldering their hair into shades of smoke. And his hair was no different. Spilling down his back like rivulets of pale, silver silk.

But it was his eye that had caught your attention the most. Even with only one to look, it peered at the world with a focus that was nearly unnerving. Locking onto your father in striking shades of either blue or violet - you could not tell at the time from the distance that had spaced between you.

And in the moment that you had stood and evaluated him with a sense of wonder and dread, his eye had never flickered over to you. He had hardly spared you a glance. Holding his focus entirely on the Lord before him with the hints of a satisfied smirk nudging at the curled edges of his mouth, even while he held himself so composedly. Like he was truly pleased with the trajectory of the evening. The lack of his attentions on you should have been more than enough to clue you in on the trajectory of your life with the prince. Moreso than the ominous tempest that raged outside the stone walls. Downpours and thunder are no strangers to Storm's End, often ravaging the world beneath with flurries of rain and winds strong enough to lift waves to thrash the against the surface. But that day you had decided that the storm that had blotted out the golden hue of the sun was not simply just a common occurrence, but instead a bad omen. One brought on with the arrival of the prince, set as a warning - a blight on the future of your matrimony that heeded nothing but misery. And you had been right in some regards.

You knew for certain that as soon as Aemond Targaryen had stepped away from you to stalk after his young nephew with the insistent ravings, flashing a blade with nothing but a crazed scorn in his voice, that you would find no solace within the cradle of your marriage to the prince. And the death of the Velaryon child and his dragon that swiftly followed that night only solidified that assumption. You are married to a mad man.

One ruled by duty and strategy, but a mad man, nonetheless.

Even with that in mind you could not help but to long for a connection with the prince. No matter how minuscule or spurious it might be. Your associations with the second born son have been spars at best. Done purely out of obligation at best. Each time you had ever been within each other's presence it had been out of a means to project the image of husband and wife that was expected by the masses and the court. The wedding, the feast you had partaken in, the consummation of your marriage. It was all done with an air of detachment from the prince. He was never rude, or untoward with you, but there was silent boundary that he had sliced between you with his absence and apparent lack of interest in your union. The nights that he would bed you were few and far in between. Done out of the necessity of producing an heir rather than a means to show affection. You could feel it in the clinical way that he touched you. Gentle, firm and somewhat rigid when he would guide you to bend over the foot of the bed with the palm of his hands, lifting up your skirts swiftly as though he is always eager to be done with it and somewhere else.

You are not a foolish young girl anymore who would listen to your late mother's romantic stories and tales of besotted, star-crossed lovers with a rapt, captivated attention. You now know the nature of marriages. Especially those of highborn society. The expectations of them. They are often done out of the means to strengthen political alliances, not done out of a declaration of love.

Still, it would be nice to at least know the man that you are set to spend the remainder of your life until the Stranger finally takes you from this mortal realm. The desire for it burned at you, ate at you with teeth that ripped and gnawed at your heart piece by vicious piece until you felt hollow. Not even Queen Alicent, despite her best, though often rare efforts to bring you ease has managed to pull you from the depths of your melancholy.

You wanted more. You were weary of belonging to a stranger. A man who made no attempts for as much simple conversation with you but spent every waking moment strategizing for bloodshed and the success of his house. You knew that if you meant to alter the course of your union with the prince that it is you who must go to him. And the thought of that terrified you greatly.

You had heard the tales of those who dared to claim dragons that had no desire to be asserted. Those fools' endings were all same. Snapped up between the sharp maws of the great beasts to be swallowed in a gruesome lump of bloodied meat and crushed bone or engulfed in raging flames of bright, molten gold. You had absolutely no desire to become one of those fools. And despite knowing your husband so little, you were able to gather enough, that despite his cunning, he was also undeniably impulsive. Lead by the ferocity and the heat of the dragon blood that coursed throughout his body and burned within his soul like the fire they spit from their throats. If you went to him in the endeavor of drawing him into a connection that he truly did not seek, the only thing you might gain in turn is his ire.

And so, you had resisted the urge for as long as you could. Settling for the brief interactions you shared during the supper's spent with the family, or the moments when he would meet you within your chambers to do his duty has husband and prince in the hopes of planting his seed and creating his successor. But it all quickly caught up with you. It was not enough, living on the meager crumbs that these encounters provided. Quickly you had decided that you would rather hypothetically get scorched alive by the scorn of your husband than continue to spend your days as a living dead woman, drifting about the cold corridors like a ghost wondering about the life that could have been, had you simply just confronted him.

It was nearing the night, just little before the hour of the bat, that you found yourself standing outside the doors of his chambers, with soft lilac hues of the twilight slipping through the windows that lined the corridor and painted the floors in dusty shades of lavender. It was purely unbecoming of a young woman to be out so late without an escort, even if she was intending to meet with her husband. It had made the anxiety quivering in your chest even stronger. Fluttering like some wild, frightened creature while your mind swarmed with paranoia and hesitation. Your thoughts had seemed determined to persuade you from your intentions, begging that you turned heel and returned to your quarters before you were noticed.

Perhaps he was already abed. Deep in slumber and at peace in his rest. Or perhaps he was not even in his chambers at all. Busy with matters beyond yourself.

It was all almost enough to tear your feet from their place on the floor, but your body seemed eager to betray you, and before you could even notice the movement of your own hand, it was lifted and the sound of your knuckles rapping against the cool wood of the door had rung out within the confines of the hallway. Sharp, loud, and almost violent in your ears. Echoing out like nails being struck into the face of a coffin.

You nearly flinched, mouth running dry at the realization of what you had just done, and with it the urge to flee had never been so great. Trembling up your spine like a cold breath. You had hoped that he would not answer. That he truly was asleep or vacant from his apartments, but like a twisted jest, the universe had answered your desires, and the sound of his voice slipped from beyond the door. Muffled by the obstruction, but no less commanding. Unable to ignore the call, you had drawn in a deep breath. Steeling yourself and the relentless patter of your heart before you drew the door open and slipped past the threshold with the drag of your skirts whispering ominously as you went.

The air had seemed to shift when you had entered, and the shadows that clung to the corners and ceiling of the room felt as though it was prepared to swallow you whole, had it not been bayed away by the low flickering the candles that burned about the space like plumes of delicate amber. Your eyes had flitted about the quarters like a startled doe's, desperate to learn the structure of the area as though you might have to flee. Your vision had skipped over the various tomes and documents scattered about the tables; the random objects placed about in meager means of decoration. But you could appreciate them at least, for giving you a small glimpse into the mind of the man you have been bound to. Much like the chessboard left perched atop a tabletop, like a clue to his intelligence and keenness for scheming, and the quills and ink vials and parchment spread along his writing desk.

But you were only able to distract yourself for so long before your attention had been tugged along as though by an invisible string to focus on the man sitting across the space from where you stood, one of the aforementioned documents held within one of his hands while he watched you steadily. His expression was mostly neutral. But even with how easily he was usually able to school his features, you could see the hint of surprise bleeding into his gaze. The subtle raise of his brow and the confused purse of his lips. You could practically see the question ready at the tip of his tongue, and you loathed the awkwardness that permeated the air. Stifling and prickling like a rash along your skin.

"Wife," he finally greeted. Though you could still hear the dull bewilderment in the softness of his tone.

It took you a moment to collect yourself, feebly trying to shake the uncertainty that still clung to you and when you had finally willed yourself to speak, you could only think the gods that your voice did not quiver, even though it was but a few words. "Lord husband," you returned the acknowledgement, nodding your chin slightly in substitute of a curtsy. You watched closely as he gently placed the document in his hand down flat on the desk, tracing his face and the shadows the spilt across his features from the dim candlelight and the remaining, dull remnants of sunlight that managed to slip in through the windows; the reflection of the fire and sun glinting within the captivating shade of his eye.

"To what do I owe the honor?" He inquired.

It had been enough to snap you out of the daze that had clouded over you, jerking you from it so suddenly that you had nearly gasped with the realization that you had been staring. Embarrassment burned at your cheeks, hot and uncomfortable. You cleared your throat, straightening your shoulders in an effort to at least appear confident, but you swore that you had caught the edge of Prince Aemond's mouth twitching up in the semblance of a smile, letting you know that you had not succeeded in your aim.

"I wished to speak to you." You had answered, clasping your fingers together in front of yourself, and you were now unable to ignore how clammy they had become.

"So late in the evening?" Came his quick reply, the brow above his good eye perking ever so slightly. And if you did not know any better you would let yourself entertain the idea that it nearly sounded playful, had his face not been so woefully lacking joy.

"Yes," you said just as fast. You had to ignore the weight of your tongue in your mouth. It suddenly felt too thick. Too clumsy.

He only hummed in response to your answer. The sound was low and inquisitive, thrumming through the air like warm velvet. And though he had not spoken a word back to you, the singular eye that had he pinned you with bore into you with enough focus to drive you to speak. Forcing the words from your still lungs like a grip that did not exist. Wringing your breath from your body with only the weight of his gaze. "I would like . . . " Your voice died out as quickly as it had risen, snagging within your chest like it had been caught on something. It did not help that your nerves were alight. That your heart was beating wildly, like a skittish animal. But it was mostly just irritating. It had made you feel stupid, the way that your body refused to yield to your own commands. Far too caught within the spell of a primal sort of caution and reluctance to relent to something as easy as talking.

"You would like to. . ?" Prince Aemond articulated the question slowly, letting it hang between the both of you, as though you were a child. Annoyance had spread throughout your flesh like a wildfire, and for one idiotic moment you contemplated snapping at him. But fortunately, your self-preservation still clung strong and forced you to be mindful of your tongue.

"This may sound odd," you began, swallowing around the spit that had welled up within your mouth. "But I would like to get to know you better, my prince."

It sounded completely stupid as soon as you heard it from your own ears, and a part of you had longed to wince but you remained surprisingly unflinching. But Aemond it seemed, had been taken by complete surprise. Even though the slip in his composure was quick and subtle, you caught it. The mild slump of his shoulders, the straightening of his posture, the soft pinch between his brows. All of these minute tells that told you so much, though they were gone just as quickly as they had shown. Melted away and replaced by a composure that must have taken him years to perfect.

But no matter how small his shock had been, the sight of such a naked, human emotion flickering across his face was enough to break the barrage that sealed your voice. The words seemed to flow from you more freely then in a rush of thoughts and feelings; desperate to finally speak your mind and make peace with yourself, and most importantly him.

"I hold no delusions over this marriage. I know that our union was a strategic one, brought on by the possibility of a looming war, and the foundations of it are clear." Your sight had flickered back up to his own once more, and the hold of his stare once again threatened to leave you breathless. "I realize that we are not truly lovers, however, I do not think that must mean we are to be strangers also. I wish to know you, husband. I do not expect your affections, or love, but I desire at least the possibility of your attentions. An understanding of each other. And perhaps, if it is willed, a sense of companionship. A comradery."

He remained horrendously silent from his place across from you. Watching you with a keen eye while the hand that still rested along the desks surface fidgeted, the point of his mid-finger ceaselessly gliding along the back of his thumb. It had made you nervous, the way he watched you. Akin to a predator lurking in the shadows, awaiting its moment to strike for its prey's vulnerable throat. You must have stumbled. Foolishly, like the greedy men in all of those ancient folktales. You slipped within the dark and it was then you knew that the dragon was stirring; throat welling up with fire to burn you down for being so presumptuous.

"So you are here, in the beginnings of the night, interrupting me in the midst of my duties, because you are lonely?"

That all that you needed to know that you had truly wandered too close. Assumed and hoped too greatly. Blindly walking into the dragonpit to be burned alight like kindling for a fire. And even with irritation gnawing at you and begging that you speak out in your own defense, you had known that you must tread lightly, even while the prince scorned you like you were a naive girl child chasing after some witless fantasy. He wished to humiliate you it seemed, and even while he was entirely successful in his aim, you would not give him the satisfaction of showing it. But you knew that you had to be tactful. An unchecked rise of your emotions would only serve to go against you.

"Yes, my prince," you had agreed without wavering. And much like your own, his gaze had shifted. The sardonic edge that it had held changed into something darker. More directed than even before. Studious almost. But no matter how much gravity it had held, it was no longer enough to withhold you from speaking. You kept your voice as light as possible, but the firmness, the fervor behind it was more than apparent, drifting out to fill the silence of his quarters. And with each sentence, you let the courage that you had not allowed before to guide you a step closer to the prince. "Yes, I long to know the man that I am to be tied to until death. Yes, I long to know the father of my future children. Yes, I long to know my husband." And with that you allowed yourself to halt after your final step. Then you were so close to his writing desk that if you had leaned over you could have easily reached out and touched him. But you remained fixed in your place, hands still clasped and shoulders high. "Regardless, if my husband will become a lover or simply an ally."

He remained silent in his observations. Regarding you closely as though he expected you to suddenly give way underneath his stare and dash out of the room. But you did not. Not even when the chill of apprehension trembled along the expanse of your back, sneaking underneath the fabric of your garments like a cold draft. He shifted back in his seat, muscles coiling underneath the dark leathers of his doublet and for a moment you had considered the idea that he might lunge. That he would strike forward like the instincts of his blood no doubt urged him to do. At the very least, you had suspected cold words. A detached response that would order you to return back to your apartments and to leave him undisturbed of your person until he saw fit.

"Very well then . . . Wife." His head tilted just the slightest when he addressed you, and the glint of his eye reflecting the light of the many candles seemed to bore into you; notching the words he spoke that much deeper and nourishing the surprise of his agreement. "I will make more of an effort to appease your loneliness, should it bring you ease."

It was because of that decision - because of that night, that your relationship with the prince had been altered. No longer did he suit to sit along your side at social gatherings, tightlipped and rigid, but now he made somewhat of a strive. Much more than before. Though still quiet, he took more attempts to include you in the conversations that he would bother to indulge in. Typically, unremarkable topics that he would try to join you in on, like snide comment on the lords and ladies or an observation of your gowns. Prince Aemond, you easily concluded, had no idea how to speak to the fairer sex. A characteristic that you might have let yourself see as charming if he were not always so subtly contemptuous and withdrawn. Even with all of the improvements with his communications, his presence itself was still scarce. Constantly torn away by the impending threat of calamity and battle.

And no matter how much you knew that his absence was entirely necessary for the good of the kingdom, especially after the Battle of Rook's Rest and the unexpected injuries that have left the King bedridden and near death, the prince was sparser than ever, with him assuming the role of Prince Regent in his brother's stead. But like a poison, that bitter, selfish part of you could not help but to be displeased by the near constant lack of his company.

Today however . . . Today you might actually be regretting his attempts at companionship.

"You still have not told me the nature of our outing, my prince!" You call to him, trudging after him like a shadow with your skirts bundled and clutched within your palms as you desperately attempt to keep up with his much longer stride uphill. The muscles of your calves have already begun to burn and ache with your body already growing weary of the incline, and the weight of your dress does little to aid you in your climb along the earth, still damp from last night's rain. Realistically, there are only a few paces between you and he, but in your mind, it feels as though there are stretches of land separating you.

He only offers you the barest look, hardly even glancing over his shoulder at you as his long legs continue to carry him upward. "For someone who is so desperate for my time, I did not expect to hear any complaints," he answers, full of snark even though his tone remains just as steady and soft as always.

Heat prickles at your cheeks. Though now, with your exertion, it is difficult to ascertain if it is simply from your efforts to trek after him or purely from annoyance. A retort rests heavy on your tongue, but you are unsure if you should bother spending your breath on it. It is tempting. But perhaps later. "It is no complaint; I am simply wondering just where it is that you are taking me. If you wished to go for a walk, perhaps the castle grounds would have sufficed . . . or at the very least, a mention of it would have given me time to at least prepare for more a suitable attire."

He spares you another glance, managing to look down his nose at you from over his shoulder as he continues his ascent until he reaches the leveled crest of the knoll. Leaving you to chase after him while the damp soil, and soaked grass and wildflowers threaten to slip your traction out from underneath your feet with every step. You have never had the urge to strike the prince before, but here and now, you think that you could if he were only close enough. This time he opts to remain silent. Returning his attentions on what lies ahead of him, and it has a flicker of concern breathing to life inside of you. The paranoid, unfounded thought that he means to kill you tries to sprout. It would explain why he had lured you so far away from the safety of the castle walls, and why he had chosen to leave both of your mounts downhill and unattended to graze. How pathetic it would be, to be slain in the middle of the wood, like a dumb girl lured away by a fae in an old folktale.

And if the treasonous whispers that dart about the castle are true, that he had been the one to strike down the king above the battlefield of Rook's Rest, then surely, he would have no qualms about killing the likes of you.

Still, while irritation and caution thrums underneath your flesh, you cannot but help to stare at the expanse of his back as you near the top of the hill, taking in the sight of the confidence in his posture as he all but struts along the earth. The sunlight dances along the pale shade of his hair, bringing to life the faint hint of cream and soft gold that hides within the silver. He is gorgeous out here like this. Relaxed within the peace and confines of nature, while the little birds nestled inside the protection of neighboring trees chatter and trill. For a rare moment like this, touched by sunlight and the air, perfumed with the musk of a storm passed and the fragrance of flowers, it is easy to pretend that he is still not a complete stranger. That the impossible gap that seems to divide you both has grown closer, and he does not look to you as an obligation but as a comfort.

Another fool's reverie perhaps. But a sweet one that you cannot help but entertain while you raise your muddied skirts to strengthen your stride and widen your steps in the hopes to gain on him. But then blessedly his pace finally begins to slow, giving you the means to finally draw in your straining breaths and lessen the expanse between you, making sure to near him from his right, so's not to walk in his blind spot. He tilts his body just the slightest, angling it so that he is able to give you his focus as you draw near, and you have to try your hardest not to gasp and gulp for air in front of him. You need to give him no more reasons to tease and prod at you.

The glint of his eye, a color that you have now discovered to be a delicate, yet vibrant shade trapped between a soft blue and a muted purple draws you into his stare as you approach. It seems to hold you captive, grabbing your attention as you come to walk alongside him, no longer huffing and panting, and the ache in your legs begins to subside.

"You have asked to become familiar with me," he speaks suddenly. Not a question at all, but a statement, and the mention of it has your brows raising just the slightest as you manage a nod. "All I ask of you is that you do not scream or allow yourself to panic."

The sound of those words alone has ice prickling along your skin and settling within the pit of your chest. And the sensation of your apprehension melding with your bewilderment does little to aid you in properly asking him what he could have possibly meant by such a cryptic statement. The inquiry hangs heavy in your mouth like metal, and your jaw seems to open on its own in the means to ask him to clarify. But then, as though it had been timed, a guttural bellow rings out across the placid atmosphere. Humming so heavily that you feel the weight of it vibrate underneath your feet as though the earth were speaking, shaking a small flock of tiny birds from their perches within forest, forcing them to scatter and flee into the clear sky above.

The abrupt noise of it has you all but tearing your vision from Prince Aemond's unbothered, observational expression to whatever lies ahead of you. And your eyes nearly bulge from their sockets at the sight of the behemoth that lies only several yards away. How you had managed to miss the sight of such a monumental creature is entirely beyond you. The only excuse you could possibly make is that the beast has flattened itself along the floor of the clearing, leathery wings lazily stretched open, head resting in the miniscule cover of the knee-high wildflowers and grasses that scatter along the hilltop in what might be some sort of attempt of basking itself underneath the suns glow.

It is a beast that you easily recognize despite never truly having been within its presence. The sheer mass of the creature, and the rich green shade of its skin easily gives it away as the great Vhagar. You have heard of her name from countless stories. Those passed on down from generation to generation to speak of the ferocity and brutality of the battle hardened she-dragon, of how the size of her alone could blot out the sun from her flight. You have even caught glimpses of her in the air before. Often from within the confines of the castle while she soars high above and far from reach. None of those rare moments or stories had done any justice in depicting the true scale of her.

And while you stand, gawking like a slack jawed idiot at the sight of her, you can only manage but to wonder the dumb, fleeting thought of how the Crown could ever possibly manage to supply enough sheep for her appetite. And then any semblance of awe or shock is twisted into a pure sense of dread and a primal fear. Your mind blanks as you try to form some sort of reason for you being here. Why Prince Aemond could possibly desire for you to meet his dragon, but you are left with naught. Something primordial and blazing sears throughout your veins with urge to run, but you find yourself frozen stock still instead while your lungs struggle to move and catch breath. You feel as though you have passed away on the spot and left your body behind to, trapped within this singular moment.

It is not until the dragon begins to lift its head up inquisitively that you manage to regain any control of yourself at all. The sight of her lids peeling open to reveal blazing amber eyes are enough to force your lost voice back into the base of your throat.

"Wha - why have you brought me here, Aemond?"

The look he gives you is entirely unsympathetic. If anything, it seems to be amused. The corners of his lips threaten to perk in the shadow of an arrogant smile. If your heart did not feel as though it were seconds away from overexerting itself and giving out entirely, you are sure that this time, you would have struck him. You would love to hear the impact of your hand meeting the shape of his cheek and snuffing out the pompous way that he is holding himself, but he steps away from you before you can even think to act, fearlessly striding in the direction of the colossal dragon.

"You long to know a dragonrider, lady wife," he answers with the cool timbre of his voice trailing after him and to you. "Flight with one with be the best way to make that connection."

You are certain that your heart has well and truly stopped with that statement. That it turned still and unrooted itself from the cavern in your chest to plummet down below into your gut. And for a moment you wish that you have misheard him. Despite your internal panic, your brain manages to scramble and put the meaning of his words together quite quickly. The urge to refuse or ask him to clarify illudes you. You are far too bewildered. Too trapped within the seize of your own chaotic emotions to properly articulate yourself and your reservations. There's an anger stirring in you as well. Brewing and twisting with everything else, spurred on from the haughty glance he had given you before making his approach towards the beast he is bonded with.

You try and fail to connect his reasoning. The logic entirely beyond you, but when you look upon his face it becomes quite clear. No matter how brief your eye contact had been, you saw the dare that had been dancing in his eye quite clearly. He was challenging you. He is expecting you to turn on your heel and run from the trial that he has set before you. And that has lit a sense of competition in yourself unlike any that you have ever felt before.

He is no longer paying you any attention to see you coming to a sudden grip in resolve. Instead, he has drawn his observations to his dragon, who has lifted her head just enough in a proper greeting to accept the way that he runs a hand along the slop of her enormous muzzle, just above those massive, gnarled fangs that poke like her lips like daggers. The span of his fingers seems so small posted along the swell of her snout, like little more than a speck. And yet he stands before her so confidently. Free from the faintest edge of discomfort or fear. Instead, you hear him murmuring soft words to her. Speaking quietly as though she were a babe in need of praise or encouragement and not a battle worn goliath that has lain waste to armies and dragons alike.

The sound of his ancestor's tongue is beautiful as always. In your short time together, you have heard little of the language from the prince, but when you do manage to catch the glimmers of it from him you make sure to listen keenly. It flows past his lips like a rich silk; all but rumbling and sweeping around words that you do not know but find captivating regardless. It makes you wish that you did understand them.

It is astonishing that no matter how small the prince appears now in comparison to her vast scale, he still holds himself so proudly. His shoulders are set straight, and head tilted high: the posture of royalty. All while he composes himself alongside a monster that could easily open her drooping maw and swallow him whole.

But of course, she does not. A low grumble trembles forth from the wide set of her chest, reverberating throughout the air in a sound that could nearly be likened to the purr of a contented feline. It is shocking to see the famed - the feared Vhagar in such a light. And to similarly see the prince in such a manner as well. Both of them are calm. Peaceful on this tranquil, balmy evening. Untouched by their shared excitement for battle and bloodshed.

It's akin to watching a pair of ruthless gods' slumber.

And it seems to be that, more so than the sense of rivalry that has been kindled, that inspires you to move forward. No matter how uncertain you truly feel. Despite your reservations the odd sweetness of the situation still has you drawing close. All while a frigid kind of fear pools in your stomach. So, you try to focus on the little bits of life around you. The cheerful singing being carried by the birds of the forest, the soothing whisper of the air shifting the leaves, the saccharine scent of the colorful flowers that sway in the grass. It is all so soothing, so delicate. But still, it does little to appease the anxiety coursing throughout you as you grow closer to the beast.

With each step forward, she seems to rise bigger; the growing proximity between you both only making her true mass even more apparent, as you are confronted with the mind-boggling truth of her scale. There is no safety of the castle walls to save you, the collection of the trees that surround you in a half circle would not serve to shield you should Vhagar decide that your presence is an irritant. Her potent fire would consume the forest and you with it with a single breath. Here and now, you know that you rely entirely on the word of Prince Aemond to keep her violent urges at bay.

And that both comforts and terrifies you.

You make your lungs draw in a shaky breath that does little to calm you as you step closer to the she-dragon. But you are certain that there is not a single thing on this earth that could truly bring you serenity as you bear witness to her. Never in your life have you ever stood before a being that has ever made you feel so miniscule. Not even the sight of the stars in the cradle of the night sky, in all of their multitudes and vastness as come close to the trepidation or awe that she has roused in you. You are small. Insignificant in terms of her looming stature. Pitiful in the decades that she has lived and the feats that she has achieved. You know now why the dragons are said to be old gods. You can hardly process that you are now right in front of one. Watching the rise and fall of her ribs as she pulls in massive breaths. The subtle shake of her wilting neck that shifts as she angles her head in your direction to study you with eyes that almost seem to burn with the fire contained within her.

Her nostrils twitch as you come to stop alongside Prince Aemond; near enough that your shoulders nearly brush, but a part of you craves the dim amount of comfort that he provides. She is trying to smell you no doubt. Trying to take in your scent as means to familiarize herself with the stranger who travels with her rider.

"You may touch her," Aemond offers. Or orders perhaps.

It catches you completely off guard, like most things this evening. Regardless of the gentleness of his tone, it is difficult to tell if it is a suggestion or a command. Having what little knowledge you have of the prince in mind it was most likely the latter. Or it is another challenge of his.

The sharp blue of his eye pierces through you once again like he is waiting for you to cower. But now, the prince's concerns and expectations are second at best when it comes to the interest of Vhagar. The brief flicker of your gaze on her confirms that she is still quite placid in mood. Her eyelids low with the remnants of the slumber that she had been goaded from. But that still does little to calm you. Dragons are unpredictable creatures. Gaining a trust of her this easily would be ignorance.

"Does she wish me to?" You ask, and you see that twinge of what might be amusement grace Prince Aemond's features once again.

"She will hardly pay you any mind." That is his assurance. A useless one. Your unease is strong. But your desire to please your husband, to beat this little challenge that he has set for you, and to form some sort of relationship with the prince - no matter how fragile - is stronger. With all the courage you can muster you begin to lift your hand. Slowly and steady in your movements as not to cause the beast any annoyance. You would not want to suggest to her that you feel entitled to touch her. Dragons can be opinionated things after all.

A low noise rolls from her throat at the sight of your hand raised just above her muzzle, just where Aemond had lain his own earlier. It gives you pause. Old, primeval instincts rising inside of you bid you motionless. To wait and see what her move will be next. If she will calm or open her armored jaws to snap you between them.

"Lykirī."

It is Aemond's voice that speaks out. Low yet firm in its inflection as his tongue purrs out the elegant High Valyrian word in a silky drawl. You know not what he said, but it was enough to appease whatever offence you might have committed. She blinks slowly in response and the growl dies down into a soft silence. Still, you now find it difficult to lower your hand. Sensing your hesitance, or perhaps weary of it, Prince Aemond's own is suddenly engulfing the back of it, nearly threading his fingers with yours as he guides your palm downward. The weight of his flesh along yours comes as surprise. You have felt your husband's hands on you before. In much more intimate places, but it is the care with which he directs you with that almost seems foreign. New and delicate.

Currently he wears his gloves, usually seen on his hands whenever he intends to take flight, and you hate how a piece of you longs to feel them bare. To touch the callouses along his palm, made from wielding the grip of swords in combat and clasping the horns of Vhagar's saddle. It is a juxtaposition to the much softer skin of your own. But you do not find the texture of them offensive in the slightest. You could almost relish the sensation of it had they not been covered by soft hide instead.

He leans his body much closer to yours. So much closer that the light brush of his breath glides over the side of your face and the length of your throat. The scent of him wafts from his body in the musk of leather, the spice of dragon smoke and the crisp fragrance of wind. It makes you wonder if he had flown long before he had come to the castle to retrieve you. It is all so distracting. The press of him along your arm, the mesmeric sound of his voice whispering soothing words in his ancestor's language.

But reality comes back to you quickly in the weight of the dragon's flesh settling flat underneath your palm; rough and thick. You have heard before that dragons run hot. Heated up by the fire roaring within their chests. Those words have not prepared you for the warmth that radiates from her and the strength of it. Of the coarseness of her flesh. How sturdy it is. Much like the leathers used in creating amour. Though you suppose that the purpose of her skin is the same.

Her massive nostrils flicker again and her eyes squint as she watches you. Studies you really. As though she is weighing and measuring you of your worth. Which is not a farfetched idea. It is the dragon, after all, who chooses its rider. She must be deciding if you are worthy of standing in her presence.

The elation that floods you at the feeling of her beneath your hand comes like the scattering of butterflies. A smile threatens to break across your face at the small success. A rush of joy from still being alive after touching one of the most violent war dragons the earth has ever seen.

"Are you prepared to ride?"

Aemond's question rips you from your elation like a sudden storm smudging out the bright warmth of the sunlight. The smile that could have been dies out with the happiness that had filled you. It is water doused over embers. And with it the urge to snap at him is back in full force. No, you wished to answer, you are not prepared to ride, because you were not told that you would be expected to until only moments before. But you keep that complaint to yourself. Locked within tightly as not to offend the prince and the dragon whose massive mouth rests directly underneath your open palm. Still, many questions gush up and stir a torrent up within your mind.

