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say-al0e · 5 months ago

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Hold Tight

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

Summary: Aemond has long sought comfort in the arms of the madame at his lowest. Now, he has what he's so long craved; a loving wife who is happy to indulge him. Warnings: Pregnant!Reader, lactation kink, PinV, mention of Luke's death and the war, mentions of the madame, Aemond's a little soft. If you notice anything else, let me know and I'll tag it! Pairing: Aemond x pregnant, wife!Reader Word Count: 7.6k HotD Taglist | HotD Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen knew the secrets of the Red Keep better than most.

As a child, he spent his days studying history and philosophy, learning the language of his ancestors or practicing with his blade, preparing himself for the future he knew awaited him. He kept to himself, tired easily of his brother’s torment and Helaena’s bugs - her riddles - and spent much of his idle time wandering the Keep.

Aegon was bold, slipping out of the gates with a command for the guard on watch to allow him and little regard for who knew. He used his power as the King’s eldest son, as the heir to the throne in the eyes of most, and came and went as he pleased. Helaena never left the Keep without supervision - never wanted to leave at all, really. And Aemond, as always, fell somewhere in between.

Many nights, when he found himself searching for sleep that refused to come, Aemond roamed the labyrinthine passages Maegor the Cruel left behind. He learned most of them, slipping in and out of the Keep as he pleased, and found the ones that he could someday use to his advantage.

Most apartments in the Keep contained an alternate entrance - or exit, if need be - that few knew existed. The royal apartments, he found, were most likely to contain them; Aegon’s, Helaena’s, his mother’s, his, yours.

Though, their existence was a secret he had yet to reveal to anyone, including you.

For as long as he could remember, Aemond made use of the passages. It was not often that he visited the city - he’d never been fond of it, never cared for the revelry in the same way Aegon did - nor did he spend much time by the water. The Keep was his home and where he felt safest. But he slipped from his room to the field where Vhagar resided from time to time, or to the Kingswood, just for a moment of peace.

However, after his thirteenth name day - and Aegon’s insistent ‘instruction’ - Aemond found himself returning to the city more than he ever had.

The unmarked door, one he’d grown to need and hate in equal measure, was his destination. It called to him, a siren song in the dead of night, on his darkest days and it seemed as if each day had grown darker than the last. The incident with Lucerys, the bitter sting of his mother’s wrath, the whispers beginning to fill the ears of all who might hear; every bit his fault, and every bit beckoning him closer to that door.

Aemond lingered there for a few long moments, moments he dared not count, as a war raged in his mind. Seconds could have passed, even hours, as he hid in the depths of the shadows. Many and more moons had passed since he last stepped foot into the city, since he last visited this place, but the song drew him closer.

There was comfort to be found inside, one he once craved so desperately, but he now knew better.

Love, affection, eluded him for so long that he saw this place - the woman inside, the gold he paid her - as his only option, the only chance to feel what others took for granted. A gentle hand, a soft word, a kind smile; he wanted little else and knew she would give it to him.

Inside those walls, the world ceased to exist. There would be no mention of his nephew, his brother, his wife. The woman inside would not ask, would not mention the whispers he knew she’d already heard, and would only listen to whatever he decided to share. There would be no strategy, no attempt to comfort him with words he knew she didn’t mean. Instead, she would hear him confess his gravest sins before attempting to comfort him with the warmth of her mouth around his cock, the pads of her fingers tracing the tense muscle of his shoulder when he curled into her after.

Spending the night there, in her arms - no matter how tempting - would only add to the oppressive weight already crushing his chest. It was a truth he’d come to learn now that he knew real love, true affection, a reality he’d faced.

Despite himself, the tricks his mind played, the comfort he found there had never been real. With his body curled into hers, her fingers carding through his hair and his breath shuddering as he finally allowed himself to feel, he willed it to be a true comfort. He once considered this place, her, the pinnacle of vulnerability, of safety, of comfort.

Now, he knew there was none to be found there.

There was nothing she could say, nothing she could give him, that would provide any comfort at all. The siren song had ended, faded into the din of the city surrounding him, and Aemond could hear a new call. This song was sweeter, gentler, had blown in on a strong wind and erased all other noise the moment he fell in love with you.

Though the marriage was one of convenience at first, an arrangement made by your father and Aemond’s grandsire - his hand for the full strength of your house, when the time came - it had grown into something more.

For much of his life, Aemond refused to entertain the idea that any marriage he found himself in would be one filled with love. Marriage was bound to duty, something done for the good of your house - the good of the realm, in his case - and love meant little. Most lords disliked their wives, took other women to bed at any given chance, and the wives often rejoiced as they were no longer forced to share a bed.

The most he’d ever hoped for was a wife he could tolerate.

Aemond shared little of his mother’s faith, even less of her devotion to prayer and piety, but he often found himself thanking the gods for bringing you to him.

Hidden in the Red Keep, very likely in his own bed as you’d taken to spending more nights with him than alone, he imagined you asleep beneath the soft linen. Very clearly, he could see the white of your nightgown - a beautiful, soft material he found himself clutching between calloused fingers as oft as you would allow, drifting to sleep with the feeling of it soothing his warm skin - as your head rested on his pillow in a desperate bid to surround yourself with his scent.

That image - the picture of you he now saw so clearly, stamped in place of the door he’d been staring at without really seeing - was enough to break the invisible bond that kept him cemented in place.

Without sparing the door another glance, Aemond turned and began his retreat to the Keep.

Each step through the city was quicker than the last, eager to return to the quiet of home - the solace that awaited him in his chambers. Aemond knew the route by heart now, could find his way back with his remaining eye closed, and breathed a sigh of relief as he wound through the hidden passages that lead back to his comfort.

The moment the door settled in place, clicked shut with a soft gust of cool air, Aemond crossed the expanse of the room carefully. His footsteps were light, a barely there sound in the quiet of the room, and he was glad for his caution as he perched on the arm of a chair. His gaze fell to the bed he’d grown so used to sleeping alone in and he felt the ghost of a smile tug at the corners of his mouth at the sight of another body making itself at home, directly in the middle of the mattress.

Just as he’d expected, you rested there comfortably. The white of your nightgown stood in stark contrast to the deep green of his sheets, a bright spot in the otherwise dim tapestry of his room - his life.

Aemond sat there for a few long moments, time beginning to slow as he drank in the sight of you. The Keep was quiet, save for the odd shuffle of guards or servants, and he could hear the soft sound of your breathing as you shifted.

Though you rested near the center of his bed, your head on his pillow and your hand outstretched - reaching for him, despite his absence - your brows furrowed with a discomfort he’d never seen. Beneath the soft bedding, he could see the curve of your body, resting on your side, and the shift of your hand as it lifted to cradle your stomach. The motion set him on edge, drew a sharp breath from him, and earned a fluttering of your lashes as some semblance of wakefulness returned to you.

“Aemond?” you questioned, voice still so soft despite the sleep clinging to you.

“Mm.” He hummed, voice equally soft in the dim light of the room - the lone candle you’d left burning, a beacon for him to find his way in the dark. There was little doubt where your thoughts had begun to drift, the questions you wanted to ask; where he’d gone, how he felt, what came next? But he could not yet describe his feelings in words.

Before you could so much as part your lips, he sighed. “I went to see about Vhagar.” The lie slipped from his lips easily, believable enough, and his eye fluttered shut in a sort of relief - or, perhaps, shame, guilt - when you made a sympathetic noise. “I did not mean to wake you.”

As he stood, fingers beginning to work at the buttons of his doublet, you hummed. “’Twas not you,” you informed him, a sigh of your own escaping as you sat up against the headboard. “Your babe is restless and will not allow me to find comfort.” Aemond watched for a moment, keen eye following every move you made, as your hand returned to your growing belly.

The babe you carried was now very visible, obvious to all who spared you a glance, and the sight was one that enraptured him and terrified him in equal measure. Aemond was a proud man, one who was eager to carry on the Targaryen line, but his family was not one of love. There was no comfort, no happiness, to be found in the Keep - none to be found in the arms of his mother, certainly not his father - and he often feared the same fate awaited his own children. But the soft smile that curved the plush of your lips each time you rested your hand on the swell of your belly and the delighted laughter you breathed each time one of Helaena’s babes brought you into their playtime served as another light, shining in the dark; a spot of hope that, perhaps, his children may know a love he never had.

Aemond’s eye finally lifted to yours, met your concerned glance with an even one of his own after a beat of silence that stretched on almost too long, before he shook his head. “My babe? I seem to recall that we both had a hand in his creation,” he reminded you, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he removed his breeches and stood in nothing but his small clothes.

“Mm, perhaps,” you hummed, though the glimmer in your eyes told him you remembered very well. “But her nocturnal nature is solely your own. At this hour, she is yours and yours alone,” you teased, smiling softly as he padded across the stone floor to make his way to bed.

“Still insistent our first babe will be a girl?”

“A mother knows,” you hummed, watching as he slipped into bed beside you. His violet eye raked over your form, still so easily visible in the dim light of the room, and you bit back a sigh as you reached for him. “Come here.”

With little coaxing, Aemond shifted closer to you. The shift of his body was easy, almost as natural as breathing now, and you hummed in encouragement as you pushed away the bedding to allow his head to settle on your plush thighs. His favored position was resting with his head on your chest, face tipped to the crook of your neck, but the swell of your belly and the sensitivity in your breasts left you both with little choice but to find an alternative.

The beat of his heart began to slow when your hand fell from your belly to his hair, fingers softly carding through the silver strands - now free of the tie he kept in it and the lace of his eyepatch. “What happened, my love?”

Silence settled thick over the room and he knew that you weren’t asking where he’d gone. Though you worried, his disappearance was of little concern to you in that moment. The truth would out eventually, he would admit his shame sooner rather than late - as he so often seemed to with you - but this question afforded him a bit more time.

This question was the one he dreaded, the one that truly meant; what happened that night with Lucerys?

“I sincerely regret that business with Luke,” he admitted, voice a whisper in the still of the room. “I… I was angry, but I only meant to scare him. I did not mean to end his life. But Vhagar, my temper; I lost control.” The confession, whispered to you in the only place he’d ever known true safety, felt like a weight off his chest. It left behind a crater, a chasm that he knew would be difficult to fill, but sharing the secret with you made it easier for him to draw his breath. It escaped as a soft sigh, a puff of air blown across your thighs - now exposed, fabric of your nightgown pushed out of the way to allow his own hand to fall to the plush of your thigh. “Aegon is shortsighted. He wishes to throw feasts, to celebrate bloodshed. Mother is angry because she knows what must come next. Peace is no longer an option.”

Aemond’s confession lingered in the air for a long moment. It reverberated in his ears, rang like the bells that tolled on the day of his father’s death, but you calmed the noise with a quiet sigh.

“I don’t believe peace was ever an option,” you confessed, carefully brushing silver strands away from his sapphire eye. “This war started long ago, before you or Aegon or Rhaenyra were even a thought. It will be convenient, for some, to blame you and Vhagar, but this began before you took the sky together. And someday, there will be none who remember what started it or why it was fought. History will only remember the bloodshed that we must now bear the brunt of.”

No response came to him, lost in the thoughts that swept through his mind like a raging storm, but he knew you didn’t expect one. The words were meant to be a balm, soothing the soul he bared only for you, and he took them as such as he allowed his eye to fall closed.

There was something to be said of routine, then, as you followed the familiar dance that started months ago.

Silence lingered for a beat, long enough for his breathing to even and your own to grow deeper - always so shallow now, he noticed, almost labored as your stomach grew ever rounder - before you spoke again.

“I spent the day with the twins,” you informed him, fingers still softly working through the strands of his hair. “Helaena wanted to take Dreamfyre out so I sat with them and we watched her fly. I think Jaehaerys will love being a dragonrider, like Helaena, but it seems Jaehaera has no interest.”

“And Maelor?”

Aemond’s question was reflexive, asked without thought, but you took a moment to consider it. “Too young to tell,” you decided, allowing your hand to drift to his cheek and brush the sharp line of his jaw. “He has no reaction to the stink of dragon, unlike his sister, but he may, later on. Aegon wishes to take him flying on Sunfyre but Helaena has forbidden it.” Another moment of quiet, then, before you hummed once more. “Has an egg been chosen for our babe’s cradle? Or do you wish our daughter to be like her father and claim a fearsome old beast?”

The reminder of the babe you swelled with drew a shuddering breath from him as Aemond struggled to keep the grasp he held on your thigh light. “Our son will have an egg,” he promised, “but they do not always hatch. He might try for one of the unclaimed dragons on Dragonstone. Vermithor is nearly as fearsome as Vhagar, nearly as old.”

‘If we can pry Dragonstone from Rhaenyra’s hands,’ went unsaid, though you both allowed the thought to cross your minds.

That thought did not linger, however, as you allowed your hand to drift from his cheek to his shoulder. Soft fingers caressed his skin, warm and strong, and Aemond relaxed into your touch. “How can I help you, my love? I mislike seeing you this way.”

More often than not these days, Aemond found himself here. Many and more nights had been spent curled into the curve of your body, his head resting against your skin as you stroked his hair and spoke softly to him, but they seemed to grow more frequent. Aemond knew that you were observant, that you’d realized he seemed to need your embrace more and more with each passing day, but even he could not articulate why.

Perhaps the weight of his inheritance had finally caught up to him. Or, perhaps it was the knowledge of all he’d done in preparation for his brother’s reign. He even considered it was the possibility that he found himself desiring his brother’s crown, the one Aegon had no desire for.

In truth, he knew that it was you.

The moment you joined hands, the moment you became his wife, Aemond began to feel the walls he’d spent so long building crumble around him. You chipped away at the slowly, almost imperceptibly, but they toppled all the same.

With every moment spent together, with every word of affection you shared or every soft brush of your fingertips across his skin, Aemond felt his world shifting.

Everything he’d ever considered important remained, still mired in the golden glory of his inheritance, only you now loomed over it all. All with the babe you now carried, his babe, alongside you.

“You are with child,” he whispered, shifting to lie on his back and glance up at you.

“I hadn’t noticed,” you returned, drily. When he fixed you with a look, violet eye unamused, you sighed. “I am with child,” you agreed, free hand falling to your belly as you stroked his hair once more. “Our child. That is what we wanted, is it not?”

“It is.” That was always the plan; get married, have children, carry on the Targaryen legacy. Only, the plan had never included losing his eye and spilling the first blood that began a war - killing a child, a nephew.

Aemond could not bring himself to say those words aloud, however, as your fingers carefully carded through his hair, he knew that you understood. There was a fear you both shared, one that had grown heavier since the incident with Lucerys, but he dared not speak it and neither did you. Losing a babe was something that frightened you both - him, nearly as much as losing you in the process - but he willed himself to push that concern to the back of his mind.

Instead, he searched desperately for a thought more pleasant.

Initially, when your betrothal was announced and preparations began for the wedding, he heard murmurs of those who pitied you. It was a shame, they all said, that such a pretty maiden - known for her kindness, her beauty, her wit - would be married to someone like him. He was, after all, noted for his sullen silence and impassive expression.

Everyone wondered how you might fare, locked away in the Keep as your husband-to-be rarely ventured outside its walls, just as Aemond wondered how he might tolerate a highborn lady who doubtlessly believed the whispers.

Those whispers had proven false - just as you’d proven that you never believed any of them.

Love, a curious thing he never hoped to find, bloomed between the two of you. It was not instant, as he learned you had hoped, but slow and cautious. Trust took time, vulnerability even more, but they came, eventually. And with them came a relationship that seemed to stun the whole of the realm into silence.

The pair of you were evenly matched: both highborn, well-educated and eager to continue learning; both fond of the quiet, though you had a natural charm and ability to pretend to enjoy banal chatter that he did not possess; both desperate for a love, a comfort, that you never found at home. There were many similarities, and more differences, but the love that bloomed brought you both a happiness you never knew possible.

And now, as you grew round with the evidence of your love, he discovered another feeling he never thought possible.

Aemond always found you beautiful - he agreed with the whispers of court, that you were much too beautiful to be chained to him for the rest of your life - and he spent the first few weeks of your courtship attempting to ignore his baser urges. There would be time enough for him to indulge in you, for him to see you as no other had ever seen you, but a desperate need for you began to take root then and had yet to release him from its iron grasp.

With every day that passed, Aemond wanted you even more.

Aegon often spoke of the joys of sex, the great pleasure he found in the Streets of Silk, and Aemond never quite believed him. The little experience he had - courtesy of his brother’s goading and gold coin - proved Aegon a liar. However, when Aemond found himself settled between your thighs, he finally believed his brother.

Now, there was little that settled him - anchored him to the moment and cleared his mind of all the noise - quite like losing himself in the throes of pleasure with you.

Since you began to swell with his child, your belly growing round and your tits beginning to spill from your gowns, Aemond found himself even more drawn to you - a feat he hadn’t believed possible. There was something so alluring about the sight of you, wandering the Keep dressed in the color of his house and bearing the most obvious sign that you were his, that it had begun growing maddening.

Luckily, you seemed to be just as desperate for him as he was for you.

The maesters assured you both that there was no harm to be done in satiating your urges and, though he was hesitant in the beginning, soon trusted they spoke nothing but the truth. Now, as he found himself eager for comfort - soft words, loving touches - he allowed himself to seek it in your embrace.

“Are you tired, ābrazyrys?” His question was soft, spoken into the silence that settled easily around you, and met with your hum.

“No.” It was a lie, he knew - could tell by the way your lashes fluttered and your fingers slowly brushed at his skin, the way your lips parted with badly concealed yawns - but you would not be swayed from allowing him whatever he wanted. “I’m here, my love,” you assured him, thumb caressing his cheek. “Take what you need.”

Aemond knew that your body was beginning to grow weary - he’d heard your whispered complaints to Helaena; how your back ached constantly, how your body felt heavier with every step, how even your softest gowns felt too rough on your sensitive skin - and nearly refused you as he had no desire to cause you pain. But the warmth of arousal had already entered his blood, burned beneath his skin, and the shift of your thighs beneath his head indicated that you felt it, too.

Rather than backing away, Aemond moved to sit up and crowded closer to you.

“Gevie,” he whispered, violet eye raking over your face as he lifted his hand to cup your cheek. “Issa gevie ābrazyrys.” Aemond pressed his mouth to yours, then, and you swore you felt his lips curve into a soft smile as you leaned into him.

Aemond had softened some, over the course of your marriage. Though he remained himself, steadfast and strong in who he had become, the edges grew a little more polished. His touch was gentler, his words softer, his kiss less rushed, and you appreciated the effort he’d taken as he tipped his head to deepen the kiss. His hand descended, brushed the soft material of your nightgown as his tongue traced the seam of your lips, and you released a contented sigh.

The large expanse of his hand fell to your ribcage, just beneath the swell of your breast, and though you knew it was coming, you still gasped as his thumb brushed a sensitive nipple.

“I’m alright,” you assured him, the moment he broke the kiss - before he could ask. Your hand lifted to his cheek, thumb brushing his warm skin as you offered him a smile. “Sensitive, is all. The maesters told me it’s normal,” you explained, watching as his gaze fell to your breasts. “They… they also said stimulation may help,” you continued, fingers returning to his hair as his violet eye returned to meet yours.

“Stimulation?”

Aemond knew he hadn’t been subtle in the attention he paid your swelling breasts, in the way his gaze fell to them every time he found you bare between his sheets, but his skin burned with an embarrassed warmth and an overwhelming lust as he realized what you were offering.

“Mm,” you hummed, not bothering to hide your actions as you lifted the skirt of your nightgown higher up your thighs. “I tried, with my fingers, the way they instructed to no avail. Perhaps you have another idea, my love?”

For a brief moment, Aemond felt his head begin to swim. His thoughts muddled, each one making less sense than the last, but they all seemed to lead in the same direction. It was a desire he’d never dared speak aloud, one he barely allowed himself to consider, but the rounder you grew with his seed - the heavier your breasts grew - the harder it became for him to forget.

Most nights, Aemond spent his time wrapped in your embrace. He enjoyed exploring your skin, mapping the soft expanse of your body with his hands and mouth, and had committed it all to memory. His words sometimes failed him, never quite capturing just how much you meant to him - just how deeply he loved you - but his touch never did. With a flick of his tongue or a brush of his fingers, with a snap of his hips or a soft press of his hand, he continued to find new ways to express himself. And when he’d gotten his fill of you, of hearing you cry his name and watching your body writhe with an exquisite pleasure only he could provide, he filled you with his seed before sometimes settling at your breast.

While he once feared you might find the act strange, that it might repulse you, you were eager to take him as he was. Any act that offered him comfort was one you allowed and the few times he curled into you, flushed body pressed to yours and mouth pressed to your breast, he felt nothing but your love.

As he swallowed, hesitant, you offered him a smile. “You will not harm me or the babe, my love,” you assured him, fingers caressing his jaw as they began to drift lower. “If anything, you will be helping me.” When he frowned, uncertain - disbelieving - you hummed. “Feel,” you instructed, reaching to guide the hand on your rib cage to your breast. It was engorged, heavy and warm in his palm, and you sighed as his thumb mindlessly brushed the nipple once more. “When the babe is born, she will have a nursemaid and I will be left with swollen, leaking tits.”

Aemond acted without thought in that moment and allowed himself to take what you offered so freely. His hands lifted to the straps of your thin nightgown and brushed them off your shoulders, giving him an opportunity to free you from the confines of the fabric.

Pregnancy had changed your body, in a way that terrified him at first - something so delicate now rested within you, a life he helped create - but now drove him to the brink of madness.

A searing warmth, all encompassing and hotter than any dragon fire, enveloped him. And a single glance at your face proved that you did, too. You felt the heat of him, the warmth of his palms - of his heavy gaze, his lithe body - and feared you were only moments from begging him to act when he took mercy on you. The gift you offered, the act you so willingly encouraged him to indulge in, was one he would never refuse.

His touch had never been exceedingly gentle, nor was it particularly hesitant. Aemond was a man assured, confident. There were moments he could be tender, even teasing, but none compared to the moment at hand.

The press of his hands to your sides, just beneath your rib cage, was soft. It was a featherlight pressure, one you feared you might not have felt were it not for the overwhelming sensitivity of your skin, and you sighed contentedly as your hand returned to the silver strands of his hair.

Slowly, and with a caution you’d never before seen in your husband, Aemond’s hands lifted.

Aemond was almost tentative, careful, in the way he touched you. His violet eye remained fixed on your face - watching, waiting for any hint of discomfort - and you offered him an encouraging smile as you leaned into his touch. “I am not fragile,” you reminded him, a small grin forming at the words he’d once used to declare his surprise at your steadfastness, your unwavering strength. “I will not break.”

A moment passed, in which you watched your husband gather himself, before his hands lifted to your breasts. He seemed to marvel at the weight of them, the warmth of your skin - usually so cool in the depths of his chambers - and hummed.

As he leaned in, gaze finally dipping to your breasts, you expected him to press his mouth to your skin - bury his face in the crook of your neck, press his lips to your collarbone and work his way down - but you were surprised when he tipped his head to catch your lips in a searing kiss. Though he never left you wanting, never left you doubting his desire for you, this kiss stole your breath.

The kiss was unlike any other; fierce, passionate. It fanned the flames of desire already burning within you and turned it into an uncontrollable blaze. As eager as you always felt for his touch, the fierceness of his kiss left desperate tears pricking at the backs of your eyes.

Calloused hands - toughened by years of swordplay and dragon riding - began to explore in earnest.

Every press of his palm, every swipe of his fingers drew soft noises from your lips, cries that Aemond swallowed eagerly. He relished in them, in the noises only he managed to draw from you, and you felt the evidence of his pleasure press into your thigh.

For a moment, you wondered if he might refuse your offer. However, the thought disappeared with a swipe of his thumb over the sensitive skin of your nipple.

Aemond allowed you to break the kiss, lips parting in a sharp gasp, and wasted little time in pressing his mouth to the curve of your jaw. There seemed to be little hurry in his actions, the way he nipped and kissed the soft skin of your throat, but you could feel the tension in his corded muscles as he crowded into you. He seemed to be nearly vibrating with desire, a tremble that made you lightheaded - an awe that you could produce such a reaction in such a man - and you struggled to catch your breath as he began to descend.

There was a brief worry - a split second thought that never fully formed - that he might avoid your eye in the way he had the very first time, when there was no babe and no real reason to suckle at your breast. However, it was quickly driven away as your husband’s violet eye lifted to meet yours.

Soft kisses were pressed to your skin, across the tops of your breasts and between them - violet eye fluttering as he paused only to marvel at the newfound heat emanating from your skin.

“The maesters told me I would remain warm until the babe is here. They jest it is because I carry the blood of the dragon,” you informed him, hand falling to the back of his head to cradle him close. “I’m not sure I mind. But, tell me, husband; what do you think?”

Though your husband had always been a man of few words, he seemed lost in his own thoughts. The words you spoke meant little to him, it seemed, as he found himself capable of only a simple reply. “I shall keep you warm and full,” he promised.

Already, he could see you swollen with his seed - with the blood of the dragon - again and again. He would see you round with his babe as many times as you would allow and you could see the promise in his eye as he glanced up at you. “Perhaps it is good there will be a nursemaid, then,” you hummed, unable to bite back your grin as Aemond’s mouth pressed just beneath your breast. “So you may spend as much time at my breast as you’d like.”

In the moment, the present mattered little. All that had come to pass ceased to exist and all that might come felt good, sweet. In reality, the future seemed bleak, but in the moment, there was a future. And all either of you wanted was to pretend.

Without sparing another moment, Aemond’s lips wrapped around the sensitive nipple.

The warmth of his mouth, the swirl of his tongue, was cautious at first - desperate to keep from hurting you, to keep from causing any pain - and you hummed contentedly as his eye fluttered shut. Your fingers carded through his hair, touch as delicate as his own, as your free hand fell to his chest.

Aemond’s heart thrummed beneath your fingertips, the beat of it as erratic as you’d ever felt it, and you felt your own beat in time with his.

No part of you ever imagined you would find yourself here - in bed with your dragon rider, the fierce swordsman and Targaryen prince, suckling at your breast - but there was no dismay in it. The pair of you were two halves of a whole: him, desperate to be wanted, needed, loved; you, desperate to love, to want, to need. There was a balance, an equal give and take, that saw you both offering the other what they desired freely. You understood one another in a way no one ever had and you were grateful for that understanding as Aemond attempted to crowd closer.

“My sweet love,” you whispered, fingers brushing the silver strands from his cheek. “This is what we both needed,” you assured him, voice a quiet lilt in the dim of his chambers. “Feels so much better.”