"How am I expected to do such a thing, my prince?"

The look that crosses his face appears tired. It makes you wonder if you have somehow asked something foolish, but you come up empty on what that could have possibly been. It is a perfectly expected question. A dragon will only choose a single rider at a time. And only those who are blessed with Valyrian blood could have the potential honor of sharing such a bond. An ancient line that you have no direct lineage to. But the stare that the prince is holding you with now is one of exasperation, yet also sardonic.

"You will sit on the saddle; I thought that much was apparent." His lips have pursed slightly, making his expression a blend of smug and annoyed. He is toying with you once again. It also makes his boundaries quite apparent. There is to be no possibility of a bond between the two of you unless you push when he shoves. If you let your offence get the better of you now while he clearly raises his challenge, then your relationship with him will be reduced to nothing more than his child bearer. A vessel for his future heirs. You shall not yield. Not even while your heart races like that of a rabbit who has been tricked into a corner by the snarling fangs of a hunter.

You are soft but firm when you remove your hand from its place tucked between Vhagar's flesh and Aemond's palm. Your determination rests easily on your face as you turn to observe the netting of ropes that are draped down the side of her great neck as a means to climb astride her. Never has something seemed so daunting before. Not the day that you were bid to leave the familiarity of your life in Storm's End, nor the moment that you had given yourself over to Prince Aemond in matrimony. They all seem so little now as you allow your hand to grip one of the lines of worn rope.

"Lykirī, Vhagar."

A nervous sweat dampens your fingers as you squeeze your grip along the course lines, the frayed edges digging into your soft flesh. The sound of your husband placating the beast rings in your ears like a warning though she has not stirred from her position against the forest floor, even while another rumbling hum echos from her chest. It trembles throughout your arm from being so close to her, rattling up your bones. For a moment you contemplate removing yourself from the makeshift ladder, but the firm, urging glare that Aemond shoots you from his place beside you and the embers of your determination spur you to continue forward.

"I will be behind you," you hear him promise as you haphazardly lift your skirts to enable yourself to place a foot upon one of the rungs. It is now you who hardly offers him a returned glance as you focus on raising yourself along the ropes. You expect for Vhagar to disturb upon the weight of you heaving yourself along her neck, but she does not. She remains blessedly stationary as you urge your body to move upward to scale the high length of her neck, for your mind to remain quiet and centered through your internal panic. The way that the ladder wobbles unsteadily as you work to lift yourself does little to quell the way that your stomach flips with the growing effects of nausea.

You could swear that many moons have passed by the time that you have made it to the top of the ladder, where the ropes meet the smooth leather that creates the structure of the massive saddle. The seat of it is far greater than any other you have ever seen; those having been suited for horses and not the great backs of dragons. But even considering the long forward slop of what must be the equivalent of the rise and pommel and how the cantle stretches slightly backward to support the rider's spine during an upward flight, it is more than apparent that the seat is designed for only a single person. Every bit of grace room is only available for the positioning that must be required in flight. The design of it allowing for the rider to lean forward comfortably in the seat or relax backward, if necessary, but offering little more than that.

If you were both truly meant to ride together it would be an awkward fit. Surely not one safe for something as perilous as flying.

The urge to question this little goal of his rises up high. But instead of voicing your concerns you opt to follow through with his desires. If the two of you do truly not prove to fit on the seat and it turns into an ill sighted blunder on his part, then at least you will be able to silently bask in the pleasure of seeing his arrogance dim at the realization of it.

You reach for some of the leather straps that lie between the junction of the rope ladder and the saddle, using your grip to hoist yourself upward again, slipping a foot into one of the rungs to push yourself within the range of saddle's lowest set of horns. Your fingers can only reach the base of the grip from your current height, but it is enough to enable you to hoist yourself towards the cradle of the saddle, though your muscles burn with the labor. Some torturous thought wonders what would happen should you slip and fall from such a height, and you struggle to block it out entirely as you continue your clumsy ascent. Using the hold that the flat of your feet have within the straps to keep yourself secure as you work on exchanging your hold from the lowest grip and onto one the horns belonging to the higher set to haul your body upward, swinging your right leg out to lurch across the seat.

It strains your arms as you angle yourself, and the length of your skirts threaten to snag on the curve of your knee when your all but throw your body onto the saddle. But by the grace of the gods, you make it. Your chest slightly heaves from your lost breath, and your muddied skirts have pulled and rucked up above your knees in the most unbecoming manner from the stretch of your thighs around the width of the seat. But you hardly have the ability to pay it any mind while your nerves still cause your limbs to quiver, and your body burns with an excess of energy.

While you collect your breath, clasping onto the horns of the saddle with both hands tightly enough for the edges of the leather bound around them to bite your palms, the sound of the wind's current whispering in your ear tugs you from your anxieties.

It is then that you finally realize just where you sit. Comfortably astride the largest dragon, looking down on the world from the ridge of her back. You could see above the trees from this point, the stretches of the wood that gave and showed the lush rolling hills that expanded far beyond your sight. It was all so small and yet so vast this high up, once again making you realize the scope of your existence. You can spy glimpses of King's Landing up in the distance. The glimmer of the rooftops and the spires of the Red Keep, almost lightened in a shade of bronze from the cast of the evenings golden light. The sea beyond it glittering in a reflection of the sun, like a flat mound of shifting coins.

The sudden weight of a hand clasping the grip along the free space just above your own snaps you from your awe. You hardly have time register it as the prince effortlessly swings himself into the saddle, notching a place for himself between your hips and the support of the cantle. His presence forces you to scoot further up along the swell of seat, much higher up than you are meant to be, but the press of his body flat against your own gives you little choice. The angle of it practically has your rump perched against his hips. And when his other arm reaches around your other side to grip the opposite horn of the saddle, you find that you have been completely enclosed in his body. His chest is pinned snug along your back, and you can feel the point of his chin nudge along your shoulder as he looks past you.

There is something horribly intimate about it all. Something that you did not even think to consider when you agreed to this. But now that you can fully feel the warmth of him seeping through the layers of your garments to slip through your skin, you could not find any other word to call it. If your mind was not already so preoccupied with your anxieties, it would have easily latched onto the fact that your skirts are still indecently rucked around your thighs, improperly showing off the fabric of your stockings. It could have made you fidget or heat up with embarrassment had you the mind to, but you are far too preoccupied with what is to come. With the weight of your husband so near you. So high up here, with the wind stronger than it had been down along the ground, his scent seems to pool around you. It fills your lungs with musk and spice, and your body longs to draw it in like a glutton, but you do not allow yourself to. You manage yourself to maintain the steady inhales that you have been taking thus far.

"Remain calm," he reminds you.

As if on cue Vhagar begins to shift. Her giant head lifts from the meadows floor with a low grunt, as though the action alone costs her a great deal of energy, causing the weathered, battle worn flesh along her neck to wobble loosely along her throat. A bout of nervousness prickles in your gut as the motion jostles you forward. On reflex, your grip rightens around the horns, latching onto the pitiful bit of comfort they prove. Anxiety spreads along your fingertips and toes as she digs the wrists of her great wings into the earth to push herself onto her feet. A simple action, but for you it invokes nothing but unease. Her movements continue to nudge you about, all but prodding you backward to the press of Aemond's chest, and now you are actually thankful for how he is seated behind you. Offering a sense of support that you might have fainted without.

You can feel the subtle shift of her muscles even through the saddle, and it wobbles just the slightest from the quiver caused by her old flesh. It has your unease spiking. And you think that you yourself could fly, fueled by nothing but your own apprehensions.

There is a noticeable shift in how she holds herself once she balances on her legs. And incline in her spine lifts as she raises her head high, removing her weight from her wings to unfurl them. You can hear the leathery sound of the thin skin unraveling, spreading out wide enough like sails of a colossal ship preparing to leave port.

You know what is coming, but you naught of how to weather it. All you can do is stare ahead, looking past the expanse of her neck and to the sky above that you will soon be soaring through. He must be able to sense your anxiety. Or perhaps he felt the tension of it in your back, in the rigid set of your shoulders, because he manages to press himself even closer against you. Like he means to cradle you to him. He releases a single hand from its grip long enough to place it along your waist to steady you. Your mind instantly latches onto the sudden pressure and warmth of it. Your body longing to lean into the weight of his palm but you keep yourself motionless as he leans himself close until you feel the brush of his words along your neck when he speaks.

"Be still, wife." His voice rumbles out all placid and velvet. The sound of it so close to your ear that it has a tremble skipping down your spine. You can only hope that the thick of your combined attire hid it from him, but his hand flexes against your waist; fingertips pressing inward, and you know that he noticed it. But he fortunately makes no open marks of it. "With me as your guide you will be safe. When she begins her ascent, lean forward into it. It will help to keep you balanced."

And as quickly as it had appeared, his hand is gone from its position on your waist to return its grip on the horn. You crave to have it back on you again. To have the support of it on you once more, even with the phantom sensations of it still live on your skin, though you do not bother to dwell on your foolish desires. You can only focus on the instructions that he had set. The direction of it serving to ground you, even as the saddle underneath shifts just the slightest as her wings expand. Now entirely unfurled.

The anticipation of it weighed heavy. Murmuring across the air like something electrical as though you were in the midst of a storm and lightning looms ahead. But apart from a few scattered clouds, it was all but clear skies. Vhagar was prepared to soar. Her muscles were coiled, stretched and tense, and were it not for your being astride, you are certain that Aemond would have commanded her to take off much sooner. If that truly is the case, you are thankful.

His ribs swell slightly along your back, and the command slices through the air, simultaneously exacting and clement:

"Sōvēs!"

Wind claps underneath the great stretch of her wings as she lifts them only to bring them down in a powerful downstroke. It snaps her from the ground in a quick lunge, and the sudden rush of being airborne causes your stomach to turn. You scramble to come to terms with the abrupt weightlessness of your body. It is like all of the breath has been snatched from the depths of your chest as Vhagar brandishes her wings in great, long stokes that sound akin to tremendous waves crashing against the surf; sharp and frightening like a whip slicing towards its target.

A horrid thought enters your mind, whispering vile things, such as what would happen should you fall off. How you surely would not survive a plummet from such a height. It has your hands tightening around the grips of the saddle. Squeezing so harshly that your tender palms sting. But you almost welcome the burn of it. It is a good distraction from the nausea, from the disorientation that comes from rushing far from the earth so quickly. Now she truly begins her climb upward, and you just barely remind yourself of Aemond's previous command; tipping yourself forward to press yourself along the swell of the saddle as she rises.

Much as he promised, the change in your posture does help to keep your seat firm as she works to bat her wings to scale her flight. Aemond dips down low after you, resting himself over your body to follow his own instructions. Even while Vhagar approaches her ascent at a slant, the incline is still enough to put strain on your arms as your own weight attempts to pull your backward. You can already feel the strain of it in your limbs, searing along your muscles and setting an ache deep near your bones.

Never had you ever truly put in mind the physical prowess and endurance a dragonrider must have to properly seat their mount until now. It almost makes you feel idiotic that you would not have truly expected the demands that such a thing would imply. Already the wind claws at your face, slicing at your cheeks like it means to maim you, stinging at your eyes enough to prompt tears to pour. It is difficult to draw in a proper breath as the air passes too quickly for your lungs to properly catch, making you fear that you might suffocate. It feels as though your chest could combust. From the debilitated ability to properly breathe or from the confused sense of excitement, you are not entirely sure.

Your being has been split down the middle. Caught in a strange limbo of an icy terror and a bubbling kind of joy as she continues her ascension, carrying you both high until the forests below become less defined and meld into blotches of rich greens. You cannot tell if the laugh the begs to erupt from you is one of elation or hysterics, but it froths inside of you with a warmth that rivals the heat that radiates from the brilliant sun above. Your lips part in the semblance of a breathless laugh as your eyes dart to take in your surroundings. The earth is so distant now. Reduced to a flat stretch of emerald and hunter, and the gentle rolling slops of hills and valleys that, in some points giveaway to farmlands. You can spot organized rows of green that must be rich vineyards, and there are many quaint little houses and homely settlements that sparsely dot about the scape.

Being so high up within the heavens makes the rest of the world seem so small. Reduced down to dots and shadows and shades of color. It reminds you vaguely, of the ancient war table that sits within the council chambers of Storm's End; the stubborn, enduring anatomy of Westeros etched into the face of it, mapping out all of its splendor in its factions and landmarks.

Out of your peripherals you notice Vhagar's wings tilt, moving to level her body out of its angled position, settling so that she is able to coast on the winds. It near instantly releases the strain on your arms, allowing the sting to ebb from your clenched muscles as you will yourself to try and relax, and the harsh cusp at which the biting wind had struck you with finally loses its violent edge. Still quite strong but no longer clawing along the shape of your cheeks and your unprotected eyes like it means to rip at them.

It is Aemond who straightens himself first, removing his weight from your back to properly sit astride, completely comfortable in his place along his dragon and untouched by a semblance of worry. Even though you cannot see him from his place behind you, you are still able to sense the composure that he holds himself with. He is entirely within his element. At home here on dragonback. The arm that had grasped the grip on the left of you releases, moving past the line of your vision to where he probably allows it to casually hang at his side, now supporting his clasp on the saddle with only a single, sturdy hold.

It takes you much longer to will yourself back into an upright position; finding solace in the weight of the saddle pressed to your stomach. But is a crutch that you do not wish to exhaust, and so you right yourself until you can once again feel the expanse of Aemond's chest, snug against your own in an unintentional semblance of an embrace. That stubborn little part of you loathes how the other half preens at the sensation of it. Yearning to bask in affections that are not truly there like some lovestruck girl child that elects to ignore the obvious indifferences displayed by the object of her infatuation. It irritates you to no end. Filling you with a conflict that you do not wish to bear but are unable to ignore. Aemond does not love you, that much is clear. The nature of your union, the quiet apathy that he has shown you thus far have been unobtrusive but very telling in this. Even now, as he makes an effort to test the nature of your will and your desire to truly get to know him, hauling you upon the back of his dragon, it seems to hold closer bearings to that of a trial than a well-meaning rendezvous.

The look that he had given you when he asked if you were primed to take flight was playful, almost in a malicious manner. Like he was expecting and counting on you to decline and flee. It makes you ponder if you have actually managed to surprise the prince by accepting his proposal and clambering astride the beast's saddle. If your decision to stay and meet his little challenge head on has pleased him at all.

"Geptot, Vhagar!" Aemond commands, shouting to be heard over the roaring winds. Obediently, the great dragon adjusts the massive span of her wings, muscles rippling to rearrange herself on the support of the currents to redirect her glide in the direction of King's Landing and the vast glittering waters of Blackwater Bay that extends beyond. It is still such a shock to see such a tremendous creature acquiesce its will to the instruction of a man. A man that may sustain the blood of the gods, but still a man, nonetheless.

She could consume the both of you a single snap of her jagged mouth. Your bodies would be a pitiful bite for her jaws. And yet she allows you to take up space along her back. To become a vessel to suspend you along the heavens to soar between the sparse clouds that hang within the azure cradle of the heavens like tufts of a lamb's fleece. Vhagar is a violent beast you know. You have heard the stories of her wars and blood-soaked accolades, the battlefields that she has left soot covered and smoking, littered with the remains of soldiers. She is a violent creature to be sure. Honed and defined by violence, and yet it is here, carted among the tepid winds, that you decide that she is a glorious behemoth. One whose years have been stained with the life's blood of millions, but it does little to tarnish the position she has taken in your eyes. Not necessarily one held by affections, but mostly a sense of respect and awe.

You are not diluted enough to think that Vhagar holds any sort of esteem for you. Had you not been accompanied by her rider; you would have been lit aflame from so much as approaching her, but that simple truth does little to dissuade you from attempting to show her your appreciations though uncertainty and apprehension still takes root in your gut. Your hand has a slight tremor when you manage to peel your fingers from their tight grip around the horn. A symptom of the energy and searing heat that pumps through your veins at your body's instinctual fears rather than a conscious bewilderment, but you do not let it stop you from leaning forward as much as your reservations will allow to place a soft, unsure pat along her back. Though the size of the saddle is so great that you still only manage to stroke its leathers rather than the rough expanse of her flesh.

You know that there is no possibility that she managed to feel your touch through the thick of the preserved hide of the saddle. And even if the buffer had not been there, your hand probably would have felt like little more than the landing of a fly; bothersome and barely perceivable. But it still does work for you somewhat, to help in seeing her more as more than simply a vengeful, aggressive beast.

It shocks you, when you allow yourself to gaze downward towards the horizon to see how quickly you are approaching the edge of the city. It has you daring to tilt your head downward to see past her wings to gaze upon the sprawling cluster of the buildings and structures that create the capital; the clay tiles of the many roofs burning in shades like honey and ginger. The rich hues only amplified by the golden tint of the evening sun. Smoke pours from the some of the stacks, puffing from the hearths, the people down below working to prepare tonight's dinners. The streets thread throughout the ancient settlement like tan lines of thread, intertwining and connecting to unify the entirety of the city, bustling with people who, from your high vantage point, look hardly more than little moving dots; completely unbothered by Vhagar's flight above.

It's breathtaking. Literally, of course, with the winds that continuously rush against you, but also in the sense of how stunning the view of it is. Had you, in some other life, been blessed with the honor of a dragon, you fear that you would never come back down to earth. As the fear in your stomach begins to thaw and ebb, giving way to nothing but a bright awe, you realize that you could spend an eternity within the sky at peace. This may be freedom incarnate. Untied from the earthly responsibilities and troubles that ail you down below. Here, it is simply the wind beneath Vhagar's vast wings. The same winds that tug at your hair as though it means to unravel it from its dressings. A laugh, a true laugh bubbles up from your chest, rising with the brilliant, beaming warmth of joy, and the smile that tugs at your lips this time is irresistible.

You doubt that the purpose of Prince Aemond spiriting you away on this outing had any intentions of truly extending an olive branch. Not one in the expectations of actually solidifying a bond between the both of you at least. This was meant to be a game of sorts; you are still entirely convinced. But even with that in mind, you are unable to feel anything other than gratitude. For so long you have been confined to the unfamiliar walls of the Red Keep. Forcing smiles upon your face to maintain the proper ladylike appearances for your social standing. Exchanging forged laughs with the men and women of the court, batting your eyes like a dazed fool as you suffocate within the entrapments of your own longings for home. Strangely, it is here, where the harsh breezes threaten to stifle to the flow of air into your lungs that you feel at your lightest since you have been at the Red Keep. He knows naught of what he has given you, and even if he did, you surmise that he probably would not care regardless.

Despite the possibility of Prince Aemond's reasonings, it does not stop you from turning your head, rotating your shoulders as best as you can to enable the motion as you make to look at him. It knocks you somewhat off-guard to see that he is already watching you. You had also not anticipated the proximity between your faces, with hardly more than a hair's breadth left between your noses which are so close they could touch. If you only twitch forward the press of your mouth could easily brush along the plush of his lips. The urge of it comes with the realization that the prince has never kissed you. Not even whilst you both fulfil the duties of your marriage in the midst of the night. It has all been disconnected. Done with the same automated detachment that one does with their chores. It should serve as a cold dousing of reality. It should make the rise of your emotions die down into a tame hush, but it does not.

Your chest heaves involuntarily at the weight of his stare - of how near he is. Your thoughts are tempted to unravel. To get the better of you and indulge in the smoky, lewd corners of your mind that you have not allowed yourself to entertain, like a sinner giving into their temptations.

The intensity that always seems to lurk within his attention is ignited ten-fold by the way that the sunlight glimmers within his eye, twinging the flecks of soft violets and rich blues with glints of golden light; it bathes his face in the same hue, making it seem as though the pale complexion of his skin has been kissed and painted by the sun itself; set alight by the dragon's blood that surges through his veins like liquid fire. The tresses of his hair billowing in streaks of a pallid silver that rivals the moons glow.

He is beautiful. You are forced to mark it once again. How captivating the prince is. Disarmingly so, much like the stare that he continues to pin you in place with. The weight of it seems to reach into you, brushing along the boundaries of your spirit and binding it with its grasp. You are unable to discern the reasonings of his intensity, of what his thoughts might be. If they lean in your favor, or if you somehow may have unwittingly foundered into his bad graces. Just how you may have possibly stumbled is beyond you, but his tempers and his motives continue to be elusive. Still, the desire to speak honestly still hangs heavy. If anything, his attention only amplifies the need.

"Thank you." It leaves your lips delicately. Or as softly as one can project while soaring through the skies without their voice being lost to the wind, and you can only hope that he was still able to detect the depths of your sincerity and appreciation. But you are certain that he hears you. You see the recognition of it flicker in his eye. Something else passes through it as well. It is an emotion that is beyond your scope of understanding. One that you have yet to witness upon the typically neutral or sardonic expressions he tends to display.

His eye flickers downward. As though it is tracing the shape of your lips, attracted by the sound of your voice when you had spoken your gratitude. For a moment, you think that you must have imagined it. But the steady focus of his gaze is unignorable. He is truly trailing the contours of your mouth with his stare like he means to study them. Transfixed with a similar brand of concentration that he displays when he pours himself over his duties. But there is a fervor behind it that you have yet to personally witness; smoldering in his stare so strongly that it nearly pulls you into a trance. A molten heat flows down your spine, settling inside the pit of your gut with a warmth that startles you. The magnitude of the sensation is a shock, pulling a ragged gasp from your chest and like a puppet follows after the tug of its strings, your head snaps back to face the horizon to break whatever strange influence fallen over you both.

Your vision blindly locks on what lies ahead, desperately searching for something to distract yourself from the hazed chaos that clouds your mind. Though it is hard to focus with the near fevered way your skin has begun to warm, your chest rising and falling rapidly underneath the hold of your garments. The eye contact that you had shared was broken, but the effects of it still linger on you. It envelops you tightly, tingling over your skin, whispering along your flesh like fingertips. It has bout of nervousness fluttering inside of you like a cluster of frenzied butterflies, and it melts when it meets the foreign rush of heat that muddles you, twisting into something excited and burning.

It has you adrift in a torrent. Completely at the mercy of your own emotions and desires - the severity of which, you had been utterly ignorant to. You scan the rippling face of the waters below, and the sight of it has your mind sluggishly realizing that Vhagar has flown you all past the boundaries of the city and the edges of the land to coast above the glittering, shifting face of Blackwater Bay. It is a sight that would have encapsulated the entirety of your observation before. You would have delighted in the way that the cerulean waters underneath the dragon's wings reflect the suns light like diamonds laid out along a rich silk, but it has become increasingly difficult to do so as you have become increasingly hyperaware of the prince. The press of him at your back, the enticing warmth of him latching onto your skin and spreading so potently that you think it may have sunk bone deep.

Still, you hardly have the ability to prepare yourself for the sensation of Prince Aemond melding himself closely against you until the faintest stretch of space between you has been completely eliminated. His hips nudge tightly along yours, all but nestling your rear even deeper into the cradle of them in a manner that is entirely crude.

A confused question rests heavily in your mouth, but it is all but snuffed out when he tucks his head against your own, hooking his chin over your left shoulder as the hand that he had previously dropped from the horn of his saddle once again raises to take its position back above your own, as though it had never left. It makes your heart beat wildly like the wings of a startled bird, and the enlivened rhythm only quickens when his scent envelopes you with his proximity. It swaddles you in that mouthwatering combination of leather and smoke. The earthy musk and robust spice seem to find a home in your lungs.

"Gaomas bisa drējī kostilus ao, ābrazȳrys?"

The sudden velveteen sound of his voice over the whistle of the wind inspires your body to still. As though drawn under a trance every facet of your being seems to become inert. Quiet in its endeavor to listen to the words that spilled from him. You assume that he must be speaking to Vhagar. Entrusting another command onto her in his ancestors' tongue, but the beast makes no movements to suggest that she has heard him. The tone in which he spoke with was low, but purposeful. As though he were sharing a secret, conversational in its cadence.

You are almost reluctant to draw the conclusion that he may be talking to you instead. For some reason, the idea of such a thing seems so ludicrous, despite having spoken to him before. In brief moments when your paths cross within the castle or when society demands it for appearances. He had exchanged words with you on the ground previously, just before Vhagar had taken flight, yet it all feels so impossible. Strange from the odd rapport that seeps into the atmosphere around you. The gusts that rush past you in dashing currents are unable to destroy the inviting aura that has dropped around you both. Yet is all still so jarring. Abrupt in a way that is strange and new. And the aspect that he is using High Valyrian has left you especially lost. Hanging onto words that you could not comprehend as though they were the answer to a salvation that you did not know you needed.

"Naejot sagon kesīr lēda nyke?" His head tips much lower now. So dangerously close that his lips sweep along the edge of your ear when he murmurs to you.

"I do not understand." You confess, daring to slant your face towards his. Such a minute movement but it has the point of his nose nudging at your temple, drawing him all that much closer. He hums in the back of his throat. A quiet sound as though he is considering your utterance. It is humiliating how it makes your entire being thrum with something that is suspiciously close to delight.

"Pāsan ziry gaomas."

Your brows pinch close in a confused furrow as he continues to use his second tongue. It is almost as though he is teasing you. Like he is prodding at a weakness that you did not realize you had; an animal nipping and digging at a wound to watch its prey jerk in its grasp. He is teasing you. The small clues there all connect and tie together a little too finely when the understanding creeps in on you.

He knows, your consciousness decides quickly. He must have figured out the infatuation you have with his voice. The allure that it has on you when he especially uses it to articulate the rhythm of that old language. Perhaps he had seen it on your face. In your eyes, the way that your breath snags in your throat or how your muscles seen to tense with anticipation at the sound of it. It could make you embarrassed that you have been so obvious in your attraction to it. So much so that he means to taunt you for it so openly. But here and now, with his form so hot along your own and the desire that burns so steadily in your gut, you are unable to find it within yourself to be irritated or sheepish over the fact.

"Ēza nyke pendagon " - the curve of his lip glides along your ear, and you swear that you can feel the damp warmth of his tongue trace the sensitive skin - "hen mirre se tolie ways nyke could kostilus ao."

The shiver that skips itself down your spine is completely involuntary. You can only hope that he will assume it to be caused by the chill of the winds, but you know truly that he would be a complete simpleton to think so, and Prince Aemond is anything but. You are sure, without seeing, that his mouth has lifted into the faintest hints of smirk; the impression of it against your ear. Time stutters when his thumb sweeps down along the knuckles of your right hand. It is such a small motion. A gentle, subtle caress. One that would hardly receive one's attention but is so different from any other gesture he has displayed for you that it has something inside of you melting and turning tender. It is damning for you.

Some kind of plea smolders on the tip of your tongue like molten honey. A plea for what is entirely beyond you. For him to relent and move away to give you air? But even simply the idea of such a thing has you mourning the loss that has not come. This entire situation is nudging at the boundaries of the dynamic you have built with the prince thus far. It is unexpected. Bizarre even. But also, entirely exhilarating in a way that fills your lungs with excitement and looms over your being with a charged type of anticipation.

And then, just as quickly as he had invigorated the raw suspension between your bodies, he removes himself away from you to hold his posture straight and his thumb slips from your knuckles to return its grip on the saddle horn. You are suspended in air, but the loss of his warmth feels as though the support of the earth has been abruptly tugged from underneath your feet. Humiliation wells up, and anger. It seems like a jest on his part. A cruel trick for what purpose you are not certain. To stroke his own ego. To make you feel like a fool.

It is bitter in your mouth. The tart of it induced by your bewilderment. It leaves you woefully unmoored as your body craves his even as he still remains behind you, his thighs and hips embracing your own. The whispering of the ocean-salted wind suddenly sounds like a lonely, warbling cry. But even while in the midst of your internal conflicts, the longing has yet to subside; instead pooling in your belly. A gasp pushes from your chest, and you urge yourself to look upon the waters beneath and the horizon ahead. Marking a mark of the clouds that drift about the golden support of the heavens, counting a flock of waterfowl that fly in cluster above the ocean as a means to collect yourself, though it proves to be futile.

"Let us return home now, wife - the hour grows late."

You make no means to return a comment or to refute. You remain silent as you both dread and crave the return back to the Red Keep. You have no desire to bear the facade that you have been masquerading in for so long, but being grounded may also help you in gathering the torrent of your emotions. Still, the flight back to Vhagar's chosen plot of earth outside the edge of the forest arrived quicker than you had anticipated, and the dismount from her saddle had nearly been just as awkward as the ascension. Neither of you had exchanged any words as you found your horses still hitched to the branches that they had been left posted at earlier, cropping at the rich grass near the base of the tree with their teeth.

The bustling of the streets does little to assist the chaotic nature of your thoughts as you guided your mount through the crowds alongside the prince. A part of you was still briefly able to marvel how you had just seen the same avenues from above only moments before; the people who had once appeared as little specs now parted around you to make way for you and the prince. Some daring to pass the two of you fleeting glances as you went about.

You receive similar looks once within the interior of the 'Keep. The servants and people of the court pass you curious and disapproving peeks at the muddied edges of your skirts as you carried yourself down the winding, grand hallways. Though you pay them little mind. Instead, you direct yourself to try not to focus on the dull, rhythmic tap of Prince Aemond's footsteps from their place beside you as he trails you like a stubborn shadow. He had proposed that he escort you to your quarters, as is expected of a husband.