A pleased hum - proud, soothed by your praise - escaped your husband as his free hand returned to your thigh. His fingers pressed into the plush skin, anchoring himself to you, and you sighed at the touch. His hand was so close to where you wanted him and you asked without sparing it a second thought.

“Aemond,” you whispered, hand reaching for his - fingers clasping around his wrist and dragging it higher. “Touch me, please. Need you.”

Calloused fingers slipped between your thighs, lips curving into a smile at how readily you parted for him. His touch paused only for a moment, as did the gentle pull of his lips at your breast, as he seemed to realize the state you were in.

Slick pooled between your thighs and Aemond readily gave you what you wanted. His fingers swiped through your arousal, gathering your slick, before his thumb found the all-too sensitive bundle of nerves.

The wet slip of his fingers was self-assured, an action he’d taken a thousand times before, and it seemed as if he knew your own body better than you did. Heat pooled in the pit of your stomach, filled your veins and blazed up your spine, as he rolled the numb beneath his thumb for a moment before abandoning it to press his fingers to your slick opening.

“You enjoy this,” he accused, finally allowing his violet eye to open as he released your nipple and urged you to turn so he could reach the other. “As much as I do,” he continued, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I do,” you promised, sigh escaping your lips as you felt his long fingers press into you - curling, parting, manipulating in the way only he knew. “I have never turned you away,” you reminded him, words ending in a breathless moan. “If you are as depraved as you imagine yourself, then consider me your equal.”

Aemond seemed pleased by your assertion, proud to have found a wife who not only indulged him, but understood him. And you were pleased, as he returned his mouth to your aching breast, that he trusted you enough to allow you this glimpse.

The press of his mouth to your breast was growing ever eager, desperate for whatever you could give him - and, as it turned out, was not much yet, though you knew he would patiently await the day it would be more. It was soothing, almost, in a way that eased the ache you’d begun growing weary of, and you parted your lips to thank him for it the moment his thumb pressed to your aching clit.

A keening moan escaped, a noise that might’ve brought an embarrassed heat to your skin in the beginning of your marriage, but such noises were familiar now and your husband reveled in them.

Some small part of you wondered if he meant to have you both finish this way, him with his mouth pressed to your breast and you with his fingers curling into your heat. Only, he gave you little time to wonder as he lifted his head to glance at you fully.

“I know your body aches,” he hummed, press of his fingers slowing - thumb stilling on your clit, earning a displeased whine. “Do you think you can take my cock, my love? I have no desire to cause you discomfort.”

“You will,” you huffed, fingers tangling in his hair and tugging - just slightly, “if you do not fuck me.”

Aemond laughed, then, a sound you imagined few others had ever heard, before pulling away from you. You whined at the loss of his touch, the emptiness that filled you and the cool that suddenly chilled you, before your attention was stolen. His lips wrapped around his fingers, capturing the taste of you on his tongue, and you swallowed hard to keep from lunging at him as he settled against the headboard himself.

“Come here,” he beckons, hand already reaching for you hip and hauling you onto his lap. “So fucking perfect.”

Before the babe, before your stomach began to swell, this was a rarity. Aemond preferred you beneath him, pressed into his mattress as he left you seeing stars, but he’d admitted he could see the beauty of the position you now found yourselves in.

As expected, the moment you settled atop him, his gaze returned to your breasts. “One may think you’d never seen tits before,” you teased, not bothering to hide your grin as Aemond rolled his eye. “I jest, my love,” you hummed, reaching out for him - encouraging him to return his mouth to your breast. “It helped,” you assured him. “They no longer ache as they did when I woke. Thank you.”

Aemond lifted a hand to the back of your neck, then, and pressed his lips to yours in a kiss. The kiss was more familiar, something you’d grown to expect - grown to love - and you felt yourself melting into it as he crowded you closer.

The swell of your belly made it difficult to press your body as close to his as you would’ve liked, as close as he would’ve liked - in the privacy of his chambers, beneath the sheets of his bed, Aemond liked you a close as he could have you - but it was enough. His hands explored your warm skin, slick beneath his fingers and no longer aching in the way you’d complained earlier, and you relaxed into his touch as his hand slipped between your spread thighs once more.

Though you expected his fingers to return to your center, Aemond’s hand fell to his cock. You breathed something akin to a sigh of relief as you felt the tip glide through your slick folds, catching on your aching clit and drawing another keening moan that he eagerly swallowed.

The head of his cock nudged your slick opening, nestled there as you rested on your knees, before he lifted his hand to your hip and pulled you down.

A familiar stretch, a familiar warmth, captured the whole of your attention as you sank down onto Aemond’s cock.

Every pulse of him, every twitch of his cock - every ridge, every vein - was heightened by your sensitivity and your eyes nearly rolled back as you sank onto him fully. He filled you wonderfully, perfectly, and reveled in you saying so. Only, he barely allowed you a moment at all to speak before his mouth returned to your breasts.

Each sensation was overwhelming in its own right, every touch more consuming than the last, but the combination of it all had you seeing stars.

The warmth of Aemond’s body pressed to yours, the way his muscles clenched as he rocked his hips up to meet yours, the insistent press of his hand - fingers dimpling your skin as he held you tight - was all magnified by the warmth of his lips pressed to your breast. Even as his hips snapped, pressing his cock in deeper, the press of his mouth remained soft.

Aemond was careful to keep from hurting you, despite his desire to devour you - clear in the lust darkening his violet eye - and you lifted a grateful and to his cheek.

“Feels so good,” you breathed, gaze meeting his. “You make me feel so good, my love.”

The praise he craved, the words he desperately needed to hear but would never ask for, earned you a sharp snap of his hips - driving him deeper, pressing you closer - and you gasped as his teeth carefully nipped at your sensitive nipple. He’d already taken what little your body had produced, would need to wait a little longer for more, but that did nothing to stop him from continuing to suckle at the soft skin as his thumb fell to your clit.

As he so often tried, your husband pressed you on to your pleasure first. His fingers, his mouth, his cock; all working together in an eager attempt to earn your blissful cries. That sharp violet eye watched your face, watched your lips part and your lashes flutter, and you could see the pride in his gaze as you began to quiver in his grasp.

When your release washed over you, heavy and so desperately needed, Aemond allowed himself to let go. He chased his own high for a moment, sinking into the pleasure of you - of your slick cunt, of your swollen breasts.

With a muffled noise, Aemond spilled into you - his spend filling you with a warmth you swore you would never tire of. It was accompanied by a soft gasp, a quiet noise that you wouldn’t have heard over your own heartbeat had you not been paying him such close attention, and you reached for his cheek with a soft smile.

Aemond easily lifted his head, his mouth meeting yours, and gave you the kiss you wanted. It was an assurance for you both, a gesture meant to calm - to serve as a reminder that you were bound, one - and ended with his forehead pressed to yours.

“All of this,” you whispered, the pair of you still struggling to catch your breath, “will end and we will carry on. And when our duty is done, we will be free to live our lives as we wish. You did not start this war, but you will finish it.”

“I will,” he promised, violet eye glimmering with an unscheduled tear as his hand fell to your swollen belly.

It was a promise he couldn’t make in good faith, nor one he could reasonably be expected to keep, but it was enough for the moment. The idea that this is what awaited him - this life, you - made him desperate. He wanted nothing more than to carry on, than to spend the rest of his life right here, and he would do anything in his power to make it happen.

And, if he could not spend the rest of his life here, he would perish in the pursuit.

____________________________________________________

Author's Note: Aemond just. Captivates me. How am I supposed to survive two years without more content?

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

#aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond smut #aemond x you #hotd smut #hotd imagine #v's fics

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kingkatsuki · 6 months ago

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— twist of fate

This was supposed to be the happiest day of your life, marked on your calendar for the best part of a year and the start of a beautiful future. You’d met the love of your life, the man you were going to marry and grow old with, and you’d made it through navigating the torturous dating scene. The awkward first dates and first kiss, and the first ‘I love yous’, and yet here you were drinking on a rooftop with the Number Two Pro-Hero Dynamight.

I promised I’d post some more Bakugou cause it has been a little while and I do miss him! I actually wrote this for his birthday, but then I ended up posting the collab fic instead so I never got to write the smut part but I hope someone enjoys it anyway.

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x f!reader.

Warnings: breakups (not with Bakugou), mutual comfort, alcohol.

Word Count: 1.8k.

I love you— what a big fucking lie.

You scoffed as you took a large gulp from the champagne bottle you were holding, grabbed from the bar at your now abandoned reception as you looked out at the view of Musutafu at night. The viewing point was somewhere you used to visit with your fiance, and to think it was the first place you’d decided to go when you found out he’d left you at the altar was borderline morbid. But considering your perfect life had now crumbled around you, you could forgive yourself for the psychological torment.

Kicking your heels off as your feet began to ache, letting them drop to the floor as you swung your legs over the ledge. Your mothers voice ringing in your ears as you sat on the grass, “Your pretty dress is ruined!” Not that you’d have any use for it now, your perfect life was pretty much gone.

“You know how dangerous it is drinkin’ so close to the edge?” You rolled your eyes in irritation at the sound, turning your head ready to shot some expletives in their direction before your words caught at the back of your throat.

You had to do a double take to make sure you were actually seeing what you were seeing, and that you weren’t this inhibriated already. The Number Two Pro-Hero Dynamight stood a few feet away, arms crossed with his face set in a a heavy glare. But he didn’t appear to have his gauntlets with him, even though his belt was still full of grenades and his mask sat over his eyes. Instead he was covered in a thick black hoodie that was zipped to cover the garish orange X that splashed across his chest.

“Well it must be my lucky night, I’ve got a Pro-Hero here to save me.” Sarcasm oozed through your tone as you held your large bottle up in a mock cheers to the Number Two hero that had appeared over the hill.

Besides the randy teenagers that used to frequent the area to make out and get high, this side of Musutafu was usually pretty abandoned so you were disappointed to see you were no longer alone.

“I’m off the clock, sweetheart.” He sneered back, shaking his head, “And I shouldn’t have to waste my time saving stupid people like you.”

“So don’t save me then,” You shrugged, turning back to face the city as the sun slowly fell over the horizon.

You expected him to walk away and leave you there, probably on a patrol to catch the kids that used the area to get high. But what you didn’t expect is for him to take a seat in the dirty grass beside you.

“Thought you couldn’t waste your time.”

“How’s it gonna look if I see your face all over the papers tomorrow with my face under it sayin’ I should’a saved you?”

You turned to face him, noticing the dark rings of charcoal around his eyes filled in from where his mask sat. A three-day strubble cast a shadow across his jawline and you had to take another sip of champagne to pull your attention away.

“I didn’t think you cared what the media said about you, Dynamight.” You laughed, remembering a post you’d seen online earlier that month where he’d shoved a reporter to the ground at the scene of a crime and broke his camera.

“I don’t.” He scoffs, “But I ain’t a total fucking asshole.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” You laugh, gulping another mouthful of champagne as you look down at the city lights below, “You make it your business to go around breaking cameras?”

“Very fuckin’ funny.” Bakugou sneers, “That guy deserved it. Tryin’ to take pictures in the middle of a fight— he’s lucky I saved him or he’d have come out far worse than his shitty camera.”

“Wow, you’re a real hero, Dynamight.” You teased back.

“So you gonna explain why you’re up here in—”

“Oh, why am I wearing a wedding dress and drinking alone?” You smiled bitterly, shaking your head. “My fiancé decided to stick his dick into my best friend.”

Bakugou’s eyes widened beneath this mask at the blunt statement before he shook his head, keeping his attention ahead to the bright lights in front of you.

“Shit.” He muttered beneath his breath.

You scoff, taking another swig of champagne, “So I guess you could say I’m celebrating.”

“That’s rough.” He reached up to scratch at his stubble before leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

“So why are you up here, Mr Number Two?” You smile, “Not got any babies to save from burning buildings? Or camera men to hit—”

“Shut the fuck up.” He scoffed, his nose scrunched in irritation before his face paled.

You thought perhaps he might get up and leave after your bold question but instead he sniffed, using the outside of his wrist to rub his nose before looking across at the city.

“A villain attacked a building just outside Musutafu tonight,” He muttered hoarsely, “I didn’t get there in time.”

“Shit— I’m so sorry,” You immediately stammered, feeling like such an asshole. Your problems were miniscule in proportion to this, “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” He shakes his head, “I would’a never made it, but it still fuckin’ sucks, you know?”

“Yeah,” You murmured back. How could you even comfort someone for something like that? There weren’t enough words in the world that would convey the empathy you felt for him, and the victims.

“I just needed to get away for a bit.” He rasped.

“Me too,” You smiled, “I was sick of everyone looking at me with pity.”

Your family and bridesmaids had been suffocating after it happened, pulling you into their arms and drowning you in faux sympathy.

“Oh my god, I couldn’t imagine that ever happening to me.”

“It’s okay you’re such a strong person, you can do so much better.”

“If my husband ever did this I don’t know what I’d do.”

“I’m glad this came out now and not at my wedding.”

“Such a waste of a pretty dress.”

It was all the same bullshit as you listened to your friends slowly start to make it about themselves while your world crumbled down around you— So you left, thankful you hadn’t bothered to bring your phone as you were left to your own devices.

You offer the champagne bottle out to Bakugou as he stared down at it for a moment before taking it. Adjusting it in one large fist around the base of it before taking a large swig.

“If it means anything, it seems like he’s the fuckin’ idiot for cheating on you.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he passed the bottle back, “Only a real piece of shit leaves his missus on her wedding day.”

His words still managed to have your heart fluttering. You weren’t naive, you knew he was only trying to be nice, especially when thick black lines of eyeliner and mascara smudged in tear stains down your cheeks. Your lipstick faded around your lips and stuck to the neck of your champagne bottle, and your hair was now a complete mess from where you’d ripped out your veil, and still he managed to have you smiling as you couldnt stop the grin that spread across your cheeks.

“How long were they fuckin’?” He asked, and you appreciated the bluntness of it.

“Six months,” You shook your head, “Apparently they got close planning the wedding.”

“Shit, that’s fucked up.” He shook his head, reaching back for the champagne bottle as you watched him take another drink. Certain your lipstick was pressed against his chapped lips now as you shared the same bottle.

“Yep,” You rolled the ‘p’, “And apparently he spent the night with her after the rehearsal too,” You sighed, “I just can’t believe I didn’t see the signs.”

“Ain’t any of this that’s your fault,” He shook his head, taking another swig of champagne before handing the bottle back to you, “And thinkin’ like that will eat you up inside.”

“Could say the same thing to you, Dynamight.”

“I didn’t say it didn’t suck,” He shook his head, “And call me Bakugou, I ain’t workin’.”

“I’m glad to hear the Number Two hero doesn’t drink on the job— fuck.”

You shivered as a gust of wind swirled through the vantage point, reminding you of your outfit as you’d left the venue without a suitable coat. Hugging your arms around your body to try and stop your teeth from chattering as you drank more champagne, hoping the alcohol would warm your veins.

You heard a zip to the side of you and before you could object, Bakugou was shrugging his hoodie off to wrap it around your bare shoulders.

“Don’t worry about me, you’ll get cold—”

“Shaddup,” He cut you off, taking the champagne bottle back off you so that you could slip your hands through the arms, “Just take it, woman.”

You were immediately surrounded by warmth, his body heat still radiated from the fabric as you breathed in the scent of him. A mixture of ash, smoke and cologne as you pulled it tighter around your frame.

Bakugou pulled his hero mask up over his eyes to let it sit on his forehead, his messy hair now spiking upwards as he rubbed his eyes with the ball of his palm. The dark eyeliner around them smearing against his skin as he breathed a relaxed sigh, taking another drink as he turned his attention back to the view in front of him.

“You’re quite pretty actually,” You smiled at him, “The media always get you pulling the ugliest faces.”

“Hah?” He turned to you with a raised brow, his nose scrunched in irritation, “That’s still my fuckin’ face you know.

“Yeah, and I’m saying it’s really pretty.” You definitely blamed the alcohol flowing through your veins for giving you this level of confidence, certain the words would never have left your lips if you were sober.

“I ain’t ever been called pretty before.” He scoffed.

��I dunno why not— because it’s true.” You smiled.

“I ain’t the pretty one out of us two, sweetheart. Trust me.”

#Bakugou x reader #Katsuki bakugou x reader #Bakugou Katsuki x reader #MHA x reader #bnha x reader

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soullessdianthus · 1 year ago

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𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐯!𝐊ö𝐧𝐢𝐠 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

Warnings: obsessive behaviour, dubcon/noncon for the last few headcanons (I've put a warning if you want to stop reading)

Poorly translated German, correct me if needed!

Important note at the end!

✧°. König is a kind of pervert who fantasizes about you, when he beats his meaty cock with his hand, imagining all of the possible scenarios in his head.

✧°. With you bend over the surface of the table or desk and him pounding into your tight cunt from behind. Your hair falls out through his thick fingers as he tugs on them to arch your spine better.

✧°. Perv!König can’t help but stare at your breasts from above (thanks to his height), exposed by the cleavage of your shirt. A soft, plump flesh squeezed by a little to small size of bra. Did you do that on purpose to torment him with the beautiful sight?

✧°. He wants to sneak his warm hand under your shirt and fondle them, play with both nipples until they’re perky, before he finally laps at them with his wet mouth and sucks.

✧°. His cock twitches painfully when he sees you with a gun holster or climbing equipment on. The stiff material digging into your plush thighs, one stripe just under the curve of your ass. It gives Perv!König the new fixation he would like to test out with you – a shibari or any other bondage.

✧°. Just to have you tied up like a little gift and on his sick mercy.

✧°. But there would come time, where the fantasies, weirdly specific porn and fucking his own palm is not enough, he craves more.

✧°. König starts to supervise your training with a gun or in a gym. Instead of just verbally correcting your aiming posture, he would stand behind you, his bulky arms wrapped around your sides. He would lean over your shoulder and whisper a few words in German. Quickly and incoherently, but you didn’t understand it anyways! You don’t know German!

✧°. “Fokus auf das Ziel, nicht mein Schwanz, Schlampe" [ger.: Focus on the target, not my dick, slut].”

✧°. Perv!König is delusional as fuck. He would interpret your confusion and shyness in such situations with succumbing to his flirting. Your eyes were begging for his attention, ja?

✧°. He would absolutely push your limits, telling you to do a series or two more in the gym just to hear your little whines and moans due to your hard work!

✧°. Not to mention how König is fascinated with your scent even after such an intense workout. The sweat glistening on your smooth skin, pretty face red from exhaustion. You looked exactly just like he imagines you after being fucked stupid.

✧°. But even creeping on you in the gym or armory wasn’t enough for Perv!König! He still wants more!

✧°. I bet we can all agree that he would be a panty thief, especially those used ones. König would take them out of the laundry and rub along his painfully throbbing cock just to cum into them!

✧°. And then he put them back in the basket and pretended like nothing happened. Although, he was a little sad that you didn’t put them on with his warm seed still on it.

✧°. This way Perv!König could mark you as his girl. <3

✧°. Perv!König would sneak to the bathroom to peek at you taking a bath or shower, admiring your naked body from a safe distance.

[Dubcon/Noncon Warning]

✧°. If you ever happen to get super drunk while hanging out with him, Perv!König would absolutely take advantage of your easily persuasive state. Pulling you into his lap, because it’s more comfortable than a wooden chair, ja? Just to help you relax, because you seemed so nervous about getting drunk with your Colonel!

✧°. König would place his big hand over your stomach and slowly slide down, under the hem of your pants. When you started mumbling something in your drunken state, he was quick to whisper little praises into your ear, assuring he would take good care of you.

✧°. His fingers easily found their way into your panties – who knows, maybe it was the same pair he jerked himself into before? Perv!König took his time playing with you, rubbing your clit in circles, before he eventually plunged two of his thick fingers into your sweet pussy.

✧°. He had to shush your precious mewls, when he continued stroking that specific spongy spot inside of you, until you came onto his fingers, still sitting prettily in his lap. Like a trophy. King’s trophy.

A/N: This was highly requested and let me tell you ─ I have two more pervy scenarios in the drafts: Perv!Boyfriend!König and Perv!Landlord!König. It depends if you want to read those. Let me know please. 👉👈

#request #konig cod #könig cod #cod mwii #cod mw2 #konig #könig #konig x reader #könig x reader #könig mw2 #perv!könig #perv!konig

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randomdragonfires · 5 months ago

Text

Parallel Lines, Act II

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

SUMMARY | He fears her proximity, and she fears his distance. As war looms, they’ll have to learn to make their marriage work to find comfort in each other. Or at least, try.

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader

WARNINGS | 18+; SMUT; Angst; Complicated Relationship Themes; Emotional Negligence; Infidelity; Major Character Death; Gore and Graphic Depictions of Violence.

AUTHOR’S NOTE | Henlo! This was meant to be a duology, but the second part became too long so I ended up making it a trilogy instead. Hope it doesn't disappoint! :)

WORD COUNT | 13.9k

On a rare stormy night in King's Landing, the trees danced violently during a torrential downpour. A world-weary mother cloaked in the shadows of the flickering candlelight, whispered her gratitude to the Gods while on her knees - her sickly son had clung to life for yet another day. She thanked the Seven for their mercy upon her child and prayed with a fervent desperation.

"Gentle Mother, I beseech you. Mercy for my boy. He has suffered enough. Rid him of his pain, and give it to me if you can."

Her voice, trembling with exhaustion, echoed through the cold stone walls of the Sept. She turned, the weight of countless nights spent wanting, praying, and begging for her son's life pressing heavily upon her. As her whispered plea lingered in the air, a dark shadow crept through the halls of the Red Keep.

Back in the dimly lit chamber, her son laid fragile and fevered. The babe's suffering ended not by divine mercy but by a blade’s cruel bite, leaving a pool of crimson beneath the crib.

War had come to their doorstep, a brutal retribution for her husband's actions.

As the Princess crossed the threshold of the Sept’s grand doors, the candle flame she had lit in her son's name sputtered and died, extinguished by an unseen hand - that of the Gods, it must be.

The storm outside seemed to howl with discontent, and an eerie silence settled over the castle, broken only by the distant, mournful wail of the wind. The gods had not answered her prayers - only darkness had.

The funeral had taken place that morning, a bleak procession of mourning and regret. Aemond had stood like a statue, his heart a hollow void as Vhagar’s flames engulfed the little bundle at his command. He had not shed a tear, his grief and rage too immense to be expressed in such simple ways.

She hadn’t either.

Later, he had descended into the castle's black cells, taking Larys Strong with him. The rogue Gold Cloak who had murdered his son lay shackled to a stone slab, his eyes wide with terror.

Aemond approached the man, his eyes cold and dead. "You took my son," he whispered, his voice a venomous hiss. "Now, you will pay."

He began with the nails, gripping the rusty pliers with a hand that trembled not with fear but with a seething rage. One by one, he yanked the nails from the man's fingers, the sickening crack of breaking bone and the wet pop of tearing flesh echoing through the cell. The man's screams were shrill, a high-pitched wail that echoed through the stone walls, but Aemond felt no satisfaction.

"Please," the man gasped, his voice raw and broken. "Mercy..."

Aemond's lips curled into a snarl. "You showed my little son no mercy." He moved to the fingers next, taking a blade and slowly severing them, joint by joint. Blood spurted in thick, dark streams, pooling on the cold stone floor. The man's howls grew frantic, agony that only fueled Aemond's fury.

He grabbed a branding iron, heated until it glowed red-hot, and pressed it against the man's skin. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, acrid and suffocating. The man's screams turned to guttural roars, his body convulsing in torment. Aemond's own face twisted in a mask of hatred and pain, each act of brutality a futile attempt to fill the gaping void in his heart.

"Confess!" Aemond demanded, his voice a thunderous roar. "Confess your crime!"

"I did it!" the man wailed, his voice a ragged sob. "I killed the boy... He made me do it... please, stop… the Rogue Pri-"

But Aemond did not stop. He could not stop. He continued his relentless torture, burning, cutting, and breaking, each act more savage than the last. The man's pleas for mercy turned to incoherent babbling, his mind shattered by the unending pain.

Hours passed, the cell becoming a chamber of horrors. Blood stained the walls and floor, a macabre display of a grieving father’s wrath. Finally, when the man was nothing more than a broken, bleeding husk, Aemond stepped back, his chest heaving with exertion. The rage had not subsided. It never would. But he was too exhausted to continue.

He had been ready to slowly kill the other ratcatcher when found, but Aegon, much less patient, had ordered the hanging of every ratcatcher in the city as recompense for his nephew's life. The streets of King's Landing would run red with blood, a brutal reminder of the price of crossing the King that sits the Iron Throne.

As Aemond ascended from the depths of the castle, the echoes of the man's screams still ringing in his ears, he felt the weight of his failure pressing down on him, a crushing burden that threatened to consume him. He had failed his family, and no amount of blood or pain could ever atone for any of it. Each step he took felt like walking through quicksand, dragging him further into an abyss of guilt and despair.

Now, the greatest task awaited him: facing his wife. How could he? How could he look into her eyes, knowing very well that it may as well have been his own hand that had slain their child? How could he, when he had been out at a whorehouse while his only son was murdered in cold blood?

No matter how angry and fierce he had been moments ago, now he felt small and cowardly. The righteous fury that had fueled his brutal interrogation of the rogue Gold Cloak had dissipated, leaving behind a hollow shell of a man. His rage had been a mask, hiding the unbearable sorrow and guilt that now threatened to overwhelm him.

He paused outside the door to her chambers, his hand trembling as it rested on the fine wood. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and pushed the door open. His wife sat on the floor, clutching Aerys' blanket to her chest, her eyes hollow and fixed on the bloodied crib. The sight of her, so broken and lost, pierced his heart more than anything else ever could.

He’d failed as a husband, father and protector.

The servants moved around her like phantoms, silently removing the stained mattress and the crib that had once held their precious boy. She did not give them a second glance, her body rigid and unyielding, as if she had turned to stone. The servants bowed to Aemond as they passed, their eyes lowered in sorrowful respect and fear. He watched them, his heart shattering with each step they took, carrying away the last remnants of his son.

Aemond's throat tightened, his breath coming in shallow gasps. How could he face her? How could he bear the weight of her grief and anger? He took another deep breath, forcing himself to move. Each step toward her felt like an eternity, the distance between them an insurmountable chasm of pain and regret.