There is a new sort of uncertainty that has been wedged between the two of you. Though it is so very different from the quandary that had been there before. This type has no longer tinged with apprehensions or resistance, but instead it is almost alive. The want that festers inside of you is so strong that it is nearly tangible; a creature with claws that means to creep and snatch and a hunger that demands to be feed. You are not entirely lost. You are informed of the body's desires and the symptoms that often accompany it. But it is rarely something that you have ever experienced yourself apart from the few rare nights that you had built up the courage to explore yourself within the privacy of your own apartments. And never have you ever felt it so fiercely, searing and thrumming throughout your flesh.

The buzz of your previous flight does little to damp the fervor of it. If anything, it douses a potent fuel upon the embers, daring to set the smoldering cinders aflame. The scent of him is strong at your side. Sharp from the winds and mouthwatering with the crisp, spicy aroma of his natural musk, and it is a temptation that you can only hope that you will be able to resist. Your only solace is that the entrance to your quarters draws near, only a few paces left near the end of the corridor, and you look to the massive looming doors as thirsting man would an oasis.

"I take it that you enjoyed todays outing, my lady," Aemond says from your side.

It draws your attention to him like an insect becoming hypnotized by the gentle flickering an unguarded fire. You dare to allow yourself to admire the almost lazy saunter he carries himself with, the composed way that he holds his hands behind the controlled posture of his back.

"I did. Truly." You answer honestly. Not even the muddled state of your feelings and yearning could keep you from repelling the truth from him. You find yourself twisting softly on the heels of your feet as you both come to stand before the entrance of your apartments, moving to enable yourself to meet his gaze. It suddenly feels too vulnerable. You no longer have the buffer of being shielded from his stare as you stand in a pair at the end of the dimming hall. He watches you keenly. His expression is mild, and it is only his eye that displays a faint hint of curiosity, but it is enough to prompt you in continuing. "I do not wish to burden you with my toils, but finding my place here within the court has been an adjustment. The people here have been kind, yet it is still a somewhat of a challenge to find my footing. " You pause, the air snagging in your throat and you find your fingers winding together in an awkward clasp as you work to navigate yourself and bear the weight of his unflinching observation. "The flight with you and Vhagar, it was a reprieve that I did not expect to be afforded. I know that you have been occupied by the priorities of the kingdom and the burdens of the war; you have little moments available for yourself, I imagine. So I am grateful that you made an effort to extend that time to me."

It all seems so delicate now. Something vulnerable has wormed through the cracks of your already weakened restraints. And you swear that you see something just as uncertain and raw peek through the detached facade of the prince. Such a pale passing of emotions that had you not been paying so much attention to him; it might have slipped past your observation. It looks odd, but not unbecoming on him. He is typically so relaxed and serene. Unstirred by the influences of his surroundings. It manages to endear and embolden you all at once, and as though they have a mind of their own you find your feet closing the small amount of distance that divides you. The prince's vision is latched onto you as you move near, unwavering and heavy in his watch.

For once in your uncertain relationship with the prince, it is you who seems to hold the sense of power. As shaky and foreign as it is. But he observes you with the same speculative surprise as a predator that has been taken off guard and is deciding on if its energy should be spent on fighting or evading. You make sure to be gentle in your approach, lest you break the brittle, intimate blanket that has fallen the vacant corridor. You can nearly hear the thump of your own heartbeat inside of your chest, pulsing along the palms of your hands.

You surprise yourself as you dare to lean forward into his space. The scent of him engulfs you, and the perfume of it is almost dizzying. Clouding over you in a rush of subtle spice, leather and wind. It guides you press your lips upon the high ridge of his cheek. The soft divot of the scar catches underneath your mouth; the gnarled slivers of its subtly raised edges. You make sure to be gentle so's not to possibly aggravate the old, damaged tissue. His skin is warm. Sultry and smooth against your lips. You raise a single hand upward to place your fingertips along the sharp sweep of his jaw as a means to ground yourself. Or perhaps it is just an excuse to touch more of him. You are not entirely certain anymore.

You can feel his chest swell with a surprised breath, muscles pulling taut underneath the leather of his doublet. You fear that you may have overstepped, and it draws you to break the kiss from his skin, though you find it difficult to pull away. He has made no attempt to tear his face from the light hold of your fingertips. He remains fixed in place. Quiet and motionless. For one horrid moment, you fear that you might have actually been able to disgust him. That you had terribly transgressed and shattered the delicate little relationship that you have only just began to fabricate.

But when you look to meet his gaze the stare that he is studying you with holds a sort of hunger that you have yet to ever experience, and it is so disorienting to be on the receiving end. It completely eclipses the way that he had watched you with during the flight. You are sure that this is how it feels to be stalked by something dangerous and starved. It mutates with the vulnerability that seeps into his posture, and the combination of it melts into an ardor that is stifling.

You are not sure how to navigate it. Of what this all could mean for you. For him. It has your blood roaring through your veins. Everything falls into a hush. You are sure that the rest of the castle is still lively with the preparations for supper. Servants are no doubt preoccupied by the nature of their longwinded duties, causing the innerworkings of the Keep to astir as they all go about their own matters. But here, in this quiet corridor, it feels as though you have been tucked away into your own private bubble. Sealed away and safe within its dulcet embrace.

You can see the want in his eye so clearly. Bright and burning in its quality, but he makes no moves to act upon it. It is so strange to see what appears to be a sort of hesitance in the prince. Someone who is usually so certain of their wants and desires and acts on them unflinchingly. Arrogantly, even. It makes him appear so much more human. For once, in the little amount of time that you have known him, he finally stands close at a base that you could compare yourself. Not a god. But simply a man. A man who experiences reservations and uncertainty just as you do. One made of bone and blood - even if that blood may run hot with dragonfire. He still just a man. One who appears as though he wishes to seek you out. To bask in the comfort of your flesh and consume you where you stand but will not allow himself to.

You are unsure where this sense of hesitancy could stim from. You have already lain together before in the hopes of producing a child and he had not shied away in any of those occurrences; having taken you with that cold, calculating indifference each time. You have no ability to say what has inspired the felling of that austere approach, but the sudden lack of it rouses a bravery that has long evaded you. Your lips, still hovering closely above his cheek venture to press against his skin once again. Much lower than their previous position along the sharp contours of his face, but now only a few scant breaths from his own lips.

You pause briefly to surmise his reaction. Gauging the shift in his breathing and the way that he holds himself to see if you may have misread and breached an unsaid boundary, but he makes no move to tear himself from your proximity. But that is not enough. You must hear it from him.

"Do you wish for me to stop-"

A surprised yelp is snuffed from your throat when the plush of his mouth claims yours in a kiss that is so passionate that it is nearly ferocious. Your teeth clack together from the rough nature of it. It makes your mind draw a complete blank. All semblance of thought mutes down into a quiet hum as every bit of your being draws down to focus on the entirety of him. So heavy in its attentions that you hardly bear notice when he crowds you against the heavy doors of your chambers. So eager that the back of your skull knocks on the thick, ornate wood. The pain that flares is stinging and sharp, but you can hardly bother to pay it any attention as he presses himself along your body like he may starve without it.

Once it all finally catches up with you, you find your hands reaching to sweep along him explorative, greedy strokes. Your fingers claw at his doublet, slipping along the buttery leathers in a weak grip before moving to clutch at the nape of his neck to draw him closer to you. It is crazed. Animalistic. A perversion of the sort of chaste affections that a lady should share with her husband, but you can hardly be bothered to care while your body is overcome with relief. It is suddenly as though he has become the air you require to breathe, and you are under the threat of suffocating.

His hands are just as rapacious as your own. Clutching at your hips, your waist; reaching fingers gripping onto your hair. He is like some feral animal that does not know where to bite first. Desperate for the taste of flesh and blood but unsure of where to start.

His teeth nip at your lips; tongue swiping, and obediently your jaw softly parts to allow him to lick into your mouth. The moan that leaves you sounds shocking to your own ears but it is impossible to be ashamed when the taste of him seems to set you on fire. You are quickly to reciprocate with equal ardor, but it is clumsy and underskilled on your part. And it dawns on you that this is your first true kiss with your husband, so very far off from the demure, obligated peck that he had given to you on your wedding day. It makes you burn all the hotter. Your eagerness intensifying tenfold as you grip onto him as though he may vanish if you do not.

An almost wounded sound leaves you when he removes his mouth from your own. Though it is promptly stamped out when he nudges your head to the side with his own to latch the wet heat of his mouth onto the tender flesh of your neck. A contented sigh leaves you and your body seems to lose all of its strength, going lax against the support of the door as your head lulls back to bear your throat to the bite of his teeth and the suction of his tongue. You feel as though you are turning to mush. Going pliant underneath his ministrations; the heat of him has melted you like wax.

It is the low bubble of chatter that breaks you from the haze that dips over your mind like the beginning effects of alcohol. Your eyes flutter open to gaze over the prince's shoulder, though he has not even so much as slowed the searing kisses along your flesh. Whether that be because he simply does not care or because he has not noticed the sound of carried voices you are not sure, but you cannot keep yourself from trying to peer down the long stretch of the corridor to spy for the origins of the conversation. You see no one but you are certain whoever is speaking is nearby. Their voices carried and projected by the stone no doubt, but they could round the corner at any moment and catch you and the prince in a most unbecoming manner.

You mourn the very idea of stopping him, but the requirement to keep appearances and your position of the court untainted from untoward gossip prevails. It has you slipping your fingers along the roots that grow from the nape of his neck to tug as gently as you possibly can, urging him to pry his mouth from your flesh but he remains unmoving. Almost stubborn in his exploration of tasting the salt on your skin.

"Aemond," you call softly. "We must stop; we will be caught."

That seems to pull him from the fervent spell that had been casted over him. He finally allows himself to be removed from the crook of your neck, righting his posture meet your line of vision with a slight pant in his breath. The passion in his stare has not wavered or diminished at all. If anything, it seems all the fiercer.

"Will you invite me into your chambers?" He inquires against your lips. "Will you have me?"

The way he stated the question was straight forward. Blunt in what it implied. Unshy in its desire. But there is an unmistakable edge to it that is almost frail. Fragile in its essence. You know now that here the both of you are at a fork in the path. One single decision that may decide the fate of what lies ahead, and the balance of your matrimony. Prince Aemond wears that facade of his. Like no matter what response leaves from you he will be unbothered, but you can see the vulnerability bleeding into his gaze. You hear it in his questions. The hope that you do not turn him away.

You know then that you will not send him off down the corridor while you tuck yourself away in your chambers alone. Not as elation and peace wraps itself around you and urges you to tug him closer; guiding him towards you as you make to reach behind to grab for the door latch.

"Yes, I will have you Aemond." You whisper it softly, as though it is something sacred and delicate.

That is all it takes to earn his mouth back upon you. Just as starved as it had been before. You are not certain which one of manages to pry one of the doors ajar, but as soon as it is open, you find yourself slipping through the entry as you pull him through by his shoulders as you blindly guide each other across the floor of your apartments. You just vaguely register the sound of the door slamming shut behind you both, but you hardly pay it any mind as his hands sweep along your hips with a grip that threatens to smart skin. The heel of your foot nearly trips along the edge of the tapestry rug, and it is Aemond's firm grip that keeps you secure as you attempt to navigate your clumsy journey to the bed.

Already his fingers slip behind you, eagerly tugging at your skirts like he means to ruck them over your hips, but then he stops himself short and backs away from you so abruptly that for a second you fear that he is having regrets. That he plans to storm out of your quarters and pretend that this has never happened. His eyes trails over you as he steps away, halting himself he is several paces from you to observe your disheveled state.

"Undress yourself."

He says it that poised, calm cadence of his, but the order in it is still apparent. For some reason it makes you pause. You have never been completely bare before him. All of the previous times you had been afforded the crutch of your shift, skin always concealed from view. During your bedding ceremony, while the corridor just outside of Prince Aemond's chambers were crowded with the wedding quests, the attendees of the court and the Crowns Sept, all present to make sure the tradition was followed accordingly, you had still clung to the safety that your chemise had provided you. The two of you were hurdling over so many new steps and parameters in your relationship. For some reason, it does not feel obtrusive or jarring. Simply unexpected. Unfamiliar. But exciting still.

You reach for the silk placket on the front your bodice, carefully unplucking the golden straight pins that your maidens had secured it with just this morning, being mindful to tack them back into the fabric so they do not drop upon the floor and run the risk of jabbing someone underfoot. Your fingers quiver slightly as you begin to unwind the ribbon lacings underneath, tugging them free from their eyes to loosen the grip of your bodice until the rest of the gown slides free of its grip on your body, enabling you are able to slip the sleeves from your arms for the rest of the garment to pool around your feet.

You still have several layers to go; held within the confines of your kirtle but he is already watching you with an impassion stare akin to starvation. All of the vigor that he had unleashed on you before in the drag on his lips and the nipping of his teeth has been detained and seized onto with a shaky resolve; his weak restraint projected through the near feral look in his eye. It is clear that he wishes to watch you unburden yourself of your clothes. It gives him some kind of pleasure, to observe you exposing more of yourself to him at his whims. And you would like to indulge that lewd desire of his, but you know that the lacings along the back of your kirtle will be difficult to undo on your own. It is rigid in its structure, and combined with how tightly the many levels silk cord that cross up your spine are cinched, it will be a challenge. Often times it is a pain for even the deft fingers of your maids.

"Would you so kind, lord husband, to assist me?" You do not bother in awaiting his response as you rotate around to present your back to him. The room is silent, save for the quiet rise and fall of the air steadily leaving and returning to your lungs. You do not hear him diminish the space the separates you both. The sound of his boots along the stone floors does not make a single tap or echo for you to gauge his nearness. But then his hands are just on you, settling at the point between your shoulder blades to pluck at the knot of your silk ribbons.

The warmth of him wafts against you, causing the hairs along the nape of your neck to rise and your skin to pepper with gooseflesh. You crave to lean back into him. To bask in his natural, soothing heat, but you command yourself to remain stationary as he begins to tug at your lacings. Much steadier and slower than you have suspected. It has anticipation building and churning within your gut. Smoldering and settling like hot coals and molten wax beneath your flesh.

His lips come to sweep along the junction of your neck, feeling as though they are branding you in their exploration. It should be of a concern with how much that thought thrills you. The idea of walking around with the prince's marks clearly presented for the court to see is an indecorous idea - downright craven. And yet it does nothing but make the flames inside roar brighter.

You feel the moment that he finished in unlacing the kirtle. It slackens considerable on your torso, before he hastily slips the embroidered edge of the neckline from your shoulders; the truth of his avidity managing to peek through such a simple action. And just like that the materials fall from your body, leaving you in nothing but your shift. It shocks you how quickly his hands find a place on your hips. Fingers clasping tightly like he is resisting the urge to tenderize your skin underneath the pressure of his palms. But that twisted little part of you is still present and greedy. It has you pressing the shape of your rear against his pelvis, and you are unable to contain the delighted gasp that leaves you at the hard press of his cock straining underneath his breeches.

He has not even seen you naked yet and already the evidence of his arousal nudges at you through the thin fabric of your chemise. He groans as you continue to roll your hips against you his. It's a pleased, low noise, that nearly sounds like a purr rumbling from his chest, and it vibrates along your neck as he threatens to sink his teeth just underneath the edge of your jaw. His fingers begin to tug and lift at the skirt of your shift to pile it around your waist.

You twitch as he exposes you to the tepid draft of the room; nipples hardening beneath the delicate fabric at the chill. Suddenly, one of his hands is placed before you, fingers hovering close to your mouth as though he expects something of you. Your thoughts scramble along. Already pathetically sluggish and scattered from the lust searing at your being.

"Take them into your mouth and bite, ābrazȳrys," he guides in a firm murmur.

Obediently, your lip's part, allowing him to guide the tips of his fingers past them. The leathers concealing the nimble length of his digits is smooth along your tongue. Warm and slightly tangy in its flavor on your palate. The weight of them makes your eyes lashes flutter, threatening to slip closed before a distant voice in the recesses of your mind chides you to follow his desire, and eager to please you gently clamp the edges of your teeth down onto the tips of his gloves. He coos in a satisfied manner when he notices the compliant press of your teeth. He tugs his hand free from the casing of its glove, allowing the now empty garments to lie limp in your mouth before he removes it from between your teeth to discard it somewhere along the floor.

You vaguely watch his hand from your peripherals as it lifts past the scope of your vison, but the low, wet sound in your ears cues you on what he may be doing. He is licking his fingers. Getting them wet. It makes your body thrum with want. The flavor of his gloves is still strong. A temptation that you never would have imagined. He had used your mouth for something that seems so frivolous, and yet it makes you ache. It reminds you of a bit of course chatter that you had heard from one of the ladies of the court. A horrible gossip who often whispers of the most perverse of topics between lovers. Though you could not help but to have been intrigued when she spoke of pleasing one of her paramours with nothing but her tongue.

You know what Aemond plans to do with his hands. The anticipation of it bubbles along the atmosphere like water simmers inside a heated pot, threatening to boil over as his fingers slip between your thighs and part your damp heat with little fanfare. Your body seems to sizzle. A delicious buzz licks up your spine as he sweeps a single finger over your cunt to gather the slick that already threatens to smear down the inside of your legs. Collecting it on the pad of his digit to aid him in delivering a slow, torturous circle along your clit. A drawn-out whine rips itself from your chest, and even with his hand buried underneath the fabric of your skirt, working pleasure between your thighs, you cannot help but to think of the possibility of taking him into your own mouth.

To delight in the weight of his cock filling it up, weighing on your tongue. How it might taste. The expressions he would make. If his eye would express the same vulnerability that he had displayed to you in the hallway, when he asked if you would have him. Would that hint of desperation no longer be masked, but instead boldly shown? Would his face pinch with pleasure, eye clouded with lust as he watched you on your knees before him?

How gorgeous he would look.

You have to tuck your face into his shoulder as you helplessly rock your hips against the ceaseless strum of his finger, muffling your cry as he suddenly slips one within the entrance of your cunt, forcing it to stretch and give around its width. He brushes it experimentally along your walls, almost like he is prodding or searching for something within you. Distracting you with the press of the heel of his hand on the bud of your nerves, feeding the fires the pit of your belly. He does find what he is in search of with an adept quickness. You feel it as soon as he does. The blind yet tactful pursuit is rewarded when he caresses something devastating buried inside of you. You gasp, breath snagging as you burrow your nose into his neck, choking on his scent while you search for your voice.

"Aemond, please." It comes out as hardly more than a wanton moan puffed against his skin, and your hips continue to chase after the exquisite heat that he is effortlessly stoking within the cradle of your thighs. "Please, Aemond. I want to taste you. I want you in my mouth."

You feel the way he hums in consideration more than you hear it. A nonchalant noise, as though you have questioned him about the quality of his day. As though he was not knuckle deep inside of your cunt. "Hmm, such a temptation. Though, if I recall correctly, was it not my wife who ventured into my chambers with revelations of her loneliness? It seems that I have long ignored my husbandly duties. I think it is due time that I rectify that."

Those words sound so promising. So sweet in its oath. So, it is entirely cruel when he all but rips his finger from the walls of your cunt, leaving you feeling empty and the scorching embers in your gut smoking but unfanned. A question, an insult, or a cry hang on your tongue, but you never get the opportunity to figure out which it is. Aemond grips you by the shoulders and nudges you in the direction of your bedding, giving you little time to orient yourself through the lustful haze that has clouded your mind over.

"I want you lying down on your back; cunt spread." His instruction rings out sharply. Like a strategized order that would be given in council. "And remove that fucking garment from your body."

He spat out the sentence as though the cloth is an offence to him. The sight of it alone enough to rouse his ire. So eager to see you bare before him. You have half the mind to try and tease him, but tonight you can hardly be bothered. The weight of the shift is stifling on your dampened skin, and his covetous stare urges you to do his bid. You do not turn to face him as you disrobe. It nudges from your shoulders easily. Dropping free from your body to leave you in nothing more than your silk stockings and garters, and the diamond accessories that dangle from the lobes of your ears.

You swear that you can feel the line of his vision upon your flesh. Trailing down your spine, tracing the shape of your ribs as they meet the contour of your waist, skirting along the swell of your arse. You do not turn to face him until you place your knees on the cushion of your mattress, plush and filled with down and feathers, offering you enough support to crawl along the stretch of it before turning on your back as he had bidden. The impassioned look in his eye seems to suspend you adrift. It does not make you feel disgustingly ogled or leered at to be so blatantly admired. He studies you as though he is in the presence of something sanctified. Divine.

You are not sure of how to compose yourself underneath such unabashed devotion. The only thing that seems to give you any sort of stability is the continued ring of his earlier command reverberating in your mind. You cling to it, like someone who is threatened to be swept away in a rough tide. It is almost absentmindedly that your leg's part, offering yourself up to the insatiable stare of your husband in a manner so vulgar. But you cannot deny that there is something titillating about it. How his posture seems to simultaneously go rigid and slack all at once. A restraint in his composure visibly snapping before he stalks across the room towards you like he means to devour you.

He is upon you before you can hardly blink. Gripping onto the thick of your upper thigh with his gloved, left hand to further pry your legs apart. Stretching them until you can nearly feel the strain of it in the joint of your hip. "Sīr gevie se dōna raqagon bisa, issa ābrazȳrys." He lifts your opposite up just enough to nose at your knee, ghosting his lips about the breadth of it as his eye locks with your own sight. Something nearly playful dancing in the vivid shade of colors. "Gaomagon ao sylutegon sepār hae dōna?"

He continues to sweep his nose along your flesh. Dragging it downward towards your intimacy, where you burn and ache for him the most. You cannot stop yourself from rolling your hips upward, tempted by the warmth of his breath gliding along your skin and the heat of your cunt. It makes you clench around nothing, as though your body is mourning how empty you are without the stretch of his fingers.

"Aemond, pleas-"

He hushes you softly. A placating, quiet sound but it cuts through the air with the swift impact of a steady blade. Like an eager soldier you find yourself falling silent. Focused entirely on him as he lay between your thighs with the relaxed composure of a dragon with its prey already secure between it fangs. "Patience," he murmurs. Though he hardly gives you any time exercise such a restraint because his mouth is on you as soon as the word leaves him. The shock and feel of it sears through you, lashing itself across your body akin to charges of lightning crackling across a storm. Nothing could have prepared yourself for such a thing. The wet heat, the suction of his lips, the skilled slip of his tongue.

Your legs twitch on reflex, threatening to close but the hand that he had clasped around your thigh keeps it secure in place. Still, it does not stop him from glancing up at you from the apex of your legs with an unvoiced reprimand glinting in his eye. A broken cry shudders from your lungs. Sharp breaths nearly hiccupping from you as he licks at your cunt, burrowing the pronounced, attractive swoop of his nose against your clit while his tongue laps at your entrance. You cannot stop yourself as you begin to sway your hips along the press of it. Practically riding his face with the mindless drive of a woman possessed. Your fingers claw along the blankets; nails tearing at the fabric like it might help you weather through the bolts of ecstasy that ravage your body.

Your head lifts to properly gaze upon him as he continues to drag his tongue over you, groaning softly into your heat as though he were the one experiencing pleasure. You have heard of women satisfying their husbands with the comforts of their mouths but never the opposite. You know now that it is easily something that you could become addicted to. And based on the pleased pinch between his brows and the way that his eye has nearly slipped closed it seems that he has just as much of an appetite for it.

"Oh, my gods! Aemond- fuck!"

You can feel the amused chuckle he releases vibrate along your cunt, making the burning coil in your gut wind that much tighter. He parts his lips from you just long enough to speak, slipping a finger within the tight entrance of your heat just as he does so, crooking it against that delicious spot that he had found nestled within you earlier. "Such a filthy mouth you have on you. How unbecoming for someone who holds the title of a princess." He mocks, crudely stroking and curling his finger within the tight warmth of your cunt. You think distantly to scold him. To remind him of who has drawn such untoward responses from you in the first place but then he is guiding a second digit in along the other, making you stretch to accommodate them; causing your mind to blank. "What would they think if they could see you now? Mewling like well-paid whore."

You are not sure why that awful little comment has warmth drizzling down your spine like drops of warmed honey. You feel yourself flutter around the ceaseless pulse of his fingers, back arching in a means to draw him deeper. He notices as well. Of course he does, ever so observant. It has him humming in that considering way of his. Like he is pleased with his discovery. You expect another witty remark from him but get none. What he chooses to say next is even more damning.

"I'm going to fuck you with my fingers, and you are going to be a good little wife and peak on my tongue."

His tone leaves no room for argument - not that you have given him any in this state. Especially not when the sultry drag of his mouth returns to your cunt to join the clever curl of his fingers. The combination of it threatens to make you sob. Your body writhes when he takes your clit into his mouth, sucking at it gently with steady pulses of his tongue. One of your hands blindly reaches to grip his head, threading your finger through the silken tresses of his hair as though it might ground you; keep you from floating away. It is all so overwhelming. Too much and yet too little. And like a starved glutton you find your opposite palm coming to slip along your own torso, sweeping along your feverish skin to explore your breasts. You mindlessly reach to take your nipples between your thumb and fingers, rolling and plucking at it to further stoke the fire in your belly.

You hear the sound of Aemond's pleased groan, no doubt watching you from his place between your legs as you touch yourself. Already the rapture flooding your veins begins to rise up. Cresting upon you like a wave being tossed within a great tempest. You can practically taste it. Dancing along your tongue like something sweet and hot; burrowing into the cradle of your hips by the euphoric drag of his hand and tongue.

"Aemond!" You sob. With the intent to warn him or to merely cry you are not sure. Your face pinches as the grip of your pleasure begins to close around you, holding you tight within its vice like it means to wring every ounce of euphoria from you. "Aemond, I'm going to- gods-"

The glide of his mouth and fingers is almost brutal. Precise and nimble in his intent to hurdle you headfirst into the throes of bliss, and he is certainly achieving that goal. You can feel the muscles within you drawing up tight; fire lashing and curling over you and wearing at your soul. You can hardly speak. Now struggling to get out broken panting breaths and pieces of the prince's name as your release bears down on you. He shows you no mercy in your state, continuing to suckle and lap at your cunt like he means to drink you down.

It is with a wrecked scream that you reach your peak. The cry that rips from your throat is short and hoarse, and there is no doubt that some unfortunate soul wandering the hall has heard you. Though you are too beyond yourself to care. Sparks bursts inside your flesh, dousing you in a bliss that you have naught ever brought yourself. Like a mindless animal your body continues to ride itself against the press of Aemond's tongue, his nose, his fingers, all of which still work against you to draw out the euphoria that engulfs you.

It is not until you hiss from the sudden tenderness in your cunt that he wills himself to pull away, giving you a reprieve to lay boneless and spent along the plush of the bed. His breath is raged when he rises from your hips, face smeared with the evidence of your pleasure, his stare is wild. He looks disheveled, hair disordered from when you had gripped it and chest pulling in frantic gulps of breath. He nearly looks just as winded as you. Though you are surely partly to blame with how you had desperately pushed his face into your cunt like some sort of sex-crazed whore. And the patch of leather that conceals his eyes has become slipped from its place. Not enough to display whatever grievous, old wound may rest beneath, but another unintended brush against it may knock it askew completely.

You do not think when you guide yourself to sit up and lift a hand, thoughtlessly using your thumb to nudge the leather back down to rest securely above his socket. But the realization seems to come to you both unanimously. His own hand coming to grip your offending wrist, keeping it suspended in its place in the air; your fingertips still resting on the structure of the patch.

The stare that passes between the both of you is joined by so many varying emotions. Many of them extending from his side: a brief flash of anger, bewilderment, unease. And then, there it is again. That trace of vulnerability that he tries so hard to contain. But it seems to always be there. Lurking underneath the surface like pain disturbing an old wound. And like a shadow, you see that hint of hope again too. It is the only things that keeps you from shifting from him. Of giving him space that you would have otherwise assumed he needs. But now you draw near. Resting on your knees to sit before him. Instead of attempting to withdraw your hand from his clutches, you instead reposition it to cradle the side of his face, maintaining to keep your touch light in case he chooses to remove himself from underneath your hand.

Few breaths pass, and he makes no moves to do so. He leans closer. It is such a tiny gesture. A barely perceptible movement, but you feel it. The difference in weight against your hand. The glint in his eye pierces into you with a desperation. Like he is expecting you to suddenly come to a realization and flinch away out of fear. Like he is hoping that you do so.

But you will do no such thing. You shift closer to him, making sure to be careful as not to accidentally prod his eye patch from its place while you clutch his cheek. He observes you closely. As though he is studying you. Searching for a shred of hesitation or disgust so that he may turn you away. The opportunity for him to do that does not come as you lift to seat yourself upon his lap. His chest expands almost shakily as he gazes at you. Eye slightly widened as though he is in a state of awe or disbelief. The sheer unabashed emotion reflecting inside that gorgeous mix of blue and violet could make your heart ache and skip. You long to tell him of how you feel. The breadth of your emotions. Not quite love yet, of course, but it must be the beginnings of it with how tender and passionate it burns, like the birth of a blaze.

But that may be too much to confess. Perhaps, your actions will have to suffice for now.

You are certain he gasps when your lips press against his, tongue sweeping along the plush of his mouth like he had done to your earlier, gathering the tart and sweet taste of yourself on your palate. The flavor of your own arousal does not deter you in the slightest. Not the damp of it against your skin as you draw him into a soft exchange of kisses. Much softer than the one that he had inspired in both of your earlier. This somehow seems so much more explorative. Delicate, even with the heat that begins to simmer beneath the surface once more.