He knelt beside her, reaching out to touch her shoulder. She did not flinch, did not acknowledge his presence. Her gaze remained fixed on the empty space where their son had once lain. If not for the faint rise and fall of her chest, he would have thought her dead.

“You were not there,” she said, her voice a hollow echo in the dim room. “You were not there when he was born. It’s only fitting that you weren’t there when he died as well.”

The words struck Aemond like a physical blow, each one a dagger to his already bleeding heart. Her tone, completely devoid of any emotion, sent a chill through him. The emptiness in her voice was far more terrifying than any rage or grief. It was the voice of someone who had been utterly broken, and it slowly killed him a little more with every passing moment.

His mind flashed back to that night, so long ago now, when Aerys had been born. He had been with the Madame, scared of losing his wife so much that he could not bear to stay - leaving her to bear their son alone. He had returned to find her pale and exhausted, cradling their newborn with a mixture of joy and exhaustion.

Her eyes, once filled with warmth and love for their boy, now held only a deep, hollow emptiness. “He needed you, Aemond. I needed you, I went out of my way and begged you to protect us. And you weren’t there. Not when he took his first breath, and not when he took his last.”

She turned away, clutching Aerys’ blanket tighter to her chest, her body shaking with silent sobs. “I watched him suffer every night,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I watched him cry out in pain from the fevers, and I couldn’t do anything to save him. I prayed, Aemond. I prayed so much, and the gods took him anyway. And how… how he must have suffered…”

“I don’t know how to live with this,” she continued, her voice cracking. “Everywhere I look, I see him. His toys, his clothes, his empty crib. And I see you, and I wonder how we’ll bear it. How can we live with ourselves, knowing very well that we’d failed him?”

Her choked sobs gave way to cries, piercing the silence of the room like a thousand daggers. Aemond turned to hold her close, desperate to offer any semblance of comfort. She pounded on his chest with her fists, weakly at first, then with growing strength as her grief overwhelmed her. She tried to push him away, but he held her closer with each blow, his arms a fortress around her fragile body. Her screams grew louder, echoing through the empty chambers, the corridors, the entire Keep.

“What do we do, Aemond? How do we go on?”

For what felt like hours, he held her as she struggled, his heart breaking anew with each of her sobs. She pushed him away again and again, but he pulled her back every time, refusing to let her go. He whispered words of solace, though he knew they were hollow, futile against her anguish. The warmth of her tears soaked through his tunic, mingling with his own as they wept together.

Gradually, her struggles weakened, her sobs quieting into shuddering breaths. Exhausted, she slumped against him, her head resting on his shoulder. He stroked her hair gently, his own tears falling into her tangled locks.

When she finally calmed, she lifted her head to look into his eyes. The depth of her pain was mirrored in his gaze, their shared torment powerful enough to get the Gods to bow down their heads n shame. "I see you," she said, her voice throaty, raw and trembling. "I see you, Aemond, and I see the reason our son is dead."

Her words cut through him like a blade, and he flinched, but she continued, her eyes never leaving his. "But I also see the only person who feels this loss as much as I do. I hate you, Aemond, for what you've done, for not being here, for all of it. But I cannot push you away. I don't have the strength to be alone. Not now. Not ever."

Her voice broke on the last word, and she buried her face in his chest again, clutching his tunic with trembling hands. "Do not leave me," she begged, her voice a whisper of desperation. "Please, Aemond, do not leave me today."

She cried against his chest once more, her tears soaking through the fabric. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart, a frantic rhythm that matched his own. The memory of their son lingered in the air, as they clung to each other - two broken souls, adrift.

Aemond and his wife grieved, their methods as different as night and day. He poured himself into the war, throwing himself into strategy and shadow plotting to escape the crushing weight of his anger, guilt and sorrow. Every victory that Criston wrote to him about was a fleeting distraction from the void left by their son's death. The fight, the anger, the bloodied lands had his heart become cold, and his mind was focused on the immediate need to conquer.

She, on the other hand, hid herself away in her apartments, crying until her tears ran dry, only to begin again as soon as the next wave of sorrow crashed over her. The chamber was an eerie tomb of memories, filled with the echoes of a child whose cries were now silenced. She clung to their son's bloodied blanket, refusing to let the maids take it away. It was the last tangible piece of him, the only thing she could still hold. Her grief was raw and unending, a torrent that left her exhausted and hollow.

He watched her more than once, standing silently in the doorway, his heart heavy at the sight of her frail form curled up on their son's blanket. She was a shadow of the woman she once was, a stranger that he shared his deepest failure with - not to mention the subsequent pain of it all. Her sobs were gut-wrenching, a mournful lullaby that haunted the silent halls. Each sob was a reminder of his failure to protect their child, to protect her.

On those nights, he would tentatively approach her, his steps hesitant and unsure. Sometimes she would receive him, allowing him to hold her as she wept, her tears soaking into his leathers. He would murmur soft, broken words, his hand gently stroking her hair in a futile attempt to offer comfort. Her pain was palpable, a living thing that wrapped around them both and squeezed until they could hardly breathe. He felt helpless, his warrior's strength, his proud lineage and dragonrider’s blood useless against the insidious enemy of grief, one that had thoroughly defeated her.

Other nights, she would blame him, her grief turning into fury as she screeched at him to never darken her door again. Her words were sharp, each one a poison-tipped arrow aimed at his heart. She accused him of failing them, of failing their son. He took her anger in silence, his eyes hollow and his heart heavy. Her words cut deep, but he could not refute them. He had failed, and he bore that failure like a scar across his soul. And when she was done screaming, she’d fall into his arms and cry once more - for who else did they have in their grief, apart from each other?

On those nights, the pain of her rejection would drive him to the Madame, seeking the comfort he could not find at home. The whorehouse was a stark contrast to his wife's chambers. It was filled with the scent of perfume and sweat, the air thick with the sounds of laughter and moans. He would lose himself in the warmth of another's body, the physical release a temporary balm for his wounded soul. She was experienced, her touches skilled and knowing. She took him without question, a vessel for his anger and sorrow. He sought solace in the intensity of their embraces, the roughness of their passion, and the desperate attempt to drown out his grief.

The relief was fleeting, and the guilt that followed only deepened his despair. He would leave the Madame's alcove, his body sated yet not, his heart heavy yet not. The walk back to the castle was a walk of shame, each step a reminder of his failure as a husband - what good was he if he could not protect or comfort?

In stark contrast, his time with his wife was chaste, almost delicate. He would sit beside her, his hand hovering with uncertainty before resting gently on her shoulder. She would not speak, but she would not push him away either. Aemond treated her like fragile glass, afraid that one wrong move would shatter her more than she already had been.

Today was not one such day. Today, he would fly Vhagar to war.

Rook’s Rest beckoned him; his call to glory. This would be the day that he began his legacy.

Aemond stood in his chambers, his fingers trembling as he repeatedly failed to secure his hair with a threadbare tie. His heart pounded with a potent mix of nerves and eagerness. Each time the tie slipped through his fingers, frustration mounted, his movements becoming more erratic.

The door creaked open, and he turned sharply, ready to lash out at whoever dared interrupt his solitary struggle with no warning. But it was not a servant. It was his wife.

She looked to be in good spirits. He knew better.

She entered the room with a quiet grace, her presence a stark contrast to her appearance these past few weeks. She looked every bit the regal princess she was - her posture poised, her expression serene. She held his riding leathers in her hands, a gesture that spoke volumes without a single word. “I… I thought I’d wish you well,” she said softly, her voice a hesitant murmur.

He didn’t know what to say, so he simply nodded, his throat tightening with a mix of emotions. The lump in his throat made it difficult to speak, and he watched her as she approached him, each step measured and deliberate.

His gaze lingered on her face, committing every detail to memory as he prepared to throw himself headfirst into the fighting. Her hair, cascading in soft waves, framed her delicate features. He noticed the way a few errant strands fell over her forehead, the way her ears peeked out from beneath the locks, adorned with earrings that his mother had gifted her upon the birth of their son.

There was a softness in her eyes, a vulnerability. He traveled the lines of her face with his eye, the gentle slope of her nose, the faint freckles that dusted her cheeks, barely visible but always there. His gaze settled on her lips, lips that he had not kissed since their wedding almost two years ago. They were slightly parted, as if she were about to say something, and he could see the subtle tremor in them. He remembered their first kiss, the way her lips had felt against his - cold and limp.

Her touch sent a jolt of warmth through him, and he found himself highly aware of every movement she made. She helped him into his clothes with a seemingly practiced ease, her fingers grazing his skin and leaving trails of heat in their wake. He stilled, his gaze locked onto her, and her alone.

She started with the undershirt, guiding his arms through the sleeves. Her hands were gentle yet firm, the fabric sliding over his skin. She moved to the leather jerkin then, her fingers deftly fastening the buckles and sending shivers down his spine. He could feel the heat of her hands through the cool leather.

Has she ever helped dress him before?

As she cinched the straps around his waist, her body pressed close to his, and he inhaled the scent of her - a mixture of lilacs and something uniquely her. Her fingers brushed against his neck, and he fought the urge to close his eyes and savor the sensation.

Once the leathers were secured, she stepped back, her eyes scanning his form to ensure everything was in place. "Do you need your hair braided?" she asked, her voice soft and hesitant.

He shook his head no, unable to find his voice. She walked behind him, her fingers threading through his silver strands. Her touch was soothing, and he felt a strange sense of calm wash over him. She gathered the top half of his hair, pulling it into a knot, while leaving the bottom half loose - just the way he preferred. Her movements were deliberate, almost reverent, as if she were committing every strand to memory.

Was she trying to remember him just as he did her?

When she finished, she stepped back to admire her work, her eyes meeting his functional one in the mirror. For a moment, they simply stood there, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. He turned to face her, his gaze never leaving hers.

She laid her hands on his back and began reciting a prayer to the Seven, her voice trembling. Her fingers traced the lines of his muscles, as if memorizing the feel of him, and when she finished, she nodded and smiled weakly - a weak upturn of her lips so full of fear, for him.

She walked away, each step heavy with reluctance, until she stopped midway and turned when he whispered her name. “Your favor.” His voice was steady, almost devoid of emotion, but she knew him too well. The slight upward curve of his lips, the brief twitch of his eyebrow before it settled back, revealed more than words ever could.

Her hand trembled as she reached into her neckline, pulling out a small satin square. He caught her wrist, his grip gentle but firm, and she felt the world narrow down to the space between them. As she handed him the token, she stepped closer until their foreheads met, their breaths mingling, becoming one.

They stood there, suspended in a moment that felt both fleeting and eternal, the possibilities and uncertainties pressing in on them. It was a fragile convergence, their desire to be together finally surfacing, only to be shadowed by the looming threat of separation. The cost of their union was too much - Aerys, was too much - a weight neither of them will ever be rid of.

Her head was nestled against his neck, hidden from the world by the veil of her loose hair. It fell around her like a curtain, hiding her from the chaos. She whispered, her voice barely more than a breath, “I need you to come back.” For me, she didn’t say.

Aemond felt her plea in every fiber of his being. He understood her without needing her to elaborate. As he held her close, he let her imprint his presence into her memory, knowing that she believed that this might be their last shared moment -he was sure of their victory, and he knew she was too. But she was a wife, and he supposed it was in her nature to worry.

I don’t have anyone else here.

Their foreheads met, a tender touch that spoke volumes. Her eyes searched his own, and he saw the reflection of his own yearning and fear. The intimacy of the moment was almost unbearable, a poignant reminder of what they had already lost, what they stood to lose. Her breath mingled with his, her scent enveloping him, and he memorized every detail - the softness of her skin, the warmth of her body, the depth of her woes.

Any closer, and he could kiss her. But he didn’t.

Later in the yard, the waiting wife watched her warring prince go, her heart heavy as he carried a piece of her with him into battle.

She didn't pray anymore.

The Gods had seen fit to snatch her son away, and their cruelty had hardened her heart to stone. Yet, as she stood on the battlements of the Keep, watching the wounded men stagger through the gates, she felt the faintest pull toward the Sept, an old, almost forgotten reflex. The soft murmurs of hymns, the flicker of candles, the scent of incense - all seemed like distant memories of a life now lost to endless war.

So many men. Sons, brothers, husbands, uncles…

The scene below was a scene of abject suffering, a picture of agony and despair. Soldiers limped and staggered, their bodies broken and burnt, some supported by their brothers in battle, others barely able to move. Blood stained their armor, their faces twisted in pain, their eyes hollow and vacant. The air was thick with the stench of blood, burnt flesh, and the acrid smoke from dragonfire, a vile miasma that clung to her senses. The cries of the wounded echoed in the courtyard, a chorus of despair that seemed to reverberate off the stone walls and pierce her heart.

Her gaze flitted over the faces, each one etched with pain and horror. She saw men clutching at wounds, their fingers slick with blood, their expressions a mixture of shock and resignation. There were those whose eyes stared unseeing, their bodies no longer vessels of life but remnants of what had once been vibrant souls. Young boys, barely old enough to be called men, uncharacteristically sobbed. Older men, who had seen countless battles, now faced the grim reality that this war may as well bring their end.

Then she saw him.

Barely alive, Aegon’s body was a ruin of burns and bandages, carried on a stretcher like a broken doll. His frame was now a pitiful sight, his breath shallow and labored. She’d never liked Aegon in all truth - but he was her King. If he died, would all this blood be for naught?

Her heart clenched as she tried to move closer, to see the extent of his injuries, but the soldiers turned him away, rushing him towards the Maester’s chambers with a sense of urgency that spoke volumes.

“Make way for the King!”

She felt the strength drain from her legs, her back sliding down the cold, unyielding stone of the castle wall. Shock and despair settled over her like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. How much more of this horror could she endure? How many more lives would be lost before this nightmare ended? The enormity of the suffering, the endless cycle of loss and pain, was almost too much to bear.

Criston Cole emerged from the chaos, looking as though he had walked through the depths of Hell. His armor was blackened, his face lined with exhaustion and grief, his eyes dull and haunted. When their eyes met, she saw a flicker of something she never expected - pity.

“Princess, you should not be here.”

“What happened? Please tell me, Ser Criston.”

“King Aegon valiantly slayed Rhaenys and the Red Queen,” he said, his voice raw and weary, barely more than a whisper - empty. “Led his men into battle with valor. And now he’s brought back in a damned box, fighting for his life.” In his voice was a heaviness she never thought she’d hear from him - but how else was he supposed to sound when he’d watched a boy he helped raise himself come back looking shriveled in burn wounds? Her throat tightened, and tears threatened to spill. The weight of his words crushed her, a stark reminder of the relentless cost of war.

And where was Aemond? Her thoughts turned to him, a fresh wave of dread washing over her, suffocating in its intensity.

“What of my husband?”

“With Vhagar at Blackwater Bay. I… May I suggest that you keep away from him for a time, Princess? Give the Prince time before you go to him. Anger and… one does not have control over their words or actions after having immediately come back from a battle. Especially one like this.” It seemed like he was concerned for her, but she detected a sneer in his tone, especially in his last words.

Since when was Ser Criston Cole’s anger meant for Aemond? What could have possibly happened?

Blackwater Bay stretched out beneath the setting sun, the waters shimmering with hues of gold and crimson. The sky had dark clouds mingling with the fading light. The scent of salt and smoke lingered in the air, mingling with the distant cries of seagulls and the echoes of the day's violence. The waves lapped gently against the shore, a stark contrast to the turmoil that had unfolded earlier.

Aemond stood beside Vhagar, the massive dragon that had been his companion through his latest victory at Rook’s Rest. Her scales, a mottled mix of bronze and green, glistened in the twilight. Vhagar's snout was as wide as a cart, and Aemond leaned against it, his forehead resting gently against her scales. He murmured softly in Valyrian, his voice a soothing melody that calmed the mighty beast. The dragon's breath, warm and steady, seemed to wash over him, ruffling his silver hair. Her massive chest rose and fell with each breath, a rhythm that mirrored the ocean's tides.

From a distance, she watched, her heart pounding in her chest. This was the closest she had ever been to Vhagar, the legendary dragon whose mere presence could instill fear in the bravest of men. She had seen Vhagar from afar many times, a distant silhouette in the sky or a menacing figure on the horizon, but never this close. She hesitated, unsure if she should approach. Would she be welcomed, or would Vhagar see her as an intruder?

Summoning her courage, she stepped forward, her feet sinking into the sand as she made her way toward them. The closer she got, the more details she noticed. Vhagar's scales were not just bronze and green but interspersed with streaks of darker hues. The dragon's claws, as long as swords and just as sharp, dug into the earth, leaving deep gouges in the sand.

Aemond lifted his head slightly, his keen senses alerting him to her presence. He turned, his gaze meeting hers, a mixture of surprise and something softer in his eyes. He didn't say anything, but his eye spoke volumes. With a slight nod, he acknowledged her approach, his silent permission for her to come closer.

She took another step, her breath catching in her throat as Vhagar's massive head turned toward her. The dragon's golden eyes locked onto her, and for a moment, she felt a wave of fear. But Vhagar didn't move, only watched with an inscrutable gaze.

Tentatively, she reached out a hand, stopping just short of touching the dragon's scales. The heat radiating from Vhagar's body was almost overwhelming, a reminder of the sheer power contained within. She glanced at Aemond, seeking reassurance, and he gave a small, encouraging nod.

Gathering her courage, she placed her hand on Vhagar's snout. The scales were surprisingly smooth, warm beneath her touch. She felt a tremor run through the dragon, a rumble that seemed to resonate deep within her own chest.

"She won't harm you," Aemond said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

She took a deep breath, her voice trembling as she spoke. "Are you alright?" she asked, her eyes searching his face for any sign of the turmoil she sensed within him. The tempestuous energy that seemed to emanate from Vhagar mirrored the tension she felt in Aemond, a war-heavy restlessness that seemed to seep from the dragon into her husband.

Aemond's jaw tightened, and he looked away for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. "Hm," he replied, his tone clipped. The anger in his voice was barely contained, simmering just beneath the surface.

She took another step closer, her hand still resting on Vhagar's snout, the warmth grounding her. "I can feel it," she said softly, "...the fury. It's in Vhagar... and in you."

He met her gaze again, his eye hardening. "War does that to a man," he said bitterly. "It changes you."

She nodded slowly, her fingers tracing the smooth scales of the dragon. "It's not just the war, is it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "There's something else."

For a moment, she expected him to speak of the men they had lost, the lives extinguished under his command. As their war general and First Sword, she thought he would be burdened by the weight of their deaths. But as his eye flashed with anger, her heart sank, a knot of dread forming in her stomach.

"Aegon," he spat, the name laced with venom. "That fool rode in on Sunfyre and stole the glory that was rightfully mine. I fought, I orchestrated this victory, and he swoops in at the last moment, drunk as a street lecher, to claim it as his own."

Her breath caught in her throat, the raw bitterness in his voice slicing through her. "Aemond," she said gently, "I know you wanted to prove yourself, to show your worth. But isn't it enough that you fought bravely, that you survived? Aegon is battling for his life, but you have come out unscathed!"

His eye narrowed, the fury in his gaze burning even hotter. "It's not about survival," he snapped. "It's about being remembered, about being recognized for my strength, my skill. And he took that from me."

The realization hit her like a blow. He was not mourning the fallen soldiers or the horrors of war. His rage was fixated on Aegon, on the stolen glory. The bloodshed, the loss of life, barely seemed to register in his mind.

"Aemond," she whispered, her voice trembling. "What about the men we lost? The lives that were sacrificed?"

He looked at her, his expression hardening further. "They were necessary," he said coldly. "A means to an end."

Her heart broke at his words, the chasm between them widening. The man she had married, the man she tried to love, was consumed by ambition and a thirst for recognition to the point of it being beyond inhumane. She glanced at Vhagar, the dragon's golden eyes reflecting her own despair.

"I thought..." she began, her voice faltering. "I thought you would care about them, about the lives we lost."

Aemond's eye softened slightly, a flicker of something like regret passing over his face. "I do care," he said quietly, "but not in the way you think. My duty is to win, to secure our place. Everything else is secondary."

As Aemond's words hung heavy in the air, she felt disillusionment settle upon her heart. She couldn't bear to look at him any longer, her gaze drifting to Vhagar whose golden eyes mirrored her own despair. The dragon, magnificent and fearsome, was a reflection of Aemond's ambition, a creature driven by instinct and power, heedless of the lives trampled beneath its might.

At that moment, she understood Criston's anger. She felt a wave of sympathy for him, for having to witness the transformation of the boy that he helped raise and taught, into a man driven by ruthless determination. Was this what Ser Criston feared? Was this the monster he saw lurking beneath Aemond's exterior, waiting to be unleashed by the brutality of war?

She didn't blame him for his anger. In fact, she shared it. She was angry at Aemond - for his callousness, for his disregard of the lives lost, for his single-minded pursuit of glory. But underneath all her anger, there lingered a deep, unsettling fear.

She feared that man he was becoming. What did it say about him that he cared so little for men that fought in his family’s name?

What did it say about her that she still yearned for him all the same?

Sleep eluded her that night.

How could it possibly come, after the horrors she had witnessed? And that too, only from the training yard! Aemond had been on the war ground, surely suffering even worse torments. She longed to seek him out, to offer the solace he might need, as she had done before. But how could she?

What of the men we lost? The lives sacrificed?

They were necessary... A means to an end.

He frightened her. War was transforming her husband into a monster—she knew he was bloodthirsty like every warrior who ever graced the earth, fiery with the dragon blood that coursed through his veins. But was he truly as callous as he seemed today?

A means to an end... Did he think of Aerys that way too?

Her son, her precious boy…

No.

The darkness of the night weighed heavy on her heart, each passing minute a relentless reminder of her fears. The once comforting silence of their chambers now felt oppressive, suffocating. The flicker of candlelight cast dark figures, transforming familiar surroundings into a space that she hated to remain in.

A means to an end... Was that all they were? Was that all their son was? The questions gnawed at her soul, each one a dagger of doubt and despair. She feared for Aemond, for their future, and most of all, for Aerys - the innocent caught in the maelstrom of her husband’s making.

Sleep eluded her that night, and with it, any semblance of comfort.

Her mind spiraled, a whirlwind of anguish and dread, each thought more tortuous than the last. She could no longer bear the torment alone, her heart ached with the weight of her fears. Driven by a desperate need for answers, she found herself rushing to Aemond’s chambers in nothing but a shift and her robe, her hair unkempt, the lack of sleep and stress etched into her face.

Bursting through the door without knocking, she stopped abruptly, her breath catching in her throat. Aemond stood before her in his dark green leathers, a cloak draped over his shoulders, the flicker of the torchlight illuminating his features. He froze at the sight of her, his eye piercing straight into her soul.

“Wife, you are not dressed.”

"And you are. It is late in the night, and you are dressed. Where are you going?" she asked, her voice trembling, barely a whisper.

His silence was deafening. The tension between them was palpable, a suffocating presence in the room. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat echoing her growing despair.

"Where are you going?" she repeated, her voice breaking.

Still, he said nothing. His eyes, usually so full of fire and passion, were now cold and distant. She took a step forward, her hands trembling, reaching out to him as if trying to bridge the chasm that had grown between them.

The whorehouse. Was he going to the whorehouse again? Where else had he ever gone at this time of the night?

Her mind spiraled, a whirlwind of anguish and doubt. The thought of him seeking solace in another’s arms twisted the knife deeper into her heart. Tears welled in her eyes, her voice breaking as she spoke.

“You said the soldiers were a means to an end,” she choked out, her words trembling with emotion. “Is that all Aerys was to you too? Is that all I’ll ever be?”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his face hardening. “Do not bring Aerys into this,” he said, his voice low and menacing.

She wounded him, but she couldn’t stop herself. “How can I not?” she cried, her tears flowing freely now. “You talk about sacrifices and means to an end. Is that what we are to you? Just another sacrifice?”

His eye flashed with a mixture of anger and pain, his body tensing as if ready to strike. “You know nothing of what I endure,” he growled, his voice a dangerous whisper. “Do not presume to understand.”

“Then help me understand,” she pleaded, her voice breaking. “Tell me why you leave me here, alone with my fears.”

“Do not ever suggest,” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous, “that you and our son are anything less than everything to me.”

Her body trembled, not from fear, but from the raw intensity of his emotions. Tears streamed down her face, her voice a broken sob. “I don’t know what to believe. You’re going back to the whorehouse, and I don’t know what to think. I thought we were doing well but—”

Aemond’s silence was like a chasm between them, widening with every passing moment. She could see the struggle in his eyes, the battle between his pride and his vulnerability. But still, he said nothing.

Her heart shattered at his refusal to speak, the weight of her doubts and fears pressing down on her. “Is it the whorehouse?” she whispered, the words barely audible. “Are you seeking comfort in another’s arms again?”

His face contorted with rage, and in a swift, violent motion, he grabbed her shoulders and slammed her against the wall. The force of the impact left her breathless, the pain a sharp reminder of the distance between them.

“How dare you,” he hissed, his face inches from hers.

She trembled beneath his grip, her tears falling like rain. “What am I supposed to think?” she sobbed. “You leave me night after night, and you won’t tell me where you go, or what you do. You insist that you are true to me in your heart, but that means nothing when the servants keep seeing you slip out of the Keep and into Silk Street. How am I supposed to believe in you, when you keep pushing me away?”

Aemond’s grip tightened, his eyes blazing with fury. “I fight for us,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “Everything I do, I do for us. To protect you, to avenge our son. Do not question my loyalty.”

Her voice was a broken whisper, the pain in her heart almost unbearable. “Then why does it feel like you’re slipping away from me?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Why does it feel like I’m losing you?”

He silenced her with a kiss, fierce and desperate, pouring all his anger into that single act. His lips crashed onto hers with an intensity that took her breath away. It was not gentle, but raw and consuming, as if he were trying to convey every unsaid word, every buried emotion, through the touch of his mouth on hers. Her protests melted away, her body responding instinctively to his touch.

She felt his hands tremble as they cupped her face, his fingers threading through her hair, pulling her closer. The kiss deepened, his tongue seeking hers with a hunger that spoke of months of separation, of sleepless nights and lonely days. Her own hands reached up, clutching at his cloak, her fingers digging into the fabric as if she feared he might slip away again.

Their breaths mingled, warm and erratic, each exhale a whisper of longing and regret. She tasted the salt of her own tears on his lips, mingling with the unique taste of him - how could you miss something so much if you had very little of it to begin with?

His lips moved with a desperate urgency, as if he were trying to memorize every contour, every curve, and commit it to memory.