Your fingers once again slip and find purchase in his hair, nails lightly scraping at his scalp as your hips begin to undulate against the bulge that still presses against his breeches. He groans, panting into your mouth while he runs his hands along your nude flesh, reaching down to grip the swell of your arse to aid you in grinding your hips with his. The hard impression of his cock nudging at your cunt through the fabric of his trousers is delicious, even while you are still slightly tender from your previous pleasure, licking a sensitive fire along your skin. Still, it does not stop you as you continue to grind yourself on him, wanton and aching once again. Delight peeks through the drunken haze of your desires as he removes on of his hand from you to slip between your bodies, fingers reaching for the laces of his breeches where he eagerly pulls at tugs at them to draw them loose.

He groans sharply in relief when he guides himself from the restraint of his trousers. The alleviation must be great, with how long the straining weight of his cock has been tucked behind the material. You hear it in the low hiss that rises from his chest, and it has you humming softly at him, a light reposeful sound as you continue you to exchange a languid, unbroken kiss with him. The both of you unable to tear yourselves from each other, even has the hot length of his cock comes to rest against his stomach, now pinned between the pressure of both of your bodies, burning against your ferverish skin.

"I need to feel you," he breathes against your lips. "Let me have you."

You peek your eyes open long enough to consider him, and the longing that burns within the depth of his stare knocks something inside of your soul off guard, shaking the very foundations. Such raw, unprotected emotion. He stares at you as if you are the creator of the heavens, having fashioned the moon and the burning of the stars with only your hands. It makes you unsure of how to stand unwavering, unaffected underneath such a devoted gaze. If only he knew that it is you who wishes to worship him. To pour your affections and adoration onto him like an acolyte offering their deity tokens and praise.

An understanding seems to pass through the both of you, a wordless communication. He reaches down to grip himself as you post your hands upon his shoulders, your nails burrowing into the leather of the doublet that he has not bothered to shed as a means to braces yourself as you line the head of his cock with the entrance of your heat. There is little fanfare before you begin to lower yourself onto him, splitting yourself on the head of cock as you use your thighs to settle downward. You walls stretch to accommodate his girth, fluttering as he guides you open to find solace in your body. A strained set of words seems to squeeze from his chest, all of them in that beautiful language that you yet to understand. It has a sense of pride flaring. A deep, hedonistic satisfaction welling up to know that you have such a strong, composed man crumbling around the edges from nothing more than the grip of your cunt.

You place another brief kiss upon his lips, a smile tugging at them when he nearly tries to chase after you, but you distract him by further sinking yourself down around his length until your rump meets his thighs. His mouth drops open in response, eye fluttering at sensation of your walls clenching and flexing around him as though it means to somehow draw him deeper.

The pressure of him inside of you, carving a space for himself within you almost makes you breathless. It licks itself up your spine like a bolt of lightning, forcing your body to shudder and draw closer to his, subconsciously seeking out the warmth of his skin and mourning when you feel nothing but the dim chill of his leather doublet.

"Aemond," you beg softly. Your hips seem to have a mind of their own as they begin to lift themself upward to roll back down, working to repeatedly spear yourself on his cock with only desperation and hedonism guiding you. His hands come to grip your waist, spreading his thighs out wider to find a better stance to drive himself up inside of you easier, aided by the slick of your arousal, causing his thrusts to become even more pronounced. The sensation of his girth stretching you out to its shape, veins dragging along your walls has your back curving taut like a bowstring.

The warmth of his mouth suddenly closes around one of your breasts, tongue lapping at the peak of your nipple as he continues to drive himself inside of you in a devastating rhythm. It has your mind drawing a blank. Going white like a wall of fog as embers and fire sear at the pit of your gut. Your lip's part. Soft gasps panting from your throat as he continues to ravage your body for his pleasure while further tearing you through the depths of yours. It seems to choke through you, forcing you to hiccup and whimper around the insistent pounding of his hips, the weight of his cock dipping inside of you.

It is disoriented and abrupt when he shoves you onto the flat of your back, knocking what little bit of air was still contained inside of your lungs out and leaving you stunned. You can only lay and take it as your mind scrambles to gain a sense of clarity, while pleasure scalds itself throughout your veins, snuffing your body in a cloud of smoke. His body extends over yours, only supported by his arms posted on either side of your head. His mouth leaves your breast with a subtle nip of his teeth, sparking pleasure with their blunt edges, making you arch your chest to seek out more of it.

But he ignores the blatant offering, opting to nudge himself up to kneel to better support his weight as he grabs one of your thighs to swing your leg along the perch of his shoulder. It somehow manages to drive him deeper. Effectively punching the air from your chest, the crown of his cock brushing along something inside of you that has your body twisting along the support of the bed. A sob wracks through you and your eyes nearly roll in the back of your skull. You distantly hear yourself whispering his name. Repeating it over and over again with all of the devotion and desperation of a mantra, of a prayer meant for the ears of a god. And here above you now, he certainly looked like one. Pale eye blazing and wild with his lust, hair unkept and freeing from its tie, a sheen of sweat glittering along his pale flesh like flecks of gold and stardust.

"There she is," he marvels in a coo; pleased and smug in the debauched thing that he has reduced you to. A complete juxtaposition to the longing, vulnerable man that he had been just moments before. "My sweet wife gone dumb and pliant beneath me. Do I satisfy you? Having you like this? Taking my cock so obediently. " You moan in agreement, hips twitching and jerking to further aid him inside of you. Even while it feels like he is deep in your gut, shoving your breath from you with his rhythm, you crave more. "I should keep you like this. Fucked and filled. Would you like that, ābrazȳrys? Stuffed full until it swells your belly with my heir?"

It douses you with fire. The comment engulfing you as though you have been guided into the starved clutches of an inferno. The satisfied stare that he pins you with only makes you feel bare and exposed despite the intimate positions that he has had you in already. Like he is piecing you apart and gazing at your soul. Even with the filth that he casually rambles, it does nothing to dampen the tenderness and hunger that seeps into your bones and gnaws at your being. Your body thrums with the delight at being claimed so primally by the prince - by your husband. To walk about the great halls with his babe safely tucked away inside your stomach. The idea of it has you clawing at his back, no doubt leaving marks along the leather, and it is a great regret that it is not his skin that you tear the traces of your nails along.

"You will truly be so beautiful in such a state. There will be no mistake that you're mine. Mother to my child. My wife."

The possessiveness that streaked through his words made you arch into him, driving the metal clasps of his doublet into your flesh, causing the skin to sting. You can hardly pay it any mind though. Not while you are hurtling towards your peak. The promise of your release rushing towards you with the intensity a liquid fire. He too is close. You can see it in the furrow between his brows, the pale stutter in his breath which begins to meld into low groans; feel it in the slight falter in his pace.

"Please, Aemond." You moan, just barely managing to get your tongue to cooperate in forming the plea. His eye locks onto you with the concentration of a hunter, but that softness, his need is beginning to melt it around the edges once again. "I want you to let go. I want to feel you filling me up."

His hips flounder for a good moment, and it takes him a bit of correcting to regain the fluidity of the brutal stride that he had set, though once he does it is like he had never faltered at all. The almost violent bliss smoldering along your being still engulfs you and nips at you like it means to rip you apart. He swears sharply again. The sound of your wish, both a beg and a command having the most delicious effect on him as he continues to build that euphoria within the base of your stomach, causing the muscles there to clench tight.

"I'm yours. All yours." You assure breathlessly, aiming to appease the proprietorial nature that he has shown you. That is all you can manage before the euphoria finally crests and completely blindsides you within the deluge. You feel outside of yourself as your body writhes, cunt clenching around the deep stretch of his cock as he continues to pound into you, tipping you into something akin to a drunken stupor. It is rapturous. The sheer weight of the pleasure that possesses you and leaves you little more than a vessel that can only lie and try to survive the onslaught.

Aemond's body shudders over your own, spine curling inward to tuck his face within the crook of your neck as his own peak seizes him. His groan rattles along your throat, followed by a strained fuck as a burst of liquid heat floods inside your stomach, filling you with warmth. His hips jerk shakily, meeting the languid pace of your own as you both work to assist each other in riding out your shared highs. Though it does not take long for either of you to lose your vigor, muscles and bones going lax as you both relent to the weight of your spent bodies. He does not bother in removing himself from the grip of your cunt as he all but collapses on top of you, effectively pinning you to the mattress with his weight.

You make no effort to move him from you - you find no desire to. The air around you is thick with the scent of sex, still thrumming and alive with the fervor of your shared lust even as it ebbs from your body, replaced with the temptation of sleep. Contentment and exultation pools in your chest, syrupy and thick from the pleasant warmth of his form along yours, and it guides you to glide your fingers through the silken strands of Aemond's hair. He has made no efforts to extract his face from your neck. Perfectly at peace to keep himself tucked against you with his flaccid cock still buried deep, as his breathing levels out into steady puffs against your skin.

"We cannot sleep, my Prince. The servant girls will be here soon to prepare me for supper." You warn, though he does not stir in the slightest. A hum leaves him. The only confirmation you receive that tells you he has heard you. He almost seems to clutch onto you tighter, as though he longs to burrow into you and meld into one. So desperate for your touch even while he hides so many facets of himself from you. There is no way to truly foresee what the future has in store for you and him. For the welfare of the kingdom. The home of your children. There are many uncertainties. Many stimming from your Aemond himself, the many lethal edges that create his being. But that is fine. You are patient. Tonight has marked a new turning point for you and he, you are certain. You will wait no matter how long you must for him to come to you, and to reveal himself and his truths to you unabashedly. No matter how damaged and bloody and wild those parts of him may be.

You are certain that you will marvel in the twisted beauty of it regardless.

"I will get up shortly." He finally replies, tone gentle and rich in your ear. "Let us just lie here for a moment; just you and I."

Does this truly please you, wife? - Gaomas bisa drējī kostilus ao, ābrazȳrys? To be here with me? - Naejot sagon kesīr lēda nyke I believe it does - Pāsan ziry gaomas It has me wonder of all the other ways I could please you - Ēza nyke pendagon hen mirre se tolie ways nyke could kostilus ao

So beautiful and sweet like this, my wife - Sīr gevie se dōna raqagon bisa, issa ābrazȳrys Do you taste just as sweet? - Gaomagon ao sylutegon sepār hae dōna?

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond smut #aemond targaryen x reader smut #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #prince aemond #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd fanfic

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konigsblog · 6 months ago

Note

König taking care of his pregnant captive...just beign soft and cuddly preparing for arrival of their baby while maus is completely terrified :3

tw/cw; forced pregnancy, kidnapping. 🔞

könig's desire for a loving family grows by the day and has only intensified after finally capturing the woman of his dreams. you're exactly what he needs; a little fuck toy, a breeding mate to take his offspring.

you're distraught, hyperventilating and having panic attacks on the daily over your sudden pregnancy. it wasn't a choice you had made consensually, you didn't want this, not one bit. or at least, you didn't want it to be your kidnapper's babies; you wanted it to be with someone you could trust, love, and depend on.

you plead with könig for a different outcome, for an abortion, but your pleas are ignored and silenced by könig. he'll either silence you by pressing his scarred lips against yours, making out with you despite the way you wiggle and squirm pathetically, attempting to pull away and free yourself from the rope binding your limbs. other days, he tapes your mouth shut and cradles you despite your wails and mortified sobs, attempting to soothe your emotions with his "loving" touch.

if könig's touch is loving and careful, then you're afraid of what his touch is like when he's punishing you, what it's like when könig decides to use pain and torture to silence your sobs for mercy and freedom.

every single day, könig admires your growing, pregnant stomach. könig hesitates allowing you out from the basement after a couple months into your pregnancy, so that you're not in constant fear and terror, worrying about what's out there, hiding in the dark room. he worries that it's too dusty and filthy down there, that you'll inevitably get sick if he doesn't take you from the chamber, allowing you to relax into his large, soft bed while he kisses your large, swollen stomach.

don't worry, maus. once you finally give birth to his twin babies, he'll take tender and gentle care of his beloved captive, the mother to his babies. you'll never see the basement against, ever face a horrible and horrendous punishment that leaves your rear bruised and your cervix in agony.

if you aren't interested in the idea of pregnancy and children, then könig will guilt trip you into loving your twin newborns even if you resent them. he'll do this by forcing them into your arms despite the way you sob out painfully, coming to the realisation that your life will never be the same, forced to accept your fate and role as a mother.

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hugsandharrystyles · 12 days ago

Text

Change of Heart

Summary: Harry's a protecter, a good man. She's a shy librarian with a dog named Pickle. He can't stand her, so why does it fuck him up when he finds out she's scared of him? (Enemies-to-lovers) Word Count: 17k+ Warnings: Harry being a dick, smut

Harry always tried to be a good person.

Key word: Tried.

Growing up, it was just him, his sister, and his mother, so he always felt as a natural protector for women, not implying that women can't hold their own, but he always keeps extra lookout because he can't count all the times his mother and sister have been put in uncomfortable situations with men.

So, he can't understand why all that being said, he can't feel anything but disdain for her.

Y/N has been a part of Harry's friend group almost as long as he has, and he can't stand her. She is the fakest person he's ever met.

He remembers his sister dealing with girls like her in high school. They start off kind and sweet, but then suddenly they have everyone wrapped around their fingers and doing anything they ask. He remembers his sister crying to him about girls like her, so he can't understand why he has to entertain her presence.

He's talked to Niall, his closest friend who's also in their group, about it, but Niall doesn't see the problem. Hell, Y/N has Niall and the rest of them wrapped around her manicured finger.

He really just can't stand her.

"Y/N, tell us how your job interview went!" Harry rolls his eyes and shoots back some of his beer. It was rare that his friend group actually went out to a bar instead of gathering at one of their homes, usually because Y/N hated going out. He feels Niall hit his leg at his eye roll.

"Oh, yes! It went really well, in fact, you're looking at a professional librarian!" Y/N says, her excitement evident in her voice.

"That's so great, Y/N. I'm so proud of you!" Sarah says while the others all chime in with their own praise.

"Awesome, a job almost as boring as you!" Harry says snidely. He usually isn't so blunt, but he's had a few drinks in him.

"Harry- dude, c'mon," Mitch sighs.

"N-no, I get it," Y/N interjects. "It definitely sounds boring just saying it, but I'll be fixing binding on really old books and helping people out with-" Y/N is interrupted when Harry starts dramatically snoring. Y/N looks around the table, getting visibly embarrassed.

"Alright, H, I think you're tapped out. You're being an asshole," Niall says and tries to push him out of the booth.

"Oh, come off it. I'm just joking," Harry rolls his eyes.

"It's fine, I got the joke," Y/N tries to laugh. "I'm going to go get another drink," she says before sliding out of the booth.

"Do you want me to come with?" Sarah asks, knowing about her friend's social anxiety.

"N-no, I'll be okay," Y/N reassures her and grabs her purse before walking off to the bar. She's wearing a big sweater and jeans to a bar, and it's pissing Harry off.

"You need to fucking lay off, man," Mitch says and throws a napkin at Harry. "Just because she doesn't work with lumber and hammers and whatever else manly shit that you do, doesn't mean her job isn't any less important."

"Actually, to be correct, I am a project manager for a multi-million-dollar company-"

"Shut up," Sarah groans.

"You're so mean to her- that's not you," Mitch sighs.

"I'm not fucking mean- she's just annoying. And look at all of you, wrapped around her finger, just like she wants."

Niall goes to speak but is interrupted by Sarah reading a message off of her phone.

I'm so sorry, but I started feeling really sick, so I went home. Hope you guys have fun!

Once Sarah finishes reading the message she looks at Harry with a glare.

"Well, how the hell is she getting home? Didn't you drive her?" Harry asks Sarah.

"Oh, are you worried?" She asks with a condescending tone.

"Shut up."

Y/N thinks this is the first actual party she's been invited to. Sure she went to her fair share of birthday parties and sleepovers, but they were all PG. Never had she seen so many red solo cups in one place before. One of her friends released an EP, and they're celebrating by hosting a huge party at their apartment.

Sarah helped her pick out her entire outfit and assured her she looks amazing. Y/N has always struggled with her appearance because her parents weren't around very much. Between business trips and trying to live their own lives, there wasn't time to acknowledge their daughter. She would be dragged to their business parties, and she would just feel surrounded by a bunch of white bigoted men who thought they were superior just because they get fat checks.

When they arrived, they were immediately greeted by the stench of alcohol and weed. The apartment was crowded and loud, and Y/N was beginning to get nervous.

"Hey, it's okay," Sarah assures her, and she nods in agreement. "Let's go find our people," Sarah suggests and loops her arm with Y/N's.

"I think I see Niall," Y/N points out, and her theory was proven correct when she hears his booming laugh. It eases her nerves, and she wraps her arm around her shoulder when she finally gets next to him. He's standing with Mitch, Harry, and a few other people she's casually met before. Sarah greets Mitch with a kiss and settles into his side.

"Y/N!" Niall shouts when he finally realizes who's hugging him. He embraces her, and she can tell he's a bit drunk with the way he leans his weight on her. "I didn't think you'd come!"

"None of us did," Harry interjected lowly under his breath, but she still heard him. They hadn't really interacted since that night at the bar.

"Harry," she nods to him when Niall releases her. He barely acknowledges her before he turns back to the guy he was talking to, but he can't help the way his gaze would sometimes drift back to her. It's so annoying how pretty she can be without even trying.

Harry hates how enamoring she is.

"Harry, oh my gosh, how are you?" He hears a voice come up from behind him then feels a hand wrap around his arm. Emma. A clingy girl he hooked up with about a month ago- a good distraction from the thoughts he's facing at the moment. He wraps his arm around her shoulder as if he cares about seeing her.

"Hey, babe, I'm good," he tells her.

Y/N watches the scene and tries to limit the disgust that wants to appear on her face. Niall wonders off, and she's left alone with the pair.

"Who's this?" Emma suddenly asks Harry, as if she is entitled to any kind of ownership over Harry. He wants to be pissed off, but he also wants Y/N to go away.

"My friend's friend," Harry tells her. Y/N feels her heart pang. He couldn't even call her his friend out of convenience.

"Oh, interesting," she says, and Harry can tell she's not convinced.

"Yeah, I'm Y/N! It's actually my first party, and you're really pretty! Do you-" She's cut off by the girl who's practically hanging off of Harry's arm.

"Do you have a thing for Harry?" She asks.

"Oh! What? No- no-"

"Chill, Emma," Harry says, and Y/N almost thanks him before he continues, "Don't worry, she's the complete opposite of my type," he assures with a cocky smirk. The two laugh, and Y/N wills herself to walk away.

It's an hour and a half later, and Y/N is more than ready to go home. She's leaned against a wall, her phone dead and her head hurting. She doesn't have the strength to go find her friends, and she's kind of hurt they've all left her at her first party. She knows that this isn't about her, but she's scared and nervous, and they knew that but still begged her to come. She's just sad and scared and wants to go home.

"Hey, are you okay?" She hears someone ask in her ear, and she almost jumps out of her skin.

"Oh gosh, you scared me!" She gasps and meets the eyes of who's talking to her. He's a very cute boy who's holding a red solo cup.

"Sorry!" He apologizes and touches her shoulder with a smile. She smiles back. "I'm Ian," He introduces himself, shaking her hand in his.

"I'm Y/N. It's nice to meet you," she tells him.

"So, I take it you don't usually come to parties," He asks, and she nods.

"My first one actually," she grimaces.

"Let's go get you a drink," he suggests and takes her hand in his, not waiting for an answer before taking her to the kitchen. It's surprisingly empty when they walk in.

"I don't- I uh- I don't drink," she admits.

"Ah, c'mon. One drink won't hurt," he tries to persuade her.

"No, thank you," she says again.

"Alright," he settles. "I think this punch is non-alcoholic," he says to himself and grabs her a cup. She zones out as he pours her a cup. She thinks this guy is cute, but she really just wants to go home. She's broken out of her thoughts when a cup is being handed to her, and an arm is being thrown around her shoulder. Her eyebrows furrow as 'Ian' leans closer to her. "Are you going to say thank you?" He asks, and his tone makes her skin crawl. She laughs awkwardly and tries to shift away from him, but his hands move to her waist and his grip is too tight.

"Ah- that hurts," she tells him, but he only tightens his grip, so she can't move. "I- I want to leave," she whimpers.

"Yeah? Let's go to mine," he says and tries to lean forward to put his mouth on her.

"No- no," she says and tries to push at him.

"Just one little kiss," he tells her. Her first kiss was about to be took from her. Tears roll down her cheeks as he gets closer, but fortunately, he's suddenly being roughly pulled away from her.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Harry's loud and rough voice makes its way to her ears.

"Ay- the fuck, man? We're a bit busy," the scumbag tells Harry. "Didn't realize she was already claimed."

"A woman doesn't need to be claimed for you to not force yourself on her. Walk away, or I'm going to drown you in this punch," Harry warns, and the dude scurries off.

Harry's glare makes her want to cry all the more.

"C'mon," he says gruffly and with a gentle hand, he wraps his hand around her wrist, pulling her all the way outside and to his car. She doesn't even think twice about getting into his car and buckling. Her mind is a state of fog. Harry starts the car and rests his head against the steering wheel, his breathing rapid.

"Are you okay?" She asks gently.

"You- You're asking me if I'm okay?" He laughs condescendingly and buckles himself in before putting the car in drive.

"Well, you seem really mad, and- and maybe you shouldn't drive if-"

"I need you to stop talking," he says suddenly. "I mean seriously- what were you thinking, Y/N?" He asks with his voice raised.

"I don't- I don't-"

"Yeah, you don't think." Harry doesn't think he's ever been this mad before. He saw the beginnings of her and the guy- him practically dragging her to the kitchen and her just going along with it. He saw red. "Did you even watch as he poured you a drink? Do you even know this guy before you just ran off with him?" His questions upset her further, making her feel stupid.

"I was- I was just flustered, and I wanted to go home, and I didn't know what to do-"

"You don't fucking follow a random dickhead alone at a party!" His voice is loud in the small car. It's quiet for a moment, giving him a second to just focus on the road in front of him as he heads to her house when he hears a stifled cry that breaks him out of his moment. "Are you crying?" His anger falters.

"Well, yeah!" She sobs. "I was left alone at my first party- then I almost get molested- now, I was forced to get in the car with you, and- and- and I'm just scared!" She cries.

Harry doesn't particularly know what to do in this situation. All he knows is that his heart is twisting and pulling in his chest.

"There's nothing to be scared about now." His voice is incredibly softer than before.

"I'm stuck in- in the car of the guy who hates me, and I'm scared," she whimpers, her chest heaving as she tries to suck in air between each word.

Harry's heart dies.

"You're scared of me?" His voice is quiet and insecure.

"Yes," she says simply as if she doesn't understand the gravity of her words. Harry continues driving as he feels wet droplets fall down his cheeks. "Are you- Are you crying?" She asks, concerned but also confused. The tables have turned.

"Well, yeah!" He laughs sadly. He's never felt more like a piece of shit.

"Um- I don't- I don't know what to do," she admits. The car is silent until they pull into her driveway. Harry still has tears running down his cheeks, and Y/N feels frozen.

"Okay- we're um- we're here," he announces as if she doesn't know she's at her own home.

"Harry, why don't you come inside. I don't feel comfortable letting you drive home," she tells him.

"I'm f-fine," he tries to laugh it off, wiping roughly at his red eyes.

"If not for you, I really don't want to be alone right now," she admits.

"But I thought- You're scared of me?" He questions.

"I was merely being dramatic. Tonight was heavy, and you're the most unlikely person to be with at the moment," she explains. "C'mon. I'll brew us a pot of tea," she encourages and gets out of the car. Harry thinks for a moment before ultimately getting out of the car and sheepishly following her up. She unlocks the door and ushers him inside quickly before her mut could escape.

"Hi, Pickle," he greets her dog quietly.

"You remember his name," she says, shocked while bending down to scratch at Pickle's ears.

"'Course," he agrees and also pets her dog.

"Okay, I'm going to go put on a pot of tea. Make yourself comfortable," she tells him before scurrying off to her kitchen.

Harry, still feeling emotional, wanders around the room, looking at pictures. He notices he's not in any. He knows he had no right to be. Still, it makes him cry harder.

"Okay, I've got- oh," she freezes with two cups of tea in her hands as she watches Harry breaking down in front of her. She sets the tea down on her coffee table. "Why don't you come sit down, Harry?" She suggests with a soft voice and sits down on the couch herself.

"I'm sorry. This is so em-embarrassing," he cries and plops down on the couch, covering his face with his hands as his shoulders shake.

"Um do you- I can-" Y/N splutters words as she tries to figure out what to do. "Do you want a hug?" She finally asks. She thinks she's the one that should be being comforted right now, but it almost makes her happy to see this side of Harry. Not that she enjoys anyone's sadness, but it's nice to see him vulnerable instead of conniving. Harry slowly looks up at her, and she holds her arms out. He cries as he shuffles into her arms. His face is buried in her chest as she rubs at his back.

"I'm sorry, that's not who I am," he repeats over and over even though she shushes him. They stay in this position, Harry's arms wrapped around her and hers around him as Harry starts to calm down. Harry takes in the moment. She smells fucking divine and feels so soft against him. He never wants to move. Then her phone rings. She starts to get up, but he shakes his head groaning, "No."

"Okay, then," she sighs before shifting to get her phone out of her back pocket. Harry lays flat against her body as she answers Sarah's phone call, his nose nudging at her tummy as he continues to sniffle. She courses her fingers through his hair making him stifle back a moan. He can't believe the full 180 his brain has done on him, but he can't find an ounce of hatred he once felt towards her. He doesn't want to either.

"Hello?" She answers.

"Y/N? Oh, Y/N, I've been looking for you. Where are you?" Sarah asks frantically, and Y/N can barely hear her over the loud party music.

"I uh- I left," she tells her, and Harry rests his chin on her chest to look up at her. She hates to admit it, but her breath gets caught in her throat looking at Harry's red, puffy eyes. She's always thought he's the most attractive person she's ever met, but right now, he looks so effortlessly pretty. He looks gentle for the first time ever.

"Are you safe? Where are you?" Sarah continues to ask.

"I'm home."

"Oh, Y/N. I'm so, so sorry. I thought Niall would have stayed with you, so I thought it was okay to leave you with him, but he didn't and-"

"It's okay, Sarah," she assures. She doesn't want her friend to feel bad. The thought makes her stomach churn.

"No, it's not," Harry counters, and Y/N presses a finger to her lips, but it's too late.

"Is that Harry?" Sarah asks.

"Um, yeah. He took me home. There was a slight problem at the party- some guy wasn't leaving me alone," Y/N explains.

"Fuck, I'm so sorry. Can I come over? Mitch and I will bring food, and Niall can-"

"No, no, Sarah it's okay! You don't have to do any of that. Harry's not bothering me- we're good." Harry smiles at that and lays his head back down on her chest.

"Okay," Sarah replies, doubtful. "I'm going to make it up to you. It was so fucking inconsiderate of me, especially with your past and anxiety-"

"Okay, Sarah, I got to go!" She says. Harry caught the last of what Sarah said, and his eyebrows furrow. They say their goodbyes before hanging up. Y/N sighs and tilts her head up to stare at the ceiling. They sit in silence as Harry's sniffling comes to an end. "Feel better?" she breaks the silence.

"Uh, yeah," Harry answers. "What did Sarah mean by 'your past'?" Harry asks. He feels Y/N tense, and he immediately regrets asking. "I'm sorry- you don't have to answer. I was being-"

"No, it's okay," she sighs. "I just- my parents weren't the greatest, and I just struggle with crowded environments," Y/N explains loosely.

"Oh," Harry answers. "I'm sorry," he adds.

"It's fine. People have it worse than me."

"It's still okay to be upset by it," Harry rebuts.

"Thanks, Harry, but you're kind of the last person I will take advice from. No offense," she tries to explain gently.

"Fair enough," he laughs without humor. He feels her push at his shoulder, so he takes the hint and gets off her. He wants to whine from the loss of her touch, and it confuses him.

"You're really confusing me, Harry," Y/N admits as she sits up. She grabs her own tea and takes a sip before continuing. Harry doesn't think he's ever seen someone so beautiful doing something so domestic. "I mean, you've done a complete 180 in your behavior, and as much as I enjoy you not tormenting me anymore," Harry winces, "I don't understand it, and I don't trust it. I don't trust you."

"I know, I know," he sighs and covers his face with his hands. "I don't understand it either," he admits. Y/N scoffs and puts her cup down. "What?" he asks.

"You don't want to hear it," she mutters.

"Tell me," he encourages.

"It's just- It's really unfair, Harry. You do understand that, right?"

"I don't-" He looks at her in confusion. She continues.

"You can't just completely change your behavior in the course of an hour. I let you have peace for a while because I could tell you were really upset, but if you want to move forward- it's going to take a lot from the both of us," she explains.

A long silence ensues.

"I'm stupid- I'm sorry. You probably don't even care about any of that. Jesus-"

Harry realizes at the moment the exact mental state his actions have and still put her brain in. He makes her insecure and scared. His mom and sister would be so disappointed.

"Stop, Y/N, stop," he pleads. She stops. "Don't talk about yourself that way," he grimaces.

"That's how you talk about me to my face," she counters. "What the fuck else am I supposed to think?" Harry thinks that's the first time he's ever heard her curse. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have raised my voice like that," she sighs and ducks her head. Harry can't help but admire her now. His brain is so mushed and confused with this sudden switch.

"Don't- don't apologize. I deserve much worse," he admits.

"I just don't understand your motive. Is this a joke?" she asks.

"Y/N, I'm being honest when I say I don't understand myself either. When I used to see you, you would just anger me. You reminded me of girls in high school that would bully my sister. They all started out super nice and kind, but somewhere along the way, they would realize that they had my sister wrapped around their finger, and they would toy with her. I love my mom and my sister, and I will always protect them and those around me, and so I just hated you. Dad was never around, so I had to step up."

The confession makes Harry feel as if a pile of bricks was finally removed from his chest. He realizes this is how he would have felt if he had just talked to Y/N in the beginning.

"I guess I can understand more now where your behavior came from but- I'm not like that. You've known me for so long, and I've never- I'm not-"

"Y/N, I don't think you realize just how completely entranced everyone is with you. Anyone would do anything for you because of the spell you put on people," Harry explains. "And I see now that it's not a bad thing to be under your spell. You're kind and patient and good. I've always known that. I just didn't want to admit it. I didn't want to like you, but how can I not?" By the end of Harry's speech, they're both in tears.

The draw he feels for her is indescribable.

He's leaning in before he knows it. His hand on her cheek, her eyes wide in surprise and confusion. Their lips are close when she speaks.

"What- What are you doing?" she stutters.

"Please," he whispers.

"Please what?" she asks. He doesn't know if she genuinely doesn't know what he's doing, or if she's asking him to beg, but both ideas make his dick harden.

"Please let me kiss you," he begs. He places his lips against her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, relishing in the way she sighs and softly moans. He cups her face with both hands, but before he could place their lips together, she stops him. She places both her hands on his wrists and turns her head.

"Harry, no," she whimpers. He immediately stops.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I don't- I don't know," she stammers.

"Talk to me, what's wrong?" Harry presses.

"I just- Harry, I want my first kiss to be with someone who actually likes me," she admits.

"I- I do like you," Harry tells her. "Wait- your first kiss?"

"Yeah, my first," she says sheepishly. "And I want it to be with someone who is attracted to me."

"I am attracted to you!" Harry encourages.

"No- Harry, you said it yourself- literally tonight- that I am 'the opposite of your type'," you counter while using air-quotes.

"That wasn't-" Harry realizes he's dug himself into a deep hole.

"It's okay, Harry. I know that it's going to be harder to find someone who likes me, but I know it can happen, and I want all my firsts to be with that person," Y/N explains. "I'm not going to kiss someone who just feels bad for me," she says, shaking herself out of his grip to look away, but he turns her face back to him.

"I am, Y/N. I am so attracted to you, and I think that's why I was even more of a dick because I hated that I was so fucking attracted to you," Harry tries to tell her, but she softly shakes her head with a sad smile.

"But you don't like me."

"I do."

"I can't tell. You have to realize how absurd your behavior is to me, right now. Harry, you've been so awful to me for so long, and I'm just not ready to forgive or believe you, I'm sorry- it's too quick," she tells him, her eyes holding all sincerity. Harry feels his own well up again, and she cups his cheek because even though she doesn't trust Harry, she never wants to see anyone sad. "Thank you for- for explaining to me why you acted the way you did- while it doesn't excuse your actions, I do appreciate it and your heart for your family and friends, and I'm more than willing to begin trying now with you." Her explanation ends with Harry in tears and her thumbs whipping them away. "Do you- Would you want to stay the night?" she asks.

Harry feels new hope in his chest.

"You sure?" he chokes out. She nods her head with a soft smile and stands. Harry looks up at her with all the wonder in the world and presses his chin to her stomach while she holds his hand.

"C'mon," she whispers, and she gasps quietly when he presses a gentle kiss to her clothed stomach before standing up with her.

They hold hands as they go to her bedroom, and Harry can't help the way he smiles.

"Let me go get you a change of clothes," Y/N says before disappearing in her closet. He looks around her room for a minute and can't help the comfort and warmth he feels. It's just so her. After a moment, he hears her talking in the closet and thinks she's telling him to come in. He opens the door, and his eyes grow wide when he sees her standing in front of her mirror in just her jeans and bra. Harry purses his lips as his eyes take in her body, and he fights the groan that wants to fall from his mouth. "Harry!" She gasps and covers her chest.

"Sorry!" He's finally broken out of gaze. "I thought I heard you- Hey, what is that?" His eyes zero in on the bruises that cover both sides of her waist and ribs. She looks down as well and bites her lip.

"Um, I think they're from that guy," she whispers defeatedly. He slowly moves closer to her, giving her time to back away or tell him to stop, but she just stares at him with wide glossy eyes. He carefully and with the utmost gentleness he can muster, places his hands on her hips. Softly caressing them, and the bruises littering her skin. He takes a moment just to take her in before speaking.

"I'll kill him," he sneers. It makes her softly laugh.

"No, you won't," she disagrees and shakes her head. "I'm okay," she says. dipping her head down to meet his eyes.

"You're very pretty," Harry counters. She blushes before moving away to get him clothes. Once she hands him the oversized t-shirt and baggy sweatpants, she leaves the room to let him change. She finds and extra toothbrush for him, and once they both finish their night routine, they crawl into her bed, keeping to their own reserved sides and both staring at the ceiling. "Thank you for letting me stay," Harry says, his head turning to look at her. His breathing falters as he looks at her. She just smiles in return.

"Just no funny business," she says softly before reaching over to turn off the bedside lamp. They sit in silence before Harry adjusts himself. They both quietly gasp when his hand skims her own. His hand freezes over hers for a moment before he gently intertwines their pinkies. She makes the bold decision to, with her free hand, lean over and feel for his cheek before planting the softest kiss on the tip of his nose. "Good night, Harry."

Harry falls asleep with a smile on his face and new hope settling into his mind.

Y/N wakes the following morning to a loud banging sound and a heavy weight on her chest. Her eyes squint open, the sun shining through her curtains and to her irises. She groans and closes her eyes again until she hears the banging continue. Her eyes are wide now with fear and confusion. She tries to move to grab her phone but quickly realizes her body is immobilized because of a big sleeping Harry laying on her, his shirt now off his chest. His mouth is slightly agape, laying at the top of her breast. His arms are encircled around her waist and holding her tight. It was much different from the pinkies they had entangled the previous night.

"Harry," she whispers and tries to budge his shoulder. He doesn't move, just continues to heavily breathe against her clothed tit. The banging, which Y/N has realized is just loud knocking, continues, and she really needs to get up. "Harry!" she says louder and pushes at his head. He groans and yawns sleepily. "Get up!" she demands, but he's barely conscious.

"Morning," he sighs dreamily and settles back down on her, pressing a wet kiss to the top of her boob. He's broken out of his dreamy state when he finally hears the knocking. "What the hell?" he groans and sits up on his elbows, still caging her in.

"I need to go see who's at the door," she whines and pushes at him. He whines as well and gets up, taking her hand in his to take them both to the front door.

"I'm going to kill whoever is out here," he tells her, and she laughs because she doesn't believe he's fully awake yet. She likes morning grumpy Harry a lot more than normal grumpy Harry. As soon as he opens the door, people are barging in.

"Finally!" Someone yells, and Y/N's able to place the voice to Niall. She watches as he, Mitch, and Sarah all welcome their selves into her home with bags of food. The chill from the outside makes her shrink into Harry's side, and he wraps an arm around her before shutting the door. He rubs his hand up and down her arm to create heat for her.

"Is someone going to tell me what you all are doing in my home on this Sunday morning? Not that I mind, of course," she says and hugs each one of them as they get their coats and hats off.

"We felt like shit after being the shittiest friends ever last night," Sarah explains.

"Hey-" Y/N begins to stop her, but Niall cuts her off.

"No, it's true, Y/N. Felt like my heart shattered in my chest when Sarah and Mitch came to me all panicked cause they couldn't find you," Niall explains. His eyebrow quirks as he watches his best friend, who seemed to still despise the girl not even twenty-four hours ago, wrap his sleepy body around her, his chin resting on her shoulder as his body pressed against hers from behind. "Though it looks as if it might have been for the best that we lost you," Niall suggests and cocks his head. Y/N shrugs her shoulders and purses her lips, saying 'yeah, I don't understand it either'.

"Anyways," Mitch breaks the silence. "We thought we'd bring you breakfast then go to the winter festival in town."

"Sounds perfect," she says and moves away from Harry to set the table. Harry has to physically stop himself from whining, but Niall, Sarah, and Mitch all see his pout and look at him with questioning eyes. He blushes under their questioning stares. When she walks into the kitchen to retrieve silverware, they start asking the questions.

"What the hell is going on?" Sarah asks first.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry says innocently.

"You're acting like her pet, and not even a full day ago, you couldn't stand her. I'm definitely not saying it's a bad thing, but what-" Niall stops speaking because he genuinely doesn't know what to ask.

"Look, I don't understand it either," Harry begins, "But I just- I don't know. Something's changed. There was some weird fucking pervert at the party that was scaring her, and then when we were in the car, she admitted that she was scared of me, and it genuinely killed me to know that I was grouped in the same space in her head with that dickhead from the party," Harry explains. "I don't get it, but my mind has completely flipped, and all I want to do is just be around her."

"Wow," Mitch was the first to speak.

"Yeah, I know," Harry groans. "We had a really good talk last night, and I think she's willing to move forward."

"You know, Harry," Niall speaks, "There's a saying that there's a very fine line between love and hate," Niall sings with a mischievous voice.

"I'm not even going to argue with that," Harry sighs, and none of them have any time to speak on Harry's crazy admission because Y/N is coming back into the room with silverware, plates, and napkins. She eyes the tension in the room.

"What were you guys talking about?" she asks.

"Nothing, Angel. Let's get you some food," Harry tells her.

The town was decorated in the most beautiful festive decorations. Y/N felt real joy for the first time in a long time as she walked through the streets filled with vendors with her friends. She couldn't help how cute she thinks Harry looks as well. He borrowed a hoodie from her and was in his jeans and sneakers. He wore the hood up as he munched on a soft pretzel he bought. She couldn't help the urge to whip out her digital camera and snap a picture, not realizing the flash was on. She blushes when she realizes he caught her.

"Hey!" he accuses her. "I'm trying to eat my pretzel here!" He complains and pouts.

"Sorry," she laughs. "You just looked really cute," she admits. His cheeks flush red before he quickly shakes it away.

"Yeah? Well, you're cuter, and I'm keeping this hoodie by the way," he tells her before walking away. She follows him quickly and loops her arm around his waist to catch him.

Harry's cheeks seem as though they're now a permanent blush around her. He'd always seen how affectionate she was with their friends, and he thoroughly enjoyed finally being a receiver because he loves physical touch- especially from a very beautiful woman.

"You can't keep my hoodie, you thief. I barely have any as is," she complains and slips her hand under the hoodie to feel the plush at his hips. He always hated the extra skin at his waist, but now he thanks his mother for it. He feels overtly bashful at her touch, like he wants to smile and kick his feet like a teenage girl with a crush.

"I'll buy you some more, Angel. Just tell me if there's a shop you want to walk in," he tells her gently and wraps the arm that isn't holding his pretzel around her shoulder.

"Give me a bite," she suddenly says. Harry gawks.

"Uh- sorry, what?" He stutters.

"Of your pretzel, you perv!" she laughs at his flustered expression.

"Oh!" he laughs and reaches his hand out in front of her to let her bite the pretzel from his hand. He gasps when she takes the rest of the pretzel into her mouth. "Hey!" he whines and pouts at his empty hand.

"Sorry," she apologizes once she finishes chewing. She squeezes his side as she speaks, "I was hungry," she says with an evil smirk.

"Rude. Very rude," he comments though he pulls her tighter against him.

Little did they know, all of their friends were snapping pictures of them from behind, snickering and chatting about the newfound lovebirds.

Y/N and Harry seemed to be attached by the hip as the weeks went on. It had been almost two months since their new friendship was born, and neither of them realized how much they would click. Many nights were spent having dinner, singing karaoke, and watching movies together. When they were with their friends, they were always attentive to each other and sitting by one another.

It's a Friday, and Harry was on his way to visit her library right now. He'd been visiting her a lot and using it as a nice place to get work done. Work had been pretty stressful for Harry recently. He was managing a project for his company that's building a new stadium, and it's challenging in ways he hasn't been before, so while he's thankful for the opportunity, it comes with a lot more planning and map-outs than usual.

When he walks in, he sees her at the counter. Her shift is over in an hour, and he told her he'd pick her up once she got off, but he decided he could get some work done while he waited.

She's re-binding a book when he walks up, totally engrossed in the practice. So much so that she doesn't see Harry looming over her across the counter. He rings the bell that sits next to a box of tissues on the counter. She jumps and gasps when she looks up. A bright smile quickly covers her face.

"You're here early, puppy!" She walks around the counter to greet him as he blushes over the nickname. Ever since they became friends, their friends joked about how Harry follows her around like a dog, so she decided the nickname was fitting.

She squeezes him tight and wraps her arms around his waist as she looks up at him. Her chin rests on his chest as she speaks.

"How was work? Are you sore? I can give you a massage when we go to mine. I've been watching a lot of videos because I know your back hurts you a lot, and-" She tends to lose all sort of mind whenever he's around, and he has to reign her in.

"Angel," he interrupts her and laughs when she pauses abruptly.

"Sorry, I was rambling," she blushes. He kisses her forehead.

"It's okay. I love hearing you speak," he tells her honestly.

Harry never takes for granted the way she speaks to him because there used to be a time when she was too afraid to.

"I would love a massage, my love," he tells her and kisses her temple. "Work was good- fun. Got to tear down walls today, and that's always really fun, and before you ask, I promise I was wearing all the right gear, so don't go scolding me," he eyes her, and she smirks.

"Good boy," she says.

Harry damn near busts in his jeans at her praise. She continues talking like nothing happened.

"Why are you here so early? I don't get off for another hour."

"I- um. I- I know. I was- I figured I could get some work done," he stutters out.

"Okay, silly," she laughs at his speech. She unwraps herself from him and walks behind the counter. "You can sit back here with me. I'm the only one working," she offers, and he nods his head. She places a stool next to hers, and they both get to work for the next hour.

"We've watched this movie a billion times, H! Not again!" Y/N complains when Harry tries to put on The Notebook for the millionth time. They're both cozied on her couch after eating some takeout sushi. Harry's wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of grey sweats. Y/N's wearing a new purple hoodie Harry bought for her and a pair of tiny sleep shorts. Harry had been fighting the urge to stare at her thighs since they got back.

"Well, until you get some good movie taste, we're watching mine." They're banter was playful and not harmful.

Y/N huffed as he started the movie and scooted to other side of her couch, away from him.

"Don't be mad at me, sweet girl," he says before pulling her sideways into his lap. "Be mad at yourself and your terrible movies," he laughs and tightens his arms around her when she tries to escape his hold. She continues to squirm until he pulls her close and bites down on her neck. She lets an airy moan escape her lips as he sucks and kisses at the spot.

"Teething at me like a needy puppy," she tells him and cards her fingers through his hair. Y/N has never been with a boy before, so she doesn't know if what her and Harry are doing is normal or not for just friends, but she doesn't care. She just likes what he does. "Are you seeing anyone right now?" she asks him out of nowhere. The angst she would feel if he said yes would make her cry.

"I'm seeing you all the time," he tells her and kisses at her chin and jawline. It was when Harry got like this that she had a hard time thinking clearly. She thinks she would say yes to whatever he asked if he was being as lovey as he gets.

"I mean are you dating any girl right now," she corrects him.

"I know what you meant, Angel," he tells her. "I haven't seen anyone but you since the night of the party," he says honestly, and it makes her smile and place her head against his chest. He runs his fingers through her hair as he speaks. "It's totally okay whatever your answer is to this, but I wanted to ask you." Her head quirks up to look at him with a confused face. "Have you uh- Have you forgiven me?" He asks, and he immediately looks away. "It is more than okay if you haven't because I was incredibly awful to you for so long, and I know if I was you, I would have a hard time-" She presses her hand against his mouth to shut him up.

"I forgive you, Harry," she says. "Forgave you a long time ago," she tells him honestly and releases her hand from his mouth.

"You serious?" he asks, and she nods. His eyes well with tears, and he hugs her to his chest. "Thank you. I don't deserve you," he whispers into her hair and kisses her head. They watch the movie for a while until Harry speaks again. "You remember that night when I tried to kiss you?" He asks.

"'Course," she tells him, wondering why he's bringing it up.

"Have you kissed anyone since then?" She sits up to look at him.

"Now when would I have had the time to?" She gestures to his hold on her. "You've got me locked down 24/7," she laughs.

"Would you say no if I asked to kiss you now?" he asks, bracing himself for the answer. She takes a moment to think about it.

"I would definitely let you kiss me," she tells him, and he grabs her face, about to plant a big smooch on her lips until she stops him, laughing at his eagerness. "But wouldn't that make this weird?"

"Make what weird?" he asks.

"Us," she tells him.

"Nothing has to be weird unless you make it weird," he tells her.

"But- but we're in such a good place as friends-"

"Friends kiss all the time!" Harry counters, though it makes his heart clench at the thought of them just being friends. "Though I do think we're a bit more than that," he adds, and she smiles. He becomes serious again, holding both sides of her face in his strong, rough hands. "I'll make it so good for you," he promises.

"I don't know, puppy," she sighs, but they both know she wants it. She just wants to make him work for it a bit.

"Please, please," he whispers.

"Just one little kiss," she tells him. He nods his head and begins to lean forward. She cups both of his wrists like she had done that first night and breathes shakily until his lips finally meet hers. She sighs, her first kiss finally taken. She doesn't even know if it counts as a kiss because their lips are just pressed together until they start smiling against each other. She pulls back to giggle, but he pulls her back in, this time actually kissing her. His lips massage her own, and she doesn't really know what's she's doing, but she just tries to mimic his actions. He moans as she picks up on it quite quickly. "Okay," she breathes and backs away. Harry whines and cups the back of her neck to try and reel her in.

"Please. A little more. You're so good- taste heavenly," he comments. Harry feels like he's experiencing his first kiss again as well. Nothing had ever felt like that before. Nothing had ever felt so good. He could feel himself chubbing up in his pants just from the one kiss.

"I told you one kiss, Harry," she reprimands him, but he shakes his head.

"Was it not good for you?" He asks. He knows she enjoyed it. She's panting like a dog in heat, and he can see her subconsciously pressing her thighs together. He just wants her to kiss him again. "My lips not good enough for your perfect mouth, pet?" he asks with a pout and lets a finger caress her bottom lip.

"No, that's not it at all, Harry!" she says eagerly. "It was perfect. The best first kiss I could have asked for. I just don't want to complicate things," she tells him.

"It's already complicated, babe. That's our thing," he tries to reason, and she laughs. He can see her slowly start to let down her wall, and he takes the opportunity to lean down and kiss at her neck and jaw, trying to coerce her more.

"It did feel very good," she sighs and grabs the back of his neck, holding him against her own.

"Yeah?" he mumbles against her skin before sucking a hickey into her neck.

"Yeah," she moans softly. "Okay, okay, I don't care anymore. Just kiss me," she begs.

"Sound so sweet begging for me," he tells her and cups her cheeks, caressing her cheekbones with his thumbs. Her eyes well as she waits for him to lay one on her.

"Harry, c'mon," she whimpers.

"Don't cry on me," he coos. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you wait. I'll give you what you want, my love," he assures her and with that, plants his lips back on hers. She's more eager this time around. Her lips move more feral against his, and he groans deeply when she nips at his bottom lip. The exchanging of saliva makes her feel dirty in the best way possible. She's still sitting sideways on her lap, but her body is aching for her to straddle his thighs and grind against his crotch as she pushes her tongue against his. Harry realizes very quickly how dirty she is for being a virgin. Her tongue found its way into his mouth first, and she didn't hesitate to mold hers against his. Harry fights the urge to move his hands lower and grasp at her body, but he doesn't want to scare her by moving too quickly. Luckily, he doesn't have to wait much longer until she's requesting exactly what he wanted.

"Can I sit in your lap?" she asks breathlessly. She doesn't let him speak, instead missing the way his mouth felt against hers too bad that she kisses him again, her fingers tangling in his hair and pulling in a way that makes him whine.

"You are sitting in my lap," he mumbles against her lips.

"No, I mean like- Can I just show you?" she asks impatiently. He nods his head and chokes on his own spit as she straddles his thighs and presses her crotch down onto his roughly. "This okay?" she asks.

"S-so okay," he tells her and grips her hips.

"Why does that feel so good?" she asks rhetorically and continues to roll her hips against his.

"Baby- I don't think you know what you're doing," he tells her. She shrugs and continues to do it because it feels good against her pussy. "Wait, wait, wait," he makes her pause.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

"More than," he assures her. "But I want to talk to you first before we go any farther."

"Okay, well hurry up because I would like to continue." He laughs at her horny, foggy mind that's making her bolder than usual.

"I need to know what all you've done- sexually speaking," he tells her.

"You know I'm a virgin, Harry," she says. "I've never done anything with anyone- well, until now," she smiles, and he reciprocates.

"Right, but what have you done by yourself?" he asks, and she blushes. "Nothing to be embarrassed about," he reassures her.

"I've touched myself before," she admits, and he tries his best not to whimper at the thought.

"Okay. Do you know all the terms of anatomy down there?" he asks.

"Yes, professor," she laughs.

"So, when you touch yourself, do you just play with your pretty little clit, or do you put fingers into yourself? Or do you have a toy?" She becomes bashful at his blunt speech.

"I usually do one finger inside and my other hand playing with my clit," she admits shyly.

"You're so fucking hot," he tells her honestly before grabbing her face to kiss her. She moans at his roughness. "Okay, okay, wait," he stops himself. She whines. "I need to know what you're comfortable with us doing, my love," he tells her.

"I just want to keep doing what we're doing," she whimpers.

"Okay? You like grinding yourself against me?" He asks, and she nods her head while biting her lip. Harry wishes he had his phone to take a picture of her. The embodiment of sex, and she didn't even realize. "We can both cum from that," he tells her. "You want to- Do you want to go that far?" he asks, and she nods her head eagerly. "Words," he commands.

"Yes, yes please," she begs.

"How would you feel about both of us stripping to our underwear, so we can feel each other a bit better?" he asks.

"Sounds really good, Harry," she says and immediately stands up to take her shorts off, but he stops her.

"You're incredibly cute with how eager you are," he laughs, and she turns red. He kisses her clothed stomach to assure her it's nothing to be ashamed of. "Let me take them off," he suggests. What she didn't expect was for Harry to sink to his knees in front of her and kiss at her thighs a bit first. It makes her feel extra hot having his mouth so close to her core. "Have you ever watched porn?" he asks suddenly as he bites a hickey into her thigh.

"Yes," she says breathily.

"What do you watch, dirty girl?" he asks as he sinks his teeth into the waistband of her shorts and starts to pull them down her legs.

"Um-" she stutters at the question.

"It's okay," he assures her. "It's just me," he says and squeezes her thighs in support. It was like those three words were all the encouragement she needed. He rests his chin between her thighs as she begins to speak.

"Well, I like to watch men um- eating out girls. I like to watch rough stuff, and I think I would like that a lot, but I think I would also like to just make love," she explains. "I also like watching girls giving blowjobs," she says suddenly like she had almost forgotten. "I also," she begins but stops herself in embarrassment.

"What is it? You're safe to talk to me, Angel," he assures her.

"I like to... read about things," she says.

"Okay. Explain," he tells her.

"Well, like- smut. I like to read little things people write about people fucking," she admits shyly.

"And what are the people doing in your favorite ones?" he asks.

"I like when they write the guy just being completely overtaken by his natural instincts to- to fuck the girl- almost feral- he's just taking what he wants, you know?" she explains.

"Did you know you're perfect? Like actually fucking enthralling?" he asks and basks in the way her face reddens. "I'm serious, Y/N," he tells her.

"Thank you, H. You're very captivating yourself," she comments.

"Oh?" he questions as he stands. His nose meets hers and they play tag with their mouth for a moment before she just leans forward and pecks him.

"You're an incredibly beautiful man. Always thought so- even before," she says honestly. His heart twists a bit at the mention of before. "The most alluring man I've ever seen," she tells him.

"You can't mean that," he disagrees, and his breathing shakes when he feels her play with the waistband of his sweatpants.

"I can, and I do," she tells him and presses her hand over the large bulge in his sweatpants. He actually moans from the contact- not expecting it from her.

"You're dirty," he gasps, and they both laugh. She doesn't waste another second before pulling his sweats down his legs and letting him step out of them.

She sits on her knees to love on him a bit. She's always loved his meaty sides, and now that she has the opportunity, she doesn't think twice before sinking her teeth into his loves handles. She smiles when he gasps as she kisses and nipples at his flesh. She surprises him once again when she presses her mouth against the bulge, letting her hot breath feed into the fabric and to his cock. He wants to push her away because he's afraid he's going to cum too soon, but he also knows that's the stupidest idea when he's got the most irresistible woman in the world with her mouth on him. It's when he feels her lick at his tip through his briefs when he back away and sits on the couch, shielding his clothed dick with his hands as if to protect himself from her.

She smiles at him as devilishly as an angel could. "You have an oral fixation," he notes, and she shrugs.

"Let's get to the fun stuff," she whines and crawls all the way to the couch and onto his lap. Harry doesn't think he's ever been so fucking turned on.

"You know you're every man's fantasy?" he asks, and she cocks her head in confusion. "A hot librarian," he expands, and she laughs.

"Yeah? You want me to read you a bedtime story, baby?" she asks, trying to make her voice sound sultrier, and it works. Harry's dick twitches in his boxers.

"I'm gonna cream in my boxers," he warns, and she laughs.

"Please, don't. We haven't even had any fun yet," she complains, and he shakes his head in amusement.

"Just start rubbing your cute little cunt on my cock," he instructs her, and she wastes no time before she puts her hands on his shoulders and begins to rut against him.

"Oh," she gasps. From the way his dick is positioned in his underwear, it's perfectly laid out for her to rub her clit against. "Is your- Is your dick big?" she suddenly asks. Harry, who was in a trance already from the way she was shamelessly grinding on him, splutters for words from her question.

"W-What?" he asks, his hips jutting up to press against her roughly out of instinct. They both moan at the sensation.

"It just- It feels really big, and sometimes you get a big bulge in your pants," she moans and bounces on his lap, trying to catch her clit on his tip.

"I have been told it is- yeah," he tells her. To be honest, he knows his dick is big. He knows it's really big. He usually would be cocky about it, but he doesn't want to scare her.

"Can I see?" she asks breathlessly.

"What?" he asks, his eyes bulging out of his head.

"Well," she begins, her hips stopping their movement. "I was just thinking that if maybe you were naked that it might feel better," she tells him. Harry's frozen in shock, but she takes it as him being unsure. "C'mon, please," she begs. "I'll let you cum on me," she adds.

"Where?" he asks.

"My- my pussy," she says quietly.

"Hop up," he tells her, and she quickly crawls to the spot on the couch next to him. She's about bouncing from how excited she is.

"Take your shirt off too." He laughs at how demanding the virgin is being.

"Need to spank your attitude out of you," he says as he takes off his shirt.

"Yeah, right," she scoffs but is silenced with his glare.

"I'm not going to show you my dick if you're going to be mean," he tells her and watches how her eyes round with wetness.

"I'm not being mean!" she complains.

"Yeah, you are, pet. And I'm being so nice to you- showing you everything, and you're acting like you don't care," he reprimands her. He's surprised when he feels her arms wrap around his shoulders in a hug.

"I'm sorry, Harry. Please, puppy. Show me, please. I'll be so sweet to you," she pleads, her voice muffled in his neck. Harry smiles, feeling like he's won the jackpot in life.

"Give me a kiss first," he commands, and she acts quick. Because she acted on fast movements, her hands lands his neck to stabilize herself. Harry moans at the pressure it provides for him.

"You like my hand around your neck?" she asks. He feels himself begin to nod submissively but remembers that he needs to be in charge for the moment. He switches on her, instead cupping her neck with his hand. She gasps, and her jaw falls from the movement.

"I do, baby, about as much as I like my hand around yours." He uses the grip he has on her throat to pull her closer and spit into her mouth. She moans and swallows easily. "Okay, enough foreplay," he tells her and releases her neck to shimmy his underwear off. The gasp he hears from her when his dick comes into view is welcomed gladly.

"It's so big, H," she tells him and continues to stare at it. She gulps at the thought of it being inside of her.

"Don't have to worry about it being inside you tonight, pet," he tells her as if he could read her mind. "It's gonna make you feel so good though."

"It's so pretty, puppy," she tells him, and she feels the urge to put her mouth on him, but she holds back, not wanting to upset him.

He pets her hair as he talks to her, "Can we try a different position than last time?" he asks.

"Whatever you want to do," she tells him, and he smiles.

"Just make sure to let me know if you don't feel good or like what I'm doing," he asks as he cups her face. She smiles softly and leans forward to lightly kiss him.

"Thank you for doing this, Harry," she tells him sincerely and places another kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Thank you for letting me," he says. They both lock eyes and their lips meet again, completely forgetting about what they were supposed to be doing. The kiss is passionate instead of rough. Their lips are eager but not rushed. Harry ends it with pecking her lips a few times, making her giggle. "Okay, enough sap. We can do that after. I feel like I'm going to burst," he says, and she laughs.

"How do you want me?" she asks.

"On your knees, face pressed against the couch," he tells her, and she blushes before complying. Harry moans as she sticks her ass in the air. He's quick to get on his own knees behind her. He holds his dick up and places himself against her, grabbing her hips once he's in place. They both groan at the contact. He slowly starts to use the leverage he has on her hips to grind her against him, making sure to angle her up, so her clit is grinding against him.