He was kissing her. He was kissing her. He was kissing h-

His lips on hers, her breath and his as one, their souls entwined. She felt the weight of his body pressing against hers, the solid, reassuring presence of him grounding her in the reality of the moment. The room around them faded away, leaving just the two of them, locked in a world where only their connection mattered.

Her heart pounded in her chest, the rhythm echoing the frantic beat of his. She could feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of her shift, his warmth seeping into her skin, banishing the cold that had settled in her bones during his absence.

He broke the kiss only to rest his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in the scant space between them. His eyes bore into hers, speaking volumes without a single word.

He had not kissed her since their wedding ceremony. This was the first in more than a year.

"Don't go," she whispered, her back pressed against the cold, unyielding stone of his chambers. His dark presence loomed over her, a shadow that both entrapped and intoxicated her. She was in no place to command, but this was a desperate plea, the truest command she had ever uttered. "I am.. I am a mother without a child, but tonight, let me be a wife to my husband. However you'll have me."

Her lips, soft as the brush of a feather, sought the hard line of his jaw, leaving a trail of tentative kisses. She held his head to hers, fingers tangling in his dark hair, lifting herself on tiptoes to reach him.

"Please, for once," she implored, her voice breaking. "I’m begging you, choose me."

His eyes flickered, emotions swirling within their depths. Intensity surged, a fierce storm, yet there was a hint of softness, a vulnerability that made her breath hitch. Then he laughed, a cruel, beautiful sound that sliced through her. She had always despised how his laughter made him even more captivating, even as it shattered her.

Humiliation washed over her, hot and sharp. She released him, feeling the sting of her own words. She had vowed never to beg for his love, yet here she was, laid bare and begging. And he laughed.

Her head bowed, eyes fixed on the floor, she tried to step away, her heart a heavy stone in her chest. But he was quicker, his hand shooting out to slam her back against the wall once more. The force of it rattled her, but she could not escape the vice-like grip of his fingers on her arms. His face was inches from hers, the ridges of his brow now visible to her in a way that it had never been before. His lips twitched, a predatory smile playing at the corners, and his fingers dug deeper into her flesh.

His nose brushed against hers, a tender gesture at odds with the roughness of his hold. She braced herself for more cruelty, but his words were unexpected.

"You once said you didn’t like begging for me. Shame," he murmured, his voice a deadly caress. "I quite like it when you do."

She was ensnared, caught in the dark web of his presence, and despite everything, she realized she didn't want to escape. His touch, his words, his very essence were chains she had willingly bound herself with. All she could do was surrender.

“I now find that I’m not above it if it brings me to you,” she whispered, her voice a fragile murmur lost to the wind.

He sensed her surrender, an unspoken truce formed between them. Was it exhaustion, or a sense of defeat from all they had endured? She couldn’t say. But at this moment, she knew where she stood. She needed him. She had no one else, and she needed him to be there for her, with her. Pathetic, really. The cost of them finally seeing eye to eye was too high, but she couldn't help but crave it all the same. She sought the same comfort he did. It felt heavy, but a bond forged by a loss as monumental as theirs had to be, surely?

His grip softened, the rigid tension in his body easing. Sensing his unspoken assent, she moved her hands to the clasp of his cloak, her fingers trembling as she unclipped it one by one. She nudged him forward as she pushed it off, watching the thick cloth fall to the floor with a soft thud.

In a swift, almost predatory movement, he pushed her onto the vanity near them, his lips crashing down onto hers with a fervent passion that stole her breath away. His kiss was searing, consuming, filled with a desperate urgency that came with not having each other as long as they hadn’t. He moved from her lips to her neck, his hands bunching up her shift with a roughness that sent shivers down her spine. He hauled her thighs forward, spreading her legs wide, and stood between them, his hardness pressing against her clothed cunt as she perched precariously on the edge of the table. His lips marked her skin, each bite and suckle sending jolts of pleasure and pain that mingled until she felt dizzy with desire.

She wrapped her arms around him, her fingers digging into the leather of his back, holding on as if he were her anchor in a storm. A moan escaped her lips when his thumb pressed against her damp smallclothes, a wicked smile curving his mouth in response. The smallclothes were swiftly discarded, his thumb tracing the slick line of her slit before he plunged a long finger into her warmth. She gasped at the sudden intrusion, her body arching into him. It had been so long since she’d felt him.

Her eyes fluttered closed, but his voice, rough and commanding, pulled her back. “Look at me,” he ordered, his tone a dark promise.

Her gaze locked onto his, the intensity of his stare holding her captive as his fingers pumped in and out of her. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure crashing through her, building until she thought she might shatter. Her world narrowed to the man before her, his touch, his presence, his power over her.

His fingers worked her expertly, his thumb circling her pearl as he added another finger, stretching her, filling her. She could feel the coil tightening in her core, the pressure mounting as he brought her closer and closer to the edge. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, her nails digging into his shoulders as she held on for dear life.

“Issa ābrazȳrys,” he growled. His voice a low rumble that sent a thrill through her. My wife.

He thrust harder, faster, his lips capturing hers in a bruising kiss as he drove her over the edge. Aemond tasted the copper tang of blood blooming from her lips from his attention and was certain he was going to lose all control. She came undone around his fingers, her body shattering in a blinding wave of pleasure. Her eyes never left his, her gaze locked onto his as she fell apart, her climax ripping through her with an intensity that left her trembling in its wake.

He held her through it, his fingers slowing but never stopping, prolonging her pleasure until she was spent, her body limp and sated in his arms. As the last tremors subsided, he pulled his fingers from her, bringing them to his lips and tasting her essence with a satisfied smirk.

She was his, utterly and completely, and in that moment, she knew she would never be free of him. Nor did she want to be. It scared her, but she could not help herself.

Her lord husband. Hers, hers, hers, h-

“Gevie.” Beautiful.

“What?” she asked, her voice breathless and filled with anticipation.

He responded with a firm squeeze of her hips, urging her to remove his jerkin and undershirt. Her fingers trembled with excitement and desire as she worked at the fastenings, feeling the heat radiating from his body. She wobbled slightly as he lowered her to stand, catching the smirk on his face as he steadied her. The look in his eye, dark and predatory, sent a thrill through her. His touch was both gentle and commanding, a stark contrast that made her knees weak.

Her robe and shift followed quickly, sliding from her shoulders in a soft whisper of fabric. She stood before him, exposed and vulnerable, watching his single eye darken with raw desire as her breasts spilled free. The intensity of his gaze made her shiver, a delicious anticipation coiling low in her belly.

This time, she was the one who initiated the kiss, her lips seeking him with a desperate hunger. She pressed herself against him, reveling in the sensation of his bare skin against hers, his muscles taut and unyielding beneath her fingers. His hands roamed her body with a possessive urgency, gripping and kneading her flesh as if he couldn’t get enough of her.

He guided her gently backwards, his movements controlled and purposeful. The back of her knees hit the edge of the bed, and she let out a soft gasp as he laid her down, the plush, satin-chased mattress cushioning her fall. She bounced slightly, her hair fanning out around her head, and looked up at him with wide, expectant eyes. Her gaze flickered to his eyepatch, a question forming in her mind, but she made no move to remove it.

His growl, low and primal, reverberated through her, sending a shiver down her spine. His hands moved to her thighs, spreading them wide, exposing her to his heated gaze. He lowered himself over her, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along her neck and collarbone. She arched beneath him, her nails digging into his back, leaving red marks in their wake.

“Gevie,” he whispered against her ear, the word a rough caress that sent a jolt of desire straight to her core.

His fingers found her entrance, teasing and testing, before he thrust his hardened cock in her with a single, powerful stroke. She cried out, a mix of pleasure and pain, her body stretching to accommodate him. He set a relentless pace, each thrust driving her higher, pushing her closer to the edge of oblivion.

Her hands clung to him, nails scraping down his back, drawing blood. She bit down on his shoulder, sucking hard enough to bruise, marking him as hers. He responded with a harsh slap to her thigh, the sting adding to the heat between them. His hand then moved to her breast, squeezing and kneading, his mouth descending to capture a nipple.

“A mother without a child,” she had once said. He remembered those words as he let go of her leaking breast and thrust into her with renewed vigor. Her second climax came swiftly, his fingers working her to pleasure, rubbing in tight circles as he pounded into her. She shattered around him, her body convulsing, her cries filling the room.

Even as she came undone, he didn’t stop. He continued to thrust, using her body to chase his own release. She clung to him, her body spent, her mind a whirl of incoherent thoughts. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, as he neared his peak. His movements became erratic, desperate.

“I’ll make your belly round with my heir again,” he murmured, his voice strained. “I want to see you dripping with my seed.”

She could only moan in response, the thought of another child not something she had entertained - not so soon after Aerys. But in that moment, with him inside her, it was all she could think about. He thrust one final time, burying himself deep inside her as he came, his release filling her, marking her as his.

Another child. Another child. Another-

The words echoed in her mind as she lay there, sated and spent before she fell asleep in his chambers for the very first time.

He was back at the Keep that fateful night, the acrid smell of blood thick in the air, mixed with the metallic tang of fear and sorrow. He pushed open the door to Aerys' room, his heart pounding in his chest. The once pristine nursery was a scene of unimaginable carnage.

Blood smeared the carpet in grotesque patterns, splattered as if by some violent, monstrous force. It pooled on the floor, thick and dark, congealing around the lifeless body of his son. Aerys' headless form lay cradled in the arms of his wife, her wails piercing the oppressive silence. Her face was one anguish, her eyes red and swollen from relentless tears.

She was screaming, but he couldn’t hear her - only the ringing in his ears.

Aemond's legs felt like lead as he stumbled forward, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “No,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “No, no, no…” His eyes were drawn to the small, severed head lying a few feet away, Aerys' lifeless eyes staring up at him with a silent accusation that pierced at him.

The scene shifted violently, and he was atop Vhagar, the ancient dragon roaring beneath him. They were in the skies, the cold wind and rain biting at his skin. Below, he saw the small figure of Lucerys Velaryon, desperately trying to evade him. The storm raged around them, but nothing could drown out the roar of Vhagar as she lunged, her massive jaws closing around the boy and his dragon.

“No, Vhagar! No!” Aemond screamed, though his voice was swallowed by the wind. He watched in horror as Vhagar's teeth tore through dragon and rider alike, the blood raining down upon the stormy sea. The boy's scream echoed in his mind, a sound that would haunt him forever.

The scene shifted again, and he was back at the Keep. This time, he saw Aegon, battered and broken, lying on the stone floor. Aemond’s chest tightened with a mixture of anger and regret. He had warned Aegon, advised him to stay put, to avoid the fight.

“Why didn’t you listen?” Aemond’s voice trembled with rage and sorrow. “I wouldn’t have had to burn you if you stayed home, brother. If you learnt to respect me, to fear me!”

In his nightmare, Aegon's eyes opened, filled with a pain that mirrored Aemond’s own. “This is your fault,” Aegon whispered, burnt beyond recognition, his voice a hollow echo. “All of it. You started it!”

The nightmare repeated in a relentless loop. Aerys' bloodied room, Vhagar's deadly bite, Aegon's broken body. The guilt and horror twisted inside him, a never-ending torment.

Suddenly, amidst the chaos, a warm sensation began to seep into his consciousness. It started faintly, then grew stronger, more insistent. A vision of his wife appeared before him, holding their son, Aerys, who was smiling and content. Her eyes, filled with love and concern - he has seen concern on her face, but she looks much more beautiful in love with him, he decided - reached out to him.

“I'm here, it's me. Just me, husband. Please, come back to me.”

Her words pierced through the fog of his nightmare, anchoring him. He kept hearing it, over and over, until he realized it wasn’t just a dream. The warmth he felt was real. Her touch, her voice, were pulling him back from the brink.

His wife had stayed to share his bed.

Aemond’s eyes snapped open, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was disoriented, the remnants of his nightmare still clinging to him. He heard her voice again, soft and soothing, as she held him close.

“I'm here, it's me. Just me, husband. Please, come back to me.”

He felt her arms around him, her hand moving to his head, stroking his hair. He could still hear her voice, the same words repeated like a prayer, grounding him in reality. Aemond buried his face against her breast, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his nightmare. She rocked him gently, her touch a balm to his tormented mind.

After what seemed like hours, he began to calm down, his breathing evening out. She continued to hold him, kissing his head, her presence a constant reassurance. Aemond’s hand moved instinctively to her breast, seeking the comfort of her body. He wrapped his arm around her, clinging to her like a lifeline, squeezing her so tight like she’d slip through his fingers. When his weight became too much for her to bear, she gently lifted his head, making him look into her eyes. She kissed his forehead, her touch tender and reassuring.

This time, she reached up and unclasped his eyepatch with no hesitation.

Does she see what everyone sees? Does he terrify her?

She adjusted herself, crossing her legs to allow him to rest his head upon her thigh. She began to massage his scalp, her fingers working through his hair with a soothing rhythm.

No signs of terror. Or was she indifferent?

As he lay there, her touch grounding him, Aemond’s mind replayed the words he had uttered in his nightmare.

“I wouldn’t have had to burn you if you stayed home, brother.”

The realization hit him like a blow. In his delirium, he had revealed a truth he had kept hidden. Would she have him still?

She was worried. The entire night and everyday forward, she worried about the man her husband had become.

He’d attacked his own brother at Rook’s Rest.

And yet when he took her once more the same night, she didn’t want to push him away.

What’s a cold-blooded killer to a simple woman who only wants to be held in her husband’s arms?

“I forgive you.”

He stood by the windows, the moonlight spilling over his form, highlighting the sharp angles of his face. His hair, pale as starlight, shimmered in the dim light, and he seemed lost in thought, gazing out at the night sky.

She paused, taking a moment to observe him. Two days had passed since their night together, and in that brief span, something had shifted between them. It wasn’t love, no - but a deeper understanding, a mutual respect that had begun to root itself in their marriage. They were not affectionate, no tender kisses or whispered endearments passed between them. But there was a newfound ease in their interactions, a subtle partnership that had grown stronger in its quiet way.

He turned, sensing her presence, and their eyes met. She had come to understand his character, the motivations that drove him, and the burdens he carried. She wouldn’t ever justify any of it, not when the price was too steep. But it was a time of war, and she had to see everything around her differently now.

In her heart, she pondered their relationship, this delicate bond. They were equals, a balance of strengths and weaknesses, each compensating for the other. In Aemond, she saw a man driven by a relentless need to prove himself, to carve out a legacy that would be remembered. He was formidable, fierce, yet there was a loneliness to him, a void that no amount of ambition could fill.

They never addressed what he’d divulged to her in his nightmare-addled hours, how he’d treated his own brother as collateral damage. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a silent agreement to support his ambitions without question. It was this unvoiced pact that had solidified their marriage, making it stronger in its own peculiar way. She admired his cunning, his strategic mind, and in return, she offered her own strengths, her own form of loyalty that was unwavering.

What else was she to do? She couldn’t leave him for fear of her life, but she could choose to be useful to him in their time together. She could try.

Besides, is this not what she wanted?

No, she did not want a man who tried to bathe his own brother in dragonfire, she thought. But he has been good to her since Aerys’ death, so good…

As she looked at him now, she saw not just her husband, but her partner. They were two sides of the same coin, bound by a common goal, driven by a shared determination.

To survive, to thrive. They might never be lovers in the traditional sense, but they had forged something perhaps more enduring.

She tilted her head up in acknowledgement, but then she noticed what he held in his hands.

The iron and ruby crown of Aegon the Conqueror. His brother’s crown.

A quick and cutting reminder of what he’d done. A crown that his brother had been anointed with, now in her husband’s nimble fingers. He let the crown dangle from one hand as he reached out to her with the other, so she came to him, her steps uneasy but surer than ever.

He lifted the crown up to her bosom, gesturing for her to take it - so take it she did.

The weight of Aegon the Conqueror's crown was the first thing she noticed - it was heavier than she had imagined. As her fingers traced the intricate designs, she marveled at the craftsmanship that had gone into creating this legendary symbol of Targaryen rule.

The crown was a perfect mix of beauty and menace, reflecting the dual nature of its wearers. The metal was cool to the touch, smooth yet deceptively heavy. The rubies caught the firelight and seemed to burn with a fire of their own. The crown's inner band was lined with rich, black velvet, worn smooth by the many heads it had adorned. She ran her fingers along the lining, feeling the faint indentations left by those who had worn it before her, from Aegon himself to the rulers who had followed in his wake.

Now, her own husband was empowered by the power this crown symbolized.

With a steady breath, she stood on her toes, lifting the crown higher. Aemond lowered his head slightly, allowing her to place the crown upon his brow. The moment was charged with tension, the air thick. As she settled the crown onto his head, it fit as if it had been made for him, the rubies gleaming against his silver hair.

Her hands lingered for a moment, adjusting the crown until it sat perfectly. She stepped back, her eyes never leaving his as he turned to the mirror on his vanity. She stood right by his side, catching his gaze in their reflections.

Aemond straightened, the crown now firmly on his brow, and he looked every inch the king he aspired to be. The shadows in the room seemed to recede, and for a moment, the firelight cast a golden halo around him.

“Looks better on me than it ever did on him,” Aemond said, his voice low and edged with a bitter satisfaction, the statement hanging heavy in the air.

The shock of his words registered in a flicker of her eyes, a tightening of her lips, but it was there, palpable between them. Sensing her reaction, he squeezed her hip, his touch possessive, as if to anchor her to him.

“Do you not agree, wife?” he pressed, his tone challenging, almost playful but with an undercurrent of something darker. His words passed like heat through her ear as he bent down onto her shoulder to utter them, in heavy contrast to the coolness of the crown that now kissed her skin.

“You mustn’t say such things,” she replied, her voice a careful blend of caution and reprimand.

“‘Tis the truth, is it not?” he insisted, his gaze unwavering, boring into hers, seeking affirmation or defiance.

“I will not answer that question,” she said firmly, her tone brokering no argument.

Aemond’s eyes flashed, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. “I wear it better than the King,” he spat, the last word laden with contempt.

She met his eyes in the mirror, her reflection as resolute as her stance. “You are my lord husband, the Prince Regent. It is not my place to disagree,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, a clear indication of her refusal to partake in a conversation that bordered dangerously on treason.

“Perhaps I should commission a crown for you. A queen to stand by me,” he mused, a dangerous glint in his eye, his hand sliding from her hip to the small of her back, pulling her closer.

Her mind raced, a cold dread seeping into her thoughts. If they were to be the King and Queen, then half his family would have to be dead. Aemond was not above hurting Aegon - he’s already done it once. No, no, no—

In a sudden and decisive moment, she broke away from his grasp, her skirts swishing as she whirled around. The silk and velvet fabric rustled in the heavy silence. She reached up and took the crown from his head, her hands steady despite the tumult in her mind. She set it on the vanity with deliberate care, the metal clinking softly against the polished wood.

Aemond’s smirk deepened at her defiance, a spark of amusement in his eyes. He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of her hair behind her ear, his touch lingering on her cheek. “You’ve never been a woman of growth then?” he challenged, his voice a low murmur, his breath warm against her skin.

“Only that which comes without bloodshed,” she retorted, her voice steady, though her heart pounded in her chest.

“Hm,” he hummed, his expression inscrutable as he took a step back, giving her space but never breaking eye contact.

The room was thick with tension, the crown now a silent witness to their exchange. As she looked at him, she saw not just the ambition that drove him but the danger that lurked beneath.

His ambition was a fire, one that could either warm him or consume him entirely.

In that moment, she knew that their survival depended not just on their unity but on her ability to temper his desires. She would stand by him, support him, but she would also be the voice of caution, the anchor that kept them from drifting into chaos.

The tension in the room ebbed. "When do you march to Harrenhal?" she asked softly, her fingers deftly working the fastenings of his tunic so she can undress him for bed.

"In a fortnight," Aemond replied, his voice steady. "Cole and I will amass the troops needed by then." He lifted his arms slightly, allowing her to pull the tunic over his head. The fabric rustled as it fell to the floor, leaving him bare from the waist up.

Her movements were precise and practiced as she helped him undress. She removed his eyepatch too, revealing the sapphire set in his empty socket. This act, once so charged with tension, had become almost inconsequential - their marriage has grown, she thought.

As she moved to unlace her own dress, Aemond stepped behind her, his fingers skillfully undoing the laces of her bodice. "My mother does not speak much to me anymore," he said quietly, his breath warm against the nape of her neck. "I believe she is jealous of my authority - power that she would have liked to wield in Aegon's stead, if the council hadn't chosen me."

She listened in silence, feeling the weight of his words as he undid the last lace. She shrugged off the dress, letting it pool around her feet before stepping out of it. "Your mother loves you," she said, her voice gentle yet firm. "But the burden of power is heavy, and it changes people."

Aemond’s hands lingered on her shoulders for a moment before he stepped back, allowing her to put on her shift. She moved to the vanity, removing the pins from her hair and letting it fall in loose waves around her shoulders. She caught his reflection in the mirror, already under the sheets, watching her with an intensity that made her heart quicken.

When she turned to join him in bed, the faint firelight cast a soft glow over their room. Aemond's gaze followed her every movement and she slipped under the covers, the warmth of his body a welcome contrast to the cool air of the chamber.

They lay facing each other, the silence between them comfortable. She reached out, her fingers tracing the contours of his face, feeling the roughness of his scar and the smoothness of his skin.

Aemond's hand moved to her forehead, brushing away a stray lock of hair before trailing down the side of her face, his touch light and deliberate. "The war progresses," he began, his fingers following a slow, deliberate path down her neck to her collarbone. "Our troops are amassing strength, and Vhagar has had her rest."

She gasped softly as his hand moved lower, his thumb brushing over her breast, lingering there as he spoke. "The Small Council debates strategy for Harrenhal," he continued, his voice a low rumble, "and I've been training harder than ever."

“Of course you have.”

His hand moved to the other breast, cupping it gently, his thumb circling the nipple until it hardened under his touch. She moaned softly, her breath catching as she watched his hand in her line of sight, mesmerized by his touch and his words.

"We will strike with precision and force," Aemond said, his hand sliding further down her body, grazing her ribs and stomach. "Cole believes we can take them by surprise."

His hand slipped under her shift, his fingers finding her wet and wanting. She gasped, her hips arching toward his touch, her need palpable. "Aemond," she breathed, her voice a mix of plea and desire.

He wasted no time, his body moving to hover over hers. His lips followed the path his hand had taken, leaving a trail of fiery hot kisses from her neck to her breasts, each kiss punctuated by his words. "We will defeat them," he murmured against her skin, his lips closing around a clothed nipple, sucking gently before continuing downward. "We will take Harrenhal."

Her hands gripped the sheets, her knuckles white with effort, but he took one hand and guided it to him. He moved lower, his kisses searing a path down her stomach as he pushed her shift up, his tongue dipping into her navel. "Husband, please," she moaned, her body trembling with anticipation.

He descended further, his lips finally reaching her cunt. He licked a long, slow line from her entrance to her pearl, his tongue swirling around the sensitive nub before sucking it gently. She cried out, her fingers tightening in his hair, her hips bucking against his mouth.

His tongue worked her with a practiced skill, flicking and swirling, his lips sucking and tugging. "So wet for me," he murmured between licks, his voice sending shivers down her spine.

She moaned louder, her body writhing under his touch, her need building with every flick of his tongue. "Aemond," she gasped, "I'm going to—”

"Sīr gevie." So beautiful.

His words pushed her over the edge, her body tensing as she came undone beneath him. She cried out, her fingers clutching his hair, her body shaking with the force of her peak. He lapped at her pleasure through her climax, drawing out every last wave of pleasure until she lay spent and trembling.

When she finally stilled, he kissed his way back up her body, his lips lingering on her breasts, his tongue flicking over her nipples one last time. He settled beside her, his head nestled between her breasts, his hand resting possessively on her hip.

She offered to return the favor, her hand trailing down his chest, but he stopped her gently. "Not tonight," he said softly, his voice a soothing balm as he buried himself into her chest as tightly as he could. His breath warm against her skin, he calmed down at the steady fall and rise of her chest. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close.

The vision of the Conqueror’s crown on his desk - gleaming, taunting, terrifying - was the last thing she saw before she closed her eyes and let sleep take her.

Aemond found himself weighed down by emotions that he neither anticipated nor fully understood. This newfound closeness with his wife was a double-edged sword, cutting through his well-guarded defenses. The loss of their son had forged a bond between them, a shared grief that brought them closer in ways he couldn't have predicted. Yet, he felt an undercurrent of unease.

His mind, ever analytical and cautious, wrestled with the implications of their growing connection. The admission of his near-fratricidal thoughts should have been a cause for her to recoil, to distance herself from him. Instead, she had not only forgiven him but had also invited him into her bed, an act of trust that both warmed and unnerved him.

Why? Why? Why?

Aemond's wariness stemmed from the unfamiliarity of it all. Affections had always been something to grasp at. His life had been a series of calculated moves, a constant struggle for power and control. But now, he found himself speaking truths he had never intended to share, revealing parts of his soul he had long kept hidden. It annoyed him, this loss of control. It annoyed him how easily she could draw out his secrets, how her presence softened the edges of his guarded heart.

She’s never proven herself to be anything but faithful, his wife. Even when he was less than good to her, she did her duty like the Princess she married him to be.

Yet, beneath the irritation and paranoia, there was a deeper, more profound desire. He wanted this connection, this closeness that terrified him. He yearned for the comfort of her touch, the solace of her understanding. It was a maddening paradox: the need to protect himself clashing with the desire to surrender to her completely.

This was not like with Sylvi, whom he had not gone to see since his wife had willingly come to him that fateful night. Here, it was a partnership of equals. Neither of them knew where it was taking them, no experienced hand to guide them.

He’d begun fucking her each night too, and he wondered how long it’d be before her womb quickened with his child. They needed an heir, and he needed to give her a child again.

He’d wronged her the first time, he won’t do it again.

Aemond sat on a chair beside the hearth, with her sitting at his feet with her embroidery in a rare moment of undisturbed rest. His fingers dug into her scalp in a calming manner, though it was more an effort to calm himself than her.

Regency. The word lingered in Aemond's mind, a whisper of power and responsibility. He would approach it with an iron fist. He would not be made a fool of, not like Aegon. His thoughts of being better than his brother consumed him, a fire that burned with fierce determination. He would rule justly, with strength and decisiveness. No one would dare challenge his authority or question his decisions. He would be a leader worthy of his name, a ruler who commanded respect and fear in equal measure.

And he would have to do it all in his brother’s name.