"That feel so good, puppy," she whines and begins to throw her hips back at him. His hold on her tightens, but he allows her to help his efforts in making them both feel good. Harry has never done anything like this before, and it feels so fucking good. He raises her up enough so that her clit is catching at his tip before he lowers her back down to rub along his length. He thanks his job for the strength he has to lift her up and down on him like this. He takes a break from the rubbing to harshly thrust his hips against her as if he was fucking her for real.

"I can't wait to have my dick inside you," he moans.

"Yeah, baby?" she asks breathlessly, and he whines a yes. He groans when he feels her wetness seep from her panties onto his cock.

"Creamy little pussy," he moans and takes his dick away from her for a moment to rub his finger on her clothed clit. Her hips just forward at the surprising touch, but he lightly spanks her as a warning to stay in place. His finger ventures up to press at her hold through the opening, and the whiny moan that she releases only makes him press harder.

"I wanna see your face," she says quietly, and he could almost cry from how sweet she sounds. He taps her hip, so she takes the hint and turns around to lay flat on her back. She smiles up at him once she can see him, and he can't believe there was ever a time where he hated this girl.

"You're so beautiful, and you're doing so good for me," he tells her as he cups her head and kisses her hair. "Do you feel good?" he asks.

"Very," she answers quickly. "I want to try something though," she says shyly.

"What is it? Whatever you want," he assures.

"Can I show you?" she asks, and he nods his head. He gasps when she wraps a gentle hand around his dick, a bit of precum slipping from the tip when she gives a little tug. He thinks he dies when she slips her underwear to the side and places her bare dick against her naked pussy. She throws her head back at the contact and more cum oozes from Harry's dick.

"Oh, baby," he moans and places a hand on the length of his dick to press down on it as he glides against her pussy. She isn't shaved, but she's trimmed and well-groomed like Harry is, and it makes it feel so much better with the extra sensation. He uses two fingers to spread her open, so his dick rubs right over her clit, and he thinks she might die at the expression she makes. Her mouth is dropped, and her eyebrows are scrunched together in pleasure. She holds her thighs up and apart for him, and he doesn't think he's ever felt so attracted to a human.

"You're leaking so much," she moans as she looks down at them together.

"It's for you- It's all for you," he whines and ruts against her harder. She loves seeing him so whiny and submissive. She moves her panties so that her dick is actually inside of them now, so he doesn't have to hold it down anymore, and it makes them both moan to watch the erotic scene unfold. Her cotton panties are becoming see-through with their combined wetness.

"Love your dick, H," she moans and presses on him through her panties.

"I love your pussy," he moans back. "So fucking creamy and soft," he adds.

"I'm gonna cum," she tells him and grabs him by the back of the neck to kiss him. It's sloppy, and they're basically just trading saliva, but it makes it so much hotter. They're both so far gone.

"Please, Angel. Baby, please cum for me. Let me feel it," he says and moans when he feels her push on his dick harder, the pressure making her orgasm. It's intense and prolonged because Harry never stops moving. He can't help but cum as well when he feels his tip catch her hole. He fights the urge to just stuff her full with his dick, instead cumming against her pussy that's still covered by her, now, ruined panties.

"Wow," she breathes as they both feel the aftershocks. She pulls her panties to the side, and they both moan at the mess they created. He takes his softening dick and spreads his cum all over her. He leans down to smear a wet kiss against her lips, and they both sloppily make-out until Harry's weak arms give out, and he lays on top of her. They fall asleep in each other's embrace.

It's Y/N's second party.

This one is already going much better than the last. Harry hasn't let one second go by that he doesn't have some sort of physical contact with her. It's been two weeks since their moment at her house, and he hasn't let her forget about it.

Right now, Harry and Y/N are standing in the kitchen talking to some of Harry's friends. Well, Harry's talking to them, Y/N's basking in the way he has her back pressed against his chest, and how his hand is casually resting at the bottom of her throat. His casual dominance makes her pussy throb.

"You okay, pet?" his voice in her ear spooks her until she relaxes back into his hold. His friends are occupied with themselves for the moment, so he takes the opportunity to love on her, pressing a kiss to her cheek and discretely squeezing at her throat.

"Y-yeah, sorry. Just lost in thought," she explains.

"It's okay. Just let me know the second you're ready to leave, and we can go," he promises her. She rolls her eyes and turns around in his hold to look at him. His hands gravitate down to hold her ass with a smirk.

"You know you don't have to babysit me, right?" she asks.

"Not babysitting. Why would I want to be without you?" he asks like she's acting dumb. She goes to speak, but she's interrupted by his fratty friends.

"Hey, H! Come play beer pong with us!" One of them shouts at him and shoves at his shoulder, making both him and Y/N stumble a bit. He goes to reprimand him, but Y/N stops him.

"He would love to!" she tells them when she turns around.

"Y/N-"

"No, H. Go have some fun. I'll be fine, I swear. I'll go find Niall," she assures him.

"Harry, dude, c'mon. Tell your babe goodbye for like twenty minutes, man," they all laugh at how whipped he is. Harry glares at them. Y/N makes the decision for him.

She kisses his cheek and says, "I'll see you later!" Before she scurries away to find Niall. Harry's grumpy as he goes to play beer pong.

Y/N somehow found Niall easily. All she really had to do was stop for a second and listen for his laugh to follow it. It had been about thirty minutes since she had seen Harry, and she was certainly missing him.

"Can't believe how whipped H is for you," Niall tells her as they walk outside to find the firepit. His arm is slung protectively around her shoulder, and her hand is holding his that's wrapped around her.

"He is not," she counters. "We just like to spend time with each other," she explains, and Niall gives her a knowing look.

"He told me about the other night," he informs her.

"He did not!" she says suddenly and releases herself from his hold.

"He's my best mate, of course he did," he says easily.

"I'll kill him," she says seriously and starts to walk off to find him.

"Oh, c'mon, Y/N!" Niall whines and hugs himself over her shoulders as she storms off, trying to find the culprit. "It's not like he told me what all did! Just that you got a bit intimate but didn't go all the way," he explains. She grimaces when she spots where Harry is with his friends playing beer pong. Well, where he's supposed to be playing beer pong. Instead, he's talking with a girl who's a bit too close for Y/N's liking. Y/N also doesn't like how into the conversation Harry looks. He's talking with his hands, and his facial expressions are animated.

"Let's go inside," Y/N says suddenly, and Niall furrows his eyebrows.

"Why-" he begins to ask but then stops himself when he sees the reason she wants to go inside. "C'mon," he tells her and doesn't give her an option to say no before he's wrapping a strong arm around her shoulder and pulling her along.

"No! I don't want to see this!" she complains, but Niall says nothing as they approach the group. Harry's telling the girl something when his eyes land on Y/N. It's like his whole world stopped, and Y/n doesn't have time to process anything before she's being engulfed in a rough embrace and kisses are being pressed all over her face.

"Y/N!" His voice is loud and joyful. "Niall, get off her," Harry scolds, and Niall just laughs.

"Don't be rude, H," Y/N tells him, and Harry pouts. He sinks his head into her shoulder and holds her tightly around her waist.

"You're right. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Niall," he says loud enough for Niall to hear. His words are slurred.

"It's alright, H," Niall just laughs.

"Harry, this is nice, but I can't breathe," Y/N tells him.

"I wish I was small, so I could climb in your lap," Harry says randomly, and Niall's loud laugh is heard for miles. "It's not funny!" Harry complains. "Oh, wait!" Harry abruptly turns around to face the girl he was talking to who's looking at him unamused now. "This is my wife, Y/N. She's who I was telling you about and why I did not want to make-out with you at all!" Harry looks and sounds disgusted at the thought of making out with the girl, and Y/N gasps. Niall's laugh somehow grows louder. "Once you've tasted her fucking mouth- oh, fuck," Harry groans just thinking about Y/N's mouth. "And her pussy- holy shit!"

"Harry!" Y/N scolds. The girl walks off coldly.

"Bye!" Harry tells her, but she doesn't even look back at him. Y/N turns around to find Niall bent over, hugging his stomach in amusement. "What are you laughing at, Niall?" Harry asks him and goes over to hug him.

"Nothing, H," he says once he's put himself together enough. "You drink a little bit, huh?"

"Oh, yeah," Harry says with an evil smirk. "I was so shit at beer pong, so I drank like so much, dude," he tells Niall.

"I think we should get you home, buddy," Niall tells him, and Harry whines. Y/N comes up to Harry's side and wraps her arm around his hip. He seems to remember that Y/N was there and gasps.

"I missed you so much," Harry mumbles into her hair.

"Harry, I would like to go home," she tells him.

"Okay, let's go!" he agrees with ease, and Niall rolls his eyes. Y/N, Harry, and Niall all make their way outside and to Niall's car. Y/N gets into the backseat because she expects Harry to sit in the front, but she's surprised when he climbs in right after her and sits so close he should practically be on her lap.

"Oy, what do I look like? An uber?" Niall says when he realizes he's alone in the front. He starts his car up and starts driving towards Y/N's house.

"Sorry, Niall," Y/N says and grunts when Harry encircles her waist with his big arms and smushes his face into her neck.

"It's alright. I'm just messing with you, babe," he tells her.

"Hey, don't call her that!" Harry grumbles.

"Don't be rude, Harry," Y/N scolds and lightly swats at his head.

"She is my babe, H," Niall tells him, just to mess with drunk Harry some more.

"She's not your anything!" Harry cries.

"Niall, stop messing with him," Y/N now scolds the Irish man, and he just laughs in return. She suddenly feels a hand on her cheek and Harry planting kisses all over her face. He moves his hand down to rest at her neck, so he can angle her face however he wants. "Niall, can you hurry up? I'm being attacked," Y/N says.

"I'm a law-abiding citizen, Y/N," Niall tells her.

"Oh, please. I've seen you speed to go get a donut," she grumbles and grimaces when she feels a tongue lick her cheek. "Ew, Harry!" she pushes at him, but he doesn't move.

"You taste so good," he says before he erupts into a fit of giggles. "Fuck, I wanna suck on your tits," he groans randomly, and Y/N thanks God when they finally pull into her driveway. "Alright, goodbye guys," she sighs before getting out of Niall's car. She raises her eyebrows at Harry when he tries to follow her out. "Um, what are you doing?" she asks him.

"Uh, spending the night with you," he responds like she's acting dumb.

"H, I'm going to take you to your house," Niall tells him.

"What? No!" he cries and hugs Y/N's waist tight when she tries to walk away from where she stands outside the car.

"H-" she begins to say, but she's stopped when she sees Harry's eyes full of tears and his whimpery voice begging.

"Please, I'll be so good for you," he pleads, and she sighs. Niall doesn't know whether to laugh or be disgusted. He settles on taking a picture of a sad Harry practically wrapped around Y/N to send to him later. "Please, Angel. I don't want to be away from you," he cries, and how can Y/N argue with his pitiful little state?

"Alright, H. C'mon," she tells him and leads him out of the car.

"Good luck," Niall tells her before she shuts the car door and lets him drive off. Harry suddenly grabs her face and plants a sloppy wet kiss on her lips. She doesn't even have time to react before he's running up to her door.

"We're going to have so much fun!" he yells, and she shushes him, grumbling about her having neighbors. He waits impatiently for her to open the door, and once it's open, he's running inside in search of her dog Pickle. Y/N shakes her head, wondering what she's gotten herself into especially when she sees Harry laying on the floor with Pickle licking at his face. She grimaces, setting her stuff down and taking off her shoes before she makes her way to Harry.

"Let's get up and go to bed," she tells him, but he shakes his head and pouts like a toddler.

"I don't want to go to bed! You're being boring," he spits, but there's no real spite behind it.

"Fine, you can stay out here by yourself then," she says, knowing it will make him get up and follow her. As she's walking off to her bedroom, she hears Harry get up and scurry off in search of her. She quickly shuts herself into her closet to change before he catches up to her. Once she's changed into a large t-shirt and just her panties, she opens her door. She's not prepared to see Harry in just his boxers sitting at the edge of her bed pouting. She pretends to not notice him as she makes her way to her bathroom and does her nightly skincare and brushes her teeth. He follows after her quickly and shadows her routine, washing his face and brushing his teeth while looking at her expectantly the entire time.

Drunk Harry was needy for her.

Once they're both finished, they crawl into her bed. The lamp isn't even off before Harry is laying on top of her, weeping into her neck.

"I'm sorry," he cries. "Don't ignore me!"

"Why should I talk to you? Being so mean to me. Where's my sweet boy?" she asks, willing herself to not put her hands anywhere on him to mess with him more.

"I'm here, I promise," he whines. "You're not boring- not boring at all. You're the best person, and I love you." Y/N feels like the blood from her body was being drained at his drunk confession. "Don't be mad at me. I'm sorry. Am I being annoying? Oh, I am. I'm so sorry," he continues to cry.

"Puppy, I'm not mad at you," she tells him with a giggle. She finally lets her hand card through his hair, her other hand going to rub at his back.

"Okay, good," he says and begins to kiss at her neck again.

"You're incredibly needy," she sighs and leans her head back to give him more access to her skin.

"Yeah? Fuck, I'm so needy for you," he tells her, and her eyes grow wide when she feels him start to subconsciously hump at her leg. She feels his dick start to harden in his boxers.

"Maybe we should stop, H," she warns him.

"Why?" he whines like the thought of stopping brings him physical pain. His hips thrust into her thigh with more determination.

"Because you're drunk," she tells him.

"So? I want you just as bad when I'm not. I'm just better at being chiller about it," his speech slurs. "Can I suck on your tits?" he asks, and she feels one of his hands snake under her shirt to feel the bare skin of her stomach.

"Um," she stutters.

"Please? It'll help me sleep," he claims. "You can even turn off the lamp if you don't want me to see," he tries to convince her even further.

"Okay," she relents. She reaches over to turn off the lamp, so they're welcomed into the darkness. Harry wastes no time before his legs move to straddle her thighs, and he's lifting her shirt to feel at her breasts. They both moan when he glides his fingers over her taut nipples. He squeezes at them in handfuls and moans at the sensation.

"Fuckin' perfect," he sighs. She feels him scoot down so that he's resting his body weight against her now, and his mouth wraps around one of her tits. She gasps at the feeling and tries to work out the horniness she feels because she genuinely does want them to sleep. He spends some time swapping at both her breasts, biting, sucking, and kissing at both of them before he rests his head on her and keeps one of her tits in his mouth to lull him to sleep. The feeling begins to feel relaxing for her, and she feels herself start to drift to sleep as Harry sucks on her breast. She falls asleep with her hand in his hair and her boob in his mouth.

When she wakes in the morning, she's surprised to be in an empty bed. She thought for sure that Harry would still be resting on her chest or in her bathroom heaving over the toilet, but instead she feels no weight on her chest, yet she smells bacon and pancakes through her nose. She does her business in the bathroom and makes her way to the kitchen when she finishes. What she walks into is a sight she would love to wake up to every morning. Harry is in nothing but his boxers as he flips pancakes and sears some bacon on her stove. She says nothing for a long moment, just observes him. She finally decides to make her presence known when he walks over to the sink to wash some of his dishes once he finishes cooking the last pancake and piece of bacon. She feels his body tense then quickly relax when her hands wrap around him from behind and rub at his tummy.

"Good morning," his rough voice greets her, his body tensing with delight when her hands run over his abs and lower belly.

"Morning handsome," she greets him as well and rests her cheek on his back sleepily as her hands continue to wander. "How are you feeling?" Referring to his intense night of drinking.

"Better than I deserve," he laughs in self-deprecation. She laughs as well. "Honestly don't feel bad at all," he tells her and once he finishes the dishes, he turns around in her hold to see her beautiful morning face. He brushes a few strands of hair out of her face. "Are you feeling okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, I barely drank anything," she shrugs.

"Um, how are your- your uh," he stutters, and she's confused until he looks down at her chest. She laughs lightly.

"Not sure. Haven't seen or felt them yet," she says honestly.

"Can I look?" he asks. She gawks. "I just want to make sure I didn't hurt you!" he explains honestly. She eyes him.

"Okay," she agrees nervously and begins lifting her shirt. She looks away as he looks at her.

"Oh, shit," he gasps.

"Are they ugly?" she whines and goes to bring her shirt back down, but his hand stops her.

"No- they're- they're fucking perfect, but I- I fucked them up a bit," he admits honestly. Her eyebrows furrow before she takes a look for herself. She gasps too when she sees the damage he did. They're littered beautifully with hickeys and a few bite marks. "I'm so sorry, Y/N," he tells her, and she looks up to see his eyes watering. She shakes her head as if to tell him not to feel bad.

"Is it messed up that I kind of like it?" she admits.

"You do?" he asks.

"I really do," she says and bites her lip. She finally drops her shirt to cover her abdomen again. She felt awkward just having her tits out in the middle of her kitchen.

"I really like them too," he admits as well and wraps his arms around her waist, bring her closer to him and leaning his face close to hers. He kisses at the corner of her mouth, and she sighs in contentment.

"Do you remember anything from last night? Anything in particular that you might have said?" she asks.

"Are you asking about me telling you I love you?" he asks boldly.

"Possibly," she replies.

"Well, what's to ask about it?" he wonders.

"Well, is it true?" she asks quietly and looks away from his gaze out of nerves. She feels his fingers gently grip her chin to make her look at him before he leans down and presses his lips against hers. She sighs into the kiss and wraps her arms around his neck to press him against her harder. Both of his hands cup her throat, and his thumbs rest at her jaw to direct her in any way he likes. He parts once he feels he's running out of breath. He rests his forehead against her own, and she looks up at him with expectant eyes.

"I love everything about you," he admits.

"You also called me your wife," she says with a grin.

"You are my wife- just without all the legal papers and rings and whatnot," he explains, and she shakes her head with a laugh.

"Harry, I want to have sex with you," she admits breathlessly and watches as his eyes grow wide at her statement.

"Are you- Are you sure?" he asks.

"The surest," she tells him honestly.

"You want me to be your first?" he asks and presses a quick, light kiss to her lips.

"And my last," she adds and sees him swoon. He takes a deep breath before speaking.

"Okay. Okay- um. Well, let's eat first. We need- It's good to have energy," he stumbles his way through his sentence. She whines in complaint.

"No, we can do that after," she says and goes to pull at his briefs, but he snatches her hands and leans in close to her face. The dominance radiating off him makes her sink into herself.

"I'm not going to fuck you if you don't listen to me," he warns. Her eyes gloss over. "Be sweet for me and go set the food on the table. I'll get our drinks," he instructs, and she scurries off quickly to obey. She's standing awkwardly by her own table when he walks in, and he chuckles lightly. He sets the drinks down and slowly approaches her. He cups her cheeks, and she nuzzles into his touch. "You're not scared of me, right?" he asks, wanting to make sure her behavior isn't out of fear. She shakes her head quickly with furrowed brows.

"No, no," she assures. "Just... want to please you," she explains and turns her head to kiss the inside of his palm. He smiles at that and leans in to slowly kiss her.

"Good," he says against her lips. "Then be good for me and sit on my lap while we eat," he tells her and smiles when she blushes. He sits down first and guides her by her waist to sit down sideways on his lap. She wraps one arm around his shoulders, lightly scratching at his hair as he cuts her up some pancake. He feeds her a few pieces with one hand on keeps the other arm wrapped snug around her waist. He goes to give her another piece, but she shakes her head and takes the fork from his hand to feed him instead. It goes on like that until all of the bacon and pancakes are ate. There's a tension that settles in the room once the plates are cleared.

"Please," she whispers, and that's all Harry needs to hear before he's carrying her off to her bedroom. She giggles when he throws her on her bed and crawls after her, hovering over her excited body. She moans when he rests his body weight on her and kisses her like he's starved. His tongue finds its way into her mouth quickly, and the once innocent kiss becomes messy and sloppy. Harry's pulling away from her panting and with swollen lips. He moans at the sight of her- bare-faced and fucked out just from a little kissing.

"Can I take your shirt off?" he asks roughly.

"You can do anything you want," she answers seriously, making him laugh.

"Don't speak too soon," he tells her before shedding her of her shirt. He moans at her only clad in underwear, her breasts beautiful and littered with his markings. "Oh, baby," he whines and gently tweaks her nipples with his fingers. She gasps and arches her back away from the bed. "Are they sore?" he asks before leaning down to flick his tongue against her nipple.

"A bit, but that feels good," she tells him. She moans when he kisses down her body and to the edge of her underwear. He bites the waistband of her panties and pulls back only to let go of them and let them snap against her skin. She whines at his teasing and buries her hand in his hair to encourage him to do something. He grins at her impatience.

"Bratty little virgin," he remarks, and she tugs at his hair as a warning.

"Big annoying man-whore," she retorts back, and he laughs before lightly slapping her clothed mound. Her body jumps at the sensation, but he's quickly tugging her back into place. He presses his mouth against her clothed pussy and blows hot air against her. She squirms at the new sensation.

"You need to stay still," he tells her and places his hands against her thighs, spreading them in the way he likes. He spends more time licking at where he assumes her clit is by the sounds she makes. He flattens his tongue and licks over her panties, moaning when he begins to taste her wetness. "Can I take these off?" he asks, but his hands are already dipping into the waistband to take them off.

"Please," she tells him and lifts her hips to help him take them off. She feels a bit exposed now that she's naked. She nervously closes her legs, but he quickly snatches them open again.

"Don't do that," he warns her. His jaw drops when he sees her bare pussy, a moan tumbling from his lips. "I missed her," he groans, and she shakes her head in annoyance. "Let me tell you what I'm going to do to you," he tells her, and he's suddenly hovering over her face, her eyes wide. "I'm going to make you cum on my tongue- finger you a bit until you're stretched," he pauses to act like he's going to kiss her, only to pull back at the last second. "Then, I'm going to fuck your sweet little virgin pussy. That sound okay?" he asks, though it's not really a question. Y/N nods her head vigorously and throws her arms around his neck to kiss him. He moans against her mouth, but before she could slip her tongue into his mouth, he pulls away. "We can do more of that later. Let me taste you," he says, and she bites her lip as he pushes down her body.

"Harry, do something please," she whines and grips his hair in her fingers. He pries her thighs apart and begins with a long lick from her hole to her clit. She throws her head back and lets out a long moan, her fingers fisting in his hair hard enough to make him whine, so she immediately let's go and apologizes. "Sorry! I'm sorry!"

"No, baby," he tells her and places her hands back in his hair. "I like it, I promise, so pull all you want," he assures her and quickly gets back to eating at her. He essentially makes out with her pussy, not caring about how messy or wet anything was getting. He pushes her thighs apart farther and shoves his tongue as deep as he could push into her hole. Her moans and whines could barely be heard over his own. His tongue curls and tries its best to get all of her in his mouth. He's addicted to the way she tastes. He takes his thumbs, using them to spread open her hole wider, so he can really insert his tongue inside her and taste her better.

"Fuck, Harry," she moans. It's like nothing she's ever felt before. It's so much better than anytime she's gotten herself off. Harry himself is pure sex, and it's hard to not let her brain get all muddled around him. "I'm gonna cum," she warns and digs her fingers deeper into his scalp when he switches to flicking at her clit quickly and moving his head side to side. Her orgasm is strong and continuous, taking her a few moments to actually breathe her way to the end. She has to push his head away when the overstimulation begins. He crawls up her body and kisses her cheek.

"I'm gonna have to go down on you again some time tonight," he admits, and she laughs at his eagerness. "Do you feel good? Was that okay?" he asks.

"Yes, and yes," she answers.

"Let me know when you feel ready, and I want you to cum on my fingers at least once before I fuck you," he explains, and she blushes and is a bit taken aback by how he can just talk about this stuff so easily. He sees her blush and smiles. "Don't worry. You'll be as dirty as me soon." His hand moves to her throat, and he teases her lips with his. "Corrupt your innocent little pussy and have you begging for me all the time," he tells her and kisses the corner of her mouth. She shudders.

"You sound very sure of yourself," she tells him.

"And your pussy already loves me. Just let it happen, babe," he sighs, and she giggles.

"M'kay," she agrees in content. "I think I'm ready now." He smiles before he begins to move.

"I'm going to sit behind you, so it will feel a bit safer and more comfortable for you," he explains, and she could almost cry at how thoughtful he is. They maneuver around so that Harry's is against the headboard, and Y/N is leaning back against his chest. He starts by reaching around and grabbing her throat, turning her head so that he can kiss her. They make out for a bit until Harry gets too impatient. "I'm going to start with one finger. Let me know if anything doesn't feel right, okay?" He kisses her cheek for reassurance. "Why don't you rub at your pretty clit while I finger you," he encourages, and she nods. She starts to rub at her clit, and her body sinks further into Harry's. His hand wraps around her, and he brings it to her mouth. "Get it wet, baby," he instructs, and she doesn't waste another second before welcoming his finger into her mouth and getting it wet with her tongue. She sucks on it like it's a dick and swear she feels Harry's dick twitch in his boxers. He takes his finger out of her mouth and rests his chin on her shoulder, embracing her from behind to see what he's doing.

"Feels so nice already," she admits and leans her head back, so they're faces are pressed cheek to cheek. She kisses his cheek right as his finger begins to circle her entrance. She bites her swollen lip and rests her forehead against his temple. He slowly enters the finger, and her hips grind upwards to push it in deeper. "I can take it, H. I promise," she assures him.

"You're tight," he hisses, his own jaw dropping as he feels her warm gummy walls embrace his finger. "And so wet, fuck," he groans, and he can already feel her wetness dripping down his finger.

"Feels really good," she admits, her own fingers still working circles around her clit.

"Can I add a second?" he asks.

"Please," she begs and nods her head in encouragement. She moans when he feels his second finger prod at her hole. She's tight, but there's no resistance as the second finger slides into her.

"You're going to be my perfect cocksleeve," he tells her, his head turning so his mouth is pressed against her cheek, her jaw wide in pleasure. She's almost panting. "Pussy's gonna make me cum so fast and so fucking hard," he admits. "Are you on birth control?" he asks suddenly.

"Yes- yes," she nods her head, throwing it back when his fingers begin to curl inside her.

"Shit- you gonna let me fuck you raw?" he asks and punctuates his words by beginning to thrust his fingers inside her faster. Her pace on her clit quickens to his speed.

"Yes- Oh, fuck- that sounds so good. Wanna- I want to feel your cum in me. Want you to- oh- fill me up," she fights to speak as her orgasm approaches.

"Oh, yeah?" he asks, meaning for it to sound condescending, but it comes out whiney. He's on the verge of cumming himself.

"I'm cumming," she warns, but he just keeps his fingers moving inside her. Her orgasm seems stronger but doesn't last as long. The overstimulation comes quicker. "Okay- Okay," she winces and pushes his hand away. He removes himself gently as to not give her any pain. He doesn't waste a second more before he's sucking all her orgasm from his fingers, his eyes rolling into his skull at the taste. Once he cleans himself off, he wraps his arms around her waist to hug her to his chest as she gets her breathing under control.

"You did so fucking well," he praises, and she smiles.

"Thank you," she tells him and kisses his cheek. He looks at her, and when their eyes meet, they both feel the intensity. Their lips meet instantaneously, and she begins to turn around to straddle his lap. One of her hands goes to the back of Harry's head while the other cups his cheek tenderly. His hands settle on her waist, being careful not to make her grind over him in case she's still feeling any overstimulation. When she begins to mess with the waistband of his underwear, he pulls back.

"If you- We don't have to do anything else if you don't-" He's cut off by her hand groping his clothed dick. Harry's back slightly arches off the bed, and he moans quietly at the surprised touch.

"Trust me, I want to," Y/N assures him with a grin. She helps him get his underwear off and then gets back on his lap. They're positioned so that Harry is sitting up at her height as well, making it more intimate than if Harry was just laying down below her.

"It's going to feel deeper this way," he warns.

"Good," she says with a sly smirk, and he shakes his head with a smile.

"You're amazing," he says randomly. She smiles softly before leaning forward to kiss him. It doesn't last long because she's eager to have him inside her.

"I don't- I don't know what I'm doing," she suddenly admits with a laugh, and he laughs as well.

"I'll do all the hard work," he tells her. "Rub at your clit. It will help relax you," he explains, and she listens obediently. She has to raise herself a little so that Harry's dick can be placed at her entrance. "I'm going to push in, but I'll go very slow," he assures her with a serious look. He was so scared to hurt her.

"Thank you, Harry," Y/N smiles and continues to rub her clit when she feels the head of his dick press into her hole. They both gasp at the sensation, and Harry's presses her down until only his tip is inside her.

"Good?" he asks.

"Yes," she moans and fucks herself on the tip, in the process she sinks down about another inch.

"A fuckin' natural," he tells her. He's a little bit over halfway when she presses at his stomach. His eyes dart to hers that are closed shut. "Are you okay? Do you want me to take it out?" he asks in a panic. She laughs at his worriness.

"No, puppy," she tells him. "It's just a lot, and I've never felt anything like this before," she explains, and he nods his head in understanding. "Starting to feel really good, though," she admits and scratches at his abs. She sinks herself a little farther down.

Harry's trying to be on his best behavior, but his instincts are telling him to just grab her hips and start fucking up into her. It's the best pussy he's ever been inside of, and he knows she can feel him throbbing inside her. His balls are tight and round, stuffed with cum that belongs shoved inside her tummy. The thought almost sends him over the edge, picturing her belly and tits, that are still littered with his marking, round and swollen with him. His baby in her womb. The thought makes him whine.

"Are you okay?" she asks with a chuckle.