He looked down at his wife, her presence grounding him in the reality of the moment. His fingers moved gently, tracing the contours of her scalp, feeling the softness of her hair. This simple act of touch was a rare comfort for him, a connection that soothed the tumultuous thoughts swirling in his mind.

“He has bastard children, you know?” he said abruptly, breaking the silence.

“Yes?” she replied softly, her eyes focused on her embroidery.

“He used to watch them fight.”

“Fight?” she echoed, her voice tinged with curiosity.

“Silver-haired baseborn babes, thrown into fighting pits to satiate the peculiar needs of the likes of him,” Aemond continued, his tone hardening with disgust. “I’ve had to pull him back to the castle many times after his outings to these places. It is depraved. He… is depraved and a fool. He dishonors Helaena and their children, and then he goes on to make a mockery of his mistakes by watching them scratch and bite at each other, sometimes even until death.”

She then looked up at him, her fingers hovering over his knee in patterns he could not see, her embroidery forgotten. Her eyes searched his, a quiet intensity in her gaze.

“Do you have any baseborn children?” she asked, her voice calm but probing.

“I would not sully myself as such,” he responded sharply, a flicker of anger igniting in his chest.

“You used to frequent the whorehouse too. It would not be completely out of the question.”

Her words stung, and he thought of how he’d always made Sylvi take moon tea after their trysts, how careful he had been. “None of them are worthy of a child born of Valyrian seed… of dragonfire.”

“And I was?” She referred to her time as a mother in the past tense, and it made him bristle.

“You are my wife. Would you be so stupid as to keep yourself on level with a commonborn whore?”

“They used to warm your bed the same way I do.”

“It was never the same,” he snapped, his voice cold and final. A long silence followed, the weight of their conversation hanging heavy in the air.

She then spoke again, her voice softer. “It’s good that you don’t have any illegitimate children. Say what you will about them, but they are simply babes. Born through no fault of their own. If anything, it is not the children that are illegitimate, but the fathers that seed them.”

If anything, it is not the children that are illegitimate, but the fathers that seed them. Her words echoed in his mind, striking a chord deep within him. He was taken aback by the weight of her statement, the truth that lay beneath her gentle rebuke.

“Are you calling the King illegitimate, wife?” he asked, his tone challenging.

“I will admit to no such thing,” she said, her voice steady and unwavering with a playful smile.

Minx.

She then stood, the movement breaking the tension that had settled between them. He watched her, waiting for her to help undress him for bed, but she stopped in front of him, her toes shuffling anxiously. He could see the uncertainty in her eyes, the hesitation that held her back.

“Out with it, wife,” he commanded, his voice softer now, a hint of concern creeping into his tone.

“I think I may be with child again. I am not sure, but my blood is late and… I simply feel it. It is too early. Anything could happen, but I did not want to keep it from you. Not now, not in a time of war when things are uncertain.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Aemond felt the world pause. He stared at her, the implications of her revelation sinking in slowly, like a ship slipping beneath the waves. He was not visibly overjoyed, but he hoped she saw his calmness in the way he let his hand rest on her now-flat belly, in the way his eye crinkled and his jaw slackened.

Aerys, Aerys, Aerys.

The name echoed in his mind, a reminder of their shared loss, a shadow that still haunted them. He shared her caution, so he tried to not get his hopes up until she carried the child to term, birthed it, and then watched it grow. His heart thudded in his chest.

“Good,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Mirrī zaldrīzes syt issa naejot gaomagon paktot ondoso.” A little dragon for me to do right by.

He let his hand linger on her belly. His mind wandered to the possibilities, the future they could have. A child, their child, born from both their strengths and their shared grief. He wanted to prove that he could be a better father, a better husband.

He wanted her to think better of him. It was a fragile thing, this warmth they had built – delicate and easily shattered, but it was there.

A few days later, she kept her eyes glued to him as he began his trip to Harrenhal. She only turned briefly to assess all that was happening around her as the troops readied themselves, and he wondered about how much of this was new to her; how much of the world she’d actually seen.

He then remembered Aerys, and that she’d spent most of their marriage in pain, heartache and horror.

Perhaps she’d seen enough.

MASTERLIST

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xomakara · 3 months ago

Text

Movie Night Mischief

SUMMARY | You go on tour with your best friends, Mark and Jaemin. You're watching a movie with them one night, when things take an unexpected turn.

PAIRINGS | Mark x Reader x Jaemin

RATING | Mature, NSFW, EXPLICIT, MDNI, 18+

GENRE | idol!Mark, idol!Jaemin, non-idol!Reader, smut, threesome

CONTENT/WARNINGS | profanity/strong language, threesome, female masturbation, fingering, blowjobs, double penetrative sex (vaginal/anal), unprotective sex, dirty talk, praising, pet names, creampies

LENGTH | 5,194 words

TAGLIST | @shuadotcom

NETWORKS | @k-vanity @ksmutsociety

AUTHOR’S NOTE | I was inspired to write this because of this video. I would have happily sat my ass down lol. MarkMin has been gracing my feed and I'm going absolutely feral over them. Thank you @shadowkoo for the beautiful banner! I'm absolutely in love with it. I hope you all love this fic~ 💚

"Where am I supposed to sit?" you asked, staring down at your two best friends.

Mark and Jaemin looked up at you standing in front of them with a bowl of popcorn. The boys, seemingly forgetting you, exchanged a look. When you were asked to join NCT Dream on tour for TDS3, you jumped at the chance to be a part of the staff, though they were asking a lot more of you than you had originally agreed. All the members had grown close to you throughout your time working as a stylist throughout the years and you became close friends with Mark and Jaemin especially.

And though you knew that relationships could cause problems, not everyone could say the same and your crush on both of them had not gone unnoticed, unfortunately. If Jeno had picked up on it then, the rest had as well, seeing that Haechan teased you the most about your secret crushes. The boys were playing it like they didn't know, but it was very apparent they knew and used any and every moment to torment you. But you weren't sure if Mark and Jaemin knew about your crush on either of them.

"What do you think? Just sit here," Jaemin gestured for you to go ahead and take the place between the two as he patted a little. "Go on, don't make us stop our movie marathon."

With a small scoff, you decided to squeeze into the tiny spot between them. You rolled your eyes, while popping the pieces of popcorn into your mouth. Mark snickered before stretching his arm along the back of the couch so that it could be comfortably placed around your shoulders. Your friend nuzzled himself a bit closer into you until you could feel the heat from his body.

"Ah... this is much better," Jaemin mumbled to no one in particular. You ignored him, as he stretched his arm in the other direction, draping his body even closer. Now you were smothered by both boys and, in turn, the musky, familiar scent of them.

Mark hummed as well as he started eating his own popcorn, and watched the film in front of the television. "Right?"

You rolled your eyes, a small smile on your lips. "What are we watching anyway?"

Mark shrugged. "Honestly, no clue."

"Jaem?" you turned to Jaemin on your left.

The male sighed, "No idea."

"Great," You deadpanned, "I should just leave."

Jaemin shook his head, "Oh no, no... if we're watching, so are you. Now sit your ass down."

He yanked you back down on the couch and you crossed your arms across your chest. "I should have gone to hang out with Jeno and Haechan instead of spending my time with y'all."

"Excuse you," Jaemin laughed. "You know you'd rather be here with us. Right, Mark?"

"And here we thought you were our best friend!" Mark faked shock, widening his eyes, and opening his mouth with fake hurt.

You shoved the bucket of popcorn in front of his face. "Shut up, and just eat the popcorn."

Mark continued to chomp down the popped kernels and you tried your best not to roll your eyes again, the soft movie sounds humming from the TV. You peeked to see what Jaemin was up to. His eyes were glued on the movie, his fingers picking up a single kernel from the bowl that sat on your thighs and popping it into his mouth. You weren't aware of the soft thumps inside your chest at the simple, innocent, action he had done. Your eyes flickered to his lips that parted with each bite of the snack, the movement almost teasing. He didn't even spare a glance in your direction and you felt that was a good thing.

Mark reached over to pick up a single piece of popcorn too. His hand briefly rested on top of your thigh when he brought it back over. It was a completely accidental and friendly gesture but somehow, you wished that it meant a little more than a harmless, kind movement. His hand had been soft on top of your knee and then slowly crawled up a bit higher than his initial resting place. Your breathing quickened slightly and you bit on your lower lip, glancing at him from your periphery.

Mark's eyes were on the television but his fingers drummed against the spot on your bare leg where your shorts had ridden up a bit from the position you were in. His thumb tickled the area around the skin and he casually placed a single kernel onto his waiting tongue. Your lips were dry, so you ran your tongue across them to add some moisture. He sucked his thumb into his mouth briefly, making sure the digit was cleaned of any salt he hadn't eaten.

With your eyes trained on the TV, you brought a popcorn piece into your mouth and chewed it thoroughly. There was no need to overthink your feelings for Mark and Jaemin. These feelings would die off in no time.

Little did you know they were gonna be harder to hide.

The movie you were watching started to become a bit risqué. There was a sex scene involved and suddenly you were the one shifting uncomfortably. What was even the name of the movie they had chosen again? You couldn't recall. But apparently, Mark couldn't either, his face scrunching a bit at the scene playing out in front of him.

Jaemin reached over to the bowl and grabbed another piece. You peeked at his side profile and sighed when you knew he was fully engulfed into the movie. Then your attention shifted over to Mark. His brows knitted and he was still chewing the popcorn, eyes watching the TV intently. If you stared hard enough, you could see the subtle flush along his face.

The sound of moaning soon reached your ears and your skin started prickling with nervousness. The sex scenes should not affect you this way—even though it had been a long time since you had experienced an orgasm or someone had fucked you. In fact, you wanted one of those right now. Your stomach was coiling, hot and heavy, as you got hot and bothered from the scene. The actor's heavy panting rang clearly in your ears, causing your mind to think lewd thoughts. You shuffled and you were already uncomfortable under their gaze, your breathing coming out a little heavier than normal.

"You good there, Y/N?" The low, raspy voice of Mark entered your hearing. You cleared your throat and slowly nodded, unable to look into his eyes.

"I'm fine," you squeaked. There was a subtle nod of your head. Mark simply let it go as he kept his eyes in front and you released a breath you didn't know you were holding. With another attempt to look forward, the erotic visuals filled your eyes. Your teeth sank into your bottom lip when the loud groans vibrated throughout the room.

Oh how badly you wished one of them was kissing along the length of your neck, grazing the delicate skin with their teeth and leaving possessive marks on it. Your pulse picked up at the thought, heart pounding hard and fast against your chest as you could feel something pooling in the pit of your stomach.

Jaemin and Mark were surely doing no better.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Mark subtly adjusting the semi-hard-on forming in his pants. He cursed softly under his breath, the neediness in his voice loud and clear and fuck, if that didn't get you dripping wetter. Jaemin was seemingly worse because you could actually see the tent in his sweats—it wasn't huge but it was just enough to know he was somewhat aroused by this scene. His bottom lip trapped between his teeth, dark eyes intensely focused on the film.

The moaning just increased from the actors. That sound plus the slick sounds of cock and pussy hitting each other was too much. God, you wanted them. They were so fucking handsome, perfect in every way and their ethereal voices made you quiver with want. The sensation between your legs was making the rational thoughts in your head start to dissipate and was clouded with the need to touch Mark, to kiss Mark, to touch Jaemin, to kiss Jaemin.

So, when one of the characters ended the sex scene by moaning the name of their partner loudly, you couldn't hold it anymore. You grabbed onto one of their sleeves and pulled. Mark and Jaemin broke from their lustrous state and they met your flushed and flustered state.

"Fuck me, please. Right now," your words were breathy, rushed and impatient as your chest rapidly heaved from the pent up frustration and arousal coursing through your body. Your knuckles tightened their grip on their shirt, pulling them closer to you as their brows twitched upwards with lust. "I need one of you, right now."

Without hesitation, Jaemin leaned in and captured your lips in a searing kiss while Mark maneuvered his face and mouth next to your ear to let his hot breath hit the delicate skin and whisper sinfully lewd and naughty thoughts into your ears. He began by nibbling your earlobe before planting soft kisses. Then he grazed along the shell with his tongue and the side of his mouth.

The kiss Jaemin and you were sharing was wild with just pure unadulterated lust. You slid your fingers into the hair at the base of his skull, lightly gripping it to bring him closer. Both of your heads shifted and tilted with each lick and bite. Occasionally your lips would detach for a few seconds so you could both catch your breaths. Mark turned your head towards him and captured your lips in his to break yours and Jaemin's connection. It was a warm embrace at first before Jaemin attached his wet and swollen lips onto your neck, licking and sucking with the utmost intent to mark.

Mark's and your kisses were sloppy, wet and rough. The nipping of your bottom lips, the suckling on your tongue and the slurring moans and groans echoed into the shared space of the hotel room. After what seemed to last an eternity, the three of you pulled apart and caught your breath.

"Y/N…" Mark spoke into your ear. Your name sent goosebumps all over your skin as his husky voice reverberated in your hearing. "Baby girl, you know this will change things between the three of us, right? It won't just stop at today."

The palm of his hand slid along your bare skin and it caused the hairs on your skin to stand. He had gotten underneath your t-shirt, thumbing the edge of your shorts, ready to dip it in. He needed some form of consent—as did Jaemin who stared deeply into your eyes, and sucked a red mark on the exposed skin above your t-shirt collar, rubbing soothing circles to calm your nerves.

This was what you wanted—to be touched, kissed, worshipped, by these two. Mark and Jaemin wouldn't do this unless you asked for it. And the thing is, you really did want this. To be touched by the both of them, their hands roaming all over, and giving you so much pleasure it was just enough for a whole week's worth of work.

You leaned back on Mark, head thrown over his shoulder to reach his waiting lips with yours. A hand tugged at Jaemin's neck so you could look straight at him when you agreed.

"I do... now do whatever the hell you want to me," you agreed, your voice barely a whisper.

"Wanna get your sweet and pretty little ass up on the bed and put on a show for us? We wanna see you play with that pretty pussy for us. Put those beautiful fingers inside that soaking and leaking cunt of yours," Jaemin whispered.

Fuck. That was hot.

You shuddered as you stood up and removed the clothes you were wearing. Then you slowly moved up onto the bed until you were propped on your elbows in the center, looking at Mark and Jaemin with a needy yet playful gaze.

"We want to watch you finger that sweet, juicy cunt. Please, baby," Jaemin requested in his usual honey tone. But it was different, lower, darker and raspier and holy shit if that didn't light the fire of horniness all over in you. You would say Mark and Jaemin could make the dirtiest things sound like pure heaven.

Hands tugging on the waistband of your panties, you slipped the small piece of clothing off in a painstakingly slow fashion. When that was done, your fingers ghosted on the outline of your mound, following your hand down, as the two men watched intensely. This continued until your digits swirled over your entrance and when it came across a pool of wetness that was spreading steadily and causing your thighs to clench.

Mark groaned loudly, a low, strangled sound, his eyes staring at you in such a way that made you feel utterly devoured. Your pussy tightened as your gaze found Jaemin as he drew his eyes away from the apex of your thighs to stare directly at you and God did you want them, so, so badly.

Mark and Jaemin crawled onto the bed until their presence loomed over your smaller figure.

"Sweetheart, please stick those pretty fingers inside your delicious and soaked pussy. The sooner the better," Mark muttered.

You listened to Mark and shoved your finger into you, your walls tightening immediately around the new feeling. There was a little groan escaping you, too—pure ecstasy. There was nothing more than being fingered and eaten out.

The moan encouraged the males and both started to divest themselves, losing their shirts, sweatpants and boxers, revealing their erect and proud cocks. Precum glistened on the red tip of their cocks, your eyes fixating on the two members and fuck you couldn't believe how lucky you were right now. You took in every last detail of them and damn, it only caused your arousal to become ten times better.

Jaemin smirked before speaking. "Put another finger inside that little tight cunt."

You complied with his words by adding in a second finger. A sinful mewl resounded in the quiet room.

Jaemin tutted. "What a naughty little girl, I bet I know what she's thinking of right now."

Mark paused, seeming to ponder before speaking. "Something like getting her mouth on our dicks. Don't you agree, Jaem? To have those plump lips stretched to their limit and moaning as she tastes us on her tongue. Having both of us choke her with our cocks."

There was a purr of approval and an adorable hum. "Mmh, she'd look so cute too."

Fuck.

This time Jaemin was the one groaning, as both watched you moving your fingers in and out of your hole, your wet and glistening juices practically coating every part of your lower lips. The slide of your fingers in and out was delicious, but it would feel even better when Mark's and Jaemin's dicks would enter you instead. Your nipples tingled as they grew taut and stiff while a needy ache pulsated with growing heat and force.

It was arousing.

It was hot.

And so damn alluring.

"Such a needy little girl," Mark commented and both Jaemin and him now gripped their cocks.

The sight of their leaking and dripping dicks triggered something in you, you could feel yourself dripping as your insides clenched around the two fingers inserted inside and out. But God, were they still not enough. Your thumb moved over to your swollen clit. That bundle of nerves finally got the attention it deserved and you were crying and releasing a low and loud mewl as waves of pleasure vibrated from inside. It was good, very good.

But it still wasn't enough.

No. You wanted more.

"Fuck. That's not—fuck—enough," your voice strained at the end of your sentence as you were heavily panting.

"Tell us what you want," Jaemin stated low and huskily, "Baby, we'll give it to you if you just tell us."

"Your mouths and fingers—" you rasped, gasping between every word, "in…in me."

Mark cooed softly and reached over to cup your cheek with a rough palm. The contact alone made you melt in bliss.

"We can do that baby," Mark pressed his lips briefly to your lips before moving back. "How about Jaemin eats you out while I fill this pretty little mouth of yours with my cock and give you what you desire?"

Your cunt throbbed hard at the mention. That's exactly what you wanted. You removed your fingers and whined softly as that gaping and emptiness could be felt. Mark crawled up to your face with a knowing smile, brushing the pads of his thumbs over your cheeks. He positioned himself over your mouth until his hardened cock was directly over your lips, dripping down precum.

Without delay, you licked it up. The salty flavor and the heavy weight in your mouth made you suckle hard and you gained an animalistic groan from above you. While you tended to Mark, you felt a tongue against your slit as your taste filled his mouth. Jaemin wasted no time in deep-thrusting his tongue past the folds to plunge into your core and groaning at the slick mess already drenching you. His eagerness, and hot tongue massaging against your entrance and folds made you shake, sucking on Mark's cock faster.

Jaemin's hands spread your legs a little wider, your thighs flexing hard and you tried to keep them that way. Your body jerked and jolted every time his lips would lap against your sensitive bud, rolling your hard clit against your teeth. Mark continued to thrust his hips shallowly, unable to keep from fully fucking into the soft and wet depths of your hot mouth.

"You're so good for us, aren't you Y/N?" Mark praised, running a gentle hand through your hair and grinning when he felt your eyes open to look up at him through your eyelashes. "Take every inch, you pretty thing. Stay like that. Take all of me."

Your mouth continued to service him until your gaze rose up and looked at Mark above your frame.

Oh fuck! He looked ethereal—that beautiful, handsome and well-built body covered with a sheen layer of sweat. His throat bobbing from the moans. Those lean yet muscular arms stretched over you, firm and lean. Oh how badly you want to feel that skin. Your whole body is ignited by every touch of those muscular palms. It drove you mad, the scent of his arousal strong.

His lips slightly parted and his jaw muscles straining with restraint, "Fuck. Fuck, Y/N. Y-your mouth."

Without warning, Mark snapped his hips and pushed his full length in, the abrupt action having you gag and wince. His apology fell on deaf ears as you enjoyed the cock stuffed inside your mouth, throbbing on your tongue. Jaemin followed suit as you bucked your hips a little harshly into his mouth, grinding your pussy into him as fast as you could. Your desperation increased as your eyes caught the vision of Jaemin's perfect form between your thighs, his dark head of hair bouncing up and down. Jaemin removed his mouth momentarily, his saliva mixed with your wetness being lapped up. He hummed. "Holy fuck, sweetness. Your pussy tastes so divine. I can't get enough."

Jaemin placed his thick and hot tongue back onto your clit, swirling the muscle against that nerve ending and sucking simultaneously while two fingers roughly slid into you and pumped into a rhythm.

You were reaching a point of oversensitivity, body wrecked under the actions of both Mark and Jaemin, leaving you trembling with carnality.

"So fucking wet. Baby is squeezing my fingers so tight. Will she squeeze around my dick next time?" Jaemin commented while smirking and taking another look at your pussy. He placed a final kiss on your clit before pulling out and planting another onto the fluttering folds and sat back on his heels, as his attention turned towards Mark who was in the same state. Both nodded and removed themselves.

Mark moved over to take Jaemin's spot, his face gliding over the exposed skin of your sides with kisses, until he arrived at your heat. Mark took some seconds to admire the delicious mess which is between your thighs, your swollen lips all dripping in juices. You let out a piteous and faint noise, your neglected cunt flexing over thin air and gifting him with a burst of wetness.

"Mark, please," your voice was barely recognizable even to your own ears, having lost count of how many times you pleaded. Mark just quirked a dark brow at you.

"Let me taste you a bit first and then you can have my dick," And then his tongue sunk inside, licking up any moisture accumulated. You clawed the bed sheets under the sheer sensation of the heat pooling, curling and breaking your body apart like a bomb. Fingers returned to your pussy, turning every single movement and motion agonizingly intense.

Fucking intense.

"Please," you wail as your hands dart through his hair, "fuck. Stop teasing. Want your cock. In my pussy. Now, please, now, please, Mark. Please."

"And me, sweet pea?" Jaemin husked at the last syllables before fluttering his long lashes up and down.

"Please. Wanna cum. With both of you." Your voice hitches an octave higher and breathier by the end of the request.

"Anything for our girl," Mark says calmly as he moved away from you.

Jaemin was lying on the mattress, as you crawled your way up him before sinking down, the both of you relishing the feeling. His cock pulsed into your needy and drenched core, the way the plump head spread through your walls.

He then bottomed out, the smooth motion filling you full, full, full. It was a stretch and you loved it. Jaemin, a handsome angel and the epitome of the dream guy everyone could and should ever dream of was buried deep within you.

"Shit, baby. Can you feel my cock, stuffing you up and getting you all wet inside? Fuck. This pretty pussy can't handle this big cock, can you?" Jaemin growled lustfully. "Do you want Mark to fuck your tight ass, baby? Bet that little asshole of yours would stretch so wide. So fucking perfectly."

"Yes," you practically sobbed, the vision only spurring on the all consuming urgency surging through your nerves. "Yes, I need you and Mark to stuff me full…so damn full. Please."

Mark smirked and produced a bottle of lube he picked up from somewhere, before pouring a generous amount over his fingers and dick. After slicking it up, his fingers travelled to your hole, tracing the sensitive entrance before stretching it with his fingers and loosening it until it relaxed. When he noticed your squirming and pleading for his cock to go in, that was when Mark began sinking his hard member in until there was nothing left but his hip and your ass.

The feel of his dick spreading open your inner walls and burying deeply sent shudders through your whole being. The sensation of your holes stretching at both ends made your chest heave.

"Shit," both Mark and Jaemin ground out, coming down from the immediate wave of pure bliss enveloping the three of you.

For a moment they let you adjust, until the buildup of desire in all three of you started to become too much to bear. When they noticed the whimpering noises, they immediately picked up the pace, Mark and Jaemin rolling their hips and snapping in an irregular rhythm.

The both of them were talking now, filthy, lude praises, lewd moans, dirty whispers and naughty nothings in between grunts and sighs and praise. You heard snippets like how gorgeous and perfect you are. How well you are doing. How much of a fucking beautiful kitten and how perfect you look being taken by them. Both dicks deep and pumping hard, the gliding motion pulling frictionless strokes.

"What a perfect pussy and what a sexy little ass. Gonna ruin both and make sure you can't ever think or walk normally. Gonna make you ours," Jaemin grinded hard.

"Feels so good...you both feel so fucking good," was the response he got from you, accompanied by mewls. "Fu-ck. Shit. Please. Harder."

"How does Mark feel, baby?" Jaemin coos softly, petting your hair slightly as if rewarding a good kitty.

"Good," you sighed, "good, he's really filling me and stretching me."

Mark's groans grew more heated at the confirmation, snapping his hips and pelvis. He leaned in and grunted more erotic words. "You're taking us so well, baby. You're gonna be walking crooked and sore after we're done with you."

"We need her to know we're never letting her go," Jaemin mused.

Your high-pitched screams reverberated off the walls, bouncing into Mark and Jaemin's ear, causing them to chuckle. Your eyes closed to concentrate on the way Mark and Jaemin could command a good and nice pace.

It was intense and erotic.

It was messy and hot.

It was unravelling.

It was sheer pleasure.

You were being consumed whole.

"Baby, your moans," Mark stated breathily. "Such sweet, heavenly and pleasing noises. And that's coming from us. From two cocks filling both of those delicious holes."

"Be louder," Jaemin suggests. "Scream for us louder. Let the rest of the members know who's making you feel this good. That you're only ours."

You squeaked as Mark brushed your hair gently to the side so that he could kiss the nape of your neck and collarbone. His touches were electric as his palm rubbed and squeezed the swell of your breasts and caressed your body sensually. He switched it up occasionally, applying light kitty licks and bites and harsh sucks, taking note of your sweet noises and what parts of you brought forth that sort of reaction. You squirmed against the sheets, one hand gripping the cotton of your pillow tightly, the other draped on Jaemin's bicep.

"Fuck," you whimper as they kept pumping mercilessly, pleasure unfurling and rolling inside you, unfocused with nowhere to go. "Shit. Fuck."

"Tell us what you want Y/N," It was a low rumble coming from Jaemin. "Just say it."

"I—I wanna cum," you whimpered.

"We want that too, baby," Mark mumbles right into your ear. His breathing sounds jagged. You're pretty sure you weren't the only one going out of your mind with anticipation. "Cum for us, baby."

"Y-yes. A-ah…ha…" You whine, choking up a throaty scream as the loud squelch echoed along the room in the rhythm of the pounding, joined by a deep grunt here and there from Jaemin and Mark. "M-Mark, please...Jaem...J-just."

"That's a good girl," Mark states as his palms massage the curves and dips of your body as Jaemin takes turns running his teeth and lips against the side of your neck and over your delicate shoulder, rough and passionate.

"Take every inch, beautiful. We'll leave you satiated and stuffed full. Mark is gonna fill your tight ass full of cum, whilst I cum deep inside your lovely pussy," Jaemin huskily added, voice dark and coarse.