"Feels- feels too good," he whines and has to throw his head back when he feels her seated on his lap, having taken him all the way in. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, willing his orgasm away. He thinks all it would take at the moment is the sight of her innocent little body being corrupted, his fat cock shoved as far as it can be inside her pussy.

"It's deep," she comments, her voice almost as whiney as Harry's. Her eyes narrow at him and his distraught expression. He's still refusing to look at her. "Seriously, are you okay?" her voice suddenly worried.

"Yes. I'm sorry," he apologizes. "I'm trying not to cum yet," he explains. "You feel- really, really lovely. The best pussy I've ever been in," he moans.

"It's okay if you want to cum, Harry. I've already cum so much, and this alone feels really good," she assures him, leaning forward to kiss his lips. He whines into her mouth.

"No, no- I think I'm okay for now," he sighs and finally looks at her. He feels as if he just brought himself back to square one. She looks so perfect sitting on top of his cock it almost makes him cry. She's rubbing at her clit and biting her lip with the cutest smirk on her face. "I won't last long," he admits.

"Me neither," she agrees and begins to move herself on him. Her hips grind against his pelvis, making his dick press into spots she didn't know existed. She stops rubbing her clit and instead presses her hands against his shoulders for extra help.

"Fuck- don't even need my help," he comments. "Already the perfect slut," he says through a moan. Her eyes narrow at him.

"I can f-feel your dick throbbing inside me. Who's the- the real slut?" she stutters, the feeling of him stretching her out making her brain foggy and incoherent. He whines at her assertive tone and feels his balls tighten. He sits up further so that he can hug her waist, pulling them close together. He uses his leverage on her to bounce her on him, and the new feeling makes her third orgasm approach quickly. The intimacy of the moment adds to the intensity of her approaching orgasm. They stare deeply into each other's eyes as they both begin to finish with each other.

It's like nothing Y/N's ever felt before when his balls start to leak his cum inside her. Her own orgasm hits her like a truck when Harry's seed starts to fill her womb. He looks so beautiful fucked out in front of her, his eyes welled with tears of pleasure much like her own.

"I love you," he moans and dips his head into her shoulder.

"I love you too," she moans back, wincing when she begins to feel the overstimulation, though Harry's still finishing inside her. "Damn, you had a lot in there," she laughs, and he blushes into her neck. His hips rut into her on their own accord until he finally begins to calm down.

Harry's face leaves its hiding spot in her shoulder, and he looks up at her like she's everything in the world to him. And she is.

She's his whole world.

+++++++++++++++++

im never fucking looking at this story again. took tooooooo long. hope you enjoy though 🤪

#harry styles fluff #harry styles smut #harrystyles #one direction #harry styles angst #smut #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader

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starsofang · 1 month ago

Text

CALL OF THE SEA / PART SEVENTEEN

pirate poly!141 x f!reader tw: NSFW, MDNI, violence, degrading, mentions of death/blood, dove is called some nasty words, please heed warnings for this chapter masterlist a/n: girlbossed a little too hard and finished the chapter a day early. posting this after my 14 hour shift with nothing but hope and dreams. this chapter is a long one, i think the longest one so far, so have fun :p

When a group of unhinged pirates invade your small village, you're whisked away from your peaceful home and thrown on to a voyage out at sea. Forced to obtain a new role as their medic, you have no choice but to accept your fate as you join their forces and aid them in their treacherous travels.

Up close, Graves was even more sinister than imagined. It was as if you were living in your own nightmare come to life, with beady eyes crinkling back at you as a curled smile stretched over his face. Adorned in all black from head to toe, with the only spouts of color being the mess of dark blonde atop his head, nearly covered by the old, leather pirate hat.

His skin was deathly pale, a feat you knew to be from his reaping sins. To take a life in return for a piece of his—a soul bind.

If he weren’t such a sick man, you’d dare say he’d been handsome, if it weren’t for the look of rotting to the core. His personality did no justice, something cocky and mighty. He knew exactly how to play his game, and he played it well.

In your turmoil, you dared to wonder if all of this was indeed another nightmare. Perhaps you were still asleep, stuck in an endless loop until Soap or Gaz awoke you as they always did; but with a sharp pinch on your thigh beneath the thin covers of Price’s bedspread, the world remained at ease.

This one wouldn’t be easy to get out of.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Graves mused, smile so wide you worried the corners would crack and bleed. You wished you could see him writhe like a helpless roach beneath your shoe. “Why the long face?”

“How—” You swallowed, fisting the sheets. “How are you here?”

Graves stood straight, glancing around the room. He pretended to ponder, holding his arms up to shrug. “I let myself in.”

Your eyes followed his every move as he slowly stepped throughout Price’s quarters, taking it in. You sat as still as a statue, completely frozen in place. The sound of his heavy boots along the wood floors rang alarm bells.

The air in the room fell icy cold, rising goosebumps on your skin. There was that frigid chill that felt as if you’d just stepped into a slaughterhouse, a hint of decay tickling your nostrils.

This was the feel of death you’d always felt, lingering behind you, watching. He’d always been there, even if only in your mind.

“Where is the Captain?” you asked, attempting to make your voice firm. Show no weakness—it was the very thing you’d been taught since your first day on the ship. You hoped Price would be proud that you remembered.

Graves’ eyebrows raised and while his smile remained, it only seemed to glimmer with excitement when the question was asked, as if you asked a dog if he wanted a bone.

“He truly has you on a leash,” he snickered, finding something amusing in all of it. “You’re like their little bitch, aren’t you?”

Your blood ran hot at the demeaning nature his words brought, but you knew better. They were for show, something to make him appear taller. If you fell for it, you’d only be digging a deeper grave for yourself.

“No,” you muttered, eyes narrowing. “I am a pirate, just as them.”

Graves barked out a laugh, one that made your ears bleed. It was meant to deplete your confidence, poisoned with arrogance.

“Is that right?” he asked with a shit-eating grin. “A pirate, are you?”

Graves stalked towards you, agonizingly slow, stopping when his knees bumped the side of the cot. He leaned down so his face was level with yours, empty eyes peering deep within your soul. His breath reeked of death and despair, nearly knocking you unconscious.

“I’d like to test that.”

His icy hand wrapped around your bicep, hauling you out of the bed. With a yelp, you stumbled to your feet, bare of their shoes. The world beneath your soles felt foreign now, ever since Soap had given you your gift and you’d never take them off unless you were falling asleep.

The grip was tight, causing your heartbeat to thump through your muscles angrily. Your skin under his hand paled from the sheer force.

Graves tugged you along as you fought to resist him, squirming and attempting to plant your feet to the floor. Without the help of your shoes compared to his unruly strength, your fight was deemed useless. He continued dragging you, so much so you could feel little splinters begin to dig into your soles and invoke dull pangs of pain.

Fear filled your body from head to toe, your heart pounding against your rib cage. A lump filled your throat, coated with anxiety. Your mind filled with millions of thoughts, smothering any confidence you previously had and replacing it with the idea of death.

Was this where all would end? Your crew was one of the most feared among the seas, a healthy bounty placed over their heads. But there would always be one person above, and that person was Graves.

Every kick, bump, resist was fruitless as Graves hauled you to the door. What lay beyond it terrified you, images of your men dead flashing before your eyes.

Coated in their own bloodbaths, bodies laid limp amongst the floors of their own homes, sprawled out as if they meant nothing. Oh, you couldn’t bear it. You’d have to go, too—you’d have nothing left.

When Graves opened the door, you weren’t sure if the sight was any better.

It was dark, the moon only a sliver in the sky, granting no room for light. A single lantern was all that was left to cast orange shadows, its fire flickering in a dance for a way out.

Your crew was lined shoulder to shoulder, on their knees in a submissive front, hands bound with thick rope behind their backs. Graves’ men, his Shadows, held the barrel of their guns to each of their heads.

Though the sight was an improvement from what you initially prepared yourself for, it was far from good. It was bordering those images, a glimpse into what could be a massacre.

The moment you were out of Price’s quarters, Graves let go of you, shoving you. You lost your balance, tumbling to your side, your head slamming into the deck. Pain blossomed under your skull and you hissed in pain.

“Dove?” you heard one of them call out. Your head spun, making it hard to figure out who it was.

A heavy blow landed on your side where you lay, and you wheezed, Graves’ boot unexpected. It kept you in place, applying pressure to guarantee you wouldn’t try to flee and fight back.

“Get the fuck off of her,” Price growled. You could recognize it, filled with a burning venom that dared to kill anyone that was in its crossfire. “This has nothin’ to do with her.”

“It’s all to do with her,” Graves spat, digging the toe of his boot into your rib cage. His previous cockiness had melted away, revealing his boiling rage. “Isn’t that right, dove?”

Graves lifted his boot, granting you a brief moment of relief before it slammed back down. It knocked the air right out of your lungs, leaving you croaking out a plea to stop.

You coiled in on yourself, curling into a ball in attempts to lessen the damage. It did nothing to stop his boot from weighing on your side. The pain felt like nothing you’d experienced before, and you were sure you felt a bone crunch.

“Dove,” Gaz called out, frantic. He tried leaning forward to get a glimpse of your face, to search for your eyes, but the barrel of the gun only pressed deeper into the back of his skull in warning. “Dove, it’s okay. Just listen to my voice, alright? I’m right here.”

Your eyes were widened with fear, chest heaving to catch the breaths that were stolen from you. You couldn’t move, frozen in place, even as Gaz called out for you with the threat of a bullet through his head.

“I don’t know what you’re plannin’, Graves,” Price snarled, “but this is between us.”

Graves laughed diabolically, throwing his head back. It only made everything much more tense.

“Isn’t she apart of you now?” Graves humored, cocking his head. His fingers drummed along the gun in its holster on his hip. “If I’m not mistaken, she’s a pirate. I believe those were your words, Price.”

The realization that Graves knew had you going cold. The closer he got, the stronger the connection became.

“What the hell is it ye want?” Soap asked through gritted teeth. His eyes were darting back and forth between your crumpled form and Graves. “S’always somethin’ with ye, aye?”

Graves eyed Soap, a glint in his gaze. There was something unfamiliar in it, as if he held a personal grudge towards the man in question.

“There is something I want,” Graves agreed, letting out a dramatic sigh. He tapped at the gun once again, staring up at the sky in thought. “I think dove here knows exactly what that is.”

Graves dug his boot once again, peering down at you as if you were scum. You couldn’t stop the small whimper from the agony drumming in your side.

“Go on, dove,” Graves taunted, grinning. “Tell them.”

“I don’t know,” you panted. You were unfocused, eyes staring at the old floor from where your head rested.

You tried recalling what it is he could want, anything at all, but nothing was becoming clear. You scavenged through the deepest parts of your brain for even a simple clue, but the blows had made you dazed.

“I swear, I’ll fuckin’ kill you—”

“You do know,” Graves repeated, cutting off the Captain. His tone grew annoyed. “Think real hard, dove.”

“I don’t know,” you cried, shoulders beginning to shake. All the built up confidence to fight back had vanished into thin air. Now, you felt like a scared little girl, begging for mercy.

Graves’ boot lifted, then returned back down. A string of curses were thrown his way from your crew, who were thrashing in the binds, unable to aid you under the lineup of guns to their heads.

You felt wetness cascade down your cheeks, dampening your skin and falling down to the side of your head from the angle you laid. It was then you realized you were crying, embarrassingly so.

Only mere hours ago you were deemed a pirate, and yet at the start of war, you fell apart like a damsel.

“The telescope,” Ghost said, voice low. It was the first he’d spoken, only sitting there silently as you were beaten down. His head hung low, as if ashamed, though the darkness in his eyes was enough to cast doom across entire continents. “He’s talkin’ about the telescope.”

You blinked away the tears, eyes burning. Realization dawned on you the moment Ghost spoke. Through your huddled position, you tried to tilt your chin down to meet his eye. As if thinking the same thing, he lifted his head, connecting your gazes. You could see that familiar apology pooling out of him, expressing everything he needed to say.

Washed away to land and shore,

shall be the looking glass for ocean eyes.

The telescope you found for Gaz was an innocent gesture. The sight of it called out to you, as if meant to be owned by you. If you would’ve known it was Graves it was calling, you would’ve thrown it into the deep sea so it could never be found again.

“So he speaks,” Graves mused sarcastically.

Ghost broke contact first, eyes boring into Graves. He looked murderous, plotting his own bloodbath with just a simple look. The dim light of the single lantern did nothing to lessen the ominous glow, only highlighting it.

“Don’t fuckin’ talk to him,” Soap hissed, scowling. The look of pure disgust was such a contrast to his normal, boyish grins.

Graves paid no mind to him, stuck in a contest with Ghost. The two of them had a dark force swirling between them, one that even outside made the air heavy and suffocating.

“A point for your bravery, Ghost,” Graves sighed dramatically, breaking his stare. He looked between each and every man, sparing you no glance while his boot remained in place. “My telescope. Give it to me, and I’ll let her go.”

You instantly shifted your eyes to look at Gaz, who seemed to be struggling with a decision. You knew why he was having a hard time—you gifted the telescope to him, unknowing of who it truly belonged to. It was something he treasured, something he didn’t want to let go of.

“I have it,” Gaz said lowly, head bowing. “It’s in my quarters. I’ll take you to it.”

Graves sucked his teeth, feigning pity. He shook his head, hand fully resting on the gun at his hip. “Not going to work on me, Gaz. I’m quite capable of getting it myself. You sit tight, aye?”

Gaz stiffened, expression growing grim. Nevertheless, he said nothing, deciding silence was the best contender for a fight bound to end in loss.

Graves gestured for the man behind Price to fetch the telescope from Gaz and Soap’s shared quarters. Price didn’t tear his eyes away from Graves once, even as the Devil of the Seas took out his own gun and pointed it right at Price’s forehead.

He pressed the barrel of the gun into Price’s forehead, indenting the skin. It was a snug fit, a perfect shot for Graves if he wished to end things the easy way.

Graves didn’t like it easy. He liked it fun.

“Scared we’ve caught on to your trail, aye?” Price bluffed, voice gravelly and malicious. “That’s why you came out here like a fuckin’ mutt, hidin’ in the storm until you found the right time to ambush us?”

“You have your dove to blame,” Graves replied nonchalantly, rubbing his boot back and forth along your side. The pressure had you sucking air through your teeth, eyes clenching shut. “She might be your new toy, but she’s just as much a mutt as I am.”

“You shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Price snarled, body shaking with feverish rage. If he could pounce on Graves, you knew he would.

“Looks like you finally grew some balls, Captain,” Graves snickered, pulling back the hammer of the gun. It resounded a loud click, which translated to a warning bell in Price’s favor. “Such anger. That anger has never worked for you, Price. It didn’t work for Ghost—it won’t work for her.”

Price let out an animalistic growl, his lips pulling back in a sneer. You’d seen the Captain angry, and you’d seen him under the guise of a scary, ominous pirate who would kill any innocent bystander that stood in his way.

This was entirely different. This was personal. A build up. This was a storm that had been coming for ages, and you were only toeing the edges.

The Shadow returned, holding the telescope you’d gifted Gaz. It shimmered in the lantern’s glow, glinting its gold details and showing it off. It felt like a goodbye.

“I’d be real careful from now on, Graves,” Price warned. It was the first you ever heard him speak so menacingly, like the demon inside of him was erupting with a stream of hot lava filled with nothing but spewing hatred. “When I find you, I’ll fuckin’ kill you myself. String you up on my sails until you’re dry, toss you into the ocean to the sharks. I’ll take pleasure in watchin’ you burn until there’s nothin’ left but ash and dust.”

Graves took the telescope from his Shadow’s hand, inspecting it. The words Price spoke clearly struck a nerve, for the arrogant grin had vanished, replaced with a gloomy, threatened expression.

“Hm,” Graves huffed, letting his gun fall and placing it back in its holster. He signaled for his men to follow suit, and you watched as all weapons dropped. “I await the day that happens, Captain. Until then, keep your mutt on a leash, aye?”

Graves made no effort to untie the crew, leaving them bound as he gathered his men to walk the plank connecting the two ship. A long, woden plank that creaked under the weight, one od wish you could kick from its balance and send them flying into the dark sea.

The moment was brutally silent as they left. Nobody moved a muscle until Graves was on his ship, the plank pulled from its placement, and the skull flag waved goodbye as they set sail into the pit of the night.

Time stood still, but the second Graves and his crew were hidden in the waves, all hell broke loose. Price and Gaz worked together to unbind each other with their backs to one another, frantic to be released. Ghost sat silently, eyes staring into the floorboards as if they’d speak to him.

“Say somethin’, dove,” Soap begged, scooting on his knees to be by your side.

As if the dam broke, you began to cry once more, heartbreaking sobs coming right from your core. You curled up tighter into your ball, your hand resting on your side as if it would magically ease the pain.

“It hurts,” you replied, voice cracking.

You’d stayed strong up until that point. Now, you couldn’t hold up your front.

You were scared. You felt more helpless than ever. You couldn’t remain strong for the sake of pretend anymore. Everything hurt, and Graves’ presence shook you to your very core.

“I know,” he cooed. He made a frustrated noise when he struggled against the binds. “I know, dove. We’re right here, alright?”

It felt strange, being on the other side of the spectrum. You were used to being the one to aid people in their injuries, but now, it was you being comforted. You couldn’t grasp what your life had become.

Price was released from his binds, quickly helping Gaz slip out of his. While Gaz made quick work to move to work on Ghost, Price was by your side in an instant.

One hand rested on your hip, turning your body towards him while the other found your face, resting his palm on it. His eyes were filled with worry when you faced him and he urgently wiped at your tears with his thumb.

“Dove,” he breathed in relief, his heart aching at the sight of you so broken. This was his fault. “You’re okay, I have you.”

You whimpered when he shifted so he could slide his arms beneath you, one under your shoulders and the other in the bend of your knees. The movement flared pain all over again, and Price murmured apologies, unsure of what to do.

He hurried to his quarters, his men following closely behind like scared dogs with their tails between their legs. Gaz held open the door, and you only caught a glimpse of his guilt-stricken expression before you were ushered in.

Price carefully slid you on to his cot, wincing every time you whimpered or cried. The pain felt excruciating, your breathing quick and labored.

“She needs a medic,” Soap stressed.

“She is a medic,” Gaz reminded, resting his hands on the edge of the cot so he could lean over and inspect your face. “We have no help besides her.”

“Well, she can’t treat herself, ye fuckin’ oaf,” Soap snipped, shooing him away from your space. “Cap, she needs to get checked. She can’t even breathe properly!”

Your head began to pound from the sheer loudness that filled the room. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will away the ache while simultaneously trying to correct your breathing.

You knew well enough that there was something shattered or broken. A rib, though small in theory, but dreadfully painful without the correct medicines. Not to mention the amount of force Graves had used—it was pure hell.

Price was silent, as was Ghost, the two of them sharing a conversation with just a look. There was an understanding shared, and Price gently shoved Gaz and Soap aside, replacing them.

He mimicked Gaz’s previous stance, leaning on the bed. His hand came to brush a stray tear away, frowning embedded in his mouth.

“Tell me what to do, dove,” he said softly. “I’ll do whatever it is.”

You sniffled, hand shaking where they rested on your side. You shook your head, nearly deranged from the shock and horror of it all, unable to snap out of it.

“I—I can’t fix it on my own, Captain,” you quivered, lips trembling. “It hurts.”

Price nearly broke, filled with guilt. He glanced behind him at Ghost, who quickly looked away, hands balling into fists.

“I know,” he assured calmly, brushing his finger along your cheek where he wiped the tear away. “We’ll fix it, aye? You just have to sit tight until we can. Can you do that for us, dove?”

Though you knew the wait would be cruel—a slow healing process until you could receive proper care—you found yourself nodding shamelessly, instantly trusting Price and his promises.

Price nodded along with you, giving your cheek a comforting pinch. “Attagirl,” he praised, calming your nerves.

“I’ll fuckin’ gut him,” Soap muttered, jaw pulled tight. “He’s fuckin’ dead.”

Gaz reached up to grip Soap’s nape, tugging at his hair. Soap threw him a glare, one Gaz promptly ignored, turning his attention to you.

“Listen to Cap, birdie,” Gaz encouraged warmly. “We’ll get you all fixed up. You won’t even know you’re hurtin’.”

Price had a look of hesitation when you caught his eye. You furrowed your eyebrows, frowning in confusion before he spoke again, causing you to grow uncomfortable.

“We need to check it first, dove,” he said apologetically. “If you don’t feel well with all of us bein’ here, you can pick who you prefer. No hard feelin’s, hm?”

The idea that one, if not all, had to see you undressed in order to inspect the damage was one that made you a bit dazed. You’d never been seen beneath your raggedy clothes in the village, and the same applied for your time on the ship. It felt sacred, like your vulnerability was on the line, but you had to remind yourself that it was purely medical—you’d done it plenty of times when in practice at your old home.

“It—it is fine, just… just turn away, yes?” you pleaded, unable to meet any of them in the eye.

You heard a round of shuffling, only seeing Gaz elbow Soap in the corner of your vision. Once you were sure they feasted their eyes upon the old wall, you began to carefully lift your hips, biting your lip to muffle the pained noise that threatened to leave.

The hem of your dress was swiftly pulled up past your thighs, all the way until your torso was exposed. You stopped it beneath your breasts, quick to tug the blanket over your nakedness that remained uninjured and in no need to be checked.

The anxiety that pooled in your stomach left you queasy, but you toughed through it, knowing how important it was. If you had more than a mere fracture, it could become worse over time.

“Okay,” you said quietly, cringing when they turned to take you in. The men did their best to make you feel as at ease as possible, gearing their focus towards the nasty swelling on your side.

You dared to take a peek yourself, fearing for why they were so quiet. What you saw was ugly—swollen and puffy, beaten to the point it was already turning purple and blue. It was tender to the touch, even more so without clothing as a barrier.

The worst was the gnarly, black veins that spouted out like roots, dipping deep into the new bruising. It was inhuman, something completely out of the ordinary. You knew it was Graves’ dirty work, and it reminded you of when Ghost had cut his finger in the kitchen and his blood turned black, vanishing into thin air.

When you shifted your eyes from your injury, you searched for Ghost’s, who was hard-stuck on the veins. His body was tense, a darkness swirling in his irises.

“Ghost?” Soap tried, nudging the brute lightly. “Any idea what that is?”

Ghost glanced over to Soap before returning to your side, taking in the sight. “Could be anythin’,” he muttered, unsure. “I don’t know what all he’s capable of. For all we know, it could already be infected.”

“Infected?” you asked, a worried chill racking through you.

Price reached out a careful hand to spread his fingertips along the veins. You choked on a gasp at the immediate discomfort, face scrunching up into a wince.

“We’re goin’ to a doctor,” Price nearly growled, taking his hand away. “I don’t care where. The moment we spot land, we’re goin’.”

“We still have bounties on our head, Cap,” Gaz reminded with a frown. “We can’t just go anywhere. It’s not the same as shoppin’. If we end up in the wrong place, we might get ourselves in deeper shit.”

“That is a risk I’m willin’ to take,” Price argued, firm in his stance. “If we start nitpickin’ where to go, it might be too late. You’re either in or out.”

The room fell silent as the men stared at their Captain. The answer to them was obvious, though you knew why they hesitated; if they were imprisoned, it would do you no good.

Emotions were high and the clock was ticking. It placed everyone on edge.

“I agree with Price.”

All heads turned to Ghost, who stood with his arms crossed, eyes boring into yours.

“It’s my fault she’s marked. So long as she gets fixed up, I could care less about bein’ thrown into a cell. I’m with Price,” he finished.

“Ghost—” you tried.

“I am quite firm in what I’ve decided,” he interrupted harshly before realizing his mistake, calming himself down. He looked away from you, crossing his arms a bit tighter. “I’m in no mood for arguments.”

You went quiet, watching Ghost turn towards the door and plot his escape. You knew out of everyone, he was affected the most, tormented with sickening guilt for all that’s transpired. You could only imagine how he felt, now that times had grown darker.

“Let him go,” Soap murmured softly, gaining your attention. “He’ll be alright. Let’s just worry ‘bout ye, aye?”

You were torn, but you nodded nonetheless, silently agreeing.

“You’ll stay with me for now,” Price explained. “No use in movin’ you anymore than I have. I’ll get you situated for now, and then you can rest.”

Gaz, Soap, and Price muttered amongst themselves, discussing a brief plan of what to do. The two set off to find more pillows to extend your comfort while Price remained by your side, plopping himself in his chair with a heavy sigh. His elbows rested on its arms, his fingers coming up to rub at his temple.

He looked exhausted, the bags under his eyes becoming more prominent the longer you looked.

“I am sorry, Captain,” you said quietly, eyes glueing to the ceiling.

“What have you got to be sorry for?” he asked, frowning. “Got nothin’ to apologize for, dove. Our worry stems from care.”

“Yes, but,” you paused, gathering the words, “I have caused much trouble since my arrival. Things only seem to be harder for you.”

“Life was hard before you, dove,” he assured, letting his hand fall from his face. “That’s the way it goes. It is to no fault but the world.”

You took in his words, letting them sink in. You hadn’t known a true life of trouble before, the only hardships being your utter loneliness and daily taunts from the local villagers. This was something beyond your knowledge, and you were beginning to understand that there was more to life than simply displeasuring people. There was more than what meets the eye, but there was also light at the end of every tunnel.

“You do not see me as a mere burden?” you asked, and he huffed.

“What have I told you before?” Price pressed in return, tilting his head. “You are one of us. A true pirate, if that is what you’d like.”

“I am far from a pirate,” you scoffed to yourself, ashamed. “I could not even defend myself or any of you.”

“Dove,” Price called out softly. He scooted his chair closer to your bedside, forcing you to turn your head and look at him. “A loss is not always a failure. Some wars are too big to handle on your own. There’s nothin’ wrong with that. Why must you speak so lowly of yourself?”

You stared at him unblinking, studying the furrow of his eyebrows and the curl of his lips, hidden beneath his beard. The worry lines on his forehead showed years of hardship, and you wondered how he managed to live through it if you could barely survive your own smaller ones.

“I have known nothing else,” you confessed bitterly, though not towards him. You were angry, not only with yourself, but at life for dealing its deck of cards in such an unfair way.

“I see,” he hummed, leaning back in his chair. He tapped his fingers along the armrests, getting lost in thought. “It was the same for me as well.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Really?”

“Mhm,” he sighed, picking at the splintering wood of the armrests. “My father was a captain before me. Had the tongue of a devil. Always angry, always cold—treated me like scum, even as a child.”

“I am sorry,” you murmured quietly. Price bristled, frowning.

“That is not the point, dove,” he replied. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on the side of the bed, mere inches away from where you laid. You waited patiently for him to continue, keeping your gazes connected to show you were listening. “Some may treat you like a mutt on the street and deem your worth how they please. The only thing that matters is how you take it and how you come out of it.”

It dawned on you what he was implying. It was his way of comforting you, shielding you from your own burdening insecurities that never seemed to escape your mind.

“I could’ve remained angry and bitter, but now I captain my own ship and crew. The same applies for you—you may have experienced cruelty all your life, but you must take the reins on your own worth and decide what it is, dove.”

A blinding warmth shrouded you, like a blanket after being trapped in the icy cold, and you welcomed it with a smile. You’d never known Price to be so well with words, not int he way he was expressing now.

He knew what you needed to hear after being trapped in your own world of darkness, and he provided the light you needed to find your way out—all of them did. A glimmer of hope in a world full of loss.

“I am very thankful you kidnapped me,” you blurted, unable to contain your inner thoughts.

Price laughed, boisterous and loud, a smile washing over his face. It was a lovely sight, one that made your heart pound. Even through your pain, you found solitude in the aftermath, reaching a level of comfort you’d always wished to feel.

“I am happy to have you here despite it,” Price teased warmly. “I can say the same for the rest.”

You laughed, almost immediately regretting it at the shooting pain coursing in your side. He shot you a sympathetic smile, slowly standing from his chair.

“I will let you rest,” he said, giving you a gentle pat to your thigh over the blanket. Your heart jumped at the action, and you repressed it.

“You are not staying?” you asked, deflating.

“Soap and Gaz will be here with some more pillows soon. I must gather a plan so we can get you to a medic as soon as possible.”

It made sense, and you knew it was important. There was no telling what was flowing through the black veins, but your heart longed for more of his presence.

“Just for a moment longer?” you dared to request, voice small.

Price peered down at you from where he stood over you, a hint of surprise flashing on his expression before it softened. He nodded, reaching over to give your hand a gentle squeeze. You held on as long as you could.

“Just a moment then,” he repeated. “I will do it for you.”

You squeezed his hand in return, feeling as if you were on cloud nine. Your feelings were uncertain, but the more you spent with them, the clearer your vision became. It was an inner battle, forcing yourself to push them back in order to protect yourself. Now, though, you decided to allow yourself the comfort, just for a little while.

“Thank you,” you told him, unaware your voice had become a mere whisper. The air between you felt heavy, as if something unspoken was there.

Price glanced down at your hands that remained interlinked before shifting his gaze back at you. The gears in his mind were turning, and just as you were about to ask if it was alright, he beat you.

“I am not an emotional man,” he murmured quietly, seeming just as unsure as you were. “I make very stupid decisions and take paths I shouldn’t take. One of them is tellin’ me to kiss you, and I’m not sure if that’s alright.”

You froze in place, eyes growing wide. You were unable to look away, lost in your own little moment. Everything in you was yelling yes, yes, yes! and it was hard to ignore. You had always been weak in your feelings.

“Gaz tried to when I gifted him the telescope,” you said, unsure of why you did. “I hope that is okay.”