You groaned, keenly aware of how full and hard they are inside of you. Oh how badly you wanted the boys to reach their peaks. How you wished Mark and Jaemin's powerful bodies would shudder and convulse as euphoric pleasure ripped through. How badly you wanted Mark and Jaemin's expressions twisted into sweet bliss and then dissolved in ecstasy.

"That's it, baby. We're right here," Mark soothed, voice dripping with affection and fondness, "Take all the pleasure you can get."

"Oh, shit. So good. Yes. Shit!" you finally reach your limit and tip over the edge, gushing and convulsing with a loud drawn-out whimper.

Both Mark and Jaemin fuck you right through it, milking both orgasms. They only lasted a few minutes longer, finally spilling and letting ropes of cum paint and coat your insides. Mark groaned from above you, a sound so sexual and captivating and Jaemin stifled a moan in the crook of your neck. They kept their cocks for a minute and came down from their respective highs before withdrawing from both stretched holes. Cum dribbled down your lower lips, pooling the bed sheets.

There was a silence before Jaemin and Mark cuddled closer to you from each side, the both of them panting heavily until the room was filled with deep inhales and exhales.

"Can…we do that again?" You manage to voice, surprising Jaemin and Mark with the bold statement.

They responded by bursting into soft chuckles. Jaemin made a noise. "That's asking a bit too soon, isn't it princess?"

"No…like, during your tours, when we go back home. In your free time. I-If it's not inconvenient with schedules, of course," you rush out.

Mark raised his brows. "Are you sure, Y/N?"

"Uh, y-yeah," you gulp a breath. "I really enjoyed this. But only if you want to as well."

"Believe me princess," Jaemin purred softly. "We love being with you as much as you love being with us."

"Of course we would like to. Our place is with you no matter what," Mark interjects, his soft hands smoothing down your messy and sweaty hair before slipping an arm around you and pulling you against his warmth. The affection made you blush even more. Mark nudges his nose and kisses the top of your head. “Besides, I did say this was going to change between the three of us right? That this won't stop at today.”

"Who would have thought that I'd fuck my best friends," you breathe out, staring at the ceiling in complete bliss.

"We should have done this a long time ago. Next time we do this again, let's bring Jeno with us," Jaemin admits cheekily, the utter statement catching you by surprise.

You slapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Excuse me, sir. How bold."

Mark laughed. "I don't think I want to share Y/N with the others, Jaemin. Only us two are enough for this lovely lady."

"Ah, I'm kidding," Jaemin winks before tilting his head. "Mostly." He wags his brows playfully, making you groan and hit him lightly. Jaemin grinned before dragging your palm and placing a kiss on the inside of it. "Relax baby, you have our hearts wrapped around your finger."

Mark hummed in agreement and buried his face into the crook of your neck and placed a tender, heartfelt kiss and patted your thighs. He mumbles sleepily into your ear and you hear Jaemin repeating the gesture, the two voices simultaneously filling your eardrums. "We're yours, and you are ours. I'm sure this is going to be the start of something new and good. Don't worry."

You relaxed, letting their breathing and the warmth of their skin lull you to a peaceful sleep, right alongside them and in their arms.

#nct #nct dream #nct stories #nct imagines #nct fanfic #nct smut #nct dream smut #nct mark #nct jaemin #mark lee #mark #mark x reader #mark smut #na jaemin #jaemin smut #jaemin #jaemin x reader

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satori-runa · 2 months ago

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—Morning comes in silence

Summary: You spend the morning in bed with your husband at your side, watching over him as he rests peacefully for the first time in ages.

Tags: Romance, Hinted sexual content but no specific graphical explanations, established relationship, fluff

Words: 0,6k

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Gente rays of orange sunlight shimmered through the forst-covered windows in the early morning hours, followed by the graceful fresh snow that carried a familiar cold breeze through the land. Yet, none of that chill reached the comfort of the bedroom that you shared with your husband.

Only the soft, sun-kissed glow filtered in, casting a golden warmth over everything, draping the comfort of your home into a pure teint of liquid gold. It especially highlighted the fine features of the man lying beside you in the huge bed. The white silk sheets pooled around his large form, shared between the two of you. And you could swear, his body could be a canvas painted by the purity of the morning light and the feelings that carried over from the night before.

Capitano was truly a man of many things, status, wealth and power. He could command the word with a singe motion if he desired so and yet here he lay, stripped of the weight of his title, exposed and vunerable under the tender caress of your warm fingertips. Your thumb traced his sharp jawline, brushing over the dryness of his lips, then wound through the smooth raven locks that you had toyed with so many times before. The sensation was familiar, comforting, like a safe haven that you shared in a world full of coldness.

Your cold feet brushed against his leg beneath the sheets, a subconscious search for the warmth and connection that still lingered from the night before. His body twitched at the cool touch, a small reaction to the memory of the heat you’d shared in the dark, but he made no effort to pull away. Instead, he shifted slightly, allowing the space between you to close, his warmth enveloping you as naturally as the sunrise.

No words passed between you, nor were they needed. In the quiet of this sacred morning, your gazes spoke volumes. You remembered how the night began—the way his cold, sharp gloves were the first to fall. He had always hidden his hands, guarded them from the world, but last night, he let them be seen, exposed to your eyes alone. His skin, tinted with that strange, mysterious blue, revealed more than just his body. At first, he hesitated, insecurity flashing in his eyes, but those fears had melted away with the softness of your lips, pressing gentle promises into his skin. You had kissed away the doubts, each touch a vow that you’d never judge him for what he was, for how he looked. All you needed was him, the man beneath the surface.

And he had given that promise back to you, wordlessly. His lips had remained silent, but his hands spoke. They had traced your skin with a slowness that bordered on torment, fingers gliding over your legs, up your thighs, drawing out your impatience with teasing precision. The way he touched you, the way he worshipped you with his hands, was his answer—a declaration that you were everything to him.

Now, in the glow of dawn, those hands rested between the folds of the sheets, still close to you, as if even in sleep he couldn’t bear to be far from your warmth. His raven hair spilled over the pillow, shadows and light playing over his face, making him look softer, almost innocent in the early morning light. You smiled faintly, brushing a stray lock from his brow, recalling how those same locks had been tangled in your fingers the night before, how his breath had hitched against your neck when your cold hands had explored the softness of his skin.

There was a serenity in the room now, a sense of peace that wrapped around you both. The world outside didn’t matter. Status, power, wealth—they were distant, meaningless in this moment. All that existed was the warmth of his body beside yours, the sheets that clung to your limbs, and the silent affection you shared.

#capitano #capitano x reader #genshin capitano #genshin fanfic #genshin impact #genshin x reader #⊹₊⟡⋆satori.speaks #⊹₊⟡⋆writings

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moonlitstoriess · 3 months ago

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Bound in Silence- Rhysand x fem!Reader part 2

A/n: 8.7k words! Phew! This was definitely a rollercoaster of emotions but, I hope you guys enjoy it!💕

Part 1 here

After surviving her fall, Y/n embarks on a path of healing while Rhysand begins to realize the truth about their bond. As Rhys grapples with guilt and confusion, Y/n must learn to rebuild her life. But when their paths cross again, Rhys will need to fight for her forgiveness, hoping to mend what was once broken.

She shouldn’t have survived.

The wind had howled in her ears as she plummeted from the cliff’s edge, the ground rushing up to meet her, a cold, hard end she had welcomed. The pain, the heartbreak—it had been too much, too consuming. But as the world around her blurred, she felt a sudden, violent impact, not against solid ground, but against something softer—brush and sand.

When she opened her eyes, it was not death that greeted her but the harsh light of dawn streaming through the trees above, the sound of waves crashing against the shore in the distance. She lay in a thicket, a tangled mess of branches and brambles that had broken her fall, offering her an unexpected refuge.

Her body ached with bruises from the impact, sharp pain flaring in her ribs and a throbbing headache pulsing at her temples. She felt the grit of sand embedded in her skin and the taste of salt on her lips. But she was alive.

Y/n struggled to sit up, her hands trembling as she pressed against the ground for support. Panic surged through her. The memories of the cliff, of the choice she had made, washed over her like a tide pulling her under. Had she really leapt to escape the torment of her heart? The betrayal she felt was still fresh, the sting of Rhysand’s indifference cutting deeper than any physical wound.

As she surveyed her surroundings, a dense forest framed her, the trees standing tall like silent sentinels. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on the ground, and the distant sound of waves served as a haunting reminder of the world she had tried to leave behind. But where was she? She had no idea how far she had fallen or where this path might lead.

Y/n took a moment to catch her breath, the air crisp and sharp in her lungs. She was alone, utterly alone, with no family to return to, no familiar faces to seek comfort from. The weight of that truth settled deep in her chest. She had thought—foolishly—that Rhysand had been her salvation, her anchor in that hellish place. But in the end, she had meant nothing to him.

Pushing herself to her feet, she wobbled unsteadily, pain radiating through her ribs. The instinct to survive propelled her forward, one shaky step at a time. She didn’t know where she was going. The road ahead seemed just as empty as the one behind her.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

Each step felt heavier, and with every movement, she fought against the urge to collapse back to the ground. The memories of Rhysand—their stolen moments, their laughter, and the warmth of his presence—crashed over her like the waves she could hear in the distance. He had made her feel seen in a way she had never experienced before, and now that light was extinguished.

As she wandered deeper into the forest, the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows among the trees. Y/n found a small clearing where she sank to the ground, her body protesting at the sudden relief. She closed her eyes, letting the sounds of nature surround her, searching for solace in the rustling leaves and chirping birds.

What she realized, in that moment of stillness, was that surviving wasn’t enough. She needed to reclaim herself, to remember who she had been before the darkness took hold. The journey ahead would be long and fraught with challenges, but the thought of facing them alone no longer filled her with dread. Instead, it ignited a flicker of determination.

“Whatever lies ahead,” she whispered to the trees, “I will find my way.”

With that resolve, Y/n pushed herself back up, brushing the leaves from her clothes and glancing around. The forest was alive with the sound of chirping birds and rustling leaves, and she couldn’t help but feel that life, despite its challenges, was still worth fighting for.

She pressed on, each step feeling heavier than the last. The forest wrapped around her like a shroud, the branches swaying gently as if whispering secrets she couldn’t quite grasp. She staggered through the underbrush, branches snagging her clothes and tearing at her skin, but she hardly noticed. The pain in her ribs was a constant reminder of her fall, pulsing with each movement, and fatigue settled in her bones like a thick fog.

She tried to focus on the path ahead, but her vision began to blur, the edges of her surroundings fading in and out. She needed to find shelter, a place to rest and gather her strength. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows that seemed to dance mockingly around her, urging her to give in to the darkness that threatened to swallow her whole.

With every step, Y/n felt herself growing weaker. Her legs trembled, and the world spun slightly around her. She stumbled, hitting the ground hard, the breath leaving her lungs in a gasp. Panic surged through her as she fought to regain her breath, but the pain from her injuries was overwhelming. She lay there for a moment, staring up at the canopy of leaves above, feeling utterly defeated.

Then, as she struggled to push herself back up, she heard voices in the distance, their laughter ringing through the trees. At first, she thought it might be a cruel trick of her mind, a hallucination born from the exhaustion and pain. But as the laughter grew closer, a flicker of hope ignited within her.

“Did you hear that?” one voice said, clear and bright. “I think someone’s out there!”

Y/n’s heart raced, a mix of fear and hope flooding her veins. She wanted to call out, to let them know she was here, but the words caught in her throat. She could only lie there, trying to steady her breathing as the voices approached.

Moments later, a group of travelers emerged from the trees, their expressions shifting from joviality to concern as they spotted her on the ground. They were a motley crew—rough and worn but with a kindness that seemed to radiate from them. The tallest among them, a woman with long, dark hair and bright blue eyes, rushed forward.

“Oh, gods! What happened?” she exclaimed, kneeling beside Y/n. “Can you hear me? Are you hurt?”

Y/n tried to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she looked up at the woman, her vision swimming as darkness crept at the edges of her sight.

“We need to get her out of here,” another voice said, a man with a thick beard who stepped forward. “She looks injured. We can’t leave her like this.”

The group quickly moved around her, their chatter fading into a distant hum as Y/n felt herself drifting. Hands gently lifted her, and though every movement sent jolts of pain through her body, the warmth of their concern began to wrap around her like a comforting blanket.

“Stay with us, okay?” the woman said, her voice soothing. “We’re going to help you.”

Y/n wanted to cling to those words, to believe that perhaps this was her chance to find solace. But the world began to fade, the faces of her rescuers becoming blurry as she lost her grip on consciousness. Just before the darkness took her, she felt a warm hand clasp her own, a connection that anchored her for one fleeting moment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Velaris was a sanctuary, hidden from the world and its chaos, but even its beauty couldn’t soothe the turmoil within him. Rhysand leaned against the balcony railing of the townhouse, staring out at the starry sky, yet his thoughts were far from peaceful. Feyre was with Tamlin in the Spring Court, and every moment spent thinking about their time together made his chest tighten with frustration.

He had felt so powerless during her trials, watching from afar as she struggled, battling her fears and doubts. His heart had raced as he witnessed her strength, yet it ignited a fury within him that simmered just below the surface. Tamlin didn’t deserve her. He was blinded by his love for Feyre, unable to see the darkness creeping into their lives, a darkness that Rhysand feared would swallow her whole.

“Damn it, Feyre,” he muttered under his breath, clenching his fists. “You don’t belong there.”

The weight of the Night Court’s responsibilities pressed heavily on him, and he found himself retreating deeper into his thoughts. The war with Amarantha had left scars that would take time to heal. But all he could think about was Feyre’s laughter, the way her eyes lit up in defiance, and the warmth that enveloped him when she was near.

Suddenly, he felt a pang of icy cold hit his chest, a feeling of.....nothing overtaking him. Rhysands body shuddered. He could now feel a string of sorts a....a bond. A bond with her, with y/n. But why was it so empty?

A shiver ran down his spine, and he closed his eyes, reaching out instinctively through the bond he shared with Y/n. Instead of comforting warmth, there was nothing but an oppressive silence. It was as if she had vanished, leaving a void that echoed with despair.

Since when did I have a bond with her? The thought sliced through his mind like a blade. He had dismissed their connection, buried it under layers of his feelings for Feyre. But now, the absence of Y/n felt like a cruel twist of fate, a reminder of what he had ignored for too long.

Panic surged through him as he searched for any hint of her presence, any sign that she was safe. But all he felt was the chilling silence, a stark contrast to the vibrant energy that had once flowed between them.

“Y/n,” he breathed, the name feeling foreign on his tongue. “Where are you?”

He pushed himself away from the balcony railing, his heart pounding in his chest. He needed to know what was happening, to understand why the bond felt so strained, so distant. A part of him clung to the hope that she was simply out of reach, that she was safe and sound somewhere beyond his grasp.

But the gnawing sense of dread would not let him rest. He was tied to her in a way he had never fully understood, and now that connection was fraying at the edges, unraveling into something that filled him with an ache he couldn’t quite place.

It hit him then, like a thunderclap in the stillness of his thoughts: Y/n was his mate. The realization sent shockwaves through him, unraveling the tension in his chest and filling him with a potent mixture of dread and yearning.

She mattered. She had always mattered, perhaps more than he had ever let himself admit.

As he stood there, the weight of his decisions began to settle upon him. He had taken her for granted, focused solely on his feelings for Feyre while ignoring the depth of his connection with Y/n.

He had to find her. He had to understand what was happening.

~~~~~~~~~

Y/n awoke in a small, dimly lit room, the soft murmur of voices and the sound of footsteps moving outside the door barely reaching her ears. Her body ached, every movement sending sharp reminders of her injuries. She tried to sit up, but a firm hand gently pressed her back down.

“Easy,” a woman’s voice murmured. Y/n blinked, her vision clearing enough to see the woman from before—the one with long, dark hair and kind, blue eyes—sitting beside her. “You’re still hurt. Your ribs were bruised, and you were half-frozen when we found you. You need rest.”

Y/n grimaced, ignoring the throbbing pain as she forced herself into a sitting position. She wasn’t used to lying still. “I’m fine,” she muttered, but her body betrayed her words, her legs too weak to support her even if she tried to stand.

The woman, who had introduced herself as Lira, smiled gently. “Stubborn, aren’t you? It’s alright to let someone help you.”

Y/n’s eyes flicked to the door. The laughter of children and the hum of distant conversations filtered in from outside. She frowned. “Where am I?”

“A village,” Lira said, watching her carefully. “Small, but we’re a close-knit community. Everyone knows everyone here. We help each other, share what we have.”

Jealousy flared in Y/n’s chest, sharp and uninvited. A place where people lived in peace, helping one another without a second thought. It was so different from the life she knew—so far from the chaos and heartbreak that had led her here.

Y/n’s voice was rough as she asked, “How long was I out?”

“A few days. We did what we could to help you recover. But you’ve still got some healing to do.”

Silence fell between them. Y/n’s gaze remained on the door, but her thoughts were far from the village. Her mind returned to the cliff, to the crushing despair that had driven her to jump. She had wanted the pain to end—had thought it would, but here she was, still breathing, still hurting.

Lira’s voice broke through her thoughts. “How did you end up in that forest? You were in pretty bad shape when we found you.”

Y/n hesitated. She didn’t owe this woman her story—didn’t owe anyone anything anymore—but the weight of it pressed down on her, and maybe, just maybe, telling a small part of it would help ease the burden.

“I had a mate,” Y/n said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. Lira’s brow furrowed in sympathy, waiting for more. “He chose someone else.”

The words tasted bitter on her tongue, but they were the truth. Rhysand had never even known. Never knew that she had felt the bond snap into place, that the invisible thread between them had formed. It didn’t matter now—he had chosen Feyre, and that choice had shattered her.

Lira’s eyes were filled with gentle curiosity. “Why didn’t you tell him?”

Y/n shook her head, her throat tight. “It’s… complicated. He never knew, and by the time I realized, it was already too late. He… he was in love with her.”

Lira was quiet for a moment, processing Y/n’s words. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “That sounds… painful.”

Y/n didn’t respond, her gaze distant, as if she could still see the edges of Amarantha's court from where she sat. The love she’d seen in Rhysand’s eyes when he looked at Feyre had been undeniable. He had never looked at her that way, not even close.

“Maybe we can contact your family?” Lira suggested, trying to be helpful.

Y/n’s jaw tightened, her eyes flickering to Lira’s kind face. “I don’t have anyone.”

“No one at all?”

Y/n shook her head, a cold emptiness settling in her chest. She had no family left—no home, no place to return to. “It’s just me.”

Lira sighed softly, her brow creasing in thought. “Then stay here with us,” she offered, her voice warm. “At least until you’re healed, and after that… you can decide where you want to go.”

Y/n’s instinct was to refuse immediately. She had seen too much, been through too much, to believe in the kindness of strangers anymore. She didn’t trust it—not after what she had lost. And yet… this woman, this village… they didn’t know her, didn’t know what she carried, and still, they had taken her in.

“I don’t know if I can,” Y/n said, her voice barely audible.

“Why not?” Lira asked gently. “You’ve been through something terrible, that much is clear. But there’s no need to face it alone.”

Y/n glanced at her, doubt gnawing at her insides. Could she trust these people? Could she allow herself even a moment of peace in this quiet village after everything?

Lira smiled again, softer this time. “Just think about it. We’re not going anywhere.”

Y/n gave a small nod, her mind already spinning with the enormity of her situation. She had nowhere to go, no plan for what came next. Maybe, for now, she could stay here—just until she figured out what to do.

~~~~~~~~

Rhysand’s mind raced, the weight of realization crashing over him like a tidal wave. Y/n was his mate. It wasn’t something he could dismiss anymore, not after the sudden void he felt through the bond. For so long, he had tried to push aside the connection, telling himself that Feyre was his priority. And yet, here he stood, drowning in guilt and confusion as the truth settled in.

She had always been there, a steady presence in his life—loyal, fierce, and strong. He had admired her, even cared for her, but it wasn’t until now that he understood the depth of that connection. And now, she was gone. Or worse—hurt.

“Mother above,” Rhys muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. He had been so blinded by Feyre, so consumed by his need to protect her, that he had failed to notice what had always been right in front of him.

The bond had been subtle at first, an almost imperceptible tether that he had never fully explored. But now? Now it was like a raw wound, aching in a way that made his chest tighten. He couldn’t feel her—couldn’t sense her. She was gone from his awareness, and that terrified him more than anything else.

Rhysand clenched his jaw, his thoughts spiraling into a panic. What if something had happened to her? The Night Court had always been a place of sanctuary, but the world beyond Velaris was filled with dangers—dangers that Y/n, in her current state, might not be able to fend off.

“I’ve been a fool,” he whispered, the words bitter on his tongue.

Turning away from the balcony, Rhys stormed back inside the palace, his steps quick and determined. He couldn’t just stand here and do nothing. He needed to find her, to reach her through the bond, to bring her back if she was in danger.

But how? He had never explored this connection before, had never let himself dwell on what it meant. And now, with Y/n’s presence completely cut off, he wasn’t sure where to begin.

His heart pounded, and the gnawing fear clawed at his insides. He didn’t know if she was safe. Didn’t know where she was. But he would find her, no matter what it took.

Rhysand closed his eyes and reached deep into himself, seeking out the bond, trying to find any flicker of her. He focused on that missing warmth, on the piece of him that felt like it had been torn away. And in the quiet of his mind, a whisper—barely there—flickered. A spark of something. Pain. Despair.

He gasped, the sensation hitting him hard, and for the briefest of moments, he felt her—felt the depth of her agony, the exhaustion, the loss.

“Y/n…” he breathed, his voice low, anguished. Wherever she was, she was suffering.

Rhysand knew he had to act quickly. There was no time to waste. He had to find her before it was too late.

With a sharp breath, he called for his wings, already preparing to leave. He will explain everything to his family later. Y/n—his mate—needed him now more than ever.

Rhysand landed softly in the clearing where he had last seen Y/n, his heart pounding in his chest. The forest loomed around him, dark and quiet, the air heavy with the scent of earth and damp leaves. Shadows stretched long in the fading light of the moon, casting an eerie stillness over the scene. His wings rustled as they folded behind him, but his mind was already racing, already searching.

This was where he had last seen her—right here, among the trees and the underbrush. She had watched him and Feyre have their conversation after Amaranthas death. Y/n thought she was hidden within the trees but he felt her, he always felt her presence, one would always feel the presence of one's mate. But he was too much of a fool to realize it sooner.

He moved through the clearing, his eyes scanning the ground, searching for any sign of her. A broken branch, a trace of her scent—anything. But the air was thick with silence, and the bond between them was weak, almost nonexistent now.

"Y/n!" Rhysand’s voice echoed through the trees, but no answer came. His shadows spread out, feeling through the dark, desperate to find any trace of her. But there was nothing.

He pressed forward, moving deeper into the forest, the trees closing in around him. The memories of their time together—of her strength, her resilience—pushed him on, even as doubt gnawed at the edges of his mind. What if she was gone? What if she was hurt, or worse?

He couldn’t think like that. Not yet. He had to find her.

"Y/n!" he called again, his voice strained, raw with desperation. He stumbled through the undergrowth, his boots sinking into the damp earth, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Every step felt heavier than the last, the weight of his failure bearing down on him.

But the forest remained silent.

Rhysand reached the edge of a small stream, the water trickling softly over the rocks. He crouched down, running his fingers through the mud, searching for any sign that she had been here. Nothing. His chest tightened, his heart hammering against his ribs as the realization began to settle in.

She wasn’t here.

His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he rose to his feet. The bond was slipping away, unraveling like a thread being pulled loose. He had never let it guide him before, never truly acknowledged its presence, but now, as it faded, the loss felt like a wound he couldn’t heal.

He had to keep searching.

Rhysand pushed further into the forest, his movements frantic now, his wings twitching with the urge to take flight again, to cover more ground. The trees blurred around him, the shadows twisting and bending as his magic flared, but there was no trace of her.

No warmth. No bond. Nothing.

Hours passed in a haze of desperation and despair. The moon climbed higher in the sky, casting pale light through the canopy, but it did little to ease the gnawing fear growing inside him. By the time he reached the edge of the forest, Rhysand felt hollow, the weight of his failure pressing down on him with every step.

He was running out of time. Out of hope.

When he finally made the decision to return to Velaris, his wings were heavy, his body exhausted, but his mind couldn’t rest. The flight back felt longer than it should have, his thoughts spiraling into darker and darker places. What if she was gone for good? What if he had missed his chance—missed her?

The moment he landed on the balcony of the House of Wind, the emptiness hit him like a tidal wave. He dropped to his knees, his fingers curling against the cold stone as he tried to catch his breath, tried to steady himself.

But the bond was still faint. Almost gone.

He stood slowly, his mind racing. He had searched where he last saw her. He had searched the forest. But there was one more place she could be—her home. The Dawn Court. She was from there, had roots there. Maybe she had returned, seeking refuge among her people.

It was a slim hope, but it was all he had.

Rhysand straightened, determination burning in his veins. He would contact Thesan, the High Lord of the Dawn Court. He had to know if Y/n was there, if she was safe. But for now, all he could do was wait—and that waiting felt like a slow, torturous pull on his very soul.

She was his mate. And she was gone.

The thought settled into his chest like a cold, hard stone, and Rhysand knew that until he found her—until he brought her back—there would be no peace. He would flip this world upside down to find her.

~~~~~~~

Y/n lay back down, her body sinking into the soft mattress as she stared at the flickering flames in the hearth. Lira’s offer lingered in her mind, but doubt gnawed at her. It wasn’t just the village’s kindness that unsettled her—it was the thought of staying, of settling, when her entire world had crumbled around her.

Her heart felt heavy, weighed down by the memories of Rhysand and everything she had lost. How could she heal in a place like this, where people lived in peace and harmony? She wasn’t like them—she carried too much darkness, too much pain.

Still, there was something about this village, something about Lira’s gentle demeanor that made Y/n want to believe, if only for a moment, that maybe she could find some peace here. Just for a while.

The thought was almost laughable. She had no right to peace.

Lira stood up from her chair, sensing Y/n's internal battle. “I’ll let you rest,” she said, her voice soft. “But if you need anything, just call for me.”

Y/n nodded but didn’t respond as Lira slipped quietly out of the room, leaving her alone with her thoughts. The sounds of the village continued to drift through the window—the laughter, the conversations, the gentle hum of a life Y/n had never known.

Her hand unconsciously drifted to her chest, to where the bond with Rhysand had once tugged at her heart. Now, there was only a hollow ache, a reminder of what had been and what could never be. She had loved him—fiercely, silently, and without hope.

And he had never known.

The thought made her chest tighten again, that familiar grief washing over her. She had been nothing to him, just another face from Dawn, another puppet to use and discard. And now… she was nothing at all.

The hours passed slowly. Y/n found herself drifting in and out of sleep, her body still weak from the injuries. In her dreams, she saw flashes of her past—Her life in Dawn, her little trinkets that she would create to make some living, Rhysand. And then, always, Feyre. Her face haunted Y/n, the reminder of who Rhysand had truly chosen.

When she awoke again, it was darker outside, the village sounds quieter now. Lira hadn’t returned, and Y/n was grateful for the space. She needed time to think, to decide what her next move would be.

But even as she lay there, trying to come up with a plan, her mind kept returning to Lira’s offer. A part of her wanted to accept it, to stay here and heal. But another part, the part that had seen too much betrayal, too much loss, didn’t trust it.

Would they still welcome her if they knew who she really was? What she had done?

Y/n sighed, turning onto her side as the fire crackled softly beside her. She wasn’t sure what her next step would be, but for now, all she could do was rest.

She closed her eyes, forcing herself to take a deep breath. The pain was still there—deep and unyielding—but for the first time in a long while, Y/n allowed herself to hope that maybe, just maybe, she could find some kind of solace here.

Even if it was only temporary.

In the days that followed, Y/n grew stronger. Lira visited her often, bringing food and checking on her injuries, but never pressing too much. The village’s quiet kindness was unsettling at first, but slowly, Y/n began to let herself relax, just a little.

She spent most of her time in bed, staring out the window at the bustling village below. Children ran through the streets, and neighbors helped one another with chores and daily tasks. It was a world so far removed from the one she had known that it almost felt like a dream.

And yet, despite everything, Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that she didn’t belong here.

Each time she looked out that window, she was reminded of what she had lost, of the bond she had ignored for too long. The thought of Rhysand, out there somewhere, filled her with both longing and anger. She didn’t know if she’d ever see him again, but the silence between them weighed heavily on her.

Still, for now, all she could do was wait. Healing, Lira had said. Y/n wasn’t sure if that was possible, but maybe, just maybe, she could try.

Weeks turned into months.

What Y/n had initially believed would be a short stay to recover gradually became something more. She healed, both in body and in spirit, under the quiet care of Lira and the village’s close-knit community. Slowly, the bruises on her ribs faded, the aches in her muscles eased, and her strength returned.

At first, Y/n had kept to herself, only interacting with Lira when necessary. But as time passed, she began to open up, if only slightly. Lira’s patience had been remarkable, never pushing, always offering a hand when Y/n needed it. The woman’s kindness was a balm to wounds Y/n hadn’t realized still bled.

As she regained her strength, she was introduced to more of the villagers. There was Tamir, a kind-hearted farmer who often brought her fresh produce, and Ayla, a weaver who sat with Y/n by the fire on particularly cold evenings, sharing stories about her family and life in the village. They accepted Y/n without question, never asking too much, never prying into her past.

For the first time in years, Y/n found herself in a place that felt almost like home.

It wasn’t easy, of course. The memories of Rhysand still haunted her in quiet moments—his smile, his laughter, the bond she had felt snap into place and left unacknowledged. But in time, those memories dulled, becoming less sharp, less painful.

She had spent so long thinking about him, about what could have been. But now, as the months slipped by, she began to accept the truth. Rhysand had made his choice, and it hadn’t been her. Feyre was his love. And Y/n… she was learning to be alright with that.

It wasn’t that the pain disappeared—it would always be there, in the corners of her heart—but it no longer consumed her. She found herself laughing with the villagers, working alongside them, and even joining in the village’s small celebrations. She was happy, or at least as close to happiness as she’d felt in a long time.

There were nights when the weight of her past pressed down on her, but those moments grew fewer and farther between. The village, with its simple, peaceful life, had given her space to breathe, to heal.

Lira, especially, had become a close friend. They spent many evenings talking, sometimes about nothing at all, and other times about everything. Y/n found herself confiding in Lira, telling her small pieces of her past—the loss, the heartbreak, the weight of being forgotten. Lira never judged, only listened, offering comfort in the form of quiet understanding.

Y/n no longer felt the crushing loneliness that had driven her to that cliffside. She wasn’t sure what the future held for her, but for now, she was content to stay in this village, to continue healing, and to figure out who she was without the shadow of Rhysand hanging over her.

She still didn’t know what would come next, but for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t running from the uncertainty.

~~~~~~~~

Velaris — One year, three months, fifteen days, six hours, twenty-two minutes, and forty-five seconds since Y/n disappeared.

Rhysand had counted every second. Every agonizing, suffocating second since he had realized she was gone. He stood on the balcony of the River House, staring out over the Sidra, his eyes dark with the weight of his obsession. A full year, and he was no closer to finding her.

He had sent his forces, his shadows, his spies, to every corner of Prythian and beyond. The High Lords had been contacted—every last one of them, including Thesan, the High Lord of the Dawn Court, where Y/n had once called home. His meetings with Thesan had been civil, yet tense.

“She hasn’t returned,” Thesan had said in one of their many conversations, his voice steady but laced with concern. “If she were here, I would have told you, Rhys.”

But that hadn’t stopped Rhysand from ordering Azriel to watch the borders of the Dawn Court, to scour its lands for any sign of her. He had sent out scouts across Prythian—Illyrian patrols sweeping the mountains, Velaris soldiers keeping their eyes open in the cities, and spies dispatched to the human lands. Nothing.

Nothing for over a year. And it was driving him mad.

Rhysand hadn’t rested in months, not truly. His nights were spent pouring over maps, tracing routes, re-reading reports. He had memorized every possible lead, every whispered rumor of a lone female seen wandering the wilderness. But none of them had led to her.

“Maybe she doesn’t want to be found,” Cassian had said one night, his voice gentle but firm, as he sat with Rhysand in the war room.

Rhysand had glared at him, his jaw clenched, his hands tightening into fists. “That’s not an option. She’s my—” He had stopped himself before finishing that sentence. She wasn’t his mate, not officially. The bond possibly had never snapped for her, but for Rhys, it might as well have. His heart knew it, even if the Cauldron had not sealed the bond. She was his.

Cassian had only sighed, shaking his head. “Rhys, I’m worried about you. We all are.”

And they were. Amren had pulled him aside more than once, telling him to stop his frantic searching, to focus on the things he could control. But she didn’t understand. None of them did. Y/n had been his anchor in ways he hadn’t even realized until she was gone.

Azriel had been his silent shadow through all of it. The spymaster had spent countless nights by his side, searching with him, strategizing, offering the quiet kind of support that only Azriel could. They didn’t need words. Rhys knew Azriel understood what it felt like to long for someone you couldn’t have.

But there were moments—moments when the weight of his failure pressed down on him so heavily that he felt like he couldn’t breathe. He had taken to disappearing from the River House, vanishing into the forests outside Velaris, retracing the steps to where he had last seen her.

And then, there was the cliff. Rhys still remembers how when he smelled the faintest remnants of her scent, right there, right at the edge of the cliff, his chest flared with panic as he frantically searched for her but found no trace. Given how faint the scent was, Rhys knew that she wasn’t here recently. But did she kill herself? Did she end up throwing herself off this cliff? Even the mere thought of that made his gut twist, his hands shake. No. She couldn’t have died. No body, no proof. But…..

He stood there, letting the cold wind of the mountains blow past him. The silence that had followed her disappearance.

“Rhys, you need to stop this,” Mor had told him after he’d returned from one such trip, disheveled and exhausted. “You’re tearing yourself apart.”

He had only shaken his head. “I can’t, Mor. I have to find her. I need to.”

Mor had looked at him with sadness in her eyes. “What if she doesn’t want to be found?”

It was the same question Cassian had asked, and Rhys had no answer for it. What if Y/n didn’t want to be found? What if she had left because she wanted to stay hidden from him?

But he refused to believe it. He couldn’t believe it. There had to be another reason—something he hadn’t uncovered yet.

And so, Rhysand kept searching. He kept sending his forces out, kept interrogating every lead, every sighting, every whisper of a female matching her description. He visited the forests, the places they had once been together, hoping for some sign, some shred of her presence.

But there was nothing.

Every day that passed without her only deepened his despair. He had lost weight, his face drawn with exhaustion, his eyes dull with sleepless nights.

But how could he let go of Y/n? How could he forget her, when every part of him screamed that she was out there, somewhere, waiting for him?

His conversations with the inner circle had grown colder, more strained. They were concerned, but they didn’t understand. Not really. How could they, when none of them had lost someone the way he had lost Y/n?

Rhysand stared out over Velaris, the city lights reflecting off the river below. One year, three months, fifteen days, six hours, twenty-seven minutes, and thirty-one seconds.

And still, she was gone.

~~~~~~~~~

Y/n sat on a wooden bench outside the small cottage, her eyes watching the children play in the distance. The crisp evening air brushed against her skin, a reminder of how peaceful life had become in the village. Her heart, though, still felt heavy with memories of another life—one she had tried to leave behind.

The soft shuffle of feet approached, and Y/n turned to see Elder Miriam, one of the village’s wisest, sitting down beside her. The old woman’s face was lined with age, her eyes sharp but kind. She had been the one to welcome Y/n when she first arrived, offering a place to stay and a quiet understanding.

“You’ve been here for some time now,” Miriam began, her voice gentle but firm. “Longer than most who come seeking refuge.”

Y/n nodded, her gaze dropping to her hands. “I didn’t expect to stay this long.”

“And yet, here you are,” Miriam continued, her hands resting on her lap. “There’s peace in this village, but I see it hasn’t reached your heart yet.”

Y/n swallowed, feeling the truth of the words settle inside her. “I’m… trying.”

Miriam studied her, the silence between them filled with the soft sounds of the village. “You’ve been through much. That much is clear. But what are you still holding onto, child?”

Y/n hesitated, unsure how to voice the conflict inside her. “There are people I left behind,” she finally said. “A life I thought I could escape from. But it follows me, no matter how far I run.”

Miriam nodded, her expression thoughtful. “The past has a way of lingering. It’s not something you can outrun. Healing doesn’t mean forgetting, Y/n. It means learning to live with what’s happened, not burying it.”

Y/n bit her lip, fighting back the emotions that threatened to surface. “I thought if I stayed here long enough, I could… rebuild myself. Become someone new.”

“And have you?” Miriam asked, her tone still gentle.

“I don’t know,” Y/n whispered. “Some days, it feels like I’m better. I’m learning to be happy again. But then, there are days where… I feel like I’m right back where I started.”

Miriam placed a hand on Y/n’s shoulder, her touch warm and comforting. “You’ve come far, more than you realize. But you must ask yourself—what is it you’re truly afraid of? Is it the life you left behind, or is it facing the feelings you’ve kept locked away?”

Y/n looked away, the truth painful to admit. “I’m afraid of going back,” she said quietly. “Afraid of what it would mean to confront everything I left behind.”

Miriam nodded again, her eyes full of understanding. “The village has been a place of healing for you, and it’s given you time. But time, Y/n, doesn’t erase the things we carry. It only gives us space to understand them. You cannot live in fear of what’s behind you. It will find its way to the surface, one way or another.”

Y/n felt the weight of the words settle in her chest. For the first time in a long while, she realized how much she had been avoiding—not just Rhysand, but the truth of her own feelings.

“You’re stronger than you think,” Miriam said softly. “You’ve survived, you’ve healed. But true peace will only come when you allow yourself to face what’s still left unresolved.”

Y/n took a deep breath, the knot in her chest loosening just a little. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“No one ever is,” Miriam replied with a small smile. “But readiness isn’t the same as willingness. And you, child, have always been willing to face whatever comes. I’ve seen it in you since the day you arrived.”

Y/n glanced at Miriam, the warmth in the elder’s words easing some of the fear that had gripped her for so long. Maybe she wasn’t ready to confront everything waiting for her outside the village, but maybe that wasn’t the point. Maybe all she needed was the courage to try.

“Thank you,” Y/n said quietly, her voice steadier now.

Miriam smiled, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Take your time, but don’t wait too long. The world won’t wait forever, and neither will you.”

With that, the elder rose from the bench, leaving Y/n alone with her thoughts, the peaceful hum of the village life surrounding her. For the first time in months, Y/n felt the pull of something beyond this quiet haven—something she had tried to ignore, but that was always there, waiting.

Maybe it was time to stop running.

A week had passed since Y/n had left the village. The cool morning air nipped at her skin as she stood at the edge of the forest, the place that had been her refuge for over a year. The memory of her time there was fresh—both a blessing and a burden—but she had made her peace with it. She had healed, not just physically, but in the deeper places that had been broken for so long.

Her heart was lighter now, no longer weighed down by the constant ache of loss. She was ready to move on, to return to the Dawn Court and begin her new life. A part of her would always belong to the village, to the people she had come to love during her stay, but it was time to face the world again.

The day she left had been filled with quiet goodbyes, but the most difficult one had been with Lira. They had shared a bond—a deep understanding that went beyond words.

“You’ll come visit us, right?” Lira’s voice had been soft, but there was a seriousness in her eyes. She stood in front of Y/n, her hands gripping hers tightly.

Y/n smiled, a bittersweet warmth in her chest. “I promise,” she said. “I’ll come back when I can. This place will always be special to me.”

Lira’s lips curved into a smile, though her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “Don’t forget us. And don’t forget yourself, either. You’ve grown so much, Y/n. Don’t let that go.”

Y/n shook her head, her voice thick. “I won’t.”

Another villager, an elder Y/n had come to cherish, patted her on the back. “You’ll always have a home here,” he said warmly. “No matter where you go.”

She nodded, grateful beyond words. “Thank you. All of you.”

They stood in a quiet circle, the weight of the farewell settling in the cool air around them. The children she had watched over waved from behind the elder, their faces glowing with sadness and hope.

“Take care of yourself,” Lira said softly, pulling Y/n into a tight embrace. “You deserve to be happy.”

Y/n held her close, taking in the familiar scent of the village—the woods, the earth, and the faint traces of fire. “I’ll try.”

With one last lingering glance, Y/n turned toward the path that led out of the village, the weight of their love and friendship carrying her forward. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t. Not this time.

Now, she stood at the gates of the Dawn Court, her heart thudding in her chest. The sprawling palace beyond the gates shimmered under the morning light, and the familiar sight tugged at her—both comforting and foreign after so much time away.

She was different now, she knew that. The woman who had once been so broken, so consumed by heartache, no longer existed. In her place stood someone stronger—someone who had faced the darkest parts of herself and come out on the other side.

Y/n stepped forward, her boots crunching softly against the gravel path. A new life awaited her here. She had accepted that Rhysand was not hers, and with that acceptance came freedom—freedom to create something new, something that was hers alone.

As she approached the entrance, she took a deep breath, steadying herself. This was home, after all. And no matter how far she had run, she was always meant to return.

The guards at the gate gave her surprised looks, but they bowed respectfully, recognizing her. They knew her face, even if they couldn’t comprehend the transformation she had undergone in her time away.

Home. It sounded strange, but as she stepped through the gates and into the Dawn Court’s embrace, she realized how true it was.

She had come full circle.

With each step, the memories of her old life resurfaced, but they didn’t crush her as they once had. Instead, they reminded her of the strength she had gained, the scars she had earned, and the peace she had finally found.

This was a new beginning, and Y/n was ready for whatever came next.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was another miserable day.

He had counted every single second of her absence, the guilt festering in his chest like a poison he couldn’t escape. No matter how much time passed, the ache didn’t ease. The weight of what he had done—or rather, what he hadn’t done—crushed him.

He had searched everywhere, sent emissaries to the furthest reaches of Prythian and beyond. He’d begged, bribed, and even threatened other courts for information. Thesan had been his most trusted ally in the search, offering resources and keeping an eye out. Rhysand had sent his Inner Circle across borders to find her, but it had all led to nothing. Y/n was gone, and the only thing he had left was his regret.

He hadn’t been there for her when she needed him most. Not during Amarantha’s reign. Not when she had withered under his very nose, and certainly not when she left. His thoughts always returned to those last months. The months he had spent prioritizing Feyre’s safety and neglecting Y/n’s slow unraveling. He had failed her.

He was sitting at his desk, head in his hands, feeling the familiar hollow ache settle deep in his bones, when the door to his study opened.

Azriel stepped in, his shadows swirling around him like an ever-present cloak of darkness. The spymaster’s face was unreadable, but Rhysand knew him well enough to see the urgency in his posture.

“Rhys,” Azriel said, his voice calm, but there was something behind it. Something that made Rhysand sit up straight, a flicker of hope—a feeling he hadn’t allowed himself in months—stirring in his chest.

“What is it?” Rhysand asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Hope had become a dangerous thing for him, always leading to disappointment.

Azriel paused, letting the weight of the moment sink in. “Thesan contacted me. His guards… they’ve seen her.”

Rhysand’s heart stopped. For a long, agonizing second, he couldn’t breathe. “Seen… her?” he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Azriel nodded. “Y/n. She’s back at the Dawn Court. She returned a week ago. Thesan’s guards have been keeping an eye on her from a distance, but she’s home. Alive.”

Rhysand felt the floor tilt beneath him. She was back. After all this time, after every failed attempt to find her, every sleepless night spent tormented by guilt, Y/n had returned. The relief that flooded him was overwhelming, but it was swiftly followed by a wave of doubt so strong it made him dizzy.

“I should… I should go to her,” Rhysand said, standing abruptly. His mind raced, his heart pounding in his chest. He had to see her, had to know if she was okay. But then he paused, his hand falling away from the desk. His thoughts crashed into one another, the doubt settling in.

Would she want to see him?

“Wait,” Rhysand murmured, his voice barely audible. “Should I even go?” He turned to Azriel, his brows furrowing in confusion. “I… I wasn’t there for her, Az. Not when she needed me most. What if she doesn’t want to see me? What if she’s better off without me?”

Azriel’s dark eyes flickered with something like exasperation, but it was laced with sympathy. “Rhys, are you serious right now?”

Rhysand dragged a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of his guilt crushing him again. “I ignored her. After Amarantha, after Feyre… I neglected her. The last months she was with us, I wasn’t there for her. What if she’s moved on? What if she’s better now without me?”

Azriel stepped closer, his shadows swirling around his shoulders. “You’ve been searching for her for over a year. You’ve nearly destroyed yourself trying to find her. And now that she’s back, you’re doubting whether to go to her?”

Rhysand clenched his fists, his jaw tight. “I hurt her, Az. I let her slip away. What if she hates me for it?”

Azriel let out a breath, his eyes softening. “Then you go to her and you tell her that. You tell her how much she means to you, and you beg for her forgiveness if that’s what it takes.” His voice lowered, more gentle than Rhysand had ever heard it. “You’ve been waiting for this moment, Rhys. Don’t let your guilt stop you from fixing what was broken.”

Rhysand stared at his brother, the weight of his words sinking in. He had been waiting—praying—for this moment, for the chance to make things right. But now that it was here, all he could feel was fear. Fear that Y/n wouldn’t forgive him, that the damage he had caused was too great to repair.

“I will kneel if I have to,” Rhysand said quietly, the words heavy with desperation. “I’ll beg her to forgive me, to let me back into her life.”

Azriel’s lips curved into the barest hint of a smile. “Then go. Don’t waste any more time.”

Rhysand nodded, though the fear still gnawed at him. But beneath that fear, a flicker of hope remained. He would see Y/n again. He would kneel, beg, do whatever it took to fix the mistakes of the past.

And maybe—just maybe—he could find a way back to her.

Rhysand stood in silence for a moment, letting the realization sink in. He wasn’t sure what he would find when he saw Y/n, or if she would even want to speak to him. But there was no turning back now.

With a deep breath, he turned to Azriel. “I’m going to Dawn,” he said, his voice steady, though his heart trembled. “I have to see her.”

Azriel nodded once. “Good luck, Rhys.”

Rhysand didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He simply disappeared, winnowing into the wind, his heart pounding as he made his way to the one person who mattered most.

~~~~~~~~

Y/n sat at the small table in her home, the afternoon light filtering through the curtains. The room was modest but comfortable, much different than it had been a year ago. Before she left, she had been barely getting by, working tirelessly just to make ends meet. She had spent her days repairing small items, doing odd jobs, always tired, always worn down. Back then, the work had been a necessity—a way to survive, not something she took pride in.

Now, it was different.

Y/n’s fingers moved over the smooth wood of the small jewelry box she had just crafted. She had taken up woodworking after returning from the village, and while it wasn’t glamorous, she found peace in the craft. People in the Dawn Court had taken notice of her work, and word had spread. Slowly but surely, she started receiving more commissions, her skills improving with every piece she made.

She wasn’t rich—not by a long shot—but she was comfortable. She didn’t have to worry as much about her next meal or paying for firewood. Her house, which had once felt so empty and cold, now felt like a home again. The work wasn’t just about money anymore. It was about creating something with her own hands—something that others appreciated.

Y/n leaned back, wiping the sawdust from her hands, and looked around her small space. It felt like she had finally found a balance. She was content. It wasn’t the life she had imagined for herself all those years ago, but it was a good life. She was healing, slowly but surely, and for the first time in a long time, she felt hopeful about the future.

There were moments when her mind drifted to the past—when memories of Rhysand surfaced, and the pain of what could have been tugged at her. But it didn’t consume her anymore. She had made peace with it, in her own way, and she knew she had to keep moving forward. This was her life now, and she was determined to make it her own.

Y/n wiped her brow, the scent of fresh wood filling the air as she placed the finished box onto the shelf beside a few others she had completed earlier that week. A soft smile tugged at her lips. It was a simple life—one she hadn’t expected to love—but there was a calmness in it that soothed her in ways she hadn’t realized she needed.

Her hands were no longer idle, no longer weighed down by the burden of survival. Now, when she worked, it was with purpose, and each completed piece felt like a small victory—a testament to her growth, her healing. The dark days when she could barely muster the energy to get out of bed felt distant now, like a different life entirely.

She stepped back from her workbench, glancing around her small home. It was far from luxurious, but it was hers. She had made it feel like home again after being away for so long. She had become part of the local community again, and though life wasn’t easy, it was manageable—and even enjoyable at times.

Y/n sighed, letting the moment settle over her. She was content. She hadn’t thought it possible after everything she had been through, but somehow, she had found peace.

She walked to the window, looking out at the familiar streets. The weight of the past year didn’t feel as heavy as it used to. Dawn had changed for her. Before, it was a place where she had simply existed—barely making it through each day. Now, it felt like a fresh start, a place where she could rebuild herself without the shadows of her past constantly looming over her.

Her thoughts drifted to the village she had left behind just a week ago. It had been hard to say goodbye, but she knew it was time. They had become like a family to her, and the promise to visit would be kept. But she needed to come home—to her own space, her own life.

The memory of her farewell lingered, the promises exchanged that they would stay in touch, that they wouldn’t forget each other. She smiled at the thought. She wouldn’t forget them either. They had been the ones who had helped her when she didn’t know how to help herself, and that was something she would always carry with her.

But here, now, she was finally ready to move forward. Ready to build something new for herself.

Y/n was walking through the busy streets of the Dawn, enjoying the calm, steady pace of life here. She had just visited the market, her basket filled with items for her latest craft project. The sun was warm on her face, and for the first time in a long while, she felt truly at peace.

As she turned the corner, two figures in armor approached her. They wore the unmistakable insignia of the Dawn Court—palace soldiers. Their faces were unreadable, and as they came closer, she felt an uneasy flutter in her stomach.

“Y/n,” one of them said, his voice firm yet not unkind. “You are required at the palace.”

Her heart skipped a beat, confusion surging through her. “The palace? Why? Did I do something wrong?”

The second soldier didn’t meet her gaze, only repeating the first soldier’s words. “We need to escort you to the High Lord. Please come with us.”

Fear and confusion knotted in her chest, but the soldiers gave her no further explanation. They began to walk, clearly expecting her to follow. Y/n’s mind raced with questions. Why would High Lord Thesan summon her? What had she done? She couldn’t think of any reason she’d be needed at the palace.

As they passed through the grand gates and into the opulent halls, her nerves only grew. The palace was more beautiful than she remembered, but she was too anxious to appreciate the elegance of her surroundings. The guards led her through winding corridors until they reached a large, ornate door.

One of the soldiers knocked, and the door was opened from within. They motioned for her to step inside.

She hesitated for only a moment before walking in.

The room was grand, with tall windows casting golden light over the finely furnished space. But it wasn’t the luxury of the room that caught her off guard.

It was the two men standing inside.

One was High Lord Thesan, smiling warmly, his demeanor calm and welcoming. The other was Rhysand.

Her breath caught in her throat. Rhysand? Her legs nearly gave out beneath her at the sight of him standing there, looking tense, his usual smug expression replaced with something far more serious. His violet eyes found hers the moment she entered the room, and she felt every nerve in her body light up with an old, painful familiarity.

Thesan stepped forward first, his kind smile not wavering. “Y/n,” he greeted, his voice smooth. “I apologize for the sudden summons. I imagine this is not what you were expecting today.”

She blinked, still too shocked to speak, her gaze flickering from Thesan to Rhysand and back again.

The High Lord chuckled softly, clearly sensing her confusion. “You are not in trouble, I assure you,” Thesan said gently. “I wanted to make sure you had a chance to… speak with Rhysand. I believe there are things that need to be said.” He glanced between them before adding, “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

Y/n’s throat tightened as Thesan gave her one last smile and exited the room, closing the door behind him.

And then it was just her and Rhysand.

The silence was suffocating. Rhysand stood a few feet away, his gaze locked on her, an uncharacteristic tension lining his features. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and filled with a vulnerability she hadn’t expected.

“Y/n… I’m sorry.”

She didn’t respond at first, still trying to piece together how this moment had come to pass. “Sorry for what?” she finally asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

“For everything,” Rhysand said, stepping closer, though he still maintained a respectful distance. “For how I treated you before… for abandoning you. I spent the past year searching for you, desperate to make things right. I—” He paused, swallowing hard. “I should have told you sooner. You are my mate.”

Her chest tightened, a sharp laugh escaping her lips before she could stop it. “I know.”

Rhys’s eyes widened in surprise. “You knew? Since when?”

“Since long before you disappeared into Feyre’s shadow,” she replied bitterly. The anger, the hurt, it all came rushing back in full force. “Why didn’t I tell you? Why should I have? Would it have made a difference when you were so focused on her that I may as well have been invisible?”