Price broke out into a smile, huffing out a breathy laugh. “So long as he did not beat me to it.”

You released a relieved breath, a shaky smile spreading on your lips. Price did not seem angry, and for that, you grew more enticed for a kiss. While your feelings for the others were all different in their special ways, having Price be the first was not something you could deny. It excited you more than it should.

Before you knew it, Price leaned down, capturing your lips in his own. There was no spark like you’d read in books you’d read at merchant stands when you couldn’t afford them, nor were there fireworks.

Instead, it was a calm sea that smothered you in peace, easing every worry that crowded your mind. They washed away, replaced with a warm buzz.

He was gentle, hand still grasping yours, the other coming to rest beneath your jaw. His skin was hot to the touch, rough from the callouses on his palm.

The moment wasn’t long, and when he pulled away, you wished you could reel him in for more.

“Rest,” he encouraged, his smile brighter than a thousand suns. “We’ll get you fixed up and better before you know it, alright?”

You nodded dumbly, your head empty. You were practically vibrating with excitement, the feel of his lips still tingling on yours.

He stroked his thumb over your cheekbone before pulling back, stepping away from the bed. He gave you a soft farewell, reminding you that the boys will be back soon and to try and sleep until then.

Once he was out of the room, the quiet didn’t bother you. It wasn’t maddening, driving you up a wall, suffocating you with loneliness—it was peaceful and kind, welcoming you with open arms as you slipped into unconsciousness, the images flashing behind your eyelids of the four of them in your life only bringing you true comfort after the storm.

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bunicate · 8 months ago

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⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི ₊˚ 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝒃𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍. lucifer x fem reader

warnings ꒱ྀི daddy kink. prbly excessive use of princess/little girl/human. size kink. praise. nipple sucking. fingering. possessive luci. unedited as usual. wc ꒱ 6k ﾉ 18+

note . . ᘏ⑅ᘏ ﾉ i dunno if this is even a repost anymore bcuz the original fic was only 2k words :c . . i also thought I wasn’t cwazy abt luci anymore but boy . . wus i wrong. i still luv him dearly. i hope anyone who reads this enjoys. thankuuu ^_^

lucifer could never understand why humans, beings fettered by something as meaningless as mortality, could possess the ties to control and bind demons.

how such frail bodies of small messes, succumbing to sicknesses, phobias, and other little weirds are able to form pacts with such powerful creatures

it’s a polarizing thought that he’s never challenged or sought to change. he understands them for what they are. arguably worse than demons, and he wants nothing to do with them. they are violent, weak, and fickle, and somehow—in the irony of it all—the universe plays a trick on him.

he lowered his defenses and foolishly got ahead of himself. he was unlike his brothers; he didn’t need love or companionship, and yet, of all the powerful beings and creatures, it’s a human that turned him into something unrecognizable.

it was faceless, sneaking up on him, and he was unable to remedy it as he slowly felt it consume him whole.

a bond was webbed between the two of you, and he’s certain, frighteningly so, that nothing could break it.

granted, that level of trust surely didn’t form overnight, as you proved to be quite troublesome. you were used to peeking your nose where it didn’t belong and going into places mortals should never be, making his job more difficult, but still, he trusts you.

with six younger demon brothers and a human to look after, discord became frequent. secrets wrapped tightly were easily unveiled just from your existence in devildom.

he kept a mental checklist of all your wrongdoings, and now your invasion of his heart was another.

his heart.

nothing but proof of his existence, only meant to pump blood and oxygen, has now expanded far too much to fit within his ribcage. it was suffocating.

it made room for a different kind of love, for someone else, and he didn’t think it was possible. he became spoiled by your affections.

he yearned so much for you that he was convinced that his carnage and sadism might have withered. at least, that's what he thought, only to realize it’s been tucked away in a cavity that you simultaneously filled.

he’s unfortunately reminded that it never really went anywhere. he’s respected and feared by all, and yet it wasn’t enough to deter his brothers from causing any mishaps, especially one in particular.

♡ . . ♡

it’s dinner when lucifer decides to strike.

chatter and the smell of only the best food in devildom fill the room. he almost feels bad for souring the joyful atmosphere—almost, but as always, there's an impending conflict that would render him irritable for the rest of the night.

he sits at the head of the table as the eldest brother and strongest demon, earning everyone's stare from the shift in the atmosphere. you and his brothers could sense that he wasn’t going to make a meager announcement. lucifer moves slowly, careful to prevent any of his heedless anger from slipping through.

he looks at everyone in the room, but his gaze lingers on you a bit longer.

“forgive me for interrupting dinner, but it’s come to my attention that someone here has stolen something valuable of mine.” his voice is deep, stern, and accusing. it echoes in the candle-lit hall.

“my credit card.”

maybe it's his sadistic streak, but he knew asking that question was ultimately trivial. he knows which of his brothers is guilty; you all did.

there’s only one demon dumb and desperate enough to steal from lucifer of all people, and while the perpetrator was obvious, it didn’t make anyone any less anxious.

the avatar of pride is infamous for his punishments, and no one wanted to be on the receiving end. when anything goes amiss, they must answer to him, and you were no exception to that rule.

you point your manicured finger at mammon, and his expression morphs into utter terror. he yelps at your tattling, already plotting at least three different ways to make his escape.

“oh my,” asmo laughs.

belphie yawns obnoxiously, unamused by the series of events. it was just another typical night in the house of lamentation; nothing should surprise anyone, and still, lucifer let a troubled sigh escape.

mammon throws a fit of indignation, as if his culpability wasn’t already obvious.

tossing his hands in the air, he whines, “damn it. why’d ya’ have to tell?” he slides down the seat of the chair, trying to avoid lucifer’s angered stare as much as possible.

you don’t think to reply, almost even rolling your eyes at him. everyone knows it’s him, and like the well-behaved girl you are, you figure it makes no sense to drag out the inevitable.

but when everyone’s eyes settle on you in curiosity, you slouch in your chair and blush at the sudden attention. you feel nervous, like you made a blunder of some sort.

they expectantly await your answer, but you don't have one.

“s-sorry, mammon,” you squeak out.

your hands in between your thighs and fidget under their stares.

you couldn’t, at least not confidently, admit that lucifer has you wrapped around his finger. he expects far too much of you, and you couldn’t possibly ruin that because of mammon, but that didn’t lessen the slight guilt from easing in.

“don’t apologize,” lucifer says, bolstering his voice—his attempt at scolding mammon while reassuring you.

“it’s not up to her to entertain your lies. perhaps if you weren’t always up to no good, she wouldn’t have to confess to your wrongdoings,” he lectures.

he sneers at him, and you watch as the younger demon slinks back further. “you’re the second oldest. act like it.”

mammon huffs.

“ahhh, lucifer, you’re no fun.”

admittedly, the brothers would get away with a lot more if it weren’t for your honesty.

make no mistake, they all love you dearly, but the troublemakers couldn’t tolerate your obedience when it comes to lucifer.

when he asked you who ate all the food satan prepared for breakfast the next day, you didn’t hesitate to say it was beel. when he asks you who wrote ‘lucifer sucks :p’ on his wall, you don’t stutter to inform him of satan’s and belphie’s not-so-secretive plan of his tormentation.

anything he wants, anything he asks, you obey. that was just the nature of your relationship.

after mammon realizes pouting won’t get him out of trouble with lucifer, he goes back to eating, and the others follow suit. soon the lively atmosphere returned, but you felt rather self-conscious.

you looked over at lucifer in the hope of finding something that you're weren't sure of yet, only to see that he was already staring at you. you nibble on your spoon, suddenly feeling bare from his lowered gaze.

there is a sense of security that you crave. his look of approval serves as a reminder of why you’re faithful to him. it was rewarding to know that your loyalty didn’t go unnoticed.

you look away quickly to hide your flusteredness by sipping on your tea, but the sweet taste of earl gray isn’t enough to distract you.

dinner begins to slow and wrap up. one by one, everyone bids their goodbyes. mammon is the first to depart, knowing he’d need as much of a head start as possible. when you finish the remainder of your dinner, you get up to leave as well.

you think about how to spend the rest of your evening, and your mind wanders to cramped thighs and ruined pillows.

you grow heated by the memory of previous nights. you touched yourself too many times to count after constantly witnessing lucifer’s disheveled state after his long day of reprimanding.

you stuffed your cunt with your fingers nightly, trying to mimic the feeling of something much larger. it was difficult to commit such acts quietly in a home full of creatures with nearly perfect hearing, and still, you wonder what fantasy will tether you tonight.

maybe the one when he fucks you in diavolo’s office, or your personal favorite, he punishes you.

you fantasize about him pulling up your dainty dress to put you over his lap and spank your plump ass until cum soaks your thighs, but tonight, you don’t have to conjure up anything.

lucifer stops you in the middle of your daydream. grabbing your wrist gently, he catches you by surprise.

you clumsily turn. frazzled eyes meet unwavering carmines. you’re almost certain he could hear the thump beating between your legs.

the prideful demon pulls you close, forcing your bodies to collide and connect like missing pieces. his breath is warm against your ear.

“would you like to come by my chambers later tonight?”

you look up to search his face, wondering if there’s even a sign of doubt. after countless days and nights and all sorts of muddled feelings between sheets, there is a part of you that can’t truly accept that he sought you.

one of the most eligible bachelors in all of devildom, known for his fearsomeness, is holding you like you were glass, asking for your company.

you soak in his expression, and it’s nothing less than firm and impenetrable, and it's then that you realize it was not a question. he was not asking.

struck with a whirlwind of desire from that revelation, you nod weakly, but the demon only shakes his head in response.

“words, my little human.”

your head tilts on its axis only for a moment. your chest had to be wide open, bearing your insides to him. the effect he had on you must have been that obvious. you’re a puddle.

was it normal to feel the static every time he was around, after every word he spoke?

you feel hazy, but also a small sense of relief that you no longer have to question if he still wants you. you’ve exhausted your fingers and toys, and finally, what you have been needlessly craving would be fulfilled in a room only a few doors down. his gaze flickers to your lips, and they shine with promise.

you mustered up all the courage you had left.

“yes, i would love to come by later.”

you’re amazed that it didn’t come out as wobbly as you anticipated. you’ve gotten better at pretending, you suppose.

lucifer gives you a sweet smile. he’s pleased with your answer, and butterflies erupt in your full belly.

his gloved hand then completely engulfs yours to bring it to his lips. not once breaking eye contact, he kisses your knuckle before he departs. a hopeless romantic.

he sets out to find mammon, and that gives you enough time to prepare.

you stalk up the stairs, declining levi’s invitation for a night of competitive gaming pitifully on the way. you’ll make it up to him next time.

by ushering yourself into your room, you act immediately. you don’t spend too long getting ready. a steaming, hot shower would suffice. you wash up with a bar of gentle soap, then follow through with too many to-count spritzes of perfume and faint-smelling lotion.

white with pastel pink trim.

your night clothes are simple and short enough to keep him on his toes. you look over at yourself in the mirror.

when did you become so daring ? you didn’t know. maybe asmo’s tips on charm and seduction were finally rubbing off on you. you wonder what his reaction would be if you told him you were using them on his brother. maybe he already knew.

you turn off your light and open your door. you peek down the hall.

it’s silent and empty, just as you predicted.

quietly, you shut the door, cursing to yourself when you hear the faint cry of the rusty hinges. your trek down to his room was anxiety-inducing, but in a good way. you feel refreshed, your body is more than ready, and you’re excited.

you hoped no one would drop by unexpectedly. beel would most likely wake up in the middle of the night for a snack, but the kitchen was in the opposite direction of lucifer’s room. not that it mattered anyway.

it wasn’t really a secret—not that those lasted with you around—but it would be. . . awkward. you’d much rather not have to deal with anyone overhearing all the naughty things you’ll beg him to do.

you stop your train of thought when you reach the end of the hallway. you’re in front of his door, and you sway from your heels to your tippy toes. the fluttery ache in your chest was making you skittish.

you take a breath to compose yourself, and then you knock with three light taps.

“come in”

it takes a good chunk of your strength to open his heavy door, but you appreciate the time it grants you. it gives you the space to calm yourself down and ease your prickly nerves.

when you enter, you let your eyes wander around the room first. nothing but books, old records, and silhouettes of things you couldn’t make out in the dark. you walk in and find him leaning against his unusually messy desk.

there's soft light from the lamp that hugs his frame and illuminates his coat discarded on the nearby dresser.

he fiddles with the strap of his gloves, giving you a small smile at the sight of your presence.

“you don’t have to knock, my love.”

he allows his gaze to explore, drinking in the outfit you picked out specifically for him. already, his trousers are suffocating and distracting him, but he’s quick to recover.

you bite your lip out of habit under his lustful stare.

“i know, but i wanted to just in case you were busy . . .”

there’s an amused huff.

his long legs carry him over to where you stand swiftly. his thumbs caress the apples of your cheeks, and he presses a kiss against your forehead.

“sweet girl.” and the way it skirts the edge of sensuality could make you melt. “even if i am, feel free to steal me away,” he whispers.

you swallow down a moan at the thought. maybe one day he'll eat those words.

his hand trails from your face to the nape of your neck and pauses.

“you washed your hair,” he observes.

you shake your head.

“it got a little wet in the shower so I’m just letting it air dry for a bit, luci.”

you pull at a wet strand and watch it dutifully bounce back in place. “ i was too lazy to dry it.“

he watches the notion with careful eyes. you wanted to giggle at how serious he looked.

“i wish you would’ve asked me to help you. i don’t want you getting a cold.”

you smile at his sincerity. you realized very early on that lucifer enjoyed tending to you. he likes consistency and being depended on.

‘it’s for your own well-being,’ he says, but you think he likes to have a pretty girl to fuss over

you offer him a small pout. “i did think about it, but i assumed you were still scolding mammon. i didn’t want to bother you.”

“besides.” you turn away, “i don’t think he wants to see me right now”

already, you’re embarrassed by the thought of facing mammon again. flustered, you recall tonight’s dinner and the look on their faces. you are definitely going to avoid them at school tomorrow.

you slouch, "he totally hates me.”

you say it half-heartedly, but lucifer looks at you with seriousness.

he softly grabs you by your chin. “don’t speak like that. he doesn’t hate you—none of us do, and i’m not sure we are capable of harboring such thoughts.”

you smile. “i dunno. i’m pretty sure you guys hated my guts when i first came.” you chuckle, thinking he’d at least join in, but he frowns. his heavy hand strokes the top of your head in an affectionate rhythm.

“we had our differences, and i was far too harsh. that i know.”

there’s a faraway look in his eye, and you know there’s a silent storm forming. you reach out to cup his cheek, and he melts into your touch.

“i never hated you,” he says.

you knew that your actions played a part in straining the early stages of your relationship. you also had to come to terms that not only lucifer, but multiple brothers harbored resentment towards humans,

its not a perfect story, but everything about this was completely unconventional. you’re just a woman who somehow found herself stuck in an attempt at other-worldly diplomacy, now sandwiched between the trying relationships of seven powerful demons.

things are rocky, but it’s the happiest you’ve ever been.

“i was only teasing, luci. i'm not mad or scared anymore.”

the hand you rested on his cheeks gets gripped by his larger ones, and he kisses your palm fondly.

“besides, i think we both know i wasn’t completely innocent.”

he takes a deep inhale.

“still, i think about how things were before.” he recalls the past in disdain; he blames his pride and then himself.

“my brothers and i . . . we are devoted to you, and we have the pacts to prove it.”

it’s a provocation you’re still not entirely used to. you had 7 demons who offered themselves to you, and the proof is imprinted on their skin.

in the human world, you’re everything and nothing at the same time. feelings of loneliness and insecurity that are far too loud and are still not enough to matter. you realized everyone lived selfishly, and your heart wasn’t hardened enough to follow suit.

lucifer's thoughts about humans didn’t change, despite his proximity to you. talks of your life as a young girl only cemented his thinking.

you were far too perfect for humans, too devious for angels, and too innocent for demons.

you were an entity on your own, and scarily he worshiped you. all of you.

he’d never tire of sinking his cock into your wet cunt, filling you with his seed, and hearing those saccharine moans that fall from glossed lips. he was ravenous, but you truly didn’t know the extent of it.

“my brothers care for you deeply, as do i, but you must know.” his eyes seem darker and much more predatory, and you can’t bring yourself to look away. like a bunny trapped in a hunter's cage, your doe eyes double in size and tremors rattle through your frame.

“you’re mine alone. your mind and body belong to only me.”

lucifer is well aware that six other cocks competed for your attention. a crass choice of words, but nothing less than true. they vied for the human girl, with nearly everyone wrapped around her dainty fingers. you are a color in the world shrouded in sisyphean darkness.

his lips part on your skin. “they can touch and taste you because i allow it.”

rough hands pull up your skirt, and he grabs a handful of your ass. “this . . . this is all mine.”

you make sure to turn and give your butt a little wiggle. it's more than a sultry gesture, and lucifer thinks a human so docile posing erotically might be the one thing to kill him.

how do you make soiled underwear look so pretty and enticing? there’s a possessive streak, a soft darkness that opens its curtains upon your presence. it peers over his shoulder, urging him to devour you. to pick at your remains until he’s consumed you.

“you're beautiful,” he groans. he inches close to you, and you think your lips are going to meet halfway, but he kisses your forehead.

then, your eyelids, your nose, and the side of your mouth, you look at him with half-lidded eyes, and he doesn’t budge when you try to squirm.

lucifer steps back and leads you to his chair. he settles into the squeaky leather until his back is comfortably cushioned.

he pats his firm lap.

“come.”

you know he’s holding back. his muscles ripple beneath you, he slouches farther into his chair, his legs spread to give his groin space to freely twitch against the slackness of his pants, and it only invites you

you struggle to decide where to sit. his knee or over his lap, both very promising positions, but he decides for you. he pulls your hip so your cunt is nestled right up against his cock. you sigh breathily, already your brain turning to mush.

“i didn’t even touch you, and you’re already making such a mess, sweet girl.”

the angle you tilt your head hides your expression, but from the flutter of your lashes and the purses of your lips, he knows you’ve grown shy.

"you kissed me,”

your sweet tone and your faint aroma of honeysuckle and jasmine make his cock stir.

“is that why you’re so worked up? just from my kiss?”

not even on the lips—not yet at least, and you’ve already wetted the fabric with your sticky arousal.

“what will happen when daddy touches right here?”

it’s a feathery graze against your protruding bud. his knuckles nudge the seat of the moist cotton, right where the white turned nearly transparent against your swollen cunt.

“it aches, doesn’t it?”

slender fingers slip under the band teasingly. he studies the subtle twitch of your hole, pumping a stream of glossy slick.

“do you want me to make it go away, hm? do you want daddy to make it better?”

you nod, a broken moan falling from your trembling lips.

“ i wantmore daddy.”

you spread your legs wider, hoping he’d be more generous with his caress.

“soon, my love.”

his hands trail from your pants to your stomach to your shoulders.

his hands rub your stomach and under your breast, settling right on your hip. you know he is hyper-aware of the thin fabric separating his cock from your heat.

even in his lap, he’s taller than you, but only by a few inches. his eyes are low and hazy.

“i wish to take my time with you.”

his thumb trails over your nipple.

“you have no idea how much i missed you.”

his other fingers pull at the other nipple.

you’ve felt those same digits on your neck, in your mouth, curled around your wrist and threaded between your fingers, and now between your thighs

he begins to grope at your exposed flesh. he admires how supple they appear, and he has to restrain himself from sinking his teeth into them.

your body never falters, and it responds so well to his hot and addicting touch. lucifer tries not to tease you; after all, he is rewarding you, but the little sounds and pants that leave your lips almost make him rethink.

your skirt is wrinkled, and he flips it at your hip, and your entire bottom half is almost fully exposed. your bare legs are on display, and so is your clothed mound. he mumbles sweet praises into the side of your breast while tracing the outline of your pussy through your pants with his finger.

you pull him away from your chest to kiss him, and lucifer has to remember that you’re human. that your small and pouty mouth, which struggles to swallow, is as fragile as the rest of you. palms splayed about on your back remind him he can mold you.

his hands are in a constant of motion, tugging and squeezing at your flesh. it feels like he’s in awe of every part of your body no matter how it differs from his. his touches are messy and yet controlled. they search you in subtle restraint, fearful that they’ll hurt you.

you’ve never been touched this way. to have someone want you so desperately— to possess you almost. his hands are burning you and you feel on top of the world.

you moan at his caress and feel heat rush through your body. if it weren’t for the lack of air in his lungs, he’d never pull away but eventually he does. lucifer experimentally probes your clit and looks up at your face to admire your expression.

“do you like that?” he whispers. you bite your lip, and your voice raises in pitch, “mhm.”

lucifer smirks to himself and kisses your nipple. “what did i say about words, little one?”

he stops his ministrations on your cunt and licks at your areola teasingly. he settles the tip of his tongue on your heated bud, flicking it, sending a shiver down your spine.

“is my good girl acting up?.”

“n-no, daddy, never.”

between each breath, he plants open-mouthed kisses across your chest.

“i hope so. i would hate to have to punish you.”

he sucks diligently and roughly. his tongue aggressively strokes your nipple, addicted to how it feels in his mouth. he closes his eyes and continues his assault on your chest.

your soft cries filled his room, and the feeling of your teat on the surface of his wet muscles pleased him. the aforementioned headache was long gone because the plushness of your body took over his mind and soul.

you may feel an indescribable urge to obey him, but he's just as much under your spell as you’re under his. he’s the embodiment of pride, but he’s not against admitting that you invade every inch of him. you don’t know it yet, but anything you ask of him, he will deliver. he wonders if you could hear his heart thrumming against his chest.

you’re naked, but he feels equally as exposed.

he continues sucking on one breast, his other hand busied itself, rubbing the neglected one. you arch into his touch, your tit spilling out of his hand. the weight of it feels secure in his large palm.

the stimulation has you unruly within his embrace. one minute, your hips are still from his flicks at your pussy, and then it jerks up, wanting more from his skilled and wandering hands.

lucifer likes this side of you, desperate and unashamed of how you wanted him to use your body.

you’re so sensitive that any subtle movement sends pressure to your clit. every time you whimper, especially loudly, he's quick to praise you.

“such lovely noises. i bet you’d do anything to please me, hm?” he hums.

you remember his earlier warning eager to be on your best behavior. “yes, daddy.”

it was hard to verbalize but you were at his mercy. anything for his approval, anything for his praise, you’d do it, especially if it meant you’d get rewarded like this.

he then pulls up your soaked panties, and you gasp at the sudden gesture. they stretch across the surface of your wet pussy, and they snap from his brute strength. the break in the fabric spanking your cunt.

“what a pretty thing.”

he tosses your ripped panties to the floor, ruining your perfect set. but he’d buy you another.

“i just want to be your good girl,” you say, rubbing your legs together in anticipation.

“you’re always my good girl. isn’t that right?”

you nod and feel happiness bloom.

“the best girl for daddy,” lucifer sensually encourages.

at this rate, you’re dizzy and drunk on his intoxicating words and erotic touch. you’re babbling, and lucifer finds it endearing.

you whine when he finally takes his gloved finger and rubs slow and tight circles on your slippery bud. “dada—.” you cry especially loud.

“i know, i know,” he shushes.

you felt relief consume you at the friction of his gloves on your trembling cunny. he continues to rub and fiddle with it until you’re forced to bury your mewls into the crook of his neck.

he takes another finger and presses down on your twitchy button, and you flinch at the sudden burst of pleasure.

he knows your body like the back of his hand, and he knows how to make you fall apart. his finger continues to work on your sensitive nub, and you gradually begin to soak his lap with your arousal.

he drags his fingers over your labia and grazes over your desperate hole.

within a few strokes, he plunges two fingers into your heat. he watches you push your tits into his face from the pleasure that forces the arch in your back. and he takes a deep inhale. your pussy greedily latches onto his fingers, and you’re practically fucking his hand.

“you look so delicious in my lap. such a beautiful sight, and it's reserved for only me.”

the depth of his voice sends shudders through your body

he loved how his fingers slid right in. it felt like your pussy was made to take what he gave you. his big fingers fervently stroke your insides, and your legs shake.

just watching your tiny hole stretch to the width of his fingers threatened his self-control. he wanted to fill you with something much bigger, and he’d know you would take it because you're his precious girl.

he wants to see your cunt wrapped around his heavy cock, but he’d settle for now.

just seeing you so pliant in his arms from his tongue lapping at your breast and his large fingers was enough for him.

you drip all over his wrist, and it darkens his gloves.

lucifer’s fingers rub every soft ridge, and your cunt is more than happy for it. the wetness, the squelch, the tightness—it’s overwhelming for you. you feel as if you’re finally unraveling.

"i'm going to cum, daddy. please." you don’t know what you're begging for, but whatever he was willing to do, you needed it now.

lucifer knows you’re close—very close. you’ve nearly gone stiff, and you’re shaking against him. your toes are curled, and your first is clutched.

“oh, is this princess’ pussy going to make a mess?” he coaxes. you open your mouth, moaning, and lucifer leans down. your foreheads are touching, and you unabashedly mewl, your minty breath fanning his face. “is she going to cream for me?”

you feel your orgasm sneaking up on you. lucifer only increases the pace of his fingers thrusting in and out of your cunny. he becomes more brutal, only wanting you to be within his arms as his only goal.

he’s so close to you that your lashes touch his skin. sweat simmers on your chest, and he sucks on your now bruised bottom lip from all your biting.

with two fingers still buried inside you, stroking your walls, he presses his thumb to your clit once more.

“that’s it, it’s pretty girl.”

you felt it coming; you had ample time, and you tried to keep yourself contained, but the force was still too unbearable. you had no idea how much he was holding back.

“i’m so much bigger than you. so much stronger, and you’re so little, princess.” he chuckles in a state of disbelief.

“and you’re not even scared.”

“you’re too trusting, but i suppose that’s why i love you so much. daddy’s brave little girl.”

like a lick of lightning, lucifer feels his desire threaten to snap. his human—his sweet mess full of little weirds, kind eyes, and a soft mouth was going to make him lose himself. he's growling like a beast with every chant of his name.

“daddydaddydaddy —hiccup— love you lots, b-but. i-i can’t think anymore. can’t take it.”

drool collects on the side of your mouth.

“i know it’s a lot for you right now, but you’re doing so well, princess.”

he re-adjusts your body on his lap. “just think about daddy and his fingers.”

the appendages stretching your cunt pull out briefly.

“look at that precious pussy.”

he spreads your labia watching the uneasy throb of your hole that begged to be stuffed.

lucifer wants to mount you, but he remembers what he is when he can smell the blood pumping through veins and the feeling of your heartbeat under the tips of his fingers.

he needs to treat you like a prized dolly to dress up, to kiss, and to fuck.

you don’t need to think; he knows what’s best, and he wants to keep you on a shelf for his own use.

you made him a beast, luring him into darkness, but he was never good at hiding. he felt like he was defiling you. you were truly an entity different from anything he’s ever known. sweet as brown sugar, and he’s tainting you.

still, the thrust of his arms grows stronger. nothing but the milky, wet sounds of your drenched cunt

“your little pussy is crying. you can let go for me.”

your hearts swell with another wave of heat. the sweet babbles of you wanting to reciprocate his love die on your tongue when your body stills. you toss your head back with a pretty wail nearing your crescendo. noisily, his fingers pump your pussy with trickles of wetness spurting out.

your hips jolt forward and erratically hump the heel of his palm, hoping to reach your end much sooner.

“m right there, —!”

he's going to make you cum hard. everything from the sound of his voice to his rough fingers to the shape of his cock could make you cream. his skill never fails you, always leaving you nearly boneless. you’re always going to come crawling back for more, without a doubt.

lucifer feels your walls pulsate around him, warning him of your impending orgasm, and it strokes his ego.

“daddyyyy,” you pant deliriously. his thumb drags at your clit repeatedly and with the sensation of your insides being drained, you sob. you’re too loud, but you can't remain silent any longer.

lucifer kisses your forehead to soothe you, and with a slight pinch of your throbbing cunt, you erupt in the middle of his embrace. the dam finally breaks, and your pussy convulses angrily like it's trying to push his fingers out.

“thaaaaat’s it, baby. daddy is so proud of you.”

he increases his pace, draining you of all the cum your cunny could pump out. until your knees buckle around his wrists.

your chest expands, desperate for more air. your head is fogging up, and you’re exhausted. your limbs are strewn across the demon, lacking complete strength.

lucifer lets you cool off from your high, and he slips his fingers out of you. without hesitation, he buries them into his mouth. the taste of you fills his taste buds to utter satisfaction. you're delicious, sweet and sour, and addicting. he would inject the very essence of you into his veins if he could. but maybe he's already hooked on you; that would explain his racing mind filled with thoughts of only you.

this demon that he’s become terrifies him, but he doesn't want to change. his family and his precious human are all he needs.

he wraps you up in his arms and hugs you. your back is now pressed into his chest, eyes closed blissfully. lucifer tucks your head under his chin, and you rest safely in his hold.

he silently admires the number he did on your body and feels the familiar feeling of pride bursts within him. he looks at your beautiful face, your puffy nipples, and used pussy and he feels gratified fulfillment engulf him.

“perfect human,” he mumbles.

he graces you with another kiss on your heated skin.

“my obedient little girl.”

#૮꒰ ๑´ତ `๑ ꒱ྀིა #lucifer x reader #lucifer x reader smut #obey me lucifer #omswd lucifer #obey me smut #obey me x reader #obey me x reader smut #lucifer x you #lucifer x y/n #lucifer x female reader #female reader #divider from @cafekitsune

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