Rhys flinched at her words, guilt etched deeply into his face. “It would have mattered,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You mattered.”

“Then why didn’t you act like it?” Y/n’s voice trembled with emotion, her hands clenching at her sides. “Why was I nothing more than a tool to you when Feyre came along? I watched you—watched as you ignored me, as you barely looked at me. And now, after a year of running and hiding, now you come to apologize? You expect me to just forgive you because you finally decided I was worth something?”

Rhysand’s eyes were filled with sorrow and regret, his normally proud and arrogant demeanor shattered. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I came to beg for it, if that’s what it takes. I was wrong, Y/n, in so many ways. But you have to know, you are my mate, and I will do anything to make this right. I will kneel, I will grovel, I will—”

But she shook her head, cutting him off. “It’s too late, Rhysand. You’ve already made your choice.”

Rhys took another step toward her, desperation in his eyes. “Please, Y/n. I never stopped caring. I was a fool. But we can start again, we—”

“No,” she interrupted, her voice firm, though it cracked with emotion. “You don’t get to come back into my life now and demand forgiveness. I’ve rebuilt myself. I’ve moved on. You should have done the same.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out, leaving Rhysand standing alone, the weight of his mistakes heavy in the air.

But Rhysand didn’t stop. Determined to win her back, he threw himself into a relentless pursuit of her forgiveness. Every day, he tried to reach her in some way, even if she wouldn’t let him in.

He sent her gifts—delicate, handcrafted items from the finest artisans in the Dawn Court, things that would have brought a smile to her face just months ago. Each time, he watched from a distance as she took them from her doorstep, only to leave them discarded by the door, untouched and unacknowledged.

Rhysand poured his heart into letters, filled with apologies and promises, penned with the kind of vulnerability he had rarely shown anyone before. He would slip them under her door, hoping that maybe one would catch her attention. But each time he checked, the letters remained sealed, never to be opened, reminders of his failure piling up like stones in his chest.

He would linger in the shadows, just outside her home, drawn by the pull of her presence. He watched her move about her day—working on her crafts, laughing with neighbors, sharing stories. His heart ached at how vibrant she seemed, yet he felt like a ghost haunting the edges of her life. Each smile she shared with others was a dagger, a reminder of what he had lost.

In moments of bravery, he approached the marketplace, hoping for a chance encounter. He would linger near the stalls, pretending to browse as she passed by, but she never looked his way. It was as if he were invisible, a figment of her past she refused to acknowledge.

He even tried to connect with the villagers, asking about her and expressing his desire to help her, but they were loyal to her. They would only nod politely, never divulging her whereabouts or responding to his inquiries. They could sense the pain behind his facade, and their protectiveness toward Y/n was fierce.

Days turned into weeks, and Rhysand’s resolve only strengthened. He would find small ways to make his presence known. Sometimes, he would send the occasional flower with a note saying, “I miss you.” Other times, he enlisted Azrael to check in on her, to gauge how she was doing. Each report from his friend was a bittersweet reminder of how far he had fallen from her good graces.

Yet despite all his efforts, Y/n remained steadfastly indifferent. She had rebuilt her life without him, and the fortress she had built around her heart was impenetrable. No amount of gifts or letters could pierce it.

As the seasons changed, Rhysand continued his quiet vigil, each day filled with longing and regret, praying that one day, she would see him not as a shadow of her past but as a man who desperately wanted to be part of her future.

Y/n was kneeling in her garden, the vibrant flowers blooming around her, but her heart felt anything but bright. She was lost in thought, trying to focus on her plants when she suddenly sensed a presence behind her. Her instincts kicked in, and she turned quickly, catching sight of a tall figure with dark wings.

“Who are you?” she demanded, standing defensively, her heart racing.

“Y/n,” he replied, his voice calm yet intense. “My name is Azriel, I’m a friend of Rhysand’s. I’ve been… watching over you.”

“Watching over me?” she echoed, confusion and anger flaring up inside her. “Why? What do you want?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Azriel said, stepping forward slightly but keeping his distance, as if respecting her space. “About Rhysand. He’s been… suffering since you left.”

Y/n crossed her arms, her expression hardening. “I don’t want to talk about him. He made his choice.”

“He didn’t know what he was doing, Y/n,” Azriel pressed, his tone earnest. “He’s been lost without you. The gifts he sent, the letters—those were all from a place of regret. He didn’t realize how much you meant to him until it was too late.”

“Regret?” she scoffed, shaking her head. “It’s easy to feel regret when you’ve moved on with someone else, isn’t it? I was nothing more than a passing thought to him while he chased after Feyre.”

Azriel frowned, sensing the pain in her words. “I can’t deny that Rhysand made mistakes, but he has changed. He’s been searching for you for a year. He’s been—”

“Searching?” she interrupted, her voice rising. “How much of a fool do you think I am to believe that? I don’t want to be another one of his burdens or a way to soothe his guilt.”

Azriel took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. “I understand your anger, but you deserve to know the truth. You deserve to hear him out.”

Y/n’s heart raced with conflicting emotions. She was furious with Rhysand, yet there was a flicker of curiosity buried deep inside her. “And what makes you think I want to hear anything from him? What if he’s just going to hurt me again?”

Azriel stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Because you deserve closure. You deserve to understand why he acted the way he did. If you don’t give him a chance, you might carry this pain forever. You may think you’ve moved on, but deep down, you’re still holding onto that hurt.”

Y/n’s expression softened slightly, but she quickly masked it with defiance. “It’s easier to keep it all buried, Azriel. I don’t need him in my life. I’ve built something here, a life I’m proud of.”

“I see that,” he said, nodding. “But are you truly happy? Or is there still a part of you that wonders what could have been?”

She hesitated, the truth clawing at her heart. “Maybe I could talk to him again,” she admitted reluctantly, the words spilling out before she could stop herself. “But it doesn’t mean I want to forgive him. It doesn’t mean I’m ready to open that door again.”

“Just consider it,” Azriel urged gently. “You don’t have to decide everything right now. But Rhysand is here, waiting for you. He won’t stop until he gets the chance to explain himself. And when you’re ready, you can choose how to respond.”

Y/n turned back to her flowers, avoiding Azriel’s gaze, trying to gather her thoughts. “And what if I don’t want to respond? What if I just want to forget?”

“Then you’ll have that choice too,” Azriel said, his tone calm and understanding. “But know that you can’t run from your feelings forever. If you want to heal, you have to face them.”

After a long silence, Y/n sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I’ll think about it,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

As Azriel nodded, she could feel the weight of his presence, a reminder that her past was still very much alive, no matter how hard she tried to bury it. She knew that eventually, she would have to confront the truth about Rhysand—and about herself.

The sky was painted in soft shades of dusk, the sun casting its final golden rays over the pristine lake. The place Rhysand had chosen was breathtaking—a secluded spot nestled between the hills, where the water sparkled like diamonds under the fading light. Wildflowers swayed gently in the breeze, their vibrant colors contrasting with the deep green of the surrounding trees. It was peaceful, a place that felt almost sacred in its stillness.

Y/n approached the shore, her footsteps slow and hesitant. She had agreed to meet him, but every step felt heavier than the last, like she was walking toward something she wasn’t ready to face. Her heart thudded in her chest, her mind filled with doubts, fears, and anger she hadn’t yet let go of.

And then she saw him.

Rhysand stood by the edge of the lake, his back to her, his wings tucked tightly against him. The sight of him stirred something deep within her—a pang of old pain, old longing, and something new, something she couldn’t yet name. He seemed so out of place here, in this tranquil setting, with the weight of his own emotions heavy on his shoulders.

He turned as she neared, his violet eyes locking onto hers, a myriad of emotions swirling in their depths—regret, hope, desperation. He took a step toward her, but stopped himself, as if afraid that one wrong move might send her running.

“Y/n,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you for coming.”

She didn’t respond immediately, crossing her arms over her chest, her posture guarded. “You wanted to talk. So, talk.”

He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the ground for a moment before he looked back at her. “I don’t even know where to begin. I… I made so many mistakes.”

“You can say that again,” she muttered, her voice colder than she had intended.

He nodded, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I didn’t realize… how much I hurt you. I didn’t realize how blind I had been to everything you were going through.”

“I was right there, Rhys,” she said, her voice rising with frustration. “Right in front of you, and you didn’t see me. Not once. Not until it was too late.”

“I know,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I know, and I hate myself for it. I was so consumed by everything happening with Amarantha, with Feyre… I thought I was doing what was best, that I was protecting you by keeping you at a distance.”

Y/n scoffed, shaking her head. “Protecting me? By ignoring me? By treating me like I didn’t exist?”

Rhysand flinched at her words, guilt flooding his features. “I thought… I thought that if I distanced myself, if I kept you away, you wouldn’t be hurt. That you’d be safer if you weren’t involved in everything that was happening. But I see now that I was wrong. So, so wrong.”

She bit her lip, the anger still simmering just beneath the surface, but there was something else there too—a crack in her armor, however small. “Why didn’t you just tell me? Why didn’t you talk to me?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his expression pained. “I was a coward. I didn’t know how to face you, how to admit that I had failed you. And by the time I realized… it felt like I had already lost you.”

“You had,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You did.”

Rhysand stepped closer, his eyes pleading. “But I don’t want to lose you forever, Y/n. I can’t. I came here to beg for your forgiveness, to do whatever it takes to make things right. I know I don’t deserve it. I know I’ve done nothing but hurt you, but I’m asking—no, I’m begging you to give me a chance to prove that I’ve changed.”

Y/n’s breath hitched, her heart torn between the lingering hurt and the raw sincerity in his voice. “And what if I can’t forgive you? What if it’s too late for that?”

He stared at her for a long moment, his expression solemn. “Then I’ll accept that. I’ll accept whatever decision you make. But please, just give me the chance to try. Let me show you that I’m not the same man who pushed you away. Let me prove that I can be the person you deserve.”

Y/n’s eyes filled with unshed tears, her emotions threatening to spill over. “You hurt me, Rhys. You made me feel like I was nothing.”

“I know,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “And I will regret that for the rest of my life. But you are not nothing. You never were. You are everything.”

She turned away, her hands trembling as she tried to hold herself together. “This… this is all too much. I don’t know if I can trust you again.”

Rhysand closed the distance between them, his voice soft but urgent. “I won’t rush you. I won’t push you. But if there’s even a part of you that thinks we could find a way forward, I’ll wait. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

She wiped at her eyes, refusing to let the tears fall. “And what about the mate bond? You didn’t even acknowledge it, didn’t tell me—”

“I didn’t know,” he said quickly, his eyes wide with desperation. “I didn’t know until you were gone, until it was too late. I felt it after you left, like a piece of my soul was ripped away.”

Y/n stared at him, her heart pounding. “I knew,” she admitted quietly. “I’ve known for a while.”

His eyes widened, shock and confusion written on his face. “You knew? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t think you’d care,” she said, her voice wavering. “Because you were so focused on Feyre, on everything else. I didn’t want to be another burden for you to carry.”

Rhysand shook his head, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “You were never a burden, Y/n. Never. I was just too blind to see what was right in front of me. And I hate myself for that.”

Y/n turned back to him, her gaze softening ever so slightly. “I’m not ready to accept the bond yet, Rhys. I’m not ready to just… let everything go.”

He nodded, his expression pained but understanding. “I understand. I’ll wait. I’ll wait for as long as it takes, and I’ll do whatever it takes to earn your trust back.”

She swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in. “Maybe… maybe if we spent more time together, if you showed me that you’ve really changed… maybe then I could consider it.”

Rhysand’s eyes lit up with a glimmer of hope, and he nodded eagerly. “Anything. I’ll do anything you ask.”

Y/n sighed, the heaviness in her chest lifting just slightly. “This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you, Rhys. I’m not there yet. But… I’m willing to see if you can prove yourself.”

He stepped closer, his voice low and filled with determination. “I will. I swear I will.”

She nodded slowly, a small, tentative step toward the possibility of healing. “We’ll see.”

As Y/n spoke those final words, a calm silence settled between them. The tension that had been weighing the air down began to ease, and the light from the setting sun cast a warm glow over the lake, reflecting in soft ripples on the water. Rhysand, still standing close but not too close, let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his shoulders finally relaxing.

He gave her a tentative smile, one that was full of relief and gratitude. “Thank you… for giving me this chance,” he murmured softly. “It means more than you know.”

Y/n glanced at him, her expression unreadable for a moment before a small smile ghosted her lips. “Don’t thank me yet. You’ve got a lot of proving to do, Rhys.”

His eyes sparkled with a mixture of affection and determination, and for the first time in a long time, a bit of the old, charming Rhys peeked through. “I plan to, darling. You’ll see.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no malice behind it, just a faint glimmer of amusement. “Don’t get cocky. This isn’t a victory.”

“Not yet,” he agreed, a teasing lilt in his voice. “But it’s a start.”

They both stood there for a while longer, just watching the lake, the breeze gentle against their skin. Y/n didn’t pull away when Rhysand took a small step closer, their arms nearly brushing. The proximity felt different now—less suffocating, more… reassuring. As if, for the first time in ages, she wasn’t standing completely alone.

Rhysand didn’t make any bold moves; he didn’t reach out to touch her, respecting the distance she still held. But there was a warmth in the silence, an unspoken understanding that they were no longer quite as far apart as before.

Finally, after a few moments of peaceful quiet, Y/n turned to leave, the conversation having drained her emotionally. She needed time—time to process everything he’d said, everything she’d felt.

As she walked past him, Rhysand called after her gently, “Can I at least walk you back?”

Y/n paused, glancing over her shoulder. For a heartbeat, she considered saying no, but then, with a soft sigh, she nodded. “Alright. But just this once.”

Rhysand smiled—genuinely, this time—and caught up to her, falling into step beside her as they began to walk down the path back toward the city. They didn’t speak much, the silence between them comfortable now, and Y/n found herself not minding his presence the way she once had.

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

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deliciousangelfestival · 3 months ago

Text

The Imperfect Couple - 7

Character: politician!Bucky x ex-wife!reader

Summary: A separated couple must pretend to be happily married while the husband runs for Vice President, dealing with old issues and political pressures during his election campaign.

Warning: The couple's arguments could be triggering.

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6 , Chapter 7 , Chapter 8 , Chapter 9 , Chapter 10 , Chapter 11 , Chapter 12 , Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

Bucky’s gut had been gnawing at him for weeks, a familiar, nagging feeling whenever Ian was around. Something about the man didn’t sit right, and Bucky couldn’t shake the sense that he’d seen this behavior before. His instincts kicked in, and he ordered someone to dig deeper into Ian’s past.

The brown envelope arrived the next day. Bucky sat at his desk, his eyes narrowing as he tore it open. Inside were the results of the investigation—pages that painted a much darker picture than he’d anticipated. As he skimmed the documents, his jaw clenched, and a low curse escaped his lips, “Shit.”

🌸🌸🌸🌸

The next day, you and Bucky arrived at a shelter for single mothers, a stop on the campaign trail. The women inside had experienced hardships most people couldn’t imagine, fleeing from abusive partners and trying to rebuild their lives. Their stories of survival hung in the air, unspoken but palpable in their tired eyes and wary smiles.

You moved through the room, serving food and making small talk with the women, trying your best to offer some comfort. As you handed a plate to one woman, you said softly, “I understand what kind of psychological torment you’ve been through. I hope you stay strong.”

The moment the words left your mouth, what you’d meant as a word of encouragement didn’t land the way you’d hoped.

Later that night, a video of the conversation went viral. It was clear someone had recorded the interaction and released it online. Bucky knew this had to be the work of his opponents, seizing the opportunity to discredit you—and by extension, him.

You watched the video, feeling a pit form in your stomach as the comments poured in:

"Stay strong? She doesn’t seem like someone who’s ever been through what we have."

"She wouldn’t understand. She lives in a happy home. How could she possibly know what it’s like to run from someone who’s supposed to love you?"

Their words cut deep, slicing through your carefully constructed image. They didn’t know the truth—that your marriage to Bucky was its own kind of prison. Pretending to be the perfect wife had taken a toll on you, but no one saw behind the curtain.

You froze, feeling exposed, as if they’d somehow sensed the cracks in your façade. You had become so good at lying, at convincing the world that you and Bucky were happy, that now, faced with these women who had lived through real pain, you felt like a fraud.

Furthermore, you wanted to tell them that you understood, that you too had felt trapped and powerless. But the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you smiled for the cameras, playing your part, knowing that your life was being documented as an example of “happiness.”

Then your eyes landed on a comment that sent you reeling:

"If they’re so happy, wouldn’t they have a kid by now?"

The question hung in the air, mocking you. They didn’t know the truth—how could they? And yet, their words seemed to pierce through the mask you’d been wearing for so long.

🌸🌸🌸🌸

The silence between you and Bucky was heavy, almost suffocating. You hadn’t said much since the shelter incident, and Bucky could sense your stress in the way you barely touched your food or drank any water. You sat at the dining table, staring blankly at the untouched plate in front of you.

Bucky watched you for a moment before stepping closer, his brow furrowing with concern. He gently touched your forehead, his fingers warm against your skin.

“You have a fever,” he said, his voice low with worry.

You immediately pulled away from his hand, your body instinctively recoiling. Your stress had a way of manifesting physically, and whenever you were overwhelmed, your body shut down. This was no different.

“Don’t touch me,” you muttered, your voice hollow.

Bucky’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. He knew this would happen, knew how your body responded when you were pushed too far. Without a word, he slipped his arm around you, supporting you as he guided you toward your room. You didn’t resist, too tired to fight.

“Just leave,” you said once you reached your room, your voice barely above a whisper.

But Bucky ignored your words. He sat you down on the edge of the bed, gently lifting your feet into his lap. You stiffened in surprise as his hands began to massage your aching feet. The familiarity of the gesture caught you off guard—he used to do this all the time when you were together, especially on nights when you came home exhausted, too tired to even think.

Your face grew warmer, though not just because of the fever. The tension between the two of you was palpable, a mix of unresolved emotions and unspoken words hanging in the air. Bucky’s touch, once comforting, now felt like it held the weight of all the things left unsaid.

“I’ll bring the medicine,” he said after a few moments, his voice softer now.

You didn’t respond, too lost in the swirl of emotions flooding your mind. The way his hands moved, the care in his touch—it was all too familiar. It made your chest tighten with memories of when things weren’t this complicated.

As Bucky stood to leave, you finally spoke, your voice quiet and raw. “Why are you doing this?”

He paused, turning back to face you. “Because I care. I always do” His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, it was as if the walls you’d built between you both cracked, if only just a little.

You didn’t respond, not knowing what to say. You could feel your eyelids growing heavy as the exhaustion of the day and the fever pulled at you. Bucky noticed, his eyes softening. Without another word, he pulled the blanket over you and quietly left the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

You lay there, your mind racing despite your body’s exhaustion. His touch, his words, they lingered long after he’d gone. You hated that he still had this effect on you. And yet, deep down, there was a part of you that wanted to believe him, wanted to let your guard down. But after everything, how could you?

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

You woke up, feeling the weight of exhaustion still clinging to your limbs, but something was different. The fever that had clouded your mind the night before was gone, leaving you with a sense of relief. Slowly, you sat up, glancing around the room. Bucky wasn’t here. It was the first time you’d been alone in the apartment since arriving.

The quietness felt strange, almost eerie. For a moment, you simply sat there, trying to shake the grogginess from your mind. Eventually, curiosity got the better of you, and you decided to explore the space. The apartment was large, meticulously designed, but there was a personal touch to it that reflected both of you. You wandered through the rooms until you stopped at his office.

The door creaked slightly as you pushed it open. His office was a mess—papers and law books were scattered across the desk and shelves, as if he’d been too busy to organize anything. But something caught your eye, an area that was surprisingly tidy amidst the chaos: his vinyl collection. It was neatly arranged, displayed with care, each record in perfect order.

Bucky loved collecting vinyls. You remembered that about him. As you approached the collection, your eyes scanned the spines of the records. Most of them were from artists both of you used to listen to. Your fingers grazed over the albums, a nostalgic pang in your chest.

Then, something unusual caught your attention. Tucked between the vinyl sleeves was a piece of paper, slightly worn. Frowning, you pulled it out and realized it wasn’t just any paper—it was a letter.

You stared at the handwriting, your heart skipping a beat. It was Bucky’s handwriting. Slowly, your eyes widened as recognition dawned on you. It was a letter he never sent. A letter to you.

Your pulse quickened as a rush of emotions hit you. Should you open it? Guilt twisted in your stomach, but then that familiar voice—the devil on your shoulder—spoke louder. He wrote this for you. He never sent it, but it’s yours.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you quickly hid the letter under your shirt, glancing around the office as if someone might walk in at any moment. Your heart raced as you hurried back to your room, the letter burning against your skin like a secret you weren’t supposed to know.

Once in the safety of your room, you sat on the bed, staring at the letter in your hands. The room felt smaller, your breaths shallow. Was this right? Should you be reading this? But you couldn’t stop yourself.

With trembling fingers, you opened the first letter.

It was short, written in Bucky’s familiar scrawl.

"I’m sorry. I know everything we went through must have been painful for you, more than I ever realized at the time. We were close, but we never truly communicated. I knew you were hurting, and I did nothing to stop it. That’s my fault. I’m the one to blame.

One day, if we ever meet again, I hope you’ll give me another chance. You deserve happiness, and I wish you the best of luck in finding it, even if it’s not with me."

You blinked, feeling a lump form in your throat. You hadn’t expected this. An apology. Words you thought you’d never hear—or read—from him. Your hands shook as you carefully unfolded another letter.

"I read your article. It’s really good. I always knew you’d make a great writer. You’ve always had a way with words. I’m proud of you. I hope you have a safe journey."

The words blurred for a moment as tears threatened to spill from your eyes. You never knew he was following your work, that he cared enough to read what you wrote. It felt like a secret window into a part of him you thought had closed off to you long ago.

With a deep breath, you opened the final letter, bracing yourself.

"I’m worried about you. Going to a war zone as a journalist—it’s dangerous, and I can’t stop thinking about it. Please be careful. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you. I pray every day that you’re safe."

Your chest tightened as you finished reading, the rawness of his words washing over you. Bucky had been worried about you all this time. His concern, his pride—it was all there, hidden in these letters you were never supposed to find. And yet, here you were, holding the pieces of his heart in your hands.

It was overwhelming. You didn’t know how to feel—angry, confused, touched. All you knew was that the walls you had built to protect yourself were starting to crack, and you weren’t sure if you could put them back together.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

You and Bucky met Greg again to prepare before heading to the TV station for the debate. Greg, always thinking ahead, was pacing as he went over the final details. His sharp gaze darted between you and Bucky, trying to ensure everything would go smoothly.

As the minutes ticked by, Greg suddenly paused, his face lighting up with an idea. "Perhaps," he suggested, "before Bucky heads out for the debate, you could give him a peck on the cheek. You know, for the cameras. A little show of affection can go a long way."

You hesitated for a moment, but then nodded, your expression neutral. "Okay," you agreed simply. The decision seemed easy enough—just a small gesture for the public eye. However, from the corner of your eye, you noticed Bucky’s brow arch slightly, a glint of surprise crossing his features.

Bucky glanced at you, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, "How about a kiss on the lips instead?"

You rolled your eyes, unable to hide your exasperation. "Shut up," you muttered, though the warmth of the moment lingered between you. Bucky chuckled softly, clearly enjoying the brief banter as Greg scribbled down notes, already planning how to work this into the media strategy.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

The day of the debate finally arrived. The room buzzed with tension as cameras were positioned, reporters whispered amongst themselves, and the stage was set. You stood backstage with Bucky, watching as the other candidates made their entrances. Edgar, running for president, was calm and composed, the very image of a seasoned politician.

Then there was Brock, another candidate for vice president—and Bucky’s long-time rival. The two had been at odds for years, their competition fierce and personal. The air between them crackled with animosity as they took their places.

As the debate began, the moderators threw sharp, pointed questions at the candidates, each probing their policies and character. Bucky was in his element, answering each question with practiced ease. His words were clear, his tone confident, and his delivery flawless. Every question thrown at him was met with a precise, well-thought-out response.

Moderator: "Mr. Barnes, what would be your first priority in office?"

Bucky: "My first priority is to address healthcare. Ensuring affordable and accessible healthcare is the cornerstone of a strong nation. We must invest in preventive care and make it easier for families to access the support they need."

The audience nodded in agreement, and even the other candidates seemed to respect his answer. Brock, however, was struggling. Every time he tried to match Bucky’s eloquence, he stumbled, his frustration mounting with each failed attempt to make a point.

Moderator: "Mr. Rumlow, what is your stance on education reform?"

Brock: "Well, uh, we need to… to invest in schools, yes, but we can’t just throw money at the problem. We need accountability, and we need… um, better results."

His answer lacked the conviction and clarity that Bucky’s did, and you could see the frustration in Brock’s face as the debate went on.

The tension between the two men simmered, especially as Bucky continued to outshine him with every answer. But just when it seemed like Bucky had the upper hand, Brock saw an opening—and took it.

At the height of the debate, Brock's voice cut through the air, sharp and malicious. "You talk a lot about honesty and integrity, Barnes. But what about your brother? Didn’t he hit someone and never face any punishment?"

The room fell silent, a heavy, uncomfortable stillness filling the space. From your spot backstage, you could feel the tension roll off Bucky in waves. His muscles tensed beside you, his jaw clenched tight. This was his darkest family secret, one he’d hoped to keep buried. But now, here it was, dragged into the spotlight in front of a national audience.

Bucky’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his eyes narrowing as he shot Brock a cold, hard glare. For a moment, it looked like Bucky might lose his composure. The silence stretched on, the entire room holding its breath, waiting for his response.

But then, with a deep breath, Bucky straightened, his voice steady but laced with restrained anger. "My brother's actions were reprehensible, and there is no excuse for them. But unlike my opponent, I believe in accountability—and my family has taken steps to address that privately. This debate is about the future of this country, not digging up personal attacks to avoid talking about real issues."

The room shifted as Bucky’s calm yet pointed response cut through the tension. Brock, visibly thrown by how easily Bucky had deflected his attack, fumbled for his next words, but the damage had been done. Bucky had taken control once again, leaving Brock at a loss.

Backstage, you watched the scene unfold, a mixture of relief and pride swelling within you. Bucky had handled the moment with grace.

But you knew you couldn’t rest. With Shawn’s dark secret now exposed, it meant that your marriage to Bucky could be the next scandal to surface.

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